He dreaded a return to “Idle Times” before the day set for his inquiry.  Bristow’s place stood for too much of memory, and the inevitable questions of his friend loomed before him, as the trifle which a man who has stood much more than trifles cannot bring himself to face.  Yet there was no danger of his being late.  That time was the one fixed point on the calendar of his future.  One day before his three months had come to an end, he arrived, but he did not go to Van Bristow’s house.  He did not announce his coming.  He went by the less frequented streets of the near-by village to its inadequate hotel, where he found only a drummer for a New York shoe house and a gentleman traveling “out of Chicago” with samples of ready-made clothing.

For a time he sat in the dingy parlor of the place and listened to the jarring talk of the commercial travelers.  Already Galavia and the months which had been, seemed receding into an improbable dream, but the misery of their bequeathing was poignantly real.

He rose impatiently and made his way to the livery-stable, where he hired a saddle horse.  His idea was merely to be alone.  The reins hung on the neck of his spiritless mount and the roads he went were the roads it took of its own unguided selection.

Suddenly Benton looked up.  He was in a lane between overarching trees; a lane which he remembered.  Off to the side were the hills bristling with pines, raised against the sky like the lances of marching troops.  It was the road he had ridden with her on that day when her horse fell at the fence—­and there, on the side of the hill, stood a dilapidated cabin:  the cabin upon whose porch he had poured water over her hands from a gourd dipper.

It was only the end of September, but an early frost had flushed the woods and hillsides into a hint of the crimson and gold they were soon to wear in more profligate splendor.  The fragrant, blue mist of wood smoke drifted over the fields at the foot of the knobs.  The hills were seen through a wash of purple.  From somewhere to the far left drifted the mellowed music of fox-hounds.  Riding slowly, the man came at length to the cabin gate.

The same farmer sat as indolently now as then, on the top step.  The setter dog started up to growl as the horseman dismounted.

The man did not recognize him, but the proffer of Benton’s cigar-case proved a sufficient credential, and a discussion of the weather appeared a satisfactory reason for remaining.  It was only a verbal and logical step from weather to crops, and in ten minutes the visitor was being shown over the place.  When the round of cribs and stables was completed it was time for the host to feed his stock, and, saying good-by at the barn, he left Benton to make his way alone to the cabin.  Passing through the house from the back, the man halted suddenly and with abrupt wonderment at the front door.

For upright and slim, with a small gauntleted hand resting on one of the rude posts of the porch, gazing off intently into the coloring west, stood an unmistakable figure in a black riding habit.  Incredulous, suddenly stunned under the cumulative suspense of the past three months, he stood hesitant.  Then the figure slowly turned and, as the old heart-breaking, heart-recompensing smile came to her lips and eyes, the girl silently held out both arms to him.