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overheard their conversation, as they rode side by side along the narrow pathway. The dim sunlight which for centuries had never fully penetrated the leafy roof above; the mystic whisper of the woods, moving round them like some invisible presence; the cool damp air and mossy fragrance, all combined to tune their thoughts into harmony. Sometimes a small blue kingfisher darted across their path like a falling sapphire, or the reed-warbler repeated his one sad little melody, as if he were saying, “All in vain—all in vain—all in vain,” with musical but heart-breaking persistency.

Alice found herself talking of her recollections of childhood—a sign of the last downward step of intimacy between two young people. She spoke of the many roving expeditions she had made with her father over the great island continent; of long summer days spent in riding over the immense inland plains, sun-bleached and swept by the dreaded hot wind of the interior; of winter nights when they camped out beside some great marshes, and heard the pelicans trumpeting to each other, or startled a flock of wild swans from the swamp into the still frosty night. She boasted that she had learned to distinguish between the different water-birds, not only by their notes, but by the