"Nonsense-nonsense!" he answered. "Poor little wood-bird, you're
frightened at nothing at all. Come and sit by me." He drew her close to
him.

Her trembling presently grew less. Hundreds of glow-worms were
shimmering in the hedge. The grass-hoppers were whirring in the mielles
beyond; a flutter of wings went by overhead. The leaves were rustling
gently; a fresh wind was coming up from the sea upon the soft, fragrant
dusk.

They talked a little while in whispers, her hands in his, his voice
soothing her, his low, hurried words giving her no time to think.
But presently she shivered again, though her heart was throbbing hotly.

"Come into the summer-house, Guida; you are cold, you are shivering."
He rose, with his arm round her waist, raising her gently at the same
time.

"Oh no, Philip dear," she said, "I'm not really cold--I don't know what
it is--"

"But indeed you are cold," he answered. "There's a stiff south-easter
rising, and your hands are like ice. Come into the arbour for a minute.
It's warm there, and then--then we'll say good-bye, sweetheart."

His arm round her, he drew her with him to the summer-house, talking to
her tenderly all the time. There was reassurance, comfort, loving care
in his very tones.