Mr. Heathcote retained his place beside mademoiselle through a whole long hour. She had time to get over her fear that he would go away soon, time to adjust her powers, time to enlarge, and to do justice to herself and several subjects adapted elegantly and with easy grace to the occasion. In her hard-working life she had seldom enjoyed a greater pleasure. For Jeanne-Armande had good blood in her veins; the ends of her poor old fingers were finely moulded, and there had been a title in the family long ago in Berri. And when at last monsieur did go, it was not hastily. The proper preliminaries were spoken, the first little movement made, and then, later, the slow rising, as if with reluctance, to the feet. Jeanne-Armande was satisfied, and smiled with honeyed graciousness, as, after another moment's delay, he bowed and went back to the place behind, where Anne was sitting.

In truth, Heathcote had not been unwilling to take the hour himself; it was not necessary to talk—Jeanne-Armande would talk for two. The sight of Anne had been unexpected; he had not decided what he should say to her even at Valley City, much less here. After an hour's thought, he took his place beside her. And remarked upon—the beauty of the day.

Dexter would have said something faultless, and all the more so if he had wished to disguise his thoughts. But all Heathcote said was, "What a lovely day!"

"Yes," replied Anne. In her mind surged to and fro one constant repetition: "Ah, my dear child, do you not see that I can not help loving you? and that you—love me also?" "Do you not see that I can not help loving you? and that you—love me also?"

"They improve things, after all," said Heathcote. "The last time I went over this road the train-boy was a poor little cripple, and therefore one couldn't quite throw his books on the floor." This was in allusion to the progress of a brisk youth through the car for the purpose of depositing upon the patient knees of each passenger a paper-covered novel, a magazine or two, and a song-book.

—"And that you—love me also," ran Anne's thoughts, as she looked out on the gliding fields.

There was a silence. Then Heathcote moved nearer.

"Anne," he said, in a low tone, "I was very much disturbed when I found that you had gone. From the little I was able to learn, I fear you were harshly treated by that hard old woman who calls herself your aunt."

"Not according to her view of it," said Anne, her face still turned to the window.

"I wish you would look at me, instead of at those stupid fields," said Heathcote, after a moment, in an aggrieved tone. "Here I have escaped from Caryl's under false pretenses, told dozens of lies, spent a broiling morning at a hole of a place called Lancaster, melted myself in the hot city, and bought tickets for all across the continent, just for the chance of seeing you a moment, and you will not even look at me."

But she had turned now. "Did you go out to the half-house?" she said, with a little movement of surprise.

"Yes," he answered, immediately meeting her eyes, and holding them with his own. (They had not precisely the kind of expression which is appropriate to the man who has decided to perform the part of "merely a kind friend." But then Heathcote always looked more than he said.)

"I am very sorry," she murmured—"I mean, sorry that you have followed me."

"Why are you sorry? You do not know how distressed I was when Mrs. Lorrington told me."

"Helen!" said Anne, her eyes falling at the sound of the name.

"She does not know where I am; no one knows. They think I have gone to the mountains. But—I could not be at peace with myself, Anne, until I had seen you once more. Do you remember the last time we met, that morning in the garden?" She made a mute gesture which begged for silence; but he went on: "I can never forget that look of yours. In truth, I fear I have done all this, have come all this distance, and in spite of myself, for—another."

There was no one behind them; they had the last seat. Anne was thinking, wildly, "Oh, if he would but speak in any other tone—say anything else than that!" Then she turned, at bay. "Mrs. Lorrington told me that you were engaged to her," she said, announcing it quietly, although her face was very pale.

"Did she? It is partly true. But—I love you, Anne."

The last words that Ward Heathcote had intended to speak, when he took that seat beside her, he had now spoken; the last step he had intended to take he had now taken. What did he mean? He did not know himself. He only knew that her face was exquisitely sweet to him, and that he was irresistibly drawn toward her, whether he would or no. "I love you," he repeated.

What could be said to such a plain, direct wooer as this? Anne, holding on desperately to her self-possession, and throwing up barriers mentally, made of all her resolutions and duties, her pride and her prayers, drew away, coldly answering: "However you may have forgotten your own engagement, Mr. Heathcote, I have not forgotten mine. It is not right for you to speak and for me to hear such words."

"Right is nothing," said Heathcote, "if we love each other."

"We do not," replied Anne, falling into the trap.

"We do; at least I do."

This avowal, again repeated, was so precious to the poor humiliated pride of the woman's heart within her that she had to pause an instant. "I was afraid you would think," she said, blushing brightly—"I was afraid you would think that I—I mean, that I can not help being glad that you—"

"That I love you? I do. But just as truly as I love you, Anne, you love me. You can not deny it."

