“Why should you tell me?” cried Gavin, his hand rising to stop her.

“Because you have a right to know,” she replied, now too much in earnest to see that she was yielding a point.  “I should prefer not to tell you; yet there is nothing wrong in my secret, and it may make you think of me kindly when I have gone away.”

“Don’t speak in that way, Babbie, after you have forgiven me.”

“Did I hurt you?  It was only because I know that you cannot trust me while I remain a mystery.  I know you would try to trust me, but doubts would cross your mind.  Yes, they would; they are the shadows that mysteries cast.  Who can believe a gypsy if the odds are against her?”

“I can,” said Gavin; but she shook her head, and so would he had he remembered three recent sermons of his own preaching.

“I had better tell you all,” she said, with an effort.

“It is my turn now to refuse to listen to you,” exclaimed Gavin, who was only a chivalrous boy.  “Babbie, I should like to hear your story, but until you want to tell it to me I will not listen to it.  I have faith in your honour, and that is sufficient.”

It was boyish, but I am glad Gavin said it; and now Babbie admired something in him that deserved admiration.  His faith, no doubt, made her a better woman.

“I admit that I would rather tell you nothing just now,” she said, gratefully.  “You are sure you will never say again that you don’t understand me?”

“Quite sure,” said Gavin, bravely.  “And by-and-by you will offer to tell me of your free will?”

“Oh, don’t let us think of the future,” answered Babbie.  “Let us be happy for the moment.”

This had been the Egyptian’s philosophy always, but it was ill-suited for Auld Licht ministers, as one of them was presently to discover.

“I want to make one confession, though,” Babbie continued, almost reluctantly.  “When you were so nasty a little while ago, I didn’t go back to Nanny’s.  I stood watching you from behind a tree, and then, for an excuse to come back, I—­I poured out the water.  Yes, and I told you another lie.  I really came back to admit that it was all my fault, if I could not get you to say that it was yours.  I am so glad you gave in first.”

She was very near him, and the tears had not yet dried on her eyes.  They were laughing eyes, eyes in distress, imploring eyes.  Her pale face, smiling, sad, dimpled, yet entreating forgiveness, was the one prominent thing in the world to him just then.  He wanted to kiss her.  He would have done it as soon as her eyes rested on his, but she continued without regarding him—­

“How mean that sounds!  Oh, if I were a man I should wish to be everything that I am not, and nothing that I am.  I should scorn to be a liar, I should choose to be open in all things, I should try to fight the world honestly.  But I am only a woman, and so—­well, that is the kind of man I should like to marry.”