“I’ve lain awake at night,” said Mary Burton, as her long lashes drooped with the confession of her heart.  “I’ve lain awake at night wondering if—­now that you don’t have to stay—­if your own world won’t call you back—­away from me.  I’ve thought of all it holds for you—­and how little these mountains hold.  I’ve wondered if your heart didn’t ache for foreign lands and wonderful cities—­and all those things.  If it does, dear—­” she paused and said very seriously—­“you mustn’t let me keep you here.  I belong here, but you—­” The words fell into a faint note and died away unfinished.

“How little these hills hold for me,” he exclaimed in a dismayed voice, “when they hold you!” Then he laughed and told her as his eyes dwelt steadfastly and with worship on her face, “I belong here no less than you.  This has been the land of my salvation and of my love.  For me it is enough.  I have traded the unrest of cities for the tranquillity of the hills and the clamor of unhappy streets for the echoes of the woods, and the woods sing of you as the streets could never sing.  I have traded at a splendid profit, dear.”

“And you won’t tire of it—­and of me?”

“I wish life could be long enough to give me a fair test of that,” he smiled, and then he added in a serious voice, “It is in the cities that men and women grow tired.  It is under artifice that the soul wearies.  That life I knew, and left with the bitterness of exile—­but that was long ago.  When I go into it now, it shall be only for the joy of coming back here again—­of coming home.”

The girl looked up into his face, and the breeze fluttered a tendril of curl against her temple.

“You were the first person who ever called me pretty.”  Through the sadness of her face came a glimmer of shy merriment.  “You said I was—­as beautiful as starlight on water.”

“Mary, Mary!” The lover caught her slender figure in his strong arms and held her so close that her breath came fragrantly against his tanned cheek.  “You are as beautiful as starlight on water, and to me you’re more beautiful.  You’re the sun and moon and stars and music—­you’re everything that’s fine and splendid!”

“For your sake,” she said shyly, “I wish I were much more beautiful.”

Even the near shadow of death cannot banish the god of love.  Mary Burton felt the arms of the man she loved about her, and her eyes as she looked into his face unmasked their secrets until he could read her soul and its message.  For the moment they had forgotten all else.  Then, quite abruptly, her expression changed and became rapt, almost frightened.

Slowly she straightened up and her pupils dilated as though they were seeing something invisible to other eyes.  Her lips parted and she drew away from his grasp and stood gazing ahead.  Then she brushed one arm across her forehead.  With instant alarm Edwardes caught her shoulders.  “What is it?” he demanded.  “Is anything wrong?”