Leslie was very ill for some time. He had a slight brain fever, and was delirious, insisting that Lettie was leaving him. She stayed most of her days at Highclose. One day in June he lay resting on a deck chair in the shade of the cedar, and she was sitting by him. It was a yellow, sultry day, when all the atmosphere seemed inert, and all things were languid. “Don’t you think, dear,” she said, “it would be better for us not to marry?” He lifted his head nervously from the cushions; his face was emblazoned with a livid red bar on a field of white, and he looked worn, wistful. “Do you mean not yet?” he asked. “Yes—and, perhaps,—perhaps never.” “Ha,” he laughed, sinking down again. “I must be getting like myself again, if you begin to tease me.” “But,” she said, struggling valiantly, “I’m not sure I ought to marry you.” He laughed again, though a little apprehensively. “Are you afraid I shall always be weak in my noddle?” he asked. “But you wait a month.” “No, that doesn’t bother me——” “Oh, doesn’t it!” “Silly boy—no, it’s myself.” “I’m sure I’ve made no complaint about you.” “Not likely—but I wish you’d let me go.” “I’m a strong man to hold you, aren’t I? Look at my muscular paw!”—he held out his hands, frail and white with sickness. “You know you hold me—and I want you to let me go. I don’t want to——” “To what?” “To get married at all—let me be, let me go.” “What for?” “Oh—for my sake.” “You mean you don’t love me?” “Love—love—I don’t know anything about it. But I can’t—we can’t be—don’t you see—oh, what do they say,—flesh of one flesh.” “Why?” he whispered, like a child that is told some tale of mystery. She looked at him, as he lay propped upon his elbow, turning towards hers his white face of fear and perplexity, like a child that cannot understand, and is afraid, and wants to cry. Then slowly tears gathered full in her eyes, and she wept from pity and despair. This excited him terribly. He got up from his chair, and the cushions fell on to the grass: “What’s the matter, what’s the matter!—Oh, Lettie,—is it me?—don’t you want me now?—is that it?—tell me, tell me now, tell me,”—he grasped her wrists, and tried to pull her hands from her face. The tears were running down his cheeks. She felt him trembling, and the sound of his voice alarmed her from herself. She hastily smeared the tears from her eyes, got up, and put her arms round him. He hid his head on her shoulder and sobbed, while she bent over him, and so they cried out their cries, till they were ashamed, looking round to see if anyone were near. Then she hurried about, picking up the cushions, making him lie down, and arranging him comfortably, so that she might be busy. He was querulous, like a sick, indulged child. He would have her arm under his shoulders, and her face near his. “Well,” he said, smiling faintly again after a time. “You are naughty to give us such rough times—is it for the pleasure of making up, bad little Schnucke—aren’t you?”