it was before dawn—a dark and heavy hour, with the stars just dimming and a light wind in the jungle. stella was asleep, dreaming: she seemed to be out on the rocks of the shore, where she and ferdinand had sat enriching the sunset with their wonderful projections. she saw it all in her dream so vividly: the rocky promontory, the sunny sea beyond, and had a sense, as one does in dreams, of something about to happen. the white beach below shimmered in the glare of a vacant sky. in her dream she felt the strange spell of the silence, made manifold. it held her breathless and she waited, full of wonder. presently as she gazed across the slumbering sea, a great ship came into view—was it this for which the breath of premonition had prepared her? she gazed, and the ship seemed coming straight on, like an enchanted ship. her heart stirred with delight.

abruptly, however, stella awoke, with a sharp pang of fear and sat up in bed, trembling. something like a wild cry seemed to have broken her dream. she heard it again, though fainter through the woven fastness of the jungle: the cry of some great night bird, a note so sinister and full of lamentation that her brow grew a little damp with the terror of her rousing. yet in a moment she was calm.

her husband lay beside her, quietly sleeping. she listened to his regular breathing in the dark, then lay down and closed her eyes. gradually the silence drew her back into a state of drowsiness. she slept.

when she woke again the dark was gone and the sun stood high.

slipping from bed and into an adjoining room of her strange new dwelling, stella lighted a small oil stove and started a kettle of water for their coffee. returned to the bedroom, she arrayed herself in a bit of frilled and beribboned negligée and a lacy boudoir cap: small extravagancies of the unambitious shopping tours preceding her wedding. adorned in these luxuries, she sat before her improvised dressing table to begin a rather elaborate toilette.

stella had done all she could with the primitive conditions surrounding her here. the dressing table was fashioned out of an empty packing case, covered with some old flowered goods. a small mirror hung above it, and on either side were cheap little bracket candle-holders with coloured candles that had begun to nod under the hot breath of the tropics. she had pictured herself in a boudoir rather more authentic; but for the present this one would do very well.

she sat absorbed in the pleasant task of making herself attractive. ferdinand still slept, but was beginning to stir. even in bed, relaxed and disheveled with sleep, he looked like a god; and stella, glancing over at him, felt more than ever inspired to make herself beautiful. she must hold his love, she mused—and even tinted her cheeks a little.

king yawned and turned. a romantic manœuvre entered her head, almost as though inspired by the gay little cap. she fluttered over to the bed. “i’ll wake him with a kiss!” she thought. however, the stratagem was not productive of entirely happy results. her husband hoisted himself on an elbow and blinked a moment at the surprising apparition he had married; but instead of compensating her in some way for this early effort in his behalf, king let his eyes droop shut again, with a tiny frown, and slipped back—he had barely seen her. the unfortunate bride had violated an entrenched masculine tradition: these things are very subtle.

yet sleep was really exhausted, after all, and a moment later king thought better of his drowsy petulance, roused and called to her: “stella!” and she paused, turning a little toward him, while he blinked goodhumouredly and held out an arm, beckoning slowly. she gave him a rueful smile and trudged back, pouting a reluctant forgiveness, her heart relieved, though still in a mood of vague disappointment.

“you mustn’t let little things upset you so easily, stella,” he said, with the faintest shade of curtness. “i’ve got a big contract on my hands here, and must get my sleep out. anyway,” he added, patting her hand, “it isn’t late, is it?”

stella glanced at her watch, pinned on amongst a gay little whirl of ribbons and laces. “nearly nine o’clock,” she said—and, oddly enough, the intelligence quite changed the complexion of things.

he sprang out of bed with an exclamation. “that’s what a climate can do! why didn’t you call me hours ago? i’ll have to get an earlier start—where the devil is my shaving mug—is there any hot water, stella?”

“a little, ferd,” she hesitated. “for our coffee....”

“bring me what there is,” he requested bluntly. and asked her where she kept his shirts.

“ferd,”—she faltered a little. “you’re so brusque this morning.... don’t you—” and she indicated her finery with a hesitating gesture. “i bought it because you said this is your favourite colour....”

he paused in the energetic process of dressing and looked at her squarely, yet at the same time without full attention. “yes, i do like it. it’s a dream.” and, since she still hesitated, evidently perplexed and a little confounded, king laughed with affectionate loudness and said: “come here, lady-bird, and i’ll make a fuss over you. i wasn’t thinking. of course you look good enough to eat! give me a kiss.”

he gathered her up and hugged her.