“Don’t hesitate on my account.  I admit that it would be harder than one of the labors of Hercules, but you command me now and always.  Nothing is so bad as to know that you are unhappy.”

“Do I seem very unhappy?”

“No, you brave little woman! but who could guess the truth if you were?  My knowledge is not derived from your usual manner.”

“It is a pity if I cannot be patient when you set me so good an example,” she said, as Mr. and Mrs. Muir approached.

When they were alone again for a brief time during the ramble, Graydon resumed:  “I wish to make sure of your confidence, Madge; I wish you to take me at my word.  I don’t think you have been quite just to me.  I am not a cold-blooded fellow, and, no doubt, am given to impressions and impulses; but I think constancy is one of my traits.  I never wavered in my affection for you until I misunderstood you immediately after my return, and then that very misapprehension kept me worried and perplexed much of the time.  I was true to Miss Wildmere as long as there was anything to be constant to, and yet for years she was scarcely anything more than a fancy, a preference.  Since my return you know just what she was to me.  Nothing is more certain than that I never loved her.  I did not know what the word meant then.  There is a chapter in your history that I don’t know much about, but I am sure I could make good my word to do anything within my power to bring you happiness.  I have imagined that a little management, guided by tact and absolute fidelity—­”

“Don’t say anything more about that, Graydon,” she said, firmly.  “Not if my heart broke a thousand times would I seek a man or permit him to be sought for me in any such way as you suggest.”

“That’s settled, then.”

“That’s settled forever.”

“Well, in that case,” he said, with a short, nervous laugh, “there may be a chance for me within the next hundred years.”

“Are you so willing to take a woman who had once given her heart to another?”

“I don’t know anything about ‘a woman.’  I would take you, Madge, under any circumstances that I can imagine.”

“Graydon,” said Mrs. Muir, suddenly appearing around a turn in the walk, “what is the matter with you?  Why can’t you and Madge keep with us more?  For some reason we are getting separated all the time.  This is a lovely spot.  Let us sit down here like a family party and have a little music.  I just long to get back home, so that Madge may sing for us as much as we wish.  Here she would attract the attention of strangers, and that ends the matter; and so I feel as if I had a rare singing bird, but never a song.  In this secluded place no others will hear you, Madge.”

“Very well.  What do you wish?  I feel like singing.”

“Make your own choice.”

“I’ll give you an old song, then, about friendship;” and with notes rivalling those of a hermit-thrush that had been chanting vespers in the dense woods near by, she sang a quaint melody, her voice wakening faint echoes from the adjacent rocks.  When she came to the last lines she gave Graydon a shy glance, which seemed to signify, “These words are for you.”