"I will not discuss the subject. I shall soon be married, Mr. Heathcote, and you—"

"Never mind me; I can take care of myself. And so you are going to marry a man you do not love?"

"I do love him. I loved him long before I knew you; I shall love him long after you are forgotten. Leave me; I will not listen to you. Why do you speak so to me? Why did you follow me?"

"Because, dear, I love you. I did not fully know it myself until now. Believe me, Anne, I had no more intention of speaking in this way when I sat down here than I had of following you when I first heard you had gone; but the next morning I did it. Come, let everything go to the winds, as I do, and say you love me; for I know you do."

The tears were in Anne's eyes now; she could not see. "Let me go to mademoiselle," she said, half rising as if to pass him. "It is cruel to insult me."

"Do not attract attention; sit down for one moment. I will not keep you long; but you shall listen to me. Insult you? Did I ever dream of insulting you? Is it an insult to ask you to be my wife? That is what I ask now. I acknowledge that I did not follow you with any such intention. But now that I sit here beside you, I realize what you are to me. My darling, I love you, child as you have seemed. Look up, and tell me that you will be my wife."

"Never."

"Why?" said Heathcote, not in the least believing her, but watching the intense color flush her face and throat, and then die away.

"I shall marry Rast. And you—will marry Helen."

"As I said before, I can take care of myself. The question is you." As he spoke he looked at her so insistently that, struggling and unwilling, she yet felt herself compelled to meet his eyes in return.

"Helen loves you dearly," she said, desperately.

They were looking full at each other now. In the close proximity required by the noise of the train, they could see the varying lights and shadows in the depths of each other's eyes. The passengers' faces were all turned forward; there was no one on a line with them; virtually they were alone.

"I do not know what your object is in bringing in Mrs. Lorrington's name so often," said Heathcote. "She does not need your championship, I assure you."

"How base to desert her so!"

"Not any more base than to marry a man you do not love," replied Heathcote. "I hardly know anything more base than that. But marry me, my darling," he added, his voice softening as he bent toward her, "and you shall see how I will love you."

"You said I could go," said the girl, turning from him, and putting her hand over her eyes.

"You may go, if you are afraid. But I hardly think you a coward. No; let us have it out now. Here you are, engaged. Here I am, half engaged. We meet. Do you suppose I wish to love you? Not at all. You are by no means the wife I have intended to have. Do you wish to love me? No. You wish to be faithful to your engagement. In a worldly point of view we could not do a more foolish deed than to marry each other. You have nothing, and a burden of responsibilities; I have very little, and a much heavier burden of bad habits and idleness. What is the result? By some unknown enchantment I begin to love you, you begin to love me. The very fact that I am sitting here to-day conclusively proves the former. I am as fond of you as a school-boy, Anne. In truth, you have made me act like a school-boy. This is a poor place to woo you in; but, dear, just look at me once, only once more."

But Anne would not look. In all her struggles and all her resolutions, all her jealousy and her humiliation, she had made no provision against this form of trial, namely, that he should love her like this.

"Oh, go, go; leave me," she murmured, hardly able to speak. He gathered the words more from the movement of her lips than from any sound.

"I will go if you wish it. But I shall come back," he said. And then, quietly, he left her alone, and returned to Jeanne-Armande.

The Frenchwoman was charmed; she had not expected him so soon. She said to herself, with a breath of satisfaction, that her conversation had fallen in fit places.

Alone, looking at the hills as they passed in procession, Anne collected her scattered resolves, and fought her battle. In one way it was a sweet moment to her. She had felt dyed with eternal shame at having given her love unsought, uncared for; but he loved her—even if only a little, he loved her. This was balm to her wounded heart, and diffused itself like a glow; her cold hands grew warm, her life seemed to flow more freely. But soon the realization followed that now she must arm herself in new guise to resist the new temptation. She must keep her promise. She would marry Rast, if he wished it, though the earth were moved, and the hills carried into the midst of the sea. And Heathcote would be far happier with Helen; his feeling for herself was but a fancy, and would pass, as no doubt many other fancies had passed. In addition, Helen loved him; her life was bound up in him, whether he knew it or no. Helen had been her kindest friend; if all else were free, this alone would hold her. "But I am glad, glad to the bottom of my heart, that he did care for me, even if only a little," she thought, as she watched the hills. "My task is now to protect him from himself, and—and what is harder, myself from myself. I will do it. But I am glad—I am glad." Quieted, she waited for his return.

