h as David loved,
and curds and whey, and gingerbread, and a small jar of marmalade. She
ate, seated in the window, looking out over the sweet English landscape
in the warm twilight--the breeze stirring the white curtains--her little
son in her lap gurgling and smiling up at her--and her heart with David,
wherever he might be.

Slowly the dusk veiled all, and one star glimmered above the slender
church spire. A pretty maid brought candles and a book in which she was
asked to write her name. She was the landlady's daughter and looked
wholesome and bright. Cassandra glanced in her face as she set the
candles down, and took up the pen mechanically.

"Mother says will you sign here, please?"

"Yes." Cassandra turned the leaves slowly and read other names and
addresses--many of them. She wrote "Cassandra Merlin--" and paused;
then, making a long dash, added simply, "America," and, handing back the
book and pen, turned again to the window.

"Thank you. Is that all?" said the maid, lingering.

"Yes," said Cassandra again; then she laid her baby on the bed and began
taking his night clothing from her bag.

"How pretty he is! Shan't I help you unpack, ma'm?"

Cassandra paused, looking dreamily before her as if scarcely
comprehending, then she said: "Not to-night, thank you. Perhaps
to-morrow." The maid deftly piled the supper dishes and, taking them and
the book with her, departed with a pleasant "Good night, ma'm."

In spite of her calmness, Cassandra lay wakeful and patient, and when at
last she did sleep, it seemed to her she stood with her husband on her
father's path, looking out under overarching boughs, upon blue distances
of heaped-up mountain tops, and David's flute notes, silvery sweet, were
raining down upon her. She awoke to discover day was breaking, and a
pealing of bells from some distant church tower was announcing the fact.

She gathered her babe to her throbbing heart and thought, to-day she was
to go out and meet her husband's people. How should she go? How should
she conduct herself? Should she go at once, or wait until the afternoon?
Why had she not written her name fully in the travellers' book? What
mysterious foreboding had caught her fingers and stayed them at her
maiden name? Was she afraid? When she arose, she found herself trembling
from head to foot, and called for her breakfast, before bathing and
dressing her little son.

The same pretty maid brought it, and came again, while Cassandra b