the men, examined the
girths and bridle, and stroked the five-year-old on the neck. He was wet
from mane to fetlocks.

"I don't think he'll care to run much farther," she said. "If you'll
pull him over to the lumber pile, Mr. Gaylord, I'll mount him."

They performed her bidding in silence, each paying her a tribute in his
thoughts. As for the five-year-old, he was quiet enough by this time.
When she was in the saddle she held out her hand once more to Tom.

"I hope we shall meet soon again," she said, and smiling back at him,
started on her way towards Fairview.

Tom stood for a moment looking after her, while the two men indulged in
surprised comments.

"Andrews," said young Mr. Gaylord, "just fetch my buggy and follow her
until she gets into the gate."

CHAPTER XVIII. A SPIRIT IN THE WOODS

Empires crack before they crumble, and the first cracks seem easily
mended--even as they have been mended before. A revolt in Gaul or
Britain or Thrace is little to be minded, and a prophet in Judea
less. And yet into him who sits in the seat of power a premonition of
something impending gradually creeps--a premonition which he will not
acknowledge, will not define. Yesterday, by the pointing of a finger, he
created a province; to-day he dares not, but consoles himself by saying
he does not wish to point. No antagonist worthy of his steel has openly
defied him, worthy of recognition by the opposition of a legion. But the
sense of security has been subtly and indefinably shaken.

By the strange telepathy which defies language, to the Honourable Hilary
Vane, Governor of the Province, some such unacknowledged forebodings
have likewise been communicated. A week after his conversation with
Austen, on the return of his emperor from a trip to New York, the
Honourable Hilary was summoned again to the foot of the throne, and his
thoughts as he climbed the ridges towards Fairview were not in harmony
with the carols of the birds in the depths of the forest and the joy of
the bright June weather. Loneliness he had felt before, and to its ills
he had applied the antidote of labour. The burden that sat upon his
spirit to-day was not mere loneliness; to the truth of this his soul
attested, but Hilary Vane had never listened to the promptings of his
soul. He would have been shocked if you had told him this. Did he not
confess, with his eyes shut, his sins every Sunday? Did he not publicly
acknowledge his soul?

Austen Vane had o