When he came she would speak so calmly and firmly that his words would be quelled. He would recognize the uselessness of further speech. When he came. But he did not come. The hills changed to cliffs, the cliffs to mountains, the long miles grew into thirty and forty, yet he did not return. He had risen, but did not come to her; he had gone forward to the smoking-car. He had, in truth, caught the reflection of her face in a mirror, and decided not to come. It is not difficult to make resolutions; there is a fervidness in the work that elevates and strengthens the heart. But once made, one needs to exercise them, otherwise they grow cold and torpid on one's hands.

Jeanne-Armande, finding herself alone, barricaded her seat with basket and umbrella, so as to be able to return thither (and perhaps have other conversations), and came across to Anne.

"A most accomplished gentleman!" she said, with effusion. "Mrs. Lorrington, charming as she is, is yet to be herself congratulated. He has even been in Berri," she added, as though that was a chief accomplishment, "and may have beheld with his own eyes the chÂteau of my ancestors." Rarely indeed did Jeanne-Armande allude to this chÂteau: persons with chÂteau ancestors might be required to sustain expenses not in accordance with her well-arranged rules.

"Where does this train stop?" asked Anne, with some irrelevance as to the chÂteau.

"At Centerville, for what they call dinner; and at Stringhampton Junction in the evening. It is the fast express."

"Do we meet an eastward-bound train at Centerville?"

"I presume we do; but we shall not get out, so the crowd in the dining-room will not incommode us. The contents of my basket will be sufficient. But if you wish a cup of coffee, it will be eight cents. There is a species of German cake at Centerville, remarkably filling for the price. They bring them through the cars."

"What time is it now?"

"About half past twelve; we reach Centerville at two. What age has Monsieur Heathcote, my dear?"

"Thirty-two or thirty-three, I believe."

"A gentleman of independent fortune, I presume?"

"He is independent, but, I was told, not rich."

"The position I should have supposed," said mademoiselle. "What penetrating eyes he possesses; penetrating, yet soft. There is something in his glance, coming from under those heavy brows, which is particularly moving—one might almost say tender. Have you observed it?"

Yes, Anne had observed it.

Jeanne-Armande, protected as she supposed from indiscretion by the engagement to the charming Mrs. Lorrington, rambled on, enjoying the real pleasure of being sentimental and romantic, without risk, cost, or loss of time, on this eventful day.

"I wish you could have seen Mr. Dexter, mademoiselle," said Anne, making an effort to turn the tide. "He is considered handsome, and he has a large fortune—"

"But not inherited, I presume," interposed mademoiselle, grandly. "Mr. Heathcote, as I understand, lives upon his paternal revenues."

If Heathcote had been there, he might have answered that he tried to, but never succeeded. He was not there, however; and Anne could only reply that she did not know.

"He has undoubtedly that air," said Jeanne-Armande, faithful to her distinguished escort, and waving away all diversions in favor of unknown Dexters. "Do you know when they are to be married?"

"No," said Anne, drearily, looking now at the cliffs which bounded the narrow valley through which the train was rushing.

"Let us hope that it will be soon; for life is short at best. Though not romantic by nature, I own I should be pleased to possess a small portion of the wedding cake of that amiable pair," pursued Jeanne-Armande, fixing her eyes upon the suspended lamp of the car, lost in sentimental reverie.

"I think I will buy a newspaper," said Anne, as the train-boy came toward them.

"Buy a paper? By no means," said mademoiselle, descending hastily to earth again. "I have yesterday's paper, which I found on the ferry-boat. It is in good order; I smoothed it out carefully; you can read that." She produced it from some remote pocket, and Anne took refuge in its pages, while Jeanne-Armande closed her eyes under the helmet, no doubt to meditate further on the picture of felicity she had called up.

Anne felt all the weariness of long suspense. It was one o'clock; it was half past one; it was nearly two; still he did not appear. Even mademoiselle now roused herself, looked at her watch, and in her turn began to ask where he could be; but she had the comfort of asking it aloud.

The speed was now perceptibly slackened, and the brakeman announced at the door: "Cen—ter—ville. Twen—timinets for dinner," in a bar of music not unlike a hoarse Gregorian chant. At this instant Heathcote entered from the next car.

"Ah! there he is," said mademoiselle, with satisfaction. "Do you think he will partake of a little taste with us?" He joined them, and she repeated her question in the shape of a modest allusion to the contents of her basket.

"No, thanks; I shall go out and walk up and down to breathe the air. But first, will you not go with me, and see what they have? Perhaps we might find something not altogether uneatable."

Mademoiselle declined, with her most gracious smile. She would content herself with the contents of her basket; but perhaps Anne—

The eastward-bound train was in, drawn up beside them.

