“You ought to tell me everything if—­if—­” she hesitated, and blushed.

“If what?” asked James tenderly.

She nestled up to him.  “If you—­feel toward me as you say you do.”

“If.  Oh, Clemency!”

“Then you ought to tell me.  No, you needn’t kiss me.  I want you to tell me something.  I don’t want to be kissed.”

“Well, what is that you want to know, dear?”

“Will you promise to tell me?”

“No, dear, I can’t promise, but I will tell you if I am able without doing you harm.”

“Who was that man who was buried yesterday, who had been hunting me so long, and frightening me and Uncle Tom, and why have I been compelled to stay housed as if I were a prisoner so much of my life?”

“Because you were in danger, dear, from the man.”

“You are answering me in a circle.”  Clemency sat upright and looked at James, and the blue fire in her eyes glowed.  “Who was the man?” she asked peremptorily.

“I can’t tell you, dear.”

“But you know.”

“Yes.”

“Why can’t you tell me then?”

“Because it is not best.”

Clemency shrugged her shoulders.  “Why did he hunt me so?”

“I can’t tell you, dear.”

“But you know.”

“I am not sure.”

“But you think you know.”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t, dear.”

“When will you tell me?”

“Never!”

Clemency looked at him, and again she blushed.  “You will tell me after—­we are—­married.  You will have to tell me everything then,” she whispered.

James shook his head.

“Won’t you then?”

“No, dear, I shall never tell you while I live.”

Clemency made a sudden grasp at the reins.  “Then I will never marry you,” she said.  “I will never marry you, if you keep things from me.”

“I will never keep things from you that you ought to know, dear.”

“I ought to know this!”

James remained silent.  Clemency had brought the horse to a full stop.  “Won’t you ever tell me?” she asked.

“No, never! dear.”

“Then let me get out.  This is Annie Lipton’s street.  I am going to see her.  I have not seen her for a long time.  I will walk home.  It is safe enough now.  You can tell me that much?”

“Yes, it is, but Clemency, dear.”

“I am not Clemency, dear.  I am not going to marry you.  You say you wrote your father and mother last night that we were going to get married.  Well, you can just write again and tell them we are not.  No, you need not try to stop me.  I will get out.  Good-by!  I shall not be home to luncheon.  I shall stay with Annie.  I like her very much better than I like you.”

With that Clemency had slipped out of the buggy and hurried up a street without looking back.  James drove on.  He felt disturbed, but not seriously so.  It was impossible to take Clemency’s anger as a real thing.  It was so whimsical and childish.  He had counted upon his long morning with her, but he went on with a little smile on his face.