g days and years without anything to brighten them, anything we
really care for. That breaks down the best courage at last, to have
nothing one really cares for."

She did not answer.

"I could make you so happy!" he pleaded.

Her face remained unmoved.

"I long for you so!" he went on; "without you, I don't know where to
turn or what to do." He said it as simply as a boy.

This overcame her; she left him, and hurried through the grove on her
way to the house, he could hear her sob as she went.

Dr. Kirby's figure had appeared at the end of one of the orange aisles;
when he saw Margaret hurrying onward, he hastened his steps. Winthrop
had now overtaken her, her foot had slipped and he had caught her. Both
her hands were over her face, her strength was gone.

The Doctor came panting up. "My dear Mrs. Harold--" he began.

But she seemed to hear nothing.

The Doctor put his hand on her pulse. "Will you go to the house for help
to carry her in?" he whispered. "Or shall I?"

"I can carry her myself," said Winthrop. He lifted her. Unconsciousness
had come upon her, her head with the closed eyes, her fair cheek, the
soft mass of her hair lay against his shoulder.

The Doctor went on with them for some distance; he was not sure that
Winthrop's strength would hold out.

But Winthrop's strength appeared to be perfect.

"I will hurry forward then, and warn them," said the Doctor. And he set
off at a round pace.

Winthrop walked steadily; at last he reached the end of the
white-blooming fragrant aisles, the path entered a thicket that lay
beyond.

The fresher unperfumed air brought Margaret to herself. She stirred,
then her eyes opened; they rested uncomprehendingly on his face.

Beyond this thicket lay the garden, where they would be in full view; he
was human, and he stopped. "You fainted. The perfume of the grove, I
suppose," he said, explaining.

Then everything came back to her, he could see remembrance dawn in her
eyes, her fear return.

She tried to put her hand up. But it fell lifelessly back.

This sign of weakness struck him to the heart,--what if she should die!
Women so slight in frame, and with that fair, pure whiteness like the
inside of a sea-shell, were often strangely, inexplicably delicate.

Her eyes had closed again. He held her closely; but now, save for the
holding, he would not touch her. For it seemed to him that if he should
allow himself to yield to his longing wish and put his lips