n his--and of his
ignominious repulse. In spite of the sadness of his heart, a smile
crossed his face, but it was gone before he met her. He had quite given
up wondering now about that seafaring episode, and accepted it only as a
fact. It did not matter to him why or how she had played her part; it
was enough that she had done it, and all that she did was right in his
eyes.

The lady's horse was walking slowly up the heavy hill; the reins she
hardly held, letting them loose upon its neck. It was evident that with
her there was no difference since the time she had last seen Caius; it
appeared that she did not even purpose stopping her horse. Caius stopped
it gently, laying his hand upon its neck.

"What is it?" she asked, with evident curiosity, for the face that he
turned to her made her aware that there was something new in her quiet
life.

It was not easy to find his words; he did not care much to do so
quickly. "I could not go on," he said, "without letting you know----" He
stopped.

She did not answer him with any quick impatient question. She looked at
the snowy hill in front of her. "Well?" she said.

"The other day, you know," he said, "I rode by the back of your poultry
farm, and--I saw you when you were feeding the birds."

"Yes?" she said; she was still looking gravely enough at the snow. The
communication so far did not affect her much.

"Then, when I saw you, I knew that I had seen you before--in the sea--at
home."

A red flush had mantled her face. There was perhaps an air of offence,
for he saw that she held her head higher, and knew what the turn of the
neck would be in spite of the clumsy hood; but what surprised him most
was that she did not express any surprise or dismay.

"I did not suppose," she said, in her own gentle, distant way, "that if
you had a good memory for that--foolish play, you would not know me
again." Her manner added: "I have attempted no concealment."

"I did not know you in that dress you wear"--there was hatred for the
dress in his tone as he mentioned it--"so I supposed that you did not
expect me to know who you were."

She did not reply, leaving the burden of finding the next words upon
him. It would seem that she did not think there was more to say; and
this, her supreme indifference to his recognition or non-recognition,
half maddened him. He suddenly saw his case in a new aspect--she was a
cruel woman, and he had much with which to reproach her.

"'That foolish