Twenty minutes later, when Ann came out from beneath the pines at the edge of the woods and started down through the fields to the house, she saw Sue and Coats driving away from the barn. She could not see distinctly, they were too far away, but she noticed that they were going fast. Evidently they had had supper and were going somewhere together, as they so often did.

Ann had not realized how late it was until the sun touched the horizon. She was reminded then that it was past the supper hour and that they would wonder what had become of her. She must have sat for two hours there, under the pines, simply thinking of her happiness. She had wanted to be alone with it, just as long as she could be. Once she had carried her grief and her desolation to that place; it seemed the right place to come with her joy.

Ann was glad she was going to have the evening to herself, just to sit on the porch and think. The farm and everything connected with it had faded into distance since that hour with Edward. They belonged to each other. The joy of it! During those two weeks of anxious thought over Garvin, she had realized that Edward was more to her than any one else in the world. And she knew now that he loved her as she loved him. She was solemnly, gratefully happy. He was wise and loving and wonderful; he filled the place of friend, father and lover. The ache of loneliness she had carried about with her since she was a little thing was stilled.

Ann had thought of Garvin many times that afternoon. Edward had talked about him while they sat together in the hollow. The first time she and Edward had met after she had given Garvin her promise, she had gathered up her courage and had told Edward of her engagement to his brother. Ann had felt that she must tell him. She had given Edward every detail of her acquaintance with his brother.

Edward had listened to her, never taking his eyes from her face, and when she had finished he was a little gray about the lips, as he had been while she handled the runaway horse, but all he had said was, "You don't love Garvin, Ann."

"I'm fond of him," Ann had said in deep distress.

"You don't love him—you have been spared that," Edward had repeated quietly.

"I don't love him as he loves me—I promised to marry him when I was angry and wretched," Ann had confessed.

"Yes, I understand that," Edward had said in the same steady way. "You neither love him nor will you marry him. Before long you will collect courage to write Garvin exactly how you feel. I'd rather have it that way. Then he will accommodate himself to it without going mad over it, which will be the best solution for him. And in the meantime he shall not come near you." Then he had smiled at her as he often did. "You love to be loved too well to love easily, my little Ann. But it won't always be so."

"I am so sorry for him," Ann had said.

"We are all sorry for him," Edward had answered. "By and by you will understand why."

It had been Edward's last word on the subject. In their following meetings, he had held his peace, listening intently to Ann's troubled thoughts—until that afternoon, when she had told him that she had written to Garvin, and what she had written. Then, in that steady way of his, Edward had told her what she was to him, and heaven had opened to Ann. He had filled her heart completely.

Edward had gone back over the years and had told her about his life; about his leaving Westmore; about his marriage; about their future together. And then he had told her about Garvin, and Ann had understood why she had been drawn to Garvin and had pitied him, and yet had felt repelled. He was one of the unfortunates of the world.

Edward had not even hinted at what he knew had been Garvin's endeavor and that she had been walking on the edge of a precipice over which many would have fallen; that her elusiveness and her innocence, and, more than anything else, the quality of her affection for Garvin had probably saved her. He allowed her to think affectionately and pityingly of his brother; when he took Ann unto himself, Garvin would necessarily be part of her inheritance.

Ann was still absorbed when she came slowly down from the woods and into the house. Sue's note was lying on Ann's plate, and she read it somewhat vaguely: she was to take care of her grandfather while they were away; they would not be back until very late, but Ben would be there so she need not feel anxious.... Ann turned away from the table; she did not want anything to eat. She went up, dutifully, to see whether her grandfather needed anything, and, finding him asleep, went to her room. Then she saw her gaping trunk, Edward's books flung out on the floor ... and that Garvin's letters were not there.

At first she was terrified, for the spell of secrecy was still upon her, and the fear of harm to Edward and to Garvin. But then it came to her as a tremendous relief that Edward would know how to guard himself and how to shield Garvin. He was very wise and careful. He had said to her, "I mean to tell Garvin everything just as soon as I feel it is wise to do so. I shall write to Coats Penniman at once, but I am afraid the Penniman enmity is insurmountable. If it is, we must wait until you are of age, and that will be in October." Edward would know what to do and what to say to them; she need not be frightened.

As she sat on the porch, listening to the night sounds, Ann kept repeating to herself that she need not be frightened, and her faith in Edward's wisdom was so complete that she slipped into visions of the future. It was a dark night illumined only by the orange-red glow in the west, and it was fading rapidly. It was going to be a black night, misty with the prescience of rain.

It grew so dark that even the outlines of the nearest objects faded into the enveloping blackness, but Ann did not move; she was still dreaming with eyes wide, quite alone yet content.