Her impatience counted the seconds, and yet Mlle.

Moriaz could have wished the gate would never open.

There was near by an old apple-tree that she loved; in the old days she had more than once suspended her hammock from one of its arched and drooping branches.

She leaned against the gnarled trunk of the old tree.

It seemed to her that she was not alone; some one protected her.
At last the gate opened and admitted Samuel Brohl, who had a smile on his lips.