do justice to herself
and several subjects adapted elegantly and with easy grace to the
occasion. In her hard-working life she had seldom enjoyed a greater
pleasure. For Jeanne-Armande had good blood in her veins; the ends of
her poor old fingers were finely moulded, and there had been a title in
the family long ago in Berri. And when at last monsieur did go, it was
not hastily. The proper preliminaries were spoken, the first little
movement made, and then, later, the slow rising, as if with reluctance,
to the feet. Jeanne-Armande was satisfied, and smiled with honeyed
graciousness, as, after another moment's delay, he bowed and went back
to the place behind, where Anne was sitting.

In truth, Heathcote had not been unwilling to take the hour himself; it
was not necessary to talk--Jeanne-Armande would talk for two. The sight
of Anne had been unexpected; he had not decided what he should say to
her even at Valley City, much less here. After an hour's thought, he
took his place beside her. And remarked upon--the beauty of the day.

Dexter would have said something faultless, and all the more so if he
had wished to disguise his thoughts. But all Heathcote said was, "What a
lovely day!"

"Yes," replied Anne. In her mind surged to and fro one constant
repetition: "Ah, my dear child, do you not see that I can not help
loving you? and that you--love me also?" "Do you not see that I can not
help loving you? and that you--love me also?"

"They improve things, after all," said Heathcote. "The last time I went
over this road the train-boy was a poor little cripple, and therefore
one couldn't quite throw his books on the floor." This was in allusion
to the progress of a brisk youth through the car for the purpose of
depositing upon the patient knees of each passenger a paper-covered
novel, a magazine or two, and a song-book.

--"And that you--love me also," ran Anne's thoughts, as she looked out
on the gliding fields.

There was a silence. Then Heathcote moved nearer.

"Anne," he said, in a low tone, "I was very much disturbed when I found
that you had gone. From the little I was able to learn, I fear you were
harshly treated by that hard old woman who calls herself your aunt."

"Not according to her view of it," said Anne, her face still turned to
the window.

"I wish you would look at me, instead of at those stupid fields," said
Heathcote, after a moment, in an aggrieved tone. "Here I have escaped
from Caryl's under f