'Praps you don't care for me any more?' she said. 'Well, why did you
kiss me, then?'

Why, indeed! thought Willoughby, marvelling at his own idiocy, and
yet--such is the inconsistency of man--not wholly without the desire to
kiss her again. And while he looked at her she suddenly flung herself
down on the hedge-bank at his feet and burst into tears. She did not
cover up her face, but simply pressed one cheek down upon the grass
while the water poured from her eyes with astonishing abundance.
Willoughby saw the dry earth turn dark and moist as it drank the tears
in. This, his first experience of Esther's powers of weeping, distressed
him horribly; never in his life before had he seen anyone weep like
that, he should not have believed such a thing possible; he was alarmed,
too, lest she should be noticed from the house. He opened the gate;
'Esther!' he begged, 'don't cry. Come out here, like a dear girl, and
let us talk sensibly.'

Because she stumbled, unable to see her way through wet eyes, he gave
her his hand, and they found themselves in a field of corn, walking
along the narrow grass-path that skirted it, in the shadow of the
hedgerow.

'What is there to cry about because you have not seen me for two days?'
he began; 'why, Esther, we are only strangers, after all. When we have
been at home a week or two we shall scarcely remember each other's
names.'

Esther sobbed at intervals, but her tears had ceased. 'It's fine for you
to talk of home,' she said to this. 'You've got something that is a