ould not have read her gestures. "I was telling a story."

"You ran from him--why?" His questioning was cruel that he might in the
end be kind.

"The child runs from its shadow, the bird from its nest, the fish jumps
from the water--that is nothing." She had recovered somewhat.

But he: "The shadow follows the child, the bird comes back to its nest,
the fish cannot live beyond the water. But it is sad when the child, in
running, rushes into darkness, and loses its shadow; when the nest falls
from the tree; and the hawk catches the happy fish.... Hawley saw you
also."

Hawley, like Ida, was deaf and dumb. He lived over the mountains, but
came often. It had been understood that, one day, she should marry him.
It seemed fitting. She had said neither yes nor no. And now?

A quick tremor of trouble trailed over her face, then it became very
still. Her eyes were bent upon the ground steadily. Presently a bird
hopped near, its head coquetting at her. She ran her hand gently along
the grass towards it. The bird tripped on it. She lifted it to her
chin, at which it pecked tenderly. Pierre watched her keenly-admiring,
pitying. He wished to serve her. At last, with a kiss upon its head, she
gave it a light toss into the air, and it soared, lark-like, straight
up, and hanging over her head, sang the day into the evening. Her eyes
followed it. She could feel that it was singing. She smiled and lifted
a finger lightly towards it. Then she spelled to Pierre this: "It is
singing to me. We imperfect things love each other."

"And what about loving Hawley, then"? Pierre persisted. She did not
reply, but a strange look came upon her, and in the pause Hilton
came from the house and stood beside them. At this, Pierre lighted a
cigarette, and with a good-natured nod to Hilton, walked away.

Hilton stooped over her, pale and eager. "Ida," he gestured, "will you
answer me now? Will you be my wife?"

She drew herself together with a little shiver. "No," was her steady
reply. She ruled her face into stillness, so that it showed nothing of
what she felt. She came to her feet wearily, and drawing down a cool
flowering branch of chestnut, pressed it to her cheek. "You do not love
me"? he asked nervously.

"I am going to marry Luke Hawley," was her slow answer. She spelled the
words. She used no gesture to that. The fact looked terribly hard and
inflexible so. Hilton was not a vain man, and he believed he was not
loved. His heart crowded t