Then he sprang up, and went close to her.  “Is it you?” he said, in a sobbing voice.

Lucina looked at him piteously.  She wanted to run away, but her limbs trembled, her little hands twitched in the folds of her muslin skirt.  Jerome saw her trembling, and a soft pink suffusing her fair face, even her sweet throat and her arms, under her thin sleeves.  He knew, with a sudden leap of tenderness, which would have its way in spite of himself, why she was there.  She had wanted to see him so, the dear child, the fair, wonderful lady, that she had come through the heat of this burning afternoon, stealing away alone from all her friends, and even from her own decorous self, for his sake.  He pointed to the clear space under the pine where he had been lying.  “Shall we sit down there—­a minute?” he stammered.

“I—­think I—­had better go,” said Lucina, faintly, with the quick impulse of maidenhood to flee from that which it has sought.

“Only a few minutes—­I have something to tell you.”

They sat down, Lucina with her back against the pine-tree, Jerome at her side.  He opened his mouth as if to speak, but instead it widened into a vacuous smile.  He looked at Lucina and she at him, then he came closer to her and took her in his arms.

Neither of them spoke.  Lucina hid her face on his breast, and he held her so, looking out over her fair head at the wood.  His mouth was shut hard, his eyes were full of fierce intent of combat, as if he expected some enemy forth from the trees to tear his love from him.  For the first time in his life he realized the full might of his own natural self.  He felt as if he could trample upon the needs of the whole world, and the light of his own soul; to gain this first sweet of existence, whose fragrance was in his face.

The strongest realization of his nature hitherto, that of the outreaching wants of others, weakened.  He was filled with the insensate greed of creation for himself.  He held Lucina closer, and bent his head down over hers.  Then she turned her face a little, and their lips met.

Lucina had never since her childhood kissed any man but her father, and as for Jerome, he had held such things with a shame of scorn.  This meant much to both of them, and the shock of such deep meaning caused them to start apart, as if with fear of each other.  Lucina raised her head, and even pushed Jerome away, gently, and he loosened his hold and stood up before her, all pale and trembling.

“You must forgive me—­I—­forgot myself,” he said, with quick gasps for breath, “I won’t—­sit—­down there again.”  Then he went on, speaking fast:  “I have been—­wanting to tell you, but there was no chance.  I could not come to see you any longer.  I could not.  I thought a man could go to see a woman when he was in love with her, and could bear it when the love was all on his side, and there was no—­chance of marriage.  I thought I could bear it if it pleased