Beresford felt defeated at every point, and in his heart a premonition of failure began to ferment. A few days ago he had met Agnes Ransom at his father's house in Montgomery, and had fallen a prey to her gentle voice and grave, sweet face. Since then she had been constantly in his mind, her influence growing upon him by force of memory, some new grace adding itself to the impression, as each hour recalled a word, a smile or a glance unconsciously treasured by him. Now it all seemed slipping away. It is one of the most natural of mental operations, this swift reaching forward to grasp an evil before it is more than vaguely threatened. We call it foreboding: it may be the last refinement of logic. Beresford kept to himself the rest of the morning, rather gloomily borrowing of the future. Something told him that Agnes Ransom and Reynolds were going to be lovers. His enthusiasm flagged and he shot with less than his usual care. On the contrary, Reynolds seemed to be attended by the god of good luck; every chance seemed to favor him. His self-confidence never once deserted him. He too was borrowing of the future, and what he borrowed was very sweet. Deep in his heart nestled the precious belief that Mrs. Ransom had involuntarily--nay, unconsciously--responded to his interest in her. This gave him nerve and alertness and force. When he would flush a bird, the loud hum of its wings and the bullet-like rapidity of its flight did not disturb his thought or his vision. He threw up his gun with a promptness and self-possession that insured a perfect aim. When he fired the result was a thoroughly fine, clean shot, stopping the game dead in mid-air, so that it fell without a flutter. Yet all the time his dream went on. At about half-past twelve the horn blew loud and long from the place where the ladies had been stationed with the luncheon. Most of the shooters were loth to leave off the exciting sport, even though the stirrings of hunger began to be importunate. The mellow notes of invitation fancifully executed by the negro "bugler" had nothing very insistent in them. It was a long while before the party began to straggle back. Reynolds was first to reach the little grove above the spring near where the ladies had been waiting and watching. He strode swiftly along with his gun across his shoulder, his dogs following at his heels. A small, fancifully twisted tuft of mistletoe that he bore in his left hand was heavy with milk-white berries and waxen green leaves. His broad-brimmed hat was far back on his head, leaving his swarthy face unshaded. He had almost touched Mrs. Ransom before he saw her where she sat under a little pine tree with her hands listlessly crossed in her lap, her head uncovered and her dark hair gleaming in strong contrast with the almost colorless fairness of her face. He started perceptibly on discovering her, but a smile came over his face, as he bowed and said: