“But I am keeping you too long,” I exclaimed, at last; “this evening air is bad; you must go home.”

I walked along with her, up through the garden, and along the road towards her house.  I did not offer my arm, for I dared not trust myself so near.  The evening wind was cool, and I took off my hat to let it blow upon my forehead, for my head was hot and my brain in a whirl.  We came to a stop at the gate, beneath an apple-tree, then in full bloom.  I think now that my mind at that time was not—­exactly sound.  The severe mental discipline which I had forced upon myself, the long striving to subdue the strongest feelings of a man’s heart, together with my real heart-grief at my mother’s death, were enough, certainly, to craze any one.  I was crazy; for I only meant to say “Good-bye,” but I said, “Good-bye, Jane; I would give the world to stay, but I must go.”  I thought I was going to take her hand; but, instead of that, I took her face between my own two hands, and turned it up towards mine.  First I kissed her cheeks.  “That is for the pink,” I said.  Then her eyes.  “And that is for the blue.  And now I go.  You won’t care, will you, Jane, that I kissed you?  I shall never trouble you any more; you know you will never see me again.  Good-bye, Jane!”

I grasped her hand tightly and turned away.  I thought I was off, but she did not let go my hand.  I paused, as if to hear what she had to say.  She had hitherto spoken but little; she had no need, for I had talked with all the rapidity of insanity.  She tried to speak now, but her voice was husky, and she almost whispered.

“Why do you go?” she asked.

“Because I must, Jane,” I replied.  “I must go.”

“And why must you go?” she asked.

“Oh, Jane, don’t ask me why I must go; you wouldn’t, if you knew”—­

There I stopped.  She spoke again.  There was a strange tone in her voice, and I could feel that she was trembling all over.

“Don’t go, Henry.”

Never before had she called me Henry, and this, together with her strong emotion and the desire she expressed for me to stay, shot a bright thought of joy through my soul.  It was the very first moment that I had entertained the possibility of her caring for me.  I seemed another being.  Strange thoughts flashed like lightning across my mind.  My resolve was taken.

“Who cares whether I go or stay?” I asked.

“I care,” said she.

I took both her hands in mine, and, looking full in her face, said, in a low voice,—­

“Jane, how much do you care?”

“A whole heart full,” she replied, in a voice as low and as earnest as my own.

She was leaning on the fence; I leaned back beside her, for I grew sick and faint, thinking of the great joy that might be coming.

“Jane,” said I, solemnly, “you wouldn’t marry me, would you?”

“Certainly not,” she replied.  “How can I, when you have never asked me?”