They had reached their picnic-ground—­the edge of a grove whose bright-hued foliage still afforded a grateful shade.  The horse was unharnessed and picketed so that he might have a long range for grazing.  Then Martine brought the provision basket to the foot of a great oak, and sat down to wait for Helen, who had wandered away in search of wild flowers.  At last she came with a handful of late-blooming closed gentians.

“I thought these would make an agreeable feature in your lunch.”

“Oh, you are beginning to exert yourself.”

“Yes, I have concluded to, a little.  So must you, to the extent of making a fire.  The rest will be woman’s work.  I propose to drink your health in a cup of coffee.”

“Ah, this is unalloyed,” he cried, sipping it later on.

“The coffee?”

“Yes, and everything.  We don’t foresee the bright days any more than the dark ones.  I did not dream of this in Virginia.”

“You are easily satisfied.  The coffee is smoky, the lunch is cold, winter is coming, and—­”

“And I am very happy,” he said.

“It would be a pity to disturb your serenity.”

“Nothing shall disturb it to-day.  Peace is one of the rarest experiences in this world.  I mean only to remember that our armies are disbanded and that you are at rest, like Nature.”

She had brought a little book of autumn poems, and after lunch read to him for an hour, he listening with the same expression of quiet satisfaction.  As the day declined, she shivered slightly in the shade.  He immediately arose and put a shawl around her.

“You are always shielding me,” she said gently.

“One can do so little of that kind of thing,” he replied, “not much more than show intent.”

“Now you do yourself injustice.”  After a moment’s hesitancy she added, “I am not quite in your mood to-day, and even Nature, as your ally, cannot make me forget or even wish to forget.”

“I do not wish you to forget, but merely cease to remember for a little while.  You say Nature is my ally.  Listen:  already the wind is beginning to sigh in the branches overhead.  The sound is low and mournful, as if full of regret for the past and forebodings for the future.  There is a change coming.  All that I wished or could expect in you was that this serene, quiet day would give you a respite—­that complete repose in which the wounded spirit is more rapidly healed and strengthened for the future.”

“Have you been strengthened?  Have you no fears for the future?”

“No fears, Helen.  My life is strong in its negation.  The man who is agitated by hopes and fears, who is doomed to disappointments, is the one who has not recognized his limitations, who has not accepted well-defined conditions.”

“Hobart, I’m going to put you on your honor now.  Remember, and do not answer hastily,” and her gaze into his face was searching.  Although quiet and perfectly self-controlled, the rich color mounted to her very brow.