Then she too rose, and helplessly, like someone impelled by a will not her own, she silently held out to him two white, trembling hands.
'Catherine--my angel--my wife!' There was something in the pale, virginal grace of look and form which kept his young passion in awe.

But he bent his head again over those yielded hands, kissing them with dizzy, unspeakable joy.
* * * * * * * * * * * About twenty minutes later Catherine and Robert, having hurried back with all speed from the top of Shanmoss, reached the farmhouse door.
She knocked.

No one answered.

She tried the lock; it yielded, and they entered.

No one in the kitchen.