Heathcote was sitting under a tree by the brook-side, as though he had never been anywhere else.

"When did you come?" said Anne, looking down from her perch.

"Fifteen minutes or so ago," he answered, looking up from his couch.

"Why did you come?"

"To see you, of course."

"No; I can not believe that. The day is too warm."

"You, at any rate, look cool enough."

"It is cool up here among the rocks; but it must be intense out on the high-road."

"I did not come by the high-road."

"How, then, did you come?"

"Across the fields."

"Why?"

"Miss Douglas, were you born in New Hampshire? As I can not call all this information you require up hill, I shall be obliged to come up myself."

As he rose, Anne saw that he was laden with her dinner basket and shawl, her plant case and trowel, and her straw hat and its contents, which he balanced with exaggerated care. "Oh, leave them all there," she called down, laughingly.

But no, Heathcote would not; he preferred to bring them all with him. When he reached her rock, he gravely delivered them into her hands, and took a seat beside her, fanning himself with his hat.

"And now, how does it happen that you are here?" repeated Anne, placing her possessions in different niches.

"You insist? Why not let it pass for chance? No? Well, then, by horseback to Powell's: horse loses shoe; blacksmith's shop. Blacksmith talkative; second customer that morning; old coupÉ, fat old coachman, and fat brown horse, who also loses shoe. Coachman talkative; tells all about it; blacksmith tells me; young lady left at saw-mill to be taken up on return. I, being acquainted with said saw-mill and young lady, come across by lane through the fields. Find a dinner basket; look in; conclude to bring it on. Find a small tin coffin, and bring that too. Find a hat, ditto. Hat contains—"

"Never mind," said Anne, laughing. "But where is your horse?"

"Tied to a tree."

"And what are you going to do?"

"At present, nothing. By-and-by, if you will permit it, I may—smoke a cigar."

"I have no idea what time it is," said Anne, after a pause, while Heathcote, finding a comfortable place with his back against the rocks, seemed disposed to enjoy one of his seasons of silence.

He drew out his watch, and without looking at it held it toward her. "You need not tell; I do not want to know," he said.

"In spite of that, I feel it to be my duty to announce that it is nearly half past twelve; you may still reach home in time for lunch."

"Thanks. I know what I shall have for lunch."

"What?"

"One small biscuit, three slices of cake, one long corpulent pickle, and an apple."

"You have left nothing for me," said Anne, laughing over this disclosure of the contents of her basket.

"On the contrary, I have brought you something," said Heathcote, gravely producing two potatoes uncooked, a pinch of salt in paper, and a quarter of a loaf of bread, from the pockets of his blue flannel coat.

Anne burst into a peal of laughter, and the last shadow of timidity vanished. Heathcote seemed for the moment as young as Rast himself.

"Where have you been foraging?" she said.

"Foraging? I beg your pardon; nothing of the kind. I bought these supplies regularly from a farmer's wife, and paid for them in the coin of the land. I remarked to her that I should be out all day, and hated hunger; it was so sanguinary."

"But you will not be out all day."

"Until eight minutes of six, precisely; that is the time I have selected for my return." Then, seeing that she looked grave, he dropped into his usual manner, and added, "Of course, Miss Douglas, I shall only remain a little while—until the noon heat is over. You are looking for a rare flower, I believe?"

"A fern."

"What is the color of its flower?"

Anne laughed again. "A fern has no flower," she explained. "See, it is like this." And plucking a slender leaf, she described the wished-for plant minutely. "It stretches out its long tip—so; touches the earth—so; puts down a new little root from the leaf's end—so; and then starts on again—so."

"In a series of little green leaps?"

"Yes."

Heathcote knew as much of ferns as he did of saurians; but no subject was too remote for him when he chose to appear interested. He now chose to appear so, and they talked of ferns for some time. Then Anne said that she must finish the remaining quarter of the ravine. Heathcote decided to smoke a cigar where he was first; then he would join her.

But when, half an hour later, she came into view again beside the brook below him, apparently he had not stirred. "Found it?" he said.

"No."

