eme
discretion until he should discover what kind of a rod she had in
pickle for him, or, at any rate, until the time should be propitious
to tell her that he was sorry for his conduct. Marion was tired, and
disinclined to talk, while Hillyer, on his side, had his mind fully
occupied, between his deal in mines and his deal in love, in both of
which he had encountered unexpected difficulties. Only Claire was gay
and untroubled, and she accepted eagerly the task of saving the party
from awkward silences. For once in many moons she was allowed to talk
unchecked, and she made the most of her opportunity.

After supper, Marion announced her purpose to go to bed at once. She
was sure, she declared, that she could sleep "around the clock."

"I'll be off before you're up, then," said Hillyer.

"You must go to-morrow?" asked Claire.

"Absolutely. It means thousands."

"Then we'll sit on the veranda a few minutes," said Marion. "Not long,
though. I'm dreadfully sleepy."

It was not long. They found they had little to say to each other,
since the one subject of which both were thinking, each from a
different point of view, was tacitly barred. And Hillyer soon saw that
Marion was sorely in need of rest.

"Go to bed now, dear girl!" he said presently. "And please take good
care of yourself. I want to see the color back in your cheeks when I
return."

"I will, Robert," she answered. "I'll be quite all right in a day or
two."

"And you--don't really think of staying here all winter?" he ventured
to ask diffidently.

"No," she replied. "That's hardly possible."

"Then good-by--until you hear my horn in the road down yonder."

"Good-by, Robert, and good luck!"

She gave him both her hands, for a moment, with a tenderness that
lingered with him far on his way.

CHAPTER XVII

INTERLUDE

August ripened into September, and the Park underwent a subtle and
fascinating change. In the meadows the hay lay in long windrows,
golden green; on the slopes vermilion flowers succeeded blue; in the
sunsets tender pinks yielded to burnt orange and vivid red. The nights
had grown perceptibly colder, but the days were still warm and dry and
radiant, though with a tang in the air that stirred the blood. And a
thousand perfumes, known and unknown, distilled from meadow and field
and forest, scented every vagrant breeze.

Marion was soon herself again, in body if not in mind. A few long
nights of sleep, a few days in the saddle