e shadow swept between them; she shrank back with a little
gesture of repugnance. Perhaps she was thinking of her nearness to death
in the inlet.

"Are there alligators here, too?" she asked.

"Yes; they run away from you."

"And moccasin snakes?"

"Some. They don't trouble a man who keeps his eyes open."

"A nice country you live in!" she said, disdainfully.

"It is one kind of country. There is good shooting."

"Anything else?"

"Sunshine all the year round. I have a house covered with scented things
and buried in orange-trees. It is very beautiful. A little lonely at
times--one can't have Fifth Avenue and pick one's own grape-fruit from
the veranda, too."

A silence fell between them; through the late afternoon stillness they
heard the splash! splash! of leaping mullet in the lagoon. Suddenly a
crimson-throated humming-bird whirred past, hung vibrating before a
flowering creeper, then darted away.

"Spring is drifting northward," he said. "To-morrow will be Easter
Day--Pasque Florida."

She rose, saying, carelessly, "I was not thinking of to-morrow; I was
thinking of to-day," and, walking across the cleared circle, she picked
up her paddle. He followed her, and she looked around gayly, swinging
the paddle to her shoulder.

"You said you were thinking of to-day," he stammered. "It--it is our
anniversary."

She raised her eyebrows. "I am astonished that you remembered.... I
think that I ought to go. The _Dione_ will be in before long--"

"We can hear her whistle when she steams in," he said.

"Are you actually inviting me to stay?" she laughed, seating herself on
the soap-box once more.

They became very grave as he sat down on the ground at her feet, and, a
silence threatening, she hastily filled it with a description of the
yacht and Major Brent's guests. He listened, watching her intently. And
after a while, having no more to say, she pretended to hear sounds
resembling a distant yacht's whistle.

"It's the red-winged blackbirds in the reeds," he said. "Now will you
let me say something--about the past?"

"It has buried itself," she said, under her breath.

"To-morrow is Easter," he went on, slowly. "Can there be no resurrection
for dead days as there is for Easter flowers? Winter is over; Pasque
Florida will dawn on a world of blossoms. May I speak, Kathleen?"

"It is I who should speak," she said. "I meant to. It is this: forgive
me for all. I am sorry."

"I have nothing to forgive," he