The cab stopped with a jerk in front of Mr. Blair's; and, as they got out, a gentleman galloped past on horseback, and turned round to look at them. Val nodded, and the rider, touching his hat to Laura, rode on.
"Where is Mr. Wyndham going, I wonder?" said Laura.
"To Redmon, I think," Val answered. "Come in, Charley! Won't the old folks stare, though, when they see you?"
Miss Rose—her name is Rose, you know—had gone from Rosebush Cottage to Redmon, at the earnest entreaties of her half-sister. She had wished to return to Mrs. Wheatly's, and let things go on as before; but Harriet Wade—the only name to which she had any right—had opposed it so violently, and pleaded so passionately, that she had to have her way.
"Stay with me, Olive, stay with me while I am here!" had been the vehement cry. "I shall die if I am left alone!"
"Very well, I will stay," her sister said, kissing her; "but, please, Harriet, don't call me Olive, call me Winnie. I like it best, and it is the name by which they know me here."
So Winnie Rose Henderson went to Redmon—her own rightful home, and hers alone—and on the night of Charley Marsh's return, when Paul Wyndham entered the house, her small, light figure crossing the hall was the first object he saw. She came forward with a little womanly cry at sight of him.
"Oh, Mr. Wyndham, I am so glad you have come! I want you to talk to Harriet. She is going away."
"Going away! Where?"
"Back to New York, she says—anywhere out of this. Back to the old life of trouble and toil. Oh, Mr. Wyndham, talk to her. All I say is useless. But you have influence over her, I know."