hes to permit them to pass.

"As I was saying," Anne had just remarked, "when you act as you have
done since I have been here, Frank, it's always a woman. At Biarritz,
you remember, it was Mrs. Vaughn. That beast of a spring at Marno, it
was Mrs. McIntire. You might as well tell me who it is. You will in the
end."

"Upon my honor, Anne--" Frank began, with a laugh, when he met the clear
eyes of Katrine looking at him from below.

If there had been some coldness, some resentment at his lack of
attention to her, or implied jealousy at his devotion to another, he
could have understood it. But there was nothing of the kind. In those
eyes, which he believed the most beautiful in the world, there was
nothing but a glad light at seeing him, a bright smile of recognition in
which he could detect neither remembrance nor regret.

Anne Lennox turned her keen brown eyes backward to look at Katrine as
she crossed the bridge. "Frank Ravenel," she exclaimed, "if a girl who
looks like that lives near you, you have been making love to her! I
wonder if by any chance she could be _the_ woman!"

"She is the daughter of the new overseer," Frank answered; and his tone
implied, though the words were not spoken: "and by this reason out of
the class." The statement was made with misleading frankness, and Anne
Lennox, understanding his pride, put the affair from her mind.

The next time of meeting between Francis and Katrine was one morning on
the river road. Her cheeks flushed at sight of him, and there was an odd
reserve in her manner; but she never seemed more beautiful.

He stood, hat in hand, wondering at her silence, a bit amused.

"It is a pleasant day," he suggested, at length, remotely.

"It _is_ pleasant," she answered, with averted eyes.

"Unusual weather for this season, don't you think?" he went on, a bit of
teasing in his tone.

"I haven't thought of it," she said, concisely.

"Suppose you think about it now," he suggested, jesting still, but not
quite at ease concerning her mood.

Suddenly she turned toward him, her face suffused, her eyes troubled.

"Katrine," he cried, "what is the matter? Tell me! Let me help you!"

"I'm jealous," she said, simply.

"Jealous!" he repeated. "Of whom?"

"You."

She had clasped her hands in front of her, and stood with her chin drawn
in, looking at him from under a tangle of dusky hair.

"You poor child," he said, moving toward her.

"Don't!" she cried, backing away, "don't