"Well, I did come to grief--or pretty nearly. I met three Polish workmen on the road. I think they were--intoxicated. Anyway, they tried to stop me. I was lucky in managing to turn in here--so quickly they didn't realize what I was going to do. If I hadn't been near the entrance to this wood-road--Austin, what makes you grip my hand so? You hurt." "Promise me you'll never ride alone again," he said, his voice shaking. "I certainly never shall." "And could you possibly promise me, too, that you'll forgive the absolutely unforgivable way I've acted all summer, and give me a chance to show that I can do better--_Sylvia_?" "Oh, yes, _yes_! Please don't feel badly about that. I--I--never misunderstood at all. I know you've had an awfully hard row to hoe, and that's made you bitter, and--any man hates to have a woman help--financially. Besides"--she hesitated, and went on with a humility very different from her usual sweet imperiousness--"I've been pretty unhappy myself, and it's made _me_ self-willed and obstinate and dictatorial." "You! You're--more like an angel than I ever dreamed any woman could be." "Oh, I'm not, I'm not--please don't think so for a minute. Because, if you do, we'll start out on a false basis, and not be real friends, the way I hope we're going to be now--" "Yes--" "And, please, may I sit up now? And really, my hands are warm"--he dropped them instantly--"and I would like to hear about the storm--whether it has done much damage, if you know." "It has destroyed every building we owned except the house itself." "Austin! You're not in earnest!" "I never was more so." "Oh, I'm sorry--more sorry than I can tell you!" One of the little hands that had been withdrawn a moment earlier groped for his in the darkness, and pressed it gently; she did not speak for some minutes, but finally she went on: "It seems a dreadful thing to say, but perhaps it may prove a blessing in disguise. I believe Thomas is right in thinking that a smaller farm, which you could manage easily and well without hiring help, would be more profitable; and now it will seem the most natural thing in the world to sell that great southern meadow to Mr. Weston." "Yes, I suppose so; he offered us three thousand dollars for it; he doesn't care to buy the little brick cottage that goes with it--which isn't strange, for it has only five rooms, and is horribly out of repair. Grandfather used it for his foreman; but, of course, we've never needed it and never shall, so I wish he did want it."