They were much upon the river in these days. It was pleasant to get away from the people, though there were not many left. South Haven was very quiet; the boatmen were laying up their boats preparatory to the winter's painting. The crowds were gone. The steamers had taken back to the great city across the lake regretful loads of summer visitors who could not tarry to see the river in its autumn glory. This was hard for those who went, but very pleasant for those who stayed. They had plenty of room and nothing to mar the tranquil quiet of the place. It seemed to Margaret as they rowed through the shadows of the overhanging boughs that the very spirit of Peace was brooding over it all. She almost forgot that there was such a man as Richard De Jarnette living to cast a shadow over her path. Perhaps she would never cross it again. They always took the same places in the boat--Harcourt rowing, Margaret in the bow, and Bess and Philip in the stern to steer. Mrs. Pennybacker would seldom go. This left her to herself and brought Harcourt face to face with Bess. The girl was wonderfully pretty, with the freshness of a swaying anemone, but he used to wonder sometimes why Margaret never steered now as she did at first. There was a woman's reason--perhaps rather a woman's intuition--back of it. She and he had been sitting one evening on the sands watching the sun go down, while Bess and Philip wandered up the beach looking for lucky stones. It was a gorgeous sunset. Such an orgy of color as flamed in the sky befitted the ceremonious passing of a king. It seemed as if all the pigments Nature's palette held had been laid upon the canvas, and--endowed with life--were there struggling for mastery. Even to the zenith and beyond the heavens were aglow. Nor was it all overhead. A band of gold stretched across the broad expanse from the sun's disk to the lapping waves at their feet, and on each side the shimmering opalescent waters reflected back the changing tints above. The little fruit boat on its daily trip back from Glen Pier was crossing the golden shaft now, and its smoke line stood out against the yellow sky. It gave the needed touch of life to complete the picture. They sat in silence. It was not a time for words. Margaret, susceptible to the influence of color as many persons are to that of music, was watching it with a joy that was almost pain. As they looked the yellow tints merged into the blue of the robin's egg, pinks melted into lilacs and the high lights paled. "Oh, let us go!" she said. "Let us go before it fades! I want to carry it with me forever. I cannot see it put on the dust and ashes of defeat! It always makes me think then of a life from which the coloring has gone out!" He caught her by the hand. He too was stirred to the depths.