the night before; no desolate frenzy was to be seen
in this trim, neat, capable little figure, clad in blue gingham, that
made her throat very white, her hair very fair. Something in Girard's
glance seemed to show an instant pleasure that she should be the one to
greet him, but he bent anxiously over the watch he held in his hand.

"Will you tell me what time it is? My watch has stopped."

"It's half-past nine," said Dosia.

"Half-past _nine_!" He looked at her in a sort of quick, horrified
arraignment. "What do you mean?" His eye fell upon the clock, and
conviction seemed to steal upon him against his will. "Heavens and
earth, why wasn't I called? On this morning of all others, when every
moment's of importance! I thought I asked particularly to be waked
early."

"I suppose they thought you were tired and needed the rest," apologized
Dosia.

"Needed the rest!" His tone was poignant; he looked outraged; but his
anger was entirely impersonal--there was in it even a sort of boyish
appeal to her, as if she must feel it, too.

"You had better sit down and have some breakfast."

"Oh, _breakfast_!" His gesture deprecated her evident intention. "Please
don't. Thank you very much, but I don't want any breakfast; I only want
to get to town."

"There isn't any train for twenty-five minutes, so you might as well sit
down and eat," said Dosia firmly. "Come out to this little table on the
piazza." She led the way to the screened corner at the end, sweet with
the honeysuckle that swung its long loops in the wind, and faced him
sternly. "Do you take coffee?"

"Please don't, please don't cook me anything! I'd hate to trouble you."
He seemed so distressed that she relented a little.

"A glass of milk and some fruit, then; you'll _have_ to take that."

"Very well--if I must. Can't I get the things myself?"

"No." She ran away to get them for him, with some new joy singing in her
heart as she went backward and forward, bringing a pitcher of milk, a
glass, a dish of strawberries, some cream, and the sugar, sitting down
herself by the table afterward as he ate and drank. He gave her a sudden
smile, so surprised and pleased that the color surged in her cheeks.

"I'm not used to this," he said simply. "What is that dress you have
on--silk?"

[Illustration: SHE TOOK THE PISTOL FROM HIS RELAXED HOLD]

"No, it's cotton; do you like it?"

"_Very_ much. Oh, please don't get up--Zaidee wasn't calling you. I
won't eat another mo