lovely, slender arms gleamed between
the soft bands of fur. Behind her, on her writing-table, was an old
Algerian water-bottle of dull copper, and in it a branch of magnolia.
The scarlet seed-cones gleamed like gems or coals of fire among the
glossy black-green foliage. Her face as it turned to him against this
background of leaves and jewelled seed-cones was something for a lover
to remember in old age.... He got a desperate grip of himself and went
forward. As she lifted her hand to his, the wide sleeve parted, as he
had known that it would do, and the amber-white arm shone bare for his
worship.... Without speaking, she smiled a welcome, but the firelight
showed him tears caught on her under-lids. Mammy Nan's surmise was
correct. Sophy had been "moping" a little of late. When Charlotte and
the Judge had left for some festivity at the University two days ago,
her mood had been quite tranquil. But she had been rather overworking,
and these two days, all alone in the empty house, had set her brooding.
It was nearly nine o'clock. The wind thrummed in deep, minor chords
between the double doors that shut her study from the greenhouse in the
wing. A hound, hunting alone by moonlight, bayed from the distance. Dhu
cocked his ears--the supple tips hung flickering an instant, then
drooped again. The collie resumed his wide, gold-eyed, tranced stare
into the fire. He, too, seemed overwhelmed by melancholy. Sophy drew him
to her at last, and leaned her cheek against his silky black shoulder
which smelt like warm, clean straw. His sire was not a kennel dog, but
tended sheep in the Highlands. Now when Sophy put her head against his
shoulder, he leaned down his head on hers much as a person might have
done.

With her arms around him and her eyes on the fire, she listened to the
beating of his heart. The warm, red mystery of hearts--even a dog's
heart--awed her. What was this love that even dogs could feel, and why
was it so immeasurably sad? The feeling of desolation grew and grew....
She was so horribly lonely. Even the close, simple contact with her
collie did not comfort her. This love without comprehension, that he
gave her, was only another sadness. Nothing lasted. No one remained the
same. There was Morris Loring.... At least he had seemed to have a real
fondness for her, after he had conquered his first boyish, fantastic
frenzy. Yet already he, too, had changed, forgotten. Just a nice,
beautiful boy ... but she had been fond