"It would," answered Ingle, and stood musing a moment; then he moved slowly away, walking backward that he might keep Elinor in view till the last. "Good-bye," he said finally, and turning strode hastily toward the gate nearest St. Gabriel's. Elinor stood long in the doorway gazing after him, and then when he had quite vanished, gazing on into vacancy like one who sees the unseen and holds converse with spirits. "Come, Cecil," she said at last, shaking off her lethargy with an effort, "fetch a pitcher, and we will go down to the Governor's Spring and draw water fresher than that which flows in our well." Nothing loath, Cecil slipped one hand in his mother's and with the other swung the earthen pitcher to and fro, to the imminent risk of its brown nose. When they reached the spring the two seated themselves on the stone curb with which by Calvert's orders the spring had been walled about. From the gravelly bank above, a group of tiny rivulets tumbled over each other in a laughing cascade. Held for a moment in the stone basin, they wandered onward to water the dell shaded by its thick growth of sycamores, elms, and holly-trees. Spring was misting all the foliage with green, not the rich verdure of summer, but a tender yellow, deepening here and there into the full green glory of unfolded leaves. Cecil leaned far over the curb, and laughed at his reflection in the spring. "Do thou lean too, Mother, with thy cheek near mine, that I may thee if thou dotht in truth look ath much like me ath folk say." As he spoke Cecil gave a little tug at his mother's sleeve and drew her to the margin, where she too stooped and looked down smiling at the golden curls and rosy cheeks of her boy looking up at her from the water. An instant later she caught another reflection, the face of a red man peering from the bushes over her shoulder. With an inward start she realized that they were on a by-path and beyond call of help. "Come, Cecil," she cried, striving to speak lightly, though she was conscious that her voice shook. "Pick up thy pitcher, for we must be going. Make haste, too, lest Cousin Margaret be at the house before us." "Nay, Mother, 'tith tho fair beautiful here," began Cecil, turning toward his mother with pleading in his voice. As he turned, his eyes too caught the Indian's face even as it was withdrawn into the shadow. "Why, 'tis the same native I did see on the wharf--" "Never mind, Cecil, who or what it is, but make good speed for home and I will follow. There, give me the pitcher. Now, run!" They reached the cottage door panting and out of breath just as Margaret Brent was dismounting from her donkey. Elinor ran on still faster to greet her. It was the first time they had met since the midnight mass at St. Gabriel's. The older woman took her in her arms.