"I saw you cross that blue-grass pasture the night--the night that you walked home with me." She would have said the night of the robbery, but her heart smote her, and she adopted the more kindly form of the sentence. Ralph would have explained, but how? "I did cross the pasture," he began, "but--" Just here it occurred to Ralph that there was no reason for his night excursion across the pasture. Hannah again took up her bucket, but he said: "Tell me what else you have against me." "I haven't anything against you. Only I am poor and friendless, and you oughtn't to make my life any heavier. They say that you have paid attention to a great many girls. I don't know why you should want to trifle with me." Ralph answered her this time. He spoke low. He spoke as though he were speaking to God. "If any man says that I ever trifled with any woman, he lies. I have never loved but one, and you know who that is. And God knows." "I don't know what to say, Mr. Hartsook." Hannah's voice was broken. These solemn words of love were like a river in the desert, and she was like a wanderer dying of thirst. "I don't know, Mr. Hartsook. If I was alone, it wouldn't matter. But I've got my blind mother and my poor Shocky to look after. And I don't want to make mistakes. And the world is so full of lies I don't know what to believe. Somehow I can't help believing what you say. You seem to speak so true. But--" "But what?" said Ralph. "But you know how I saw you just as kind to Martha Hawkins on Sunday as--as--" "Han--ner!" It was the melodious voice of the angry Mrs. Means, and Hannah lifted her pail and disappeared. Standing in the shadow of his own despair, Ralph felt how dark a night could be when it had no promise of morning. And Dr. Small, who had been stabling his horse just inside the barn, came out and moved quietly into the house just as though he had not listened intently to every word of the conversation.