That afternoon--it was close upon nightfall--Stephen Quimbey, letting down the bars for the cows, noticed through the slanting lines of rain, serried against the masses of sober-hued vapors which hid the great mountain towering above the Cove, a woman crossing the foot-bridge. He turned and lifted down another bar, and then looked again. Something was familiar in her aspect, certainly. He stood gravely staring. Her sun-bonnet had fallen back upon her shoulders, and was hanging loosely there by the strings tied beneath her chin; her brown hair, dishevelled' by the storm, tossed back and forth in heavy wave-less locks, wet through and through. When the wind freshened they lashed, thong-like, her pallid oval face; more than once she put up her hand and tried to gather them together, or to press them back--only one hand, for she clasped a heavy bundle in her arms, and as she toiled along slowly up the rocky slope, Stephen suddenly held his palm above his eyes. The recognition was becoming definite, and yet he could scarcely believe his senses: was it indeed Evelina, wind-tossed, tempest-beaten, and with as many tears as rain-drops on her pale cheek? Evelina, forlorn and sorry, and with swollen sad dark eyes, and listless exhausted step--here again at the bars, where she had not stood since she dragged her wounded lover thence on-that eventful night two years and more ago. Resentment for the domestic treachery was uppermost in his mind, and he demanded surlily, when she had advanced within the sound of his words, “What hev ye kem hyar fur?” “Ter stay,” she responded, briefly. His hand in an uncertain gesture laid hold upon his tuft of beard. “Fur good?” he faltered, amazed. She nodded silently. He stooped to lift down the lowest bar that she might pass. Suddenly the bundle she clasped gave a dexterous twist; a small head, with yellow downy hair, was thrust forth; a pair of fawn-like eyes fixed an inquiring stare upon him; the pink face distended with a grin, to which the two small teeth in the red mouth, otherwise empty, lent a singularly merry expression; and with a manner that was a challenge to pursuit, the head disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared, tucked with affected shyness under Evelina's arm. She left Stephen standing with the bar in his hand, staring blankly after her, and ran into the cabin. Her father had no questions to ask--nor she. As he caught her in his arms he gave a great cry of joy that rang through the house, and brought Timothy from the barn, in astonishment, to the scene. “Eveliny's _home!_” he cried out to Tim, who, with the ox-yoke in his hand, paused in the doorway. “Kem ter stay! Eveliny's _home!_ I knowed she'd kem back to her old daddy. Eveliny's kem ter stay fur good.” “They tole me they'd hectored ye plumb out'n the town an' out'n yer office. They hed the insurance ter tell _me_ that word!” she cried, sobbing on his breast.