"Good night," Charles answered, and he passed on to the stairway and went up to his room. He heard the voices of Mary and Frazier on the veranda. They were walking to and fro, for he could hear their steps side by side. Charles did not undress. He did not light his lamp, but sat waiting. There was a certain undefinable comfort in the knowledge that he was serving Mary, that she had made the appointment to meet him later. At all events, her uncouth suitor did not have her full confidence. But how slowly the time dragged along, how irritating the thought that the girl was tortured by suspense over his interrupted disclosure! It was eleven o'clock when he heard Mary saying good night and Frazier went clattering up the stairs. He carried a lighted candle in his hand, and Charles, peering from his darkened coign of vantage through the half-opened door, beheld the sensual visage in a circle of light. How he detested it! Frazier turned into the guest-room at the head of the stairs, the windows of which overlooked the lawn in front of the house. The door was closed after him. Charles heard the key turned and the bolt rattle into its socket. Frazier was evidently a cautious man even in the house of friends, and it was known that he had enemies who would not hesitate to take advantage of him. He always carried a revolver. He was permitted to do so by the law as an occasional deputy under his brother. Frazier continued his noise. He made a clatter as he doffed his heavy boots. A rickety old chair creaked under him as he sat in it. Charles heard even his dull tread as he thumped about in his bare feet, removing his outer clothing. A window-sash was thrown up with a jarring bang. Then the groaning of the mahogany bedstead announced that he had retired for the night. Charles went to a window and looked out. He could see the apple-trees Mary had indicated, and he was glad that they were not in view of the windows of Frazier's room. He waited, wondering if the visitor were a quick and sound sleeper. He took off his shoes that he might as noiselessly as possible descend the stairs. He decided that he must go at once; it would be discourteous to let Mary reach the rendezvous first. So, with his shoes in his hand, he started down. In the great, empty hall the creaking of the worn, well-seasoned steps seemed to ring out sharply as exploding gun-caps. After each sound he paused, waited, and listened to see if Frazier had been aroused. All was still, and he moved on. Reaching the outer door, he found that Mary had left it unlocked. He was soon outside and under the trees at the side of the house. He could see the window of Mary's room. It was dark. She had not retired, of that he was sure; like himself, she must be waiting somewhere in the dark. The moon was higher now, and its pale, star-aided light fell over the fields and mountains and the long, winding road to the village.