Berkley did not reply, but spoke to his horse, "Go on there, Jerry." They had been driving so slowly that the other buggy had passed them though Berkley's was the fleeter horse. But now they sped along over the hard wet road, silence between them. Linda's imagination was busy picturing the delights of having the old homestead for her very own, and was fancying days spent there with Miss Ri and Mammy, for of course Mammy would go. She was roused by hearing Berkley say in a hard dispassionate voice, "Then your dearest wish on earth is to possess Talbot's Angles." "I really think it is. I don't suppose it is very nice of me to feel so about what belongs to another, but I confess to you, Berk, that I can't help counting a little on Grace's marrying again." "That is perfectly natural, and it isn't half so bad as wishing her dead, though some might think so," he added. Then after a moment's silence: "Linda, I was selfish to carry you off this way without giving you any choice in the matter. Perhaps you would rather have gone with Jeffreys. It isn't too late to change now, if you say so. We can easily overtake his buggy." "At the eleventh hour? No, I thank you, not after I am comfortably settled and safe from the rain. You have tucked me in so well, Berk. I don't believe Mr. Jeffreys could have done it half so well, but probably he has not had the experience you have. I might enjoy variety of companionship, but my bodily comfort is worth more to me." Linda was very skilful in giving non-committal replies it seemed. Berkley drew a little sigh; whether of relief or disappointment Linda could not determine. They had nearly overtaken the other two by now and soon had passed them, reaching home before the others. Berkley refused to come in; spite of inducements in the shape of hot coffee and sandwiches. Mr. Jeffreys, however, was not averse to joining in a late supper, and taking his horse around to shelter, he returned to the house while Berkley bade all good-night and drove off in the rain. Anyone noticing the little office opposite the Jackson House would have seen a light there burning nearly all night, and could he have looked in he would have observed a young man whose earnest eyes were bent upon pages of yellow manuscript. These absorbed him so closely that the clock in the church tower struck three before he aroused himself. Even then he did not leave the place, but sat with elbows on desk and head in hands for another hour. Then, turning out the light and locking the door he crossed the street to the hotel where the watchman, snoring in his chair, paid no heed to the quiet entrance of this late guest.