afternoon was over, when she discovered that he was back again at work, she would come out to tell him of a score of little things that she wanted done. Meanwhile, there were the morning glories to be planted that were to cover the trellis of the back porch; and there were the side borders by the hedges between the house and the barn to be made ready—there was plenty to do—the four days of absence had played serious havoc with plans that he knew were very near and vital to her.
In the barn that served as tool-house—for the warden did not keep a horse—Varge collected the various implements he required, and, coming out again, set vigorously to work upon one of the borders.
A half-hour saw this task completed, and then he crossed slowly to the opposite hedge to begin upon the other.
The previous sense of disappointment was upon him again. He had been wrong; she was evidently not in the house, but away somewhere—he had seen Martha, the Rand's servant, at the window, and Martha would surely have told her that he was there had she been within. But still he clung to hope—it seemed as though more than ever that afternoon he needed the uplift of her presence, the sound of her voice in his ears to soothe the heaviness of spirit that was creeping over him—perhaps even yet she would return before it was time for him to go back to his cell and the years of hours before the sunlight came again.
What was it that was weighing him down now so strangely, so insistently? He had been happier during the two weeks that had just gone than he had believed it possible he could be in his hopeless convict life, and
