But again we anticipate.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” the girl had ejaculated, “now when you have.”  At last the work was over, and in unconscious comradery they sat side by side on the broad south doorstep; the sun shining down full upon their uncovered heads—­smiling an unconscious blessing more potent than formula of clergy.  She was looking out as she spoke, out over the level earth dazzling with its dancing heat waves, mysterious in its suggestion of unfathomable silence, of limitless distance.  “It’s such a little time now before I am going away, and Uncle Landor has talked of you so much, particularly of late.”  A pause, a hesitating pause.  “I suppose you’ll laugh at me, but I hope you’ll stay here, for a time, anyway, after I’m gone.”

Clayton Craig, the listener, was not gazing out over the prairie.  The object at which he was looking was very near; so near that he had leaned a trifle back the better to see, to watch.  He shifted now until his weight rested on his elbow, his face on his hand.

“You are going away, you say?” he echoed.

“Yes.  I supposed you knew—­that Uncle had told you.”  Despite an effort, the tiny ears were reddening.  She was very human also, was Elizabeth Landor.  “I am to be married soon.”

“Married?” A long pause.  “And to whom, please?” The voice was very low.

Redder than before burned the tiny ears.  No more than she could keep from breathing could she prevent telling her secret, her happiness, this prairie girl; no more than she could prevent that accompanying telltale scarlet flood.

“You didn’t know it, but you’ve met him already,” she confided.  “You met him last night.”  To her at this time there was no need of antecedent.  There was but one to whom the pronoun might refer.  “It was he who showed you here—­How Landor.”

For a long time—­for he was thinking now, was Clayton Craig, and did not answer—­there was silence.  Likewise the girl, her confession voiced, said no more; but her colour came and went expectantly, tantalisingly, and the eyes that still looked into the distance were unconscious of what they saw.  From his place the man watched the transparent pantomime, read its meaning, stored the picture in his memory; but he did not speak.  A minute had already passed; but still he did not speak.  He was thinking of the night before, was the man, of that first look he had received—­and of what had followed.  His eyes were upon the girl, but it was of this he was thinking.  Another minute passed.  A big shaggy-haired collie, guardian of the dooryard, paused in his aimless wandering about the place to thrust a friendly muzzle into the stranger’s hand; but even then he did not respond.  For almost the first time in his irresolute life a definite purpose was taking form in the mind of Clayton Craig, and little things passed him by.  A third minute passed.  The colour had ceased playing on the face he watched now.  The silence had performed its mission.  It was the moment for which he was waiting, and he was prepared.  Then it was the angel of the great book opened the volume and made an entry; for then it was the watcher spoke.