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My silence implied that I knew it, though I did not feel any brighter, happier or cleaner.

"Mis-ter Smith! you wrote that?--to-day! Wh'--who is she?"

On the crest of a ridge we slackened speed and my fellow-traveller lifted her veil and asked exultantly what those two splendid stars were that overhung yonder fringe of woods so low and so close to each other. The less brilliant one, I said, the red one, was Mars.

I was about to put a false meaning even on that, when she added "We don't need the ford this time of year; let us ride back as if we gave up the trip--for there may be a vidette looking at us now in the edge of those bushes--and as soon as we get where we can't be seen let us take a circuit. We can cross the creek somewhere above and strike the Wiggins road up in the woods. You can find your way by the blessed stars, can't you--being the angel you are?"

"Yes." She stooped low under the interlacing boughs and plunged with me into the double darkness.

"Why, who and what should I be?"

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