Dinah drank a cup of milk and presently set out to walk home. Susan admired her courage.
"Nothing daunts you," she said. "I wouldn't go down through the woods in the night by myself for the world."
"Night's got no more to it than day," declared the other. "I like it—specially when you have such a lot of trouble on your mind."
She met Maynard returning home, but did not stop more than a moment.
"I'm coming Sunday week," she said, "and Cousin Joe's got no objection to us going out walking."
"Good night, miss. I hope we'll have a fine day for it. Can't go else," he answered.
"How's Mr. Withycombe?"
"Suffering a good bit I'm sorry to say."
"I'm sorry, too."
Lawrence had forgotten the question of the walk while with the old huntsman. Now he considered it and was glad that Dinah had spoken about it in her open fashion. He apprehended pleasure from it, yet doubted a little. There hung a shadow over his reflections—something to which he could not have set a word. In so much that the shade should hover over his own thoughts it amused him, and assured that it could not cloud Dinah's, he dismissed the futility from his mind.