She walked on beside him, submitting meekly to his guiding hand on her arm, and not uttering one word of reproach. Her silence continued--became so prolonged and unnatural that Fult began to be troubled. He would rather have heard upbraidings. "Hain't you got a word to say to me?" he asked at last. "Not a word for the man that loves you better than life, and has broke through everything to get you?" She did not answer at once. Then she said, faintly: "Yes, I have things to say, but my mind doesn't seem to work very well; I seem to need time." Fult laughed low. "Take all you want," he said. "I aim to give you everything you ever call for, and never to cross you noway." For quite a distance they walked on, through dim patches of shadow and brighter spots of moonlight. Finally, as with a great effort, she spoke. "You--you believed I was in love with you that day on the hill when we had our last talk, and I ran away from you?" Fult laughed a low, joyous laugh. "Hit looked that way--like you were afeared you might be." "I _was_ afraid--for a moment," she said. "I was all wrought up and troubled about you, and not quite myself." "I knowed you never meant to show hit, never would unless you was compelled to some way; that was why I laid my plans to _make_ you show hit--I felt like I ought to, before I took you off." "You laid your plans to make me show it? How so?" she asked, in astonishment. "I fear I don't understand." He laughed easily. "Oh, nothing; just by working on your feelings a little grain." "Working on my feelings? When?" "That last day on the hill." "When you sang to me, and showed such sorrow at giving me up?" "Yes," he said. "Do you mean to say you were not really sad or suffering that day--that you put it all on, just to see the effect on me?" "How could I be sad and suffering," he asked, "when I never for one minute aimed to be parted from you, or to give you up? I had my plans fixed even then to take you." He laughed delightedly. "But I allowed I'd just see how things really was with you, before I finally did." Isabel stopped where she stood, in blank amazement. "Do you mean to tell me it was just play-acting--all that moving scene?" "All's fair in love and war," laughed Fult; "hit wasn't play-acting about the way I loved you; but the rest I reckon was." Her voice took on a new and stern note as she continued: "In other words, you deliberately deceived me and worked on my sympathy and got my feelings wrought up? Those tears you shed were crocodile tears, those heart-broken words and looks were all just a piece of fine acting?" "I allowed myself hit was pretty well done," replied Fult, in a self-congratulatory tone. "And you were entirely satisfied with the result of it?" Her voice now took on an edge. "I was, too." Again he laughed the low, triumphant laugh. "You were quite satisfied I loved you? It didn't occur to you that a moment of excitement and distress was not a reliable time to judge a person by?"