Under the leafy shade of sheltering oaks Morice paused, holding the little hands which lay so warm and passive in his own.
"You love me, Cécile?" he asked wistfully; "you love me?"
He lingered over the repetition.
Stars could have shone no less brightly than the eyes she raised to his.
"I love you, Morice," she answered, and then, blushing rosy-red at such temerity, hid her small face against his shoulder.
For a long moment they stood thus, his arm around her slender little figure, holding her closely, as though he could not bear the thought of letting her go.
"Cécile, Cécile," he groaned, his voice sounding odd and strangled with conflicting fears and love, "pray Heaven you may say it always—always."
She smiled, looking up at him with the boldness bred by the knowledge that he needed all that love and sympathy.
"Always—always, Morice, my dearly-loved," she whispered back.
And the night-wind, sweeping up from the coast, seemed to catch the words and bear them mockingly across the barren landes.