he saw, too, that she must pass within a few feet of where he stood. She walked as one dreaming, or whose thoughts are far distant, her head thrown back, her eyes half closed. The awakening, when it came, was sudden enough.
"Louise," he called to her softly, "Louise!"
She dropped her skirts. For a moment he feared that she was going to cry out.
"Who is that?" she asked sharply.
"It is I, Herbert Wrayson," he answered. "Don't be afraid. Shall I come out to you, or will you come down the laurel path?"
"You!" she murmured. "You!"
He saw the light in her face, and his voice was hoarse with passion.
"Come," he cried, "or I must fetch you! Louise! Sweetheart!"
She came towards him a little timidly, her eyebrows arched, a divine smile playing about her lips. She stood at the entrance to the laurel grove and peered a little forward.
"Where are you?" she asked. "Is it really you? I think that I am a little afraid! Oh!"
He took her into his arms with a little laugh of happiness. Time and life itself stood still. Her feeble remonstrances were swept away in the tide of his passion. His lips hung burning against hers.
"My sweetheart!" he murmured. "Thank God you came!" ...
She disengaged herself presently. A clock from the stables was striking. She counted the hours.
"Eleven o'clock!" she exclaimed. "Herbert, how long have I been here?"
