a handful of letters and let them fall through his
fingers. He had all the sensations of a man who is awakened from a dream
of Paradise to face the dull tortures of a dreary and eventless life.
His eyes were set in a fixed state. An undernote of despair was in his
tone.

"You know we arranged it yesterday," she continued eagerly, "and if you
are going to send for Mr. Aynesworth, you needn't bother about these
letters yourself, need you?"

He turned and regarded her deliberately. Her forehead was wrinkled a
little with disappointment, her brown eyes were filled with the soft
light of confident appeal. Tall and elegantly slim, there was yet
something in the graceful lines of her figure which reminded him
forcibly that the days of her womanhood had indeed arrived.

She wore a plain white cambric dress and a simple, but much beflowered
hat; the smaller details of her toilet all indicated the correct taste
and instinctive coquetry of her French descent. And she was beautiful!
Wingrave regarded her critically and realized, perhaps for the first
time, how beautiful. Her eyes were large and clear, and her eyebrows
delicately defined. Her mouth, with its slightly humorous curl, was a
little large, but wholly delightful. The sun of the last few weeks had
given to her skin a faint, but most becoming, duskiness. Under his
close scrutiny, a flush of color stole into her cheeks. She laughed not
altogether naturally.

"You look at me," she said, "as though I were someone strange!"

"I was looking," he answered, "for the child, the little black-frocked
child, you know, with the hair down her back, and the tearful eyes. I
don't think I realized that she had vanished so completely."

"Not more completely," she declared gaily, "than the gloomy gentleman
who frowned upon my existence and resented even my gratitude. Although,"
she added, leaning a little towards him, "I am very much afraid that
I see some signs of a relapse today. Don't bother about those horrid
letters. Let me tell Mrs. Tresfarwin to pack us up some lunch, and take
me to Hanging Tor, please!"

Wingrave laughed a little unsteadily as he rose to his feet. One day
more, then! Why not? The end would be soon enough!...

Sooner, perhaps, than even he imagined, for that night Aynesworth came,
pale and travel-stained, with all the volcanic evidences of a great
passion blazing in his eyes, quivering in his tone. The day had passed
to Wingrave as a dream, more beautiful eve