"Oh, my dear!" he cried. "What is it?"
She put her handkerchief to her eyes as she quickly turned away. In another instant, she was smiling up at him, a soft, pleading little smile that went straight to his heart.
"Shall we start back?" she asked, a quaver in her voice.
"No," he exclaimed. "I've got to go on with it now, Hetty. I didn't intend to, but—come, let us go up and sit on that familiar old log in the shade of the mill. You must, dear!"
She suffered him to lead her up the steep bank beyond and through the rocks and rotten timbers to the great beam that protruded from the shattered foundations of the mill. The rickety old wheel, weather-beaten and sad, rose above them and threatened to topple over if they so much as touched its flimsy supports.
He did not release her hand after drawing her up beside him.
"You must know that I love you," he said simply.
She made no response. Her hand lay limp in his. She was staring straight before her.
"You DO know it, don't you?" he went on.
"I—God knows I don't want you to love me. I never meant that you should—" she was saying, as if to herself.