heard a short time ago that you were here,” she said, in her usual even voice. The fair oval of her face was as serene and proud toward the man as the face of the moon.
The man swung his umbrella, then began prodding the ground with it. “Hullo, Eudora,” he said again; then he added: “How are you, anyway? Fine and well?”
“I am very well, thank you,” said Eudora. “So you have come home to Wellwood after all this time?”
The man made an effort and recovered himself, although his handsome face was burning.
“Yes,” he remarked, with considerable ease and dignity, to which he had a right, for Harry Lawton had not made a failure of his life, even though it had not included Eudora and a fulfilled dream.
“Yes,” he continued, “I had some leisure; in fact, I have this spring retired from business; and I thought I would have a look at the old place. Very little changed I am happy to find it.”
“Yes, it is very little changed,” assented Eudora; “at least, it seems so to me, but it is not for a life-long dweller in any place to judge of change. It is for the one who goes and returns after many years.”
There was a faint hint of proud sadness in Eudora’s voice as she spoke the last two words.
“It has been many years,” said Lawton, gravely, “and I wonder if it has seemed so to you.”
Eudora held her head proudly. “Time passes swiftly,” said she, tritely.
“But sometimes it may seem long in the passing, however swift,” said Lawton, “though I suppose it has not to you. You look just the same,” he added, regarding her admiringly.
Eudora flushed a little. “I must be changed,” she murmured.
“Not a bit. I would have known you anywhere. But I—”
“I knew you the minute you spoke.”
“Did you?” he asked, eagerly. “I was afraid I had grown so stout you would not remember me at all. Queer how a man will grow stout. I am not such a big eater,
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