And now Rylton returns.  He gets in.  The carriage drives away through the well-remembered town, over the old bridge, and into the sweetness of the sleeping country.

Already the stars are out.  Through the warm bank of dying sunset over there a pale little dot is glimmering.  Steel-gray are the heavens, fast deepening into darkest blue, and over the hills, far, far away, the faint suggestion of a “young May moon” is growing.  A last faint twittering of birds is in the air, and now it ceases, and darkness falls and grows, and shadows fill the land and hide the edges of the moors, and blacken the sides of the walls as they drive past them.

Tita is always peering out of the window.  At a sudden turn in the road she draws back as if hurt.

“This is the turn to Oakdean!” says she sharply.

“Yes; we are going this road.”

“It must be near, then, this new place—­quite near?”

“It is near.”

She looks at him for a moment, her face fraught with great grief.

“Oh, how could you?” says she.  “How could you have bought a place so close to it?”

She leans back into her corner, and it is his misery at this moment that he cannot know whether she is crying or not.  Presently she starts forward again.

“Why, we are going down the road!” cries she.  “We shall go past the gates!” She waits as if for an answer, but he makes her none.  “Oh, you should have told me,” says she faintly.

He puts out his hand and takes hers.  She does not repulse him, and he holds it in a close clasp.  Is there some magnetic influence at work that tells her all the truth—­that betrays to her his secret?  She turns suddenly and looks at him, but he refuses to meet her glance.  He can feel that she is trembling violently.  Her hand is still in his, and her eyes are fixed intently on the open window near her.

And now they are nearing Oakdean.  She can see the pillars of the gates.  A little cry escapes her.  And now, now they are at the gate—­soon they will be past——­

But what is this? The coachman has drawn up!  They stop!  The groom springs down—­someone from the lodge rushes quickly out.  The gates are flung wide.  The horses dash down the avenue!

* * * * *

Presently they draw up at the hall door—­the door of Oakdean!

Rylton, getting out, takes her in his arms, and places her on the first step of the stones that lead to the hall.

Not one word has passed between them since that last reproach of hers.

And now they have reached the library.  It is brilliantly lit.  Tita, flinging off her wraps in a mechanical sort of way, looks round her.  Nothing is changed—­nothing!  It is home.  Home really—­home as it always had been!

She is pale as a little ghost!  Though she has looked at the room, she has not once looked at him! And, with a sort of feeling that he has made a bid for her favour, Rylton makes no attempt to go to her or say a word.