With cheeks flushed and a slightly worried expression she resumed her sewing through the golden stillness of the afternoon. Now and then the clank of wagon wheels crossing the metals caused her to glance swiftly into her mirror to see what was going on behind her. And at last she saw Marque drive up, cross the track, then, giving the reins to the boy who sat beside him, turn and walk directly toward the station. And her heart gave a bound. For the first time he came directly to her window; she saw and heard him, knew he was waiting behind the mignonette and heliotrope, and went on serenely sewing. "Miss Eden?" She waited another moment--time enough to place her sewing leisurely on the table. Then, very slowly she turned in her chair and looked at him out of her dark lilac-hued eyes. He heard himself saying, as in a dream: "Is there a telegram for me?" And, as her delicate lifted brows questioned him: "I am John Marque," he said. She picked up the telegram which lay on her table and handed it to him. "Thank you," he said. After he had gone she realised that she had not spoken. [Illustration] XII WHENEVER he went to Moss Centre with the wagon he telephoned and telegraphed to himself, and about a month after he had begun this idiot performance he ventured to speak to her. It occurred late in July, just before sunset. He had placed his rod, lighted his pipe, and seated himself on the platform's edge, when, all of a sudden, and without any apparent reason, a dizzy sort of recklessness seized him, and he got up and walked over to her window. "Good evening," he said. She looked around leisurely. "Good evening," she said in a low voice. "I was wondering," he went on, scared almost to death, "whether you would mind if I spoke to you?" After a few seconds she said: "Well? Have you decided?" Badly frightened, he managed to find voice enough to express his continued uncertainty. "Why did you care to speak to me?" she asked. "I--we--you----" and he stuck fast. "Had you anything to say to me?" she asked in a lower--and he thought a gentler--voice. "I've a lot to say to you," he said, finding his voice again. "Really? What about?" He looked at her so appealingly, so miserably, that the faintest possible smile touched her lips. "Can I do anything for you, Mr. Marque?" "If--if you'd only let me speak to you----" "But I am letting you." "I mean--to-morrow, too----" "To-morrow? To-morrow is a very, very long way off. It is somewhere beyond those eastern hills--but a very, very long way off!--as far as the East is from the West. No; I know nothing about to-morrow, so how can I promise anything to anybody?" "Will your promise cover to-day?" "Yes. . . . The sun has nearly set, Mr. Marque." "Then perhaps when to-morrow is to-day you will be able to promise----" "Perhaps. Have you caught any fish?" After a moment he said: "How did you know I was fishing? You didn't turn to look." She said coolly: "How did you know I didn't?"