He accepted her decision, and at once made ready for his tramp across the hills. At parting he reminded her that to him she was still nameless.
"I'm not sure myself," she laughed. "I'll need a new name in New York!"
"But now?"
"Well, then—Jack."
"To offset the dimple, I suppose. Is it short for Jacqueline?"
"No; just Jack."
Jean's knight errant looked back once before the tree-boles shut her wholly away. She had dropped upon a log and was facing the blue reach of the lake. This was about six o'clock in the evening. At nine she had not shifted her position. It was perhaps an hour later when she sprang up abruptly, lit a candle which he had shown her in arranging for the night, and hunting out a pencil and paper, wrote a hurried note which she pinned to the tent-flap.
There were but two lines in all. The first thanked him. The second ran:—
"I've gone back to see it through."