Mr. Langham's "sweet beseeching", instead of "moving her strangely," had made her rather cross. And such tenderness as she usually had for him had fled to cover. But now, as the clean, green forest closed about her, she had a reaction. She came to a dead stop and realized that she had been through an emotional crisis. Her heart was beating as if she had just finished a steep, swift climb. And her heart was aching too, aching for the kind and gentle friend and well-wisher to whom she had been so inexplicably cold and cutting. It was in vain to mourn for that diamond of a heart which she had rejected with so much finality. He had said that he would never "bother" her again (Bother her! The idea!), and he never would. He was a man of his word, Sam Langham was. Perhaps, even now he was causing his things to be packed with a view to leaving The Camp for ever and a day. But what could she do? Could she go to him (in person or by writing) and in his presence eat as much as a single mouthful of humble-pie? No, she could not possibly do that. Then, what could she do? Well, with the usual negligible results, she could cry her eyes out over the spilt milk.

She went swiftly forward, the shadows dappling her as she went, and her heart swelling and swelling with self-pity and general miserableness. Thoughts of Arthur and his happiness flashed through her mind. The thought that she, Mary Darling, unmarried, would in the course of a few years be called an old maid, caused her a panicky feeling. She pictured herself as very old (and very ugly), exhibiting improbable Chinese dogs at dog-shows and scowling at rosy babies. And I must say she almost laughed.

The path turned sharply to the right and disclosed to Mary's eyes two young people who stood locked in each other's arms and rocked slightly from side to side—rocked with ineffable delight and tenderness.

She stood stock-still, in plain view if they had looked her way, until presently they unlocked arms, drew a little apart, and had a good long look at each other, and then turned their backs upon that part of the forest and departed slowly.

Whither she was going, Mary did not know. But she went very swiftly and had upon her face the expression of a beautiful female commuter who has arrived at the station just in time to see her train pull out. But this expression changed when she found her path blocked by the diminutive house in which Sam Langham lived, and saw Sam Langham, a look of wonder on his face, rise from his big piazza chair and come toward her.

"Lee and Renier are going to be married," she exclaimed, all out of breath, "and I didn't mean to be such a brute! And I wouldn't have hurt you for anything in the world!"

Sam Langham only looked at her, for he was afraid to speak.