Now beside this house, separated by a wide stretch of lawn, was a small wood and, lured by its grateful shade, he turned aside into this wood and began pushing his way through the dense undergrowth, which presently thinned to form a small clearing, roofed and shut in by leaves and full of a tender green light.  Here he paused, and espying a fallen tree hard by, sat himself down and began to fill his pipe.  And now, remembering his shabby person, he felt disinclined to go up to the house and demand to see Miss Chesterton.  Yet see her he would—­but how?  He was frowning over this problem when it was resolved for him quite unexpectedly; roused by the sound of a snapping twig, he glanced up—­and Hermione was before him.  She was coming down a narrow path that wound amid the leaves, and because she wore no hat, the sunlight, filtering through the branches, made a glory of her hair as she passed.  Her head was bowed, and she walked very slowly as one in thought; she had brought sewing with her, but for once her busy hands were idle, and, as he looked upon her beauty, scarce breathing, he saw again that look of wistful sadness.

As he rose, she glanced up, and seeing him, stood utterly still.  Thus for a long moment they gazed upon each other, then, even as he hastened to her, she came to him on swift, light feet, and, flushing, tremulous, quick-breathing, gave herself into his arms.

“Oh, Hermione, my beloved!” he murmured, his voice tense and eager, “didn’t I say enough, last time?  Don’t you know I love you—­worship you—­hunger and yearn for you?  I want you with every breath I draw.  When will you be my wife—­oh, when will you marry me, Hermione?”

For answer she reached up her arms, sudden, passionate arms that clung about him close and strong; so they stood thus, heart beating to heart, thrilling at each other’s nearness yet drawing ever closer until, lifting her head, she gave her lips to his.

“Oh, my dear, my dear,” she whispered, “is it right to love you so, I wonder?  I never thought it could be—­like this.  It frightens me sometimes, because my love is so great and strong and I—­so powerless.  Is it right?  I—­Oh!” she broke off breathlessly, “how can I speak if—­if you—­”

“Kiss you so much?” he ended, “you can’t speak, so—­don’t speak, my Hermione!” But now, all at once, he started and glanced up among the leaves above them.

“Dear,” she whispered, “what is it?”

“That tapping sound,” he answered, still gazing upward.

“It’s only the woodpecker.”

“Why, of course!” he laughed.  “It’s strange, but I dreamed a scene like this—­yes, the great tree yonder, and you in my arms—­though it seemed so impossible then, and—­”

But uttering a sudden, low cry of alarm, Hermione broke from his clasp and fled from him along the leafy path while he stared after her, lost in amazement; then he ran also and caught her upon the edge of the little wood.