“Ah, you are very cruel!  You drive me back to poor, melancholy Franzel, who is indeed a funeral in himself.”

“That is very sad, Monsieur,”—­and she smiled at him with mischief in her eyes.  “My heart goes out to any one who is left to mourn—­alone.”

He gathered his reins and drew up his horse, lifting his hat with a perfect gesture.

“There are sadder blows than losing one’s sovereign, Mademoiselle!” and he shook his bared head mournfully and rode back to find his friend.

She sought now her favorite bridle-paths and her heart was light with the sweetness and peace of the spring as she heard the rush and splash of the creek, saw the flash of wings and felt the mystery of awakened life throbbing about her.  The heart of a girl in spring is the home of dreams, and Shirley’s heart overflowed with them, until her pulse thrilled and sang in quickening cadences.  The wistfulness of April, the dream of unfathomable things, shone in her brown eyes; and a girl with dreams in her eyes is the divinest work of the gods.  Into this twentieth century, into the iron heart of cities, she still comes, and the clear, high stars of April nights and the pensive moon of September are glad because of her.

The groom marveled at the sudden changes of gait, the gallops that fell abruptly to a walk with the alterations of mood in the girl’s heart, the pauses that marked a moment of meditation as she watched some green curving bank, or a plunge of the mad little creek that sent a glory of spray whitely into the sunlight.  It grew late and the shadows of waning afternoon crept through the park.  The crowd had hurried home to escape the chill of the spring dusk, but she lingered on, reluctant to leave, and presently left her horse with the groom that she might walk alone beside the creek in a place that was beautifully wild.  About her lay a narrow strip of young maples and beyond this the wide park road wound at the foot of a steep wooded cliff.  The place was perfectly quiet save for the splash and babble of the creek.

Several minutes passed.  Once she heard her groom speak to the horses, though she could not see him, but the charm of the place held her.  She raised her eyes from the tumbling water before her and looked off through the maple tangle.  Then she drew back quickly, and clasped her riding-crop tightly.  Some one had paused at the farther edge of the maple brake and dismounted, as she had, for a more intimate enjoyment of the place.  It was John Armitage, tapping his riding-boot idly with his crop as he leaned against a tree and viewed the miniature valley.