"How do you do, Hawkins," he heard himself saying, as a liveried old man ushered him in and took his coat. "Don't you remember me?"
"Yes, sir! Mr. Emerson. You have been away for a long time, sir."
"Is Miss Wayland in?"
"Yes, sir; she is expecting you. This way, please."
Boyd followed, thankful for the subdued light which might conceal his agitation. He knew where they were going: she had always awaited him in the library, so it seemed. And how well he remembered that wonderful book walled room! It was like her to welcome him on the spot where she had bade him good-bye three years ago.
Hawkins held the portieres aside and Boyd heard their velvet swish at his back, yet for the briefest instant he did not see her, so motionless did she stand. Then he cried, softly:
"My Lady!" and strode forward.
"Boyd! Boyd!" she answered and came to meet him, yielding herself to his arms. She felt his heart pounding against hers like the heart of a runner who has spent himself at the tape, felt his arms quivering as if from great fatigue. For a long time neither spoke.