"It is the first time I've been out for two weeks," she said, panting softly. "I twisted my ankle, and the worst part was that I didn't even dare to send you word. What must you have thought?" "No harm of you," he answered, and threw down the fence-rails that she might cross. "Come over to me, Maria." Putting her hands in his, she passed over the lowered fence, and then stood at arm's length looking into his face, which the moonlight had softened to a beauty that brought to her mind a carving in old ivory. "I still limp a little," she went on, smiling, "and I had to steal out like a thief and run through the shadows. To find me with you would be the death of grandfather, I believe. Something has occurred to put him in a fresh rage with you." "It was the field by the pasture," he told her frankly. "You know it belongs to me, and pure justice made me throw down his fence; but if you wish it I will put it up again. I'll do anything you wish." She thought for a moment with that complete detachment of judgment from emotion which is so rarely a part of a woman's intellect. "No, no," she said; "it is right that you should take it down. I would not have you submit to any further injustice, not even a little one like that." "And this will go on forever! Oh, Maria, how will it end?" "We must wait and hope, dear; you see that." "I see nothing but that I love you and am most miserable," he answered desperately. A smile curved her lips. "Oh, blind and faithless, I see only you!" He was still holding her hands, but, dropping them as she spoke, he threw his arms wide open and stood waiting. "Then come to me, my dearest; come to me." His voice rang out in command rather than entreaty, and he stood smiling gravely as, hesitating a breathless instant, she regarded him with eyes that struggled to be calm. Then slowly the radiance which was less the warmth of colour than of expression flooded her face, and she bent toward him as if impelled by some strong outside force. The next moment the storm swept her roughly from her feet and crushed back her pleading hands upon her bosom; bewildered, flushed, and trembling, she lay upon his breast while their lips clung together. "Oh, my friend, my lover," she murmured faintly. He felt her resistance dissolve within his arms, and it was a part of the tragedy of their love that there should come to him no surprise when he found her mouth salt from her tears. The shadow of a great evil, of a secret anguish, still divided them, and it was this that gave to their embraces the sorrowful passion which he drew from her despairing kiss. "You cannot love me, Maria. How can it be true?" Releasing herself, she put her hand upon his lips to silence him. "You have made your confession," she said earnestly, with the serene dignity which had impressed him in the first moment of their meeting, "and now I will make mine. You must not stop me; you must not look at me until I finish. Promise."