She stopped, for Heathcote had closed his eyes, and she thought he was falling asleep. But no. "It is raining," he said presently, still with closed eyes. "Yes; a summer shower." "Do you remember that thunder-storm when we were in the little cave? You are changed since then." She made no answer. "Your face has grown grave. No one would take you for a child now, but that day in the cave you were hardly more than one." "You too are changed," she answered, turning the conversation from herself; "you are thin and pale. You must sleep and eat. Surrender yourself to that duty for the time being." She spoke with matter-of-fact cheerfulness, but her ears were strained to catch the sound of footsteps. None came, and the rain fell steadily. She began to dread rain. Heathcote in his turn did not reply, but she was conscious that his eyes were open, and that he was looking at her. At last he said, gently, "_I_ should have placed it there, Anne." She turned; his gaze was fixed upon her left hand, and the gold ring given by the school-girls. "He is kind to you? And you--are happy?" he continued, still gazing at the circlet. She did not speak; she was startled and confused. He supposed, then, that she was married. Would it not be best to leave the error uncorrected? But--could she succeed in this? "You do not answer," said Heathcote, lifting his eyes to her face. "Are you not happy, then?" "Yes, I am happy," she answered, trying to smile. "But please do not talk; you are not strong enough for talking." "I hope he is not here, or expected. Do not let him come in _here_, Anne: promise me." "He is not coming." "He is in the army, I suppose, somewhere in the neighborhood; and you are here to be near him?" "No." "Then how is it that you are here?" "I have been in the hospitals for a short time as nurse. But if you persist in talking, I shall certainly leave you. Why not try to sleep?" "He must be a pretty sort of fellow to let you go into the hospitals," said Heathcote, paying no heed to her threat. "I have your fatal marriage notice, Anne; I have always kept it." "You have my marriage notice?" she repeated, startled out of her caution. "Yes. Put your hand under my pillow and you will find my wallet; the woman of the house has skillfully abstracted the money, but fortunately she has not considered a newspaper slip as of any value." He took the case from her hand, opened it, and gave her a folded square paper, cut from the columns of a New York journal. Anne opened it, and read the notice of the marriage of "Erastus Pronando, son of the late John Pronando, Esquire, of Philadelphia, and Angélique, daughter of the late William Douglas, surgeon, United States Army." The slip dropped from her hand. "Père Michaux must have sent it," she thought. "It was in all the New York and Philadelphia papers for several days," said Heathcote. "There seemed to be a kind of insistence about it."