ghts of a man who had loved
passionately, but whose idol had suddenly been shattered.

Again she spoke, remarking that it was time she turned back, for already
they were at the opposite end of the wood, with a beautiful panorama of
valley and winding river spread before them. But he only answered a
trifle abruptly, and, acting upon her suggestion, turned and retraced
his steps in silence.

At last, as though suddenly rousing himself, he turned to her, and said
in an apologetic tone: "I fear, Enid, I've treated you rather--well,
rather uncouthly. I apologise. I was thinking of something else--a
somewhat serious matter."

"I knew you were," she laughed, affecting to treat the matter lightly.
"You scarcely replied to me."

"Forgive me, won't you?" he asked, smiling again in his old way.

"Of course," she said. "But--but is the matter very serious? Does it
concern yourself?"

"Yes, Enid, it does," he answered.

And still she walked on, her eyes cast down, much puzzled.

Two woodmen passed on their way home from work, and raised their caps
politely, while Walter acknowledged their salutation in French.

"I shall probably leave here to-morrow," her companion said as they
walked back to the high road. "I am not yet certain until I receive my
letters to-night."

"You are now going back to your village inn, I suppose," she laughed
cheerfully.

"Yes," he said. "My host is an interesting old countryman, and has told
me quite a lot about the war. He was wounded when the Germans shelled
Verdun. He has told me that he knows Paul Le Pontois, for his son Jean is
his servant."

"Why, Mr. Fetherston, you are really ubiquitous," cried the girl in
confusion. "Why have you been watching us like this?"

"Merely because I wished to see you, as I've already explained," was his
reply. "I wanted to ask you those questions which I have put to you this
afternoon."

"About poor Harry?" she remarked in a hoarse, low voice. "But you begged
me to reply to you in my own interests--why?"

"Because I wished to know the real truth."

"Well, I've told you the truth," she said with just the slightest tinge
of defiance in her voice.

For a moment he did not speak. He had halted; his grave eyes were fixed
upon her.

"Have you told me the whole truth--all that you know, Enid?" he asked
very quietly a moment later.

"What more should I know?" she protested after a second's hesitation.

"How can I tell?" he asked quickly. "I only ask y