The next day, she counted the hours with a feverish impatience. It
seemed like tempting Providence, but she determined to surprise her son
with a supper of unusual luxury for their simple habits, after so
important and so toilsome a journey. Sam had killed a fowl; it was
picked and dressed, but she had not courage to put it into the pot,
until the fortune of the day had been assured.

Towards sunset she saw, through the back-kitchen-window, a horseman
approaching from the direction of Carson's. It seemed to be Roger, but
could that rider, in the faded brown cloak, be Gilbert? His cloak was
blue; he always rode with his head erect, not hanging like this man's,
whose features she could not see. Opposite the house, he lifted his
head--it _was_ Gilbert, but how old and haggard was his face!

She met him at the gate. His cheeks were suddenly flushed, his eyes
bright, and the smile with which he looked at her seemed to be joyous;
yet it gave her a sense of pain and terror.

"Oh, Gilbert!" she cried; "what has happened?"

He slid slowly and wearily off the horse, whose neck he fondled a moment
before answering her.

"Mother," he said at last, "you have to thank Roger that I am here
tonight. I have come back to you from the gates of death; will you be
satisfied with that for a while?"

"I don't understand you, my boy! You frighten me; haven't you been at
Chester?"