d a soul in a stone image!

Good heavens! how could Robert Lorillard have sent her away? How, on the
contrary, could he have helped wanting this noble, brave, sweet creature
to warm his life for ever?

That's what I asked myself over and over again. And on top of that
question another. What if--he _hadn't_ helped it?

It was one evening, while she improvised a queer little "song of sleep"
for me that this thought came. It burst like a bombshell in my brain;
and the reason it hadn't burst before was because my mind always
pictured June and Robert together.

I was lying deep among cushions on a sofa, and involuntarily I started
up.

Joyce broke off her song in the midst.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Nothing," I said; "only--it just popped into my head that I'd forgotten
to telephone for--for a car to-morrow."

"For a car?" Joyce echoed. "How stupid of me, if you mentioned it! I
can't remember----"

"No, I didn't mention it," I said. (No wonder, when I hadn't even
_thought_ of it until this minute!) "But I--I _meant_ to. I'd made up my
mind to go to 'Pergolas,' the Duchess of Stane's place on the river; you
must have seen it when you were working for Robert Lorillard."

It was the first time I'd uttered his name since that impulsive break at
the luncheon table, over a fortnight ago now!

Whether or not her face blushed I couldn't see in the twilight, but her
_voice_ blushed as she said:

"Oh, yes! I've seen--the gates. Surely the duchess isn't there at this
time of the year?"

"She generally takes a 'rest cure' of a week or two at Pergolas this
month. It's perfect peace, and you know how dreamlike the river is in
autumn."

"I--know," Joyce murmured. "The woods all golden, and mists like creamy
veils across the blue distance. I know!"

There was a passion of suppressed longing and regret in her tone.

"Wouldn't you like to go with me?" I coaxed. "It's such lovely country
for a spin. And--I've never been there; but I suppose we must pass close
to Robert Lorillard's cottage? We go through Stanerton village. We could
stop and see if he's still at home, or if he's gone----"

"No--no, thank you, Princess," Joyce said, hastily, "I don't--care very
much for motoring. If you're to be away to-morrow I'll get through some
mending, and some letters of my own."

I didn't argue. I should have been surprised if she'd accepted. It would
have made the thing commonplace. And it would have upset my plan. I
can't