should not let you go alone, Rima--your lonely days are over
now."

She opened her eyes wider and looked earnestly into my face. "I must go
back alone, Abel," she said. "Before day comes I must leave you. Rest
here, with grandfather, for a few days and nights, then follow me."

I heard her with astonishment. "It must not be, Rima," I cried. "What,
let you leave me--now you are mine--to go all that distance, through all
that wild country where you might lose yourself and perish alone? Oh, do
not think of it!"

She listened, regarding me with some slight trouble in her eyes, but
smiling a little at the same time. Her small hand moved up my arm and
caressed my cheek; then she drew my face down to hers until our lips
met. But when I looked at her eyes again, I saw that she had not
consented to my wish. "Do I not know all the way now," she spoke, "all
the mountains, rivers, forests--how should I lose myself? And I must
return quickly, not step by step, walking--resting, resting--walking,
stopping to cook and eat, stopping to gather firewood, to make a
shelter--so many things! Oh, I shall be back in half the time; and I
have so much to do."

"What can you have to do, love?--everything can be done when we are in
the wood together."

A bright smile with a touch of mockery in it flitted over her face as
she replied: "Oh, must I tell you that there are things you cannot do?
Look, Abel," and she touched the slight garment she wore, thinner now
than at first, and dulled by long exposure to sun and wind and rain.

I could not command her, and seemed powerless to persuade her; but I had
not done yet, and proceeded to use every argument I could find to bring
her round to my view; and when I finished she put her arms around my
neck and drew herself up once more. "O Abel, how happy I shall be!" she
said, taking no notice of all I had said. "Think of me alone, days and
days, in the wood, waiting for you, working all the time; saying: 'Come
quickly, Abel; come slow, Abel. O Abel, how long you are! Oh, do not
come until my work is finished!' And when it is finished and you arrive
you shall find me, but not at once. First you will seek for me in the
house, then in the wood, calling: 'Rima! Rima!' And she will be there,
listening, hid in the trees, wishing to be in your arms, wishing for
your lips--oh, so glad, yet fearing to show herself. Do you know why?
He told you--did he not?--that when he first saw her she was standing
before h