"If it means," replied Bergan, "that we are to know sunshine and shade together, little more could be predicted—or desired—of any earthly acquaintance."
"Perhaps not. Still, as I do believe in omens, as I said before, in a poetical way, I am glad to see that the sun is not really set, after all. He only sank into a deceptive line of cloud. There! he comes forth again, to give us another bright glance before his final leave-taking. And, in order to leave the omen in its present satisfactory state, I will anticipate his departure. Good evening."
Slightly inclining her head, as she passed Bergan, she quickly disappeared under the low-hanging oak boughs.
Nix looked after her, for a moment; then he turned to Bergan, as if wondering why he did not go, too. Seeing no sign of departure, he was about to fling himself upon the ground, when a clear, sweet whistle suddenly sounded from the direction which the young lady had taken. Pricking up his ears, he instantly set off at a great pace; leaving Bergan with a vague sadness, as having been deserted by his last friend.
However, the feeling was but momentary. Very quickly he turned to the consideration of the interesting question who his late interlocutor might be. Running over in his mind all the branches of the family of Bergan, in the neighborhood (of which there were several, more or less direct), he soon decided that she did not harmonize with what he knew of any of them. Yet she had seemed to know him; and to think, and even to intimate, that they were likely to meet again, and possibly to exert a degree of influence upon each other's lives. And still, as he pondered and questioned, the oak trees kept whispering overhead, with all their multitudinous tongues, an apparently full, but unintelligible, explanation.
He bewildered himself with conjectures, until all the sunset tints had faded from the sky, and darkness was fast gathering under the oak boughs. Then he rose, and went his solitary way homeward.
Arrived at Mrs. Lyte's gate, it seemed to him that there was an unusual stir and liveliness about the house. Certainly, a broad beam of light was shining across the hall, from a door that he had never before seen open. Ere he could think what these things betokened, Cathie came running to meet him, with a great piece of news in her beaming face.
"Oh! Mr. Arling!" she exclaimed, in almost breathless delight, "Astra has come!"
The mystery was at an end. Indeed it could scarcely have been a mystery, but for two concurrent circumstances. In the first place, knowing Miss Lyte to be an artist,—or at least, an art-student,—and possessed of a sufficiently independent character and spirit, he had unconsciously sketched a portrait of her in his fancy, very different from the original,—taller, larger, with more color, and, certainly, less feminine. And, secondly, only the day before, he had heard Mrs. Lyte lamenting that her daughter would not be at home for another month.
A sudden turn of circumstances, however, had wrought an equally sudden change in Miss Lyte's plans; and, taking advantage of the opportune escort afforded by a business trip of a friend, she had journeyed southward with such celerity as to outstrip the letter of announcement that she had dispatched, a day before her departure from New York. Reaching home almost immediately after Bergan had gone out for his solitary stroll, she had spent the afternoon in a long, earnest, circumstantial talk with her mother,—discussing her plans and prospects,—throwing off, with careless fluency, vivid picture upon picture of her art life and work in the city,—listening eagerly to interjectional items of home news,—and cheering Mrs. Lyte's heart, through and through, with her bright spirits, her ready, yet healthful, sympathy, and the inspiring energy both of her manner and mind. With the very sight of her, more than half the widow's burden of sorrow and care had slipped unconsciously from her shoulders.