Into the calm of their content came the clatter of distant hoofs.
“There’s some one riding down that crossroad there,” said Betty. “A woman. Is she waving at us, do you think?”
They peered out from the calash-top, and made out a horsewoman galloping down a side-path toward them. Her whip was going on her horse’s flank, and now and then she brandished it as if to signal the two in the landau.
Betty pulled up. “Let’s see what she wants.”
In another moment the horsewoman was near enough to bring an exclamation of recognition from Fessenden. “Hello! I believe it’s Miss Yarnell.”
“Miss Yarnell?”
“The girl who said she recognized the envelope you sent me the other day. Perhaps she wants to ask the way home.”
Miss Yarnell rode out of the crossroad full tilt, and only checked her sorrel when his nose was within a foot of the gray mare’s. Fessenden viewed this characteristic impetuosity with curiosity, which changed to amazement when his eyes fell upon her face. Her eyes were blazing, and her teeth were clenched.
She did not wait to be interrogated, but faced the calash-top.
“I’ve been looking for you!” she cried. “Come out here where we can talk.” Her tones were not loud, but her voice was choked with passion, and she lifted her riding-whip as she spoke. “Come out! I want to have a talk with you.”