The girl gave a dismayed gasp. Elim hastily placed his load on the steps and, mounting, beat upon the door. Only a dull echo answered. Dust fell from the paneling upon his head.
“Maybe they have shut up the front for protection,” he suggested. He made his way to the rear; all was closed. Through the low limbs of apple trees he could see a double file of small sad brick quarters for the slaves. They, too, were empty. The place was without a living being. He stood, undecided, when suddenly he heard Rosemary Roselle calling with an acute note of fear.
He ran through the binding grass back to the garden.
“Elim Meikeljohn!” She stumbled forward to meet him. “Oh, Elim,” she cried; “there's no one in the world——” A sob choked her utterance.
He fell on his knees before her:
“There's always me.”
She sank in a fragrant heap into his arms.
Elim Meikeljohn laughed over her shoulder at his entire worldly goods on the steps—the fragmentary fruit cake and a bottle of champagne.
Here they are lost on the dimming mirror of the past.