A young man in rusty meadow-colored clothes appeared to be kneeling with his back toward her. She advanced swiftly toward him, curious only of a great wonder and an indescribable (and possibly fatal) beating of her heart. And suddenly she knew that her man was real and no hallucination, for she perceived at her feet the stub of a Turkish cigarette, still smoking. Then she called to him:

"Halloo, there!"

The Earl of Merrivale started as if he had been shot at, then leaped to his feet and turned toward her with a cry of joy.

"What are you doing here?" he cried.

And they had approached to within touching distance of each other.

"I don't know," she said. "What are you?"

"It was too early to pay calls," he said, "so I thought I'd have one more whack at the big char and bring him to you for a present. But tell me—does our bet still stand?"

He looked at her so tenderly and lovingly and hopefully that she hadn't the heart to be anything but tender and loving herself.

"The bet still stands," she said, "if you win. I've missed you terribly."

"I took him," said the earl. "I was just weighing him when you called. He weighs a lot more than three pounds. So I win."

"Yes, you win."

"And the bet still stands?"

She nodded happily.

"And you won't renege—you'll pay? You'll be Countess of Merrivale?"

"If you want me to be," she said humbly.

"If I want you to be!"

And she had imagined herself so often in his arms that she was not now surprised or troubled to find herself there.

"I was so unhappy," she said; "and now I'm so happy."

And after a little while she said:

"I'd like to see him."

Presently they stood looking down at the great trout.

"He's done a lot for us, hasn't he?" said Gay. "He was the beginning of things. And it seems sort of a pity—"

"He's still breathing. He'll live if we put him back. Shall we?"

"Yes, please."

There was plenty of life and fight in the old trout. He no sooner felt that water was somewhere under him than he gave a triumphant, indignant flop, tore himself from Merrivale's hands, and disappeared with a splendid, smacking splash.

"Good old boy!" laughed Merrivale.

"And yet," said Gay, "it's a pity that we couldn't take him back to camp and show him off. He was the biggest trout I ever saw."

"He wasn't a trout, dear," said Merrivale; and he grinned lovingly at her. "He was a char."

"Of course he was," said Gay humbly; "I forgot."

Chapter XXXVI

*

I wish I could write first, "The Seven Darlings lived happily ever afterward," and then the word "Finis." But I cannot end so easily and maintain a reputation for veracity. They can't have lived happily afterward until they are dead—can they? At the moment they have just closed The Camp after the summer and scattered to their winter homes; that is, all of them except Gay.