Comethup's visits to the old town became of necessity more frequent. It was splendid to think, as he started off from London on each occasion, that in the desolate garden would be waiting the woman who watched for his coming and listened for his footsteps through weary days when he could not reach her. Once or twice he had suggested that she should go to London as his aunt's guest, and see all the wonders of that wonderful city; but she had hung back shyly, pleading that there was plenty of time, or that she liked better to see him down there. Always she had some half-laughing excuse, so that he ceased at last to urge her, and was content to live in the happy present, and to leave the more formal questions of introduction and such like matters to the future. Always, too, she was the same petulant, impulsive, warm-hearted creature, quick to anger and as sudden in her repentance; wounding him deeply at times, and yet striving afterward to heal the wound with so much of love and tenderness and self-reproach that he would not willingly have been without the pain which revealed to him such depths of wonderful compassion in her. Each night, when he sought his bed, there was some faint bitterness in his heart; and yet, greater than the bitterness, the remembrance of some beautiful phrases she had used, some sudden, half-shy glance of her eyes, some wholly spontaneous caress. His love for her grew with the wonder of her; but she seemed always so intangible, so changeful, that he was never sure of her--was forever, after he had parted from her, on the verge of rushing back to crave her forgiveness for this, or her clearer understanding of that. Once, when he parted from her at night under the balcony, she clung to him, held him for a moment after they had whispered their "Good-nights," and looked up into his eyes. He saw her own were swimming in tears. "Dear," she whispered, "I wish I were kinder to you; you deserve so much more than I can ever give you." "No," he replied, "I don't deserve anything; you've given me already more than I ever hoped to gain. Why, you're the best woman in the whole world, and I----" She put her hand quickly on his lips. "And you are the best man--better and more patient than any one else could be. Tell me"--she laid her head upon his breast, and he had to bend his own to catch the words--"tell me, what would you do if you found--if it were possible that I did not love you?" His arms closed more tightly about her. "It isn't fair to jest about that," he said. "Why should you think about it at all? You do love me?" "Yes, of course. But what would you do? Would it mean--oh, how serious you are!--would it mean so much to you? Think: I vex and trouble you a hundred times a day. I know I do, only you're too good to say anything about it. Wouldn't it be better if you loved some one--some one who loved you steadily and firmly, just as you deserve to be loved? Wouldn't it be better?"