auburn. His skin had the rich red and brown which belongs to those who live much out of doors.
So they walked along together—she a slender black shadow against the shine and glow of him. They ascended a long hill, going first through a pasture, and then through a wooded grove, coming at last on a bluff which overlooked a wide valley. Below were the farms, with shocks of corn in long, even rows—pale gold and russet—with a line of emerald where the trees along the streams still kept their green. Far off was the village and the church spire, and hanging just above it, the sun, half-shrouded in thin veils of mist, so that its top was arched like the gilded dome of some ethereal Eastern mosque.
They sat down in a place sheltered by a great rock, which loomed up behind them. They faced the south and west. Across the sky was now a rippling, ruddy wave of cloud. Hildegarde, wrapped tight against the wind in her black cape, spoke of it.
"It is like a shining sea," she said. "I like to think that somewhere out there mother is sailing on it."
It seemed as if she could talk of nothing but her mother. Crispin listened patiently enough. But the thing he wished to talk about was Hildegarde.
Presently he came to it. "What are you going to do now that she is gone?"
"That's what I have to tell you."
She was aware of the dramatic qualities of the revelation she was about to make. She was like a little sybil as she sat there speaking—with the black cape drawn tight about her, the wind blowing her hair.
When she had finished, there was silence for a mo-
