he came
breathlessly up, were: "Maurice, you mustn't look so glad!"

He had never really seen her till now, when, in a white dress, with
eyes and lips alight, she stood alone with him on the wayside platform.
To curb his first, impetuous gesture, Louise had stretched out both her
hands. He stood holding them, unable to take his eyes from her face. At
her movement to withdraw them, he stooped and kissed them.

"Not look glad? Then you shouldn't have come."

They left her luggage to be sent up later in the day, and set out on
their walk. Going down the shadeless street, and through the town, she
was silent. At first, as they went, Maurice pointed out things that he
thought would interest her, and spoke as if he attached importance to
them. While, in reality, nothing mattered, now that she was beside him.
And gradually, he, too, lapsed into silence, walking by her side across
the square, and through the narrow streets, with the solemnly festive
feelings of a child on Sunday. They crossed the moat, passed through
the gates and courtyard of the old castle, and began to ascend the
steep path that was a short-cut to the woods. It was exposed to the
full glare of the sun, and, on reaching the sheltering trees, Louise
gave a sigh of relief, and stood still to take off her hat.

"It's so hot. And I like best to be bareheaded."

"Yes, and now I can see you better. Is it really you, at last? I still
can't believe it.--That you should have come to me!"

"Yes, I'm real," she smiled, and thrust the pins through the crown of
the hat. "But very tired, Maurice. It was so hot, and the train was so
slow."

"Tired?--of course, you must be. Come, there's a seat just round this
corner. You shall rest there."

They sat, and he laid his arm along the back of the bench. With his
left hand he turned her face towards him. "I must see you. I expect
every minute to wake and find it's not true."

"And yet you haven't even told me you're glad to see me."

"Glad? No. Glad is only a word."

She leaned lightly against the protective pressure of his arm. On one
of her hands lying in her lap, a large spot of sunlight settled. He
stooped and put his lips to it. She touched his head.

"Were the days long without me?"

"Why didn't you come sooner?"

Not that he cared, or even cared to know, now that she was there. But
he wanted to hear her speak, to remember that he could now have her
voice in his ears, whenever he chose. But Louise was not