ently reopened, seemed to be healing rapidly, under
conditions more conducive than before to perfect recovery. No longer,
indeed, was he pursued by the picture of Rena discovered and
unmasked--this he had definitely banished from the realm of sentiment
to that of reason. The haunting image of Rena loving and beloved, amid
the harmonious surroundings of her brother's home, was not so readily
displaced. Nevertheless, he reached in several weeks a point from which
he could consider her as one thinks of a dear one removed by the hand
of death, or smitten by some incurable ailment of mind or body.
Erelong, he fondly believed, the recovery would be so far complete that
he could consign to the tomb of pleasant memories even the most
thrilling episodes of his ill-starred courtship.

"George," said Mrs. Tryon one morning while her son was in this
cheerful mood, "I'm sending Blanche over to Major McLeod's to do an
errand for me. Would you mind driving her over? The road may be rough
after the storm last night, and Blanche has an idea that no one drives
so well as you."

"Why, yes, mother, I'll be glad to drive Blanche over. I want to see
the major myself."

They were soon bowling along between the pines, behind the handsome
mare that had carried Tryon so well at the Clarence tournament.
Presently he drew up sharply.

"A tree has fallen squarely across the road," he exclaimed. "We shall
have to turn back a little way and go around."

They drove back a quarter of a mile and turned into a by-road leading
to the right through the woods. The solemn silence of the pine forest
is soothing or oppressive, according to one's mood. Beneath the cool
arcade of the tall, overarching trees a deep peace stole over Tryon's
heart. He had put aside indefinitely and forever an unhappy and
impossible love. The pretty and affectionate girl beside him would
make an ideal wife. Of her family and blood he was sure. She was his
mother's choice, and his mother had set her heart upon their marriage.
Why not speak to her now, and thus give himself the best possible
protection against stray flames of love?

"Blanche," he said, looking at her kindly.

"Yes, George?" Her voice was very gentle, and slightly tremulous.
Could she have divined his thought? Love is a great clairvoyant.

"Blanche, dear, I"--

A clatter of voices broke upon the stillness of the forest and
interrupted Tryon's speech. A sudden turn to the left brought the
buggy