In the night I heard Æsop get up from his corner and growl; I heard it through my sleep, but I was dreaming just then of shooting, the growl of the dog fitted into the dream, and it did not wake me, quite. When I stepped out of the hut next morning there were tracks in the grass of a pair of human feet; someone had been there—had gone first to one of my windows, then to the other. The tracks were lost again down on the road.

She came towards me with hot cheeks, with a face all beaming.

“Have you been waiting?” she said. “I was afraid you would have to wait.”

I had not been waiting; she was on the way before me.

“Have you slept well?” I asked. I hardly knew what to say.

“No, I haven't. I have been awake,” she answered. And she told me she had not slept that night, but had sat in a chair with her eyes closed. And she had been out of the house for a little walk.

“Someone was outside my hut last night,” I said. “I saw tracks in the grass this morning.”

And her face colored; she took my hand there, on the road, and made no answer. I looked at her, and said:

“Was it you, I wonder?”

“Yes,” she answered, pressing close to me. “It was I. I hope I didn't wake you—I stepped as quietly as I could. Yes, it was I. I was near you again. I am fond of you!”

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