Between Brandon in Suffolk and Thetford in Norfolk runs a quiet river, the Little Ouse, where few boats break the stillness of the water. On either bank stand whispering beech-trees, and so low is the music of the leaves that the message of Ely’s distant bells floats through them on a quiet evening as far as Brandon and beyond it.

Three years after Etta’s death, in the glow of an April sunset, a Canadian canoe was making its stealthy way up the river. The paddle crept in and out so gently, so lazily and peacefully, that the dabchicks and other waterfowl did not cease their chatter of nests and other April matters as the canoe glided by.

So quiet, indeed, was its progress that Karl Steinmetz—suddenly white-headed, as strong old men are apt to find themselves—did not heed its approach. He was sitting on the bank with a gun, a little rifle, lying on the grass beside him. He was half-asleep in the enjoyment of a large Havana cigar. The rays of the setting sun, peeping through the lower branches, made him blink lazily like a large, good-natured cat.

He turned his head slowly, with a hunter’s consciousness of the approach of some one, and contemplated the canoe with a sense of placid satisfaction.

The small craft was passing in the shadow of a great tree—stealing over the dark, unruffled depth. A girl dressed in white, with a large diaphanous white hat and a general air of brisk English daintiness, was paddling slowly and with no great skill.

“A picture,” said Steinmetz to himself with Teutonic deliberation. “Gott im Himmel! what a pretty picture to make an old man young!”

Then his gray eyes opened suddenly and he rose to his feet.

“Coloss-a-al!” he muttered. He dragged from his head a lamentable old straw hat and swept a courteous bow.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “ah, what happiness! After three years!”

Maggie stopped and looked at him with troubled eyes; all the color slowly left her face.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. And there was something like fear in her voice.

“No harm, mademoiselle, but good. I have come down from big game to vermin. I have here a saloon rifle. I wait till a water-rat comes, and then I shoot him.”

The canoe had drifted closer to the land, the paddle trailing in the water.

“You are looking at my white hairs,” he went on, in a sudden need of conversation. “Please bring your boat a little nearer.”

The paddle twisted lazily in the water like a fish’s tail.

“Hold tight,” he said, reaching down.

With a little laugh he lifted the canoe and its occupant far up on to the bank.

“Despite my white hairs,” he said, with a tap of both hands on his broad chest.

“I attach no importance to them,” she answered, taking his proffered hand and stepping over the light bulwark. “I have gray ones myself. I am getting old too.”

“How old?” he asked, looking down at her with his old bluntness.

“Twenty-eight.”

“Ah, they are summers,” he said; “mine have turned to winters. Will you sit here where I was sitting? See, I will spread this rug for your white dress.”

Maggie paused, looking through the trees toward the sinking sun. The light fell on her face and showed one or two lines which had not been there before. It showed a patient tenderness in the steady eyes which had always been there—which Catrina had noticed in the stormy days that were past.

“I cannot stay long,” she replied. “I am with the Faneaux at Brandon for a few days. They dine at seven.”

“Ah! her ladyship is a good friend of mine. You remember her charity ball in town, when it was settled that you should come to Osterno. A strange world, mademoiselle—a very strange world, so small, and yet so large and bare for some of us!”

Maggie looked at him. Then she sat down.

“Tell me,” she said, “all that has happened since then.”

“I went back,” answered Steinmetz, “and we were duly exiled from Russia. It was sure to come. We were too dangerous. Altogether too quixotic for an autocracy. For myself I did not mind, but it hurt Paul.”

There was a little pause, while the water lapped and whispered at their feet.

“I heard,” said Maggie at length, in a measured voice, “that he had gone abroad for big game.”

“Yes—to India.”

“He did not go to America?” enquired Maggie indifferently. She was idly throwing fragments of wood into the river.

“No,” answered Steinmetz, looking straight in front of him. “No, he did not go to America.”

“And you?”

