"My poor little girl, I'm so sorry," said Andrew, his dark face pale in the dusk.
"It doesn't matter, really. I think my head aches—I mean—good night," she said.
"You are not angry?" Andrew's voice was chill with despair, regret.
"No, no—oh, I'm not angry, not a bit, I—" He caught her hands, her composure was failing her.
"Oh, do let me go," she half whispered, "you are bad to me." Then she fled. Andrew turned away, white to the lips.
When they met again, the joy of seeing each other made them happy. Judith was so lovingly eager to make him forget her last words to him, he was so tenderly anxious not to wound her, and each was a little in awe of the other. For they had learned one of the most sacred lessons of love, learned what a terrible power to inflict suffering each held over the other. But their love was sanctified by this dual illumination, and as their eyes met, a little shyly, now and then, there seemed to pass between them a two-fold message, a promise and a plea.
And they parted again, with definite words of love still unspoken.
But the time was not far off. Andrew's arms were yearning for their birthright, and Judith's head was weary for his breast.
Yet fears assailed her, too. One's head may be sore aweary for the pillow, yet the thought of frightsome dreams may make one tremble on the verge of rest, and hesitate ere yielding to the sweetest slumber.