She shook her head.

“No. I am Bride. Only I never was one,” she added, sighing.

“Bride. What an unusual name! I beg your pardon. That was rather rude of me! Does it mean Bridget?”

“No. Oh no! Just Bride.”

He did not wish to appear inquisitive, so he did not question her any further. They sat in silence for a while till she looked up and spoke again.

“Everything has changed,” she said, “but the beechwoods are always the same.”

“Do you come here often?” he asked.

“Not now. I used to—oh, very often! But now hardly at all. Only when I am wanted.”

The friendly, shy smile peeped out. He came to the conclusion that she was younger than he had thought.

“When you're wanted?” he repeated. “How can you tell when that is?”

“I can’t tell. I just know. I felt to-day that someone needed me, so I came, and then, of course, I found you. You want me, don’t you?”

“I?” he said, taken aback. He looked down at her sharply, but there was no suspicion of coquetry in her face. She spoke, too, as if she were stating a natural fact. “I want you?”

“Yes. You do, don’t you?”

He laughed.

“You quaint child! Why should I want you?”

“Because you’re so unhappy,” she answered simply.

He started.

“How do you know that?”

She smiled wisely, tenderly.

“I always know. Tell me.”

“Tell—” In spite of himself he was amused. “My dear little girl, why should I?”

“Because I came to help you,” she said.

“Very nice of you, I’m sure!” he replied. “But I’m not in the habit of pouring forth my woes to chance acquaintances.”

He laughed shortly and bitterly. A shadow seemed to cross her face.

“Ah, you don’t want me after all!” she said wistfully. She rose. “Good-bye!”

Suddenly he felt an overwhelming desire to keep her beside him.

“Oh, don’t go!” he cried. “Forgive me! I didn’t mean to be so boorish! Fact of the matter is—I’m going through a—rather bad time. My own fault, I suppose.”

She was on tiptoe, hesitating.

“Please!” he said. “Don’t go!”

The elfin smile danced across her eyes. She sat down again.

“No, I won’t go. Not yet. Tell me what is the matter.”

“I should bore you—horribly,” he said diffidently. “Besides, it’s such an extraordinary thing to tell a stranger—”

“Ah, but I am not like other people!”

“No, you’re not,” he said, considering her. “It’s a curious thing, but I feel as if I’d known you all my life.”

She nodded, full of understanding. He started to snap a twig into little pieces, not looking at her.

“It's—a quarrel,” he said with difficulty. “I quarrelled with—the lady—who was—to have been my wife.”

“Ah!”

It was a sobbing sigh. He glanced up, flushing, and saw that her eyes were full of tears.

“I say, you mustn’t cry!” he exclaimed. “After all—it’s my funeral.”

She shook her head, smiling through her tears.

“I was crying for myself,” she explained. “Why did you quarrel?”