llowing his
aged hostess into the low room, all bedight with the firelight of a huge
chimney-place, and comfortable with the realization of a journey's end.
The wilderness might stretch its weary miles around, the weird wind
wander in the solitudes, the star look coldly on unmoved by aught it
beheld, the moon show sad portents, but at the door they all failed,
for here waited rest and peace and human companionship and the sense of
home.

"Take a cheer, stranger, an' make yerself at home. Powerful glad ter
see ye---war 'feard night would overtake ye. Ye fund the water toler'ble
high in all the creeks an' sech, I reckon, an' fords shifty an'
onsartain. Yes, sir. Fall rains kem on earlier'n common, an' more'n
we need. Wisht we could divide it with that thar drought we had in the
summer. Craps war cut toler'ble short, sir--toler'ble short."

Mrs. Roxby's spectacles beamed upon him with an expression of the utmost
benignity as the firelight played on the lenses, but her eyes peering
over them seemed endowed in some sort with independence of outlook. It
was as if from behind some bland mask a critical observation was poised
for unbiased judgment. He felt in some degree under surveillance. But
when a light step heralded an approach he looked up, regardless of
the betrayal of interest, and bent a steady gaze upon Millicent as she
paused in the doorway.

And as she stood there, distinct in the firelight and outlined against
the black background of the night, she seemed some modern half-military
ideal of Diana, with her two gaunt hounds beside her, the rest of the
pack vaguely glimpsed at her heels outside, the perfect outline and
chiselling of her features, her fine, strong, supple figure, the look of
steady courage in her eyes, and the soldier's cap on her fair hair. Her
face so impressed itself upon his mind that he seemed to have seen her
often. It was some resemblance to a picture of a vivandiere, doubtless,
in a foreign gallery--he could not say when or where; a remnant of a
tourist's overcrowded impressions; a half-realized reminiscence, he
thought, with an uneasy sense of recognition.

"Hello, Mill'cent! home agin!" Roxby cried, in cheery greeting as he
entered at the back door opposite. "What sorter topknot is that ye got
on?" he demanded, looking jocosely at her head-gear.

The girl put up her hand with an expression of horror. A deep red
flush dyed her cheek as she touched the cap. "I forgot 'twar thar," she
murm