He stood like a statue, just beyond the gate; a stern, white-faced statue, sombre and still. Only that instant had he become aware of her presence; and the sight seemed to have frozen him. But with Doris a great rush of joy surged upward, bringing colour and radiance. The sudden encounter, following close upon her own vivid realisation of how things truly were with her, caused momentary forgetfulness of all else. She did not even notice that the boy and the pony-carriage had gone to a distance, and were still invisible. She knew only that she and Dick were together again. "Dick!" she said, under her breath, and she went forward, through the gate, holding out both hands. "Dick!" His dented and troubled forehead, even in that moment; impressed her curiously, bringing again the feeling which she had had on their first meeting, that surely she had known him in earlier years, or, at the least, that he strongly resembled some familiar face. But then, as now, she could not put a name to it. It was a subtle, elusive likeness; perhaps rather belonging to play of muscles than to actual form of feature. "Dick!" she murmured, a third time. Then she awoke to his lack of response, and her hands dropped, her glow faded. She stood looking at him with something of wonder. "Have you come to see Winnie?" Maurice was holding himself in fiercely; his lips pressed together; his hands clenched. He could not have told at that moment whether wrath or pain, anger or longing, was the stronger. He only knew that he was tempest-tossed. Doris spoke gently. "You won't be too much worried about her, will you? She will get through. I know—I am sure—she will get through. She is so sweet and brave. And afterwards—only think, if she is well and strong! Won't that be a joy to you?" A wordless sound came hoarsely in reply; and she knew, from the blanched passion of his look, that he could not speak,—that he was thinking, not of Winnie, but only, solely, of herself. He came a step nearer, his breathing hard and rapid, as he gripped the top bar of the gate. "Why do you speak to me? Why not—pass me by?" The words were almost inaudible. "If—you meant—that letter!" "How could I pass you by, when you are in such trouble about Winnie?" There was a harsh laugh—almost a sob. "Winnie! Do I care? I suppose I do. Sometimes it seems to me—I care for nothing—nothing else—only for you. Tell me the truth now,—tell me plainly! Was it you— you yourself!—who gave me up?" She looked at him sorrowfully, wondering if she had been wrong to stop. He spoke again in the same hoarse faint voice. "Tell me—it was not you who wrote that letter!" "I did write it, Dick!"—and he made a sharp turn as if to go; but her hand was on his arm. "Let me explain, please. I did write it. Mother helped me with the wording—but—I thought it had to be. I had just come across Jane—and I felt as if I never could endure to belong to—her." "That was it, then!" "Yes; that was it."