in harvest-time, then up the hill, then--Rosalie.

She started to her feet. "I knew you would come--I knew you would!" she
said.

"You have been waiting here for me?" he asked breathless, taking her
hand.

"I felt you would come. I made you," she added smiling, and, eagerly
answering the look in his eyes, threw her arms round his neck. In that
moment's joy a fresh realisation of their fate came upon him with dire
force, and a bitter protest went up from his heart, that he and she
should be sacrificed.

Yet the impasse was there, and what could remove it--what clear the way?

He looked down at the girl whose head was buried in happy peace on his
shoulder. She clung to him, as though in him was everlasting protection
from the sprite that kept whispering: "You dare not go to confession--
your dreams are done--you can only love." But she had no fear now.

As he looked down at her a swift change passed over him, and, almost for
the first time since he was a little child, his eyes filled with tears.
He hastily brushed them away, and drew her down on the seat beside him.
He was wondering how he should tell her that they must not meet like
this, that they must be apart. No matter what had happened, no matter
what love there was, it was better that they should die--that he should
die--than that they should meet like this. There was only one end to
secret meetings, and discovery was inevitable. Then, with discovery,
shame to her. For he must either marry her--how could he marry her?