Wollaston lifted his hat, with an audible remark about the beauty of the evening, and passed through into the next car, which was a smoker. The two women of the station were seated a little in the rear across the aisle from Maria. She heard one of them say to the other, “I wonder who that girl was he spoke to?” and the other's muttered answer that she didn't know.
Contrary to her expectations, Maria did not find a carriage at the Amity station, and she walked home. It was late, and the village houses were dark. The electric lights still burned at wide intervals, lighting up golden boughs of maples until they looked like veritable branches of precious metal. Maria hurried along. She had a half-mile to walk. She did not feel afraid; a sense of confusion and relief was over her, with another dawning sense which she did not acknowledge to herself. An enormous load had been lifted from her mind; there was no doubt about that. A feeling of gratitude and confidence in the young man who had just left her warmed her through and through. When she reached her aunt's house she saw a light in the sitting-room windows, and immediately she turned into the path the door opened and her aunt stood there.
“Maria Edgham, where have you been?” asked Aunt Maria.
“I have been to walk,” replied Maria.
“Been to walk! Do you know what time it is? It is 'most midnight. I've been 'most crazy. I was just goin' in to get Henry up and have him hunt for you.”
“I am glad you didn't,” said Maria, entering and removing her hat. She smiled at her aunt, who continued to gaze at her with the sharpest curiosity.
“Where have you been to walk this time of night?” she demanded.
Maria looked at her aunt, and said, quite gravely, “Aunt Maria, you trust me, don't you?”
“Of course I do; but I want to know. I have a right to know.”
“Yes, you have,” said Maria, “but I shall never tell you as long as I live where I have been to-night.”