Yet even as he gazed the fountain seemed to vanish slowly, the sunbeam slipped on, and beyond it moved the shimmer of white and yellow dresses.

It was Yerba and Milly returning to the house.

Well, he would not interrupt his reflections by idly watching them; he would, probably, see a great deal of Yerba that evening, and by that time he would have come to some conclusion in regard to her.
But he had not taken into consideration her voice, which, always musical in its Southern intonation and quite audible in the quiet garden, struck him now as being full of joyous sweetness.

Well, she was certainly very happy--or very thoughtless.

She was actually romping with Milly, and was now evidently being chased down the rose-alley by that volatile young woman.