He drove through the wide gateway and left his horse standing by a stone pillar outside the porte-cochere,—­the beast would stand anywhere if there was a bar or post for him to look at,—­and walked up the steps with the air of one who is not to be gainsaid.

“Not at home,” replied the singsong voice of Perkins, in answer to Bradford’s demand for Miss Latham, Potts and Parker having already gone to open the Newport house for the renter, as a staff of servants was let with it, and then he added, as if conferring a favour, “and Mrs. Latham has gone on the coach to the station to meet some guests, the last ’ouse party before she sails.”

“Before she sails,” thought Bradford, numbly.  Sylvia was going?  Could he believe the man?  Should he go through the formality of leaving a card that she might not get?  No, he would go home and write a letter.

Sylvia kept the house until late in the afternoon, these days.  Then she slipped out by the servants’ stairway, and through the garden, to walk in the wood lane that ran northward, joining the two parallel highroads; for her healthy body needed air, and she knew that if she did not have it, she could not control herself to keep peaceful silence for even the few days that remained.  So it chanced this afternoon that she was walking to and fro in the quiet lane where the ferns crept down quite to the grassy wheel tracks, when Perkins said those repellent words, “Not at home.”

As Bradford turned out the gate and noticed that the sun was already setting, he thought to save time by cutting through the almost unused lane to the turnpike that led directly to Pine Ridge.  He had driven but halfway across, when a flutter of light garments a little way ahead attracted him.  Could it be?  Yes, it was Sylvia, in truth, and at the moment that he recognized her and sprang to the ground she heard the approaching hoofs and turned.  For a full minute neither spoke nor moved, then going quickly to her and stretching out both hands, he said, his heart breaking through his voice, “I have been to see you.  I did not know until to-day.”

She gave her hands, and in another moment his strong arms held her fast and unresisting—­the purifying friendship of those unconscious years crystallized and perfected at love’s first touch.

They said but very little as they walked up and down the lane together, for half an hour; but as the shadows lengthened, the thought came equally to both—­“What should they do next?  How could they part, and yet how stay together?” Horace, with man’s barbarian directness, would have liked to bear her home to safety and his mother; but the shadow of usage and her mother stood between, for in spite of the hollow mockery of it all, Sylvia was still of her household.

“I must take you home,” he said at last, “and to-morrow I will come—­all shall be arranged.”

“To-night,” she whispered, clasping his arm in nervous terror.  “Come back with me and tell her to-night; then I shall feel sure, and not as if it was not real.  And when you have told her,—­before whoever may be there, remember,—­go home; do not stop to listen to anything she may say.”