Presently he
stood up and walked across the room. He did not look again at the young
people: they saw him feel his way to the door and fumble for the latch;
and then he went out into the darkness.

After he had gone there was a long silence. Charity waited for Harney to
speak; but he seemed at first not to find anything to say. At length he
broke out irrelevantly: "I wonder how he found out?"

She made no answer and he tossed down the package he had been holding,
and went up to her.

"I'm so sorry, dear... that this should have happened...."

She threw her head back proudly. "I ain't ever been sorry--not a
minute!"

"No."

She waited to be caught into his arms, but he turned away from
her irresolutely. The last glow was gone from behind the Mountain.
Everything in the room had turned grey and indistinct, and an autumnal
dampness crept up from the hollow below the orchard, laying its cold
touch on their flushed faces. Harney walked the length of the room, and
then turned back and sat down at the table.

"Come," he said imperiously.

She sat down beside him, and he untied the string about the package and
spread out a pile of sandwiches.

"I stole them from the love-feast at Hamblin," he said with a laugh,
pushing them over to her. She laughed too, and took one, and began to
eat.

"Didn't you make the tea?"

"No," she said. "I forgot----"

"Oh, well--it's too late to boil the water now." He said nothing more,
and sitting opposite to each other they went on silently eating the
sandwiches. Darkness had descended in the little room, and Harney's face
was a dim blur to Charity. Suddenly he leaned across the table and laid
his hand on hers.

"I shall have to go off for a while--a month or two, perhaps--to arrange
some things; and then I'll come back... and we'll get married."

His voice seemed like a stranger's: nothing was left in it of the
vibrations she knew. Her hand lay inertly under his, and she left it
there, and raised her head, trying to answer him. But the words died
in her throat. They sat motionless, in their attitude of confident
endearment, as if some strange death had surprised them. At length
Harney sprang to his feet with a slight shiver. "God! it's damp--we
couldn't have come here much longer." He went to the shelf, took down a
tin candle-stick and lit the candle; then he propped an unhinged shutter
against the empty window-frame and put the candle on the table. It threw
a queer shadow on