He was looking eagerly at her face for the least sign of compliance; his large, firm, gentle grasp was on her hand. She was silent for a few moments, with her eyes fixed on the ground; then she drew a deep breath, and said, looking up at him with solemn sadness,

`O it is difficult - life is very difficult. It seems right to me sometimes that we should follow our strongest feeling; - but then, such feelings continually come across the ties that all our former life has made for us - the ties that have made others dependent on us - and would cut them in two. If life were quite easy and simple, as it might have been in paradise, and we could always see that one being first towards whom... I mean, if life did not make duties for us before love comes - love would be a sign that two people ought to belong to each other. But I see - I feel it is not so now: there are things we must renounce in life - some of us must resign love. Many things are difficult and dark to me - but I see one thing quite clearly - that I must not, cannot seek my own happiness by sacrificing others. Love is natural - but surely pity and faithfulness and memory are natural too. And they would live in me still, and punish me if I didn't obey them. I should be haunted by the suffering I had caused. Our love would be poisoned. Don't urge me; help me - help me, because I love you.'

Maggie had become more and more earnest as she went on; her face had become flushed, and her eyes fuller and fuller of appealing love. Stephen had the fibre of nobleness in him that vibrated to her appeal; but in the same moment - how could it be otherwise? - that pleading beauty gained new power over him.

`Dearest,' he said, in scarcely more than a whisper, while his arm stole round her, `I'll do, I'll bear anything you wish. But - one kiss - one - the last - before we part.'

One kiss - and then a long look - until Maggie said tremulously, `Let me go - let us make haste back.'

She hurried along and not another word was spoken. Stephen stood still and beckoned when they came within sight of Willy and the horse, and Maggie went on through the gate. Mrs Moss was standing alone at the door of the old porch: she had sent all the cousins in, with kind thoughtfulness; it might be a joyful thing that Maggie had a rich and handsome lover, but she would naturally feel embarrassed at coming in again - and it might not be joyful. In either case, Mrs Moss waited anxiously to receive Maggie by herself. The poor thing's face said plainly enough that if there was joy, it was of a very agitating dubious sort.

`Sit down here a bit, my dear.' She drew Maggie into the porch, and sat down on the bench by her. There was no privacy in the house.

`O aunt Gritty, I'm very wretched. I wish I could have died when I was fifteen. It seemed so easy to give things up then - it is so hard now.'

The poor child threw her arms round her aunt's neck, and fell into long, deep sobs.