On the edge of the wood where she had been idly pacing for a few minutes, all at once she heard a crackling of twigs and dry leaves under somebody’s active tread, just behind her. It did not sound like her lover’s step. She looked around. The man, a stranger with strong features and thick beard, halted at once and looked at her—silently, as if he had forgotten to speak, but with a degree of homage that dispelled everything like alarm.
She stood still, looking at him as earnestly as he at her. Then, she hardly knew how, a conviction came to her.
“Mr. Vibbard?” she said, in a low inquiring tone. To herself she whispered, “Six years!”
Somehow, although she expected it, there was something terrible in having this silent, strange man respond:
“Yes.”
He spoke very gently, and put out his hand to her.
She laid her own in his strong grasp, and then instantly felt as if she had done something wrong. But he would not let it go again. Drawing her a little toward him, he turned so that they could walk together back to the mills.
“Did John send you this way? Have you seen him?” she asked, falteringly.
“No,” said Vibbard. “From where I happened to be, I thought I could get here sooner by walking over through Bartlett. Besides, it was pleasanter to come my own way instead of by railroad.”
“But how did you know me?”