inaccessibility. She only saw that his hands had gone up and out
at sight of her, and to her sensitive soul, this looked like a
rebuff which, while expected, choked back her words and turned her
faintly flushing cheek scarlet.

"It is not I," burst from her lips in incoherent disclaimer of his
possible thought. "I'm just a messenger. Your father--"

"It IS you!" Quickly his hands passed across his eyes. "How--"
Then his glance, following hers, fell on the letter which she now
remembered to hold out.

"It's the copy of a telegram," she tremblingly explained, as he
continued to gaze at it without reaching to take it. "You could
not be found in Detroit and as it was important that you should
receive this word from your father, I undertook to deliver it. I
remembered your fondness for this place and how you once said that
this is where you would like to write your book, and so I came on
a venture--but not alone--Mr. Black is with me and--"

"Mr. Black! Who? What?" He was still staring at his father's
letter; and still had made no offer to take it.

"Read this first," said she.

Then he woke to the situation. He took the letter, and drawing her
inside, shut the door while he read it. She, trembling very much,
did not dare to lift her eyes to watch its effect, but she was
conscious that his back and not his face was turned her way, and
that the moment was the stillest one of her whole life.