"No, Carey," he replied, his eyes growing luminous. "It was something your mother said to me this morning." "Oh, I am glad. What was it she said?" "She told me," he evaded, "that you were going to visit the Randalls." "And that is what makes you look so--cheered?" she persisted. "No, Carey. May I tell you at two o'clock in the afternoon, the day after election?" She laughed delightedly. "That sounds like our childhood days. You used to put notes in the old apple tree--do you remember?--asking Janey and me to meet you two hours before sundown at the end of the picket fence." Further confidential conversation was prevented by the entrance of the others. Joe had been captured, and Mrs. Winthrop had ordered a supper served in the rooms. "Carey," asked her mother softly, when they were alone that night, "did David tell you what a cozy little luncheon we had?" "He told me, mother, that you said something to him that made him very happy, but he would not tell me what it was." Something in her mother's gaze made Carey lift her violets as a shield to her face. "She knows!" thought Mrs. Winthrop. "But does she care?" CHAPTER VIII At two o'clock on the day after David Dunne had been elected governor by an overwhelming majority, he reined up at the open gate at the end of the maple drive. His heart beat faster at the sight of the regal little figure awaiting him. Her coat, furs, and hat were all of white. He helped her into the carriage and seated himself beside her. "Have you been waiting long, and are you dressed quite warmly?" he asked anxiously. "Yes, indeed; I thought you might keep me waiting at the gate, so I put on my furs." The drive went on through the grounds to a sloping pasture, where it became a rough roadway. The day was perfect. The sharp edges of November were tempered by a bright sun, and the crisp air was possessed of a profound quiet. When the pastoral stretches ended in the woods, David stopped suddenly. "It must have been just about here," he said, reminiscently, as he hitched the horse to a tree and held out his hand to Carey. They walked on into the depths of the woods until they came to a fallen tree. "Let us sit here," he suggested. She obeyed in silence. An early frost had snatched the glory from the trees, whose few brown and sere leaves hung disconsolately on the branches. High above them was an occasional skirmishing line of wild ducks. The deep stillness was broken only by the scattering of nuts the scurrying squirrels were harvesting, by the cry of startled wood birds, or by the wistful note of a solitary, distant quail. "Do you remember that other--that first day we came here?" he asked. She glanced up at him quickly. "Is this really the place where we came and you told me stories?" "You were only six years old," he reminded her. "It doesn't seem possible that you should remember."