They had been standing at the place where Agatha had first discovered her visitor, but now they turned back into the clearing.

“Come and try the organ pipes again,” she begged.  They walked about the wood, singing first one strain and then another, testing the curiously beautiful properties of the pine dome.  They were quickly on a footing of friendliness.  It was evident that each was capable of laying aside formality, when she wished to do so, and each was, at heart, frank and sincere.  Melanie’s talent for song was not small, yet she recognized in Agatha a superior gift; while, to Agatha, Melanie Reynier seemed increasingly mature, polished, full of charm.

They left the wood and wandered back through the pasture and over the stile, each learning many things in regard to the other.  They spoke of the place and its beauty, and Agatha told Melanie of the childhood memories which, for the first time, she had revived in their living background.

“How our thoughts change!” she said at last.  “As a child, I never felt this farm to be lonely; it was the most populous and entertaining place in all the world.  I much preferred the wood to anything in the city.  I love it now, too; but it seems the essence of solitude to me.”

“That is because you have been where the passions and restlessness of men have centered.  One is never the same after that.”

“Strangely enough, the place now belongs to me,” went on Agatha.  “Parson Thayer, the former owner and resident, was my mother’s guardian and friend, and left the place to me for her sake.”

“Ah, that is well!” cried Melanie.  “It will be your castle of retreat, your Sans-Souci, for all your life, I envy you!  It is charming.  Pastor—­Parson, do you say?—­Parson Thayer was a man of judgment.”

“Yes, and a man of strange and dominating personality, in his way.  Everything about the house speaks of him and his tastes.  Even Danny here follows me, I really believe, because I am beginning to appreciate his former master.”

Agatha stooped and patted the dog’s head.  Youth and health, helped by the sympathy of a friend, were working wonders in Agatha.  She beamed with happiness.

“Come into the house,” she begged Melanie, “and look at some of his books with me.  But first we’ll find Sallie and get luncheon, and perhaps Mr. Van Camp will appear by that time.  Poor man, he was quite worn out.  Then you shall see Parson Thayer’s books and flowers, if you will.”

They strolled over the velvet lawn toward the front of the house, where the door and the long windows stood open.  Down by the road, and close to the lilac bushes that flanked the gateway, stood a large silver-white automobile—­evidently Miss Reynier’s conveyance.  The driver of the machine had disappeared.

“I mustn’t trespass on your kindness for luncheon to-day, thank you,” Melanie was saying; “but I’ll come again soon, if I may.”  Meantime she was moving slowly down the walk.  But Agatha would not have it so.  She clung to this woman friend with an unwonted eagerness, begging her to stay.