"Absolutely. It means thousands." "Then we'll sit on the veranda a few minutes," said Marion. "Not long, though. I'm dreadfully sleepy." It was not long. They found they had little to say to each other, since the one subject of which both were thinking, each from a different point of view, was tacitly barred. And Hillyer soon saw that Marion was sorely in need of rest. "Go to bed now, dear girl!" he said presently. "And please take good care of yourself. I want to see the color back in your cheeks when I return." "I will, Robert," she answered. "I'll be quite all right in a day or two." "And you--don't really think of staying here all winter?" he ventured to ask diffidently. "No," she replied. "That's hardly possible." "Then good-by--until you hear my horn in the road down yonder." "Good-by, Robert, and good luck!" She gave him both her hands, for a moment, with a tenderness that lingered with him far on his way. CHAPTER XVII INTERLUDE August ripened into September, and the Park underwent a subtle and fascinating change. In the meadows the hay lay in long windrows, golden green; on the slopes vermilion flowers succeeded blue; in the sunsets tender pinks yielded to burnt orange and vivid red. The nights had grown perceptibly colder, but the days were still warm and dry and radiant, though with a tang in the air that stirred the blood. And a thousand perfumes, known and unknown, distilled from meadow and field and forest, scented every vagrant breeze. Marion was soon herself again, in body if not in mind. A few long nights of sleep, a few days in the saddle, and sufficient nourishment (for she had neglected herself at Haig's, despite Jim's solicitude) restored her physically to what she had been on the day of Haig's accident. But she, too, had changed, and as subtly as the season. "What's come over Marion?" asked Huntington of Claire one day, after he had caught himself regarding her with the rapt interest of a discoverer. Claire looked at him pityingly. She knew, but she was not going to tell him. "Why?" she asked innocently. "Well, I don't exactly know," he replied doubtfully. "She's prettier than ever--but so are you. That isn't it. She's kind of--It's no use. I don't know." Claire laughed, and then became severe. "That's because she's forgiven you," she said. "No, it isn't!" he asseverated, not without embarrassment. "You can see for yourself that she's different." "Very well!" she retorted maliciously. "Perhaps if you'd done such a noble thing as nursing Haig back to life you'd be different too." "I'd see him in--" "Shame!" she cried. "You wouldn't do anything of the kind. Your bark's worse than your bite, sir. And besides, while I think of it, you really must stop saying 'hell' and 'damn' so much. The habit's growing on you."