Through the slur of the night wind (such as it makes in July only), and the random lifting of outer leaves--too thick to be dealt with properly--and the quivering loops of dependent danglers--who really hoped that they might sleep at last--and then the fall-away of all things from their interruption to the sweetest of all sweet relapse, and the deepest depth of quietude; Mabel heard, through all of these, the lively sound of horses’ feet briskly ringing on a rise of ground. For the moment some folly of fancy took her, so that she leaned against a gate, and would have been glad to get over it. She knew how unfit she was to meet him. At last he was coming, with her father, to her! She had not a thing on fit to look at. And he must have seen such girls in Spain! Oh, how cruel of him to come, and take her by surprise so! But perhaps after all it was herself, and not her clothes, he would care for. However, let him go on to the house--if she kept well into the gate-post--and then she might slip in, and put on her dress--the buff frock he admired so; and if it was much too large in the neck, he would know for whose sake it became so. “What! Mabel, Mab, all out here alone; and trying to hide from her own brother!” Gregory jumped from his horse, and caught her; and even in the waning light was frightened as she looked at him. Then she fell on his neck, and kissed and kissed him. Bitter as her disappointment was, it was something to have so dear a brother; and she had not seen him for so long, and he must have some news of Hilary. He felt her face, all wet with tears, turned up to him over and over again, and he felt how she trembled, and how slim she was, and he knew in a moment what it meant; and in his steadfast heart arose something that must have been a deep oath, but for much deeper sorrow. And then like a man he controlled it all. “I will walk with you, darling, and lead my horse; or, father, perhaps you will take the bridle, and tell mother to be ready for us. Mab is so glad to see me that she must not be hurried over it.” “Bless my heart!” said the Grower; “what a heap of gossip you chits of children always have. And nothing pleases you better than keeping your valued parents in the dark.” With this little grumble he rode on, leading Gregory’s horse, and shouting back at the corner of the lane, “Now don’t be long with your confab, children; I have scarcely had a bit to eat to-day, and I won’t have my supper spoiled for you.” Gregory thought it a very bad sign that Mabel sent no little joke after her father, as she used to do. Then he threw his firm arm around her waist, and led her homeward silently. But, even by his touch and step, she knew that there was no good news for her.