We went down the road between the growths of young fir that bordered it.  I smelled their balsam as we passed, and noticed how clearly and darkly their pointed tops came out against the sky.  I heard the tread of my own feet on little twigs and plants in our way, and the trail of my dress over the grass; but Hester moved noiselessly.

Then we went through the Avenue—­that stretch of road under the apple trees that Anne Shirley, over at Avonlea, calls “The White Way of Delight.”  It was almost dark here; and yet I could see Hester’s face just as plainly as if the moon were shining on it; and whenever I looked at her she was always looking at me with that strangely gentle smile on her lips.

Just as we passed out of the Avenue, James Trent overtook us, driving.  It seems to me that our feelings at a given moment are seldom what we would expect them to be.  I simply felt annoyed that James Trent, the most notorious gossip in Newbridge, should have seen me walking with Hester.  In a flash I anticipated all the annoyance of it; he would talk of the matter far and wide.

But James Trent merely nodded and called out,

“Howdy, Miss Margaret.  Taking a moonlight stroll by yourself?  Lovely night, ain’t it?”

Just then his horse suddenly swerved, as if startled, and broke into a gallop.  They whirled around the curve of the road in an instant.  I felt relieved, but puzzled.  James Trent had not seen Hester.

Down over the hill was Hugh Blair’s place.  When we came to it, Hester turned in at the gate.  Then, for the first time, I understood why she had come back, and a blinding flash of joy broke over my soul.  I stopped and looked at her.  Her deep eyes gazed into mine, but she did not speak.

We went on.  Hugh’s house lay before us in the moonlight, grown over by a tangle of vines.  His garden was on our right, a quaint spot, full of old-fashioned flowers growing in a sort of disorderly sweetness.  I trod on a bed of mint, and the spice of it floated up to me like the incense of some strange, sacred, solemn ceremonial.  I felt unspeakably happy and blessed.

When we came to the door Hester said,

“Knock, Margaret.”

I rapped gently.  In a moment, Hugh opened it.  Then that happened by which, in after days, I was to know that this strange thing was no dream or fancy of mine.  Hugh looked not at me, but past me.

“Hester!” he exclaimed, with human fear and horror in his voice.

He leaned against the door-post, the big, strong fellow, trembling from head to foot.

“I have learned,” said Hester, “that nothing matters in all God’s universe, except love.  There is no pride where I have been, and no false ideals.”

Hugh and I looked into each other’s eyes, wondering, and then we knew that we were alone.

VIII.  THE LITTLE BROWN BOOK OF MISS EMILY