ed and
Denas sang. It was not an every-day event and she would not have it
made one.

She knew her father would not interfere, and she knew one way in which
to rid herself of Denas and Roland. Naturally she took it. A little
after six she said: "I have a headache, Roland, and shall not walk
to-night. Will you take Denas safely down the cliff?"

Roland was delighted, and Denas was no more afraid of the gay fellow
than the moth is of the candle. She was pleasantly excited by the idea
of a walk all alone with Roland. She wondered what he would say to
her: if he would venture to give voice to the inarticulate love-making
of the last two years--to all that he had looked when she sang to
him--to all that he meant by the soft, prolonged pressure of her hand
and by that one sweet stolen kiss which he had claimed for Christmas'
sake.

They walked a little apart and very silently until they came into the
glades of the cliff-breast. Then, suddenly, without word or warning,
Roland took Denas in his arms and kissed her. "Denas! sweet Denas!" he
cried, and the wrong was so quickly, so impulsively committed that for
a moment Denas was passive under it. Then with flaming cheeks she
freed herself from his embrace. "Mr. Tresham, you must go back," she
said. "I can walk no further with you. Why were you so rude to me?"

"I am not rude, Denas, and I will not go back. After waiting two years
for this opportunity, do you think I will give it up? And I will not
let you call me Mr. Tresham. To you I am Roland. Say it here in my
arms, dear, lovely Denas! Do not turn away from me. You cannot go back
without telling Elizabeth, and I swear you shall not go forward until
you forgive me. Come, Denas, sweet, forgive me!" He held her hands, he
kissed her hands, and would not release the girl, who, as she listened
to his rapid, eager pleading, became more and more disposed to
tenderness. He was telling the story no one could better tell than
Roland Tresham. His eyes, his lips, his smile, his caressing
attitudes, all went with his eager words, his enthusiastic admiration,
his passionate assertion of his long-hidden affection.

And everything was in his favour. The lovely spring eve, the mystical
twilight, the mellow flutings of the blackbirds and the vesper
thrushes piping nothing new or strange, only the sweet old tune of
love, the lift of the hills, the soft trinkling of hidden brooks, the
scent of violets at their feet and of the fresh leaves a