Tearing it open eagerly, she found a visiting-card, upon which some words were scribbled in pencil.  For a moment after reading them she paused.  Then she said, “Tell Mr. Murie it will be all right.”

“Very well, miss,” the man replied, and, bowing, closed the door.

For a few moments she stood motionless in the centre of the room, her lover’s card still in her hand.  Then she walked to the open window, and looked out into the hot, oppressive night.  The moon was hidden behind dark clouds, and the stillness was precursory of the thunderstorm which for the past hour or so had threatened.  Across the room she paced slowly several times, a deep, anxious expression upon her pale countenance; then slowly she slipped off her gown and put on a dark stuff dress.

Until the clock had struck eleven she waited.  Then, assuming her tam-o’-shanter and twisting a silk scarf about her neck, she crept along the corridor and down the wide oak stairs.  Lights were still burning; but without detection she slipped out by the main door, and, crossing the broad drive, took the winding path into the woods.

The guests had all left, and the servants were closing the house for the night.  Scarce had she gone a hundred yards when a dark figure in overcoat and a golf-cap loomed up before her, and she found Walter at her side.

“Why, dearest!” he exclaimed, taking her hand and bending till he pressed it to his lips, “I began to fear you wouldn’t come.  Why haven’t I seen you to-night?”

“Because—­well, because I had a bad headache,” was her lame reply.  “I knew that if I went in to dinner mother would want me to sing, and I really didn’t feel up to it.  I hope, however, you haven’t been bored too much.”

“You know I have!” he said quickly in a low, earnest voice.  “I came here purposely to see you, and you were invisible.  I’ve run the car down the farm-road on the other side of the park, and left it there.  The mater went home in the carriage nearly an hour ago.  She’s afraid to go in the car when I drive.”

Slowly they strolled together along the dark path, he with her arm held tenderly under his own.

“Think, darling,” he said, “I haven’t seen you for four whole days!  Why is it?  Yesterday I went to the usual spot at the end of the glen, and waited nearly two hours; but you did not come, although you promised me, you know.  Why are you so indifferent, dearest?” he asked in a plaintive tone.  “I can’t really make you out of late.”

“I’m not indifferent at all, Walter,” she declared.  “My father has very much to attend to just now, and I’m compelled to assist him, as you are well aware.  He’s so utterly helpless.”

“Oh, but you might spare me just half-an-hour sometimes,” he said in a slight tone of reproach.

“I do.  Why, we surely see each other very often!”

“Not often enough for me, Gabrielle,” he declared, halting in the darkness and raising her soft little hand to his eager lips.  “You know well enough how fondly I love you, how—­”