ample time. She almost wished--she checked the sigh that rose to her
lips. No, it was better as it was. A man's ardour was different from a
boy's; and she--she was a girl no longer. Her romance was dead.

A slight sound beside her, a footstep on the grass! She turned, looked,
sprang to her feet. The vivid colour rushed up over her face.

"You!" she gasped, almost inarticulately.

He had come by the night train after all.

He came up to her quite quietly, with that leisureliness of gait that
she remembered so well.

"Didn't you expect me?" he said.

She held out a hand that trembled.

"Yes, I--I knew you would come; only, you see, I hardly thought you
would get here so soon."

"But you meant me to come?" he said.

His hand held hers closely, warmly, reassuringly. He looked into her
face.

For a few seconds she evaded the look with a shyness beyond her control;
then resolutely she mastered herself and met his eyes.

"Yes, I meant you to come. I am glad you are back. I--" She broke off
suddenly, gazing at him in consternation. "Monty," she exclaimed, "you
never told me you had been ill!"

He smiled at that, and her agitation began to subside.

"I am well again, Betty," he said.

"Oh, but you don't look it," she protested. "You look--you look as if
you had suffered--horribly. Have you?"

He passed the question by. "At least, I have managed to come back
again," he said, "as I promised."

"I--I am thankful to see you again," she faltered her shyness returning
upon her. "I've been--desperately anxious."

"On my account?" said Herne.

She bent her head. "Yes."

"Lest I shouldn't come back?"

"Yes," she said again.

"But I told you I should," He was still holding her hand, trying to read
her downcast face.

"Oh, I knew you would if you could," said Betty. "Only--I couldn't help
thinking--of what you said about--about sacrificing substance
to--shadow. It--was very wrong of me to send you."

She spoke unevenly, with obvious effort. She seemed determined that he
should not have that glimpse into her soul which he so evidently
desired.

"My dear Betty," he said, "I went on my own account as much as on yours.
I think you forget that. Or are you remembering--and regretting--it?"

She had begun to tremble. He laid a steadying hand upon her shoulder.

"No," she said faintly. Then swiftly, impulsively, she raised her face.
"Major Herne, I--I want to tell you something--before you say any more."

"What