The party proceeded in a body to the corner of Worthington Square, where Jane, under escort of Peter, came to a sudden halt. "Oh, I ’ve forgotten something to go with my present to Shirley," she said to him. "Give me the key, please. I ’ll run back and get it. Don’t wait. I want to slip into the dining-room over there, anyway, before I see anybody, and I ’ll come in by the side door." So Jane ran back alone, and let herself into the dark house, the lamps having, for safety, been all extinguished before the family went out. She hurriedly lighted the lamp in the front room, for she meant to fill out a card with a certain appropriate quotation, to put with Shirley’s gift, and the book she needed was in this room. The quotation was not as easily found as she had thought it would be, and hurriedly searching for it, Jane consumed considerable time, but did not want to give it up, for the words fitted Shirley delightfully, and would give point to the gift. So bending over the book, still unsuccessful, she heard with regret the sound of a quick step upon the porch, followed by a ring at the bell. She sprang up, book in hand, wishing she had taken her affairs, with her light, into the dining-room. Hoping that her appearance, in her evening frock, would warn the chance visitor that the time was inopportune, she opened the door. "Jane!" exclaimed a joyful voice. "Ah, but this is good luck!" And Jane looked up into a face so brown and rugged and strong that for an instant she did not know it. But the eyes gazing eagerly into her own told her in the next breath who stood before her. She put out both hands, speechless with surprise. They were grasped and held, as Murray Townsend closed the door behind him with a sturdy shoulder. "I--you--why, I thought you were n’t coming for a month yet," she said, half shyly, for in spite of the smile and the warm handclasp, it seemed as if this must be a stranger who stood before her, radiating health and happiness, and looking so different from the pale young man who had gone away a year before. "I was hit by a sudden wave of homesickness that swept me off my feet," Murray explained, releasing the hands which were gently drawing themselves away, but continuing to stare down at the engaging young figure in its modest evening attire, as if he had seen nothing so attractive in all Montana, in spite of his fine tales of its glories. "I began to think about it, and that was fatal. Once the notion of coming home a bit ahead of the date I ’d set took hold of me, I was no more use to anybody. They told me to pack up and start, for I was n’t fit to brand a calf, and could n’t earn my salt." He laughed. "Tell me you ’re not sorry." "Indeed, I’m not. This happens to be my birthday, and it’s the nicest surprise I’ve had yet." "Thank you--that’s the welcome I wanted. But"--he glanced at her dress again, and his face fell--"you were going out?"