She was just convincing herself that there must be some sort of echo
which made it appear that a team passing in the road had come up the
drive--when she was suddenly sure that she heard a hurried step in the
corridor--it passed the door. Now she was naturally a very
unimaginative person, and had never had occasion to know fear. So,
after a bit, she put out her light, saying to herself that a belated
servant was busy with some neglected work--nothing more likely--and
she went to sleep.

Again the morning sunlight, the Man's gay companionship, the hundreds
of delightful things to do, wiped out that bad quarter of an hour,
and again it never occurred to her to mention it.

The next night the remembrance came back so vividly after the Man had
gone to his room, that she regretted she had not at least asked him if
he had heard a carriage pass in the night. Of course she was sure that
he had not. He was such a sound sleeper. Besides, it was not
important. If he had, he would not have been nervous about it. Still,
she could not sleep, and, just before the dining room clock began to
chime midnight--she had never heard it before, and that she heard it
now was a proof of how her whole body was listening--again came the
rapid tread of running horses. This time every hair stood up on her
head, and before she could control herself, she called out toward the
open door: "Dearest, are you awake?"

Almost before she had the words out he was standing smiling in the
doorway. It was all right.

"Did you _think_ you heard a carriage come up the driveway?" she