ng with the song, but once ended, its love and grief were no
more to her--her own personality as Anne Douglas--than the opera itself.

"Curious!" thought the man beside her.

And then his attention was diverted by a moving object advancing along
the main road below. Through the rain he distinguished the light buggy
of Gregory Dexter and his pair of fine black horses. They had evidently
been under shelter during the heaviest rain-fall, and had now ventured
forth again. Heathcote made no sign, but watched. Anne could not see the
road. Dexter stopped at the mill, tied his horses to a post, and then
tried the doors, and also the door of the miller's little cottage,
peering through the windows as they had done. Then he went up the ravine
out of sight, as if searching for some one. After five minutes he
returned, and waited, hesitating, under a tree, which partially
protected him from the still falling drops. Heathcote was now roused to
amusement. Dexter was evidently searching for Anne. He lit another
cigar, leaned back against the rock in a comfortable position, and began
a desultory conversation, at the same time watching the movements of
his rival below. A sudden after-shower had now come up--one of those
short but heavy bursts of rain on the departing edge of a thunder-storm,
by which the unwary are often overtaken. Dexter, leaving his tree, and
seizing the cushions of the buggy, hurried up the tramway to the mill
door again, intending to force an entrance. But the solid oak stood firm
in spite of his efforts, and the rain poured fiercely down. Heathcote
could see him look upward to the sky, still holding the heavy cushions,
and his sense of enjoyment was so great that he leaned forward and
warmly shook hands with Anne.

"Why do you do that?" she asked, in surprise.

"I remembered that I had not shaken hands with you all day. If we
neglect our privileges, the gods take them from us," he answered. And
then, he had the exquisite pleasure of seeing the man below attempt to
climb up to one of the small mill windows, slip down twice, and at last
succeed so far as to find footing on a projecting edge, and endeavor to
open the stubborn sash, which plainly would not yield. He was exerting
all his strength. But without avail. It was a true dog-day afternoon,
the rain having made the air more close and lifeless than before. The
strong draught up the chimney of their cave had taken the heat of the
small fire away from them; yet