in at the gate and paused half-way along the path, scanning the place for some farther token of its occupant, before whom—I could hardly have said why—I hesitated abruptly to present myself. Then I saw that the poor little house was very shabby. I felt a sudden doubt of my right to intrude: for curiosity had been my motive, and curiosity here seemed singularly indelicate. While I hesitated, a figure appeared in the open doorway and stood there looking at me. I immediately recognized Caroline Spencer, but she looked at me as if she had never seen me before. Gently, but gravely and timidly, I advanced to the door-step, and then I said, with an attempt at friendly badinage,—
"I waited for you over there to come back, but you never came."
"Waited where, sir?" she asked softly, and her light-colored eyes expanded more than before.
She was much older; she looked tired and wasted.
"Well," I said, "I waited at Havre."
She stared; then she recognized me. She smiled and blushed and clasped her two hands together. "I remember you now," she said. "I remember that day." But she stood there, neither coming out nor asking me to come in. She was embarrassed.
I, too, felt a little awkward. I poked my stick into the path. "I kept looking out for you, year after year," I said.
"You mean in Europe?" murmured Miss Spencer.
