ided
upon her course. This course was to leave Caryl's. She hoped to return
to Mademoiselle at the half-house, and remain there until the school
opened--if her grandaunt was willing. If her grandaunt was
willing--there came the difficulty. Yet why should she not be willing?
The season was over; the summer flowers were gone; it was but
anticipating departure by a week or two. Thus she reasoned with herself,
yet felt all the time by intuition that Miss Vanhorn would refuse her
consent. And if she should so refuse, what then? It could make no
difference in the necessity for going, but it would make the going hard.
She was considering this point when she heard a footstep. She looked up,
and saw--Ward Heathcote. She had been there some time; it was now seven
o'clock. They both heard the old clock in the office strike as they
stood there looking at each other. In half an hour the early risers
would be coming into the garden.

Anne did not move or speak; the great effort she had made to retain her
composure, when she saw him, kept her motionless and dumb. Her first
darting thought had been to show him that she was at ease and
indifferent. But this required words, and she had not one ready; she was
afraid to speak, too, lest her voice should tremble. She saw, standing
there before her, the man who had made her forget Rast, who had made her
jealous of Helen, who had played with her holiest feelings, who had
deceived and laughed at her, the man whom she--hated? No, no--whom she
loved, loved, loved: this was the desperate ending. She turned very
white, standing motionless beside the dew-spangled bush.

And Heathcote saw, standing there before him, a young girl with her fair
face strangely pale and worn, her eyes fixed, her lips compressed; she
was trembling slightly and constantly, in spite of the rigidity of her
attitude.

He looked at her in silence for a moment; then, knocking down at one
blow all the barriers she had erected, he came to her and took her cold
hands in his. "What is it she has said to you?" he asked.

She drew herself away without speaking.

"What has Helen said to you? Has she told you that I have deceived you?
That I have played a part?"

But Anne did not answer; she turned, as if to pass him.

"You shall not leave me," he said, barring the way. "Stay a moment,
Anne; I promise not to keep you long. You will not? But you shall. Am
_I_ nothing in all this? My feelings nothing? Let me tell you one thing: