CHAPTER XIII.
THE SILENT PARTNERS Late one evening toward the end of the week a somewhat battered camping party, laden with plump, fluffy bunches of quail, and plumper strings of duck, wind-scorched, sun-burnt, brier-torn and trail-worn, re-entered the _patio_ of the Cardross villa, and made straight for shower-bath, witch-hazel, fresh pyjamas, and bed.
In vain Jessie Carrick, Cecile, and their mother camped around Shiela's bed after the tray was removed, and Shiela's flushed face, innocent as usual of sunburn, lay among the pillows, framed by the brown-gold lustre of her hair.
"We had _such_ a good time, mother; Mr.Hamil shot a turkey," she said sleepily.

"Mr.Hamil--Mr.H-a-m-i-l"-- A series of little pink yawns, a smile, a faint sigh terminated consciousness as she relaxed into slumber as placid as her first cradle sleep.

So motionless she lay, bare arms wound around the pillow, that they could scarcely detect her breathing save when the bow of pale-blue ribbon stirred on her bosom.
"The darling!" whispered Mrs.Carrick; "look at that brier mark across her wrist!--our poor little worn-out colleen!" "She was not too far gone to mention Garret Hamil," observed Cecile.
Mrs.Cardross looked silently at Cecile, then at the girl on the bed who had called her mother.

After a moment she bent with difficulty and kissed the brier-torn wrist, wondering perhaps whether by chance a deeper wound lay hidden beneath the lace-veiled, childish breast.
"Little daughter--little daughter!" she murmured close to the small unheeding ear.

Cecile waited, a smile half tender, half amused curving her parted lips; then she glanced curiously at Mrs.Carrick.But that young matron, ignoring the enfant terrible, calmly tucked her arm under her mother's; Cecile, immersed in speculative thought, followed them from the room; a maid extinguished the lights.
In an hour the Villa Cardross was silent and dark, save that, in the moonlight which struck through the panes of Malcourt's room, an unquiet shadow moved from window to window, looking out into the mystery of night.
* * * * * The late morning sun flung a golden net across Malcourt's bed; he lay asleep, dark hair in handsome disorder, dark eyes sealed--too young to wear that bruised, loose mask so soon with the swollen shadows under lid and lip.