were not always satisfying. They brought such
meager news of that which lay so near her heart! Sophie kept
persistently away from topics which might be disturbing; Bettina's
girlish epistles really told nothing--and Anthony wrote not at all.

Yet such scraps as she could glean formed the excitement of Diana's day,
and always she had a vague and formless hope--a hope for which she
reproached herself. Always she hoped for a letter from Anthony.

She knew that he ought not to write. She knew that if he did write she
would not answer--but the longing of her heart would not be stilled.

As far as possible she forced her mind to thoughts of the future, and it
was thus she had evolved the plan which she had written to Sophie. It
was the only way in which her life could be linked with Anthony's; they
would thus share in a work which might continue in interest to the end
of their days.

There were times, however, when all of her optimism, all of her
philosophy failed, and when her whole nature cried out for reality--not
for dreams.

It was on one of these days of depression that she left behind her the
hotel piazza with its chattering crowd, and drifted somewhat languidly
across the lawn, past the tennis courts, and out into the mountain path.

In her modish frock of gray linen, with a parasol of leaf green, she
seemed to merge gradually into the grayness and greenness of the forest
beyond. She might have been a dryad returning to her tree, or as an
artist in the group on the porch remarked, "a nymph in a Corot setting."

How still it was in the forest! Even the birds seemed to respect the
silences, and slipped from branch to branch like shadows. The squirrels,
flattened heads downward against gray tree trunks, whisked up and out of
sight as the intruder advanced. A strayed butterfly went by in a
wavering flight, seeking the sunshine and the flowers of the open
fields.

Diana loved the forest, but more than all she loved the sea. She missed
the wild music of the waves and wind. The hills seemed to shut her in;
she wanted the wide spaces, the limitless expanse of blue--she wanted
the harbor with its many lights.

Yet if Anthony married Betty it would be years before she would dare go
back. His work was there, and he must stay; she would be exiled from the
place she loved.

Her steps quickened as if she would fly from the thought. She passed
again beyond the edge of the arching trees, and came upon a winding
road. Its