Near the brow of the hill stood a farm-house, black against the sky.  Bressant marked the light through the curtained window, dimly bringing out a transverse strip of road; the pump standing over its trough with uplifted arm and dangling cup; the rambling shed, with the wagon half hidden beneath it; the barn, with blank windowless front, and shingled roof.  A dog barked sharply at him, as he echoed by, but inaudibly to Bressant’s ears.  Presently a raised sidewalk divided off from the road, affording a smoother course; the outlying houses of the village slipped past one after another; a white picket-fence twittered indistinguishably by.  The runner was nearing the end of his journey, and now leaned a little farther forward, and his feet fell in a quicker rhythm than ever.

At the beginning of the village street stood the corner grocery; a wooden awning in front, some men loafing at the door, who looked up as the sound of Bressant’s passing struck their ears; within, an indistinct vision of barrels of produce, hams pendent from the dusky ceiling, some brooms in a corner, and a big cheese upon the counter.  Next succeeded the series of adjoining shop-fronts, with their various windows, signs, and styles; all wooden and clap-boarded, however, except the fire-engine house, of red brick, with its wide central door and boarded slope to the street.  Bressant’s steps echoed closely back from between the buildings; once he clattered sharply over a stretch of brick sidewalk; once dodged aside to avoid overrunning a dark-figured man.  The village was left behind; yonder stood the boarding-house, dimly white and irregular of outline; he remembered it from the glimpse he had had in passing on his way from the depot.  In a few quick moments more he stood before the door, glowing warm, from head to foot, drawing his deep breath easily, his blood flowing in full, steady beats through heart and veins.  He took off his hat, passed his handkerchief over forehead and face, and then pulled the tinkling door-bell.  A fat Irish girl presently appeared, and ushered him in with a stare and a grin, wiping her hands upon her apron.

Meanwhile Cornelia, having said a few words to her father to excuse Bressant’s unceremonious departure—­she refrained instinctively from letting him know what had actually taken place—­bade him good-night, and went up-stairs with a more sober step than was her wont.  She tapped at Sophie’s door, and stayed just long enough to make the necessary arrangements for the night.  Sophie, being drowsy, asked but few questions, and received brief replies.  When Cornelia reached her own room, she closed the door with a feeling of relief.  It had never been her habit to fasten her door; but to-night, after advancing a few paces into the chamber, she hesitated, turned back, and drew the bolt.  Then, having hastily pulled down the curtains, she seemed for the first time to be free from a sensation of restraint.