and me just at present, and it has this melancholy association for both of us. To each it would recall the happiest and most protracted dream of his life; and in your case there would be the added regret . . .' He paused. 'Why are you smiling?' he asked.
'I was thinking the poor little chit of a girl had had her revenge on us after all.'
'How?'
'By prescribing for us the tendency of our thoughts.'
Randal shrugged his shoulders.
'Perhaps,' he said. 'Yes, that is about all they can do for us—profitably, at least.'
'Perhaps,' murmured the other. 'The breeze seems to be falling as quickly as it rose,' he added. 'How still the country is! The heat has passed away. What an impression of tranquillity, of repose, of peace!'
'Only an impression, alas!'
'Only an impression, true; but surely it means something.'
'Does it? That is just the question. The ruthless struggle of nature does not stop one moment under that deceptive veil of truce. These trees and plants, these flowers and grasses, are more intent on their own survival and the slaughter of their fellows in
