Anne hurried over to a bench in the garden to better arrange her feelings. She did not doubt that Captain Wentworth had recognised the contents of the box. What must he think of her, holding on to mementos of the past, unable to move on as he had? He must despise her weakness.

She was startled to hear those familiar steps again, each one bringing her fresh agitation. Why had he followed her? She stood up and walked in the opposite direction of the house.

"Miss Elliot!"

She continued forward, quickening her pace. She could not bear to see the look of contempt that was surely on his face.

"Miss Elliot!"

And then after a moment - "Anne!"

She stopped, quite struck by the sound of his voice addressing her by her Christian name alone. She had not heard it in almost eight years, except in distant memories and tormented dreams.

She felt the need to respond. She turned around slowly, and looking not exactly at him, she said, "Please accept my apologies for the intrusion, Captain Wentworth. Mrs. Croft had given me permission to retrieve my belongings, and she assured me that no one would be home this morning. If I had known -"

"You kept my letters," he said.

Anne paused, surprised by the sudden turn in conversation. She felt her cheeks reddening further and fixed her eyes on the ground. She was desperate to get away, and yet he seemed unwilling to let her go.

"I beg your pardon, Captain, I must take leave. Your indifference towards me is perfectly clear."

She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued:

"Had you wished ever to speak to me again, you need not have waited till this time." Her voice faltered, and she regretted saying so much.

"You are right," he said, with a gentleness that she had not expected. "I too have been thinking over the past. Perhaps there has not been one person more my enemy than my own self. I was angry and resentful. I shut my eyes, and would not understand you, or do you justice. I meant to forget you, and believed it to be done."

Anne was suddenly struck by an idea which made her anxious to be encouraging. She looked at him in earnest. "There is much that I regret. I should not have been guided - misguided - by others. I think very differently from what I was made to think at nineteen."

He drew a little nearer to her, with an expression which had something more than penetration in it, something softer. Her countenance did not discourage. It was a silent, but a very powerful dialogue; on his side, supplication, on her's acceptance.

Still a little nearer, he said, "My affections and wishes from eight years ago are unchanged. Is it possible that you might retain the precious feelings of the past, as I do?"

He had said it. She trembled as she replied, "My heart has always - and will always - belong to you."

An expression of joy, gratitude and heartfelt delight diffused over his face. "Anne, my own, dear Anne! I have loved none but you."

Somersetshire could scarcely contain any other two beings at once so rationally and so rapturously happy as during that morning occupied the grounds of Kellynch Hall. All suspense and heartache were over. They were re-united at last.