the grouse when they come driving headlong through
the woods. My men pick up dozens of dead grouse and woodcock along the
fence. If it were a wall they'd go over it. As it is, if I had my way,
I'd restock with Western ruffed-grouse; cut out that pheasantry
altogether, and try to breed our own native game-bird--"

"What! You can't breed ruffed-grouse in captivity!"

"I've done it, sir," said young Hastings modestly.

That night, over the plans, Portlaw voiced his distrust of Hastings and
mourned aloud for Malcourt.

"That infernal Louis," he complained, waving his fat cigar, "hasn't
written one line to me in a week! What the deuce is he doing down there
in town? I won't stand it! The ice is out and Wayward and Cuyp and
Vetchen are coming up for the fishing; and Mrs. Ascott, perhaps, is
coming, and Miss Palliser, and, I hope, Miss Suydam; that makes our
eight for Bridge, you see, with you and me. If Louis were here I'd have
three others--but I can't ask anybody else until I know."

"Perhaps you'll get a telegram when the buckboard returns from Pride's
Fall," said Hamil quietly. He, too, had been waiting for a letter that
had not come. Days were lengthening into weeks since his departure from
the South; and the letter he taught himself to expect had never come.

That she would write sooner or later he had dared believe at first; and
then, as day after day passed, belief faded into hope; and now the
colours of hope were fading into the gray tension of suspense.

He had written her every day, cheerful, amusing letters of current
commonplaces which now made up his life. In them was not one hint of
love--no echo of former intimacy, nothing of sadness, or regret, only a
friendly sequence of messages, of inquiries, of details recounting the
events of the days as they dawned and faded through the silvery promise
of spring in the chill of the Northern hills.

Every morning and evening the fleet little Morgans came tearing in from
Pride's Fall with the big leather mail-bag, which bore Portlaw's
initials in metal, bulging with letters, newspapers, magazines for
Portlaw; and now and then a slim envelope for him from his aunt, or
letters, bearing the Palm Beach post-mark, from contractors on the
Cardross estate, or from his own superintendent. But that was all.

His days were passed afoot in the forested hills, along lonely little
lakes, following dashing trout-brooks or studying the United States
Geological Survey maps whic