the Hermitage, walking slowly--he is not there. She hates the
leveret that runs across the path; she hates everything that is not what
she longs for. She walks on, happy whenever she is coming to a bend in
the road, for perhaps he is behind it. No. She is beginning to cry: her
heart has swelled so, the tears stand in her eyes; she gives one great
sob, while the corners of her mouth quiver, and the tears roll down.

She doesn't know that there is another turning to the Hermitage, that
she is close against it, and that Arthur Donnithorne is only a few yards
from her, full of one thought, and a thought of which she only is the
object. He is going to see Hetty again: that is the longing which has
been growing through the last three hours to a feverish thirst. Not,
of course, to speak in the caressing way into which he had unguardedly
fallen before dinner, but to set things right with her by a kindness
which would have the air of friendly civility, and prevent her from
running away with wrong notions about their mutual relation.

If Hetty had known he was there, she would not have cried; and it would
have been better, for then Arthur would perhaps have behaved as wisely
as he had intended. As it was, she started when he appeared at the end
of the side-alley, and looked up at him with two great drops rolling
down her cheeks. What else could he do but speak to her in a soft,
soothing tone, as if she were a bright-eyed spaniel with a thorn in her
foot?

"Has something frightened you, Hetty? Have you seen anything in the
wood? Don't be frightened--I'll take care of you now."

Hetty was blushing so, she didn't know whether she was happy or
miserable. To be crying again--what did gentlemen think of girls who
cried in that way? She felt unable even to say "no," but could only look
away from him and wipe the tears from her cheek. Not before a great drop
had fallen on her rose-coloured strings--she knew that quite well.

"Come, be cheerful again. Smile at me, and tell me what's the matter.
Come, tell me."

Hetty turned her head towards him, whispered, "I thought you wouldn't
come," and slowly got courage to lift her eyes to him. That look was too
much: he must have had eyes of Egyptian granite not to look too lovingly
in return.

"You little frightened bird! Little tearful rose! Silly pet! You won't
cry again, now I'm with you, will you?"

Ah, he doesn't know in the least what he is saying. This is not what
he meant to say.