“Very well, John. You may go.”
He went, leaving Barnes to the fragrance of the night. The dark of the orchard made him think of her hair.
CHAPTER VI
THE MYSTERY OF A VISION
Barnes awoke in the morning to the reveille of robins and thrushes. With chirp and whistle and flute note, they sang him from his hearty sleep to a still heartier realization of a new-born day. For a moment, from the motherly lap of his broad bed, he blinked at the dimity curtains and the age-ripened hautboy. What strange caravanserai was this? It was always a pleasure to wake to the memory of the long tramp of the preceding day—to trace his path from the brisk setting out of the previous morning to the final lagging steps at dusk. To-day he traced his course as far as the letter-box and then came to himself as though fresh from a plunge in a mountain brook. But he had no time to think about it before there was a timid knock at the door.
“Yes?” called Barnes.
“Your warm water, sir?”
“Come in.”
John stepped over the threshold. His stride was confident. He was bold enough in the daytime whatever he might be at night.
“Miss Schuyler’s compliments, sir, and we breakfast at eight.”
“What time is it now?”