"There is a sort of thin, consumptive, beggarly little leaf up here which looks something like your description. Shall I bring him down?"

"No, no; do not touch it," she answered, springing up the rocks toward him. "If it should be! But—I don't believe you know."

But he did know; for it was there. Very small and slender, creeping close to the rocks in the shyest way, half lost in the deep moss; but there! Heathcote had not moved; but the shrinking little plant happened to have placed itself exactly on a line with his idle eyes.

"It is unfair that you should find it without stirring, while I have had such a hard climb all in vain," said Anne, carefully taking up the little plant, with sufficient earth and moss to keep it comfortable.

"It is ever so," replied her companion, lazily, watching the spirals of cigar smoke above his head: "wait, and in time everything will come to you. If not in this world, then certainly in the next, which is the world I have selected for my own best efforts."

When the fern was properly bedded in the tin case, and the cover closed, Anne sat down for a moment to rest.

"When shall we have lunch?" asked the smoker.

"You?"

"Yes; I am bitterly hungry."

"But you said you were only going to stay a short time."

"Half an hour longer."

"What time is it now?"

"I have no idea."

"You can look."

"I refuse to look. Amiability has its limit."

"I had intended to walk home, if I found the fern in time," said Anne.

"Ah? But I think we are going to have a storm. Probably a thunder-storm," said Heathcote, languidly.

"How do you know? And—what shall we do?"

"I know, because I have been watching that little patch of sky up there. As to what we shall do—we can try the mill."

They rose as he spoke. Anne took the plant case. "I will carry this," she said; "the walking-leaf must be humored."

"So long as I have the dinner basket I remain sweet-tempered," answered Heathcote.

She put on her hat, but her neck-tie and cuffs were gone.

"I have them safe," he said. "They are with the potatoes."

Reaching the mill, they tried the door, but found it securely fastened. They tried the house door and windows, with the same result. Unless they broke several panes of glass they could not gain entrance, and even then it was a question whether Heathcote would be able to thrust inward the strong oaken stick above, which held the sash down.

"Do mount your horse and ride home," urged Anne. "I shall be safe here, and in danger of nothing worse than a summer shower. I will go back in the ravine and find a beech-tree. Its close, strong little leaves will keep off the rain almost entirely. Why should both of us be drenched?"

"Neither of us shall be. Come with me, and quickly, for the storm is close upon us. There is a little cave, or rather hollow in the rock, not far above the road; I think it will shelter us. I, for one, have no desire to be out in your 'summer shower,' and ride home to Caryl's afterward in a limp, blue-stained condition."

"How long will it take us to reach this cave?" said Anne, hesitating.

"Three minutes, perhaps."

"I suppose we had better go, then," she said, slowly. "But pray do not take those things. They will all have to be brought down again."

"They shall be," said Heathcote, leading the way toward the road.

It was not a long climb, but in some places the ascent was steep. A little path was their guide to the "cave"—a hollow in the ledge, which the boys of the neighborhood considered quite a fortress, a bandit's retreat. A rude ladder formed the front steps of their rock nest, and Anne was soon ensconced within, her gray shawl making a carpet for them both. The cave was about seven feet in depth, and four or five in breadth; the rock roof was high above their heads. Behind there was a dark, deep little recess, blackened with smoke, which the boys had evidently used as an oven. The side of the hill jutted out slightly above them, and this, rather than the seven feet of depth possessed by the niche, made it possible that they would escape the rain.

The cave was in an angle of the hill. From Heathcote's side part of the main road could be seen, and the saw-mill; but Anne, facing the other way, saw only the fields and forest, the sparkle of the little mill-stream, and the calmer gleam of the river. One half of the sky was of the deepest blue, one half of the expanse of field and forest golden in the sunshine. Over the other half hung a cloud and a shadow of deep purple-black, which were advancing rapidly, although there was not, where the two gazers sat, so much as a breath of stirred air.

"It will soon be here," said Heathcote. "See that white line across the forest? That is the wind turning over the leaves. In the fields it makes the grain look suddenly gray as it is bent forward."

