ca saw us and got home before me and told her, and she was
worried at what people would think. What would they think?"

Guy looked at her; then he shook his fist at the sky.

"Oh, God, why must people try...."

She touched his arm.

"Guy, don't swear. At least not.... You'll call me superstitious and
foolish," she murmured, dismayfully, "but really it hurts me to hear you
say that."

"I don't think you anything but the most lovely and perfect thing on
earth," he vowed, passionately. "And it drives me mad that people should
try to spoil your naturalness ... but still ... it was thoughtless of
me."

"But why, why?" she asked. "That's the word Mother used about you. Only
why, why? Why shouldn't I go and say good night?"

"Dear, there was no harm in that. But, you see, village people might say
horrible things.... I was dreadfully to blame. Yes, of course I was."

She flushed like a carnation at dawn; and when Guy put his arm around
her she drew away.

"Oh, Guy," she said, brokenly, "I can't bear to think of being alone
to-night. I shall be asking questions all the night long; I know I
shall. It's like that horrid mill-pool."

"Mill-pool?" he echoed, looking at her in perplexity.

She sighed and stared sadly down at the forget-me-nots.

"You wouldn't understand; you'd think I was hysterical and stupid."

Silently they left the island, and silently for some time they floated
down the stream; then Pauline tossed her head bravely.

"Love's rather cruel in a way."

Guy looked aghast.

"Pauline, you don't regret falling in love with me?"

"No, of course not, of course not. Oh, I love you more than I can say."

When Guy's arms were round her again Pauline thought that love could be
as cruel as he chose; she did not care for his cruelty.

JULY

Guy had been conscious ever since the rose-gold evening of the
ragged-robins of new elements having entered into his and Pauline's love
for each other. All this month, however, June creeping upon them with
verdurous and muffled steps had plotted to foil the least attempt on
Guy's part to face the situation. Now the casual indiscretion of
yesterday brought him sharply against it, and, as in the melancholy of
the long Summer evening he contemplated the prospect, it appeared
disquieting enough. In nine months he had done nothing; no quibbling
could circumvent that deadly fact. For nine months he had lived in a
house of his own, had accepted paternal help, had be