There was a strange, new vivacity in her manner, too,--something that hurt rather than cheered him. He heard her singing about the house,--gay, larksome little snatches,--and she whistled merrily as she worked in the garden. Somehow her very light-heartedness added to his despair. What right had she to be happy and gay and cheerful whilst he was so miserable? Had he not told her in so many words that he loved her? Did that mean nothing to her? Why should she sing and whistle in her own domain when she must have known that he was suffering in his, not twenty rods away? He was conscious at times of a sense of injury, and as the time drew near for his departure without so much as a sign of regret or even interest on her part, this feeling deepened into resentment. He was very stiff and formal as he approached the porch on which Viola and her mother were seated, enjoying the cool evening breeze that had sprung up at the end of the hot and sultry day. A strange woman and two small children, refugees from the Grand Prairie, had been given shelter by Mrs. Gwyn, but they had already gone to bed. "We are off at daybreak," he said, standing before them, his hat in his hand. "I thought I would come over to say good-bye." His hungry gaze swept over the figure of the girl, shadowy and indistinct in the semi-darkness. To his amazement, he saw that she was attired in the frock she had worn on that unforgettable night at Striker's. She leaned forward and held out her hand to him. As he took it he looked up into her dusky face and caught his breath. Good heaven! She was actually smiling! Smiling when he was going away perhaps never to return alive! She did not speak. It was Rachel Carter who said, quietly: "Thank you for coming over, Kenneth. We would not have allowed you to go, however, without saying good-bye and wishing you well on this hazardous undertaking. May God protect you and all the brave men who go out with you." He had not released Viola's hand. Suddenly her grip tightened; her other hand was raised quickly to her face, and he was dumbfounded to see that she was dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. His heart swelled. She had been smiling bravely all the while her eyes were filled with tears. And now he knew why she was silent. He lifted her hand to his lips. "I want you to know, Viola dear, before I go away," he said huskily, "that I can and will give you back the name of Gwynne, and with my name I give more love than ever any man had for woman before in all this world. I lay my heart at your feet. It is yours whether you choose to pick it up or not." She slowly withdrew her hand. Neither of them heard the long, deep sigh in the darkness beside them. "I don't know what to say to you, Kenny," she murmured, almost inaudibly. "There is nothing for you to say, Viola, unless you love me. I am sorry if I have distressed you. I only wanted you to know before I go away that I love you."