ray along the bark, at length resting upon the edge of a dark
disc--the knot-hole in the tree.

Into this her hand is plunged; then drawn out--empty!

At first there is no appearance of disappointment. On the contrary, the
phosphoric gleam dimly disclosing her features, rather shows
satisfaction--still further evinced by the phrase falling from her lips,
with the tone of its utterance. She says, contentedly:--"_He has got
it_!"

But by the same fitful light, soon after is perceived a change--the
slightest expression of chagrin, as she adds, in murmured interrogatory,
"Why hasn't he left an answer?"

Is she sure he has not? No. But she soon will be.

With this determination, she again faces towards the tree; once more
inserts her slender fingers; plunges in her white hand up to the wrist--
to the elbow; gropes the cavity all round; then draws out again, this
time with an exclamation which tells of something more than
disappointment. It is discontent--almost anger. So too a speech
succeeding, thus:--

"He might at least have let me know, whether he was coming or not--a
word to say, I might expect him. He should have been here before me.
It's the hour--past it!"

She is not certain--only guessing. She may be mistaken about the time--
perhaps wronging the man. She draws the watch from her waistbelt, and
holds the dial up. By the moon, just risen, she can read it.
Reflecting the rays, the watch crystal, the gold rings on her fingers,
and the jewels gleam joyfully. But there is no joy on her countenance.
On the contrary, a mixed expression of sadness and chagrin. For the
hands indicate ten minutes after the hour of appointment.

There can be no mistake about the time--she herself fixed it. And none
in the timepiece. Her watch is not a cheap one. No fabric of Germany,
or Geneva; no pedlar's thing from Yankeeland, which as a Southron she
would despise; but an article of solid English manufacture, _sun-sure_,
like the machine-made watches of "Streeter."

In confidence she consults it; saying vexatiously:

"Ten minutes after, and he not here! No answer to my note! He must
have received it: Surely Jule put it into the tree? Who but he could
have taken it out? Oh, this is cruel! He comes not--I shall go home."

The cloak is once more closed, the hood drawn over her head. Still she
lingers--lingers, and listens.

No footstep--no sound to break the solemn stillness--only the chirrup of
tree-cricket