"It is such a little way, let us walk," she replied, and then with a laugh she offered an explanation of her presence. "I wrote twice, but I had no answer," she said; "then I decided to come, and telegraphed, but they handed me my telegram and my last letter at the cross-roads. Can something have happened, do you think? or is it merely carelessness that keeps them from sending for the mail?" "I hardly know; but they are all alive, at least. You have come straight from--where?" "From abroad. I lived there for six years, first in one place, then in another--chiefly in Italy. My husband died eighteen months ago, but I stayed on with his people. It seemed then that they needed me most, but one can never tell, and I may have made a mistake in not coming home sooner." "I think you did," he said quietly, running the end of his long whip through his fingers. She flashed a disturbed glance at him. "Is it possible that you are keeping something from me? Is any one ill?" "Not that I have heard of, but I never see any of them, you know, except your brother." "And he is married. They told me so at the cross-roads. I can't understand why they did not let me know." "It was very sudden--they went to Washington." "How queer! Who is the girl, I wonder?" "Her name was Molly Peterkin--old Sol's daughter; you may remember him." She shook her head. "No; I've lived here so little, you see. What is she like?" "A beauty, with blue eyes and yellow hair." "Indeed? And are they happy?" He laughed. "They are in love--or were, six months ago." "You are cynical. But do they live at the Hall?" "Not yet. Your grandfather has not spoken to Will since the marriage, and that was last August." "Where, under heaven, do they live, then?" "On a little farm he has given them adjoining Sol's. I believe he means that they shall raise tobacco for a living." She made a gesture of distress. "Oh, I ought to have come home long ago!" "What difference would that have made: you could have done nothing. A thunderbolt falling at his feet doesn't sober a man when he is in love." "I might have helped--one never knows. At least I should have been at my post, for, after all, the ties of blood are the strongest claims we have." "Why should they be?" he questioned, with sudden bitterness. "You are more like that swallow flying up there than you are like any Fletcher that ever lived." She smiled. "I thought so once," she answered, "but now I know better. The likeness must be there, and I am going to find it." "You will never find it," he insisted, "for there is nothing of them in you--nothing." "You don't like them, I remember." "Nor do you." A laugh broke from her and humour rippled in her eyes. "So you still persist in the truth, and in the plain truth!" she exclaimed. "Then it is so, you confess it?" "No, no, no," she protested. "Why, I love them all--all, do you hear, and I love Will more than the rest of them put together."