"If we are very quiet," said Colter at last, "we can hear the wind freshening down the river." Somehow, she knew it was the way he took to quiet her. She was hushed like a storming child. After a few seconds: "I did not hear you come." She tried to say it naturally, but her relief, the long shuddering sigh, struck into him. The man, his face still turned away, murmured something. "I did not hear you." Sard rose and went toward him in the dark. "Perhaps I should not have come," he said. He carefully kept the senses of mistress and employed between them. "But I was very anxious. Shall I go?" "No." The girl's voice, under his steady leadership, grew clearer. Sard began to get herself together. Here was someone who understood, who needed few words and who, she was convinced, cared. Sard only thought that word "cared." She dared not think the word "love," with its overwhelming waves. She stood there twisting a piece of grass in nervous fingers. "Father told me!" She said it with a kind of helpless shame. "I am so sorry that you are going, Colter. You seemed so happy lately--and I--I believed that we could help you, take you back to yourself, give you life again." For answer the man turned and gave her one swift look. In the summer night Sard saw with wonder that there was a curious competency, a serene purpose in those eyes. In some dumb moment of wild joy she realized that her instinct had taught her true. This was no perplexed "hired man" with no friends nor employment. This was--this was-- "You have helped me more than you know." His voice was grave and restoring. "I have come back further to my own than I dare think of now, and I came by a beautiful path, your sympathy and pure faith. So you must not sorrow like this. You must not distress yourself like this. Things will be clearer." In the night his clear voice of authority moved the girl strangely. It was an authority and assurance of high character that in her desperately clouded spirit she reached out for. Instinctively, like a wilting plant, the young form straightened and freshened until the man stopped looking at the stars. He turned toward her and looked long upon the face that had become his star. Colter made a little sorrowful gesture. "I have brought you such pain, and--I can't help!" His hands clenched for a second, the low voice for a second caressed her. "But I will come back if you wish me to. I can promise you to come back." Her eyes darkened. "Promise!" she bade him fiercely. "Promise----!" But he was silent. It seemed that he was determined to get Sard out of this mood, to hold her to her best self, the steady clear-sighted self he had seen. "I do want you to," breathed Sard without shame. "I have grown used to you----" stammering. There was no immediate answer.