At first seeing him her face flushed radiant with surprise and joy. She seemed to think that nothing short of necromancy could have conjured him to that spot. She had no reproaches for him, because she had no suspicion that he had trifled with his promise not to seek her. But she expressed her astonishment. "I did not know you ever came this way," she said. "Nor did I ever before, love; but I remembered my pledge, not to follow or to seek you, and so I avoided the woodland path where we met last Sunday," said Thurston, persuading himself that he spoke the precise truth. It is not necessary to pursue with them this walk; lovers scarcely thank us for such intrusions. It is sufficient to say that this was not the last one. Blinded by passion and self-deception, and acting upon the same astute calculus of probabilities, Thurston often contrived to meet Marian in places where his presence might be least expected, and most often in paths that she had taken for the express purpose of keeping out of his way. Thus it fell that many forest walks and seashore strolls were taken, all through the lovely Indian summer weather. And these seemed so much the result of pure accident that Marian never dreamed of complaining that his pledge had been tampered with. But Thurston began to urge her consent to a private marriage. From a secret engagement to a secret marriage, the transition seemed to him very easy. "And, dearest Marian, we are both of age, both free--we should neither displease God nor wrong man, by such a step--while it would at the same time secure our union, and save us from injustice and oppression! do you not see?" Such was his argument, which he pleaded and enforced with all the powers of passion and eloquence. In vain. Though every interview increased his power over the maiden--though her affections and her will were both subjected, the domain of conscience was unconquered. And Marian still answered: "Though a secret marriage would break no law of God or man, nor positively wrong any human creature, yet it might be the cause of misunderstanding and suspicion--and perhaps calumny, causing much distress to those who love and respect me. Therefore it would be wrong. And I must do no wrong, even for your dear sake." CHAPTER XIV. CLOUDY. It was Christmas Eve and a fierce snow-storm was raging. Old Mr. Willcoxen sat half doubled up in his leather-covered elbow chair, in the chimney corner of his bedroom, occupied with smoking his clay pipe, and thinking about his money bags. Fanny was in the cold, bleak upper rooms of the house, looking out of the windows upon the wide desolation of winter, the waste of snow, the bare forest, the cold, dark waters of the bay--listening to the driving tempest, and singing, full of glee as she always was when the elements were in an uproar.