t down there as she was in that blank land, which was
still in the night of its development. Over that place, which she had
chosen to make a home and a refuge, her own weak flame would fall dimly,
perhaps never able to light it all. Would it be worth the struggle, the
heart-hunger for other places and things, the years of waiting, the toil
and loneliness?

She went back to her supper, the cup which she had gone to fetch in her
hand. The strength of night made her heart timid; the touch of food was
dry and tasteless upon her lips. For the first time since coming to that
country she felt the pain of discouragement. What could she do against
such a great, rough thing? Would it ever be worth the labor it would
cost?

Feeble as her light was against the night, it was enough to discover
tears upon her cheeks as she sat there upon the ground. Her fair hair
lay dark in the shadows, and light with that contrast which painters
love, where it lifted in airy rise above her brow. And there were the
pensive softness of her chin, the sweep of her round throat, the profile
as sharp as a shadow against the mellow glow. Perhaps the lantern was
content in its circumscribed endeavor against the night, when it could
light to such good advantage so much loveliness.

* * * * *

"If I'd have put my hands over your eyes, who would you have named?"
asked a voice near her ear, a voice familiar, and fitted in that moment
with old associations.

"I'd have had no trouble in guessing, Jerry, for I was expecting you,"
she answered, scarcely turning her head, although his silent manner of
approach had startled her.

"Agnes, I don't believe you've got any more nerves than an Indian," he
said, dropping down beside her.

"If one wanted to make a facetious rejoinder, the opening is excellent,"
she said, fighting back her nervousness with a smile. "Will you have
some supper?"

"I'd like it, if you don't mind."

She busied herself with the stove, but he peremptorily took away from
her the office of feeding the fire, and watched her as she put bacon on
to fry.

"Agnes, you ought to have been frying bacon for me these four years
past--figuratively, I mean," he remarked, musingly.

"If you don't mind, we'll not go back to that," she said.

Boyle made no mention of the purpose of his visit. He made his supper
with ambassadorial avoidance of the subject which lay so uneasily on her
mind. When he had finis