to him by the hand he held, and, putting his arm
under her neck, bent her head back on the moss. Her stretched throat
was marked by two encircling lines; he traced them with his finger. She
lay and smiled at him. But her eyes remained shaded: they were
meditative, and seemed to be considering him, a little deliberately.

"Tell me, Louise," he said suddenly; "why do you look at me like that?
It's not the first time--I've seen it before. And then, I can't help
thinking there's some mistake--that after all you don't really care for
me. It is so--so critical."

"You are curious to-day, Maurice."

"Yes. There's so much I want to know, and you tell me nothing. It is I
who talk and talk--till you must be tired of hearing me."

"No, I like to listen best. And I have nothing to say."

"Nothing? Really nothing?"

"Only that I'm glad to be here--that I am happy."

He kissed her on the throat, the eyes and the lips; kissed her, until,
under his touch, that vague, elusive influence began to emanate from
her, which, he was aware, might some day overpower him, and drag him
down. They were quite alone, shut in by high trees; no one would find
them, or disturb them. And it was just this mysterious power in her
that his nerves had dreamed of waking: yet now, some inexplicable
instinct made him hesitate, and forbear. He drew his arm from under her
head, and rose to his feet, where he stood looking down at her. She lay
just as he had left her, and he felt unaccountably impatient.

"There it is again!" he cried. "You are looking at me just as you did
before."

Louise passed her hand over her eyes, and sat up. "Why, Maurice, what
do you mean? It was nothing--only something I was trying to understand."

But what it was that she did not understand, he could not get her to
tell him.

A fortnight passed. One morning, when a soft south breeze was in
motion, Maurice reminded her with an air of playful severity, that, so
far, they had not learned to know even their nearer surroundings; while
of all the romantic explorings in the pretty Muldental, which he had
had in view for them, not one had been undertaken. Louise was not fond
of walking in the country; she tired easily, and was always content to
bask in the sun and be still. But she did not attempt to oppose his
wish; she put on her hat, and was ready to start.

His love of movement reasserted itself. They went down the
driving-road, and out upon the long, ribbon-like roads that z