“Blessed if I know!” he said ruefully. “I think we were both fed up—out of sorts. ’Twasn’t my fault," he added sulkily. “I didn’t start the thing.”

“No! Go on.”

“There’s not much more. She—chucked my ring at me—and I came away. Down here. I’ve been here a week. Silly sort of tale, isn’t it?

“Oh, the pity of it!” she sighed. “Do you love her still?”

He reddened, fidgeting with the twig.

“Yes. Can’t help it.”

She stretched out her hand, supplicating.

“You’ll go back, won’t you?”

He did not answer. Her fairy-voice held a quivering note of tragedy.

“If you only knew! The heartache, the remorse. Just a quarrel—a lover’s quarrel—and everything at an end?”

“I’m not going to go back and grovel,” he muttered, still sulky. “I’ve got some pride left.”

“Only pride. To break both your hearts.”

He turned.

“You speak—as though you understood,” he said wonderingly.

She nodded.

“So well—oh, so well! I quarrelled, too, you see. I didn’t think it was my fault; he didn’t think it was his. And we were both proud. I never saw him again.” Her long lashes were glistening, but she shook away the tear-drops. “Oh, that was long, long ago!” She held out her hands to a dragon-fly that darted past. “Too long to remember now.”

“I say, I’m awfully sorry!” Peter stammered. “Was he—did he—”

She was stroking the moss with fingers that trembled.

“He was killed,” she whispered.

“I’m most awfully sorry!” he repeated. “In the war?”

“Yes. In the war. But it’s so long ago.”

He thought she was perhaps a little mad.

“I’d no right to tell you my wretched trouble. It has upset you.”

“Oh, no, no! Why, I shouldn’t have come if you had been happy.”

“Wouldn’t you? Don’t you talk to happy people?”

“They don’t need me, you see,” she explained. “I only come here to help those who want me. Because my own heart broke and it hurts me—oh, so terribly!—to see things go wrong between other lovers.”

“You dear little lady! D’you know what you reminded me of when you first appeared?”

She looked inquiring.

“No? A dancing flower, perhaps. I was called that once.”

“It suits you. No; I thought you had stepped from the pages of Jane Austen. But, of course, your hair is short.”

Her hands flew to her head; her eyes crinkled charmingly at the corners.

“They cut it off. When I was ill, you know. After—after I knew that he was killed.”

“It’s topping. It never grew again?”

“No. Something happened, and I was different.”

Her eyes became grave again, even a little shrinking. He put out his hand to lay it on hers, but she eluded him, and sprang away.

“Oh, no, you must not touch me!”

She danced back, sparkling with laughter.

“Mustn’t I? Why not?”

“You couldn’t, and you wouldn’t understand. I am only a ghost, you see. You might be frightened of me. People are, and that hurts so. They think I am mad. But I’m not. Oh, I’m not! I’m just—dead!”