"I should not have known it was the wind," said Anne. "I have only seen storms on the water."

"That yellow line is the Mellport plank-road; all the dust is whirling. Are you afraid of lightning?"

"Shall we have it?"

"Yes; here it is." And, with a flash, the wind was upon them. A cloud of dust rose from the road below; they bent their heads until the whirlwind had passed by on its wild career down the valley. When, laughing and breathless, Anne opened her eyes again, her hair, swept out of its loose braids, was in a wild mass round her shoulders, and she barely saved her straw hat, which was starting out to follow the whirlwind. And now the lightning was vivid and beautiful, cutting the blue-black clouds with fierce golden darts, while the thunder followed, peal after peal, until the hill itself seemed to tremble. A moment later came the rain, hiding both the valley and sky with its thick gray veil: they were shut in.

As Heathcote had thought, the drops only grazed their doorway. They moved slightly back from the entrance; he took off his hat, hung it on a rock knob, and inquired meekly if they might not now have lunch. Anne, who, between the peals, had been endeavoring to recapture her hair, and had now one long thick braid in comparative order, smiled, and advised him to stay his hunger with the provisions in his own pockets. He took them out and looked at them.

"If the boys who use this hole for an oven have left us some wood, we will roast and toast these, and have a hot lunch yet," he said, stretching back to search. Lighting a match, he examined the hole; the draught that blew the flame proved that it had an outlet above. "Boys know something, after all. And here is their wood-pile," he said, showing Anne, by the light of a second match, a cranny in the rock at one side neatly filled with small sticks and twigs. The rain fell in a thick dark sheet outside straight down from the sky to the ground with a low rushing sound. In a minute or two a tiny blue flame flickered on their miniature hearth, went out, started again, turned golden, caught at the twigs, and grew at last into a brisk little fire. Heathcote, leaning on his elbow, his hands and cuffs grimed, watched and tended it carefully. He next cut his quarter loaf into slices, and toasted—or rather heated—them on the point of his knife-blade; he put his two potatoes under hot ashes, like two Indian mounds, arranged his pinch of salt ceremoniously upon a stone, and then announced that he had prepared a meal to which all persons present were generously invited, with a polite unconsciousness as to any covered baskets they might have in their possession, or the supposed contents of said receptacles. Anne, having finished the other long braid and thrown it behind her, was now endeavoring to wash her hands in the rain. In this attempt Heathcote joined her, but only succeeded in broadening the grimy spots. The girl's neck-tie and cuffs were still confiscated. She was aware that a linen collar, fastened only with a white pin, is not what custom requires at the base of a chin, and that wrists bare for three inches above the hand are considered indecorous. At least in the morning, certain qualities in evening air making the same exposure, even to a much greater extent, quite different. But she was not much troubled; island life had made her indifferent even to these enormities.

The rain did not swerve from its work; it came down steadily; they could not see through the swift lead-colored drops. But, within, the little cave was cheery in the fire-light, and the toasted bread had an appetizing fragrance. At least Heathcote said so; Anne thought it was burned. She opened her basket, and they divided the contents impartially—half a biscuit, half a pickle, half an apple, and a slice and a half of cake for each. The potatoes were hardly warmed through, but Heathcote insisted that they should be tasted, "in order not to wickedly waste the salt." Being really hungry, they finished everything, he stoutly refusing to give up even a crumb of his last half-slice of cake, which Anne begged for on the plea of being still in school. By this time they were full of merriment, laughing and paying no attention to what they said, talking nonsense and enjoying it. Anne's cheeks glowed, her eyes were bright as stars, her brown hair, more loosely fastened than usual, lay in little waves round her face; her beautiful arched lips were half the time parted in laughter, and her rounded arms and hands seemed to fall into charming poses of their own, whichever way she turned.

About three o'clock the veil of rain grew less dense; they could see the fields again; from where he sat, Heathcote could see the road and the mill.

"Can we not go now?" said Anne.

"By no means, unless you covet the drenching we have taken so much care to escape. But by four I think it will be over." He lit a cigar, and leaning back against the rock, said, "Tell me some more about that island; about the dogs and the ice."

