Betty, the boy is dead, has been dead for years.  How he died and exactly when, I do not know; but I have certified the fact of his death beyond all question.  He died at the hands of the Wandis, when his own men, the Zambas, were defeated.  So much I heard from the Wandi Mullah himself, and more than that I cannot tell you.  My dear, that is the end of your romance, and I know that you will never weave another.  But, that notwithstanding, I am coming—­now, if you will have me—­later, if you desire it—­to claim you for myself.  Your happiness always has and always will come first with me, and neither now nor hereafter shall I ever ask of you more than you are disposed to give.—­Ever yours,”

“MONTAGUE HERNE.”

Very slowly Betty’s eyes travelled over the paper.  She read right to the end, and then suffered her eyes to rest for a long time upon the signature.  Her fishing-rod lay forgotten on the ground beside her.  She seemed to be thinking deeply.

Once, rather suddenly, she moved to look at the watch on her wrist.  It was drawing towards noon.  She had sent no message to delay him.  Would he have travelled by the night train?  But she dismissed that conjecture as unlikely.  Herne was not a man to do anything headlong.  He would give her ample time.  She almost wished—­she checked the sigh that rose to her lips.  No, it was better as it was.  A man’s ardour was different from a boy’s; and she—­she was a girl no longer.  Her romance was dead.

A slight sound beside her, a footstep on the grass!  She turned, looked, sprang to her feet.  The vivid colour rushed up over her face.

“You!” she gasped, almost inarticulately.

He had come by the night train after all.

He came up to her quite quietly, with that leisureliness of gait that she remembered so well.

“Didn’t you expect me?” he said.

She held out a hand that trembled.

“Yes, I—­I knew you would come; only, you see, I hardly thought you would get here so soon.”

“But you meant me to come?” he said.

His hand held hers closely, warmly, reassuringly.  He looked into her face.

For a few seconds she evaded the look with a shyness beyond her control; then resolutely she mastered herself and met his eyes.

“Yes, I meant you to come.  I am glad you are back.  I—­” She broke off suddenly, gazing at him in consternation.  “Monty,” she exclaimed, “you never told me you had been ill!”

He smiled at that, and her agitation began to subside.

“I am well again, Betty,” he said.

“Oh, but you don’t look it,” she protested.  “You look—­you look as if you had suffered—­horribly.  Have you?”

He passed the question by.  “At least, I have managed to come back again,” he said, “as I promised.”

“I—­I am thankful to see you again,” she faltered her shyness returning upon her.  “I’ve been—­desperately anxious.”