Whirled down the sky like black maple leaves caught up aloft, came two more crows. They swept down and clung hold of the trees in front of the house, staying near the old forerunner. Lettie watched them, half amused, half melancholy. One bird was carried past. He swerved round and began to battle up the wind, rising higher, and rowing laboriously against the driving wet current. “Here comes your fourth,” said I. She did not answer, but continued to watch. The bird wrestled heroically, but the wind pushed him aside, tilted him, caught under his broad wings and bore him down. He swept in level flight down the stream, outspread and still, as if fixed in despair. I grieved for him. Sadly two of his fellows rose and were carried away after him, like souls hunting for a body to inhabit, and despairing. Only the first ghoul was left on the withered, silver-grey skeleton of the holly. “He won’t even say ‘Nevermore’,” I remarked. “He has more sense,” replied Lettie. She looked a trifle lugubrious. Then she continued: “Better say ‘Nevermore’ than ‘Evermore.’” “Why?” I asked. “Oh, I don’t know. Fancy this ‘Evermore.’” She had been sure in her own soul that Leslie would come—now she began to doubt:—things were very perplexing. The bell in the kitchen jangled; she jumped up. I went and opened the door. He came in. She gave him one bright look of satisfaction. He saw it, and understood. “Helen has got some people over—I have been awfully rude to leave them now,” he said quietly. “What a dreadful day!” said mother. “Oh, fearful! Your face _is_ red, Lettie! What have you been doing?” “Looking into the fire.” “What did you see?” “The pictures wouldn’t come plain—nothing.” He laughed. We were silent for some time. “You were expecting me?” he murmured. “Yes—I knew you’d come.” They were left alone. He came up to her and put his arm around her, as she stood with her elbow on the mantelpiece. “You do want me,” he pleaded softly. “Yes,” she murmured. He held her in his arms and kissed her repeatedly, again and again, till she was out of breath, and put up her hand, and gently pushed her face away. “You are a cold little lover—you are a shy bird,” he said, laughing into her eyes. He saw her tears rise, swimming on her lids, but not falling. “Why, my love, my darling—why!”—he put his face to her’s and took the tear on his cheek: “I know you love me,” he said, gently, all tenderness. “Do you know,” he murmured. “I can positively feel the tears rising up from my heart and throat. They are quite painful gathering, my love. There—you can do anything with me.” They were silent for some time. After a while, a rather long while, she came upstairs and found mother—and at the end of some minutes I heard my mother go to him.