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when, just as our last note died among the trees one of us cried, "Listen!" and through the stillness there came from far away on our right the last three measures of a bugle sounding The March.

"Slightly."

"Come!" I echoed. We swung into the broader road and followed the contrabands.

"Hmm; Charlotte Oliver. Are you sure you have the name just right?"

"Tell her I tried to keep my promise to her."

"Yes," he responded, "but not she! Her life is still hers; she will neither give it away nor throw it away. She wants it, and she wants it whole."

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