strong state of excitement. Half-past six was the time settled
upon, and, as she knew, it was broad daylight even then. She
felt she really dare not, could not go. Suppose her father or
Esther, some of her scornful young sisters or brothers, should
be about and see the meeting, or any of the neighbours--why, she
could never survive the shame of it! Yet go she must, or Aldith
would despise her. Besides, she had made up her mind fully to tell
Andrew plainly she could not allow him to talk to her as he had
been doing. After that last terrible whisper, she felt it
necessary that she should let him understand clearly that she did
not approve of his conduct, and would be "his friend," but
nothing more.

But why had they not thought of deciding on an hour when it would
be darker? she kept saying to herself: there would be no danger
of being seen then; she could slip out of the house without any
difficulty, and run through the paddocks under cover of the
kindly dusk; whereas if it was light, and she tried to creep away,
at least two or three of the children would fly after her and
offer generously to "come too."

At last, too afraid to go in the light, and unwilling for Aldith
to reproach her for not going at all, she did in her excitement
and desperation a thing so questionable that for long after she
could not think of it without horror.

"Dear Mr. Courtney," she wrote, sitting down at her dressing-table,
and scribbling away hurriedly in pencil:

"It would be horrid going for the walk so early. Let us go later,