He had come close to her now; in his eagerness he pressed against her, and, earnestness overcoming diffidence, he almost ventured to take her hand in his.  She felt herself inwardly shrink from him with the repulsion that young wild animals feel at times for mere contact.  But outwardly she did not betray it; pity for him kept nature under control.

“I cannot,” she said very gently; “I can never care.”

Then he knew that he had his answer, and there was no appeal; he drew back a pace, and because he never said one word of regret, or reproach, or pleading, her heart smote her.

“I am so sorry!” she said; “I am so sorry.  Oh, why is everything so hard!  Joost, dear Joost, you must not mind; I am not half good enough for you; I’m not, indeed.  Please forget me and—­let me go.”

And with that she turned and fled into the house.

The maidservant in the kitchen was minding the pots; it still wanted some while to dinner time; she did not expect the English miss would come yet, probably not till it was necessary to dish up.  The letter, of course, would have occupied her some time; she had gone out probably to meet the writer—­the maid never for a moment doubted him to be the sharer of yesterday’s escapade.  She heard Julia come in, and judged the meeting to have been a pleasant one, as it had taken time.  She had gone up-stairs now, doubtless to pack her things; that would occupy her till almost dinner time.

It did, for she did not begin directly, but sat on her bed instead, doing nothing for a time.  But when she did begin, she went to work methodically, folding garments with care and packing them neatly; her heart ached for Joost and for the tangle things were in, but that did not prevent her attending to details when she once set to work.  At last she had everything done, even her hat and coat ready to put on when dinner should be over.  Then, after a final glance round to see that she had left nothing but the charred fragments of Rawson-Clew’s letter, she went down-stairs and got the dinner ready.

She did not take her meal with the family, but again had it in the little room.  She brought the dishes to and fro from the kitchen, however, so she passed close to Joost once or twice and saw his grave face and serious blue eyes, as she had seen them every day since her first coming.  And when she looked at him, and saw him, his appearance, his small mannerisms, himself in fact, a voice inside her cried down the aching pity, saying, “I could not do it, I could not do it!” But when she was alone in the little room with the door shut between, the pity grew strong again till it almost welled up in tears.  Poor Joost!  Poor humble, earnest, unselfish Joost!  That he should care so, that he should have set his hopes on her, his star—­a will-o’-wisp of devious ways!  That he should ache for this unworthy cause, and for it shut his eyes to the homely happiness which might have been his!