"Go and take care of your baby," I said roughly, "and not busy yourself with me."
"Cassandra," he said, with a menacing voice, "how dare you defy me?
How dare you tempt me?"
I put my hand on his arm. "Charles, is love a matter of temperament?"
"Are you mad? It is life—it is heaven—it is hell."
"There is something in this soft, beautiful, odorous night that makes one mad. Still I shall not say to you what you once said to me."
"Ah! you do not forget those words—'I love you.'"
Some one came down the lane which ran behind the garden whistling an opera air.
"There is your Providence," he said quietly, resting his hand against the tree.
I ran round to the front piazza, just as Ben Somers turned out of the lane, and called him.
"I have wandered all over Rosville since sunset," he said "and at last struck upon that lane. To whom does it belong?"