“Because what?” said Stephen, gently.

“Because you said you would come sometimes, and I knew very well that that need not have meant this particular morning nor any particular morning; and that was what vexed me so, that I should have been silly and set my heart on it.  That was what made me cry, Mr. White, I was so vexed with myself,” stoutly asserted Mercy, beginning to feel braver and more like herself.

Stephen looked her full in the face without speaking for a moment.  Then,—­

“May I call you Mercy?” he said.

“Yes,” she replied.

“May I say to you exactly what I am thinking?”

“Yes,” she replied again, a little more hesitatingly.

“Then, Mercy, this is what I want to say to you,” said Stephen, earnestly.  “There is no reason why you and I should try to deceive each other or ourselves.  I care very, very much for you, and you care very much for me.  We have come very close to each other, and neither of our lives can ever be the same again.  What is in store for us in all this we cannot now see; but it is certain we are very much to each other.”

He spoke more and more slowly and earnestly; his eyes fixed on the distant horizon instead of on Mercy’s face.  A deep sadness gradually gathered on his countenance, and his last words were spoken more in the tone of one who felt a new exaltation of suffering than of one who felt the new ecstasy of a lover.  Looking down into Mercy’s face, with a tenderness which made her very heart thrill, he said,—­

“Tell me, Mercy, is it not so?  Are we not very much to each other?”

The strange reticence of his tone, even more reticent than his words, had affected Mercy inexplicably:  it was as if a chill wind had suddenly blown at noonday, and made her shiver in spite of full sunlight.  Her tone was almost as reticent and sad as his, as she said, without raising her eyes,—­

“I think it is true.”

“Please look up at me, Mercy,” said Stephen.  “I want to feel sure that you are not sorry I care so much for you.”

“How could I be sorry?” exclaimed Mercy, lifting her eyes suddenly, and looking into Stephen’s face with all the fulness of affection of her glowing nature.  “I shall never be sorry.”

“Bless you for saying that, dear!” said Stephen, solemnly,—­“bless you.  You should never be sorry a moment in your life, if I could help it; and now, dear, I must leave you,” he said, looking uneasily about.  “I ought not to have brought you into this lane.  If people were to see us walking here, they would think it strange.”  And, as they reached the entrance of the lane, his manner suddenly became most ceremonious; and, extending his hand to assist her over a drift of snow, he said in tones unnecessarily loud and formal, “Good-morning, Mrs. Philbrick.  I am glad to have helped you through these drifts.  Good-morning,” and was gone.