SOMETIMES early in the morning, and often at evening, Caleb Trench took long walks alone with his dog. It was after sunset, in the sweet long twilight of July, that he came up through the woods behind Colonel Royall’s place, and approached the long elbow of the road, shadowed by the tall walnuts and hickories, and clothed here and there with the black-jack oak. Before him lay the beautiful valley. He could see the curl of the mist below Paradise Ridge, and beyond, the long gray folds of the distant mountains. He looked up toward the beaten trail that led to Angel Pass, and he could perceive the fragrance of wild magnolias. Shot, who was running ahead, stopped suddenly and stood at attention, one shaggy ear erect. Then Caleb saw the gleam of a white dress, and Miss Diana Royall appeared, walking toward them. Over her head the green boughs locked, and in the soft light she had a beauty that seemed to Trench more than the right of a girl so apparently heartless. He would have passed by the other road, merely raising his hat, but she called to him. “Good evening, Mr. Trench,” she said, with that bewitching little drawl of hers, which made her voice almost caressing and deceived the unwary. “Your dog remembers me more often than you do.” Caleb’s face stiffened. Oh, the mockery of women! “I remember you more often than you remember me,” he replied courteously. Diana bit her lip. She had not expected this, and she hated him for it; yet he had never looked so strong and fine as he did to-night. In the soft light the harsh lines were softened, the power remained, and something of sweetness in the eyes. “Oh,” she said, “have I ever failed to remember you?” Trench made no direct reply, but smiled. Something in her way, at the moment, was very girlish, the whim of a spoiled child. She had been gathering some ferns, and she arranged them elaborately, standing in the path. His attitude vexed her, his manner was so detached; she was accustomed to adulation. She swept him a look from under her thick dark lashes. “I remember dancing with you at Kitty Broughton’s ball,” she observed. “You were very kind,” he replied at once, “I remember it, too; you danced with me twice.” “Because I promised to dance if you asked me; I promised Judge Hollis,” she said demurely. “But the second?” Caleb was human, and his heart quickened under the spell of her beauty. “I hope that was on my own account.” “The second?” Diana rearranged the ferns. “I danced then because my cousin did not wish me to,” she said. Trench reddened. “I am sorry that you felt compelled to do it--twice,” he said involuntarily, for he was angry. “You are very rude,” replied Diana, unmoved. “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly, aware that he had been foolish and lost his temper; “pray forgive me.” “It’s a matter of no consequence,” she said sweetly.