Everything had a far-away look. For a full minute I couldn't get over the notion that I'd ridden into a story-book by mistake. So I sat on my horse and stared at it, glad I came, till a soft rush of feet on the grass and a voice I'd often wanted to hear in the past month calling, "Why, Will! I was sure it was you!" made me certain of my welcome. Now, I'd been too busy to think much lately, but when my eyes fell on that beautiful girl, running to see me, glad to see me--eyes, mouth, and outstretched hands all saying she was glad to see me--I just naturally hopped off my horse, over the wall, and gathered her in both arms. She kissed me, frank and hearty, and then we shook hands and said all those things that don't mean anything, that people say to relieve their feelings. Then she laughed and fixed her hair, eying me sideways, and she says: "I don't know that I should permit that from so large and ferocious looking a person. But perhaps it's too late, so tell me everything--how do you get on with Mr. Holton? What are you doing? Why haven't I heard from you? I thought certainly you wouldn't desert me in this strange country for a whole month--I've missed you awfully." "Have you, Mary!" I said; "have you really?" I couldn't get over it, that she'd missed me. "I should say I had, you most tremendous big boy, you!" she says, giving me a little loving shake. "Do you suppose I've forgotten all our walks and talks on the _Matilda_? And all your funny speeches? Oh, Will! I've been homesick, and your dear old auburn locks are home!" "Why, there's Sax!" says I, in the innocence of my heart. "Hasn't he been around?" "I haven't seen much of Mr. Saxton," she answers, cooling so I felt the need of a coat--"and that's quite different." Well, I hustled away from the subject fast, sorry to know something was wrong between my friends, but too durned selfish to spoil my own greeting. I plunged into the history of Mr. William Saunders, from the time of leaving the _Matilda_. Mary was the most eloquent listener I ever met. She made a good story of whatever she harkened to. Well, sir, I had a pleasant afternoon. There was that story-book old house and garden, Mary and me at a little table, drinking lime-juice lemonade, me in my fine clothes out for a real holiday, smoking like a real man, telling her about the crimp I put in that road-agent. Yes, I was having a glorious time, when the gate opened and a man came in. Somehow, from the first look I got of him I didn't like him. Something of the shadow that used to hang over home lay in that lad's black coat.