Peter gave a
great sigh, fumbled with his package, and next the string of pearls
swayed from his finger.

"Yours," he uttered, holding them toward her.

Silence intervened. A slaty cloud raised its head in the east, and
against that her siren's face was pale. Her blue eyes burned on the gems
with a strange and haunted light. There was wickedness here, she
mistrusted, but how could it touch her?

Peter came toward her, bent over her softly as that shadow in whose
violet folds they were wrapped deeper moment by moment. His fingers
trembled at the back of her neck and could not find the clasp. Her damp
body held motionless as stone under his attempt.

"It is done," he cried, hoarsely.

She sprang free of him on the instant.

"Is this all my thanks?" Peter muttered.

She stooped mischievously and dropped a handful of shells deftly on the
sand, one by one. Peter, stooping, read what was written there; he cried
for joy, and crushed her in his arms, as little Rackby had crushed her
mother, once, under the Preaching Tree.

A strong shudder went through her. The yellow hair whipped about her
neck. Then for one instant he saw her eyes go past him and fix
themselves high up at the top of that crag. Peter loosened his hold with
a cry almost of terror at the light in those eyes. He thought he had
seen Cad Sills staring at him.

There was no time to verify such notions. Day Rackby had seen Jethro on
his knees, imploring her, voicelessly, with his mysterious right reason,
which said, plainer than words, that the touch of Peter's lips was
poison to her soul. It seemed to Jethro in that moment that a ringing
cry burst from those dumb lips, but perhaps it was one of the voices of
the surf. The girl's arms were lifted toward him; she whirled, thrust
Peter back, and fled over soft and treacherous hassocks of the purple
weed. In another instant she flashed into the dying light on the sea
beyond the headland, poised.

The weed lifted and fell, seething, but the cry, even if the old man had
heard it once, was not repeated.

GREEN GARDENS[13]

By FRANCES NOYES HART

(From _Scribner's Magazine_)

Daphne was singing to herself when she came through the painted gate in
the back wall. She was singing partly because it was June, and Devon,
and she was seventeen, and partly because she had caught a breath-taking
glimpse of herself in the long mirror as she had flashed through the
hall at home, and it seemed almost too goo