with its secretive green shutters rose
above her; the wheels made their little crisping over the fine metal of
the driveway. She hastily paid the man and was at the side door that
opened into the sitting-room. As she put her hand to the knob she was
conscious of Clytie passing the window to open the door.

Then they were face to face over the threshold--Clytemnestra, of a
matronly circumference, yet with a certain prim consciousness of
herself, which despite the gray hair and the excellent maturity of her
face, was unmistakably maidenish--Clytie of the eyes always wise to
another's needs and beaming with that fine wisdom.

She started back from the doorway by way of being playfully
dramatic--her hands on her hips, her head to one side at an astounded
angle. Yet little more than a second did she let herself simulate this
welcoming incredulity--this stupefaction of cordiality. There must be
quick speech--especially as to Nancy's face--which seemed strangely
unfamiliar, set, suppressed, breathless, unaccountably young--and there
had to be the splendid announcement of another matter.

"Why, child, is it you or your ghost?"

Nancy could only nod her head.

"My suz! what ails the child?"

Here the other managed a shake of the head and a made smile.

"And of all things!--you'll never, never, never guess!--"

"There--there!--yes, yes--yes! I know--know all about it--knew it--knew
it last night--"

She had put out a hand toward Clytie and now reached the other from her
side, easing herself to the doorpost against which she leaned and
laughed, weakly, vacantly.

"Some one told you--on the way up?"

"Yes--I knew it, I tell you--that's what makes it so funny and
foolish--why I came, you know--" She had now gained a little in
coherence, and with it came a final doubt. She steadied herself in the
doorway to ask--"When did Bernal come?"

And Clytie, somewhat relieved, became voluble.

"Night before last on the six-fifteen, and me getting home late from the
Epworth meeting--fire out--not a stick of kindling-wood in--only two
cakes in the buttery, neither of them a layer--not a frying-size chicken
on the place--thank goodness he didn't have the appetite he used
to--though in another way it's just downright heartbreaking to see a
person you care for not be a ready eater--but I had some of the plum
jell he used to like, and the good half of an apple-John which I at once
het up--and I sent Mehitty Lykins down for some chop