on was, at least, not thin, but very spare and
agile-looking."

At last the sound of wheels reached us. Aunt Emmy clasped the arms of
her chair convulsively.

"I daresay he has not come," she said almost inaudibly.

The wheels stopped. I went into the tiny hall.

A tall, spare, distinguished-looking man, with weather-beaten face and
peculiarly intent, hawklike eyes, was at the gate, and I went out to
greet him. As he took off his cap his crisp hair showed a little grey in
it. He was delightful to look at.

I don't know what I said, but I mumbled something as I shook hands with
him, and pointed to the parlour door. He nodded gravely and went in,
hitting his tall head against the low lintel. Then he closed the door
gently. And I went to my room, and locked myself in.

When I went into the parlour an hour later at tea-time I found them
sitting one on each side of the fire. I wished with all my heart that
they could have been sitting together at this moment after the marriage
of their daughter. Both had cried a little, I could see. He certainly
had. They got up when I came in, and stood together on the hearth, a
splendid-looking couple, dwarfing the white room with its low ceiling.

What they must have been in youth I could well imagine.

I was reintroduced to him, and I am not sure, though they were both
smiling at each other, that they were not relieved by my entrance with
the tea. He handed her her cup and waited on her with the deferential
awkwardness of a man who has not been in women's society for years.

"I am a rough fellow, Emmy," he said once or twice. But he was not
rough. He was charming. He did not fit in at all with my preconceived
ideas of "Colonials." And it was quickly evident to me that his tender
admiration of Aunt Emmy still survived. I was partly reassured. Perhaps,
after all, he had brought happiness with him.

* * * * *

Saint Luke's summer was glorious that year, and it was nowhere more
wonderful than in the forest. One still golden day followed another, the
gossamer-threaded sunshine flooding the glades of yellowing and amber
trees, spilling itself headlong amid the rusting bracken, and losing
itself in the tiny foliage of the whortleberry, which, all its little
oval leaves, ruddy as a robin's breast, was imitating the trees, like a
miniature autumn forest underfoot.

Aunt Emmy and Mr. Kingston walked daily in the marvel of the forest, and
it seemed as if