Presently her reflections were broken by the actions of the pony.  Madcap had thrown up her head, laid back her ears and commenced to paw the ground with her forefeet.  Betty looked round to see the cause of Madcap’s excitement.  What was that!  She saw a tall figure clad in brown leaning against the stone.  She saw a long fishing-rod.  What was there so familiar in the poise of that figure?  Madcap dislodged a stone from the path and it went rattling down the rock, slope and fell with a splash into the water.  The man heard it, turned and faced the hillside.  Betty recognized Alfred Clarke.  For a moment she believed she must be dreaming.  She had had many dreams of the old sycamore.  She looked again.  Yes, it was he.  Pale, worn, and older he undoubtedly looked, but the features were surely those of Alfred Clarke.  Her heart gave a great bound and then seemed to stop beating while a very agony of joy surged over her and made her faint.  So he still lived.  That was her first thought, glad and joyous, and then memory returning, her face went white as with clenched teeth she wheeled Madcap and struck her with the switch.  Once on the level bluff she urged her toward the house at a furious pace.

Col.  Zane had just stepped out of the barn door and his face took on an expression of amazement when he saw the pony come tearing up the road, Betty’s hair flying in the wind and with a face as white as if she were pursued by a thousand yelling Indians.

“Say, Betts, what the deuce is wrong?” cried the Colonel, when Betty reached the fence.

“Why did you not tell me that man was here again?” she demanded in intense excitement.

“That man!  What man?” asked Col.  Zane, considerably taken back by this angry apparition.

“Mr. Clarke, of course.  Just as if you did not know.  I suppose you thought it a fine opportunity for one of your jokes.”

“Oh, Clarke.  Well, the fact is I just found it out myself.  Haven’t I been away as well as you?  I certainly cannot imagine how any man could create such evident excitement in your mind.  Poor Clarke, what has he done now?”

“You might have told me.  Somebody could have told me and saved me from making a fool of myself,” retorted Betty, who was plainly on the verge of tears.  “I rode down to the old sycamore tree and he saw me in, of all the places in the world, the one place where I would not want him to see me.”

“Huh!” said the Colonel, who often gave vent to the Indian exclamation.  “Is that all?  I thought something had happened.”

“All!  Is it not enough?  I would rather have died.  He is a man and he will think I followed him down there, that I was thinking of—­that—­Oh!” cried Betty, passionately, and then she strode into the house, slammed the door, and left the Colonel, lost in wonder.

“Humph!  These women beat me.  I can’t make them out, and the older I grow the worse I get,” he said, as he led the pony into the stable.