ter.

I felt to see that my money was all right--to assure myself it was no jest
in earnest--and departed. Being singularly psychic to suggestion I
followed the thought that I wash in the lake, and started in that
direction, along a footpath that led across a meadow, over a stile. A
thick growth of bushes lined the lake for aways, and then the footpath
seemed to follow right through the undergrowth. I pushed the green
branches aside, and continued along for about a hundred feet, when I stood
on the green, grass-covered bank of the beautiful "Windermere." Daffodils
lined the water's edge--the daffodils of Wordsworth--down the lake were
the white wings of several sailboats; the sun had gone down, but his long
rays of gold still pierced the sky, while across the water arose, silent
and majestic, the dark purple hills.

It was a beautiful sight--so full of quiet and peace and rest. I stood
with hat in hand, the evening breeze fanning my face, enjoying the scene.
Just then there was a little splash in the water, and looking down I saw a
woman with back toward me sitting on a boulder, tossing pebbles into the
lake. By the side of the woman were her hat and book. I was on the point
of softly backing out through the bushes, when it came to me that I had
seen that head with its big coil of brown hair somewhere else--but where,
ah, where!

Why, in Paris, two years before. It was White Pigeon.

She had not seen me. I retraced my steps, and then came crashing through
the juniper, straight over to the bankside, where I sat down about twenty
feet from the good lady. I was whistling violently and throwing pebbles
into the water, not even glancing toward her. She let me whistle for a
full minute and then said gently: "Do not be absurd! I know you." Then we
both laughed, and I, of course, did the regulation thing, and asked, "When
did you arrive, and where are you going, and how do you like it?"

"You see what I am doing here, and as for when I arrived and how long I'll
stay, and how I like it--what difference is it? There, you are surprised
to see me, aren't you? I thought you had gotten past being surprised at
anything, long ago--only silly people are surprised--you once said it,
yourself!"

Then White Pigeon ceased to speak and we simply gazed into each other's
eyes. White Pigeon has gray eyes that sometimes are blue and sometimes
amber--it all depends upon her mood and the thoughts reflected there. The
long, sober gaze stole o