When he had reached his mother’s side she pinched his arm hard.  “Go home with her,” she whispered.

Jerome stared at her.

“Do ye hear what I say?  Go home with her.”

“I can’t,” he almost groaned then.

“Can’t?  Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?  What ails ye?  Lettin’ of a lady like her go home all alone this dark night.”

Elmira ran back into the parlor.  “Oh, Jerome, you ought to go with her, you ought to!” she cried, softly.  “It’s real dark.  She felt it, I know.  She looked real sober.  Run after her, quick, Jerome.”

“When she came to invite you to a party, too!” said Mrs. Edwards, but Jerome did not hear that, he was out of the house and hurrying up the road after Lucina.

She had not gone far.  Jerome did not know what to say when he overtook her, so he said nothing—­he merely walked along by her side.  A great anger at himself, that he had almost let this tender and beautiful creature go out alone in the night and the dark, was over him, but he knew not what to say for excuse.

He wondered, pitifully, if she were so indignant that she did not like him to walk home with her now.  But in a moment Lucina spoke, and her voice, though a little tremulous, was full of the utmost sweetness of kindness.

“I fear you are too tired to walk home with me,” she said, “and I am not afraid to go by myself.”

“No, it is too dark for you to go alone; I am not tired,” replied Jerome, quickly, and almost roughly, to hide the tumult of his heart.

But Lucina did not understand that.  “I am not afraid,” she repeated, in a little, grieved, and anxious way; “please leave me at the turn of the road, I am truly not afraid.”

“No, it is too dark for you to go alone,” said Jerome, hoarsely, again.  It came to him that he should offer her his arm, but he dared not trust his voice for that.  He reached down, caught her hand, and thrust it through his arm, thinking, with a thrill of terror as he did so, that she would draw it away, but she did not.

She leaned so slightly on his arm that it seemed more the inclination of spirit than matter, but still she accepted his support and walked along easily at his side.  So far from her resenting his summary taking of her hand, she was grateful, with the humble gratitude of the primeval woman for the kindness of a master whom she has made wroth.

Lucina had attributed Jerome’s stiffness at sight of her, and his delay in accompanying her home, to her unkind treatment of him.  Now he showed signs of forgiveness, her courage returned.  When they had passed the turn of the road, and were on the main street, she spoke quite sweetly and calmly.

“There is something I have been wanting to say to you,” said she.  “I tried to say it the other night when I was riding and met you, but I did not succeed very well.  What I wanted to say was—­I fear that when you suggested coming to see me, the Sunday night after my party, I did not seem cordial enough, and make you understand that I should be very happy to see you, and that was why you did not come.”