THE news of Sally's elopement came late to Crispin. There were things to be done to the little house on the Potomac, and he had snatched at the lovely fall days in which to do them, taking a short vacation from his office. He left instructions that no mail except his personal letters should be forwarded. He liked the thought of the detachment. There was no telephone. He would be alone to think of Hildegarde. That was enough. He wanted nothing more.
Totally unaware of the emotional hurricane which had swept Round Hill, he cooked three meals a day with the assured technic of a man who has lived much out of doors. He washed his dishes, swept and garnished his own quarters, and moved about the house deftly, fitting in open shelves for books, putting a last coat of paint on a garden bench, making everything ready for the woman who would promise him nothing, but who would come some day walking up the path to open the door with her silver key. And he would find her sitting by his fire! He would admit no doubts. She was his to the end of the world!
The emptiness of the house disturbed him not a bit! He peopled it with future occupants and found much
