How heavy upon the air lay the fragrance of the flowers; how still the night was, save for the constant muffled boom of the breaking surf!—­for a moment an almost ungovernable impulse swept upon her to make some excuse, anything, no matter how wild, a sudden faintness, anything, and run from him back into the cottage.  And then she tried to think, think in a desperate sort of way of some subject of conversation that she might introduce that would stave off, postpone, defer the words that she knew were even now on his lips—­nothing—­she could think of nothing—­only that she might have let the Flopper have his way, have let him tell Thornton that she had gone to bed with—­the pip.  The pip!  She could have screamed out hysterically as the word flashed all unbidden upon her—­it stood for a very great deal that word—­her world of the years of yesterday.  Could she never get away from that world; was it too late—­already!  Could she, even with all the earnestness, all the yearning that filled her soul, ever live it down, ever be what Naida Thornton had called her that night—­a good woman!  Could she—­

Thornton was speaking now—­how strange that she would have done anything, given anything to prevent his speaking—­and done anything, given anything to make him speak!  How strange and perplexed and dismayed her brain was!  Love!  Yes; she wanted love!  God knew she wanted love such as his was—­for he had shown her what love, free from abasing passion, in its purest sense, was.  Like a glimpse of glory, hallowed, full of wondrous amazement, it came to her—­and then her head was lowered, and the whiteness was upon her face again.

He had halted suddenly and detained her with his hand upon her arm—­with that touch, so full of reverence, of fine deference, that had thrilled her before—­that thrilled her now, awakening into fuller life these new emotions whose birth was in gladder, sweeter, purer aspirations.

“Miss Vail,” he said, in a low voice, “there was a letter—­a letter that Naida left—­did you know of it?”

They were close together, and it was very dark—­but was it dark enough to hide the crimson that she felt sweeping in a flood to her face!  What was in that letter?  Had Mrs. Thornton written as she had talked, or only about the Patriarch and the work in Needley?  She had forgotten for the moment about the letter—­if there were more in it than that, if it were about Thornton and herself and what Mrs. Thornton had hoped for between them, and she admitted knowledge of it, what would he think, what could he think of her!  But to deny it—­no, not now.  Once, and this came to her in a little thrill of gladness, she would not have hesitated; but now it—­it was—­it was not that world of yesterday.

“Yes,” she said faintly; “she told me that she had left a letter for you.”