alse 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."