going back. He caught his breath slightly at the
thought. Well, he wouldn't go back. There was no reason why he
should--absolutely no reason. With that he turned about and walked
briskly back up the hill toward home.

As he entered the front hall he could hear a low hum of conversation
on the other side of the parlour doors. They were partly open, and he
hurried past lest someone call for him to come in. He went upstairs,
into the ell bedroom, and took off his coat. He looked at himself in
the glass of the bureau. His face was red and streaked with
perspiration and dust. And _they_ had looked quite fresh--"smart" was
the word. He proceeded to clean himself up and he spent quite a long
time in the process.

When he came downstairs again it was growing dark. He no longer heard
the voices in the parlour. When he reached the foot, he paused for a
moment in uncertainty. The walnut chairs were there, quite placid and
content with themselves, and the hat-rack, and the old horsehair sofa.
His aunt Loraine came out of another door, back in the passage. She
had, of course, laid aside her veil and her face had been freshly
powdered; she looked quite the same. There was a certain prim set to
her mouth, and her eyes, as she looked at him, were calculatingly
cool. She did not touch him but stood with her arms hanging rather
stiffly by her sides.

"Joseph," she said, "we want you to stay, if you will--as long as you
feel you can."

The tiny spark that he had felt died away. "We," she had said. He
wondered who the "we" might be. Mr. Fawcette, perhaps; perhaps one of
the old ladies. Aunt Lorry had evidently been looking ahead. There was
no need for him here.

"No," he said rather quietly. "Thank you very much, Aunt Lorry. I
must be getting back--first train to-morrow, I expect."

She lifted her eyebrows ever so slightly. "Very well. Make yourself at
home while you stay." And she glided off with her queer, noiseless
step, back into the shadow of the hall.

He walked to the front door and out on to the wide verandah. He looked
down the winding driveway to the gate, all mellowing in the dying
sunlight. There was not a breath of air, not a sound. The gate was
standing partly open; the last departing guest had neglected to shut
it. On the driveway lay something white, somebody's handkerchief. It
lay without moving, inert. There was nothing to pick it up, not even
the slightest breeze. He gazed across the open country that dipped
a