"I think you did—a little," she admitted. "You see, I—we did not expect you. And"—she laughed the laugh he had heard in his dreams, though it had not always been so tremulous, so like the flutelike quaver of this laugh—"and even now I am not quite sure it is you."
"It is I—believe me," he said. "It is the same bad penny come back."
Then it flashed upon him he must give some reason for his return. Incredible as it may seem, he was not prepared with one. He had made up his mind to come; he would have gone through fire and water to get back to Shorne Mills, but he had quite forgotten that some excuse would be necessary.
But she did not seem to see the necessity.
"Are you quite well now?" she asked, just glancing up at him.
"Quite," he said; "perfectly well."
"And how did you come? I mean when—have you been staying near?"
"I came by this morning's train," he said, "and I walked over; my luggage follows by the carrier. I enjoyed the walk."
"You must be quite strong again," she said, with a quiet little gladness. "Mamma—and Dick—will be so glad to see you!"
"They haven't forgotten me?" he asked insanely.