in his eyes
at that very moment. All the trees were tinged with it, the rocks,
even the pools in the brook, around the edges especially--and they had
always seemed so cool, so very cool.

He leaped down the rocks and before he realized it had crawled under
the broken railing and was in the forest beyond. He did not run now
but walked quickly and with the utmost care over fallen tree-trunks
and rocks, avoiding the paths and seeking the deep woods, still moving
ever nearer to his goal. He made a wide detour around the Laidlaws'
place and went half a mile out of his way to avoid the sight of some
farmers working in an open field. As he neared Marcia's land he grew
more crafty, even crawling upon his hands and knees across a clearing
where there was little cover. He had no notion as yet of what he was
going to do when he got there except that he hoped to find the girl
and Lloyd together.

He saw the house at last and the garden, from a distance. The house
had a red roof. Red again! It glared horribly in the afternoon
sunlight. He turned his head so that he might not look at it and moved
stealthily around a stone wall toward the woods beyond the
garden--Marcia's woods, pine woods they were, their floor carpeted
with brown needles where he and she had used to go and walk of an
afternoon to the rocks by Sweetwater Spring, the source of the stream,
they said, which Jerry had named the "blushful Hippocrene," the
fountain of the Muses who met there to do Marcia, their goddess,
honor.

Marcia, _his_ goddess. And Chan Lloyd! _Would_ they be there? He hoped
so. The whole success of his venture seemed to depend upon seeing them
together. It was her favorite spot. She had led Jerry to believe that
the crevice among the rocks by the spring, a natural throne sculptured
by nature, was his, his only, and that he was her king. That had
always seemed a very beautiful thought to Jerry. She used to sit at
his feet, her arms upon his knees, look up at him and tell him of his
dominion over her and all the world; her "fighting-god" he had once
been, and then again her Pan, and she a dryad or an oread.

Jerry crept nearer, stealthily. He had learned the craft of the woods
years ago, and made no sound. He stalked that grove with the keenness
of a deerslayer, moving around through the undergrowth until he was
quite near the rocks. He could hear no voices as yet, but something
told him that they must be there. It was a very secluded spot; it