"Do they know anything at Brackenside of this wonderful story, Earle?" she asked, after a time.
"No, not yet—not one word; no one knows it but myself and you."
Yet he could see that, as they drew nearer home, she was nervous and ill at ease. Once he asked her why it was, and she half laughed as she said:
"Mattie is so tiresome; I shall have no peace with her."
And again he repeated his formula of comfort, "It is not for long."
On the evening they reached Brackenside it was cold and windy.
Rain had fallen during the day, but the rain-clouds had all disappeared; the sky was clear and blue, the moon shone, but the cold was great. The scene in England was quite wintry; there was no Italian sun to warm it; the flowers and leaves were all dead; the fields looked gray, not green, and the wind wailed with a sound so mournful that it made one shudder to listen to it.
As they walked up the fields together, Earle said to his beautiful companion:
"According to Mark Brace's story, it was on such a night as this that you were brought to Brackenside."
She laughed.