leave would permit him to start homeward.

So, now, what should she write? If her father had discerned so much more
than he had let any one know he had discerned, how about others? How
about the kind whose chief joy is ruthless guesswork? _That_ need
of haste was one she had overlooked. Wise father!

And yet--haste itself is such a hazardous thing! Ah, if Arthur had come
in on that evening express, what to write were an easier question. The
minutes sped by; her pen overhung the paper with the opening sentence
unfinished, and every moment the thought she kept putting away came
back: "Leonard!--Leonard!--Godfrey's summons should go to him from
Leonard; and it should flash under the seas, not crawl across
them!"--Hark!

She rose and glided to the door through which her brother had gone.
There she was startled by the sight of him speeding cautiously down
the stair.

* * * * *

On entering his unlighted room Leonard had moved across it to a front
window, where, veiled by the chamber's dusk, he stood looking out into a
night dimly illumined by the overclouded moon. The Winslow house widened
palely among its surrounding trees. The servants' rooms were remote as
well as on the farther side, and on the nearer side no lamplight shone.
A short way down the street a glow came from the Morris cottage.
Evidently Isabel was with her mother.

He stood and mused, unconsciously lulled by the cool drip of myriad