"That will be a comfort to you, at all events," murmurs he, gloomily.
Silence follows this. Nothing is heard save the distant laughter of the skaters at the other end of the lake and the scraping noise of their feet. The storm is rising steadily in the hills above, but as yet has not descended on the quiet valley. The gaunt trees are swaying and bending ominously, and through them one catches glimpses of the angry sky above, across which clouds are scudding tempestuously. The dull sun has vanished: all is gray and cheerless. The roar of the breakers upon the rock-bound coast comes up from afar: while up there upon the wooded hill the
"Wind, that grand old harper, smites
His thunder-harp of pines."
"Perhaps we had better return to the others," says Dulce, coldly, making a movement as though to rise.
"Now I have offended you," exclaims Roger, miserably, catching her hand, and drawing her down to the stone beside him again. "I don't know what's the matter with me; I only know I am as wretched as ever I can be. Forgive me, if you can."
He pulls his hat over his eyes and sighs deeply. At this moment his whole appearance is so decidedly suicidal that no true woman could look at him unmoved. Miss Blount is a true woman, her hauteur of a moment since vanishes like snow, and compassion takes its place.
"What is making you wretched?" she asks, in a tone meant to be severe, but which is only friendly.
"When I remember what a fool I have been," begins Roger, rather as if he is following out a train of thought than answering her.
"Oh, no; not that," says Dulce, very kindly; "don't call yourself that."
"There is no other name for me," persists Roger, with increasing melancholy. "Of course, at that time—I knew you didn't particularly care for me, but," disconsolately, "it never occurred to me you might care for any other fellow!"