And so she led him on into the forest, carried on by joy herself, and taking all things into her song.  She did not notice that the young man’s forehead was flushed, or that his hand was burning when she took it in hers as they walked; if she noticed it, she chose at any rate to pretend not to.  She sang to him about the forest and the flowers, and some more of the merry song which she had sung before; then she stopped to shake her head at a saucy adder’s tongue that thrust its yellow face up through the dead leaves at her feet, and to ask that wisest-looking of all flowers what secrets it knew about the spring-time.  Later on they came to a place where the brook fled faster, sparkling brightly in the sunlight over its shallow bed of pebbles; it was only her runaway caroling that could keep pace with that, and so her glee mounted higher, the young man at her side half in a trance, watching her laughing face and drinking in the sound of her voice.

How long that might have lasted there is no telling, had it not been that the woods came to an end, disclosing more open fields and a village beyond.  “We’d better not go any farther,” said Helen, laughing; “if any of the earth creatures should hear us carrying on they would not know it was ‘Trunkenheit ohne Wein.’”

She stretched out her hand to her companion, and led him to a seat upon a fallen log nearby.  “Poor boy,” she said, “I forgot that you were supposed to be tired.”

“It does not make any difference,” was the reply; “I hadn’t thought of it.”

“There’s no need to walk farther,” said Helen, “for I’ve seen all that I wish to see.  How dear this walk ought to be to us, Arthur!”

“I do not know about you, Helen,” said the young man, “but it has been dear to me indeed.  I could not tell you how many times I have walked over it, all alone, since you left; and I used to think about the many times I had walked it with you.  You haven’t forgotten, Helen, have you?”

“No,” said Helen.

“Not one?”

“Not one.”

The young man was resting his head upon his hand and gazing steadily at the girl.

“Do you remember, Helen—?” He stopped; and she turned with her bright clear eyes and gazed into his.

“Remember what?” she asked.

“Do you remember the last time we took it, Helen?”

She flushed a trifle, and half involuntarily turned her glance away again.

“Do you remember?” he asked again, seeing that she was silent.

“Yes, I remember,” said the girl, her voice lower—­“But I’d rather you did not—.”  She stopped short.

“You wish to forget it, Helen?” asked Arthur.

He was trembling with anxiety, and his hands, which were clasped about his knee, were twitching.  “Oh, Helen, how can you?” he went on, his voice breaking.  “Do you not remember the last night that we sat there by the spring, and you were going away, no one knew for how long—­and how you told me that it was more than you could bear; and the promise that you made me?  Oh, Helen!”