With a sensation of being stared at, Caleb Conover opened his eyes. The pale shimmer in the east had given place to gray dawn. The dawn-wind, too, had waxed stronger; sweeping the fog before it. No longer were the man and woman on an island; but on a hilltop whence on every side stretched away leagues of dull green landscape. Only over the pond did the mist still hover. Directly below, not a quarter mile away, lay the camp. Nor were they alone on their wonder-hill. On the far side of the dead fire Jack Hawarden stood eyeing them. And his face was as gray and as lifeless as the strewn ashes at his feet. Conover and the lad looked at each other without speaking. Long and expressionlessly Jack gazed at the waking and the sleeping. Conover noted that the boy’s eyes were haggard and that the youth and jollity had been stricken from his face as by a blow. It was Hawarden who spoke first: “No one down there is awake yet,” he said, whispering so low that the girl’s slumber was not broken. “I woke up and missed you. I came out of the tent and saw you up here. I didn’t know when you would wake and I was afraid the others might see. So I came. Don’t let her know.” There was a catch in his breath at the last words. He turned abruptly on his heel and sped down the hillside; his stockinged feet making no sound on the damp mold. Caleb looked dazedly after his receding figure. “He’s white,” muttered Conover. “White, clear through!” Desirée moved at sound of his voice, and opened her eyes. For a moment she gazed up into Caleb’s face with blank amaze. Then she knew. Up went her arms, like a waking baby’s, and about his neck. As he bent to kiss her the agony of his stiffened muscles wellnigh made him cry out. Flushed, laughing, big-eyed from her long sleep, Desirée sprang to her feet. Her glance caught the white gleam of the tents below. “Oh what luck!” she exclaimed, delightedly. “Not a soul astir! We can get back without anyone knowing. What time is it? Or has time stopped being?” He rose to feel for his watch;--rose, and toppled clumsily to his knees. His benumbed body refused to obey the will that was never numb. But, mumbling something about having tripped over a root, he forced himself to rise and to put his torturing muscles into motion. “You’re cold!” she cried, accusingly. “The fire’s out and--” “Not a bit of it,” he denied, compelling his teeth not to chatter. “I’m as warm as toast. Never felt spryer in my life. Say, girl,” he went on, to turn the subject from his own acute ills, “you’ve had your wish, all right. You said you wanted to give the slip to a Simon Legree chap named Conventionality. An’ I guess we done it.” His arm about her, her hands clasped over one of his aching shoulders, they made their way down the hillside to the silent camp in the waterside dusk below. CHAPTER XXII CALEB CONOVER RECEIVES NEWS