"I hoped that you would come, Mr. Steering. I have been waiting a long
time for you," she said, not moving, her eyes meeting his, something in
her face, her rigidity, stopping him. Her hands were pale and still on
the grey-green of the vines; her face had caught the wild, gold gleam of
the moon. "I wanted to tell you myself about that letter, Mr. Steering.
I wanted to tell you myself about the Tigmores being yours. I have grown
afraid, out here in the dark, that Piney might not have been able to
make you understand, might have misled you in some way about--what I
said. I was very much excited when I talked to Piney, Mr. Steering, and
I am not sure that I made it clear to him that I am very glad indeed
that the hills are yours at last; glad because we are--or have
been--such good friends, Mr. Steering, glad for that reason--for
friendship's sake, and for nothing," her voice wandered, and the beat of
her low broad breast was girlishly pitiful, "else, but friend----" she
could not go on.

"Ship," suggested Bruce, with a great desire to help her, but very much
at sea. Was it to be failure, after all? Had Piney made a vast mistake?
This proud, pale woman here--suddenly an awful timidity seized him, but
he shook himself out of that brusquely and came on. "_She loves you,
don't you go fergit that!_" Piney's admonition piped up to him on a high
and tuneful memory. He realised that he was walking a path through the
flower-tangled, pretty precariousness of romance as he came on toward
her--potential lovers' quarrels, separation, the irate parent, a girl's
pride, her foolish, solemn effort to fight him back for fear that she
had led him on too far, a man's uneasy timidity, the complication of
their circumstances--the memory of them all made little snares for his
feet, as he came on toward her. But he came on, growing bolder as he
came, deciding what to do as he came. It was a crisis for romance as he
faced her across the old vine-covered stump. He put his hands down on
the stump near her hands, and his face caught the gleam of the light
overhead, as hers did.

"Piney has just pulled me out of the river," he said in a wan voice,
"and it was all I could do to get here. I--I am as shaky as a kitten."

She looked up at him, betrayed into it by his careful conservation of
that weakness in his voice, and, seeing how pale he was, her hands stole
in under his. "Oh, but I am weak, _and_ sick!" he went on, pursuing his
advantage mercil