She looked up at me with dry, brilliant eyes. There was nothing strange about them save that the lids seemed swollen and unnaturally white. “Quintin,” she made answer, smiling, “it was foolish from the first, was it not, lad o’ my love? Did you ever say a sweet thing to me, like one that comes courting a lass in the gloaming? _Say it now to me, will you not?_ I would like to hear how it would have sounded.” I was silent. I seemed to have no words to answer her with. She laughed a little. “I forgot. Pardon me, Quintin. You are in trouble to-day--deep trouble. I should not add to it. It is I who should say loving things to you. But then--then--you would care more for flouts and anger from her than for all the naked sweetness of poor Jean Gemmell’s heart.” And the very pitifulness of her voice drew a cry of anger out of my breast. At the first sound of it she stopped and leaned back in my arms to look into my face. Then she put up her hand very gently and patted me tenderly on the cheek like one that comforts a fretful fractious child. “I vex you,” she said, “you that have overmuch to vex you. But I shall not vex you long. See,” she said, “there is the door. Yonder is my father standing by it. He is looking at us under his hand. There is Jonita, too, and your brother Hob. Shall we go and tell them that this is all a mistake, that there is to be no more between us?--that we are free--free, both of us--you to wed the Lady Mary, I to keep my tryst--to keep my tryst--with Death!” At the last words her voice sank to a whisper. Something broke in her throat and seemed to choke her. She fell back in my arms with her kerchief again to her mouth. They saw us from the door, and Alexander-Jonita came flying towards us like the wind over the short grass of the meadow. Jean took her kerchief away, without looking at it this time. She lifted her eyes to mine and smiled very sweetly. “I am glad--glad,” she whispered; “do not be sorry, Quintin. But do just this one thing for me, will you, lad--but only this one thing. Do not tell them. Let us pretend. Would it be wrong, think you, to pretend a little that you love me? You are a minister, and should know. But, if you could--why, it would be so sweet. And then it would not be for long, Quintin.” She spoke coaxingly, and withal most tenderly. “Jean, I do love you!” I cried. And for the first time in my life I meant it. She seemed to be like my sister Anna to me. By this time, seeing Jonita coming, she had recovered herself somewhat and taken my arm. At my words she pressed it a little, and smiled. “Oh,” she said, “you need not begin yet. Only before them. I want them to think that you love me a little, you see. Is it not small and foolish of me?” “But I do--I do truly love you, Jean,” I cried. “Did you ever know me to tell a lie?” She smiled again and nodded, like one who smiles at a child who has well learned his lesson. Alexander-Jonita came rushing up.