On a soft, starlit evening within the week, no longer weeping, but leaning on Blakely's arm, Angela stood at the edge of the bluff, looking far out over the Red Rock country to the northeast. The sentry had reported a distant signal fire, and several of the younger people had strolled out to see. Whatever it was that had caused the report had vanished by the time they reached the post, so, presently, Kate Sanders started the homeward move, and now even the sentry had disappeared in the darkness. When Angela, too, would have returned, his arm restrained. She knew it would. She knew he had not spoken that evening at the willows because of her tears. She knew he had been patient, forbearing, gentle, yet well she knew he meant now to speak and wait no longer. "Do you remember," he began, "when I said that some day I should tell you--but never your aunt--who it was that came to my quarters that night--and why she came?" and though she sought to remove her hand from his arm he would not let it go. "You _did_ tell me," she answered, her eyelids drooping. "I _did_!--when?" Though the face was downcast, the sensitive lips began to quiver with merriment and mischief. "The same day you took me for--your mother--and asked me to sing for you." "Angela!" he cried, in amaze, and turning quickly toward her, "What can you mean?" "Just what I say. You began as though I were your sister, then your mother. I think, perhaps, if we'd had another hour together it would have been grandmother." She was shaking with suppressed laughter now, or was it violent trembling, for his heart, like hers, was bounding. "I must indeed have been delirious," he answered now, not laughing, not even smiling. He had possessed himself of that other hand, despite its fluttering effort. His voice was deep and grave and tremulous. "I called you anything but what I most longed to call you--what I pray God I may call you, Angela--my wife!" L'ENVOI