an equal
knowledge of such things; they were either professional artists, or
somehow less than manly.

She was familiar with the rooms of St. George's Hall, and knew to a
nicety what furniture and pictures and hangings were best suited to the
suggestions inherent in the deep stone windows, the small, leaded
panes, the massive fireplaces. Of these things she saw no examples;
but on the large desk, littered with a profusion of books and pipes and
papers, her glance was arrested by the sight of several candlesticks of
various sizes and of beautiful workmanship. She was struck by this as
by a psychological singularity, and counted the number--four on the
table and three others on the mantel, seven in all, the number
freighted with so many religious associations. She wondered whether
there were some astronomical association also. Were there seven stars
in the Pleiades?

She went to the window and stood looking out at the shadow of the Hall,
creeping more rapidly now toward the edge of the plateau. The austere
gloom of the scene, the strange, red light of the sunset striking
across the eastern valley to the vague blue hills on the horizon, were
unutterably sad, and her desolate mood returned, shot through by fear
as the time of his arrival became a matter of moments. What was she to
say to him? What would he think? Was there yet time to change her
mind and make her escape?

Suddenly the voices of students were heard below and the crunching of
their steps along the path, She had lingered too long and must abide
the issue, for presently she heard him coming up the stairs. Then she
thought that it he was buoyant, if he entered light-heartedly, she
would leave without a word, cured of her fancy that he loved her. The
door opened slowly, and she remained motionless where she stood, her
hands resting on the cold stone window-ledge, her eyes fixed intently
on the distant hills. But all her senses were conscious of him. She
felt that she could see him, that he too was sad, that she heard him
sigh, though the only sound in the room during his moment of speechless
surprise was the purring of the flames in the fireplace.

"Miss Wycliffe," he ventured doubtfully.

Remembering his experience in the mist, he had almost believed that he
was again the victim of an hallucination, but her swift turning, her
illuminating smile, were very different from that ghostly vanishing.

"How extraordinary you will think it of me, Mr.