his. Yet, though the truth was now made plain to her, she thrust it
from her.

"I do not fear you," said she, and her voice at least rang fearlessly.

"Do you hate me, then?" he asked. Her glance grew troubled and fell
away from his; it sought the calm of the river, gleaming golden in
the sunset. There was a pause. Wilding sighed heavily, and
straightened himself from his bending posture.

"You should not have sought thus to compel me, she said presently.

"I own it," he answered a thought bitterly. "I own it. Yet what hope
had I but in compulsion?" She returned him no answer. "You see," he
said, with increasing bitterness, "you see, that had I not seized the
chance that was mine to win you by compulsion I had not won you at all."

"It might," said she, "have been better so for both of us."

"Better for neither," he replied. "Ah, think it not! In time, I
swear, you shall not think it. For you shall come to love me, Ruth,"
he added with a note of such assurance that she turned to meet again
his gaze. He answered the wordless question of her eyes. "There is,"
said he, "no love of man for woman, so that the man be not wholly
unworthy, so that his passion be sincere and strong, that can fail
in time to arouse response." She smiled a little pitiful smile of
unbelief. "Were I a boy," he rejoined, his earnestness vibrating now
in a voice that was usually so calm and level, "offering you
protestations of a callow worship, you might have cause to doubt me.
But I am a man, Ruth - a tried, and haply a sinful man, alas! - a