"Yes," said Anne, "I should like to go." Then, as soon as they were in the open air, "I only wish to speak to you for a moment," she began. "I shall not go to the dining-room."

"Take my arm, then, and we will walk up and down."

"Yes, let us walk," she said, moving onward.

"We can not walk well unless you take my arm."

"I do not wish to walk well," she answered angrily.

He never would act according to her plan or theory. Here was all this persistence about a trifle, while she was wrought up to matters of deep moment.

"I do not care whether you wish to take it or not; you must. There! Now what do you want to say to me?" He was not wrought up at all; he was even smiling, and looking at her in the same old way. It was hard to begin under such circumstances; but she did begin. "Mr. Heathcote, while I thank you for all your kindness—"

"I have not been kind; I only said that I loved you. That is either above or below kindness, certainly not on a level with that tepid feeling."

But Anne would not listen, "While I thank you, I wish at the same time to say that I understand quite well that it is but an impulse which—"

"It was but an impulse, I grant," said Heathcote, again interrupting her, "but with roots too strong for me to break—as I have found to my dismay," he added, smiling, as he met her eyes.

"I wish you, I beg you, to return to New York on this train now waiting," said the girl, abandoning all her carefully composed sentences, and bringing forward her one desire with an earnestness which could not be doubted.

"I shall do nothing of the kind."

"But what is the use of going on?"

"I never cared much about use, Miss Douglas."

"And then there is the pain."

"Not for me."

"For me, then," she said, looking away from him across the net-work of tracks, and up the little village street ending in the blue side of the mountain. "Putting everything else aside, do you care nothing for my pain?"

"I can not help caring more for the things you put aside, since I happen to be one of them."

"You are selfish," she said, hotly. "I ask you to leave me; I tell you your presence pains me; and you will not go." She drew her arm from his, and turned toward the car. He lifted his hat, and went across to the dining-hall.

Mademoiselle was eating cold toast. She considered that toast retained its freshness longer than plain bread. Anne sat down beside her. She felt a hope that Heathcote would perhaps take the city-bound train after all. She heard the bell ring, and watched the passengers hasten forth from the dining-hall. The eastward-bound train was going—was gone; a golden space of sunshine and the empty rails were now where had been its noise and bell and steam.

"Our own passengers will soon be returning," said Jeanne-Armande, brushing away the crumbs, and looking at herself in the glass to see if the helmet was straight.

"May I sit here with you?" said Anne.

"Certainly, my dear. But Mr. Heathcote—will he not be disappointed?"

"No," replied the girl, dully. "I do not think he will care to talk to me this afternoon."

Jeanne-Armande said to herself that perhaps he would care to talk to some one else. But she made no comment.

The train moved on. An hour passed, and he did not appear. The Frenchwoman could not conceal her disappointment. "If he intended to leave the train at Centerville, I am surprised that he should not have returned to make us his farewells," she said, acidly.

"He is not always attentive to such things," said Anne.

"On the contrary. I have found him extremely attentive," retorted mademoiselle, veering again.

But at this stage Heathcote entered, and Anne's hope that he had left them was dashed to the ground. He noted the situation; and then he asked mademoiselle if she would not join him in the other seat for a while. The flattered Frenchwoman consented, and as he followed her he gave Anne a glance which said, "Check." And Anne felt that it was "check" indeed.

He had no intention of troubling her; he would give her time to grow tired.

But she was tired already.

At last, however, he did come. They were in plain sight now, people were sitting behind them; she could not childishly refuse to let him take the vacant place beside her. But at least, she thought, his words must be guarded, or people behind would make out what he said, even from the motion of his lips.

But Heathcote never cared for people.

"Dear," he said, bending toward her, "I am so glad to be with you again!" After all, he had managed to place himself so that by supporting his cheek with his hand, the people behind could not see his face at all, much less make out what he said.

Anne did not reply.

"Won't you even look at me? I must content myself, then, with your profile."

"You are ungenerous," she answered, in a tone as low as his own. "It will end in my feeling a contempt for you."

"And I—never felt so proud of myself in all my life before. For what am I doing? Throwing away all my fixed ideas of what life should be, for your sake, and glad to do it."

"Mr. Heathcote, will you never believe that I am in earnest?"

"I know very well that you are in earnest. But I shall be equally in earnest in breaking down the barriers between us. When that Western lover of yours is married to some one else, and Mrs. Lorrington likewise, then shall we not be free?"

"Helen will never marry any one else."

"Why do you not say that Mr. Pronando never will?"

"Because I am not sure," she answered, with sad humility.

"Are you going to tell him all that has happened?"

