must both go soon. Of course, I need not
wait for an invitation."

But Sylvia opposed this. "If he's ill," she said, "I think I ought to go
alone this time." She added to herself: "I don't want him ever to go. I
must make him believe that enough has been done if I go myself. I must
convince him that my father doesn't care to have him come."

Nevertheless, she was quite resigned to the arrangement that had been made
for her. She helped Antonia make the final preparations for supper, and
she set off down the road quite cheerfully after they arose from the
table. Harboro watched her with a new depth of tenderness. This sweet
submission, the quick recognition of a filial duty once it was pointed out
to her--here were qualities which were of the essence of that childlike
beauty which is the highest charm in women.

And Sylvia felt a strange eagerness of body and mind as she went on her
way. She had put all thought of the house under the mesquite-tree out of
mind, as far as possible. Becoming a closed book to her, the place and
certain things which had been dear to her had become indistinct in her
memory. Now that she was about to reopen the book various little familiar
things came back to her and filled her mind with eagerness. The tiny
canary in its cage--it would remember her. It would wish to take a bath,
to win her praise. There had been a few potted plants, too; and there
would be the familiar pictures--even the furniture she had known from
childhood would have eloquent messages for her.

This was the frame of mind she was in as she opened her father's gate, and
paused for an instant to recall the fact that here she had stood when
Harboro appeared before her for the first time. It was near sundown now,
just as it had been then; and--yes, the goatherd was there away out on the
trail, driving his flock home.

She turned toward the house; she opened the door eagerly. Her eyes were
beaming with happiness.

But she was chilled a little by the sight of her father. Something Harboro
had said about her father changing came back to her. He _had_
changed--just in the little while that had elapsed since her marriage. But
the realization of what that change was hurt her cruelly. He looked mean
and base as he had never looked before. The old amiable submission to
adversities had given place to an expression of petulance, of resentment,
of cunning, of cowardice. Or was it that Sylvia was looking at him with
new eyes?

He sat