Don't you feel it?
Something seems to creep into your heart, into your pulses, and tell
you what life is."

He made no answer. The world of the last few throbbing weeks seemed
far enough away with him, too. He picked a handful of clover and
thrust it into the bosom of her gown. Then he rose reluctantly to
his feet and held out his hands.

"I think," he said, "that the great gates of freedom must be
somewhere out here, but just now one is forced to remember that we
are slaves."

He drew her to her feet, placed the stick in her hand, and supported
her other arm. They walked for a step or two down the narrow path
which led through the clover field to the lane below. Then, with a
little laugh, he caught her up in his arms.

"It will be quicker if I carry you, Ruth," he proposed. "The weeds
twine their way all the time around your stick."

She linked her arms around his neck; her cheek touched his for a
moment, and he was surprised to find it as hot as fire. He stepped
out bravely enough, but with every step it seemed to him that she
was growing heavier. Her hands were still tightly linked around his
neck, but her limbs were inert. She seemed to be falling away. He
held her tighter, his breath began to grow shorter. The perfume of
the clover, fragrant and delicate, grew stronger with every step
they took. Somehow he felt that that walk along the narrow path was
carving its way into his life. The fingers at the back of his neck
were cold, yet she, too, was breathing as though she had been
running. Her eyes were half closed. He looked once into her face,
bent over her until his lips nearly touched hers. He set his teeth
hard. Some instinct warned him of the dangers of the moment. Her
stick slipped and a lump arose in his throat. The moment had passed.
He kissed her softly upon the forehead.

"Dear Ruth!" he whispered.

She turned very pale and very soon afterward she insisted upon being
set down. They walked slowly to where the motor car was waiting at
the corner of the lane. Ruth began to talk nervously.

"It was charming of Mrs. Weatherley," she declared, "to lend you
this car. Tell me how it happened, Arnie?"

"I simply told her," he replied, "that I was going to take a
friend, who needed a little fresh air, out into the country, and she
insisted upon sending this car instead of letting me hire a taxicab.
It was over the telephone and I couldn't refuse. Besides, Mr.
Weatherley was in the office, and he insiste