told, would be with him in two or three minutes; he had already been
expecting her for a quarter of an hour. This, however, did not
surprise him: Sylvia was rarely punctual, and until she married
Marston, he had been accustomed to await her pleasure.

She came at length, clad in a thin black dress that fitted her
perfectly; and he rose and stood looking at her while his heart beat
fast. Sylvia was slight of figure, but curiously graceful, and her
normal expression was one of innocent candor. The somber garments
emphasized the colorless purity of her complexion; her hair was fair,
and she had large, pathetic blue eyes. Her beauty was somehow
heightened by a hint of fragility: in her widow's dress she looked very
forlorn and helpless; and the man yearned to comfort and protect her.
It did not strike him that she had stood for some moments enduring his
compassionate scrutiny with exemplary patience.

"It's so nice to see you, George," she said. "I knew you would come."

He thrilled at the assurance; but he was not an effusive person. He
brought a chair for her.

"I started as soon as I got your note," he answered simply. "I'm glad
you're back again."

He did not think it worth while to mention that he had with difficulty
crossed a snow-barred pass in order to save time, and had left a
companion, who resented his desertion, in the wilds; but Sylvia guessed
that he had spared no effort, and she answered him with a smile.

"Your welcome's worth having, because it's sincere."