“Yes.”

“Well, I’m glad to meet you.  Dorian has told me about you, too.”

Thus these two, meeting for the first time, went on chatting together; and thus Dorian saw them.  He had missed Mildred at the lower pasture, and so, with shovel again on shoulder, he had followed up the homeward path.  The girls were some distance ahead, so he did not try to overtake them.  In fact, he slackened his pace a little, so as not to get too close to them to disturb them; but he saw them plainly walk close together up the road in the twilight of the summer evening, the tall, light-haired Mildred, and the shorter, dark-haired Carlia; and the child in Dorian seemed to vanish, and the man in him asserted himself in thought and feelings which it would have been hard for him to describe in words.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Indian summer lay drowsily over the land.  It had come late that season, but its rare beauty compensated for its tardiness.  Its golden mellowness permeating the hazy air, had also, it seems, crept into the heart of Dorian Trent.  The light coating of frost which each morning lay on the grass, had by noon vanished, and now the earth was warm and dry.

Dorian was plowing, and he was in no great haste with his work.  He did not urge his horses, for they also seemed imbued with the languidness of the season.  He let them rest frequently, especially at the end of the furrow where there was a grassy bank on which the plowman could lie prone on his back and look into the dreamy distances of the hills or up into the veiling clouds.

Dorian could afford to take it a little easy that afternoon, so he thought.  The summer’s work was practically over:  the wheat had been thrashed; the hay was in the stacks; the potatoes were in the pit; the corn stood in Indian wigwam bunches in the yard; the fruit and vegetables, mostly of the mother’s raising, had been sufficient for their simple needs.  They were well provided for the winter; and so Dorian was happy and contented as everyone in like condition should be on such an Indian summer afternoon.

Mildred Brown’s visit to the farm had ended some weeks ago; but only yesterday his mother had received a note from Mrs. Brown, asking if her daughter might not come again.  Her former visit had done her so much good, and now the beautiful weather was calling her out into the country.  It was a shame, Mildred had said, that Indian summer should “waste its sweetness on the desert air of the city.”

“What do you say?” Mrs. Trent had asked Dorian.

“Why—­why—­of course, mother, if she doesn’t make too much work for you.”