If Aunt Anna heard the sounds, she did not distinguish them from the ordinary noises of the night, nor, with the lighted lamp beside her, could she see clearly anything that lay in the forest beyond. But Beatrice could guess, as surely as though she stood in the moonlight beside John Herrick, just how distinct before his eyes was the lighted window with his sister sitting beside it. She could imagine, even, just what that picture must mean to him, the glowing, shaded lamp, the cushioned chair, the quiet beauty of Aunt Anna’s profile. How they must all stand for home and familiar things, for the unswerving affection of those of his own blood. He must know, surely, why his sister had come there, what she was waiting for as she sat, unconscious and serene, beside the window. He had only to lift his voice ever so little above the whispers of the forest; he had only to speak her name and the long spell would be broken. Beatrice held her breath to listen. There was no sound.
[Illustration: He had only to lift his voice and the long spell would be broken]
He stood, staring up at the window for a long, long time; then turned upon his heel at last. Beatrice could actually hear the harsh grating of his heavy boot upon a stone as he did so. She heard the jingling of the curb as he loosed his horse; she heard the creak of the stirrup leather and the scramble of iron-shod feet as he swung into the saddle and was off. There was no hesitation or stopping to look back; it was as though he had come to a final decision. Beatrice felt that there was something very ominous, something dismaying in the steadily diminishing thud, thud, of the hoof-beats, as horse and rider drew away into the darkness. With a long sigh she turned, shivering, from the window and buried her face in the pillow.
Christina came up the hill to see them next day, a radiant Christina who had learned that she need no longer keep secret from her friends her joy in Olaf’s return. The promise of the brilliant moonlight had not been fulfilled in the morning’s weather, for deluges of rain were falling, sluicing down the steep roof, dripping from the trees, and swelling the stream until the sound of the waterfall filled the whole house. No amount of rain could quench the Finnish woman’s happiness, however, as she stood in the kitchen, her garments soaked and her face beaming.
