s about noon when Leila saw him coming
up the avenue. She went forward to the roadside and as he sat in the
saddle shook his hand, saying, "I am sorry you were delayed, John. You
will be disappointed to know that Uncle Jim and Aunt Ann left home
yesterday." She wished that he had not quite so clearly shown the limits
of his regret, as he said quietly, "Well, I shall miss them, of course."

"A letter from aunt's brother, Henry Grey, asked them to visit him at the
old Maryland home. I think it both pleased and surprised Aunt Ann. I am
to join them later. Josiah is to matronize me--or, if you like, patronize
me. Uncle Jim was delighted to be asked and hopes to reconcile the
brothers. Henry's letter was very kind, but he is still suffering from
his wound. Of course, Aunt Ann was happy."

He looked down at the upturned face as he sat in the saddle. She had
given him no warm word of personal welcome. "Well, it can't be helped.
I had much to talk over with uncle." Then he laughed.

"What amuses you, John?"

"Oh, I should like to see the interview. Both Uncle Jim and I had queer
encounters with Henry Grey."

"Uncle Jim!--what--when?"

"Ask him. I should have liked to add George Grey to the party. As for
your Uncle Henry"--John smiled--"a serious wound is rather productive of
the unexpected, as I know. I will see you at dinner--now I must go on to
the mills." He rode away thinking without pleasure of being alone with
Leila.

The presence of the maids who waited at dinner kept their conversation
on the Colonel's rapid gain in health, village incidents, and the mill
life--mere loitering disconnected talk of no interest except to fill the
hour of two people who would have preferred to be silent.

John said, as he rose from the table, "I have a letter to write, Leila,
and so I must leave you to the better company of your book." Once--but a
little while ago--he would have asked what book was now on hand. "Any
messages for aunt or uncle?"

"None--I wrote this morning."

He sat down in the library at his old desk and wrote: "Dear Leila"--Then
he stood up--the easy freedom of the letter was denied to him. He was in
the mood when outspoken speech, always for him the more natural way of
expressing himself, became imperative. He went back to the hall.

The book lay face down on her lap. "What is it, John?" she asked.

"I want to talk to you--not here. Come into the library; those maids hear
everything."

"Certainly," she sa