“Good-night, youngsters,” cried Gerrard, swinging himself into his saddle, and then with Kate by his side, they turned their horses heads toward the dark line of sleeping forest.
“Oh, Tom, I forgot,” said Kate, after they had ridden for a mile or so; “I have some letters for you,” and she took them out of her saddle pouch.
The master of Ocho Rios let fall his reins, and glanced at the superscriptions on the envelopes.
“Pull up a minute, Kate. I want to look at this one—the others can wait.”
He opened the letter, lit a match, and glanced at the few lines it contained. Then he threw away the match, and placed the letter in his pocket.
“Kate.”
“Yes, Tom dear?”
“It's from Templeton” (the Gold Commissioner).
“Well, Tom?”
“Well, Kate? He will be at Ocho Rios on the 27th. Are you glad, or is it too soon for you?”