write and say so. I could face anything now."

This hill, and then the side of that; one more gate, then Daphne
turned for another look at Rome and the sea. Rome and the sea
were gone. Here was a great olive orchard, there a pasture
touching the sky, but where was anything belonging to her?
Somewhere on the hills a lamb was bleating, and near the crickets
chirped. Yes, it was safe, perfectly safe, yet the blue gown
moved where the heart thumped beneath it.

A whistle came floating down the valley to her. It was merry and
quick, but it struck terror to the girl's breast. That meant a
man. She stood and watched, with terrified gray eyes, and
presently she saw him: he was crashing through a heavy
undergrowth of bush and fern not far away. Daphne gathered her
skirts in one hand and fled. She ran as only an athletic girl
can run, swiftly, gracefully. Her skirt fluttered behind her; her
soft dark hair fell and floated on the wind.

The whistle did not cease, though the man was motionless now. It
changed from its melody of sheer joy to wonder, amazement,
suspense. It took on soothing tones; it begged, it wheedled. So
a mother would whistle, if mothers whistled, over the cradle of a
crying child, but the girl did not stop. She was running up a
hill, and at the top she stood, outlined in blue, against a bluer
sky. A moment later she was gone.

Half an hour passed. Cautiously above the top of the hill
appeared a girl's head. She saw what she was looking for: the
dreaded man was sitting on the stump of a felled birch tree,