"Yes—if you can."
"Right. But you mustn't be angry if I do." His voice falls to a whisper. "Look—look there! He's coming—this very night!"
"He—who?" asks the girl uneasily.
"He—the one that you've been waiting for—the one that is to—press your hand."
"It's not true!" cries the girl. "I'll never let him!"
"Sh! I can only say what it says there. He will come, be sure of that. At midnight, or thereabouts. And he will not beg and pray and ask as the others do, only knock at your window three times, softly, but firmly—and then you'll know it's the right one, and no other…. But now I must go. Good-night, Pansy."
And with a wave of his cap he hurries out.
And she—the one that is looking on—marks how the girl stands all confused for a while, and then goes softly to the door, watching him till he is out of sight.
The story is ended—the girl opens her eyes.
And ended, too, the pleasant self-forgetfulness with which she had watched the scene as acted by another—in place of it come doubts and questionings out of the dark.