Sabbath Valley. But Lynn left no doubt in his mind whether she would
recognize him. She dropped her broom and sped down the, path, and the
car came to an abrupt halt, only a hair's breadth past the gate,--but
still--that hair's breadth.

"Oh, Mark, I'm so glad to see you!" she cried genuinely with her hand
out in welcome, "They said you were not at home."

The boy's voice--he had been a boy when she left him, though now he
looked strangely hard and old like a man of the world--was husky as he
answered gravely, swinging himself down on the walk beside her:

"I just got in late last night. How are you Lynn? You're looking fine."

He took her offered hand, and clasped it for a brief instant in a warm
strong pressure, but dropped it again and there was a quick cold
withdrawing of his eyes that she did not understand. The old Mark
Carter would never have looked at her coolly, impersonally like that.
What was it, was he shy of her after the long separation? Four years
was a long time, of course, but there had been occasional letters. He
had always been away when she was at home, and she had been home very
little between her school years. There had been summer sessions twice
and once father and mother had come to her and they had taken a
wonderful trip together. But always there had seemed to be Mark Carter,
her old friend and playmate, in the background. Now, suddenly he seemed
to be removed to indefinite distances. It was as if she were looking at
a picture that purported to be her friend, yet seemed a travesty, like
one wearing a mask. She stood in the sunlight looking at him, in her
quaint little cap and a long white enveloping house apron, and she
seemed to him like a haloed saint. Something like worship shone in his