He helped her to put all the lovely blooms into vases, so happy to think they should give her pleasure.  And all the while he talked to her lovingly and soothingly, until Sabine could have screamed aloud, so full of remorse and constraint she felt.  If he would only be disagreeable or unkind!

At last, among the giant violets, they came upon one bunch of white ones.  These she took and separated, and, making them into two, she stuck one into her belt and gave Henry the other to put into his coat.

“Won’t you fasten them in for me, dearest?” he said, his whole countenance full of passionate love.

She came nearer, and with hasty fingers put the flowers into his buttonhole.

The temptation was too great for Henry.  He put his arm round her and drew her to his side, while he bent and kissed her sweet red mouth.

She did not resist him or start away, but she grew white as death, and he was conscious that, as he clasped her close, a repressed shudder ran through her whole frame.

With a little cry of anguish he put her from him, and searched with miserable eyes for some message in her face.  But her lids were lowered and her lips were quivering with some pain.

“My darling, what is it?  Sabine, you shrank from me!  What does it mean?”

“It means—­nothing, Henry.”  And the poor child tried to smile.  “Only that I am very foolish and silly, and I do not believe I like caresses—­much.”  And then, to make things sound more light, she went on:  “You see, I have had so few of them in my life.  You must be patient with me until I learn to—­understand.”

Of course he would be patient, he assured her, and asked her to forgive him if he had been brusque, his refined voice full of adoring contrition.  He caught at any gossamer thread to stifle the obvious thought that if she loved him even ever so little he would not have to accustom her to caresses; she would long ago have been willing to learn all of their meanings in his arms!—­and this was only the second time during their acquaintance that she had even let him kiss her!

But of her own free will she now came and leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Henry,” she pleaded, “I am not really as I know you think I am—­a gentle and loving woman.  There are all sorts of fierce sides in my character which you have not an idea of, and I am only beginning to guess at them myself.  I do not know that I shall ever be able to make you happy.  I am sure I shall not unless you will be contented with very little.”

“The smallest tip of your finger is more precious to me than all the world, darling!” he protested with heat.  “I will be patient.  I will be anything you wish.  I will not even touch you again until you give me leave.  Oh!  I adore you so—­Sabine, I will bear anything if only you do not mean that you want to send me away.”

The anguish and fond worship in his face wrung her heart.  She started from him and then, returning, held out her arms, while she cried with a pitiful gasp, almost as of a sob in her throat: