ckering, scythed down prodigious
swathes; harvest-fall, and they put in their sickles among tall stalk
and full ear.

Sir Oliver and Ruth watched the harvest. When all was gathered, the
young men begged that she would ride home on the last load.
They escorted her back to the farmstead, walking two-by-two before the
cart, under the young moon.

Next evening at the same hour she bade them farewell and climbed into a
light waggon that stood ready, its lamps throwing long shafts of light.
Horses had been sent on ahead, with two servants for escort, and would
await her at dawn, far on the road; but to-night she would sleep in the
waggon, upon a scented bed of hay. The reason for this belated start
Sir Oliver kept a secret from her. There was a certain hill upon the
way, and he would not have her pass it by daylight. He had returned
that morning to Boston; Miss Quiney with him.

Ruth's eyes were moist to leave these good folk. Farmer Cordery cleared
his throat and blessed her in parting. She blessed them in return.

The waggon, after following the Boston road for a while, turned
northward, bearing her by strange ways and through the night towards
Port Nassau.

Chapter II.

THE RETURN.

The breakers boomed up the beach, and in the blown spray Old Josselin
pottered, bareheaded and barefoot. His eyesight had grown dimmer, but
otherwise his bodily health had improved, for nowadays he ate food
enough: and, as for purblindness, why there was no real need to keep
watch on the sea. He did it from habit.

Ruth came on him much as Sir Oliver had come on him three years before;
the roar of the breakers swallowing all sound of Madcap's hoofs until
she was close at his shoulder. Now as then he turned about with a
puzzled face, peered, and lifted his hand a little way as if to touch
his forehead.

"Your ladyship--" he mumbled, noting only her fine clothes.

"Grandfather!"

She slipped down from saddle and kissed him, in sight of the grooms, who
had reined up fifty yards away.

"What? Ruth, is it? . . . Here's news, now, for your mother, poor
soul!"

"How is she? Take me to her at once, please."

"Eh! . . . Your mother keeps well enough; though doited, o' course--
doited. Properly grown you be, too, I must say. . . . I didn't
reckernise ye comin' on me like that. Inches ye've grown."

"And you--well, you look just the same as ever; only fuller and haler."

"Do I?" The old man gave her in the old w