"No," said Anne, coloring a little; "you are laughing at me. I shall tell you no more."

Then he demanded autocratically that she should sing. "I choose the song you sang on New-Year's night; the ballad."

And Anne sang the little chanson, sang it softly and clearly, the low sound of the rain forming an accompaniment.

"Do you know any Italian songs?"

"Yes."

"Please sing me one."

She sang one of Belzini's selections, and remembered to sing it as Tante had directed.

"You do not sing that as well as the other; there is no expression. However, that could hardly be expected, I suppose."

"Yes, it could, and I know how. Only Tante told me not to do it," said the girl, with a touch of annoyance.

"Tante not being here, I propose that you disobey."

And Anne, not unwillingly, began; it had always been hard for her to follow Tante's little rule. She had heard the song more than once in the opera to which it belonged, and she knew the Italian words. She put her whole heart into it, and when she ended, her eyes were dimmed with emotion.

Heathcote looked at her now, and guardedly. This was not the school-girl of the hour before. But it was, and he soon discovered that it was. Anne's emotion had been impersonal; she had identified herself for the time being with the song, but once ended, its love and grief were no more to her—her own personality as Anne Douglas—than the opera itself.

"Curious!" thought the man beside her.

And then his attention was diverted by a moving object advancing along the main road below. Through the rain he distinguished the light buggy of Gregory Dexter and his pair of fine black horses. They had evidently been under shelter during the heaviest rain-fall, and had now ventured forth again. Heathcote made no sign, but watched. Anne could not see the road. Dexter stopped at the mill, tied his horses to a post, and then tried the doors, and also the door of the miller's little cottage, peering through the windows as they had done. Then he went up the ravine out of sight, as if searching for some one. After five minutes he returned, and waited, hesitating, under a tree, which partially protected him from the still falling drops. Heathcote was now roused to amusement. Dexter was evidently searching for Anne. He lit another cigar, leaned back against the rock in a comfortable position, and began a desultory conversation, at the same time watching the movements of his rival below. A sudden after-shower had now come up—one of those short but heavy bursts of rain on the departing edge of a thunder-storm, by which the unwary are often overtaken. Dexter, leaving his tree, and seizing the cushions of the buggy, hurried up the tramway to the mill door again, intending to force an entrance. But the solid oak stood firm in spite of his efforts, and the rain poured fiercely down. Heathcote could see him look upward to the sky, still holding the heavy cushions, and his sense of enjoyment was so great that he leaned forward and warmly shook hands with Anne.

"Why do you do that?" she asked, in surprise.

"I remembered that I had not shaken hands with you all day. If we neglect our privileges, the gods take them from us," he answered. And then, he had the exquisite pleasure of seeing the man below attempt to climb up to one of the small mill windows, slip down twice, and at last succeed so far as to find footing on a projecting edge, and endeavor to open the stubborn sash, which plainly would not yield. He was exerting all his strength. But without avail. It was a true dog-day afternoon, the rain having made the air more close and lifeless than before. The strong draught up the chimney of their cave had taken the heat of the small fire away from them; yet even there among the cool rocks they had found it necessary to put out the little blaze, as making their niche too warm. Down below in the open valley the heat was unbroken; and to be wet and warm, and obliged to exert all one's strength at the same time, is hard for a large man like Gregory Dexter. The rain dripped from the roof directly down upon his hat, and probably, the looker-on thought with glee, was stealing down his back also. At any rate he was becoming impatient, for he broke a pane of glass and put his hand through to try and reach the sash-spring. But the spring was broken; it would not move. And now he must be growing angry, for he shivered all the panes, broke the frame, and then tried to clamber in; the cushions were already sacrificed down on the wet boards below. But it is difficult for a broad-shouldered heavy man to climb through a small window, especially if he have no firm foot-hold as a beginning. Heathcote laughed out aloud now, and Anne leaned forward to look also.

"Who is it?" she said, as she caught sight of the struggling figure. At this moment Dexter had one knee on the sill and his head inside, but he was too broad for the space.

