"Oh, you should not have done it," she said, looking at him through her streaming tears; "you ought not to have let me say it. You should have believed without needing me to tell you. But now I have told you, I shall never be my own again; and some day you will think that I have been too fond, too sudden—"
"Kate," said Wat, all himself again at her words, and coming masterfully forward to take her by the wrists. He knelt on one knee before her, holding her in his turn, almost paining her by the intensity of his grasp. "Kate, you shall listen to me. You blame me wrongly; I have not indeed, to-day, told you of my faith, of my devotion, of the certainty of my standing firm through all the darkness that is to come. And I will tell you why."
"Yes," said the girl, a little breathlessly; "tell me why."
"Because," said Wat, looking straight at her, "you never doubted these things even once. You knew me better, aye, even when you flouted me, set me back, treated me as a child, even when others spoke to you of my lightness, told you of my sins and wrong-doings. I defy you, Kate McGhie," he continued, his voice rising—"I defy you to say that there ever was a moment when you honestly doubted my love, when you ever dreamed that I could love any but you—so much as an instant when the thought that I might forget or be false to you had a lodgment in your heart. Kate, I leave it to yourself to say."
This is the generous uncandor which touches good women to the heart. For Wat was not answering the real accusation she had brought against him—that he had not believed her, but had continued to doubt her in the face of her truest words and most speaking actions.
"Ah, Wat," she said, surrendering at once, "forgive me. It is true. I did not ever doubt you."
She smiled at him a moment through her tears.
"I knew all too well that you loved me—silly lad," she said; "I saw in your eyes what you thought before you ever told me—and even now I have to prompt you to sweet speeches, dear Sir Snail!"
At this encouragement Wat would gladly have drawn her closer to him, but the girl began to walk back towards their heather-grown shelter.
"Yet I care not," she said. "After all, 'tis a great thing to get one's follies over in youth. And you are my folly, lad—a grievous one, it is true, but nevertheless one that now I could ill do without. Nay," she went on, seeing him at this point ready to encroach, "not that to-night, Wat. All is said that needs to be said. Let us return."