ness of her presence. She gave him her hand; he held it he
knew not how long; probably, for the conventional moment. They found
themselves, each in a chair; at ease, yet not at ease; he studying her
face, furtively, yet eagerly; she turning in her fancy the first
strong impression of how gaunt and haggard were his features, bearing
the traces of recent illness!

"I am glad you came," she began, their eyes meeting once more.

He bowed. "Mr. Culver brought me your message."

"I heard that you--it was reported you were dead."

"I was wounded; that was all, and soon took to the field again."

The suspense that fell between them was oppressive.

"You should have let your friends--know," she said at length.

He looked at her curiously, vivid memories of their last interview
recurring to him. Indecisively she interlaced her fingers, and he,
watching them, wondered why she had sent for him. Suddenly she rose,
walked to the window, and stood, looking out. He, sitting in the dim
light, in a maze of uncertainty, was vaguely conscious of her figure
outlined against the brightness without; of the waving, yellow flowers
of the vines on the veranda.

"It is long since we have met," he said, awkwardly.

She did not answer. Had she heard? Yet he did not resent her silence.
If he had ever felt anger for her it had all vanished now. He was only
conscious of regarding her more attentively, as she still remained,
gazing out into the sunlit garden.

"Much has happened since I saw you," he continued.

She turned; her eyes were moist; her hand trembled a little against
her dress, but she held her head proudly, as she had always done, and
it was the aspect of this weakness set against strength that appealed
swiftly to him, softening his heart so that he longed to spring to her
side.

"Yes, much!" she replied.

Was her voice tremulous, or was it but the thrill of his own heart
which made it seem so?

"You have been here long?" she asked, still holding back what was on
her mind or blindly endeavoring to approach the subject.

"Only since yesterday."

"And you remain some time?"

"I am leaving to-day--for France."

At that a touch of color left her face, or was it that a darkening
shadow fell upon the house and garden, momentarily chastening the
outlook?

"For France?" she repeated.

Her lips quivered. Something seemed to still the beating of his
heart.

"Constance--what is it?" he half-whispered.

She stepped forward