"Well?"
"He has nominated me."
"What, are you going home?"
"Almost at once. Will you trust yourself in my hands?"
"Trust you! I will go with you anywhere! I will trust you always!"
"Perhaps," he said, looking down into her eyes, as he stood before her, "I shall ask you to fulfil those promises some day."
"Perhaps," she replied, rising and standing by his side, "I shall then be free to answer you," and a radiant smile lit up her face.
They took each other's hands, and stood silent for a long time. Then he bade her good-bye, and resumed his walk to the station.
Midway in his path, a figure lying prone in the tall grass roused itself into action at his coming, sprang up and stood facing him, flushed, defiant, and on the verge of tears.
It was the last person in the world Stanley wished to see—Belle Fitzgerald. He had felt it was impossible to meet her again; that she had put herself beyond the pale of his recognition; that it was not even decent that she should face him; that he should have been left to forget; and she, seeing all this in his face, and more—longed to throw her good resolutions to the winds, and cry out against this great injustice. But as they stood there, her subtle woman's instinct told her that, even were her innocence proclaimed with the trumpet, the thought that it had been otherwise would stand between them as an insurmountable barrier for ever, and she hardened her heart for his sake.