is brow.

"Certainly--one must know," very soberly.

Alone together in the little unfinished room under the rafters, the
woman sat down on the corner of the bed, physical discomfort forgotten
in feminine curiosity.

"Those names--where did you get them?" she queried.

"They came to me--at the moment," smiled the man.

"But the cold-blooded horror of them!... Ichabod!"

"The glory has departed."

His companion started, and the smile left the man's face.

"And Camilla?"--slowly.

"Attendant at a sacrifice."

Of a sudden the room became very still.

Ichabod, exploring, discovered a tiny wash basin and a bucket of
water.

"You wished to wash, Camilla?"

The woman did not move.

"They were very kind"--she looked through the window with the tiny
panes: "have we any right to--lie to them?"

"We have not lied."

"Tacitly."

"No. I'm Ichabod Maurice and you're Camilla Maurice. We have not
lied."

"But--"

"The past is dead, dead!"

The woman's face dropped into her hands. Woman ever weeps instinctively
for the dead.

"You are sorry that it is--so?" There was no bitterness in the man's
voice, but he did not look at her, and Camilla misunderstood.

"Sorry!" She came close, and a soft warm face pressed tightly against
his face. "Sorry!" Her arms were around him. "Sorry!" again repeated.
"No! No! No! No, without end! I'm not sorry. I'm Camilla Maurice, the
happiest woman in the world!"

Later they utilized the tin basin and the mirror with a crack across
its centre. Dinner was waiting when they went below.

To a casual observer, Hans had been very idle while they were gone. He
sat absently on the doorstep, watching the grass that grew almost
visibly in the warm spring sun. Occasionally he tapped his forehead
with his finger tips. It helped him to think, and just now he sadly
needed assistance.

"Who were these people, anyway?" he wondered. Not farmers, certainly.
Farmers did not have hands that dented when you pressed them, and
farmers' wives did not lift their skirts daintily from behind. Hans
had been very observant as his visitors came up the muddy street. No,
that was not the way of farmers' wives: they took hold at the sides
with both hands, and splashed right through on their heels.

Hans pulled the yellow tuft on his chin. What could they be, then? Not
summer boarders. It was only early spring; and, besides, although the
little German was an optimist, even he could not imagine any one
sel