“A signet; my father’s.”  He removed it from his little finger, tried it on all of hers.

“Is it too large?”

“It’s a little loose....  You don’t wish me to wear it, do you?...  Your father’s?  I’d rather not....  Do you really wish it?  Well, then—­for a day—­if you ask me.”

Her ringed hand settled unconsciously into his again; she leaned back against the tree, and he rested his head beside hers.

“Are you afraid of wood-ticks, Mr. Hamil?  I am, horribly.  We’re inviting all kinds of disaster—­but isn’t it delicious!  Look at that whitish light above the trees.  When the moon outlines the roosting-tree we’ll know whether our labour is lost.  But I wouldn’t have missed it for all the mallard on Ruffle Lake.  Would you?  Are you contented?”

“Where you are is contentment, Shiela.”

“How nice of you!  But there is always that sweet, old-fashioned, boyish streak in you which shows true colour when I test you.  Do you know, at times, you seem absurdly young to me.”

“That’s a pleasant thing to say.”

Their shoulders were in contact; she was laughing without a sound.

“At times,” she said, “you are almost what young girls call cunning!”

“By heavens!” he began indignantly, but she stilled his jerk of resentment with a quick pressure.

“Lie still!  For goodness’ sake don’t make the leaves rustle, silly!  If there’s a flock of turkeys in any of those cypress tops, you may be sure that every separate bird is now looking straight in our direction....  I won’t torment you any more; I dare not.  Little Tiger turned around; did you notice?  He’d probably like to scalp us both.”

But the Indian had resumed his motionless study of the darkness, squatted on his haunches as immobile as a dead stump.

Hamil whispered:  “Such a chance to make love to you!  You dare not move.  And you deserve it for tormenting me.”

“If you did such a thing—­”

“Yes?”

“Such a thing as that—­”

“Yes?”

“But you wouldn’t.”

“Why, Shiela, I’m doing it every minute of my life!”

“Now?”

“Of course.  It goes on always.  I couldn’t prevent it any more than I could stop my pulses.  It just continues with every heart-beat, every breath, every word, every silence—­”

“Mr. Hamil!”

“Yes?”

“That does sound like it—­a little; and you must stop!”

“Of course I’ll stop saying things, but that doesn’t stop with my silence.  It simply goes on and on increasing every—­”

“Try silence,” she said.

Motionless, shoulder to shoulder, the pulsing moments passed.  Every muscle tense, she sat there for a while, fearful that he could hear her heart beating.  Her palm, doubled in his, seemed to burn.  Then little by little a subtle relaxation stole over her; dreamy-eyed she sank back and looked into the darkness.  A sense of delicious well-being possessed her, enmeshing thought in hazy lethargy, quieting pulse and mind.