“She had my letter—­do you know?” Rhoda appealed to the maid.

“Oh, yes, Miss.  A letter from the country.”

“This morning?”

“Yes, Miss; this morning.”

“And she has gone out?  What time did she go out?  When will she be in?”

Her father plucked at her dress.  “Best not go making the young woman repeat herself.  She says, nobody’s at home to ask us in.  There’s no more, then, to trouble her for.”

“At twelve o’clock to-morrow?” Rhoda faltered.

“Would you, if you please, call again at twelve o’clock to-morrow, and punctually she would be here,” said the maid.

The farmer hung his head and turned.  Rhoda followed him from the garden.  She was immediately plied with queries and interjections of wonderment by Miss Wicklow, and it was not until she said:  “You saw him go out, didn’t you?—­into the cab?” that Rhoda awakened to a meaning in her gabble.

Was it Dahlia’s husband whom they had seen?  And if so, why was Dahlia away from her husband?  She questioned in her heart, but not for an answer, for she allowed no suspicions to live.  The farmer led on with his plodding country step, burdened shoulders, and ruddy-fowled, serious face, not speaking to Rhoda, who had no desire to hear a word from him, and let him be.  Mary Ann steered him and called from behind the turnings he was to take, while she speculated aloud to Rhoda upon the nature of the business that had torn Dahlia from the house so inopportunely.  At last she announced that she knew what it was, but Rhoda failed to express curiosity.  Mary Ann was driven to whisper something about strange things in the way of purchases.  At that moment the farmer threw up his umbrella, shouting for a cab, and Rhoda ran up to him,—­

“Oh, father, why do we want to ride?”

“Yes, I tell ye!” said the farmer, chafing against his coat-collar.

“It is an expense, when we can walk, father.”

“What do I care for th’ expense?  I shall ride.”  He roared again for a cab, and one came that took them in; after which, the farmer, not being spoken to, became gravely placid as before.  They were put down at Boyne’s Bank.  Anthony was on the look-out, and signalled them to stand away some paces from the door.  They were kept about a quarter of an hour waiting between two tides of wayfarers, which hustled them one way and another, when out, at last, came the old, broad, bent figure, with little finicking steps, and hurried past them head foremost, his arms narrowed across a bulgy breast.  He stopped to make sure that they were following, beckoned with his chin, and proceeded at a mighty rate.  Marvellous was his rounding of corners, his threading of obstructions, his skilful diplomacy with passengers.  Presently they lost sight of him, and stood bewildered; but while they were deliberating they heard his voice.  He was above them, having issued from two swinging bright doors; and he laughed and nodded, as he ran down the steps, and made signs, by which they were to understand that he was relieved of a weight.