He had left the road mechanically where it was intersected by the turn-row that led through Eli Strobe’s cornfield. All frosted and melancholy and spectral were the gaunt stalks in the moonlight. He could see the sky and the summit of a distant mountain through the meshes that the intertwisted bare boughs of the orchard wrought against the horizon. But the house on the further side of the fruit trees was still invisible, embowered amongst the red and yellow sumach and dogwood foliage, that seemed to find a prolongation of life in its genial vicinage. He stopped twice, peering eagerly into its bosky surroundings; he was surprised to gauge the disappointment he experienced that there was no glimmer of light. It seemed that no one had awaited his return from the forge; it had been accounted, perhaps, hardly worth the while, since none knew that danger menaced him there, none except Marcella. He would go back, then, to his lurking coadjutor, hidden in the mountains. He could come again, and then he could thank her once more; he could never thank her enough. As he turned, his heart leaped; a tiny red gleam came through the leaves, and as he took his way back toward the gate with a quick step he saw in the moonlight a slight figure, that he had learned to know, coming down from the porch toward it. Marcella distinguished him in the shadows as readily. She hesitated for a moment, but by the time he had reached the gate she had turned back, and she stood upon the porch as he came up the steps. The light streamed out from the open door, and fell upon his face. She saw his eyes, at once eager and soft and almost suffused, shining upon her as he held out his hand to her. She held out her own, but it was not a responsive gesture. “Gimme that thar pick,” she remarked stiffly. “I’ll set it in the shed-room. We-uns don’t tote tools in the house.” Her staid manner seemed only an added charm in his eyes, whose glance she would not meet as she took the implement in question and bore it away. For he had only sought to thus silently reiterate his thanks, since Mrs. Strobe and the master of the house were both summoned to the door by Marcella’s words. “Kem in, stranger!” cried Mrs. Strobe. “Ye war a power o’ time gittin’ yer pick mended. Take a cheer by the ha’th. A body would ’low ’twar a powerful tejious business, ’cordin’ ter the time Marcelly hev been keepin’ a lookout. Ef she hev been traipsin’ ter the gate wunst ter look ter see ef ye war a-kemin’ back, she hev been fower hunderd an’ ninety-nine times. I reckon, ef the truth war knowed, she war a-hopin’ ye’d bring Clem Sanders back with ye. Clem’s a mighty favor_ite_ ’mongst the gals.”