A minute more, and Swan sprang over the stone wall, and with three steps was standing by her.  He stood still and looked at her, drawing deep breaths of haste and agitation.

Dorcas spoke first.

“You wanted to see me.  What is the matter?”

“Nothing,—­but—­you know I’ve got home.”

“Why, yes, that is clear,” answered Dorcas, mischievously, and entirely easy herself, now that she saw Swan’s cheeks aflame, and his voice choking so he could not speak.

“We might as well go towards the house, if that is all,” added she, gathering in her hand some skeins of yarn that had been spread out to whiten.

Swan caught the yarn and threw it away with an impatient jerk.  Then he took both of Dorcas’s hands in his, holding them with a fierce grasp that made her almost scream.

“You know I can’t go near the house.”

“Yes, I know,” said Dorcas, half frightened at his manner.  “When did you get back from Boston?”

“Saturday night.  And I am going again to-morrow.  And then—­Dorcas—­I shall stay.”

“Stay?”

“Stay,—­till you tell me to come back, maybe!”

“Why, where are you going, Swan?”

“To China, Dorcas.”

“I want to know!” exclaimed she.

“Just it,—­and no two ways about it.  Sold out to Sawtell.  Now you have it, Dorcas!”

This curt and abrupt dialogue needed no more words.  The rest was made out fully by the bright color on each face, the sparkling interest on the bent brow of Dorcas, and the deep, mellow voice, full of tenderness and hope, mixed with stern decision, on the part of Swan Day.

No wonder Dorcas’s eyes had a glamour over them as she listened and looked.  What did she see?  A slight, erect figure, with Napoleonic features, animated with admiration and sensibility; emotion glorifying the rich, deep eyes, and making them look in the twilight like stars; and over all, the indefinable ease that comes from knowledge of the world, however small that world may be.

Swan had little gift of language.  The foregoing short dialogue is a specimen of his ability in that way.  But looks are a refinement on speech, and say what words never can say.

“You see, Dorcas, I’m going out for the Perkinses with Orrin Tileston.  We each put in five hundred, and have our share of the profits.”

“But to China! that’s right under our feet!  You’ll never come back!” murmured the girl.

“Do you ever want I should?  Dorcas, if I come back rich, shall you be glad?  It will be all for you,—­dear!” the last word low and timidly.

The mist went over her eyes again.  A vision of Solomon in all his glory swept across her.  Even to Walton had spread rumors of the immense fortunes acquired in the China and India trade, and the gold of Cathay seemed to shimmer over the form before her, so strong, so able to contend with, and compel, if need were, Fortune.