“David, you are here!” she said impulsively. “You are glad, aren’t you? Say that your thoughts aren’t gloomy any more.”
“What need to say it—Una!”
Silently the two lovers threaded the box-bordered path leading to the great stone mansion beyond, pausing to admire the flowers that still bloomed in a straggling sort of way, or marking the loss of those whose gay colors and delicate fragrance had formed a part of their own joyous companionship a month ago. But this evening, as if reflecting Nature’s autumn mood, there was something of melancholy—restraint, where restraint had never been before—in David’s bearing; while with Una there was an affectionate solicitude that strove to soothe an unspoken trouble.
“You must stay to-night,” she said; “it would be cruel to ride Comet back.”
“But your Uncle—will he care to have me here?”
“What a question! Of course he will.”
“Are you sure? He was in town the other day to see me. Did he tell you?”
“No. But then, Uncle Harold seldom tells what he has been doing.”
“He was in one of his grim moods; cordial enough outwardly; but, inside, I felt a curious sort of malevolence. That’s an ugly word—but it seemed just that.”