sly closing and unclosing. And suddenly she felt pity. Not for her
future--which must be like that; but for him. How dreadful to have grown
so that all emotion was exiled--how dreadful! And she said gently:

"I am sorry, Harold."

As if he had heard something strange and startling, his eyes dilated in
a curious way, he buried that nervous hand in his pocket, turned, and
went out.

XVII

When young Mark came on Sylvia by the logan-stone, it was less
surprising to him than if he had not known she was there--having watched
her go. She was sitting, all humped together, brooding over the water,
her sunbonnet thrown back; and that hair, in which his star had caught,
shining faint-gold under the sun. He came on her softly through the
grass, and, when he was a little way off, thought it best to halt. If
he startled her she might run away, and he would not have the heart to
follow. How still she was, lost in her brooding! He wished he could see
her face. He spoke at last, gently:

"Sylvia!... Would you mind?"

And, seeing that she did not move, he went up to her. Surely she could
not still be angry with him!

"Thanks most awfully for that book you gave me--it looks splendid!"

She made no answer. And leaning his rod against the stone, he sighed.
That silence of hers seemed to him unjust; what was it she wanted him
to say or do? Life was not worth living, if it was to be all bottled up
like this.

"I never meant to hurt you. I hate hurting people. It's only that my
beasts are so bad--I can't bear people to see them--especially you--I
want to please you--I do really. So, you see, that was all. You MIGHT
forgive me, Sylvia!"

Something over the wall, a rustling, a scattering in the fern--deer, no
doubt! And again he said eagerly, softly:

"You might be nice to me, Sylvia; you really might."

Very quickly, turning her head away, she said:

"It isn't that any more. It's--it's something else."

"What else?"

"Nothing--only, that I don't count--now--"

He knelt down beside her. What did she mean? But he knew well enough.

"Of course, you count! Most awfully! Oh, don't be unhappy! I hate people
being unhappy. Don't be unhappy, Sylvia!" And he began gently to stroke
her arm. It was all strange and troubled within him; one thing only
plain--he must not admit anything! As if reading that thought, her blue
eyes seemed suddenly to search right into him. Then she pulled some
blades of grass, and began plaiting them.