The house attracted Cary's attention by the beauty of its site and its appearance of wealth and comfort. He at once concluded that it belonged to some old French seigneur who, after the conquest of the Province by the British, had retired to the seclusion of his estates, and there spent the evening of his life in the philosophic calm of solitude. He had no further curiosity about it, however, and would probably have passed on, had he not casually caught sight of a couple of figures coming down the stairs to the open space in front. The distance was considerable, and the intervening trees broke the line of vision somewhat, but he thought he could distinguish the forms of a young woman and an elderly man. He tarried a moment longer to look on. Presently he saw a horse led to the foot of the stairs, and the young lady assisted to her seat in the saddle. The site stirred him considerably. A suspicion—but it was only a suspicion—crossed his mind. What if it were she? He dismissed the thought, however, as altogether too good to be true. It was impossible that she should thus throw herself into his arms. Half the romance of all this adventure would be lost if it had so simple and easy a conclusion. No! He had to seek for her, he had to toil, to wait, to suffer still more before he could expect to attain the object of his desire. Thus do we add to our pain in the intensity of our love's longings, and Cary took grim pleasure in magnifying his own wretchedness. But somehow he kept his eye sharply fastened on the distant rider. After conferring with the elderly man for some moments, she drew herself up, settled herself in her saddle, and moved away from the front of the house. The avenue of maples, at the foot of which stood the young officer, lay directly in her path, and for a moment Cary thought she would take it. She halted her horse at the head of it and looked down toward the gate. She sat full in his sight. He sat full in hers. She must have seen him, as he certainly saw her. Did they recognize each other? O Love, that is so sharp-eyed ever, how perversely blind it is sometimes. Cary should have pulled up his horse's reins, cleared the fence and ridden like mad up the avenue. The lady should have waved her kerchief in token of a tryst and cantered down the path to meet her cavalier. Instead of which he sat dazed in his saddle, and she quietly walked her pony away from the opening of the avenue, and slowly passed along a narrow road through her father's grounds.

There is often a revelation in disappearance, as there is a light in darkness. Scarcely had he lost sight of the lady rider than Cary felt an irresistible impulse to meet her and discover who she was. Now that she was gone, the suspicion arose again that perhaps she was the loved one whom he sought. Had he frightened her? That was not probable from the ease and deliberation of her manner. Would he catch another glimpse of her? He felt that that depended entirely on himself, and he determined that if he did see her again, the sight would be a decisive one. He paused a moment longer before making up his mind what to do. He thought of opening the gate, sauntering up the avenue and turning down the path which she had taken. But the trespass on private property, and the fear of being stopped at the mansion to make explanations, deterred him from taking the step. He judged it wiser to spur up the main road and trust to luck. Perhaps he might find an outlet for that bridal path whence she would issue. In this surmise he was not mistaken. After riding about half a mile he came to the mouth of a rugged, unfrequented country road, the bed of which was moist from the ooze of rills on one of its banks. Here he stopped and reconnoitred with the keen eye of the soldier. To his surprise and delight he observed the fresh prints of pony's hoofs leading outward. He was satisfied that she had gone along this route, and pursued her journey further up the highway. The course was therefore clear for him. All he had to do was to follow, and he did so without delay.

Meantime the afternoon had worn on, and the sun was slowly sinking to the rim of the sky. There was the promise of a full hour of daylight yet, but the air was getting chilly and banks of pinkish clouds spreading fan-like in the western heavens gave portent of wind and storm. For a whole hour did Cary Singleton ride along that solitary road, watching the line of forest on his right and the steep embankment of the river on his left. But he heard nothing save the low lapsing sound of the water, and the monotonous simmer of the trees. He saw nothing that could divert his attention from the one object of his search. A fear came over him that his pursuit would be in vain. He was already far away from quarters and, without special cause, could not well prolong his absence much further. He therefore with a heavy heart resolved to turn his horse's head in the direction of the camp. As he advanced on a few steps slowly, deliberating sadly on this, he came to a sharp bend in the road, and a few hundred yards before him, observed the blue smoke of a little farm-house that stood in the clearing of the wood. Before the house there was a group of men, women and children standing around a saddled horse. To say that Cary was surprised would be using a very mild term indeed. He was so astounded that he did not venture to proceed another step. His presence excited a tumult among the people. The children ran into the house, the women retreated to the door, but a lady in riding-habit pacified them with a laughing gesture, and immediately mounted her horse. Addressing them a few words of farewell, she turned into the road and, a moment later, stood at the side of the young officer.

"Is it possible, mademoiselle?" was all that Cary could whisper, his agitation being so great that he had to hold on to his pommel for support. It would be falsehood to say that the lady was not similarly agitated, but she had that magnificent secret of disguise which places women far above men in many of the most critical passes of life.

Her answer was a delicious smile of recognition, and the offer of her gauntleted right hand.

"I never expected to meet you on this lonely road," said Cary, after recovering a little, in saying which he uttered a most palpable but unconscious falsehood. Else why had he ridden so far? Why had he suffered the torments of doubt and expectation the live-long afternoon? The lady was more direct and simple. The frankness of her reply almost startled Cary from his saddle.

"I expected to meet you, sir," she said, and broke out in one of her merriest laughs.

Explanations followed fast. The lady avowed that she had recognized Cary from the head of the avenue, had purposely avoided going down to meet him at the gate, had taken the bridle-path through her father's grounds instead, with the certainty that he would follow her. She only half intimated the reasons why she acted thus, but her partial reticence was the most charming portion of her revelations, and as he listened Cary was in a very ecstacy of delight. She knew that he would follow her! What adorable feminine ingenuousness in the confession! What consciousness of superiority and power!

The conversation, started from this point, did not flag. The young officer recovered full possession of his senses and the two rode briskly homeward in the roseate twilight which to them seemed the harbinger of a happy dawn flushed with the glories of an Eastern sunrise.