r their future, and her belief (as I think
was in her mind then) that she could bring back to her self Roscoe's
old allegiance. That she believed this, I was convinced; that she would
never carry it out, was just as strong: for I, though only the chorus
in the drama, might one day find it in my power to become, for a moment,
one of the principal actors--from which position I had declined one day
when humiliated before Mrs. Falchion on the 'Fulvia'. Boyd Madras was in
my mind.

After a few minutes we parted, agreeing to meet again in the valley in
the evening. I had promised, as Mrs. Falchion had suggested, to escort
her and Justine Caron from the summer hotel to the mill. Roscoe had
duties at both Viking and Sunburst and would not join us until we all
met in the evening. Mr. Devlin and Ruth rode away towards Sunburst. Mrs.
Falchion, Justine, and myself travelled slowly up the hillside, talking
chiefly upon the events of the morning. Mrs. Falchion appeared to
admire greatly the stalwart character of Mr. Devlin; in a few swift,
complimentary words disposed of Ruth; and then made many inquiries
concerning Roscoe's work, my own position, and the length of my stay
in the mountains; and talked upon many trivial matters, never once
referring--as it seemed to me, purposely--to our past experiences on
the 'Fulvia', nor making any inquiry concerning any one except Belle
Treherne.

She showed no surprise when I told her that I expected to marry Miss
Treherne. She congratulated me with apparent frankness, and asked for
Miss Treherne's address, saying she would write to her. As soon as she
had left Roscoe's presence she had dropped all enigmatical words
and phrases, and, during this hour I was with her, was the tactful,
accomplished woman of the world, with the one present object: to make
her conversation agreeable, and to keep things on the surface. Justine
Caron scarcely spoke during the whole of our walk, although I addressed
myself to her frequently. But I could see that she watched Mrs.
Falchion's face curiously; and I believe that at this time her instinct
was keener by far to read what was in Mrs. Falchion's mind than my own,
though I knew much more of the hidden chain of events connecting Mrs.
Falchion's life and Galt Roscoe's.

I parted from them at the door of the hotel, made my way down to
Roscoe's house at the ravine, and busied myself for the greater part of
the day in writing letters, and reading on the coping. Abou