He turned at length from the view.
“How wonderful!” he said.
“I didn't know—you cared for nature so much, Peter.”
He looked at her strangely and put out his hand and drew her, unresisting, to the bench beside him.
“Are you in trouble, Honora?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” she cried, “oh, no, I am—very happy.”
“You may have thought it odd that I should have come here without knowing Mrs. Holt,” he said gravely, “particularly when you were going home so soon. I do not know myself why I came. I am a matter-of-fact person, but I acted on an impulse.”
“An impulse!” she faltered, avoiding the troubled, searching look in his eyes.
“Yes,” he said, “an impulse. I can call it by no other name. I should have taken a train that leaves New York at noon; but I had a feeling this morning, which seemed almost like a presentiment, that I might be of some use to you.”
“This morning?” She felt herself trembling, and she scarcely recognized Peter with such words on his lips. “I am happy—indeed I am. Only—I am overwrought—seeing you again—and you made me think of home.”