face as he stood up, his long limbs cramped with the uncongenial
attitude.

"What have you been doing while I was away?" he asked, crossing
the room to look at a new kakemono on the wall.

She flitted away silently and returned in a few moments carrying a
small panel. She put it into his hands, drawing near to him within
the arm he slipped round her and slanted her head against him,
waiting for his criticism with the innate patience of her race.

Craven looked long at the painting. It was a study of a solitary
fir tree, growing at the edge of a cliff--wind-swept, rugged. The
high precipice on which it stood was only suggested and far below
there was a hint of boundless ocean--foam-crested.

It was the tree that gripped attention--a lonely outpost, clinging
doggedly to its jutting headland, rearing its head proudly in its
isolation; the wind seemed to rustle through its branches, its
gnarled trunk showed rough and weather-beaten. It was a poem of
loneliness and strength.

At last Craven laid it down carefully, and gathering up the
slender clasped hands, kissed them silently. The mute homage was
more to her than words. The colour rushed to her cheeks and her
eyes devoured his face almost hungrily.

"You like it?" she whispered wistfully.

"Like it?" he echoed, "Gad! little girl, it's wonderful. It's more