Fyles shook his head. “Not until just now,” he said kindly. “He’s about four miles back. Say,” he added, with less assurance, “maybe your sister’s home?”
For a moment Helen stared incredulously. “Yes,” she answered slowly. Then in agitation: “You’re not going to——?”
The man nodded, but his smile had died out. “Yes. That’s why I’ve come along,” he said seriously. “Is—is she well? Is she——?”
But Helen left him no time to finish his apprehensive inquiries. At that moment she caught sight of a distant figure on the trail. It was the figure of a big man—so big, and her woman’s heart cried out in love and thankfulness.
“Oh, look! It’s Bill—my Bill! Here he comes. Oh, thank God.”
Stanley Fyles flung a glance over his shoulder. Then without a word he lifted Peter’s reins. Then he seemed to glide off in the direction of the setting sun.
As he went he drew a long sigh. He was wondering—wondering if all the happiness in the world lay there, behind him, in the warm heart of the girl who was waiting to embrace her lover.
Kate Seton was standing at the window of her parlor. Her back was turned upon the room, upon the powerful, loose-limbed figure of Stanley Fyles.
Her face was hidden, she wanted it to remain hidden—from him. She felt that he must not see all that his sudden visit, without warning, meant to her.