"May we wait for you, Teacher?"
"Not to-day, dears."
The children moved regretfully away. Presently the school yard was deserted. The busy robins had finished quarrelling over their crumbs and were holding a caucus around the red pump. In the quietness could be heard the gurgle of the spring rivulets on the hill.
Was there another sound on the hill, too? A far off whistling mingled with the gurgling water and twittering birds? Esther's hand tightened upon the letter—she leaned forward, listening intently. How loud the birds were! How confusing the sound of water! But now she caught the whistling again—
"From Wimbleton to Wombleton is fifteen miles"—
The familiar words formed themselves upon the girl's lips before the message of the tune reached her brain and brought her, breathless, to her feet. He was coming—so soon!
Panic seized her. Her hand flew to her heart—she would hide in the school-room, anywhere! Then she remembered Willits' postscript, the postscript which she had thought so needless. Her hand fell to her side. The panic died. Next moment, head high and eyes smiling, she walked down to the gate.
He was coming along the road under the budding elms—hatless, carrying a knapsack. His tweeds were splashed with mud from the spring roads, his face was thin, his hair was almost grey. Yet he came on like a conqueror and there was nothing old or tired in the bound wherewith he leaped the gate he would not pause to open.
"Esther!"
She looked up into his eyes and found them shadowless. Her own eyes veiled themselves,