It was all very beautiful—­the soft clouds floating, the clover-stalks pushing themselves against her palms, and stems of the tall couch grass cool to her cheeks; little blue butterflies; a lark, invisible; the scent of the ripe hay; and the gold-fairy arrows of the sun on her face and limbs.  To grow and reach the hour of summer; all must do that!  That was the meaning of Life!  She had no more doubts and fears.  She had no more dread, no bitterness, and no remorse for what she was going to do.  She was doing it because she must. . . .  As well might grass stay its ripening because it shall be cut down!  She had, instead, a sense of something blessed and uplifting.  Whatever Power had made her heart, had placed within it this love.  Whatever it was, whoever it was, could not be angry with her!

A wild bee settled on her arm, and she held it up between her and the sun, so that she might enjoy its dusky glamour.  It would not sting her—­not to-day!  The little blue butterflies, too, kept alighting on her, who lay there so still.  And the love-songs of the wood-pigeons never ceased, nor the faint swish of scything.

At last she rose to make her way home.  A telegram had come saying simply:  “Yes.”  She read it with an unmoved face, having resorted again to her mask of languor.  Toward tea-time she confessed to headache, and said she would lie down.  Up there in her room she spent those three hours writing—­writing as best she could all she had passed through in thought and feeling, before making her decision.  It seemed to her that she owed it to herself to tell her lover how she had come to what she had never thought to come to.  She put what she had written in an envelope and sealed it.  She would give it to him, that he might read and understand, when she had shown him with all of her how she loved him.  It would pass the time for him, until to-morrow—­until they set out on their new life together.  For to-night they would make their plans, and to-morrow start.

At half-past seven she sent word that her headache was too bad to allow her to go out.  This brought a visit from Mrs. Ercott:  The Colonel and she were so distressed; but perhaps Olive was wise not to exert herself!  And presently the Colonel himself spoke, lugubriously through the door:  Not well enough to come?  No fun without her!  But she mustn’t on any account strain herself!  No, no!

Her heart smote her at that.  He was always so good to her.

At last, watching from the corridor, she saw them sally forth down the drive—­the Colonel a little in advance, carrying his wife’s evening shoes.  How nice he looked—­with his brown face, and his grey moustache; so upright, and concerned with what he had in hand!