alm demeanour had excited in me
a desire to test if it were possible to disturb him. I had thought him
incapable of emotion, but he had proved himself a man of strong and deep
emotion; might he not also be capable of feeling--of love? He had not been
mean or nasty in his rage, and his anger had been righteous. By accepting
his proposal of marriage, I had given him the right of expressing his
objection to any of my actions of which he disapproved. I on my part had
the liberty of trying to please him or of dissolving our engagement.
Perhaps in some cases there was actually something more than wounded
vanity when a man's alleged love was rejected or spurned. Harold had
seemed to suffer, to really experience keen disappointment. I was clearly
in the wrong, and had been unwomanly beyond a doubt, as, granting that
Harold Beecham was conceited, what right had I to constitute myself his
judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him?
I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one's
feelings. Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and
am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled. It is easier than
sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it
is amusing as well as convenient, and--and--and--I found I was very, very
fond of Harold Beecham.

I crept noiselessly up the orchard. He had his back to me, and had moved
to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery. He had
his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand. His
attitude expressed dejection. Maybe he was suffering the torture of a
broken ideal.

His right hand hung limply by his side. I do not think he heard me
approach.

My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to
pause. Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair
if he did. I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat
if he felt so disposed. I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so
very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm. I need not have been
nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike
a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.

"Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such
horrible things. Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?" I
murmured. All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I
was serious and in earnest.