with her mother; in a sort of
tremble of spirits, looking forward to what she might possibly see or
hear. But no one was there; no one in whom she had any interest; none
of Mr. Bowdoin's grandchildren could make it convenient to come to his
funeral. The large gathering of friends and neighbours and distant
relations were but an unmeaning crowd to Diana's perceptions.

What difference would this change at Elmfield make in her own
prospects? Would Mrs. Reverdy and her set come to Elmfield as usual,
and so draw Evan as a matter of course? They might not, perhaps. But
what difference could it be to Diana? Evan would come, at all events,
and under any circumstances; even if his coming let the secret out; he
would come, and nothing would keep him from it; the necessity of seeing
her would be above all other except military necessities. Diana thought
she wished the old gentlemen had not died. But it could make no
difference. As soon as he could, Evan would be there.

She returned to her quiet waiting. But now nature began to be noisy
about her. It seemed that everything had a voice. Spring winds said,
"He is coming;" the perfume of opening buds was sweet with his far-off
presence; the very gales that chased the clouds, to her fancy chased
the minutes as well; the waking up of the household and farm
activities, said that now Diana's inner life would come back to its
wonted course and arrangements.

The spring winds blew themselves out; spring buds opened into full
leafage; spring activities gradually merged into the steady routine of
summer; and still Diana saw nothing, and still she heard nothing of
Evan.

She was patient now by force of will; doggedly trusting. She _would_
not doubt. None of the family came to Elmfield; so there was no news by
the way that could reach her. Mrs. Starling watched the success of her
experiment, and was satisfied. Will began to come about the house more
and more.

It was near the end of summer, more than a year since her first
introduction to Evan, that Diana found herself again one day at Mother
Bartlett's cottage. She always made visits there from time to time;
to-day she had come for no special reason, but a restlessness which
possessed her at home. The old lady was in her usual chimney corner,
knitting, as a year ago; and Diana, having prepared the mid-day repast
and cleared away after it, was sitting on the doorstep at the open
door; whence her eye went out to the hillside pasture and