"Yes—I suppose so. Yes, the Lodge."
"Up yonder." Then he turned to the freight. Once she was on the Green, Priscilla paused and looked about.
"For which?" Then she smiled a ghost of her bright, sunny smile.
"My father's doors are shut to me," she sighed; "I cannot go to the Lodge, yet! I must go—to——" Something touched her hand, and she looked down. It was Farwell's dog, the old one, the one who used to play with Priscilla when she was a little girl.
"You dear!" she cried, dropping beside him; "You've come to show me the way. Beg, Tony, beg like a good fellow. I have a bit of cake for you!"
Clumsily, heavily, the old collie tried to respond, but of late he had been excused from acting; and he was old, old.
"Then take it, Tony, take it without pay. That comes of being a doggie. You ought to be grateful that you are a dog, and—need not pay!"
It was clear to her now that Farwell's home must be her first shelter, and taking up her suit-case she passed over the Green and took the path leading to the master's house.
Some one had been before her. Some one who had swept the hearth, lighted a fire, and set the breakfast table. Pine had taken Toky's place and was vying with that deposed oriental in whole-souled service.
Priscilla pushed the ever-unlatched door open and went inside. The bare living-room had been transformed. John Boswell had transferred the comfort, without the needless luxury, from the town home to the In-Place—books, pictures, rugs, the winged chair and an equally easy one across the hearth. And, yes, there was her own small rocker close by, as if, in their detachment, they still remembered her and missed her and were—ready for her coming! Priscilla noiselessly took off her wraps and sat down, glad to rest again in the welcoming chair.