"I thought," the uplifted face glowed rosily; "I thought I heard—a new note! Some strange bird!" Then, with a toss of the head which threw the broad brimmed hat back on the shoulders, "I must be getting right daffy! That's the bird Sandy Morley used to copy mighty cleverly. I could do it myself once—I wonder!" The pretty lips curved deliciously, and an effort was made to reproduce the sound. Sweetly, faintly it trilled and ended in a light laugh.
From the underbrush lower down beside The Way, a young man looked at the upraised face under the dogwood tree; listened to the answer to his call and felt his heart throb with such force that his lips drew close with the pain of joy. For a few moments he gazed and struggled for self-control but great waves of happiness and delight overpowered him. He dared not move, but he sent a swift prayer to heaven—a prayer for guidance in a new life amid the old home-scenes for which his faithful heart had yearned while he had wandered far.
Cynthia's quick ears caught the rustle of the bushes across The Way and instantly her face changed and her hand gripped something in a little bag at her side. The stranger thought it wisest to step out. This he did with a laugh of understanding.
"Oh!" exclaimed Cynthia Walden, "I certainly do beg your pardon. I—thought—I thought you were Smith Crothers."
The sudden fear wrung this candid confession from the girl. "I reckon you don't know Smith Crothers."
"I—I've heard of him recently."
"I expect," Cynthia was full of interest now. "I expect you are the man from the North."
"You are quite right."
"Now I'm right sorry you didn't get here fifteen minutes ago."
The stranger's face flushed under its tan and the broad felt hat, in the right hand, shook perceptibly.