"Blanket and a suit of sables," broke in the old man, with good humorous banter. "Allow me, I am young and full of energy, and you are old and wasted and wearied, watching over a sick and perhaps dying girl, who eats three huge meals a day, and can outwalk Weston. I will go," and he goes and leaves them, Stella's soft laughter following him like music. Leycester stands beside her looking down at her in silence. For him that rustic seat holds all that is good and worth having in life, and as he looks, the passionate love that burns so steadily in his heart glows in his eyes. For weeks, for months he has watched her--watched her patiently as now--watched her from the shadow of death, into the world of life; and though his eyes and the tone of his voice have spoken love often and often, he has so tutored his lips as to refrain from open speech. He knows the full measure of the shock which had struck her down, and in his great reverence and unfathomable love for her, he has restrained himself, fearing that a word might bring back that terrible past. But now, to-night, as he sees the faint color tinting the clear cheeks--sees the sunset light reflected in her bright eyes--his heart begins to beat with that throb which tells of long-suppressed passion clamoring for expression. Maiden-like, she feels something of what is passing through his mind, and a great shyness falls upon her. She can almost hear her heart beat. "Won't you sit down?" she says, at last, in that little, low, murmuring voice, which is such sweet music in his ears. And she moves her dress to make room for him. He comes round, and sinks in the seat beside her. "Can you not feel the breeze now?" he asks. "I wish I had brought a wrap with me, on the chance of your having forgotten it." She looks round at him, with laughter in her eyes and on her lips. "Did you not hear what uncle said?" She asks. "Don't you know that he was laughing, actually laughing at me? When will you _begin_ to believe that I am well and strong and ridiculously robust? Don't you see that the people at the hotel are quite amused with your solicitude respecting my delicate state of health?" "I don't care anything about the people at the hotel," he says, in that frank, simple way which speaks so plainly of his love. "I know that I don't mean you to catch cold if I can help it!" "You--you are very good to me," she says, and there is a slight tremor in her voice. He laughs his old short, curt laugh, softened in a singular way. "Am I? You might say that a man was particularly 'good' because he showed some concern for the safety of a particularly precious stone!" Her eyes droop, and, perhaps unconsciously, her arm draws a little nearer to him. "You are good," she says, "but I am not a precious stone, by any means."