Marian went on, and he followed closely.  They proceeded in silence for some time.  Now that she knew that he had not left her a moment alone in the woods, she felt more deeply grieved at having so mortified and offended him.  At last she spoke: 

“Pray, do not be angry with me, dear Thurston.”

“I am not angry that I know of, fair one; and you do me too much honor to care about my mood.  Understand me once for all.  I am not a Dr. Grimshaw, in any phase of that gentleman’s character.  I am neither the tyrant who will persecute you to exact your attention, nor yet the slave who will follow and coax and whine and wheedle for your favor.  In either character I should despise myself too much,” he answered, coolly.

“Thurston, you are deeply displeased, or you would not speak so, and I am very, very sorry,” said Marian in a tremulous voice.

“Do not distress yourself about me, fair saint!  I shall trouble you no more after this evening!”

What did he mean?  What could Thurston mean?  Trouble her no more after this evening!  She did not understand the words, but they went through her bosom like a sword.  She did not reply—­she could not.  She wished to say: 

“Oh, Thurston, if you could read my heart—­how singly it is devoted to you—­how its thoughts by day, and dreams by night are filled with histories and images of what I would be, and do or suffer for you—­of how faithfully I mean to love and serve you in all our coming years—­you would not mistake me, and get angry, because you would know my heart.”  But these words Marian could not have uttered had her life depended on it.

“Go on, Marian, the moor is no safer than the forest; I shall attend you across it.”

And they went on until the light from Old Field Cottage was visible.  Then Marian said: 

“You had better leave me now.  They are sitting up and watching for me.”

“No! go on, the night is very dark.  I must see you to the gate.”

They walked rapidly, and just as they approached the house Marian saw a little figure wandering about on the moor, and which suddenly sprang toward her with an articulate cry of joy!  It was Miriam, who threw herself upon Marian with such earnestness of welcome that she did not notice Thurston, who now raised his hat slightly from his head, with a slight nod, and walked rapidly away.

“Here she is, mother!  Oh! here she is!” cried Miriam, pulling at Marian’s dress and drawing her in the house.

“Oh!  Marian, how anxious you have made us!  Where have you been?” asked Edith, in a tone half of love, half of vexation.

“I have been detained,” said Marian, in a low voice.

The cottage room was very inviting.  The evening was just chilly enough to make the bright little wood fire agreeable.  On the clean hearth before it sat the tea-pot and a covered plate of toast waiting for Marian.  And old Jenny got up and sat out a little stand, covered it with a white napkin, and put the tea and toast, with the addition of a piece of cold chicken and a saucer of preserves, upon it.  And Marian laid off her straw bonnet and muslin scarf and sat down and tried to eat, for affectionate eyes had already noticed the trouble of her countenance, and were watching her now with anxiety.