“It is true,” she answered.

Hardyman staggered back as if she had shot him.

“True that you are guilty?” he asked.

“No; I am innocent.  Everybody who knows me believes in my innocence. 
It is true the appearances were against me.  They are against me still.” 
Having said this, she waited, quietly and firmly, for his next words.

He passed his hand over his forehead with a sigh of relief.  “It’s bad enough as it is,” he said, speaking quietly on his side.  “But the remedy for it is plain enough.  Come back to the tent.”

She never moved.  “Why?” she asked.

“Do you suppose I don’t believe in your innocence too?” he answered.  “The one way of setting you right with the world now is for me to make you my wife, in spite of the appearances that point to you.  I’m too fond of you, Isabel, to give you up.  Come back with me, and I will announce our marriage to my friends.”

She took his hand, and kissed it.  “It is generous and good of you,” she said; “but it must not be.”

He took a step nearer to her.  “What do you mean?” he asked.

“It was against my will,” she pursued, “that my aunt concealed the truth from you.  I did wrong to consent to it, I will do wrong no more.  Your mother is right, Alfred.  After what has happened, I am not fit to be your wife until my innocence is proved.  It is not proved yet.”

The angry color began to rise in his face once more.  “Take care,” he said; “I am not in a humor to be trifled with.”

“I am not trifling with you,” she answered, in low, sad tones.

“You really mean what you say?”

“I mean it.”

“Don’t be obstinate, Isabel.  Take time to consider.”

“You are very kind, Alfred.  My duty is plain to me.  I will marry you—­if you still wish it—­when my good name is restored to me.  Not before.”

He laid one hand on her arm, and pointed with the other to the guests in the distance, all leaving the tent on the way to their carriages.

“You r good name will be restored to you,” he said, “on the day when I make you my wife.  The worst enemy you have cannot associate my name with a suspicion of theft.  Remember that and think a little before you decide.  You see those people there.  If you don’t change your mind by the time they have got to the cottage, it’s good-by between us, and good-by forever.  I refuse to wait for you; I refuse to accept a conditional engagement.  Wait, and think.  They’re walking slowly; you have got some minutes more.”

He still held her arm, watching the guests as they gradually receded from view.  It was not until they had all collected in a group outside the cottage door that he spoke himself, or that he permitted Isabel to speak again.

“Now,” he said, “you have had your time to get cool.  Will you take my arm, and join those people with me? or will you say good-by forever?”