It was close to midnight when his steps bore him instinctively back to the unlighted house; but this time the exercise and the cool night air had failed to bring relief to his heart. He could not face the idea of tossing for hours on a sleepless bed, and so passed the front door and seated himself within the dark shadows of a corner of the piazza.
"Chirr-r-p, chirr-r-p, chirr-r-p," began a pleasantly shrill little voice beneath him. Over and over it repeated the sound, until the man's feverish imagination had made it into "cheer-up," and he cursed the cricket for its silly advice. So busy was his mind with introspection that he did not hear the door open gently, and the first intimation that he was not alone was brought to him by the sound of a light footstep directly behind him. He turned his head, and saw a dim, ethereally white figure,—Rose.
"I thought that you would never come, Donald," she whispered, as she sank down close by his side on Muriel's little stool, and laid her cool hand on his fevered one. "I have been watching from my window for an hour. I couldn't go to sleep until I had told you something."
With an effort he answered evenly, "I ... I think that I know what it is, Rose."
"You know? But how ...?"
"I saw you ... and Philip, on the beach," he replied, dully.
"You saw ... Oh! And you heard what ...?"
"No. I went away at once, of course. But I did not need to hear. I ... I am glad if you are happy, Smiles."
She was silent for a long moment; then whispered with a note of joy in her low voice that wrung his heart, "Yes, I am very happy, Donald."
"Philip is a splendid fellow."