It had been agreed between them that Crosbie should come down to the Small House on the next day after breakfast, and remain there till the time came for riding.  But Lily determined to alter this arrangement, and accordingly put on her hat immediately after breakfast, and posted herself at the bridge, so as to intercept her lover as he came.  He soon appeared with his friend Dale, and she at once told him her purpose.

“I want to have a talk with you, Adolphus, before you go in to mamma; so come with me into the field.”

“All right,” said he.

“And Bernard can finish his cigar on the lawn.  Mamma and Bell will join him there.”

“All right,” said Bernard.  So they separated; and Crosbie went away with Lily into the field where they had first learned to know each other in those haymaking days.

She did not say much till they were well away from the house; but answered what words he chose to speak,—­not knowing very well of what he spoke.  But when she considered that they had reached the proper spot, she began very abruptly.

“Adolphus,” she said, “I have something to say to you,—­something to which you must listen very carefully.”  Then he looked at her, and at once knew that she was in earnest.

“This is the last day on which I could say it,” she continued; “and I am very glad that I have not let the last day go by without saying it.  I should not have known how to put it in a letter.”

“What is it, Lily?”

“And I do not know that I can say it properly; but I hope that you will not be hard upon me.  Adolphus, if you wish that all this between us should be over, I will consent.”

“Lily!”

“I mean what I say.  If you wish it, I will consent; and when I have said so, proposing it myself, you may be quite sure that I shall never blame you, if you take me at my word.”

“Are you tired of me, Lily?”

“No.  I shall never be tired of you,—­never weary with loving you.  I did not wish to say so now; but I will answer your question boldly.  Tired of you!  I fancy that a girl can never grow tired of her lover.  But I would sooner die in the struggle than be the cause of your ruin.  It would be better—­in every way better.”

“I have said nothing of being ruined.”

“But listen to me.  I should not die if you left me,—­not be utterly broken-hearted.  Nothing on earth can I ever love as I have loved you.  But I have a God and a Saviour that will be enough for me.  I can turn to them with content, if it be well that you should leave me.  I have gone to them, and—­” But at this moment she could utter no more words.  She had broken down in her effort, losing her voice through the strength of her emotion.  As she did not choose that he should see her overcome, she turned from him and walked away across the grass.