"But I'm not. I was going to tell you so in the orchard yesterday, but you gave me no chance; you preferred to guess, and, of course, guessed wrong altogether. I knew it made you wretched, and I was glad of it, and meant to keep you so a long, long time; but when I looked up and saw you standing there so very, very miserable, Dick, I couldn't keep it up any longer, because I was so dreadfully wretched myself, you know."
"Can you ever forgive me?"
"That depends, Dick."
"On what?"
Lisbeth stooped, and, picking up her hat, began to put it on.
"Depends on what?" I repeated.
Her hat was on now, but for a while she did not answer, her eyes upon the "fairy path." When at last she spoke her voice was very low and tender.
"'Not far from the village of Down, in Kent, there is a house,'" she began, "'a very old house, with pointed gables and panelled chambers, but empty to-night and desolate.' You see I remember it all," she broke off.
"Yes, you remember it all," I repeated, wondering.
"Dick--I--I want you to--take me there. I've thought of it all so often. Take me there, Dick."