Dale's talk with the Squire was not long; but the Squire's daughter came to the door to bid him good-night, and was easily persuaded to walk a little way down the drive with him. She went farther than she meant, as was natural enough; for she was leaning on his arm, and he was telling her, in that caressing voice of his, that all his life and heart and brain and power were hers, and lavishing sweet words on her.
"I must go back, Dale," she said. "They will wonder what has become of me."
"Not yet."
"Yes, I must."
"Ah, my darling, how soon will it be when we need never part? How soon? I mean how long, till then! Do you love me?"
"You know, Dale."
"What was it you said the other day—was it only yesterday?—that you would die for me?"
"Yes."
"Ah, Jan, my sweetest Jan, that you should say that to me!"
They said no more, but did not part yet. At last he suffered her to tear herself away.