“Where is he?” said Tatham, standing amazed and looking back.  They had gained the crest of a hill whence, beyond the roofs of Whitebeck in the hollow, a section of the main road could be dimly seen, running west a white streak piercing the wintry dusk.  Along the white streak moved something black—­the figure of a man.  Boden pointed to it.

“Where’s he going?” The question fell involuntarily from Undershaw.

Boden did not reply.  But as Undershaw spoke there flashed out a distant light on the rising ground beyond the streak of road.  Above it, huddled shapes of mountains, dying fast into the darkness.  They all knew it for a light in Green Cottage; the same that Tatham had watched from the Duddon moorland on the evening of the murder.  They turned and walked on silently toward the lower gate of Duddon.

“What’s he going to do about the money?” said Undershaw abruptly.

Boden turned upon him, almost with rage.

“For heaven’s sake, give him time!—­it’s positively indecent to rush a man who’s gone through what that man’s gone through!”

Faversham pursued his way toward the swelling upland which looks south over St. John’s Vale, and north toward Skiddaw.  He went, led by a passionate impulse, sternly restrained till this moment.  Led also by the vision of her face as it had been lifted to him beside the grave of Melrose.  Since then he had never seen her.  But that Boden had written to her that morning, early, after the recovery of Brand’s body, he knew.

The moon shone suddenly behind him, across the waste of Flitterdale, and the lower meadows of St. John’s Vale.  It struck upon the low white house amid its trees.

“Is Miss Penfold at home?”

The maid recognized him at once, and in her agitation almost lost her head.  As she led him in, a little figure in a white cap with streamers fluttered across the hall.

“Oh, Mr. Faversham!” said a soft, breathless voice.

But Mrs. Penfold did not stop to speak to him.  Gathering up her voluminous black skirts, and her shawls that were falling off her shoulders, she hurried upstairs.  There followed a thin girl with dark hair piled above dark eyes.

“Lydia is in the drawing-room,” said Susy, with dramatic depth of voice; and the two disappeared.

When he entered, Lydia was standing by the fire.  The light of some blazing wood, and of one small lamp, filled the pretty room with colour and soft shadows.  Among them, the slender form in its black dress, the fair head thrown back, the outstretched hands were of a loveliness that arrested him—­almost unmanned him.

She came forward.

“You’ve been so long coming!”

The intonation of the words expressed the yearning of many days and nights.  They were not a reproach; rather, an exquisite revelation.

He took her hands, and slowly, irresistibly he drew her; and she came to him.  He bowed his face upon hers, and the world stood still!  Through the emotion of that supreme moment, with its mingled cup of joy and remembered bitterness there ran for him a touch of triumph natural to his temperament.  She had asked no promise from him; reminded him of no condition; made no reservation.  There she was upon his breast.  The male pride in him was appeased.  Self-respect seemed once more possible.