"Yes."

"And leave the decision to him?"

"Yes."

"You will put yourself in a false position, then. If you really intend to marry him, it would be safer to tell him nothing," said Heathcote, in an impartial tone. "No man likes to hear that sort of thing, even if his wife tells it herself. Though he may know she has loved some one else, he does not care to have it stated in words; he would rather leave it disembodied." Anne was looking at him; a sudden pain, which she did not have time to conceal, showed itself in her face as he spoke. "You darling child!" said Heathcote, laughing. "See how you look when I even speak of your marrying any one save me!"

She shrank back, feeling the justice of his inference. Her resolution remained unchanged; but she could not withstand entirely the personal power of his presence. She gazed at the afternoon sunshine striking the mountain-peaks, and asked herself how she could bear the long hours that still lay between her and the time of release—release from this narrow space where she must sit beside him, and feel the dangerous subtle influence of his voice and eyes. Then suddenly an idea came to her, like a door opening silently before a prisoner in a cell. She kept her face turned toward the window, while rapidly and with a beating heart she went over its possibilities. Yes, it could be done. It should be done. With inward excitement she tried to arrange the details.

Heathcote had fallen into silence; but he seemed quite content to sit there beside her without speaking. At last, having decided upon her course, and feeling nervously unable to endure his wordless presence longer, she began to talk of Caryl's, Miss Vanhorn, mademoiselle, the half-house—anything and everything which possessed no real importance, and did not bear upon the subject between them. He answered her in his brief fashion. If she wished to pad the dangerous edges of the day with a few safe conventionalities, he had no objection; women would be conventional on a raft in mid-ocean. The afternoon moved on toward sunset. He thought the contest was over, that although she might still make objection, at heart she had yielded; and he was not unwilling to rest. Why should they hurry? The whole of life was before them.

As night fell, they reached Stringhampton Junction, and the great engine stopped again. The passengers hastened hungrily into the little supper-room, and Heathcote urged mademoiselle to accompany him thither, and taste a cup of that compound found at railway stations called Japan tea. Jeanne-Armande looked half inclined to accept this invitation, but Anne, answering for both, said: "No; we have all we need in our basket. You can, however, if you will be so kind, send us some tea." This decision being in accordance with Jeanne-Armande's own rules, she did not like to contravene it, in spite of the satisfaction it would have given her to enter the supper-room with her decorous brown glove reposing upon such a coat sleeve. Heathcote bowed, and went out. Anne watched his figure entering the doorway of the brightly lighted supper-room, which was separated by a wide space from the waiting train. Then she turned.

"Mademoiselle," she said, her burning haste contrasting with her clear calm utterance of the moment before, "I beg you to leave this train with me without one instant's delay. The peace of my whole life depends upon it."

"What can you mean?" said the bewildered teacher.

"I can not explain now; I will, later. But if you have any regard for me, any compassion, come at once."

"But our bags, our—"

"I will take them all."

"And our trunks—they are checked through to Valley City. Will there be time to take them off?" said Jeanne-Armande, confusedly. Then, with more clearness, "But why should we go at all? I have no money to spend on freaks."

"IT IS, OR SHOULD BE, OVER THERE."
"IT IS, OR SHOULD BE, OVER THERE."

"This is Stringhampton Junction; we can cross here to the northern road, as you originally intended," explained Anne, rapidly. "All the additional expense I will pay. Dear mademoiselle, have pity on me, and come. Else I shall go alone."

The voice was eloquent; Jeanne-Armande rose. Anne hurried her through the almost empty car toward the rear door.

"But where are we going?"

"Out of the light," answered Anne.

They climbed down in the darkness on the other side of the train, and Anne led the way across the tracks at random, until they reached a safe country road-side beyond, and felt the soft grass under their feet.

"Where are we going?" said the Frenchwoman again, almost in tears. "Monsieur Heathcote—what will he think of us?"

"It is from him I am fleeing," replied Anne. "And now we must find the cross-road train. Do you know where it is?"

"It is, or should be, over there," said Jeanne-Armande, waving her umbrella tragically.

But she followed: the young girl had turned leader now.

They found the cross-road train, entered, and took their seats. And then Anne feverishly counted the seconds, expecting with each one to see Heathcote's face at the door. But the little branch train did not wait for supper; the few passengers were already in their places, and at last the bell rang, and the engine started northward, but so slowly that Anne found herself leaning forward, as though to hasten its speed. Then the wheels began to turn more rapidly—clank, clank, past the switches; rumble, rumble, over the bridge; by the dark line of the wood-pile; and then onward into the dark defiles of the mountains. They were away.