It was a clear and calm autumn evening, with just that faintest chill in the air which seemed to whisper of a coming winter--a chill so slight that it only quickened the blood, made the air seem purer, and caused one unconsciously to quicken one's step. As Comethup went along the road which led to the old garden, the sun was setting out beyond the wastes of land behind the town, and the old-fashioned red roofs and the square tower of the Norman church were bathed in the warm light, and all their edges softened by it. He thought he had never seen the old place looking so peaceful before. As he reached the gates he saw, with a sudden leaping of his pulses, that 'Linda was standing against the one which still hung on its hinges, and was looking out into the road. She sprang forward with a little cry of pleasure as he came near her, and took his hand and drew him quickly into the garden. "I did not hope to see you so soon again," she said softly, looking up at him. "When did you arrive?" "To-day," said Comethup, holding her hand in both his own and looking into her eyes. "Only to-day? And you came at once to see me. That was good of you. So many other people would not have troubled, or would have waited until to-morrow. But you came at once." There was a new tenderness in her voice, a new light in her eyes--or so he thought--that was not born of mere gratitude. She almost seemed, with her warm fingers twined about his, to be clinging to him; he thought with regret of the desperate loneliness that must have been hers, through the days since last he had seen her; of the weary evenings through which, perhaps, she had stood at the gate, looking out along the road while he was far away. "I could not have waited until to-morrow," he said; "I don't think I should have slept. 'Linda, you don't know how much, how tremendously I wanted to see you. Dear, I always want to see you more than any one else in the world." She was silent, looking up at him and smiling gravely into his face. The trees about them seemed almost to have hushed their whispering and their rustling, to hear what the two had to say. "Do you remember," he went on almost in a whisper, "how I found you here first, and how you--you kissed me when I left you?" She shook her head and laughed. "No, I surely didn't do that. And if I did--well, we were very young--mere babies, you know." "'Linda, don't laugh at me. We're not children any longer; but I've never ceased to think of you, never ceased to--to love you. I think--in fact, I know--that I came here to-night to tell you that; I think I've tried--tried very hard--to tell you several times before. Only I was afraid that you wouldn't listen to me." She lifted the hands she held and laid them for a moment against her cheek, then looked up at him. "Why should I not listen?" she asked gently.