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Ada Lethen was silent now, looking across the fields, and Richard Milne could not believe that she had spoken. Those fields, he remembered, while they became dreary and inanimate to him at memory of the many times he had returned to them in vain, these fields barrenly flourishing to the darkening oblivious forests, were her constant sight. He seized her still hand—he who had vowed never to touch her again until the availing outcome of his quest had appeared. He had seen it all many an evening before, and she—she had looked on few other vistas throughout her years. 'What is it holds you, Ada?' he asked in a choking tone, as though she were dying before his eyes.

She did not stir, there was no motion of her body on the bench while her hand warmed in his, and she looked into the approaching night. With a long sigh, a smile, she turned, looked at her hands on the books, at him. At last, quietly:

'I don't know.' She roused herself and smiled almost brightly at him. 'Why are you here?' she asked, as though the question were as reasonable as his had been.