them,--a handsome woman and her
daughter, two young men, and an older man of military appearance. They
did not interest Jane, but they broke in upon her reverie; for they
seated themselves at a table near by and, in truly British fashion,
continued a loud-voiced conversation, as if no one else were present.
One or two foreigners, who had been peacefully dreaming over coffee and
cigarettes, rose and strolled away to quiet seats under the palm trees.
Jane would have done the same, but she really felt too comfortable to
move, and afraid of losing the sweet sense of Garth's nearness. So she
remained where she was.

The elderly man held in his hand a letter and a copy of the MORNING
POST, just received from England. They were discussing news contained
in the letter and a paragraph he had been reading aloud from the paper.

"Poor fellow! How too sad!" said the chaperon of the party.

"I should think he would sooner have been killed outright!" exclaimed
the girl. "I know I would."

"Oh, no," said one of the young men, leaning towards her. "Life is
sweet, under any circumstances."

"Oh, but blind!" cried the young voice, with a shudder. "Quite blind
for the rest of one's life. Horrible!"

"Was it his own gun?" asked the older woman. "And how came they to be
having a shooting party in March?"

Jane smiled a fierce smile into the moonlight. Passionate love of
animal life, intense regard for all life, even of the tiniest insect,
was as much a religion with her as the worship of beauty was with
Garth. She never could pretend sorrow over these accounts of shooting
accidents, or falls in the hunting-field. When those who went out to
inflict cruel pain were hurt themselves; when those who went forth to
take eager, palpitating life, lost their own; it seemed to Jane a just
retribution. She felt no regret, and pretended none. So now she smiled
fiercely to herself, thinking: "One pair of eyes the less to look along
a gun and frustrate the despairing dash for home and little ones of a
terrified little mother rabbit. One hand that will never again change a
soaring upward flight of spreading wings, into an agonised mass of
falling feathers. One chance to the good, for the noble stag, as he
makes a brave run to join his hinds in the valley."

Meanwhile the military-looking man had readjusted his eye-glasses and
was holding the sheets of a closely written letter to the light.

"No," he said after a moment, "shooting parties are ove