wooded shore and into Philip's camp, impelled by gracious concern for
his health, which she insisted upon regarding as impaired, and by
effusive gratitude for such trifling civilities as he had readily
proffered the day before. From there she wandered vaguely back to her
niece's camp fire in a chronic state of worry about Carl.
Discontented, unfailing in her melancholy reminiscences of
cannibalistic snakes and herons. Aunt Agatha plainly had no immediate
intentions of any sort. She had no intention of lingering in camp, she
said, accoutered solely with a hand bag! And she had no intention--no
indeed!--of departing until Diane went back with her to the deserted
Westfall house in St. Augustine, with the green mould and the cobwebs
and cranky spiders and the croquet set in the cellar. Arcadia, if
Diane had not crushed the memory out of her heart, had had a parallel.

Greatly disturbed by her aunt's melancholy state of uncertainty, Diane
one morning watched her set forth to gather lilies in the region of
Philip's camp.

The woodland about was very quiet. Diane lay back against the tree
trunk and closed her eyes, listening to the welcome gypsy voices of
wind and water, to the noisy clapper rails in the island grass at the
end of the lake and to the drone of a motor on the road to the north.
Dimly conscious that Johnny was briskly scrubbing the rude table among
the trees, she fell asleep.

When she awoke, with a nervous start, Johnny was down at the edge of
the lake scouring pans with sand and whistling blithely. Off there to
the west, with Aunt Agatha fussing at his heels, Philip was
good-naturedly gathering the lilies at the water's edge. And some one
was approaching camp from the northern road.

Diane glanced carelessly to the north and sprang to her feet with wild
scarlet in her cheeks.

Ronador was coming through the forest.

His color was a little high, his eyes, beneath the peak of his motoring
cap profoundly apologetic, but he was easier in manner than Diane.

"I'm offending, I know," he said steadily, "and I crave forgiveness,
but muster an indifferent gift of patience as best I may, I can not
wait. It is weeks, you recall--"

Diane flushed brightly.

"Yes," she said. "I know. I have been in the Everglades."

"Your aunt told me." Ronador searched her face suddenly with peculiar
intentness. He might have added, with perfect truth, that to Aunt
Agatha, who had indiscreetly afforded him a glimps