cowardly idea that I
was wronging myself persisted. If that is my only sin--you are worth it.
And if I committed worse--I am not repentant. But--dear, what you have
done to me has so utterly changed me that--things that I never before
heeded or comprehended trouble me. Yesterday I could not have
understood what to-night I have done. So, if there lies any unknown
peril in to-morrow, or the days to come--if you love me you will tell
me.... Yet I cannot believe in it. Dearly as I love you I would not
raise one finger to comfort you at _their_ expense. I would not go away
with you; I would not seek my freedom for your sake. If there is in my
love anything base or selfish I am not conscious of it. I cannot marry
you; I can only live on, loving you. What danger can there be in that
for you and me?"

"None," he said.

She sighed happily, lifted her eyes, yielded to his arms, sighing her
heart out, lips against his.

Somewhere in the forest a bird awoke singing like a soul in Paradise.

CHAPTER XVI

AN ULTIMATUM

With the beginning of March the end of the so-called social season,
south of Jupiter Light, is close at hand. First, the great winter hotels
close; then, one by one, doors and gates of villa and cottage are
locked, bright awnings and lawn shades furled and laid away, blinds
bolted, flags lowered. All summer long villa and caravansary alike stand
sealed and silent amid their gardens, blazing under the pale fierce
splendour of an unclouded sky; tenantless, save where, beside opened
doors of quarters, black recumbent figures sprawl asleep, shiny faces
fairly sizzling in the rays of a vertical sun.

The row of shops facing the gardens, the white streets, quay, pier,
wharf are deserted and silent. Rarely a human being passes; the sands
are abandoned except by some stray beach-comber; only at the station
remains any sign of life where trains are being loaded for the North, or
roll in across the long draw-bridge, steaming south to that magic port
from which the white P. and O. steamers sail away into regions of
eternal sunshine.

So passes Palm Beach into its long summer sleep; and the haunts of men
are desolate. But it is otherwise with the Wild.

Night and the March moon awake the winter-dormant wilderness from the
white man's deadening spell. Now, unrestrained, the sound of negro
singing floats inland on the sea-wind from inlet, bar, and glassy-still
lagoon; great, cumbersome, shadowy things lumber down