en. In the field beside a
runlet grew masses of purple ironweed. She broke a stately piece, half
as tall as herself, and with it in her hand left the autumn-coloured
field and entered the little wood where the cedars grew dark and close,
with the bare, red earth beneath. At the end of the aisle of trees could
be seen the bright-hued garden and a fraction of blue heaven. Holding
the branch of ironweed before her, Jacqueline passed through the wood
toward the light of sky and flowers, and came at the edge of the open
space upon a large old tree, twisted like one of those which Dante saw.
As she stepped beneath the dark and spreading boughs a man, leaving the
sunlit flower garden for the shadow of the cedars, met her face to face.
"You!" he cried, and stopped short.

The branch of ironweed dropped from her hand. "I did not know that you
were at Fontenoy. I have not seen you this long while--except for that
moment the other night. Is it not--is it not the loveliest day?"

"I came from the library into the flower garden and on to this wood
because I wished to think, to be alone, to gain composure before I
returned to the house--and you front me like a spectre in the dimness!
Once before, I entered this wood from the flower garden--and it was
dark, dark as it is to-day, though the weather was June. Nor do I,
either, count the other night when I came to Roselands as Colonel
Churchill's messenger. It has been long, indeed, since we truly met."

"You are not well, Mr. Cary!"

"I am--I am," said Cary. "Give me a moment."

He rested his arm against the red trunk of the cedar and covered his
eyes with his hand. Jacqueline stood, looking not at him but at the
coloured round of garden. Her heart was fluttering, she knew not why.
The moment that he asked went by and, dropping his arm, he turned upon
her a face that he had not yet schooled to calmness.

"The evening of the nineteenth of February," he said. "That was the last
time we really met. Do you remember?"

"Yes, I remember. It was the day of the deep snow."

Cary regarded her mutely; then, "Yes, that was the important thing. We
all remember it because of the snow. You were learning a new song that
you promised to sing to me when I came again. But I never heard it--I
never came again."

"I know. Why was that?"

"Do you ask?" he cried, and there was pain and anger in his voice. "I
thought it not of you."

The crimson surged over Jacqueline's face and throat. She bent