Ten minutes’ walk brought him to a trim cottage standing back from the street, amid a bower of vines. Its grounds were ample, and well-kept. At one side was a little orchard, whose trees showed the glint of ripening fruit. Farther back, near the barn, a cow was grazing, and the busy clatter of chickens came from an enclosure to the right. The place somehow gave the impression that those who lived within were happy and contented people; not rich, but able, by the labour of their hands, to assure themselves a comfortable livelihood—which is, perhaps, the happiest condition vouchsafed to human beings.
Through the gate of this house the young man turned, and went slowly up the walk leading to the door. But as he stretched out his hand to turn the knob, the door flew open and a girl of about sixteen fairly flung herself into his arms.
“Why, Mamie!” he cried. “Is it Mamie?” and he held her off for a moment’s inspection. “When did you get back?”
“On Number Three,” she answered. “I had a notion to wait for you, and then I thought it would be nicer to come home and surprise you.”
The words “Number Three” stamped both speakers as of the railroad. For who but one raised in the atmosphere of the road would know that “Number Three” was the west-bound flier?
“See how brown I am,” she added, holding her face up for his inspection.
“Yes,” he agreed, looking down at her, “you are. Did you have a good time?”
“Only so-so,” she answered, smiling up at him. “I can have the best time of all right here at home.”
“So can I,” he agreed. “It’s been a little lonesome with you away.”
“Has it, Allan?” she asked, quickly, her eyes shining with the glint of sudden tears. “It’s nice of you to say that.”