“O—­h!” said Jerome, with a long-drawn breath of wonder and despair.  He had been thinking that he had offended her beyond forgiveness and of his own choice, and she, with her sweet humility, was twice suing him for pardon.

“I am very sorry,” Lucina said, softly.

“That was not the reason why I did not,” Jerome gasped.

“Then you were not hurt?”

“No; I—­thought you spoke as if you would like to have me come—­”

“Perhaps you were ill,” Lucina said, hesitatingly.

“No, I was not.  I did not—­”

“Oh, it was not because you did not want to come!” Lucina cried out, quickly, and yet with exceeding gentleness and sad wonder, that he should force such a suspicion upon her.

“No, it was not.  I—­wanted to come more than—­I wanted to come, but—­I did not think it—­best.”  Jerome said the last so defiantly that poor Lucina started.

“But it was because of nothing I had said, and it was not because you did not want to?” she said, piteously.

“No,” said Jerome.  Then he said, again, as if he found strength in the repetition.  “I did not think it best.”

“I thought you were coming that night,” Lucina said, with scarcely the faintest touch of reproach but with more of wonder.  Why should he not have thought it best?

“I am sorry,” said Jerome.  “I wanted to tell you, but I had no reason but that to give, and I—­thought you might not understand.”

Lucina made no reply.  The path narrowed just there and gave her an excuse for quitting Jerome’s arm.  She did so with a gentle murmur of explanation, for she could do nothing abruptly, then went on before him swiftly.  Her white shawl hung from her head to her waist in sharp slants.  She moved through the dusk with the evanescent flit of a white moth.

“Of course,” stammered Jerome, painfully and boyishly, “I—­knew—­you would not care if—­I did not come.  It was not as if—­I had thought you—­would.”

Lucina said nothing to that either.  Jerome thought miserably that she did not hear, or, hearing, agreed with what he said.

Soon, however, Lucina spoke, without turning her head.  “I can understand,” said she, with the gentlest and yet the most complete dignity, for she spoke from her goodness of heart, “that a person has often to do what he thinks best, and not explain it to any other person, because it is between him and his own conscience.  I am quite sure that you had some very good reason for not coming to see me that Sunday night, and you need not tell me what it was.  I am very glad that you did not, as I feared, stay away because I had not treated you with courtesy.  Now, we will say no more about it.”  With that, the path being a little wider, she came to his side again, and looked up in his face with the most innocent friendliness and forgiveness in hers.

Jerome could have gone down at her feet and worshipped her.