"Saunders is right," Mostyn declared, enthusiastically. "I don't blame
the fellow for spending so much time on his plantation. This is the
only genuine life. The other is insanity, crazy, competitive madness,
for which there is no cure this side of the grave. I must have two
natures. At this moment I feel as if I'd rather die than sweat and
stew over investments and speculations in a bank as I have been doing,
and yet I may be sure that the thing will clutch me again. One word of
Delbridge's lucky manipulations or old Mitchell's praise, and the
fever would burn to my bones. But I mustn't think of them if I am to
benefit by this. I must fill myself with this primitive simplicity and
dream once more the glorious fancies of boyhood."

Finishing dressing, he descended the stairs to the hall below and
passed through the open door to the veranda. No one was in sight, but
from the kitchen in the rear he heard the clatter of utensils and
dishes, and smelt the aroma of boiling coffee and frying ham. Already
his appetite was sharpened as if by the mountain air. He decided on
taking a walk, and, stepping down to the grass, he turned round the
house, coming face to face upon Dolly, whom he had not yet seen, as
she came from a side door.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, flushing prettily. "I did not think you would
rise so early--at least, not on your first morning."

He eyed her almost in bewilderment as he took the hand she was
cordially extending. Could this full-blown rose of young womanhood,
this startling beauty, be the slip of a timid girl he had so lightly
treated three years ago? What hair, what eyes, what palpitating,
sinuous grace! She was fast recovering calmness. There was a womanly
dignity about her which seemed incongruous in one so young.