words came in a
harsher staccato--"I dared not."

"I'll be all right in a few moments," she answered, resting on a fallen
log, "and then--"

"No, no," he said in a tone of finality. "After all, there is small
likelihood they'll find us now. Besides, it will soon be too dark to go
on. Fortunately, the night is warm, and I've got this cloak for you."

"And for yourself?" Her voice was very low and quiet, or perhaps it
seemed so because here, in the little recess in the great wood, the hush
was most pronounced.

"Me?" he laughed. "You seem to forget I'm one of the happy brotherhood
that just drop down anywhere. Shouldn't know what to do with a silk
eiderdown if I had one."

His gaiety sounded rather forced. She was silent and the quietude
seemed oppressive. The girl leaned back to a great tree trunk and looked
up. The sky wore an ocher hue against which the branches quivered in
zigzags of blackness. Mr. Heatherbloom moved apart to watch, but still
he neither saw nor heard sign of any one drawing near. The sad ocher
merged into a somber blue; the stars came out, one by one, then in
shoals. She could hardly see him now, so fast had the tropical night
descended, but she heard his step, returning.

"Quite certain there's no danger," he reassured her. "Went back a way."

"Thank you," she said. And added: "For all."

"Betty." The stars twinkled madly. Pulsating waves seemed to vibrate in
the air. A moment he continued to stare into the darkness, then again
turned. He had not seen how the girl's hand had suddenly closed, and her
slender form had swayed. As restlessly he resumed his sentinel's duty,
Sonia Turgeinov's last words once more recurred to him. How often had
he thought of them that long afternoon, and wondered who was the one the
young girl would now shortly be free to turn to? There had been many in
the past who had sought her favor. Perhaps the unknown was one of these;
or, more likely, one of the newer many that had arisen, no doubt, since,
in the gayer larger world of New York, or the continent. Betty
Dalrymple's manner at the Russian woman's words indicated that the
latter had--how Mr. Heatherbloom could not imagine--hit upon a great
kernel of truth. Again, in fancy, he saw on her cheek that swift flush
of warm blood. Lucky, thrice lucky, the man who had caused it! Softly
Mr. Heatherbloom moved nearer.

Was she sleeping? He, himself, felt too fagged to sleep. Like Psyche, in
the glade, she was covered al