Elizabeth was not greatly heeding, for the round, golden rim of the moon was showing almost opposite them, above the jagged heaps of ruins. Slowly it rose, spreading more light through the trees, until it was half above the horizon and shone, an orange semicircle, there above the old house. She was about to speak when David touched her elbow. “Look beyond that pine tree,” he whispered. The little glow-worm light was visible at last. It was, at first, half hidden by the bushes, but it moved slowly along, swinging near the ground, hesitating, almost coming to a standstill, but still always making some progress. It moved along the ruined walls, it came nearer and nearer. To both of them it became evident that whatever it was, whatever carried it, must presently pass opposite them and be darkly outlined against the glowing background of the moon. They had only to wait and they would see. The wait, however, began to seem very long, since the wavering advance of the point of light was very slow. Betsey, in the lagging delay as the seconds passed, felt her attention beginning to wander. She noticed how slim and graceful were the sweeping boughs of the tree that hid them, she observed the thin frettings of black and white of the shadows of the leaves on the wall. Very earnestly she wished that she could sit as still as David could and not be tempted to swing her feet against the stones. She began to think, as the minutes still dragged, of that man they had seen go in at Miss Miranda’s gate. “David,” she leaned over to whisper, “you said you had seen that man before. What did he look like?” “Why,” David answered, coming out of his own thoughts with a start, “he was dark, rather heavy, but with a thin face. I didn’t like him.” “Did he have,” a slow possibility was dawning in Betsey’s mind, as she dwelt upon who this man might be, why he had come, and as she recollected a chance phrase spoken by the farmer’s wife beside the river, “did he have a sharp, selfish face?” “Why, I think so.” David spoke so very slowly that she could have shaken him for his deliberation. “Yes, I rather think he did. He had scowling black eyebrows and eyes very close together. Yes, I would put it just that way myself, a sharp, selfish face.” That was the way Mrs. Bassett had put it, and Michael also. Elizabeth swung her feet over to the other side of the wall, the weird, moving light quite forgotten. “I am going back,” she said. “It must be that cousin, Donald Reynolds. I do believe he was waiting in the lane for Miss Miranda to go out, so that he could find her father alone. And she has always dreaded his coming. Oh, why didn’t we think who it was before!” “But—but—” stammered David, quite dazed.