“Have I been gone long?” he asked. “Where’s Mrs. Sparkes?”
“She’s in there,” Sheba answered, eagerly, “and I’ve been talking to the boy.”
“To the boy?” he repeated. “What boy?”
“To the one we saw,” she replied, holding his hand and feeling her cheeks flush with the excitement of relating her adventure. “The nice boy. His name is like mine—and his mother died. He said it was De Willoughby, and it is like mine. He has gone away with his father. See them riding.”
He dropped her hand and, taking a step forward, stood watching the receding travellers. He watched them until they reached the rising ground. The boy had fallen a few yards behind. Presently the others passed the top of the hill, and, as they did so, he turned in his saddle as if he had suddenly remembered something, and glanced back at the tavern porch.
“He is looking for me,” cried Sheba, and ran out into the brightness of the setting sun, happy because he had not quite forgotten her.
He saw her, waved his hand with a careless, boyish gesture and disappeared over the brow of the hill.
Tom sat down suddenly on the porch-step. When Sheba turned to him he was pale and his forehead was damp with sweat. He spoke aloud, but to himself, not to her.
“Good Lord,” he said, “it’s De Courcy and—and the boy. That was why I knew his face.”