She stood, hesitating, fearing to push open the massive iron gate.
"I cannot go in to-day," she said half aloud, and turned nervously away.
At this moment, a girl came quickly up the road, a pretty girl of some eighteen summers, wearing a white dress and shady hat, and carrying a tennis racket in her hand. As she passed, she glanced at Miss Crane, and the expression of her eyes was precisely like that of Frank Whitman's twenty years ago.
Miss Crane started. The thought, "It is his daughter!" flashed across her brain. She turned and hurried after her. The girl, hearing the footsteps behind, stopped, and looked inquiringly at Miss Crane, who hesitatingly began, "Might I trouble you to direct me to Doctor Whitman's house?"
"There it is," answered the girl smilingly. "And I am almost sure father is in at present. Will you come with me? I am just going home."
She spoke with a strangely familiar accent, she smiled with the same merry glance, quick and soft, which Miss Crane had remembered so long.
By the time they had reached the hall-door Miss Crane had confided how she had come hoping to find old friends, and then had felt too timid to enter their house. "And," she ended, "if I had not met you, my dear, I believe I should have gone straight home."
The girl laughed merrily, and then warmly assured Miss Crane that Mrs. Whitman would be sure to be delighted to see her. "And," she asked, "you said you used to know papa also a little, long ago, didn't you?"
"Yes," replied Miss Crane. "I knew him also."