"And here is Palamon," said Peter, as that delightful beast came at a sort of abrupt and ploughing gallop, necessitated by the extreme shortness of his crumpled legs, through the heaped and fallen foliage. "He remembers me, too, the dear old boy," and Palamon, whose very absorbed and business-like manner gave way to sudden and smiling demonstration, was patted and rubbed cordially in answer to his cordial welcome. "It must seem strange to you being here again after such a time," said Odd, when he and Hilda turned towards the river, Palamon, with an air of happy sympathy, at their heels. The river was invisible, a good half-mile away, and the whispering hush of the woods surrounded them. "It doesn't seem strange, no," Hilda replied; "it seems very peaceful." "And are you peaceful with it?" All the implied reserves of her tone made Peter wonder, as he had often wondered, at the strength of this fragile creature; for, although that conviction of having wronged another was accountable for her haggard young face, the crushed anguish of her love for him was no less apparent in the very aloofness of her glance. "I feel merely very useless," she said with a vague smile. "I have seen Katherine, Hilda." Odd waited during a few moments of silent walking before making the announcement, and Hilda stopped short and turned wondering eyes on him. "It was at Amalfi. She had just received your letter, and she sent for me; she had something to say to me." Hilda kept silence, and Odd added, "You knew that she was on a yachting trip?" Hilda bowed assent. "And that Allan Hope is of the party?" "I heard that; yes." "And that he and Katherine are to be married?" Here Hilda gave a little gasp. "She doesn't love him," she cried. Odd considered her with a disturbed look. "You mustn't say that, you know. I fancy she does--love him." "She did it desperately after you had failed her; after I had robbed her." Odd was too conscious of the possibility of a subtle half-truth in this to assert the bold unvarnished whole truth of a negative. Hilda's loyalty lent a dignity to Katharine's most doubtful motives, a dignity that Katherine would probably contemplate with surprise, but accept with philosophic pleasure. Had Hilda indeed robbed her unwittingly? Had he failed her long before her deliberate breach of faith? He had, she said, shown his love for Hilda, and would she have turned to Lord Allan's more facile contentment had she been sure of Peter's? Delicate problem, without doubt. His mind dwelt on its vexatious tragic-comic aspect, while he stared almost absently at Hilda. Certainly his disloyalty had been unintentional, guiltless of plot or falsehood; and Katherine's was intentional, deceitful, ignoble. It would be possible to shock every chord of honor in Hilda with the bold announcement that Katherine had been engaged when she came to Paris, and that her cruel triumph had been won under a lying standard.