Dale was following the stream, whether it showed itself or hid itself, and could have found his way blindfold.  He knew the wood by night as well as he knew it by day.

He stopped on the edge of the biggest of all the glades, looked about him cautiously, advanced slowly, and stopped again to wipe the perspiration from his forehead.  He was very near to the main ride now; straight ahead of him, say two hundred yards away, on the other side of the invisible ride lay the invisible rocks.

One of the beech-trees had fallen, and been left as it fell two months ago.  Most of its tender young foliage had shriveled and died, but on branches near its upturned roots a few leaves were bright and green, still drawing life from the ruined trunk.  Dale stood by the fallen tree, looking out across the glade.  It was all silent and beautiful, with that curious effect of increasing light which made the distances clearer every moment, gave more color to the earth and a more tender glow to the sky.

Then he saw her, a long way off, coming from the direction of the ride through the trees; and he felt the pressure of blood pumping into his head, the weight on his lungs, the laboring pain of his heart, that a man might feel just before he sinks to the ground in an apoplectic fit.

She was all alone, sauntering toward him with her hands full of flowers.  She had no hat, and she was wearing the same loose frock that she wore last night.

With the gesture that had become habitual to him, Dale put his hands in his pockets—­those wicked hands that no prison could much longer hold, that would defy control, that seemed now to be stretched forth across all the intervening space to touch the face and limbs they hungered for.  He moved away from the shadow by the fallen tree, stepped out into the open, went slowly to meet her, and his longing was intolerably acute.  He was sick and mad with longing:  he wanted her as a man dying of thirst wants the water that will save his life.

“Oh, Mr. Dale, how you hev made me jump!”

At sight of him she dropped the flowers and raised one of her hands to press it against her breast.  She had been so startled that she still breathed fast, almost pantingly; but her lips were smiling, and her eyes shone with pleasure.

“Now look here, Norah; this won’t do—­no, really this won’t do.”  He had taken his hands out of his pockets and clasped them behind his back.  He too was breathing fast, though he spoke deliberately and rather thickly.  “No, all this sort of thing won’t do; it can’t be allowed;” and he laid his right hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said, watching his face intently.

“You mustn’t go and moon about by yourself, like this.  You know you mustn’t, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know.  But I couldn’t stay indoors.”

He had slid his hand downward, and was holding her arm above the elbow.  “It is very disobedient.  Often and often Mrs. Dale has told you that you mustn’t come here.”