She did not wait for an answer to her morbid questions. They moved on up a path between hedges of sweet peas going to seed, and blackberry-vines covered with knots of fruit dried in their own juices. A wall of gigantic Southern cane hid the boundary fence, and above it the night-black pines of the forest towered, their breezy monotone answering the roar of the hundred stamps below the hill. A few young pines stood apart on a knoll, a later extension of the garden, ungraded and covered with pine-needles. In the hollow places native shrubs, surprised by irrigation, had made an unwonted summer's growth. Here, in the blanching moon, stood a tent with both flaps thrown back. A wind of coolness drew across the hill; it lifted one of the tent-curtains mysteriously; its touch was sad and searching. Mrs. Thorne put back the canvas and stepped inside. She saw a folding camp-cot stripped of bedding, a dresser with half-open drawers that disclosed emptiness, a dusty book-rack standing on the floor. The little mirror on the tent-pole, hung too high for her own reflection, held a darkling picture of a pine-bough against a patch of stars. She sat on the edge of the cot and picked up a discarded necktie, sawing it across her knee mechanically to free it from the dust. Her husband placed himself beside her. His weight brought down the mattress and rocked her against his shoulder; he put his arm around her, and she gave way to a little sob. "When has he written to you?" she asked. "Since he went down?" "I think so. Let me see! When did you hear last?" "I have brought his last letter with me. I wondered if he had told you." "I have heard nothing--nothing in particular. What is it?" "The inevitable woman." "She has come at last, has she? Come to stay?" "He is engaged to her." Mr. Thorne breathed his astonishment in a low whistle. "You don't like it?" he surmised at once. "Like it! If it were merely a question of liking! She is impossible. She knows it, her people know it, and they have not told him. It remains"-- "What is the girl's name?" "Henry, she is not a girl! That is, she is a girl forced into premature womanhood, like all the fruits of this hotbed climate. She is that Miss Benedet whom you helped, whom you saved--how many years ago? When Willy was a schoolboy." "Well, she _was_ saved, presumably." "Saved from what, and by a total stranger!" "She made no mistake in selecting the stranger. I can testify to that; and she was as young as he, my dear." "A girl is never as young as a boy of the same age. She is a woman now, and she has taken his all--everything a man can give to his first--and told him nothing!" "Are you sure it's the same girl? There are other Benedets." "She is the one. His letter fixes it beyond a question--so innocently he fastens her past upon her! And he says, 'She is "a woman like a dewdrop."' I wonder if he knows what he is quoting, and what had happened to _that_ woman!"