A soft, misty pall of midsummer heat hung over and pervaded the vine-covered forest of wild-apple trees surrounding Garman's house when Payne set out on Sunday afternoon to keep his appointment. As he entered the footpath leading from the prairie toward the house, he was forced to stoop to avoid the curtain of flowering moonvine which hung overhead, and once in the path he felt again the sickening drowsiness of the shut-in air. A mingling of many sweet odors hung about him like a heavy, poisonous drug; and he felt that it was pleasant poison, and walked swiftly on. In a shaded pergola running out from the house to the jungle he saw Annette, and stopped. An old man with a white Vandyke beard and pompously out-thrown chest was coming down the path from the house. He strutted as he walked, and stood for a moment framed between two palm trees where the path entered the pergola. "Little Annette!" he murmured, beaming patronizingly upon the girl. "Happy again. I knew you would be. But I haven't heard you laugh for a long time." "No," said the girl, looking at him intently, "I haven't laughed since we came here." "But you are happy now. Yes, yes, quite happy, quite happy. Up early this morning and all round the place like a little lark." "Because I couldn't sleep. And because--early in the morning--others are not up--and I can be alone." "No one can--no one can be alone in this world, dear. No one should. The laws of God and man, of Nature, forbid it." His old, self-satisfied eyes took in the long rounded lines of her figure and the virgin freshness of her throat and face with assuring calculation. "Especially, my dear, is it a crime to attempt to remain alone when nature has so abundantly endowed one for the purpose of--not remaining alone. Also, my dear," he continued, the playfulness gone from his tones as he pointed sternly at the diamond upon the third finger of her left hand, "you will kindly not forget that you wear that." "Do you think there is any opportunity for me to forget it?" she asked. "Do you! Think!" He attempted to face down her steadfast eyes. He failed, and, turning his glance uneasily, he saw Roger Payne. "What's this? What's this?" His eyes ran wildly from Roger to the girl and back again; and as they rested upon Payne they grew dead and gray with hatred, the futile hopeless hatred of an old man for one who is young. "Who is this man, Annette? How does he come to be here? Answer me at once; answer me, I say!" The girl looked long at him, looked with clear, calm eyes until the old man's pouter-pigeon effect disappeared. "My dear! Forgive my vehemence. You see I think only of you. I was afraid----" "Yes. What are you afraid of, father?" asked the girl swiftly. "Tell me that. I often wonder." "Afraid? I?" "Yes. I sometimes see it in your eyes when you think no one is looking. Have you done something----?" "Child?"