He knew better, however,
than to warn his master. George was apt to be sharp when his plans
were spoiled.

And now throughout the wooded slope there was the restless movement of
nature disturbed in the midst of peaceful dreaming. The trees bent and
whispered. The birds, flying low, called sharp warnings. A small dog,
spurning the leaves, as she followed a path up the west side of the
hill, stopped suddenly and looked back at the man who followed her.

"We'll make the Pavilion if we can, old girl," he told her, and as if
she understood, she went up and up in a straight line, disregarding the
temptation of side tours into bush and bramble.

George and Becky had finished their tea. There had been some rather
delectable sweet biscuit which Kemp kept on hand for such occasions,
and there was a small round box of glace nuts, which George had
insisted that Becky must keep. The box was of blue silk set off by
gold lace and small pink roses.

"Blue is your color," George had said as he presented it.

"That's what Randy says."

"You are always talking of Randy."

She looked her surprise. "I've always known him."

"Is he in love with you?"

She set down the box and looked at him. "Randy is only a boy. I am
very fond of him. But we aren't either of us--silly."

She brought the last sentence out with such scorn that George had a
moment of startled amaze.

Then, recovering, he said with a smile, "Is being in love silly?"

"I think it's rather sacred----"

The word threw him back upon himself. Love was, you understand, to
George, a game. And, here was Becky acting as if it were a ritual.

Yet the novelty of her point of view made her seem more than ever
adorable. In his heart he found himself saying, "Oh, you lovely,
lovely little thing."

But he did not say it aloud. Indeed he, quite unaccountably, found
himself unable to say anything, and while he hesitated, there charged
up the west hill a panting dog with flapping ears. At the arched
opening of the Pavilion she paused and wagged a tentative question.

"It's Nellie Custis----" Becky rose and ran towards her. "Where's
your master, darling? _Randy_----"

In response to her call came an eerie cry--the old war cry of the
Indian chiefs. Then young Paine came running up. "Becky! Here?
There's going to be a storm. You better get home----"

He stopped short. Dalton was standing by the folding table.

"Hello, Paine," he said, with ease. "We're