Mr. Anthony grunted a trifle sceptically at this and murmured:  “He must be a bright young man.  I suppose what he doesn’t know, you do.  Well, how would you both like to come North and give me some lessons?”

“Do you mean it?” they cried in chorus.

“I do.”

“Oh, there’s Allan, too, he’ll have to go.”

“Any cats and dogs you’d like to have drawing salary from me?  Now let’s go somewhere and eat.  I haven’t tasted anything to speak of since Clifford’s message came.”

“If you don’t mind, I—­I’d like to stop at the Garavels’ for a minute,” Kirk said, longingly, and his father scowled.

“I’d forgotten this—­wife of yours.”

“She’s not there,” Runnels hastened to say.  “I’ve tried to find her, but I was told she was out at the country place.”

“Then I think I’d rather drive out there than eat.  Won’t you go with me, dad?”

“Well—­yes!  I want to see this banker fellow, and—­I’m not so damned hungry, after all.  We’ll settle this thing right now.”

The afternoon sun was still an hour high when Kirk Anthony came down the hill from the Garavels’ home and crossed the meadow toward the forest glade he knew so well.  The grateful coolness of evening was stealing downward, and Nature was roused from her midday lethargy.  It was the vibrant, active hour when odors are freshest and spirits rise.  The forest was noisy with the cry of birds, and flocks of shrill-voiced paroquets raised an uproar in the tallest trees.  The dense canopy of green overhead was alive with fluttering wings; the groves echoed to the cries of all the loud-voiced thicket denizens.  The pastured cattle, which had sauntered forth from shaded nooks, ceased their grazing to stare with gentle curiosity at the hurrying figure.  Of course they recognized a lover speeding to his tryst, and gave him passage, shaking their heads at one another and wagging their ears in knowing fashion.

He faltered a bit despite his haste, for this nook had grown sacred to him, and even yet he felt that it was haunted.  The laughter of the waterfall helped to drown the sound of his approach, but he surprised no dancing wood-sprites.  Instead, he saw what filled his heart with a greater gladness than he had ever known.

Chiquita was there, huddled upon the seat where they had rested together, one foot curled beneath her like a child, her head bowed down disconsolately.  From one brown hand, now drooping listlessly, a few wild flowers had scattered, and her slim figure was clad once more in the stiff, coarse denim dress of blue.  Her other hand was toying with her beads mechanically, as if the fingers had learned their task from long practice.  Her dusky eyes were fast upon the lights that wavered in the pool.

As if to prove that the spot was really peopled by kind spirits, a gentle voice seemed to whisper the news to her, and she turned to find him smiling at her.  She rose and met him with her hands outstretched, her face transfigured.