"I can tread softly."
"Very well." She halted him among the poplars. "No further."
"I'll come tomorrow," he whispered.
"No, not tomorrow. Not until I tell you. I don't want any one to know. Don't come tomorrow."
"Then come to me," he said. "I wish you'd come to me. I'd like to see you coming through our wood and across the cobbles. And in the morning, the sun's on that side of the house. Helen," he pleaded, "will you come?" It was Miriam who had come before, a dark sprite, making and loving mischief, lowering him in his own regard until he had a longing to touch bottom and make her touch it, too; but if Helen came in her grey frock, slipping among the trees like silver light, he knew she would bring healing to his home and to his heart.
"Will you?" he begged. "Will you, Miss Helen? D'you remember how I used to call you that? Will you?"
"I don't know."
"But I want you so," he said; and when he would have touched her he found her gone.