I did not go down to Swanage immediately. With the knowledge that my enemies were at work, I waited a few days alert and on the watch, and when I reached the delightful spot it was by devious ways and cunning breaks in my journey which would have puzzled the smartest human bloodhound that could have been set to track me. Meanwhile I wrote both to Ellen and her mother, saying that I intended to visit them shortly and that no further letters were to be sent to me in London. That was all the notice I gave them, and when I presented myself it was at an unexpected moment.
The day was bright and fine, the sea calm and benignant, the air already fragrant with the promise of spring. I walked towards the farmhouse as a man newly born to joy might have done. Friends true and sincere awaited my coming, and those who have read these pages will understand what that meant to me.
Ellen sprang from the house at my approach. She had seen my form in the distance, and, as I came nearer, recognized and flew to welcome me.
"My friend!" she murmured, holding out her two hands.
I dropped my bag and clasped them. "Ellen—I beg your pardon, Miss Cameron!"
"No. Ellen, if you wish it."
We gazed at each other, she with a blush on her cheeks, but with no false modesty or reserve, and I in a dream of happiness.
"I have taken you by surprise?"
"The pleasantest of surprises. Every day we have been hoping you would come; every day we have been looking out for you."
"And your mother—how is she?"