Swiftly down behind the currants she ran, and standing on the fence behind the corn she looked off across the wheat, but no sign of anybody yet coming out of the woods was granted her. She stood so a long time. It was growing dusk. She wondered if Harry Temple had shut the front door when he went out. But then David went in that way, and he would have closed it, of course. Still, he went away in a hurry, maybe it would be as well to go and look. She did not wish to be caught by her grandmother, so she stole along like a cat close to the dark berry bushes, and the gathering dusk hid her well. She thought she could see from the front of the fence whether the door looked as if it were closed. But there were people coming up the street. She would wait till they had passed before she looked over the fence. They were two men coming, slowly, and in earnest conversation upon some deeply interesting theme. Each carried a heavy carpet-bag, and they walked wearily, as if their business were nearly over for the day and they were coming to a place of rest. “This must be the house, I think,” said one. “He said it was exactly opposite the Seceder church. That’s the church, I believe. I was here once before.” “There doesn’t seem to be a light in the house,” said the other, looking up to the windows over the street. “Are you sure? Brother Spafford said he was coming directly home to let his wife know of our arrival.” “A little strange there’s no light yet, for it is quite dark now, but I’m sure this must be the house. Maybe they are all in the kitchen and not expecting us quite so soon. Let’s try anyhow,” said the other, setting down his carpet-bag on the stoop and lifting the big brass knocker. Miranda stood still debating but a moment. The situation was made plain to her in an instant. Not for nothing had she stood at Grandma Heath’s elbow for years watching the movements of her neighbors and interpreting exactly what they meant. Miranda’s wits were sharpened for situations of all kinds. Miranda was ready and loyal to those she adored. Without further ado she hastened to a sheltered spot she knew and climbed the picket fence which separated the Heath garden from the Spafford side yard. Before the brass knocker had sounded through the empty house the second time Miranda had crossed the side porch, thrown her sunbonnet upon a chair in the dark kitchen, and was hastening with noisy, encouraging steps to the front door. She flung it wide open, saying in a breezy voice, “Just wait till I get a light, won’t you, the wind blew the candle out.” There wasn’t a particle of wind about that soft September night, but that made little difference to Miranda. She was part of a play and she was acting her best. If her impromptu part was a little irregular, it was at least well meant, boldly and bravely presented. Miranda found a candle on the shelf and, stooping to the smouldering fire upon the hearth, blew and coaxed it into flame enough to light it.