"Is Miss Hilda Farrand at home?" he asked.

"I cannot say," replied the man. "If you will step to the back door, I
will ascertain."

"The flowers will do. Now see that the south room is ready, Annie,"
floated a voice from within.

Without a word, but with a deadly earnestness, Thorpe reached forward,
seized the astonished servant by the collar, yanked him bodily outside
the door, stepped inside, and strode across the hall toward a closed
portiere whence had come the voice. The riverman's long spikes cut
little triangular pieces from the hardwood floor. Thorpe did not notice
that. He thrust aside the portiere.

Before him he saw a young and beautiful girl. She was seated, and her
lap was filled with flowers. At his sudden apparition, her hands flew
to her heart, and her lips slightly parted. For a second the two stood
looking at each other, just as nearly a year before their eyes had
crossed over the old pole trail.

To Thorpe the girl seemed more beautiful than ever. She exceeded even
his retrospective dreams of her, for the dream had persistently retained
something of the quality of idealism which made the vision unreal, while
the woman before him had become human flesh and blood, adorable, to
be desired. The red of this violent unexpected encounter rushed to her
face, her bosom rose and fell in a fluttering catch for breath; but her
eyes were steady and inquiring.

Then the butter pounced on Thorpe from behind with the intent to do
great bodily harm.

"Morris!" commanded Hilda sharply, "what are you doing?"

The man cut short his heroism in confusion.

"You may go," concluded Hilda.

Thorpe stood straight and unwinking by the straight portiere. After a
moment he spoke.

"I have come to tell you that you were right and I was wrong," said he
steadily. "You told me there could be nothing better than love. In the
pride of my strength I told you this was not so. I was wrong."

He stood for another instant, looking directly at her, then turned
sharply, and head erect walked from the room.

Before he had reached the outer door the girl was at his side.

"Why are you going?" she asked.

"I have nothing more to say."

"NOTHING?"

"Nothing at all."

She laughed happily to herself.

"But I have--much. Come back."

They returned to the little morning room, Thorpe's caulked boots gouging
out the little triangular furrows in the hardwood floor. Neither noticed
that. Morris, the butler, emerged from his hi