Slowly they walked homeward through the magic afterglow. The light faded, and grew dimmer and dimmer, and the stars came out. Neither said a word. From the wooded upland the country about looked phantom-like, unreal. Far off a dog barked. Nearer at hand, in the branches of one of the oak trees about them, a screech-owl stirred, and babbled its harsh call. Away in the hollow where the race track lay a light gleamed at the stables. The twigs cracked under their feet, and the dry leaves rustled as they passed among them. It grew darker. Julia caught the toe of her boot on something, and lurched forward. John grasped her by the arm, and quickly righted her. How good it was to feel his strong fingers drawing her away from harm! Then he took her hand without speaking, and thus they went on.
"I have been a coward!" he said, abruptly, "and there is nothing I have shunned more all my life. I have been unfair to you, and if it is not too late I want to set myself right. Perhaps it is weakness to tell you that I have tried--but I have. The strength is mine now, and it will not desert me. Will you see me tomorrow night, and hear my story?"
The "yes" which came from her lips was faint indeed, but he heard, and pressed her hand in farewell.
Early the next morning a telegram came for Julia. From its condensed message she learned that her room-mate at college, who was likewise a dear and intimate friend, had been taken seriously ill, and wanted her to come on the first train. Major Dudley was present when she received the summons, and she immediately asked his advice. It was that she should depart on the noon train for the East, and remain as long as circumstances required. He was feeling prime, and Aunt Frances and Peter should look after his comfort.
Transfixed upon the horns of this new dilemma, Julia rushed upstairs and began mechanically to get her things together for a hurried departure. She knew that she would go, although she told herself repeatedly that she could not. She must be at home that evening, for her future happiness depended upon the issue of that night. Yet Bess was sick--desperately ill--and had wired her to hasten. Yes, she would go to her friend in distress, and send a note by Peter to Doctor Glenning, advising him of this unforeseen emergency. Perhaps it was just as well, she told herself at length, to prolong indefinitely the hour when he should tell her all. This, indeed, would be a supreme and unerring test.