“I have forgot what I was saying.” “If my life were not at stake, you would not bid me go?” “How can I tell?—Why shouldn’t I?” “You were startled to see me here. Did you not think I might come?” She could have truly answered that she had been without the slightest expectation of ever seeing him again. Yet she had permitted her imagination the indulgence of a vague scene of future meeting, not far unlike that which was now taking place. The consciousness of this added to the sweet embarrassment she felt, and she could only reply, foolishly, “Why should I have thought so?” Everell sighed, realizing that, as far as speeches went, he was not making rapid progress. “At all events,” said he, rallying his powers of gaiety, “here I am, and in this neighbourhood I mean to stay for a time, so ’tis of no use bidding me go—” “But are you safe in this neighbourhood?” she broke in, her eyes forgetting their shyness in searching his face to see if his confidence was real. “That man at the inn may have described you to many people.” “I will take care none of them see me. I have a secure hiding-place in the wilderness, and a friend to supply my wants. I shall be visible to none but him—and you.” “To me? How to me?” “Even as I am at this moment: here, in this garden. ’Tis evidently a deserted place; the shrubbery and walls conceal us, and escape is easy to the glen yonder if we should hear anybody approach. No one, finding you here alone, would suspect you had had a visitor.” “I must not risk that discovery,—for your sake, I must not. I shall be missed in the house, I’m afraid,—my uncle and his friends have returned.” “Nay, don’t go yet. Pray, not yet! I have said nothing yet, accomplished nothing.” “What would you say, then? Speak quickly.” “A thousand things. I can’t unload my heart of a sudden at the cry, ‘Stand and deliver!’—you send my thoughts into confusion. Do not go yet!—’tis not so much saying what I would, as being with you.” “But they will be inquiring for me—my maid will be seeking. My uncle—” “Is your uncle so heedful of you that he must always know where you are?” “Far from it. I am nothing to him and his friends. But if the whim _should_ seize him—if by any chance they should find me talking with a stranger—Oh, really, sir, I must go.” “Again you call me stranger!” “Why, in their eyes you would be a stranger.” “But not in yours? Ah, thank you for that much, at least. You acknowledge me as a friend?” “Why, I suppose—since you declare yourself so, I must needs believe you. Heaven knows, I have felt some want of a friend, having none in this house. Were it otherwise, were this place my aunt’s, perhaps I should not have stayed a moment to hear you.”