Wharton as he pictured her from the description he carried in his mind's
eye. Her venerable husband informed him that she was sure to wear a white
shirt-waist, a gray skirt, and a Knox sailor hat, because her maid had
told him so in a huff. But he was to identify her chiefly by means of a
handsome and oddly trimmed parasol of deep purple. Wharton had every
reason to suspect that it was a present from Havens, and therefore to be
carried more for sentiment than protection.

A telegram awaited him at Fossingford Station. Fossingford was so small
and unsophisticated that the arrival of a telegraphic message that did not
relate to the movement of railroad trains was an "occasion." Everybody in
town knew that a message had come for Samuel Rossiter, and everybody was
at the depot to see that he got it. The station agent had inquired at the
"eating-house" for the gentleman, and that was enough. With the eyes of a
Fossingford score or two upon him, Rossiter read the despatch from Grover
& Dickhut.

"Too bad, ain't it?" asked the agent, compassionately regarding the
newcomer. Evidently the contents were supposed to be disappointing.

"Oh, I don't know," replied Rossiter easily. But just the same he was
troubled in mind as he walked over and sat down upon his steamer trunk in
the shade of the building. The telegram read:

"She left New York five-thirty this evening. Stops over night Albany.
Fossingford to-morrow morning. Watch trains. Purple parasol. Sailor hat.
Gray travelling suit.

"G. and D."