“Nothing, sir,” said Elaine Willoughby, quietly, as she suddenly appeared before him, bringing a quick thrill to his heart, “but that you are now under arrest as a deserter, and so will have to stand a formal court-martial.” It was a second strategic movement on the part of Romaine Garland, that summons of her lark-like voice calling Sara Conyers to some consultation of truly feminine gravity, in the distant seclusion of her own rooms. “Miss Mischief” was _en suprême_. And there, side by side, Elaine Willoughby and Conyers wandered away over to the summer-house, where the first roses were breathing out their promise of summer’s royal richness upon the fresh crystalline air. Neither seemed willing to break the silence of their hushed hearts. “You sent for me, Elaine?” said the man, who hardly dared to trust the sound of his own voice. It seemed to him so strange and hollow. His hostess turned her splendid eyes toward him, and their hands met in silence. “I did not, Hugh,” she softly said. “But as I will be away for some years, I thank God that you are here! For, I have a sacred duty to perform. “I know not what may happen. “Sara has just told me that she will not go to Europe with me. All seems so changed! Endicott is growing old. I have no other friend, and I am solicitous about Romaine’s future. I did intend to ask you to act for me in some very grave matters, but you have lately avoided me—strangely, cruelly.” The voice was broken now, and Hugh Conyers hastened to man his last works. He knew now how love had sealed her proud, womanly lips, for her heart was beating with his own. “How could I come to you? If Sara had only saved me this last sorrow! When I heard from Endicott that you were to marry Alynton, I at once accepted an engagement for five years to represent the _Clarion_ in Europe. “I sail myself in a few weeks. I only waited for your departure to have my sister select our little household gods. “For I have sworn to be a slave of the lamp no more, and so my spinning is done. I shall not return to America.” “Do not leave me, Hugh!” murmured Elaine Willoughby. “I need your friendship; I need you more than ever, now that—” He was already striding away, for with a last convulsive grasp of her hands, he had swiftly passed on over the velvety turf toward the still opened gates. His heart was in a mad revolt, there had been some meddling folly, and his pulses were throbbing now in a wild unrest. The agony was beyond his surface stoicism. But, he stood as one transfixed when a voice sweet and low set his blood leaping madly through his veins. “Hugh, come back!” The words were simple, but he turned to where the woman whom he madly loved stood awaiting him with half-outstretched arms. “Do you not see?” she murmured. “How can I tell you what you should have known long ago?” “You are not to marry Alynton?” cried her lover, a light of hope stealing into his eyes. His heart was flooded with a warmth of daring hopes.