erald, and in his scarf was a black
pearl, which hardly seemed characteristic of native wear. Then he went
on:

"But, after all, Mary, they lived good lives and died good deaths,
and--" he hesitated, then said slowly--"and, after all, it's June, and
you and I are young. Can't it always be June for us, dear?"

A bird from a great oak lifted its voice. It was a happy bird and would
tolerate no sadness. It caroled to its mate and to the sky and through
her tears Mary Burton smiled and the gorgeous vividness of her face was
illuminated.

"While we've got each other," she said, "I guess it can be June."

Suddenly she put out her slender, but strong, young hands and caught his
two arms, and stood there looking at him.

"Once, dear," she said, "when I was a very little girl, I used to dream
of going out and seeing all the wonderful things beyond those hills. I
used to dream of having rich men and titled men come to me and make
love. I used to cry because I thought I was ugly--and then I met you by
the roadside--and you were my fairy prince--but I didn't guess you were
going to be my own--for always."

Jefferson Edwardes smiled and into his eyes came a fervent glow.

"I can see you now," he said, "as you stood that first day I ever saw
you, when I told you that your beauty would be the beauty of
gorgeousness--when I warned you that the only thing you need ever fear
was--the loss of your simplicity. The woods were flaming at your back,
but your loveliness outblazed their color, and then you were a thin
little girl--a trifle chippendale in plan."

In spite of her sadness a smile came to her lips.

"And you were fighting your fight for life--with only an even chance.
Suppose--" she shuddered--"suppose you had lost it!"

"I had too much to live for," he assured her. "I couldn't lose it. You
and your hills gave me life and a dream, and you and your hills laid
their claim upon me. How could I lose?"

"I've lain awake at night," said Mary Burton, as her long lashes drooped
with the confession of her heart. "I've lain awake at night wondering
if--now that you don't have to stay--if your own world won't call you
back--away from me. I've thought of all it holds for you--and how little
these mountains hold. I've wondered if your heart didn't ache for
foreign lands and wonderful cities--and all those things. If it does,
dear--" she paused and said very seriously--"you mustn't let me keep you
here. I belong here, but you--" The