On each side of the drive which led down to the gateway grew an irregular line of these trees, here and there shading the way from side to side, and again leaving a space for the moonlight to stream upon. As he tied his horse Tredennis glanced up this drive-way toward the house.
"There is a light burning in one of the rooms," he said. "It must be there that"—He broke off in the midst of a sentence, his attention suddenly attracted by a figure which flitted across one of the patches of moonlight.
He knew it at once, though he had had no thought of seeing it before entering the house. It was Bertha, in a white dress, and with two large dogs following her, leaping and panting, when she spoke in a hushed voice, as if to quiet them.
She came down toward the gate with a light, hurried tread, and, when she was within a few feet of it, spoke.
"Doctor," she said, "oh, how glad I am—how glad!" and, as she said it, came out into the broad moonlight again, and found herself face to face with Tredennis.
She fell back from him as if a blow had been struck her,—fell back trembling, and as white as the moonlight itself.
"What!" she cried, "is it you—you?"
He looked at her, bewildered by the shock his presence seemed to her.
"I did not think I should frighten you," he said. "I came to-night because the professor was not well enough to make the journey. Doctor Wentworth will be here in the morning. He would have come with me, but he had an important case to attend."
"I did not think you would come," she said, breathlessly, and put out her hand, groping for the support of the swinging gate, which she caught and held.