new leaves. They had no sooner gained the silence and solitude it
afforded them than the man began deliberately:

"Harriet, I've not thought of anything else since I came upon you
yesterday, after all these years. I want you to tell me that you--
you aren't angry with me."

There was a moment of silence. Then the girl said, quietly:

"No. I'm not angry, Roy."

"You knew--you knew how desperately I tried to find you, Harriet?
What a hell I went through?"

If she had steeled herself against the possibility of his shaking
her, she failed herself now. It was with an involuntary and bitter
little laugh that she said:

"You had no monopoly of that, Roy."

"But you ran away from me!" he accused her. "When I went to find
you, they told me the Davenports had moved away. Won't you believe
that I felt TERRIBLY--that I walked the streets, Harriet, praying-
-PRAYING!--that I might catch a glimpse of you. It was the
uppermost thought for years--how many years? Seven?"

"More than eight," she corrected, in a somewhat lifeless voice. "I
was eighteen. My one thought, my one hope, when I last saw you, in
Linda's house," she went on, with sudden passion, "was that I
would never see you again! But I'm glad to hear you say this,