s to come true, and for the others there is eternity.

That afternoon Dorothy had gone forth as usual, but she said to
herself that he would not come; and half-way down the lane she ceased
peering into the green distances for him, and sat herself down on a
stone, and leaned back against the trunk of a young maple, and shut
her eyes wearily, and told herself in a sort of sad penitence that
she would look no more for him, for he would not come.

The grass in the lane was grown long now, with a pink mist over the
top of it; the trees at the sides leaned together heavy with foliage,
and the bordering walls were all hidden under bushes and vines.
Everywhere on bush and vine were spikes and corymbs of lusty
blossoms. Birds were calling to their mates and their young; the
locusts were shrilling out of depths of sunlight. Dorothy, in the
midst of this uncontrolled passion of summer, was herself in utter
tune and harmony with it. She was just as sweet and gracefully
courtesying among her sisters as any flower among the host of the
field; and she had silently and inconsequently, like the flower, her
own little lust of life and bloom which none could overcome, and
against which she could know no religion. This Dorothy, meekly
leaning her slender shoulders against the maple-tree, with her blue
eyes closed, and her little hands folded in her lap, could no more
develop into aught towards which she herself inclined not than a
daisy plant out in the field could grow a clover blossom. Moreover
her heart, which had after all enough of the sweetness of love in it,
opened or shut like the cup of a sensitive plant, with seemingly no
volition of hers; therefore was she in a manner innocently helpless
and docile before her own emotions and her own destiny.

She sat still a few minutes and kept her eyes closed. Then she
thought she heard a stir down the lane, but she would not open her
eyes to look, so sadly and impatiently sure was she that he would not
come. Even when she knew there was a footstep drawing near she would
not look. She kept her eyes closed, and made as if she were asleep;
and some one passed her, and she would not look, so sure was she that
it was not Eugene.

But that afternoon Eugene Hautville, who had gone all this time the
long way to the village, felt his own instincts, or the natural
towardness of his heart, too strong for him. Often, watching from a
distance across the fields, he had seen a pale flutter of skirts in