"Oh, you have made me do that," says he, but his radiant smile still lingers.
"Then why," mistrustfully, "do you look so happy?" She draws even further away from him. It is plain she resents that happiness.
"Is there not reason?" says he. "Have you not let me speak, and having spoken, do you not still let me linger near you? It is more than I dared hope for! Therefore, poor as is my chance, I rejoice now. Do not forbid me. I may have no reason to rejoice in the future. Let me, then, have my day."
"It grows very late," says Miss Kavanagh abruptly. "Let us go home."
Silently they turn and descend the hill. Halfway down he pauses and looks backward.
"Whatever comes of it," says he, "I shall always love this spot. Though, if the year's end leave me desolate, I hope I shall never see it again."
"It is unlucky to rejoice too soon," says she, in a low whisper.
"Oh! don't say that word 'Rejoice.' How it reminds me of you. It ought to belong to you. It does. You should have been called 'Rejoice' instead of 'Joyce'; they have cut off half your name. To see you is to feel new life within one's veins."
"Ah! I said you didn't know me," returns she sadly.