"Will you come, sweetheart?" persisted the young man, in tones of persuasive tenderness, mistaking her silence for maidenly reserve, "or shall I come back for you when the time is at hand to claim you for my own?" "No! no! Milt, you must not think of coming back, when once you are safely away!" she cried impetuously. "Then you will come to me?" "Wait until you see what the future has in store," she answered evasively. "There's only one thing I care for it to have in store for me, and that is _you_. You will come to me?" he persisted. "If nothing prevents, I will come," she stammered. "But one cannot always tell what lies before." "What is there to prevent?" he demanded, sharply, a ring of jealousy creeping into his tones. "What could there be?" "A hundred things might arise that we know nothing of now," she answered hurriedly, understanding full well that she stood on most dangerous ground, that to confess to her lover the one thing that stood in the way of her going, would be to shatter all the plans she had laid for his own safety. She knew that rather than have her keep faith with the Squire, the nephew would deliberately give himself up to the officers of the law, and loudly proclaim the ownership of the hat which was about to cost Sally so great a price. No hope could she have to get her sweetheart away did he but suspect the sacrifice she was about to make for his sake. Neither prayers nor entreaties could avail in the face of such knowledge. For one brief moment a thought of escape came to her. She was sorely tempted to break her promise with the Squire, to delay her marriage with him, finding one excuse and another until she could hear from the absent one, and make her preparations to join him. Then all might yet end well. But there was her mother to be considered. She was about to forget this very important item in such an arrangement. What would become of her mother, should Sally do such a thing? She could not be left to the Squire's wrath, nor could she go along with her daughter. It seemed the meshes of fate were drawing tighter and tighter around the girl. All avenues of escape appeared closed to her. "To-day and to-night have been too trying for me!" cried Sally, wearily. "We both know what the past has been, we neither can tell about the future, so let us talk only of the present. That concerns us most." "But I don't understand," began Milton. "This seems a new mood. It isn't like you, Sally. You don't mean that you are beginning to care less for me?" "Have I acted to-night as if I was?" she asked sharply; his words had stung her into sudden resentment. "Did my going to the old deserted quarry for your sake, look as if I was caring less?" "No! no! forgive me!" he cried, humbly, abashed by the reproof of her words. "I did not mean that. I know your heart is mine, else you would not have been the brave and fearless girl you were to-night. God bless you!" CHAPTER XXV.