“Pardon me!” he exclaimed, still breathing hard; and then his eyes met hers in a long gaze.  His gray eyes searched her dark ones for what seemed an interminable time.  Sylvia’s hand sought the maple but did not touch it; and the keen eyes of the stranger did not loosen their hold of hers.  A breeze blowing across the cornfield swept over them, shaking the maple leaves, and rippled the surface of the lake.  The dusk, deepening slowly, seemed to shut them in together.

“Pardon me, again!  I hope I didn’t frighten you!  I am Mr. Bassett, Marian’s father.”

“And I am Sylvia Garrison.  I am staying—­”

“Oh,” he laughed, “you needn’t tell me!  They told me at the supper-table all about you and that you and Marian are fast friends.”

“I knew you were coming; they were speaking of it this morning.”

They had drawn closer together during this friendly exchange.  Again their eyes met for an instant, then he surveyed her sharply from head to foot, as he stood bareheaded leaning on his stick.

“I must be going,” said Sylvia.  “There’s a path through the corn that Mrs. Owen lets me use.  They’ll begin to wonder what’s become of me.”

“Why not follow the path to the lane,—­I think there is a lane at the edge of the field,—­and I will walk to the house with you.  The path through the corn must be a little rough, and it’s growing dark.”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Bassett.”

“I had no idea of meeting any one when I came out.  I usually take a little walk after supper when I’m here, and I wanted to get all the car smoke out of my lungs.  I was glad to get out of Chicago; it was fiercely hot there.”

The path was not wide enough for two and she walked before him.  After they had exhausted the heat as a topic, silence fell upon them.  He still swung his hat in his hand.  Once or twice he smote his stick smartly upon the ground.  He timed his pace to hers, keeping close, his eyes upon her straight slender figure.  When they reached the lane they walked together until they came to the highway, which they followed to the house.  An oil lamp marked the walk that led through Mrs. Owen’s flower garden.

“Aren’t you coming in, Mr. Bassett?” asked Sylvia, as they paused.

Her hand clicked the latch and the little white-washed gate swung open.  In the lamplight their eyes met again.

“I’m sorry, but I must go home.  This is the first time I’ve been here this summer, and my stay is short.  I must be off again to-morrow.”

“Oh, that’s too bad!  Marian has been telling me that you would stay a month, she will be terribly disappointed”

“My Western trip took more time than I expected I have a good deal to do at Fraserville and must get back there”

She stepped inside, thinking he delayed out of courtesy to her, but to her surprise he fastened the latch deliberately and lingered.

“They tell me you and your grandfather live at Montgomery.  It’s a charming town, one of the most interesting in the state.”