"You have been ill," I cry. "That was why you stayed so long away and never wrote?"
"No," he says slowly, "not ill. We cannot talk here. Let us go to the old place."
But as we go I look at him again and again, and see plainly enough that he is ill. I should scarcely know him again for the man who went away from me a fortnight ago. As we cross the field I slip and stumble on the uneven, snow-covered ground, and hold out my hands to Paul to help me, but he does not seem to heed me; he walks forward alone.
In our snow parlour I sit down on the old log of wood; but he does not—he stretches himself out at my feet and lays his head against my shoulder. His face is hidden; he does not move, or stir, or speak. Is he only weary, or in actual bodily pain? I have so much to tell him, he has so much to tell me, I think that if I were not so perfectly happy merely knowing that he is with me I should be piqued, and a little angry. I never noticed until to-day that Paul's hair is streaked with grey—I always thought it was raven black; and it is full early for the colour to change. He is but little past thirty. I pull the short locks out between my fingers, and he shivers under my touch. Yes, he is ill, and it is madness for him to be out here in the cold.
"Paul!" I say, stooping over him, "you must not stay out here; come with me to the house."
He lifts his eyes to my face, painfully, giddily; then his head falls heavily back, and he clasps his arms tighter about me.
"Can you not wait a little while?" he says, and his voice is strange and harsh.
"Yes, I can wait," I say gently, looking out at the wide stretching sweep of white, just as I looked at it a few days ago, when I came hither alone; only then my heart was heavy as lead, and now it beats under the head of my lover.
