A woman was seated upon the hillock, quiet as a shadow, her head resting on her hand, her eyes upon the river. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, slight of figure, and utterly, mournfully still, sitting alone in the fading light, with the northern sky behind her, for the moment she wore to the Highlander an aspect not of earth, and he was startled. Then he saw that it was but Darden’s Audrey. She watched the water where it gleamed far off, and did not see him in his boat below the scarlet vines. Nor when, after a moment’s hesitation, he fastened the boat to a cedar stump, and stepped ashore, did she pay any heed. It was not until he spoke to her, standing where he could have touched her with his outstretched hand, that she moved or looked his way. “How long since you left the glebe house?” he demanded abruptly. “The sun was high,” she answered, in a slow, even voice, with no sign of surprise at finding herself no longer alone. “I have been sitting here for a long time. I thought that Hugon might be coming this afternoon.... There is no use in hiding, but I thought if I stole down here he might not find me very soon.” Her voice died away, and she looked again at the water. The storekeeper sat down upon the bank, between the hillock and the fiery vine, and his keen eyes watched her closely. “The river,” she said at last,--“I like to watch it. There was a time when I loved the woods, but now I see that they are ugly. Now, when I can steal away, I come to the river always. I watch it and watch it, and think.... All that you give it is taken so surely, and hurried away, and buried out of sight forever. A little while ago I pulled a spray of farewell summer, and went down there where the bank shelves and gave it to the river. It was gone in a moment for all that the stream seems so stealthy and slow.” “The stream comes from afar,” said the Highlander. “In the west, beneath the sun, it may be a torrent flashing through the mountains.” “The mountains!” cried Audrey. “Ah, they are uglier than the woods,--black and terrible! Once I loved them, too, but that was long ago.” She put her chin upon her hand, and again studied the river. “Long ago,” she said, beneath her breath. There was a silence; then, “Mr. Haward is at Fair View again,” announced the storekeeper. The girl’s face twitched. “He has been nigh to death,” went on her informant. “There were days when I looked for no morrow for him; one night when I held above his lips a mirror, and hardly thought to see the breath-stain.” Audrey laughed. “He can fool even Death, can he not?” The laugh was light and mocking, a tinkling, elvish sound which the Highlander frowned to hear. A book, worn and dog-eared, lay near her on the grass. He took it up and turned the leaves; then put it by, and glanced uneasily at the slender, brown-clad form seated upon the fairy mound. “That is strange reading,” he said.