"Dr. Darkham! You!" Her tone was cold, almost haughty.

"Yes. I followed you!" He looked at her, his eyes resting on her. Such strange eyes, they seemed on fire! And his tone—it was one she had never heard before.

As for Darkham, he stood there looking at her, gloating on her beauty—the beauty for which he had sold his soul. How sweet she was—a thing born of the gods! So tall, so slender, so defiant, so divine!

But in all his dreams of her, had she ever been as beautiful as now? She had still her arms round the young trees—she was, indeed, clinging to them now, as if demanding support of them— and her small shapely head and slender figure showed through them as though they formed a living panel.

Something other than the longing to be always with her had urged him towards this interview. The fear of losing her altogether! He had seen the way she went, and had followed her, and had rightly judged that she was waiting here to see Dillwyn return.

He knew Mrs. Greatorex. Money was a god to her, and she would strongly urge Agatha to act as he desired. She would condone the haste of his proposal. He could explain away all that by saying he feared to lose her—by a judicious hint about Dillwyn's attentions. He knew how that would annoy her. And she was an obstinate and determined woman, who would go all lengths to gain her own ends. He could see her to-night—a note would manage it.

"You followed me!" Her soft eyes flashed. "Why should you follow me?"

"You know," said Darkham. He advanced a step nearer to her. "You must know."

His voice now was shaken with passion, and his face was deadly white. He was alone with her, far from every one, and he was going to tell her that he loved her. To him it was the moment of his life.

"I know nothing. I desire to know nothing."

The girl had stepped out now from between the trees, and was standing before him, quite calm, but with a little droop of the lids he was not slow to interpret. It meant disdain. But he cared for nothing now, save his one mad longing to tell her.

"You do know," said he in a strange voice. "I dare you to say otherwise. You know that I love you." It was out. It was said. The very air was ringing with it. He repeated it. To himself it seemed that he was shouting the great news, but in reality his voice was low—intense. "I love you. I have loved you always— always. Even whilst that woman lived. You know that, too. I have seen it in your eyes so often. No, not a word! Let me speak.... I have been silent so long."

"To be silent for ever would be better," said Agatha. She was very pale, but she had a certain courage of her own, and it stood to her, so far, most valiantly. "You must see what folly this is. Why do you speak? What good will it do you?"

"It means life!" said Darkham. "What nights, what days have been filled with my vain longing for such an hour as this! To say it —to tell you how unutterably dear you are to me—has been my consuming passion since first we met. Often, often, when attending your aunt, a craving to speak to you—to lay bare my heart—to take you in my arms—-"

He moved towards her, and she shrank back affrightedly. After all, a girl's best courage does not amount to much.

"What!" said he, "do you think I would touch you? No, no!"

"You must be mad," said she. She was trembling now. "How can you talk to me like this?—to me, who—-"

"Well?" said he—his voice was a question—"well?"

"Why go into it?" said the girl gently, touched by the horrible anguish in his face. "Is it not enough for you to—-"

"To what?"—violently, as she hesitated to finish her sentence.

"Your words are enigmas; I would hear from your own lips the answers to them."

"As you insist," said Agatha calmly, "I shall finish it. To you, who"—slowly, defiantly—"are abhorrent to me!"

"You think to marry that young fool!" said he. "And I tell you you never shall. I shall not allow it. Your aunt will not allow it."

"Mrs. Greatorex is not my aunt," said Agatha. "But am I to understand, then, that you are going to bring her into this hateful matter?"

"I shall certainly tell her how things are," returned he doggedly.

"You would coerce me—you would compel me to accept you!" cried she miserably, a vision of Mrs. Greatorex's anger rising before her.

"I compel you in no wise! I would only have careful consideration where your best interests are concerned. I can supply you with all that makes life bearable. I can surround you with luxuries— and Dillwyn, what can he do?"

"I don't want him to do anything," said Agatha slowly. She said nothing more for a moment and the meaning of her words sank into Darkham's heart. No, Dillwyn need do nothing. She loved him— love was sufficient! What more was wanting? Agatha's voice broke through his wretched thoughts. "I do not understand your allusions to Dr. Dillwyn. He is merely a friend, an acquaintance of mine. No more."

"No more!" He mimicked her tone, and burst into queer laughter.

"Would you swear to that? Ay! I suppose—and die for it—just because he has not said to you what I have said to-day. But you will never marry him. Mark that! You will marry me!"

"You mean that you will make Mrs. Greatorex my enemy abut this," said the girl scornfully. "You will turn her against me."

"As for that," said he, "you are not the down-trodden slave you would describe. The law of to-day"—bitterly—"leaves most people very free. You are thoroughly protected."

"So far, yes; but you also know that my only home is with Mrs. Greatorex. If she were to turn against me—-"

"Then I should take you in."

"Never!" said she strongly. "I would rather die on the roadside than have anything to do with you!"

"You think that now, but time changes most things, and poverty is hard to bear. You will listen to your aunt at last; and I—I who have loved you—I who have looked forward to such an hour as this—have looked to you as my salvation—-"

"Dr. Darkham!"—she turned upon him passionately—"do not look at me at all. It is useless, believe me. Nothing under heaven could change my determination on this point. I have told you I would rather die than marry you. Look elsewhere and forget me, I entreat you."

She turned away from him and glanced once more up the road. Would he never come?

"Not in sight yet?" said Darkham, with a contemptuous laugh. "To keep you waiting so! What a dilatory lover!"

"I wish you would go away," said she quietly.

"That you may see him alone? A most reasonable request." He laughed again harshly, with forced merriment; then suddenly he fell on his knees before her, and caught hold of her gown.

"Agatha, for the sake of the heaven I have lost, hear me! You must hear me! See—I am at you very feet! Give me a word—a word—only one! Just one word of hope. Oh, my soul, if you only knew how I feel towards you—what I have done for you! Agatha, have pity!" He seemed hardly to know what he was saying. He caught the hem of her gown, and pressed it to his lips. The girl, distressed, horrified, laid her hand upon his head to press it back, away from her. To him the pressure of that soft, hasty hand seemed like a benediction.

He rose slowly, staggering a little, and looked up at her; she had moved away towards an opening in the hedge that led to the road, and was holding up her hand as if to attract somebody. Her face was white, terrified; even in this strange moment he felt a sensation of gladness in the thought that he could move her some way, even to fear.

In another minute Dillwyn had sprung over the stile and was beside her. He looked quietly from her to Darkham.

"I saw you," said the girl, laughing a little hurriedly. "And this was your nearest way back, you know, and—-"

"And as I am due to see a patient now," said Dr. Darkham, drawing out his watch and examining it closely, "I am glad you have come in time to see Miss Nesbitt back to the grounds."