“Don’t!” he said roughly.  “For God’s sake, Diane, don’t!  It’s awfully decent of you—­but—­but I can’t stand it!  Have you forgotten—­” he choked.  “Surely,” he said, “Philip told you all.  He promised—­”

“Yes,” said Diane, “and—­and that’s why—­” She was very close to tears now, but with the old imperiousness, with the Spartan pride of the Westfall training behind her, she flung back her head with a quick dry sob, her eyes imploring.

“Let’s both forget,” she said.  “Oh, Carl, I was cruel, cruel!  I—­I can not see now what made me so.  Philip is right.  He is always just and honorable.  He blames himself and me.  You’ll forgive me?”

“I forgive!” faltered Carl.

“There were forces driving you,” said Diane steadily, “but I—­was deliberate.  Let’s pledge to a new beginning.  Let me be your friend as Philip is.”

Their hands tightened in a clasp whose warmth was prophetic.

Mic-co’s words rang again in Carl’s ears.

“Fate is slipping into the groove of your life people who are destined to care greatly!”

Diane was another!

Deeply moved, Carl glanced away over the sunlit water, rippling and sparkling with myriad shafts of light.

“Let’s sit here on the bank a minute,” he said.  “There’s something I must tell you.  It’s all right,” he added with a smile, interpreting her glance aright, “I made my peace with Aunt Agatha before you came in.  She burst into tears at the sight of me and retired to her tent.  I can’t make out just why, but I think she said it was either because I’m so tanned and a little thinner, or because none of her family were ever addicted to disappearing, or because she has an uncle who’s a bishop.  I came from Philip.”

“Philip!”

“Yes.  He came to Mic-co’s the morning I was leaving.  Later we met again at a village on the outskirts of the Glades.  He waited for me.  There was a telegram there from the Baron.  Philip said he knew you’d forgive him if he sent his message on by me—­his father is very ill.”

“Poor Philip!” exclaimed the girl.  In the fullness of her swift compassion she forgot why Philip had gone back to the Indian village.  It flooded back directly and her wistful eyes implored.

“It was a jealous lie,” said Carl gently.  “The old chief knew.  The Indian who told it hated your father.”

Diane sat so white and still that Carl touched her diffidently upon the arm.

“Don’t look so!” he pleaded.  “There was some difficulty at first, for Philip’s Seminole is nearly as fragmentary as the old chief’s English, but they called in Sho-caw and after a host of blunders and misunderstandings, Philip ran the thing to earth at last.  Theodomir married and divorced your mother in the Indian village just as the paper in the candlestick said.”

Still the girl did not speak or move and Carl saw with compassion that the veins of her throat were throbbing wildly.  He fell quietly to talking of Keela, caught her interest and watched with a sense of relief the rich color flood back to his cousin’s lips and cheeks.