essing--"Because I want you to marry me----"

The moment of her surprise had come before--now she only said very
quietly--

"Why--what do you know about me?"

"I know--enough--to ask you," he said, stumbling over his words. He was
now afraid that, after all, she intended to refuse him, and the terror
of this made his heart stop. No words would come. He stared at her with
all the fright in his eyes.

"Roddy" (she had never called him that before), "do you care----"

Then she stopped.

She began again. "I don't want to talk nonsense. I want to say exactly
what I feel. I suppose most girls would want to be free a little longer,
would want to have a good time another two or three seasons--but I
don't--I hate being free--I want somebody to keep me, to prevent my
doing silly things, to look after me ... and ... I'd rather you did
it--than anybody else...." Then she went on quickly--"But it is more
than that. I do like you most awfully, only I suppose I'm not the kind
of girl to be frantically excited, to be wild about it all. I'm not
that. I do like you--better than any other man I know--Is that enough?"

"I think--we can be most awfully good pals--always," he said.

"Oh!" she cried suddenly, putting her hand on his and looking straight
into his face. "That's what I want--that, that--If that's it, and you
think we can, why then, I'd rather marry you, Roddy dear, than anyone in
the world."

"Then it's settled," he said. But he did not take her hand or touch her.
They sat for quite a long time, looking at the rippling corn and the
house, that was like a white boat sailing on the green far below them.

They said no word.

Then, without speaking, they got up from the grass and walked down the
path to the little wood. But when they came to the place where they had
been the night before he caught her to him so furiously that his own
body was bent back, and he kissed her again and again and again.

BOOK II

RACHEL

CHAPTER I

THE POOL AND THE SNOW

"For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow.
And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,
Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:
But even for them awhile no cares encumber
Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,
The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber
At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm
they have broken."

ROBERT BRIDGES.

I

In t