horses, and from a bit of muddy ground rose a cloud of yellow butterflies.

The Colonel yawned for the third time, looked at his watch, sighed, lifted
his finely arched brows with a whimsical smile for his own somnolence;
then, with an "I beg your pardon, my love," took out a lace handkerchief,
spread it over his face and head, and, crossing his legs, sunk back into
the capacious corner of the coach. In three minutes the placid rise and
fall of his ruffles bore witness that he slept.

The horseman, who, riding beside the lowered glass, had at intervals
conversed with the occupants of the coach, now glanced from the sleeping
gentleman to the lady, in whose dark, almond-shaped eyes lurked no sign of
drowsiness. The pond had been passed, and before them, between low banks
crowned with ferns and overshadowed by beech-trees, lay a long stretch of
shady road.

Haward drew rein, dismounted, and motioned to the coachman to check the
horses. When the coach had come to a standstill, he opened the door with
as little creaking as might be, and held out a petitionary hand. "Will you
not walk with me a little way, Evelyn?" he asked, speaking in a low voice
that he might not wake the sleeper. "It is much pleasanter out here, with
the birds and the flowers."

His eyes and the smile upon his lips added, "and with me." From what he
had been upon a hilltop, one moonlight night eleven years before, he had
become a somewhat silent, handsome gentleman, composed in manner,
experienced, not unkindly, looking abroad from his apportioned mountain
crag and solitary fortress upon men, and the busy ways of men, with a
tolerant gaze. That to certain of his London acquaintance he was simply
the well-bred philosopher and man of letters; that in the minds of others