“I—oh, I stayed at home. I have taken a house. It is behind the trees. You cannot see it. I live at peace with all men and pay my bills every week. Sometimes Paul comes and stays with me. Sometimes I go and stay with him in London or in Scotland. I smoke and shoot water-rats, and watch the younger generation making the same mistakes that we made in our time. You have heard that my country is in order again? They have remembered me. For my sins they have made me a count. Bon Dieu! I do not mind. They may make me a prince, if it pleases them.”

He was watching her face beneath his grim old eyebrows.

“These details bore you,” he said.

“No.”

“When Paul and I are together we talk of a new heaven and a new Russia. But it will not come in our time. We are only the sowers, and the harvest is not yet. But I tell Paul that he has not sown wild oats, nor sour grapes, nor thistles.”

He paused, and the expression of his face changed to one of semi-humorous gravity.

“Mademoiselle,” he went on, “it has been my lot to love the prince like a son. It has been my lot to stand helplessly by while he passed through many troubles. Perhaps the good God gave him all his troubles at first. Do you think so?”

Maggie was looking straight in front of her across the quiet river.

“Perhaps so,” she said.

Steinmetz also stared in front of him during a little silence. The common thoughts of two minds may well be drawn together by the contemplation of a common object. Then he turned toward her.

“It will be a happiness for him to see you,” he said quietly.

Maggie ceased breaking small branches and throwing them into the river. She ceased all movement, and scarcely seemed to breathe.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“He is staying with me here.”

Maggie glanced toward the canoe. She drew a short, sharp breath, but she did not move.

“Mademoiselle,” said Steinmetz earnestly, “I am an old man, and in my time I have dabbled pretty deeply in trouble. But taking it all around, even my life has had its compensations. And I have seen lives which, taken as a mere mortal existence, without looking to the hereafter at all, have been quite worth the living. There is much happiness in life to make up for the rest. But that happiness must be firmly held. It is so easily slipped through the fingers. A little irresolution—a little want of moral courage—a little want of self-confidence—a little pride, and it is lost. You follow me?”

Maggie nodded. There was a great tenderness in her eyes—such a tenderness as, resting on men, may bring them nearer to the angels.

Steinmetz laid his large hand over hers.

“Mademoiselle,” he went on, “I believe that the good God sent you along this lonely river in your boat. Paul leaves me to-morrow. His arrangements are to go to India and shoot tigers. He will sail in a week. There are things of which we never speak together—there is one name that is never mentioned. Since Osterno you have avoided meeting him. God knows I am not asking for him any thing that he would be afraid to ask for himself. But he also has his pride. He will not force himself in where he thinks his presence unwelcome.”

Steinmetz rose somewhat ponderously and stood looking down at her. He did not, however, succeed in meeting her eyes.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “I beg of you most humbly—most respectfully—to come through the garden with me toward the house, so that Paul may at least know that you are here.”

He moved away and stood for a moment with his back turned to her, looking toward the house. The crisp rustle of her dress came to him as she rose to her feet.

Without looking round, he walked slowly on. The path through the trees was narrow, two could not walk abreast. After a few yards Steinmetz emerged on to a large, sloping lawn with flower beds, and a long, low house above it. On the covered terrace a man sat writing at a table. He was surrounded by papers, and the pen in his large, firm hand moved rapidly over the sheet before him.

“We still administer the estate,” said Steinmetz, in a low voice. “From our exile we still sow our seed.”

They approached over the mossy turf, and presently Paul looked up—a strong face, stern and self-contained; the face of a man who would always have a purpose in life, who would never be petty in thought or deed.

For a moment he did not seem to recognize them. Then he rose, and the pen fell on the flags of the terrace.

“It is mademoiselle!” said Steinmetz, and no other word was spoken.

Maggie walked on in a sort of unconsciousness. She only knew that they were all acting an inevitable part, written for them in the great libretto of life. She never noticed that Steinmetz had left her side, that she was walking across the lawn alone.

Paul came to meet her, and took her hand in silence. There was so much to say that words seemed suddenly valueless; there was so little to say that they were unnecessary.

For that which these two had to tell each other cannot be told in minutes, nor yet in years; it cannot even be told in a lifetime, for it is endless, and it runs through eternity.

THE END