answered--'Yes'--even if I wanted to--even if I had been sure of myself?
And now--" Her voice sank again to a whisper. "And now----"

From the meadows across the creek, and over the fields, came a far
tinkling of farm-bells. Three months ago, at this hour, John Harkless had
listened to that sound, and its great lonesomeness had touched his heart
like a cold hand; but now, as the mists were rising from the water and the
small stars pierced the sky one by one, glinting down through the dim,
immeasurable blue distances, he found no loneliness in heaven or earth. He
leaned forward toward her; the bench was between them. The last light was
gone; evening had fallen.

"And now--" he said.

She moved backward as he leaned nearer.

"You promised to remember on the day you understood," she answered, a
little huskily, "that it was all from the purest gratitude."

"And--and there is nothing else?"

"If there were," she said, and her voice grew more and more unsteady, "if
there were, can't you see that what I have done--" She stopped, and then,
suddenly, "Ah, it would have been _brazen_!"

He looked up at the little stars and he heard the bells, and they struck
into his heart like a dirge. He made a singular gesture of abnegation, and
then dropped upon the bench with his head bowed between his hands.

She pressed her hand to her bosom, watching him in a startled fashion, her