“Is there anything that you want from town, auntie?”

“Nothing that I know of.  Are you going in?”

“No, unless you have an errand.  It is such a fine day that it seems a pity to stay indoors.”

“Well, I would walk if I were you.”  But she did not go; she went instead to her room.  He might come any moment.  She ought not to run away; and yet she wished she were away.  He said he was coming on business.  Was it not, then, a pretense?  She felt humiliated in the idea of waiting for him if the business were not a pretense.

How insensible men are!  What a mere subordinate thing to them in life is the love of a woman!  Yes, evidently business was more important to him than anything else.  He must know that she was waiting; and she blushed to herself at the very possibility that he should think such a thing.  She was not waiting.  It was lunch-time.  She excused herself.  In the next moment she was angry that she had not gone down as usual.  It was time for him to come.  He would certainly come immediately after lunch.  She would not see him.  She hoped never to see him.  She rose in haste, put on her hat, put it on carefully, turning and returning before the glass, selected fresh gloves, and ran down-stairs.

“I’m going, auntie, for a walk to town.”

The walk was a long one.  She came back tired.  It was late in the afternoon.  Her aunt was quietly reading.  She needed to ask her nothing:  Mr. Henderson had not been there.  Why had he written to her?

“Oh, the Fairchilds want us to come over to dinner,” said Miss Forsythe, without looking up.

“I hope you will go, auntie.  I sha’n’t mind being alone.”

“Why?  It’s perfectly informal.  Mr. Henderson happens to be there.”

“I’m too stupid.  But you must go.  Mr. Henderson, in New York, expressed the greatest desire to make your acquaintance.”

Miss Forsythe smiled.  “I suppose he has come up on purpose.  But, dear, you must go to chaperon me.  It would hardly be civil not to go, when you knew Mr. Henderson in New York, and the Fairchilds want to make it agreeable for him.”

“Why, auntie, it is just a business visit.  I’m too tired to make the effort.  It must be this spring weather.”

Perhaps it was.  It is so unfortunate that the spring, which begets so many desires, brings the languor that defeats their execution.  But there is a limit to the responsibility even of spring for a woman’s moods.  Just as Margaret spoke she saw, through the open window, Henderson coming across the lawn, walking briskly, but evidently not inattentive to the charm of the landscape.  It was his springy step, his athletic figure, and, as he came nearer, the joyous anticipation in his face.  And it was so sudden, so unexpected—­the vision so long looked for!  There was no time for flight, had she wanted to avoid him; he was on the piazza; he was at the open door.  Her hand went quickly to her heart