She rose and leaned out of the window. The twilight had deepened into
night, and she watched the frail curve of the young moon dropping to
the edge of the hills. Through the darkness she saw one or two figures
moving down the road; but the evening was too cold for loitering, and
presently the strollers disappeared. Lamps were beginning to show here
and there in the windows. A bar of light brought out the whiteness of a
clump of lilies in the Hawes's yard: and farther down the street Carrick
Fry's Rochester lamp cast its bold illumination on the rustic flower-tub
in the middle of his grass-plot.

For a long time she continued to lean in the window. But a fever of
unrest consumed her, and finally she went downstairs, took her hat
from its hook, and swung out of the house. Mr. Royall sat in the porch,
Verena beside him, her old hands crossed on her patched skirt. As
Charity went down the steps Mr. Royall called after her: "Where you
going?" She could easily have answered: "To Orma's," or "Down to the
Targatts'"; and either answer might have been true, for she had no
purpose. But she swept on in silence, determined not to recognize his
right to question her.

At the gate she paused and looked up and down the road. The darkness
drew her, and she thought of climbing the hill and plunging into
the depths of the larch-wood above the pasture. Then she glanced
irresolutely along the street, and as she did so a gleam appeared
through the spruces at Miss Hatchard's gate. Lucius Harney was there,
then--he had not gone down to Hepburn with Mr. Miles, as she had at
first imagined. But where had he taken his evening meal, and what had
caused him to stay away from Mr. Royall's? The light was positive proof
of his presence, for Miss Hatchard's servants were away on a holiday,