The world was aflame with the splendid fires of sunset when the little party alighted before the farm gate on the following evening. “I’m real glad it’s light enough for you to see the flowers an’ things,” said Indie, as she led the way up the rose-bordered walk that seemed to greet her with sweet familiarity. “Good thing I left the key under the porch steps right where I could find it handy. There, now walk right in an’ set down, while I kindle a fire an’ git some supper.”
She had bought a few eatables the last thing before leaving Birmingham, which she speedily converted into a tempting meal. Her guests rewarded her industry to a gratifying degree, even to little Tom, who seemed to have acquired a good appetite which delighted his frail, worried mother beyond bounds. “He ain’t et like that in I dunno when!” she exclaimed with tears of joy.
It was close upon Indie’s usual bedtime when her ministration ended. She slipped out for a quiet rest on the front door-step to enjoy the peace and loveliness of the perfect spring night, but hardly had she seated herself when the garden gate creaked rustily and someone strode up the walk with heavy strides. At the sight of the dim figure on the step the intruder stopped precipitately.
“Who’s there?” asked a familiar voice.
Indie rose tremblingly. “It’s Indie Bright,” she answered. “Did you want to see me?”
“Indie!” exclaimed a voice so thrillingly joyous that the listener felt herself quiver from head to foot with a strange, inexplicable ecstasy.
“Ain’t it Lem Powers?” she asked. “Has anything happened?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” came the surprised answer. “I thought you was gone!”
Indie told her story briefly, carefully deflecting all merit from herself. “I’m real glad it happened that way,” she finished, “for I did hate to sell the old place.”
Lem drew a deep breath. “You’re jest five hours too late, Indie,” he said in a queer voice, “for the agent sold the farm this afternoon at four o’clock.”