“How far away it all seems!” said the girl dreamily. “Do you suppose, over there, it’s beautiful and peaceful like this hillside one day, and then the next—I guess I’ll let my spy spider live,” she broke off, dropping her chin in her hand. Remsen sat down at her side. “What’s your soldier man like?” he asked abruptly. “What? Who?” inquired the startled Darcy. “Oh, Monty!” Gloria’s insufficient sketch came to her aid. “Why, he’s short and round and roly-poly.” “Then I don’t give a very exact imitation of him, do I?” “Not very. And he’s red and fierce-looking, with a stubby, scrubby mustache,” she added, augmenting Gloria’s description. Her companion stared. “Not what I should call a particularly enthusiastic portaiture.” “Oh, but of course he’s awfully nice,” she made haste to amend. “Not really a bit fierce, you know, but very brave and—and” (eagerly casting about) “a lovely voice.” “What kind?” “Barytone.” “And you sing together?” he asked gloomily. “Oh, lots!” “I suppose so.” He gathered some loose stones and began idly to drop them over the rock’s crest. “There! You’ve given the alarm to the spy,” she accused. “See him wigwagging at you! Now he’ll go and report.” “Darcy!” “Well?” “You don’t mind my calling you Darcy, do you?” “N-n-no, I like it.” “I wonder if you’ll mind what I’m going to say now.” “I don’t believe I should mind anything you would say.” “It’s about the little song. The one that you set right for me.” “Our song.” “Our song,” he repeated with a wistful emphasis on the pronoun. “Darcy, you won’t sing that—to him—will you?” “No,” she said. Her eyes were dimly troubled and would not meet his. “I won’t sing that—to any one—again.” “Thank you,” he said humbly. “Oh, look!” she cried with an effort at gayety. “The enemy! They approach. Let’s go and meet ’em.” She jumped to her feet and pointed to a far stretch of the road where four figures were slowly moving along. “That means I’ve got to put on my infernal whiskers and wig!” he groaned. “Just think how long a vacation you’ve had from them,” she reproached him. “And my still more uncomfortable manners.” “Tone them down a little,” she advised. “I think Holcomb and Paul are just about ready to turn on the haughty Britisher, and rend him limb from limb.” “Don’t blame ’em,” he said lazily. “But they seem to be turning off toward the village,” he added, peering down into the valley. “And the girls are coming on,” said Darcy. “Probably they’ve got the mail.” “With foreign letters?” said Remsen jealously. “Did you leave a forwarding address?” She shot a swift, indirect look at him. But he was gazing out over the regally garbed forest spread below them. “Come along!” she urged. “We must hurry. We’ll take the Bungalow trail, and I’ll wait while you put on your Veyze outfit. Then we’ll catch the girls on their return from the Farm.”