But then she drew a long breath.  Why, there was Austin!  The anguished contraction of her heart relaxed.  The warm blood flowed again through her veins.  There was Austin!

She was rewarded for her effort to bring herself to Judith’s ways, when presently her sister moved and reached out blindly for her hand.  At this she opened her arms and took Judith in.  No word was spoken.  Their mother was there with them.

Sylvia looked out over the proud, dark head, now heavy on her bosom, and felt herself years older.  She did not try to speak.  She had nothing to say.  There was nothing she could do, except to hold Judith and love her.

There was nothing, nothing left but love.

CHAPTER XLVI

A LONG TALK WITH ARNOLD

The tall, lean young man, sitting his galloping horse very slackly, riding fast with a recklessly loose rein, and staring with bloodshot eyes down at the dust of the road, gave an exclamation, brought the mare upon her haunches, and sprang down from the saddle.  A woman, young, tall, grave, set like a pearl in her black mourning dress, stood up from the roadside brook and advanced to meet him.  They looked at each other as people do who meet after death has passed by.  They stammered vague words, their eyes brimming.

“I—­she was always so good to me,” said Arnold, his voice breaking and quavering as he wrung Sylvia’s hand again and again.  “I never knew—­saw much of her, I know—­but when I was a little boy, I used—­I used to dream about her at night.”  His thin, sallow face flushed with his earnestness.  “I don’t believe—­honestly, Sylvia, I don’t believe her own children loved her any more than I did.  I’ve thought so many times how different everything would have been if I’d—­I don’t suppose you remember, but years ago when you and she were in Chicago, I ran away from school to go out there, and ask if—­”

Sylvia remembered, had thought of nothing else from the moment she had seen far down the road the horseman vainly fleeing the black beast on his crupper.  She shook her head now, her hand at her throat, and motioned him to silence.  “Don’t!  Don’t!” she said urgently.  “Yes, I remember.  I remember.”

There was a moment’s silence, filled by the murmur of the little brook at their feet.  The mare, which had been drinking deeply, now lifted her head, the water running from the corners of her mouth.  She gave a deep breath of satisfaction, and began cropping the dense green grass which grew between the water and the road.  Her master tossed the reins over the pommel and let her go.  He began speaking again on a different note.  “But, Sylvia, what in the world—­here, can’t we go up under those trees a few minutes and have a talk?  I can keep my eye on the mare.”  As they took the few steps he asked again, “How ever does it happen that you’re here at Lydford Junction of all awful holes?”