. He wondered what the blackness, not spent like his own, had
brought the other. A headstrong, dark youth with the characteristic
sloping eyebrows and slender, vigorous, carriage. The traditional
rebellious spirit had involved Jasper in disgrace; it had thinned his
own blood.

Footfalls approached through the trees, and the others joined him. James
Polder extended himself on the rock, and Mariana sat with her hands
clasped about her slim knees. A silence intensified by the whispering
stream enveloped them. The hawk circled above, and Howat had an
extraordinary sense of the familiarity of the bird hanging in limitless
space, of the warm stone and water choking in a smooth eddy. He had, as
a boy, fished there. But his brain momentarily swam with a poignant,
unrecognizable emotion, different from the sensation of childhood. He
rose, confused and giddy. With old age, he muttered.

Mariana followed. "It's all over," she announced, decisively. "We'll
drive back and leave to-day." She sighed. "That's gone already," James
Polder showed her the sun slipping toward the western hills. She moved
up to him, laid her hand on his arm. Howat Penny went ahead. He must
speak to her after dinner. As the motor slowly gathered momentum he
turned and looked back at the dark, pinkish dwelling in its tangle of
grass and bushes run wild. Dusk appeared to have already gathered over
it, although the sun still shone elsewhere in lengthening dusty gold
bars; the wide-spread beech was sombre against blank shutters, the
chimneys broken and cold.

XXXIV

A letter for James Polder was at Shadrach, and he opened it immediately,
glancing over its scrawled sheet. Howat saw a curious expression
overspread the other's countenance. He called, "Mariana!" in a sharp
tone. She appeared from the foot of the steps. "Harriet never went
home," he told her; "this is from Pittsburgh. She's back on the stage."
A premonitory dread filled Howat Penny. Mariana stood quietly, her gaze
lifted to Polder. "She never went home," he repeated; "but writes that
suddenly she--she didn't want to, and couldn't stand Harrisburg another
week. She saw some one and had a part, that ought to be good, offered to
her; and, so--"

"Is that all, Jim?"

"No," he replied; "there is more, absolutely unjustified. I think I'd
like you to read it. It would be best." Mariana took the letter, and
followed its irregular course. "It's true enough," she said quietly, at
the end. "But I