The golden-rod, always late blooming on the Cape, bordered the path with gorgeous yellow. The leaves of the scrub oaks were beginning to turn, though not to fall. I walked on and entered the grove where she and I had met after our adventure with Carver and the stranded skiff. I turned the bend and saw her coming toward me.
I stood still and she came on, came straight to me and held out her hand.
“I was waiting for you,” she said. “I was on my way to your house and I saw you coming—so I waited.”
“You waited,” I stammered. “Why?”
“Because I wished to speak to you and I did not want that—that Mr. Rogers of yours to interrupt me. Why did you go away yesterday without even letting me thank you for what you had done? Why did you do it?”
“Because—because you were very busy and—and I was tired. I went home and to bed.”
“You were tired. You must have been. But that is no excuse, no good one. I came down and found you were gone without a word to me. And you had done so much for me—for my father!”
“Your father thanked me this morning, Miss Colton. I saw him in his room and he thanked me. I did not deserve thanks. I was lucky, that was all.”
“Father does not call it luck. He told me what you said to him.”
“He told you! Did he tell you all I told him?”