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He stared at her like a man fascinated.

“You go to the city alone!” he said under his breath. “You try to get work!”

“Yes,” she answered. “Don’t ye know no one”–

He stopped her.

“No,” he said, “I don’t. It would be a dangerous business unless you had friends. As for me, I shall not be in America long. As soon as I am married I go with my wife to Europe.”

He heard a sharp click in her throat. Her tears were dried, and she was looking straight at him.

“Are ye a-goin’ to be married?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“To–her?” with a gesture in the direction of the Harneys’ cabin.

“Yes.”

“Oh!” and she walked out of the room.

He did not see her for three days, and the picture stood still. He went to the Harneys’ and found Rebecca packing her trunk.

“We are going back to New York,” she said.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because our holiday is over.”

Miss Thorne regarded him with chill severity.

“When may we expect to see you?” she inquired.

He really felt half stupefied,–as if for the time being his will was paralyzed.

“I don’t know,” he answered.

He tried to think that he was treated badly and coldly. He told himself that he had done nothing to deserve this style of thing, that he had simply been busy and absorbed in his work, and that if he had at times appeared preoccupied it was not to be wondered at. But when he looked at Rebecca he did not put these thoughts into words; he did not even say that of course he should follow them soon, since there was nothing to detain him but a sketch or two he had meant to make.

By night they were gone and he was left restless and miserable. He was so restless that he could not sleep but wandered down toward the spring. He stopped at the exact point at which he had stopped on the night of his arrival–at the top of the zigzag little path leading down the rocky incline. He stopped because he heard a sound of passionate sobbing. He descended slowly. He knew the sound–angry, fierce, uncontrollable–because he had heard it before. It checked itself the instant he reached the ground. Lodusky leaning against a projecting rock kept her eyes fixed upon the water.

“Why did you come here?” he demanded, a little excitedly. “What are you crying for? What has hurt you?”

“Nothing” in a voice low and unsteady.

He drew a little nearer to her and for the first time was touched. She would not look at him, she was softened and altered, in her whole appearance, by a new pallor.

“Have “–he began, “have I?”

“You!” she cried, turning on him with a bitter, almost wild gesture. “You wouldn’t keer if I was struck dead afore ye!”

“Look here,” he said to her, with an agitation he could not master. “Let me tell you something about myself. If you think I am a passably good fellow you are mistaken. I am a bad fellow, a poor fellow, an ignoble fellow. You don’t understand?” as she gazed at him in bewilderment. “No, of course, you don’t. God knows I didn’t myself until within the last two weeks. It’s folly to say such things to you; perhaps I say them half to satisfy myself. But I mean to show you that I am not to be trusted. I think perhaps I am too poor a fellow to love any woman honestly and altogether. I followed one woman here, and then after all let another make me waver”–

“Another!” she faltered.

He fixed his eyes on her almost coldly.

“You,” he said.

He seemed to cast the word at her and wonder what she would make of it He waited a second or so before he went on.

“You, and yet you are not the woman I love either. Good God! What a villain I must be. I am an insult to every woman that breathes. It is not even you–though I can’t break from you, and you have made me despise myself. There! do you know now–do you see now that I am not worth “–