A FORTNIGHT later Leslie Moore came home alone to the old house where she had spent so many bitter years. In the June twilight she went over the fields to Anne’s, and appeared with ghost-like suddenness in the scented garden.
“Leslie!” cried Anne in amazement. “Where have you sprung from? We never knew you were coming. Why didn’t you write? We would have met you.”
“I couldn’t write somehow, Anne. It seemed so futile to try to say anything with pen and ink. And I wanted to get back quietly and unobserved.”
Anne put her arms about Leslie and kissed her. Leslie returned the kiss warmly. She looked pale and tired, and she gave a little sigh as she dropped down on the grasses beside a great bed of daffodils that were gleaming through the pale, silvery twilight like golden stars.
“And you have come home alone, Leslie?”
“Yes. George Moore’s sister came to Montreal and took him home with her. Poor fellow, he was sorry to part with me—though I was a stranger to
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