ream. He had found
the Tusks. His High-Tower Princess was waiting--his 'Star far-seen.'

Again, as on that day--he came unexpectedly in view of their tree:
and--wonder of wonders (or was it the most natural thing on earth?),
there was Tara herself, approaching it by another path that linked the
wood with the grounds of the black-and-white house, which was part of
the estate.

Instantly he stepped back a pace and stood still, that he might realise
her before she became aware of him:--her remembered loveliness, her new
dearness.

Loveliness was the quintessence of her. With his innate feeling for
words, he had never--even accidentally--applied it to Rose. Had she,
too, felt impatient? Was she coming over to breakfast for a 'surprise'?

At this distance, she looked not a day older than on that critical
occasion, when he had realised her for the first time; only more
fragile--a shade too fragile. It hurt him. He felt responsible. And
again, to-day--very clever of her--she was wearing a delphinium blue
frock; a shady hat that drooped half over her face. No pink rose,
however--and he was thankful. Roses had still a too baleful association.
He doubted if he could ever tolerate a Marechal Niel again--as much on
account of Lance, as on account of the other.

Tara was wearing his flower--sweet-peas, palest pink and lavender. And,
at sight of her, every shred of doubt seemed burnt up in the clear flame
of his love for her:--no heady confusion of heart and senses, but a
rarefied intensity of both, touched with a coal from the altar of
creative life. The knowledge was like a light hand reining in his
impatience. Poet, no less than lover, he wanted to go slowly through the
golden mist....

But the moment he stirred, she heard him; saw him....

No imperious gesture, as before; but a lightning gleam of recognition,
of welcome and--something more----?

He hurried now....

Next instant, they were together, hands locked, eyes deep in eyes. The
surface sense of strangeness between them, the undersense of intimate
nearness--thrilling as it was--made speech astonishingly difficult.

"Tara," he said, just above his breath.

Her sensitive lips parted, trembled--and closed again.

"_Tara!_" he repeated, dizzily incredulous, where a moment earlier he
had been arrogantly certain. "_Is_ it true ... what your eyes are
telling me? Can you forgive ... my madness out there? Half across the
world you called to me; and I've come home to _