is passport or he would be home--unless, to be
sure, the Britisher was too strong in him after all, and he would not
return. This alternative she contemplated with a lively regret, for she
had had no one to talk to since he left, and so much business sat
heavily on her shoulders. Then she announced herself his affectionate
cousin; and it was not until the letter was gone, and quite a day of
self-gratulation at her own adroitness, that it suddenly occurred to her
that Gwynne had made up his mind that the first letter should come from
her. For a few moments she was furious, then concluded that she did not
care; she wanted to hear from him on any terms. She counted the days,
intending finally to count the hours and minutes; but this agreeably
breathless task came to an abrupt end at the close of the sixth day.
Gwynne answered by telegraph. He thanked her for her interesting and
more than welcome letter. He was well, and bored, and hoping daily to
settle his affairs and start for home. In any case he should have
returned to California: he was surprised at her doubts. She was not to
bother further about his affairs out there. He had telegraphed to the
contractor that he could wait as long as the strikers. He added that he
longed for California.

Isabel wondered if he had not dared to trust himself in a letter,
finally concluded that this was the secret of the long telegram,
dismissed her apprehensions, and, with a soothed but by no means
tranquil imagination, yielded herself up again to dreams and the
spring.

VIII

It was close upon the middle of April when Gwynne left the train a mile
from Lumalitas, and, being unheralded, walked across the fields to his
house. He had intended to get off at Rosewater, hire the fastest horse
in town, and ride out to Old Inn; but he had been seized with doubt and
diffidence, and while he was still turning hot and cold the train moved
out of the station. It was now nearly ten weeks since he had seen
Isabel, and during that time he had received one letter from her. This
letter he had read and reread until its contents were meaningless; and
he was still in doubt as to what might lurk between the lines. He was
reasonably sure that he had forced her to write, but whether mere pique
and curiosity had been his aides, he was far from being able to
determine. She had been right in assuming that he dared not trust
himself to the tempting privacy of the letter. He had no idea how he
stood,