Perhaps twenty minutes had passed since the clock struck, when a sound suddenly fell upon her ears that thrilled every muscle in her body. It was the far-off call of a whippoorwill! Was it the cry of the real bird or an imitation--_his_ imitation? She stood like a thing of stone, straining her ears for its repetition. There! There it was again, and nearer, clearer, more appealing. Ah, no creature of mere feathers and flesh could have uttered that tentative, soulful note! It was Nelson Floyd alive!--alive and wanting her--her first of all! Standing before her mirror, she tried to tie up her hair, which had fallen loose upon her shoulders, but her hands refused to do their office. Without a second's deliberation she sprang to her door, opened it, and ran on to the outer one. Passing through this, she glided across the porch and softly sped over the grass in the direction of the sound. She heard it again, in startling shrillness, and then, in the clear moonlight, she saw Floyd standing in front of the grape-arbor. As she drew near her heart stood still at the sight of the change which had come on him. It lay like the tracing of Death's pencil on his brow, in his emaciated features and loosely fitting, soiled, and unpressed clothing. For the first time in her life she yielded herself without resistance to his out-stretched arms. With no effort to prevent it, she allowed him to press his lips to hers. Childlike, and as if in fear of losing him again, she slid her arm round his neck and drew him tightly to her. Neither uttered a word. Thus they remained for a moment, and then he led her into the arbor and they sat down together, his arm still about her body, her head on his breast. He was first to speak. “I was so afraid you'd not come,” he panted, as if he had been walking fast. “Have you heard of my trouble?” he went on, his voice sounding strange and altered. She nodded on his breast, not wanting to see the pain she knew was mirrored in his face. “Oh no, surely you haven't--that is, not--not what I learned in Atlanta about my--my mother and father?” Again she nodded, pressing her brow upward against his chin in a mute action of consolation and sympathy. He sighed. “I didn't think anybody knew that,” he said. “That is, anybody up here.” “Mr. Mayhew went down and saw your uncle,” Cynthia found voice to say, finally.