"How could I face you again and still be idling here? I don't know where, Dora. I only know why--because I love you so. Anywhere, anything to get me something that will give you to me!" She whispered "Percival!" and stopped as though she had not strength for more. And he breathed "Dora!" as though he knew what she would say and by intensity of love would draw it from her. She slowly drew her hands from his. She took them to her breast, and faltered again--again as she were wounded, afraid, struck, threatened, atremble at some fearful brink, robbed of some vital virtue: "Oh, Percival!" and caught her breath and said "Oh, Percival, what is it--this?" "It is love!" he cried. "Dora, it is love!" She gave a little sigh; she unclasped her hands; seemed to relax in all her spirit; suffered her hands, like cold white flowers floating earthwards, lovewards to float to his. "Tell me!" he breathed. Soft as her hands fell, "I always shall think of you," she told him. He besought her "Tell me!" She whispered "Always!" In a man's voice, out of a sudden and terrible review of his condition--possessed of nothing, chained to do nothing--and of her high estate: "Others will love you!" he cried. As they would nestle there and there abide, her fingers moved within his hands. In a man's voice, full man as full love makes, "Tell me," he besought her. Scarcely perceptible her answer came; scarcely her lips moved for it--faint as the timid breeze ventured to the innermost thicket, soft as the hushed caress of summer rain along the hedgerows, "I shall always love you," she breathed. Shortly he left her. CHAPTER IX WITH AUNT MAGGIE IN FAREWELL I It was past eleven when Percival got back to "Post Offic." He had been absent seven hours. He felt himself removed by thrice as many years from the moment when he had flung away from Aunt Maggie to work off by active exercise the feelings aroused in him when, to his demands that he must be doing something with his life, she had prayed him only wait. Day then, night now, and he as changed. The mood he brought her was unlike any he had proposed should be his case. On Plowman's Ridge before he saw Japhra he had imagined for his return a petulant, a trying-to-be-calm scene in which he should repeat his purpose that an end must be made of the purposeless way of life in which she was keeping him. By Fir-Tree Pool, with wise Japhra propounding how a man must encourage his spirit and defeat his flesh, he had imagined himself gentle with dear Aunt Maggie; gently showing her what restlessness had him, persuading her to his ends, or, of his love for her, accepting her wishes. Now he was come back and neither case was his. Day then, night now, and he as changed. Now he had lived that hour with Dora in the drive; now he had kissed her; now had heard her breathe "I shall always love you." Gone every thought of petulant distress; gone Japhra's counsels--gone boyhood, manhood come!