And the spirit of the year seemed to have entered into Pearl.  She was as wistful as the day, as pensive as the sighing wind.  She arrived early at her destination.  The sun lay warm in her little bower of encircling pines and she sat down on a fallen log to await Hanson’s coming.  He could not take her by surprise for, through a little opening in the trees, she could see the trail, it was in plain view.

Sitting down then to wait, she rested her elbow on her knee and her chin in the palm of her hand.  It seemed as if the power of anticipation were gone from her.  She wondered dully at her own languor, not only of body, but of mind.  In a few moments she would see again the man whom she had passionately loved, and in parting from whom she had not dreamed it to be within human possibility so to suffer, and yet, at the prospect of meeting him again, her heart throbbed not one beat faster.  She could not even look forward to dancing that night with any excitement or pleasure.  She wondered what Seagreave would think of her when he saw her; she would be a vision far more brilliant than any spirit of the autumn woods, and she would wear her emeralds again, the emeralds for which Bob Flick had squandered a fortune.  She put up her hand and touched them where they hung about her neck, concealed under her gown, for she wore them night and day, never allowing them to leave her person.  Good old Bob!  Seagreave had said there were only a few great dancers.  Well, she would show him.  She could dance; no matter how critical he was, he would have to admit that.  And then her heart seemed suddenly to run down with a queer, cold little thrill.

There was Hanson ascending the trail.  He was only a few feet away, and even as she jumped to her feet he saw her and waved his hand.  He paused a moment for breath and then hurried on.

“Pearl!” he cried, and caught her in his arms, covering her face with kisses and crushing her against his heart.  It seemed hours to her, but it was really only a moment before she pushed him from her, slipped from his arms, and stood panting and flushed before him.

“Pearl, O Pearl!” he cried again, and would once more have caught her deftly to him, but again she slipped from him.  “Sit down,” she cried petulantly, motioning to the fallen log.  “You’re out of breath, you’ve had a long climb.”  She herself sat down and he followed her example, encircling her with his arms; a tiny frown showed itself in her forehead and she bent slightly forward as if to evade his clasp, folding her arms about her knees.

“Gee!  You bet it was a climb,” he said, wiping his brow and still breathing a little hard.  “But I’d have climbed right on up to heaven if you’d been there waiting for me.  Lord, Pearl! if I’d had to wait much longer to see you it would have finished me, I do believe.  Oh, sweetheart, you’re lovelier than ever, and you’re not going to punish either of us any more, I can tell you that.  You’re coming down with me and we’re going to live, Pearl, live, just as I told you we would, down there in the palms in the desert.  Now I’m telling you again among the pines, and this time you’re going to listen and come.  I guess we’ve both of us pretty well found out that it’s no use our trying to live apart any longer.”