as a residence. She would make any sacrifice for me that a mother would
make for a daughter. She has been mother and sister to me. I cannot
overpay her devotion by any unselfishness of mine."

As she spoke, Lynde caught a hateful glimpse of the road through the
stubby pine-trees beyond. It appeared to him only two minutes ago that
he was assisting Miss Denham to mount the stone steps at the other
extremity of the foot-path; and now he was to lose her again. She was
with him alone for perhaps the last time.

"Miss Ruth!" said Lynde, with sudden earnestness in his voice. He had
never before addressed her as Miss Ruth. She raised her eyes furtively
to his face. "Miss Ruth"--

"Oh, there's the carriage, Mr. Lynde!" exclaimed Miss Denham, releasing
the arm she had accepted a few paces back, and hurrying down the path,
which here narrowed again as at the entrance to the grove. "And there is
aunt Gertrude," she added, half turning to Lynde, with a rich bloom on
her cheeks, "looking as distressed as if we had slipped over some
precipice. But we have not, have we, Mr. Lynde?"

"No, we haven't slipped over any precipices," answered Lynde, with a
curt laugh. "I wish we had," he muttered to himself. "She has dragged me
through that grove and over those stones, and, without preventing me,
has not permitted me to breathe the least word of love to her. I don't
know how she did it. That girl's the most consummate coquette I ever
saw. I am a child in her hands. I believe I'm beginning to be afraid of
her."

Miss Ruth was already in the carriage, pinning the Alpine flower to the