“I wish Cousin Don was here,” he sighed. “He never does run out of stories. When is he coming back?”
“I don't know, dear. Shut your eyes now, and go to sleep.”
He shut his eyes obediently, but continued the conversation drowsily,
“He knows all about whales and tigers, and big ships and elephants. He's—been—clear—around—the—earth—”
But the Sandman had conquered, and Miss Lady, having slipped on a dressing-gown and loosened her hair, tiptoed to the far end of the porch and sitting on the railing gazed fixedly out into the gathering darkness. For half an hour the dim enchantments of twilight had been abroad, transforming hill and valley, and merging heaven and earth in a tender, elusive atmosphere of dreams. But her absorbed, white face, and tense hands locked about her knees, showed that she was not concerned with the beauty of the evening.
Mrs. Ivy's words had kindled a bonfire, by the light of which recent events leapt into view. Connie had been secretive, not only about her letters but about her engagements as well. She was growing daily more indifferent to Gerald Ivy, and developing a taste for reading that had been the cause of much surmising and teasing on the part of the household.
Twice during the summer Donald had come to Thornwood, and on both occasions Miss Lady had been seized with an unreasoning fear, not only of him, but of herself. She had received him under the depressing chaperonage of Mr. Gooch and Mrs. Ivy, and she remembered now how Connie had taken possession of him on both occasions. But even if Connie's transitory affections were temporarily engaged, surely Donald was not encouraging her!
A low whistle from the path below made her look down. It was Connie and she was stepping very cautiously as if trying to elude somebody.
“Miss Lady!” she called softly. “Aren't you coming down again?”
“No, I'm going to bed.”