Sometimes he caught perch and dace and chub, and she accepted half, never more. Sometimes he caught nothing; and then her clear, humorous eyes bantered him, and sometimes she even rallied him. For it had come to pass in these sunset moments that she was learning to permit herself a friendliness and a confidence for him which was very pleasant to her while it lasted, but, after he had gone, left her with soft lips drooping and gaze remote. Because matters with her, with them both, she feared, were not tending in the right direction. It was not well for her to see him every day--well enough for him, perhaps, but not for her. Some day--some sunset evening, with the West flecked gold and the zenith stained with pink, and the pink-throated bird singing of Paradise, and the brook talking in golden tones to its pebbles--some such moment at the end of day she would end all of their days for them both--all of their days for all time. But not just yet; she had been silent so long, waiting, hoping, trusting, biding her time, that to her his voice and her own at eventide was a happiness yet too new to destroy. That evening, as he stood at her window, the barrier of mignonette fragrant between them, he said rather abruptly: "Are you ill?" "No," she said startled. "Oh, I am relieved." "Why did you ask?" "Because every Tuesday I have seen the doctor from Moss Centre come in here." In flushed silence she turned to her table and, folding her hands, gazed steadily at nothing. Marque looked at her, then looked away. The big, handsome young physician from Moss Centre had been worrying him for a long while now, but he repeated, half to himself: "I am very much relieved. I was becoming a little anxious--he came so regularly." "He is a friend," she said, not looking at him. He forced a smile. "Well, then, there is no reason for me to worry about you." "There never was any reason--was there?" "No, no reason." "You don't say it cheerfully, Mr. Marque. You speak as though it might have been a pleasure for you to worry over my general health and welfare." "I think of little else," he said. There was a silence. Between them, along the barrier of heliotrope and mignonette, the little dusk moths came hovering on misty wings; the sun had set, but the zenith was bright crimson. Perhaps it was the reflection from that high radiance that seemed to tint her face with a softer carmine. She looked out into the West across the stream, thinking now that for them both the end of things was drawing very near. And, to meet fate half way with serenity--nay, to greet destiny while still far off, with a smile, she unconsciously straightened in her chair and lifted her proud little head. "Lord Marque," she said quietly, "why do you not go back to England?"