fire--the fire of fever--she could
not know that; and he was trembling and looked hardly able to stand.

"I've come, Judith," he said. "I haven't known what to do, and I've come
to tell you--to--ask----"

He was searching her face anxiously, and he stopped suddenly and passed
one hand across, his eyes, as though he were trying to recall something.
The girl had drawn herself slowly upward until the honeysuckle above her
head touched her hair, and her face, that had been so full of aching
pity for him that in another moment she must have gone and put her arms
about him, took on a sudden, hard quiet; and the long anguish of the
summer came out suddenly in her trembling lip and the whiteness of her
face.

"To ask for forgiveness," he might have said; but his instinct swerved
him; and--

"For mercy, Judith," he would have said, but the look of her face
stopped the words in an unheard whisper; and he stooped slowly, feeling
carefully for a step, and letting himself weakly down in a way that
almost unnerved her again; but he had begun to talk now, quietly and
evenly, and without looking up at her.

"I'm not going to stay long. I'm not going to worry you. I'll go away in
just a moment; but I had to come; I had to come. I've been a little
sick, and I believe I've not quite got over the fever yet; but I
couldn't go through it again without seeing you. I know that, and
that's--why--I've--come. It isn't the fever. Oh, no; I'm not sick at
all. I'm very well, thank you----"

He was getting incoherent, and he knew it, and stopped a moment.

"It's you, Judith----"

He stopped again, and with a painful effort went on slowly--slowly and
quietly, and the girl, without a word, stood still, looking down at him.

"I--used--to--think--that--I--loved--you. I--used--to--think I
was--a--man. I didn't know what love was, and I didn't know what it was
to be a man. I know both now, thank God, and learning each has helped me
to learn the other. If I killed all your feeling for me, I deserve the
loss; but you must have known, Judith, that I was not myself that
night. You did know. Your instinct told you the truth; you--knew--I
loved--you--then--and that's why--that's why--you--God bless
you--said--what--you--did. To think that I should ever dare to open my
lips again! but I can't help it; I can't help it. I was crazy,
Judith--crazy--and I am now; but it didn't go and then come back. It
never went at all, as I found out, going down to Cuba-