“I like this place,” said she, breaking a long silence, “it is so dismal —­so uncanny.  Do you know I wouldn’t dare to sit here alone, Jem.  I should imagine that all sorts of dreadful things were hidden behind the bushes and trees, waiting to spring out on me.  Ugh!”

“You’d better let me take you in,” said her companion tenderly; “the well isn’t always wholesome, especially in the hot weather.

“Let’s make a move.”

The girl gave an obstinate little shake, and settled herself more securely on her seat.

“Smoke your cigar in peace,” she said quietly.  “I am settled here for a quiet talk.  Has anything been heard of Wilfred yet?”

“Nothing.”

“Quite a dramatic disappearance, isn’t it?” she continued.  “Another scrape, I suppose, and another letter for you in the same old strain; ‘Dear Jem, help me out.’”

Jem Benson blew a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air, and holding his cigar between his teeth brushed away the ash from his coat sleeves.

“I wonder what he would have done without you,” said the girl, pressing his arm affectionately.  “Gone under long ago, I suppose.  When we are married, Jem, I shall presume upon the relationship to lecture him.  He is very wild, but he has his good points, poor fellow.”

“I never saw them,” said Benson, with startling bitterness.  “God knows I never saw them.”

“He is nobody’s enemy but his own,” said the girl, startled by this outburst.

“You don’t know much about him,” said the other, sharply.  “He was not above blackmail; not above ruining the life of a friend to do himself a benefit.  A loafer, a cur, and a liar!”

The girl looked up at him soberly but timidly and took his arm without a word, and they both sat silent while evening deepened into night and the beams of the moon, filtering through the branches, surrounded them with a silver network.  Her head sank upon his shoulder, till suddenly with a sharp cry she sprang to her feet.

“What was that?” she cried breathlessly.

“What was what?” demanded Benson, springing up and clutching her fast by the arm.

She caught her breath and tried to laugh.

“You’re hurting me, Jem.”

His hold relaxed.

“What is the matter?” he asked gently.

“What was it startled you?”

“I was startled,” she said, slowly, putting her hands on his shoulder.  “I suppose the words I used just now are ringing in my ears, but I fancied that somebody behind us whispered ‘Jem, help me out.’”

“Fancy,” repeated Benson, and his voice shook; “but these fancies are not good for you.  You—­are frightened—­at the dark and the gloom of these trees.  Let me take you back to the house.”

“No, I’m not frightened,” said the girl, reseating herself.  “I should never be really frightened of anything when you were with me, Jem.  I’m surprised at myself for being so silly.”