He stopped a moment before her on the doorstone and drew the quick breath of the haste of his coming. Then he took off his hat, stayed for one look at the night behind him, and followed her in. Marietta put the lamp on the high mantel, and moved his chair slightly nearer the hearth. There was no fire, but the act seemed to make him more intimately welcome. Then she seated herself on the sofa between the two side windows and folded her hands for an evening's intercourse. Jerry took out his pipe, held it absently for a moment, and laid it down on the table. Marietta hardly liked that. He must be moved indeed, she knew, if he meant to forego his evening smoke. Jerry sat forward a little in his chair and let his long hands, loosely clasped, hang between his knees. He gazed straight out through the dark window as if he could see the lovely night pulsating there, and his bright gray eyes seemed to hold gleams of an extreme anticipation. Then he remembered the world where he found himself, this clean exquisite room with its homely furnishings, where he had become as familiar as if it were a secondary shell that fitted him so completely he hardly noticed it, and turned to her with an effect of winking his eyes open after a dream. "Marietta," said he, "who do you suppose has come?" She shook her head in an attentive interest. He kept his gaze on her as if it were all incredible. "Ruth Bellair," he said solemnly. Now she did start, and her lips parted in the surprise of it. "Not here?" she insisted. "You don't mean she's come here?" He shook his head. "No. She's at Poplar Bridge. The paper said so to-night." "What's she there for?" "She's come to board. The paper said so. 'The well-known poetess, Ruth Bellair, has arrived to spend the summer at the commodious boarding establishment of L. H. Moody.'" He looked at her in a pale triumph, and she stared back at him with all the emotion he could have wished. "I can't hardly believe it," she said faintly. "That's it," he nodded at her. "Nobody could believe it. Why, Marietta, do you suppose there's been a night I've sat here that I haven't either read some of her pieces to you, or told you something I'd seen about her in the papers?" "No," said Marietta, rather wearily, yet with a careful interest, "you haven't talked about anything else scarcely." He was looking at her out of the same solemn assurance that it had been commendable in him to preserve that romantic loyalty. "She begun to write about the time I did," he said, tasting the flavor of reminiscence. "I used to see her name in the papers when I never so much as thought I should write a line myself. She's been a great influence in my life, Marietta." "Yes, course she has," Marietta responded, rising to the height of his emotion. "I guess she's influenced a good many folks." "Well, I've got my chance. She's here within ten miles of us, and come what may, I'm bound to see her." Marietta started.