Her heart, which had seemed to stop beating, was suffocating her now, the way it raced along. Frederick did love her then—he must love her, or why had he come? Something, perhaps her absence, had made him turn to her, want her . . . and now the understanding she had made up her mind to have with him would be quite—would be quite—easy—
Her thoughts wouldn’t go on. Her mind stammered. She couldn’t think. She could only see and feel. She didn’t know how it had happened. It was a miracle. God could do miracles. God had done this one. God could—God could—could—
Her mind stammered again, and broke off.
“Frederick—” she tried to say; but no sound came, or if it did the crackling of the fire covered it up.
She must go nearer. She began to creep towards him—softly, softly.
He did not move. He had not heard.
She stole nearer and nearer, and the fire crackled and he heard nothing.
She stopped a moment, unable to breathe. She was afraid. Suppose he—suppose he—oh, but he had come, he had come.
She went on again, close up to him, and her heart beat so loud that she thought he must hear it. And couldn’t he feel—didn’t he know—
“Frederick,” she whispered, hardly able even to whisper, choked by the beating of her heart.