It was a still country, where giant water-oaks towered, fantastic under their misty camouflage of moss, and swarming with small birds. Among the trees the wood-ibis stole; without on the placid glass of the stream the eared grebe floated. There was no wind, no stirring of leaves, no sound save the muffled splash of silver mullet, the breathless whirr of a humming-bird, or the hushed rustle of lizards in the woods. For Tressa this was the blessed balm that heals,—the balm of silence. And, for the first week, she slept most of the time, or lay in her hammock watching the swarms of small birds creeping and flitting amid the moss-draped labyrinths of the live-oaks at her very door. It had been a little club house before the war, this bungalow on the St. Johns at Orchid Hammock. Its members had been few and wealthy; but some were dead in France and Flanders, and some still remained overseas, and others continued busy in the North. And these two young people were quite alone there, save for a negro cook and a maid, and an aged negro kennel-master who wore a scarlet waistcoat and cords too large for his shrunken body, and who pottered, pottered through the fields all day, with his whip clasped behind his bent back and the pointers ranging wide, or plodding in at heel with red tongues lolling. Twice Cleves went a little way for quail, using Benton’s dogs; but even here in this remote spot he dared not move out of view of the little house where Tressa lay asleep. So he picked up only a few brace of birds, and confined his sport to impaling too-familiar scorpions on the blade of his knife. And all the while life remained unreal for him; his marriage seemed utterly unbelievable; he could not realise it, could not reconcile himself to conditions so incomprehensible. Also, ever latent in his mind, was knowledge that made him restless—the knowledge that the young girl he had married had been in love with another man: Sanang. And there were other thoughts—thoughts which had scarcely even taken the shape of questions. One morning he came from his room and found Tressa on the veranda in her hammock. She had her moon-lute in her lap. “You feel better—much better!” he said gaily, saluting her extended hand. “Yes. Isn’t this heavenly? I begin to believe it is life to me, this pearl-tinted world, and the scent of orange bloom and the stillness of paradise itself.” She gazed out over the ghostly river. Not a wing stirred its glassy surface. “Is this dull for you?” she asked in a low voice. “Not if you are contented, Tressa.” “You’re so nice about it. Don’t you think you might venture a day’s real shooting?” “No, I think I won’t,” he replied. “On my account?” “Well—yes.” “I’m so sorry.” “It’s all right as long as you’re getting rested. What is that instrument?” “My moon-lute.” “Oh, is that what it’s called?” She nodded, touched the strings. He watched her exquisite hands. “Shall I?” she inquired a little shyly.