He had fallen into the way of calling her by her Christian name almost from the beginning of their acquaintance; in those days when he had been so much brighter and happier than he seemed to be now. The donkey jogged on, carrying off the twins, Minnie holding forth all the time, lecturing Bothwell for his rudeness. The Fräulein followed, eager to protect her charges. They were only a few paces in advance, but Hilda felt as if she were alone with Bothwell. "So the children have had their long-promised tea-party," he said, "and I was out of it. Hard lines." "They missed you very much," said Hilda. "But did not you know it was to be this afternoon?" "I knew yesterday--Dora told me," answered Bothwell, hitting the wild flowers savagely with his cane, as he walked by Hilda's side. Unconsciously they had fallen into a much slower pace than the Fräulein and the donkey, and they were quite alone. "I knew all about the tea-party, and I meant to be with you; and then something went wrong with me this morning, and I felt only fit company for devils. If Satan had been giving a tea-party anywhere within reach, I would have gone to _that_," concluded Bothwell vindictively. "I am very glad Satan does not give tea-parties in Cornwall. Of course you know that he would never trust himself in our county, for fear our Cornish cooks should make him into a pie," answered Hilda, trying to smile. "But I am very sorry to hear you have been worried." "My life has been made up of worries for the last six months. I try sometimes to be cheerful--reckless rather--and to forget; and then the viper begins to bite again." Hilda would have given much to be able to comfort him. It seemed almost as if he looked to her for comfort, and yet what could she say to a man whose troubles she knew not, who kept his own secret, and hardened his heart against his friends? They walked on in silence for a little way. Some of the reapers were going homeward in the soft evening light; there was a great wain being loaded a field or two off, and the voices of men and women sounded clear and musical through the summer stillness. "Would you be sorry for a man who had brought trouble on himself from his own folly, from his own wrong-doing, Hilda?" Bothwell asked presently. "I should be all the more sorry for him on that account," she answered gently. "Yes, you would pity him. Such women as you and Dora are angels of compassion. They never withhold their pity; but it is tempered with scorn. They despise the sinner, even while they are merciful to him." "You ought not to say that. I am not given to despising people. I am too conscious of my own shortcomings." "You are an angel," said Bothwell piteously. "O Hilda, how much I have lost in life--how many golden opportunities I have wasted!"