would give her; but something kept her from moving. It was not the
fear of any sanction, human or heavenly; she had never in her life been
afraid. It was simply that she had suddenly understood what would happen
if she went in. It was the thing that did happen between young men and
girls, and that North Dormer ignored in public and snickered over on the
sly. It was what Miss Hatchard was still ignorant of, but every girl
of Charity's class knew about before she left school. It was what had
happened to Ally Hawes's sister Julia, and had ended in her going to
Nettleton, and in people's never mentioning her name.

It did not, of course, always end so sensationally; nor, perhaps, on the
whole, so untragically. Charity had always suspected that the shunned
Julia's fate might have its compensations. There were others, worse
endings that the village knew of, mean, miserable, unconfessed; other
lives that went on drearily, without visible change, in the same cramped
setting of hypocrisy. But these were not the reasons that held her
back. Since the day before, she had known exactly what she would feel
if Harney should take her in his arms: the melting of palm into palm and
mouth on mouth, and the long flame burning her from head to foot. But
mixed with this feeling was another: the wondering pride in his liking
for her, the startled softness that his sympathy had put into her heart.
Sometimes, when her youth flushed up in her, she had imagined yielding
like other girls to furtive caresses in the twilight; but she could not
so cheapen herself to Harney. She did not know why he was going; but
since he was going she felt she must do nothing to deface the image of
her that he carried away. If he wanted her he must seek her: he must not
be surprised into taking her as girls like Julia Hawes were taken....

No sound came from the sleeping village, and in the deep darkness of
the garden she heard now and then a secret rustle of branches, as though