But, through the darkness that closed about her, there gleamed a single thread of light--the light of her own bestowal of love. Even if she never knew, of a surety, that Blaise cared, even if--and here she shrank, but forced herself to face the possibility sincerely--even if she were utterly mistaken and he did not care for her in any other way save as a friend--his “little comrade”--still there would remain always the golden gleam of love that has been given. For no one who loves can be quite unhappy. CHAPTER XVII--IN THE ROSE GARDEN THE chalcedony of the spring skies had deepened into the glowing sapphire of early June--a deep, pulsating blue, tremulous with heat. On the sundial, the shadow’s finger pointed to twelve o’clock, and the sleepy hush of noontide hung over the rose garden where Jean was gathering roses for the house. “Can’t I help?” Burke’s voice broke across the drowsy quiet so unexpectedly that she jumped, almost letting fall the scissors with which she was scientifically snipping the stems of the roses. She bestowed a small frown upon the head and shoulders appearing above the wooden gate on which he leant. “It’s not very helpful to begin by giving one an electric shock,” she complained. “How long have you been there?” His attitude had a repose about it which suggested that he might have been standing there some time watching her. “I don’t know. But as I _am_ here, may I come in?” Without waiting for her answer, he unlatched the gate and came striding across the velvet greenness of the lawn. His visits to Staple had grown of late so much a matter of daily occurrence that they were no longer hedged about by any ceremony, and Jean had come to accept his appearance at any odd moment without surprise. Since the day when she had lunched at Willow Eerry, and learned, as she believed, to understand and make allowances for the bitterness which had so warped Judith’s nature, her acquaintance with both brother and sister had ripened rapidly into a friendly intimacy. But the fact that Burke’s feeling towards her was something other, and much warmer than mere friendship, had failed to penetrate her consciousness. It was patent enough to the lookers on, and probably Jean was the only one amongst the little coterie of intimate friends who had not realised what was impending. It is not very often that a woman remains entirely oblivious of the small, unmistakable signs which go to indicate a man’s attitude towards her. In Jean’s case, however, her thoughts were so engrossed with the one man that, at the moment, all other men occupied but a very shadowy relationship towards the realities of life as far as she was concerned. So that she scarcely troubled to look up as Burke halted beside her, but went on cutting her roses unconcernedly, merely observing: