The _ancien_ limped forward from the inner darkness, showing his gums.

"I knew it," he cried triumphantly. "Did I not say that he would return?"

Markham took the bony fingers, his anxious gaze going past them toward the glow of the kitchen.

"And Yvonne?" he asked feverishly. "She is within?"

"She is here, yes, she is here--waiting for you."

He dropped his valise and strode past them eagerly. A pot simmered upon the fire, the table gave evidence of a recent repast, and a pile of dishes nearby stood mutely in evidence, but of Hermia there was no sign.

"_Tiens_!" Madame Gu?gou was muttering. "She was here but a moment ago. In the garden, perhaps--"

He dashed out of the rear door and down the graveled walk.

"Hermia!" he called, and then again, "Hermia!"

He reached the arbor just in time to see her speed across the lower end of the meadow and vanish into the trees. Hatless he leaped the low wall and followed, joy giving him wings, while the old couple wonderingly watched from the doorway. They were mad, these two. She had been waiting for him a month and now--she fled. Mad? But what was love but madness?

Markham sprang into the cover of the trees where he had seen her disappear and followed the path up the hill breathlessly. She would escape him now, even, when she had sent for him and he had come to her! She could not go far. The cover was thin. He would have called again, but he spared his breath, for he knew that she would not reply.

He reached the end of the path and scanned the hill beyond. She could not have gone that way. He turned and plunged among the pine trees to his right where the woods were thicker. It was getting darker, but he saw her white skirt, gray in the shadows--saw it--lost it and found it again in the deep wood. He sprang forward over fallen trees, through brambles, over rocks, down the slope to the streamside and caught her behind a tree where she had hidden away from him.

"Hermia!" he cried. "Hermia, you witch! What a dance you've led me!

But I have you now--I have you--"

And so he had--in both of his arms, his lips seeking hers. But she denied him.

"Did you think you could escape me--again?" he laughed, "when I've come half across the world for you?"

"You--you frightened me," she gasped.

"How did I frighten you?"

"I did--didn't expect you--"

"You sent for me?"

"I--I thought you would have cabled--"

He laughed joyously.

"Cabled the hour of my arrival, and found you--missing! I know you now, you see. I took no chances. As it is, you tried to get away--"

"I didn't get far--"

"That wasn't your fault. You tried. Why did you run?"

She was silent, her head still hidden. He repeated the question.

"I--I don't know."

"Do I frighten you now?"

"Not so much."

He held her more closely in his arms, and kissed the crown of her head, which was the only object offered.

"I know," he whispered, "because you had given me everything except yourself--and you knew that I would take that."

"No, no."

"What, then?"

Silence.

"I had feared--" she paused.

"What had you feared?"

"That you might not come. You didn't reply--"

"This is my reply."

He raised her lips slowly to his own and took them. Her eyes were closed as though she feared to open them, and show him the dawn of her womanhood. But in a moment her figure relaxed in his arms and her head sank upon his shoulder in token of surrender.

"Mad little Hermia!" he whispered.

"Mad no longer," she sighed.

"You must prove it. I'll not let you go until I'm sure you won't go flying from me again."

"I don't want you to let me go. I want you to hold me tight. It is--rest. I'm tired of going. I want to stay--here."

"You love me?"

This time she opened her eyes wide and let him see that what she said was true. She had outgrown her adolescence--her madness, unless it could be called madness to love as she did. Her eyes were deep wells of mystery, in which he saw, as from the distant brink above, his own image, clear amid the shadows. There were signs of trouble in them, too, as though she had thought long and distressfully, but greater than the marks of pain were the sweeter tokens of a love and trust unalterable.

She sank upon a rock, he beside her, her head on his breast. The dusk fell swiftly, its shadows enfolding them. He kissed her again and again, her lips trembled upon his as she murmured the words so long unspoken.

"Philidor, I love you--I love you. It was so long--the waiting."

"You needn't have waited, dear," he said gently.

"Oh, don't reproach me! I can't bear it. It had to be. Olga--she smirched us--your love and mine--made--"

He stopped her lips with kisses, smiling inwardly and thinking of the wisdom of Mrs. Hammond.

"There is no Olga--" he murmured, "no gossip but the whisper of the stream which knows the truth."