"Shall I tell you too why I have built that cottage you are looking at?" he went on with increasing earnestness. "It is because it has been my hope, my prayer, that this sad, lonely life of mine was nearly over. It is because I have believed that after much pain, and doubt, and bitterness my trust in men might be brought back through my love for a woman. The cottage—it is for you, Jane. I love you, Jane. Do you hear me? From the moment I saw you, I loved you. I resolved to ask you to marry me. Jane, will you do so?"
While he spoke the color had been fading steadily from her face, and when he stopped the girl was ashy pale. He looked at her anxiously and impatiently.
"I—I—am—so sorry," she muttered at last, as if each word were a separate pain.
"Sorry? God! Why?" Then with swift suspicion, "Jane, do you care for—are you engaged to some one?"
She shook her head mournfully.
"Do you see that sun going down over the hills?" She turned her beautiful eyes full upon Harding as she spoke, with a look of ineffable tenderness and sorrow. "Well, you must let what you have said go down with that sun, and never think of it—never speak of it again."
It was Harding's turn to blanch now, and the blood retreated from his swarthy cheeks until they looked almost ghastly.
"Why?" and his voice came involuntarily, almost in a whisper.
"Do not ask me—have pity—do not ask me."
"I must ask you," he cried impetuously, "but yet I need not perhaps. You care for no one else? Then it must be that you do not, you cannot, care for me. Is that it, Jane?"