there for a moment, saying: "I ask much, and I can give no reward, except
the gratitude of one who would rather die than break a promise. It isn't
much, but it is all that is worth your having. Good-night. Good-bye."

"Good-night. Good-bye," he gently replied; but he said something beneath
his breath that sounded worth the hearing.

The next morning while her father was gone to consult the chief army-
surgeon at Noumea, Marie strolled with Angers in the grounds. At length
she said: "Angers, take me to the river, and then on down, until we come
to the high banks." With her hand on Angers' arm, and in her face that
passive gentleness which grows so sweetly from sightless eyes till it
covers all the face, they passed slowly towards the river. When they
came to the higher banks covered with dense scrub, Angers paused, and
told Marie where they were.

"Find me the she-oak tree," the girl said; "there is only one, you know."

"Here it is, my dear. There, your hand is on it now."

"Thank you. Wait here, Angers, I shall be back presently."

"But oh, my dear--"

"Please do as I say, Angers, and do not worry." The girl pushed aside
some bushes, and was lost to view. She pressed along vigilantly by a
descending path, until her feet touched rocky ground. She nodded to
herself, then creeping between two bits of jutting rock at her right,
immediately stood at the entrance to a cave, hidden completely from the
river and from the banks above. At the entrance, for which she felt, she