* * * *

That same evening, Garda, far at sea, sitting with her head on Lucian's
shoulder under the brilliant stars, answered a question he asked. She
did not answer it at first, she was too contented to talk. Then, as he
asked it again, "What ever became of that mediaeval young Cuban of mine?"

"Oh, Adolfo?" she said. "I sent him down to the Indian River."

"To the Indian River? What in the world did you do that for?"

"He was in Charleston, and you were coming; I didn't want him there."

"Were you afraid he would attack me?" asked Lucian, laughing.

"I was afraid he would suffer,--in fact, I knew he would; and I didn't
want to see it. He can suffer because he is like me--_he_ can love."

"Poor fellow!"

"Yes. But I never cared for him; and he _wouldn't_ see it."

"And ''way down there in the land of the cotton,' I don't suppose he
knows yet what has happened, does he?" said Lucian.

"Oh yes; I wrote to him from New York."

"You waited till then? Wasn't that rather hard?"

"Are you finding fault with me?" she murmured, turning her head so that
her lips could reach and rest against his bending face.

"_Fault!_" said Lucian, taking her in his arms.

Adolfo passed out of their memory.

CHAPTER XXVII.

"I cannot let you go alone," said Evert Winthrop, decidedly.

He was speaking to Margaret. They were in the East Angels drawing-room,
Betty Carew hovering near, and agreeing with perfect sincerity now with
one, now with the other, in the remarkable way which was part of the
breadth of her sympathy.

"But it's not in the least necessary for you to go," Margaret repeated.
"Even if the storm should break before I reach the river, the carriage
can be made perfectly tight."

"From the look of the sky, I am almost sure that we shall have a blow
before the rain," Winthrop responded; "in the face of such a
probability, I couldn't allow you to start across the barrens
alone--it's absurd to suppose I should."

Margaret stood hesitating. "You want me to give it up--postpone it. But
I cannot get rid of the idea that something has happened--I have had no
letter for so long; even if Lanse had not cared to write himself, one of
the men, Elliot or Dodd, would have done so, it seems to me, under any
ordinary circumstances."

"Lanse probably keeps them too busy."

"They always have their evenings."

But Winthrop showed scanty interest in the evenings of Elliot and Dodd.
"For myself, I can'