"He is caught! He can neither get in nor out," said Heathcote, in an ecstasy of mirth.

"Who is it?" said Anne again.

"Dexter, of course; he is here looking for you. There! he has slipped—he is in real danger! No; he has firm hold with his hands. See him try to find the edge with his feet. Oh, this is too good!" And throwing back his head, Heathcote laughed until his brown eyes shone.

But Anne, really alarmed, held her breath; then, when the struggling figure at last found its former foot-hold, she gave a sigh of relief. "We must go down," she said.

"And why, Miss Douglas?"

"Did you not say he had come for me?"

"That was a supposition merely. And did not I come for you too?"

"But as he is there, would it not be better for us to go down?"

"Have we not done well enough by ourselves so far? And besides, at this late hour, I see no object in getting a wetting merely for his sake."

"It is not raining hard now."

"But it is still raining."

She leaned forward and looked down at Dexter again; he was standing under a tree wiping his hat with his handkerchief.

"Please let me go down," she said, entreatingly, like a child.

"No," said Heathcote, smiling back, and taking her hand as if to make sure. "Do you remember the evening after the quarry affair, Anne? and that I took your hand, and held it as I am doing now? Did you think me impertinent?"

"I thought you very kind. After that I did not mind what grandaunt had said."

"And what had she said? But no matter; something disagreeable, without doubt. Even the boys who frequent this retreat could not well have grimier hands than we have now: look at them. No, you can not be released, unless you promise."

"What?"

"Not to go down until I give you leave: I will give it soon."

"I promise."

With a quiet pressure, and one rather long look, he relinquished her hand, and leaned back against the rock again.

"I wonder how Dexter knew that you were here?"

"Perhaps he met grandaunt. I heard him say that he was going to Mellport to-day."

"That is it. The roads cross, and he must have met her. Probably, then, he has her permission to take you home. Miss Douglas, will you accept advice?"

"I will at least listen to it," said Anne, smiling.

"When the rain stops, as it will in a few minutes, go down alone. And say nothing to Mr. Dexter about me. Now do not begin to batter me with that aggressive truthfulness of yours. You can, of course, tell Miss Vanhorn the whole; but certainly you are not accountable to Gregory Dexter."

"But why should I not tell him?"

"Because it is as well that he should not know I have been here with you all day," said Heathcote, quietly, but curious to hear what she would answer.

"Was it wrong?"

"It was a chance. But he would think I planned it. Of course I supposed the miller and his family were here."

"But if it was wrong for you to be here when you found them absent, why did you stay?" said Anne, looking at him gravely.

"The storm came up, you know; of course I could not leave you. Do not look so serious; all is well if we keep it to ourselves. And Miss Vanhorn's first command to you will be the same. She will look blackly at me for a day or two, but I shall be able to bear that. Take my advice; to Dexter, at least, say nothing." Then, seeing her still unconvinced, he added, "On my own account, too, I wish you would not tell him."

"You mean it?"

"Yes."

"Then I will not," she answered, raising her sincere eyes to his.

Heathcote laughed, lightly lifted her hand, and touched the blue-veined wrist with his lips. "You true-hearted little girl!" he said. "I was only joking. As far as I am concerned, you may tell Dexter and the whole world. But seriously, on your own account, I beg you to refrain. Promise me not to tell him until you have seen Miss Vanhorn."

"Very well; I promise that," said Anne.

"Good-by, then. The rain is over, and he will be going. I will not show myself until I see you drive away. What good fortune that my horse was tied out of sight! Must you carry all those things, basket, tin case, and all? Why not let me try to smuggle some of them home on horseback? You would rather not? I submit. There, your hat has fallen off; I will tie it on."

"But the strings do not belong there," said Anne, laughing merrily as he knotted the two blue ribbons with great strength (as a man always ties a ribbon) under her chin.

"Never mind; they look charming."

"And my cuffs?"

"You can not have them; I shall keep them as souvenirs. And now—have you had a pleasant day, Anne?"

"Very," replied the girl, frankly.

