ndifferent tone, "Mr. Fairchild just passed
here, and said that Mr. Henderson had come."

"Ah!" Her aunt did not lift her eyes from her work, or appear to attach
the least importance to this tremendous piece of news. Margaret was
annoyed at what seemed to her an assumed indifference. Her nerves were
quivering with the knowledge that he had arrived, that he was in the
next house, that he might be here any moment--the man who had entered
into her whole life--and the announcement was no more to her aunt than
if she had said it rained. She was provoked at herself that she should
be so disturbed, yes, annoyed, at his proximity. She wished he had not
come--not today, at any rate. She looked about for something to do, and
began to rearrange this and that trifle in the sitting-room, which she
had perfectly arranged once before in the morning, moving about here and
there in a rather purposeless manner, until her aunt looked up and for
a moment followed her movements till Margaret left the room. In her
own chamber she sat by the window and tried to think, but there was no
orderly mental process; in vain she tried to run over in her mind the
past month and all her reflections and wise resolves. She heard the call
of the birds, she inhaled the odor of the new year, she was conscious
of all that was gracious and inviting in the fresh scene, but in her
sub-consciousness there was only one thought--he was there, he was
coming. She took up her sewing, but the needle paused in the stitch, and
she found herself looking away across the lawn to the hills; she took up
a book, but the words had no meaning, read and reread them as she
would. He is there, he is coming. And what of it? Why should she be so
disturbed? She was uncommitted, she was mistress of her own actions. Had
she not been coolly judging his conduct? She despised herself for being
so nervous and unsettled. If he was coming, why did he not come? Why was
he waiting so long? She arose impatiently and went down-stairs. There
was a necessity of doing something.

"Is there anything that you want from town, auntie?"

"Nothing that I know of. Are you going in?"

"No, unless you have an errand. It is such a fine day that it seems a
pity to stay indoors."

"Well, I would walk if I were you." But she did not go; she went instead
to her room. He might come any moment. She ought not to run away; and
yet she wished she were away. He said he was coming on business. Was it
not, then, a p