his lips, in his
eyes, bespoke a deep, sweet tenderness. He had brought with him the
two gifts for her. He put the box of candy in the grass, covering it,
planning to have her search for it. He felt like a boy; she must join
with him in a childplay. The pendant necklace, its pearls as pure and
soft as tears, he placed upon the log itself, in a little hollow,
covering it with a piece of bark. Then he found her note.

It was very short; he read it at a sweeping glance. His brain caught
the words; his mind refused to grasp their meaning. And yet Ygerne had
written clearly:

"_Dear Mr. Drennen_: The greetings of Ygerne, Countess of Bellaire, to
the Son of a Thief! Thank you for a new kind of summer flirtation.
May your next one be as pleasant. A man of such wonderful generosity
deserves great happiness. Good-bye. YGERNE."

Simple enough. And yet the words meant nothing to him. By his foot
was a square box of chocolates peeping out at him. He had telegraphed
. . . where was it? . . . to Edmontville for them. They were for
Ygerne. There on the log, right where she had sat, under the little
chip of bark, was her necklace of pearls. She was coming for it in a
moment, coming like Aurora's own sweet self through the dawn. He had
telegraphed for that, too. It was his first present for her.

The Son of a Thief! The Countess of Bellaire! That meant David
Drennen, son of John Harper Drennen; it meant Ygerne, the girl-woman
who had come into David Drennen's life before it was too late, who had
made of him another man.

He sat down on the log and filled his pipe. The note he let lie, half
folded, upon his knee. His eyes went thoughtfully across the thin mist
hanging like gauze above the river; then turned expectantly toward the
Settlement. She would come in a moment. And the glory of her! The
eternal quivering, throbbing glory of the woman a man loves! She would
come and he would gather her into his arms. . . . For that the world
had been made, for that he had lived until now. . . .

He had lighted his pipe and was puffing at it slowly, each little cloud
of smoke coming at the regular interval from its brethren. And he did
not know that he was smoking. He was not thinking. For the moment he
was scarcely experiencing an emotion. He knew that Marshall Sothern
was John Harper Drennen; he knew that the Golden Girl had been sold; he
knew that a box of candy and a pearl necklace were waiting for Ygerne