“I don’t think he’ll care to run much farther,” she said.  “If you’ll pull him over to the lumber pile, Mr. Gaylord, I’ll mount him.”

They performed her bidding in silence, each paying her a tribute in his thoughts.  As for the five-year-old, he was quiet enough by this time.  When she was in the saddle she held out her hand once more to Tom.

“I hope we shall meet soon again,” she said, and smiling back at him, started on her way towards Fairview.

Tom stood for a moment looking after her, while the two men indulged in surprised comments.

“Andrews,” said young Mr. Gaylord, “just fetch my buggy and follow her until she gets into the gate.”

CHAPTER XVIII

A SPIRIT IN THE WOODS

Empires crack before they crumble, and the first cracks seem easily mended—­even as they have been mended before.  A revolt in Gaul or Britain or Thrace is little to be minded, and a prophet in Judea less.  And yet into him who sits in the seat of power a premonition of something impending gradually creeps—­a premonition which he will not acknowledge, will not define.  Yesterday, by the pointing of a finger, he created a province; to-day he dares not, but consoles himself by saying he does not wish to point.  No antagonist worthy of his steel has openly defied him, worthy of recognition by the opposition of a legion.  But the sense of security has been subtly and indefinably shaken.

By the strange telepathy which defies language, to the Honourable Hilary Vane, Governor of the Province, some such unacknowledged forebodings have likewise been communicated.  A week after his conversation with Austen, on the return of his emperor from a trip to New York, the Honourable Hilary was summoned again to the foot of the throne, and his thoughts as he climbed the ridges towards Fairview were not in harmony with the carols of the birds in the depths of the forest and the joy of the bright June weather.  Loneliness he had felt before, and to its ills he had applied the antidote of labour.  The burden that sat upon his spirit to-day was not mere loneliness; to the truth of this his soul attested, but Hilary Vane had never listened to the promptings of his soul.  He would have been shocked if you had told him this.  Did he not confess, with his eyes shut, his sins every Sunday?  Did he not publicly acknowledge his soul?

Austen Vane had once remarked that, if some keen American lawyer would really put his mind to the evasion of the Ten Commandments, the High Heavens themselves might be cheated.  This saying would have shocked the Honourable Hilary inexpressibly.  He had never been employed by a syndicate to draw up papers to avoid these mandates; he revered them, as he revered the Law, which he spelled with a capital.  He spelled the word Soul with a capital likewise, and certainly no higher recognition could be desired than this!