Then, as a flash of pride came to his aid, he thought, “I will at least be even with her. She shall not have the satisfaction of guessing how much I suffer,” and as Lucy then called to him from the opposite side of the lawn, he asked Anna to accompany him thither, just as he would have done a week before. Once that afternoon he found himself alone with her in a quiet part of the woods, where the long branches of a great oak came nearly to the ground, and formed a little bower which looked so inviting that Anna sat down upon the gnarled roots of the tree, and tossing her hat upon the grass, exclaimed, “How nice and pleasant it is in here. Come sit down, too, while I tell you again about my class in Sunday-school, and that poor Mrs. Hobbs across the millstream. You won’t forget her, will you? I told her you would visit her the oftener when I was gone. Do you know she cried because I was going? It made me feel so badly that I doubted if it was right for me to go,” and pulling down a handful of the oak-leaves above her head, Anna began weaving a chaplet, while the rector stood watching her with a puzzled expression upon his face. She did not act as if she ever could have dictated that letter, but he had no suspicion of the truth, and answered rather coldly, “I did not suppose you cared how much we might miss you at home.” Something in his tone made Anna look up into his face, and her eyes immediately filled with tears, for she knew that in some way she had displeased him. “Then you mistake me,” she replied, the tears still glittering on her long eyelashes, and her fingers trembling among the oaken leaves. “I do care whether I am missed or not.” “Missed by whom?” the rector asked, and Anna impetuously replied, “Missed by the parish poor, and by you, too, Mr. Leighton. You don’t know how often I shall think of you, or how sorry I am that—” She did not finish the sentence, for the rector had leaped madly at a conclusion, and was down in the grass at her side with both her hands in his. “Anna, O Anna,” he began so pleadingly, “have you repented of your decision? Tell me that you have and it will make me so happy. I have been so wretched ever since.” She thought he meant her decision about going to Saratoga, and she replied, “I have not repented, Mr. Leighton. Aunt Meredith thinks it’s best, and so do I, though I am sorry for you, if you really do care so much.” Anna was talking blindly, her thoughts upon one subject, while the rector’s were upon another, and matters were getting somewhat mixed when, “Arthur, Arthur, where are you?” came ringing through the woods, and Lucy Harcourt appeared, telling them that the refreshments were ready. “We are only waiting for you two, wondering where you had gone, but never dreaming that you had stolen away to make love,” she said playfully, adding more earnestly as she saw the traces of agitation visible in Anna’s face, “and I do believe you were. If so, I beg pardon for my intrusion.”