‘John--John Sandford? Is it John?’ He turned back with a thrill of mingled alarm and relief, and at the same time a quick start of contradiction. ‘I’m John--John May,’ he replied, with a sudden confused impulse. ‘Is this the house?’ ‘Oh, come in. Oh, come in! You don’t know me? I’m Susie. Oh, John, John, where have you been? I have been waiting for you for hours. Oh, John!’ She had pulled him into the little parlour where one candle was burning, and looked at him strangely, with a look of terror and distress. She threw her arms round his neck, then drew back without kissing him, and cried again, in a tone of reproach, ‘Oh, John, John!’ ‘What is it!’ he said. ‘Are you Susie? What is it? I went out for a walk. I did not know anyone was coming to-night.’ She stood looking at him fixedly. He had taken off his hat, and the plastered cut, which Mrs. Montressor said would not show, showed, alas! painfully upon his forehead, though half covered by the ruffled hair, which by half concealing made it appear greater than it was. He caught sight of himself at the same time in the little glass over the mantelpiece. He was very pale, his hair very much ruffled by the wind, his shirt a little disordered in the dressing of his wound, his coat imperfectly brushed by the Montressors, showing still some signs of a fall--and in his eyes a sort of wildness which he himself saw, but did not understand. ‘What is the matter with you, Susie--if it is Susie. Why do you look at me so? What have I done? I lost my way, and I am dreadfully tired,’ he added, sitting down, suddenly falling into despondency as great and causeless as his elation had been before. ‘Where have you been? You have been in a--row, or something. Oh, John, John! I came rushing, so glad, so glad to see my brother. Oh, I’ve looked for you so long! and to find you like this, like this, at last!’ and she covered her eyes with her hands. ‘Like what?’ he said, feeling his lips stammer in spite of himself, his voice thick. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She uncovered her eyes and gave him a look--such a look--of love and pity, and horror and dismay. ‘Oh, John,’ she said, ‘oh, John!’ as if all reproach and all tenderness, and everything that the heart could say of blame and forgiveness and heavenly pity, were in that utterance of his name. He knew nothing of that which put meaning and misery into her cry. No one had ever warned him, no one had enlightened him, the facts were all unknown, yet something of the feeling in her suddenly stricken and aching consciousness came into his. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said again. ‘You think I’ve been doing something wrong. It isn’t true. It’s very, very strange, to have to defend myself the first time I see you--the very first night----’ ‘Yes,’ she said, with an echo in her voice, which made the words seem like the very climax of despair, ‘the first night!’ ‘She has put you against me,’ said John.