Constance, her presence was not a necessary adjunct. Not only was she
expecting a message from Roxbury, but eagerly anticipating an outburst
of joyous news from the two who had, it seemed, very gladly left her
behind.

The young couple, returning by the lower road from the Schloss, came to
a resting place at a little eating-house and garden on the hillside
overlooking the river Inn. It is a quiet, demure, unfrequented place
among the crags, standing in from the white roadway a hundred feet or
more, clouded by gorgeous trees and sombre cliffs. It was to this
charming, romantic retreat that Brock led his fair, now tremulous
inamorata. She, too, knew that the hour for decision had come; it was in
the air, in the glint of his eyes, in the leaping of her heart. And she
knew what she would say to him, and what they would say to the world a
few hours hence. The mountains seemed to have lost their splendid frown;
they were beaming down upon her, tenderly caressing instead of bleak
and foreboding as they always had been before.

A rosy-cheeked girl came into the garden to serve them. Swift, cool
breezes were scurrying down the valley, bearing in their wake the soft
rain clouds that were soon to drench the earth and then radiantly pass
on. They were quite alone, seated in the shelter of a wide, overhanging
portico. A soft, green darkness was creeping over the mountainside,
pregnant with smell of the shower.

Constance ordered tea and a bite of something to eat for both. Brock's
gaze never left her exquisite face while she was engaged in the pretty
but rather self-conscious occupation of instructing the waitress. After
the girl had departed, he leaned forward across the little table and
said, a trifle hoarsely and disjointedly,--