They shook hands in farewell, and then she went down the ladder, her shawl, plant case, and basket on her arm. Heathcote remained in the cave. When she had reached the ground, and was turning to descend the hill, a low voice above said, "Anne."

She glanced up; Heathcote was lying on the floor of the cave with his eyes looking over the edge. "Shake hands," he said, cautiously stretching down an arm.

"But I did."

"Once more."

She put down her shawl, plant case, and basket, and, climbing one round of the ladder, extended her hand; their finger-tips touched.

"Thanks," said the voice above, and the head was withdrawn.

Dexter, after doing what he could to make the buggy dry, was on the point of driving away, when he saw a figure coming toward him, and recognized Anne. He jumped lightly out over the wheel (he could be light on occasion), and came to meet her. It was as they had thought; he had met Miss Vanhorn, and learning where Anne was, had received permission to take her home.

"I shall not be disappointed after all," he said, his white teeth gleaming as he smiled, and his gray eyes resting upon her with cordial pleasure. He certainly was a fine-looking man. But—too large for a mill window. Fortunately mill windows are not standards of comparison.

"It has been raining a long time; where did you find shelter?" he asked, as the spirited horses, fretted by standing, started down the moist brown road at a swift pace.

"In a little cave in the hill-side above us," answered Anne, conscious that at that very moment Heathcote was probably watching them. She hesitated, and then, in spite of a distinct determination not to do it, could not help turning her head and glancing backward and upward for a second behind her companion's broad shoulders. In answer, a handkerchief fluttered from above; he was watching, then. A bright flush rose in her cheeks, and she talked gayly to Dexter during the six-mile drive between the glistening fields, over the wet dark bridge, and up to the piazza of Caryl's, where almost every one was sitting enjoying the coolness after the rain, and the fresh fragrance of the grateful earth. Rachel Bannert came forward as they alighted, and resting her hand caressingly on Anne's shoulder, hoped that she was not tired—and were they caught in the rain?—and did they observe the peculiar color of the clouds?—and so forth, and so forth. Rachel was dressed for the evening in black lace over black velvet, with a crimson rose in her hair; the rich drapery trailed round her in royal length, yet in some way failed to conceal entirely the little foot in its black slipper. Anne did not hurry away; she stood contentedly where she was while Rachel asked all her little questions. Dexter had stepped back into the buggy with the intention of driving round himself to the stables; he had no desire to expose the wrinkled condition of his attire to the groups on the piazza. But in that short interval he noted (as Rachel had intended he should note) every detail of her appearance. Her only failure was that he failed to note also, by comparison, the deficiencies of Anne.

When he was gone, being released, Anne ran up to her room, placed the fern in water, and then, happening to think of it, looked at herself in the glass. The result was not cheering. Like most women, she judged herself by the order of her hair and dress; they were both frightful.

Miss Vanhorn, also caught in the storm, did not return until late twilight. Anne, not knowing what she would decree when she heard the story of the day, had attired herself in the thick white school-girl dress which had been selected on another occasion of penance—the evening after the adventure at the quarry. It was an inconvenient time to tell the story. Miss Vanhorn was tired and cross, tea had been sent up to the room, and Bessmer was waiting to arrange her hair. "What have you been doing now?" she said. "Climbing trees? Or breaking in colts?"

Anne told her tale briefly. The old woman listened, without comment, but watching her closely all the time.

"And he said to tell you," said Anne, in conclusion, "but not to tell Mr. Dexter, unless you gave me permission."

"Mr. Dexter alone?"

"Mr. Dexter or—any one, I suppose."

"Very well; that will do. And Mr. Heathcote is right; you are not to breathe a word of this adventure to any one. But what fascination it is, Anne Douglas, which induces you to hang yourself over rocks, and climb up into caves, I can not imagine! Luckily this time you had not a crowd of spectators. Bring me the fern, and—But what, in the name of wonder, are you wearing? Go to your room immediately and put on the lavender silk."

"Oh, grandaunt, that?"

"Do as I bid you. Bessmer, you can come in now. I suppose it is ordered for the best that young girls should be such hopeless simpletons!"