e betrayed in no way a sign
of grief--of suspense or of anxiety. A few minutes ago he had heard her
singing. He could almost believe that her lips might break into song again
as she stood there.

From that moment until the sun sank behind the mountains and gray shadows
began to creep in where the light had been, there was no other reference to
the things that had happened or the things that had been said since
Joanne's arrival. For the first time in years John Aldous completely forgot
his work. He was lost in Joanne. With the tremendous reaction that was
working out in him she became more and more wonderful to him with each
breath that he drew. He made no effort to control the change that was
sweeping through him. His one effort was to keep it from being too apparent
to her.

The way in which Joanne had taken his invitation was as delightful as it
was new to him. She had become both guest and hostess. With her lovely arms
bared halfway to the shoulders she rolled out a batch of biscuits. "Hot
biscuits go so well with marmalade," she told him. He built a fire. Beyond
that, and bringing in the water, she gave him to understand that his duties
were at an end, and that he could smoke while she prepared the supper. With
the beginning of dusk he closed the cabin door that he might have an excuse
for lighting the big hanging lamp a little earlier. He had imagined how its
warm glow would flood down upon the thick soft coils of her shining hair.

Every fibre in him throbbed with a keen and exquisite satisfaction as he
sat down opposite her. During the meal he looked into the quiet, velvety
blue of her eyes a hundred times. He found it a delightful sensation to
talk to her and look into those eyes at the same time. He told her more
about himself than he had ever told another soul. It was she who spoke
first of the manuscript upon which he was working. He had spoken of certain
adventures that had led up to the writing of one of his books.

"And this last book you are writing, which you call 'Mothers,'" she said.
"Is it to be like 'Fair Play?'"

"It was to have been the last of the trilogy. But it won't be now,
Ladygray. I've changed my mind."

"But it is so nearly finished, you say?"

"I would have completed it this week. I was rushing it to an end at fever
heat when--you came."

He saw the troubled look in her eyes, and hastened to add:

"Let us not talk about that manuscript, Ladygray. Some day I will let you
read it,