In crossing this she kept close to the wall, slinking along rapidly, for she felt guilty; this field was all waving with brown heads of millet which should not have been trampled.
She got to the road and nobody had seen her.

She crossed it, entered a rutty cart-path, and was in the Edwards' woodland.
For the first time in her life, Lucina Merritt was doing something which she acknowledged to herself to be distinctly unmaidenly.

She had come to this wood because she had heard Jerome say that he often strolled here of a Sunday afternoon.

Her previous little schemes for meeting him had been innocent to her own understanding, but now she had tasted the fruit of knowledge of her own heart.
She felt fairly sick with shame at what she was doing, she blushed to her own thoughts, but she had a helpless impulse as before, some goading spur in her own nature which she could not withstand.
She hurried softly down the cart-path between the trees, then suddenly stood still, for under a great pine-tree on the right lay Jerome.

His hat was off, one arm was thrown over his head, his face was flushed with heat and slumber.