These died away with the sharp, eager bark of a dog. Then at length distinguishable sounds faded and there was only the deep, somnolent peace of the southern night, with the scent of the roses wreathing the garden with their intense, mystical odour--only the faint stirring of little leaves playing hide-and-seek with their shadows, and the thin, fairy tone-carpet woven by the myriad looms of night insects for near whispers to tread on. Since that homeward ride she had had no time to ponder upon the event of the day. At dinner the trial had been touched upon but casually. Now that she was alone, however, it had rushed uppermost in her thought. It was not that Harry Sevier had lost the verdict: but his speech had seemed to her, in the tension of the crisis, with a man's honour and liberty at stake, inconsequential and almost flippant. And in the measure of her disappointment she had realised anew the depth of her regard for him. Again and again she pictured the scene in the courtroom but each time her thought returned upon itself, baffled and puzzled. At length, with a long breath that was almost a sigh, she stirred, and rising, passed into the library where the Judge sat in the arm-chair by his reading lamp. "You're a disgraceful night-owl," she said, "and I refuse to keep you in countenance any longer." He smiled at her. "That's right, Sorrel-Top! It's time for beauty-sleep if you and Nancy are off to ride in the morning. Just give me my eye-shade, will you, before you go?" She brought the green crescent and snapped it on his forehead. "There! You haven't told me how you like my dress to-night. It's a new one." He looked. "It's beautiful." She turned about before him. "I do choose well sometimes, don't I?" "You do everything well, my dear." In his tone now was a quaint and curious humility which always touched her when she discerned it--something of utter fondness and dependance--and she smoothed his iron-grey hair, one of her characteristic endearments, as she kissed him good night. Upstairs Echo opened the door of her room softly. It was hung in blue--that shade which one sees in a Gainsborough ribbon, a Romney sash or a Reynolds sky--and its furniture was of simple white, with large pink dahlias trailing over the chintz window-curtains and chair-cushions. In the dim night-light the triple mirror of the dresser reflected the carven four-post bed, in one of whose pillows Nancy's dark head was already buried. "Is that you, Echo?" "Yes, it's I. Were you asleep already?" "Almost," yawned Nancy. "I _shall_ be in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Has Chilly come home yet?" "No, not yet." "Do you think he's really at the club, Echo?" "Of course I do." "Men are so queer!" sighed Nancy, drowsily. "We had such a lovely evening--all except Chilly's not being there."