Arriving at the mill, she made no pretense of stopping, but turned into a trail leading through a field of stubble toward a creek.  Crossing by a rustic bridge we continued on the trail, which now led uphill to one of the most picturesque spots in the country.  The Eagle’s Nest, it was called—­the summit of a cliff that rose sheer into the air to a height of hundreds of feet above the forest at its base.  From this elevated point we had a noble view of another valley and of the opposite hills flushed with the last rays of the setting sun.

As we watched the light escaping to higher and higher planes from the encroaching flood of shadow filling the valley we heard footsteps, and in another moment were joined by Richard Benning.

“I saw you from the road,” he said carelessly; “so I came up.”

Being a fool, I neglected to take him by the throat and pitch him into the treetops below, but muttered some polite lie instead.  On the girl the effect of his coming was immediate and unmistakable.  Her face was suffused with the glory of love’s transfiguration:  the red light of the sunset had not been more obvious in her eyes than was now the lovelight that replaced it.

“I am so glad you came!” she said, giving him both her hands; and, God help me! it was manifestly true.

Seating himself upon the ground he began a lively dissertation upon the wild flowers of the region, a number of which he had with him.  In the middle of a facetious sentence he suddenly ceased speaking and fixed his eyes upon Eva, who leaned against the stump of a tree, absently plaiting grasses.  She lifted her eyes in a startled way to his, as if she had felt his look.  She then rose, cast away her grasses, and moved slowly away from him.  He also rose, continuing to look at her.  He had still in his hand the bunch of flowers.  The girl turned, as if to speak, but said nothing.  I recall clearly now something of which I was but half-conscious then—­the dreadful contrast between the smile upon her lips and the terrified expression in her eyes as she met his steady and imperative gaze.  I know nothing of how it happened, nor how it was that I did not sooner understand; I only know that with the smile of an angel upon her lips and that look of terror in her beautiful eyes Eva Maynard sprang from the cliff and shot crashing into the tops of the pines below!

How and how long afterward I reached the place I cannot say, but Richard Benning was already there, kneeling beside the dreadful thing that had been a woman.

“She is dead—­quite dead,” he said coldly.  “I will go to town for assistance.  Please do me the favor to remain.”

He rose to his feet and moved away, but in a moment had stopped and turned about.

“You have doubtless observed, my friend,” he said, “that this was entirely her own act.  I did not rise in time to prevent it, and you, not knowing her mental condition—­you could not, of course, have suspected.”