As Mark’s starving eyes devoured her face he thought he had never seen her look so lovely. He summoned up all his self-command--there must be no going back to “old days,” no moaning over “what might have been.” No; he was the stronger, and must set a stern example. For quite twenty seconds there was a dead silence, a silence only broken by the trickling of a snow-born mountain stream, passing lingeringly through the ferns and orchids--who seemed to stoop and bend over--listening intently to its timid silvery song. “How changed he was!” thought Honor, with a queer tight feeling in her throat, “only three short months, and the bright look of buoyant youth had faded from his face.” “Ah!” she exclaimed, with a supreme effort. “I had a presentiment that I should see you soon--I dreamt it!” “Dreams sometimes go by contraries,” he answered, with a rather fixed smile. “And how clever of Tommy to find you! The dear dog remembered you.” “Well, up to the present he has not shown any symptoms of recognizing me; on the contrary, he has cut me dead. He is in hot pursuit of some venerable lumgoors. How long is it since he has seen me?” asked Mark. “The day of the bachelors’ ball. I recollect you gave him a _méringue_, and very nearly killed him! It was on the eighth of June. This is the tenth of September; just three months and two days.” “So it is,” he acquiesced, with forced _nonchalance_. “Do you live near here?” she continued. “About four miles, by a goat path across that hill.” “Pray are you aware that we are picnicing below, with half Shirani?” “Yes, I know; but not another starvation picnic I hope?” “And yet,” ignoring his ill-timed jest, “you have never come to see us, and we leave to-morrow!” He looked down to avoid her questioning eyes, and made no answer, beyond a faint, half-strangled sigh. “At least we are still friends,” she urged, swallowing something in her throat. “Yes--always; but I thought I had better remain away. The Shirani folk would take me for a ghost, and I might upset their nerves. What is the latest station news?” “Our latest news is, that Mrs. Sladen is to go home at Christmas. Miss Clover is engaged to Captain Burne, and Miss Paske to Sir Gloster Sandilands,” she answered stiffly. “Poor Toby! I suppose my former acquaintances believe me to be in England--if they ever think of me at all?” She hesitated, twisted her ring round and round, and then said-- “Your friends,” with emphasis, “know that you are out in this country, looking after your father. How is he?” “Wonderfully better, thank you.” “And you--you have been ill?” she remarked rather tremulously. “No, indeed; I never was better in my life. Of course you saw Waring before he went down?” “No,” with undeniable embarrassment. “In fact, he copied your example, and dispensed with all farewells. He--he--left rather suddenly,” and she coloured. “Why do you hesitate?” looking at her keenly. “What did he _do_? He has been doing something, I can see.”