"I am—I came—I have an appointment with Mr. Sanders, the owner of _The Mail_—at the hotel—at half past eight." The appointment had been made ten minutes ago. It was the only wind he could think of that was blowing him across the world. The man’s confusion and seriousness and conscientious statement of detail ordinarily would have amused Elise; but she had not for months been in a mood to be amused. A moment later Rutledge was laughing inwardly at himself, his confusion gone, his self-possession perfect. His prosaic accounting for his presence smothered the tiny romantic flame that had kindled in Elise’s bosom, and she in turn was taken aback: and the man saw, and knew, and laughed unholily. Not even the most observing eye, fairly limited, would have detected the effect upon her; but he had an unfair advantage—for had he not her letter at that moment snuggled up close to his heart? His laugh was not out-breaking, but the girl saw embarrassment drop as a cloak from his manner, and a flicker of amusement in his eyes; and the quickness of the change was a bit bewildering to her. The word upon her lips was stayed as she looked steadily at him as if for an explanation. Rutledge spoke first,—but he did not presume upon his unfair advantage. All the tenderness of his soul was bowing before the clear-eyed young woman as she stood there so adorable, swinging her black hat in her hand, the light hill-breeze stirring the loose strands of sunlit hair about her temples and the folds of her simple summery mourning dress. If he had obeyed the impulse he would have knelt to kiss the hem of that dress. Emboldened by the words of her letter, he could not even then with unseemly assurance come to her heart to possess it. Confidently as he came to claim it, he drew near to her love as one whose steps approach a shrine. "It is a very pleasant surprise to find you up here," he said. "And this view is a surprise also—a revelation. They did not tell me at the hotel that such an one was to be had from this hill." Elise was deceived by his words, and convinced that the merest chance had appointed this meeting: and yet she could not dismiss from her mind the question, "Why did he walk so straight at me as he came up the hill?" His words, however, put the situation on an impersonal basis and her reply in kind established the conventional status. They talked of indifferent things, and she was speaking of the splendour that was flaming in the west when the man’s impatience broke the bands he had put upon it. "Elise, I love you, and I want you to be my wife." It was abrupt but it was in tones of humble entreaty.