Her lips quivered, but she did not speak, and the look of trouble, of doubt, did not leave her face.  He waited, his eyes seeking hers, seeking them for some sign which might still the passion of fear and suspense with which he was battling, then he said in a low voice that thrilled with the tempest of emotion which raged under his forced calm: 

“Will you not speak to me?  Are you angry?”

She raised her head and looked at him—­a strange look from so young a girl.  It was as if she were fighting against the subtle spell of his words, the demand for her love which shone in his eyes.

“No, I am not angry,” she said at last; and her voice, though very low, was calm and unshaken.

He made a movement towards her, but she shrank back, only a little, but perceptibly, and he checked the movement, the desire to take her in his arms.

“You are not angry?  Then—­Ida—­I may call you so?—­you don’t mind my loving you?  Dearest, will you love me just a little in return?  Wait!” for she had shrunk again, this time more plainly.  “Don’t—­don’t answer without thinking!  I know I have startled you, that I ought not to have spoken so soon, while you only know so little of me—­you’d naturally say ‘no,’ and send me away.  But if you think you can like me—­learn to love me—­”

He took her hand, hanging so temptingly near his own; but she drew it away.

“No; don’t touch me!” she said, with a little catch in her voice.  “I want to think—­to understand.”  She paused for a moment, her eyes still seeking the distant hills, as if in their mysterious heights she might find something that should explain this great mystery, this wonderful thing that had happened to her.  At last, with a singular gesture, so girlish, so graceful that it made him long still more intensely to take her in his arms, she said in a low voice: 

“I do not know—­No!  I do not want you to touch me, please!” His hand fell to his side.  “I can’t answer you.  It is so—­so sudden!  No one has ever spoken to me as you have done—­”

He laughed from mere excess of joy, for her pure innocence, her unlikeness, in her ignorance of love and all pertaining to it, to the women he knew, made the charm of her well-nigh maddening.  To think that he should be the first man to speak of love to her!

“I am not angry—­ought I to be?  Yes, I suppose so.  We are almost strangers—­have seen so little of each other.”

“They say that love, all true love, comes at first sight,” he said in his deep voice.  “I used to laugh at the idea; but now I know it is true.  I loved you the first time I met you, Ida!”

Her lip quivered and her brows knit.

“It seems so wonderful,” she said, musingly, “I do not understand it.  The first time!  We scarcely spoke—­and I was almost angry with you for fishing in the Heron.  And I did—­did not think of you—­”

He made a gesture, repudiating the mere idea.