"Yes, Miss," he answered, "but I don't see what that has to do with me Sunday suit." Not a sound came from the garden; I kept Don with me,--not even he should break that moment. Then I told Peter who had come, how the lovers had lost each other in that mad rush for safety, and how, for days, I had been trying to find this man, for I was very sure that the right man had come. Peter was spellbound, nor could he dig a stroke while I was talking. Then he began to work, and he worked furiously, as I have not seen him since he came. "It's quite right, 'm, about the suit," he said presently. I worked for perhaps an hour, while Peter dug like one inspired. Madge heated water and got towels ready, peering out curiously to see why. A touch of evening chill came into the air; the rooks began to go home, and filmy rose-flushed clouds trailed over the sky at sunset. Finally I shook the dirt off my hands, finding myself very stiff as I tried to stand. "Peter," I asked, "what shall I do next?" "I think, 'm, I'd start making a wedding cake," he answered, after due reflection. "For a futile political theorist, you do have perfectly unexpected moments of insight," I told him. "Yes, Miss," said Peter. Silence, except for the rooks, the sound of the brook, and a little wayward flutter of the leaves where the wind was moving. I went to the kitchen and added something un-British and digestible to the supper menu, then walked up and down, wondering why a man probably famished did not appear. Finally I decided that I must investigate and tiptoed my way to the corner of the house. Marie was still sitting in her chair; her knitting was on the ground beside her. The shadow of the grapevine was gone, and her face was alive with light from within and without. The level shafts of sunlight that touched it fell too on the red brick wall behind her, where the espaliered pear tree was etched in dark lines, and all the garden was a soft glow of October gold. The stranger was sitting on the ground with his head against Marie's knees, and her little shawl over his shoulders, sleeping like a child that had found its way home. As I crept near, Marie looked up, and a heavenly smile came over her face. She took my hand and held it, kissing it more than once, and she said over and over: "Mademoiselle; Mademoiselle," and again, "Mademoiselle." We let her lover stay as long as we dared on the brick walk, covering him warmly with steamer rugs. Later we found that he had just reached England and had hardly slept for a week. The sunset faded, and the stars grew bright, and still he leaned his head against Marie's knee and slept the sleep of exhaustion.