It was the first time he had uttered her name. The sound of his voice was low and strained. It raised feelings inexplicable in the girl's confused mind and newly-awakened heart. She had an impulse that to listen would be dangerous; that she ought to avoid anything like a confidence from him. Yet a power much stronger than she held her there mute and waiting--waiting for the words from his lips. She did not speak; her eyes were raised for a moment to his, full of such unhappiness as he could hardly bear to see. But he knew that the look conveyed permission to continue. "I want," he said, under his breath, "to tell you I am ashamed of myself. I have been behaving like an unforgiving brute. I know I have made you unhappy; and you have enough to bear without that. Forgive me, will you? I'm--I'm beastly sorry." She made no reply; she was wholly unable to speak. "Of course," he began again, "I can see that you have been crying. And I can't stand it. So let us have it out, shall we? I know I was wrong, that time, when I clutched at your love, like a starving man at a loaf of bread. I had no right. It was unjustifiable. But like all men, I only thought of myself. I did want you so." There was silence, except for the chirp of a sedge-warbler. "And now," said Rona, half choking--"and now--you don't?" He turned towards her in sharp surprise. "What do you mean?" he said. "You are engaged to Denzil." He stood there looking at her, until she thought his eyes would burn her. "How can I have any claim, when you have decided in his favor?" She turned away, for her face was quivering. "I could not bear it," she faltered lamely, "unless I felt sure you would be--happy." "Thank you," said Felix, ironically. "If I am not I can always go back, you know, to the point from whence you and I started." In the pang which darted through her at this allusion she turned from him, and, in fear of a breakdown, leant against a birch tree trunk to hide her face. "Oh! Felix!" she sobbed, "Felix--don't!" He was very white. It tore his heart to see her grief. The faint perfume of her handkerchief or her clothes came to him on the evening air, as to-day it had bewildered his senses when he lay in the povosska. She was saying something--something incredible--among her sobs. "You should not have written; you should have come to me. How could I tell until I had seen you? I did not know." He caught his breath. "What are you saying?" he asked, huskily. Something in his voice warned her. She checked her tears with a great effort. "Help me!" she craved. "Help me to be true to one of you! I have been false to you; but Denzil is different! He has loved me so long--he has done so much for me. Oh, I know what you did--everything! But, after all, we barely knew each other.... While I feel as if I belong to him and Aunt Bee! They have been home, love, everything ... you see, I could not betray him after all he has been through!"