he priest made no reply. A short, awkward silence followed during
which Gordon grew restive. "If I looked so glum about Greenstream," he
continued, "I'd move out." It was as though he had not spoken. "I'd go
back where I came from," he persisted sharply. The priest's lips moved,
formed words:

"'Che discese da Fiesole ab antico.'"

His imperturbable manner offered Gordon not the slightest opening; and he
continued uncomfortably on his way. There was a quality about that thick,
black-clad figure which cast a shadow over the cloudless day, it blunted
the anticipated pleasure of his meeting with Meta Beggs. There was about
Merlier a smell of death like the smell of sooty smoke.

The stream lay shining along its wooded course; the range greenly aflame
with new foliage rose into radiant space; flickers hammered on resonant,
dead wood. Gordon banished the somber memory of the priest. He was
conscious of a sudden excitement, a keenness of response to living like a
renewal of youth. He wished that Meta Beggs would appear; his direction to
her had been vague; she might easily go astray and miss him. But he saw
her, after what seemed an interminable period, leaving the road and
crossing the strip of sod that bordered the stream. She had on a white
dress that clung to her figure, and a broad, flapping straw hat wound with
white. She saw him and waved. The brush rose thickly along the water, but
there was a footway at its edge, with occasional, broader reaches of rough
sod. In one of the latter she stooped, made a swift movement with the hem
of her skirt.

"See," she smiled; "I said you would like me in them."

He attempted to catch her in his arms, but she eluded him. "Please," she
protested coolly, "don't be tiresome.... We must talk."

He followed her by the devious edge of the stream to the ruined mill. He
could see the blurring impress of the black silk stockings through the web
of her dress; the dress had shrunk from repeated washing, and drew tightly
across her shoulders. She walked lightly and well, and sat with a graceful
sweep on a fallen, moldering beam. Beyond them the broad expanse of the
mill pond was paved with still shadows; a dust of minute insects swept
above the clouded surface. The water ran slowly over the dam, everywhere
cushioned with deep moss, and fell with an eternal splatter on the rocks
below.

Gordon rolled a cigarette from the muslin bag of Green Goose. "Why do you
still smoke that grass?" she d