gate she strained her eyes into the shadows, crying his
name out into the night. Her voice broke and she hid her face in her arm;
then, fearing to lose the last glimpse of him, she looked up quickly and
sobbed to him to come back for a moment--but for a moment. It seemed to
her, clinging there upon the gate, that when he went out into the darkness
he had gone forever--that the thud of his footsteps in the dust was the
last sound that would ever come from him to her ears.

Had he looked back she would have gone straight out to him, had he raised a
finger she would have followed with a cheerful face; but he did not look
back, and at last his footsteps died away upon the road.

When she could see or hear nothing more of him, she turned slowly and crept
toward the house. Her feet dragged under her, and as she walked she cast
back startled glances at the gate. The rustling of the leaves made her
stand breathless a moment, her hand at her bosom; but it was only the wind,
and she went step by step into the house, turning upon the threshold to
throw a look behind her.

In the hall she paused and laid her hand upon the library door, but the
Major had bolted her out, and she heard him pacing with restless strides up
and down the room. She listened timidly awhile, then, going softly by, went
up to Mrs. Lightfoot.

The old lady was asleep, but as the girl entered she awoke and sat up, very
straight, in bed. "My pain is much worse, Betty," she complained. "I don't
expect to get a wink of sleep this entire night."

"I thought you were asleep when I came in," answered Betty, keeping away
from the candlelight; "but I am so sorry you are in pain. Shall I make you
a mustard plaster?"

Though she smiled, her voice was spiritless and she moved with an effort.
She felt suddenly very tired, and she wanted to lie down somewhere alone in
the darkness.

"I'd just dropped off when Mr. Lightfoot woke me slamming the doors,"
pursued the old lady, querulously. "Men have so little consideration that
nothing surprises me, but I do think he might be more careful when he knows
I am suffering. No, I won't take the mustard plaster, but you may bring me
a cup of hot milk, if you will. It sometimes sends me off into a doze."

Betty went slowly downstairs again and heated the milk on the dining-room
fire. When it was ready she daintily arranged it upon a tray and carried it
upstairs. "I hope it will do you good," she said gently as she gave it to
th