had held it half
unconsciously.

"I think you did--a little," she admitted. "You see, I--we did not
expect you. And"--she laughed the laugh he had heard in his dreams,
though it had not always been so tremulous, so like the flutelike quaver
of this laugh--"and even now I am not quite sure it is you."

"It is I--believe me," he said. "It is the same bad penny come back."

Then it flashed upon him he must give some reason for his return.
Incredible as it may seem, he was not prepared with one. He had made up
his mind to come; he would have gone through fire and water to get back
to Shorne Mills, but he had quite forgotten that some excuse would be
necessary.

But she did not seem to see the necessity.

"Are you quite well now?" she asked, just glancing up at him.

"Quite," he said; "perfectly well."

"And how did you come? I mean when--have you been staying near?"

"I came by this morning's train," he said, "and I walked over; my
luggage follows by the carrier. I enjoyed the walk."

"You must be quite strong again," she said, with a quiet little
gladness. "Mamma--and Dick--will be so glad to see you!"

"They haven't forgotten me?" he asked insanely.

She laughed again.

"They have talked of very little else but you, since you have been gone,
and Dick is like a boy who has lost a schoolfellow."

She said it so frankly that Drake's heart sank.

"Well--I've thought--I've missed you--Dick," he said, stumbling over the
sentence. "Shorne Mills is, as you said, not the kind of place one
forgets in a hurry."

"Did I say that?" she asked. "I don't remember it."

"Ah! but I do," he said. "I remember----"

"Hadn't we better walk on?" she said. "You must be tired, and will be
glad of some tea--or something."

He seemed to notice for the first time that they had been standing, and
they walked on.

Her heart was still beating fast--beating with a new and strange
happiness glowing through her. Only a few minutes ago she had felt so
weary and wretched; the familiar scene, which she loved so dearly, had
seemed flat and dreary and full of melancholy, and now--oh! how lovely
it was! how good it was to look upon!

Why had everything changed so suddenly? Why was every pulse dancing to
the subtle music with which the air seemed full?

The question came to her with a kind of dread and fear; and her eyes,
which shone like stars, grew momentarily troubled and puzzled.

He scarcely dared look at her. The longing to tou