It grew stiller; the wind went down with the sun.

Doubtless he had forgotten to tell her the time; she had almost
forgotten that she had asked him. With the silence of sunset a languor,
the indolence of content, crept over her; she saw him close his watch
with the absent-minded air which she already associated with him, and
she let the question go from sheer disinclination for the effort of
repetition--let the projected drive go--acquiescent, content that matters
shape themselves without any interference from her. The sense of ease,
of physical well-being invaded her with an agreeable relaxation as
though tension somewhere had slackened.

They chatted on, casually, impersonally, in rather subdued tones. The
dog returned now and then to see that all was well. All was well enough,
it appeared, for she sat beside Siward, quite content, knees clasped in
her hands, exchanging impressions of life with a man who so far had been
sympathetically considerate in demanding from her no intellectual
effort.

The conversation drifted illogically; sometimes he stirred her to
amusement, even a hushed laughter; sometimes she smilingly agreed with
his views, sometimes she let them go, uncriticised; or, intent on her
own ideas, shook her small head in amused disapproval.

The stillness over all, the deepening mellow light, the blessed
indolence of the young world--and their few years in it--Youth! That was
perhaps the key to it all, after all.

"To-morrow," she mused aloud, knees cradled in her clasped fingers,