‘Mr. Stapylton, you mistake,’ she said, with confusion; ‘I was not thinking--there is no reason. I was startled to see you--I mean, to see anyone. The road is so lonely here.’ ‘There was a time,’ he said, turning with her as she made a movement to go on--‘there was a time when it would have been no surprise to you to meet me anywhere, wherever I knew you to be.’ ‘But times change,’ she said, breathlessly, and then, with eagerness to change the subject, made the best plunge she could into general conversation. ‘I have been seeing Mrs. Diarmid, at Ardnamore.’ ‘That was Ailie; was it not?’ ‘Yes, it was Ailie,’ she said, regaining a little courage. ‘She married Mr. John. Not caring for him, perhaps--that is--I mean--not at first.’ ‘People do such things,’ he said, not looking at her, ‘every day.’ ‘And she has come back,’ said Isabel, who was too much agitated to think that he meant to launch any passing arrow at herself, ‘and I do not understand what ails her. She is no longer a prophet; but that is not all. She sits and never looks at you, never speaks; and she says God has deceived her; and her husband has gone away.’ ‘They must be a strange couple,’ said Stapylton, bringing that subject to a sudden close. Perhaps it was her evident agitation, the tremor with which she recognised him in her surprise, that made him so bold; but he was impatient, it was clear, of ordinary conversation. ‘I can’t call you by your new name,’ he said, suddenly. ‘When I saw you the other day, with that old woman by your side--and that--child--in your arms----’ ‘Mr. Stapylton, you are not to speak to me so!’ ‘When I saw you,’ he repeated, with a certain hurry and sweep of passion, which she could not stand against, ‘it shook me like an earthquake. Yes, Isabel--I have been like you, trying not to think. Don’t try now to make me believe you are quite calm talking of other things. You can’t forget three years ago--I know you don’t forget----’ ‘I have nothing to be ashamed of--in--three years ago,’ said Isabel, trembling, and with all the colour rushing to her face. ‘And I have,’ he said. ‘Ah, I acknowledge that; I would confess it on my knees if you would listen. Ashamed--bitterly ashamed! To think of all that might have been prevented--all the harm that might have been spared--if I had not been such a coward and a fool.’ There was self-reproach in his voice; and Isabel felt a tender compunction seize her, felt her strength stolen from her. If going away from her had made him desperate, should not she be the first to forgive? ‘Indeed I do not blame you,’ she said softly; ‘it has turned out--for the best.’ ‘For the best!’ he cried passionately; ‘at least, you cannot expect me to grant that. Your very dress which you wear for _him_--your very name--everything--how can I stand here and look at you and bear it--I who never changed in my heart?’