"I hope you will never call yourself friendless while we--while I am within your reach. I have suffered myself; I know what sorrow is. Should you ever be in any trouble, Mrs. Quinton, or need a helping hand, remember you can rely on me." Eleanor looks at him with that serious and admiring glance of hers, expressive of greater gratitude and deeper wonder than any words. "You are _very_ good," she says at length. "If all men were so kind, I think women would be better and place surer trust in them." Two large trees in front of the verandah, with bending boughs, meet and make an archway of feathery foliage, in which the birds lodge. Eleanor's eyes turn to the drooping green, and then to the distant hills. She has a vague foreshadowing of coming evil. She sees the oxen yoked together dragging their loads; she wonders if they are happier after all than mortals like Major Short and herself. Two of these patient animals are drawing a Burmese public carriage, with a black boy looking out of the quaint covering, like a little house on two wheels. They pause to drink in the Irrawaddy; she sighs to think how sadly they need refreshment. In the thatched huts and tall palms, Eleanor pictures Copthorne--it rises as a mirage--till Major Short dispels it by some casual remark. He notices her listlessness, for she starts as she speaks. "Forgive me," she says, smiling wanly, "but I was miles away." "How interesting. May I not follow you? What did you see?" "I conjured up a farm-house and green English lanes, gold cornfields, rustic reapers, and honest workers. They were getting in the harvest." Captain Stevenson's cheery voice, and Quinton's musical laugh interrupts the conversation as they join Eleanor and Major Short. "It is time we were making tracks. What do you say, Short?" "I suppose so, but it is always hard to tear oneself away from pleasant companions." "When shall we meet again?" asks Eleanor gaily. "Can't we arrange a day next week? Ride over in the cool of the morning to breakfast." "Thanks--delighted. There is a peculiar fascination in your charming home and hearty welcome." Quinton smiles enigmatically, as he watches them ride away. Eleanor slips her hand in his. "You seem very merry to-day," she says. "They quite enlivened us, didn't they, Carol?" "Yes; it certainly makes a difference having somebody to speak to. Don't you notice it, dear?" He looks down at her steadfastly, and for the moment Eleanor's expression turns the unscrupulous man dizzy with a vague sensation nearly approaching regret. He sees in her eyes the overflowing of a heart; whose passionate adoration amounts to idolatry. He is touched and softened. He presses her lips, though they no longer thrill him, and she in her mute worship cannot define the change. Her love, he thinks, so freely given, so utterly beyond control, is after all a pitiable spectacle.