Copyright, 1918, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.
Copyright, 1919, by Katharine Prescott Moseley.
“There is only one letter for you,” said Ware’s sister, and she turned the handle of the coffee-urn as she watched him slit the envelope, for Ware had exclaimed: “By Jove! It’s from Vinton.” And then, after a moment: “That’s a nice thing. Roberts posted this last night instead of telephoning it up directly it came. He’s on the ——nia, due in New York—let me see—you have the Herald there—look in the shipping, will you? Are they sighted?”
Abigail took up the paper. “Docked last night at nine,” she said.
“Then he’ll have caught the midnight from New York. If he’s not stopping in Boston he’ll be on the eight fifty-eight.”
“Is he coming here?”
“Yes, he says so. He’ll have quite a bit to tell if I know him.” And an hour or so later Abigail Ware saw Vinton lift his eyes to the columns of the white porch glistening in the morning sun behind her, and as he sprang out of the motor and took her hand: “My foot is on my native heath and my name is MacGregor!” he cried.
Abigail led the way into the dining-room. “Come in by the fire; I’ve kept some coffee hot,” she said.
Vinton approached the warmth of the pine logs that were sending out sparks against the screen of the Franklin stove. “There’s something fearfully penetrating about the air over here at this time of year,” he began. “Open fires are its saving complement.”
Abigail held out his cup.