ght her loose robe about her softly
outlined figure.

"Helena!" remarked her aunt, frowning.

"I want an orange," remarked Miss Emory, addressing the impartial
universe, and looking about for John.

"And shall have it. But," said I, finding a soft rug at the cabin-top,
"I think perhaps you may find the air cool. Allow me." I handed them
chairs, and with a hand that trembled a bit put the soft covering over
Helena's shoulders. She drew it close about her with one hand, and her
dark hair flowing about her cheeks, found her orange with the other
when John came with his tray.

It was a wondrous morning in early fall. Never had a southern sky been
more blue, never the little curling waves saucier on the Gulf. The air
was mild, just fresh enough for zest. Around us circled many great
white gulls. Across the flats sailed a long slow line of pelicans;
and out yonder, tossing up now and then like a black floating blanket,
I could see a great raft of wild duck, taking their midday rest in
safety. All the world seemed a million miles away. Care did not exist.
And--so intimate and swiftly comprehensive is the human soul,
especially the more primal soul of woman--already and without words,
this young woman seemed to feel the less need of conversation, to
recognize the slackening rein of custom. So that a rug and a
wrapper--granted always also an aunt--seemed to her not amiss as full
equipment for reception of a morning caller.

"A very good orange," said she at last.

"Yes," said her aunt promptly; "I'm sure we ought to thank Mr.
Davidson for them. He was _such_ a good provider."

"Except in waistcoats," I protested, casually indicating his latest
contribution to my wardrobe. "Quantity, yes, I grant that, but as to
quality, never! But why speak ill of the absent, especially regarding
matters of an earlier and bygone day? Yon varlet no longer exists for
us--we no longer exist for him. We have passed, as two ships pass
yonder in the channel. I know not what he may be doing now, unless
carrying roses to Miss Sally Byington. Certainly he can not know that
I, his hated rival, am safe from all pursuit behind the Timbalier
Shoals, and carrying oranges to a young lady in my belief almost as
beautiful as the beautiful Sally."

Aunt Lucinda turned upon me a baleful eye. "You grow flippant as well
as rude, sir! As though you knew anything of that Byington girl. I
doubt if you ever saw her."

"Oh, yes--last night. Miss Emory and I b