She went up to her room--a room in which the ceiling was "covered" to
the shape of the thatched roof.
She was brushing the long tresses of soft, fluffy black hair which
Drake had loved to kiss, when she heard the sound of a horse trotting up
the avenue.
She went to the window, and, screened by the curtain, looked out. A full
moon was shining and flooding the avenue With light.
She waited, looking out absently. The sound came nearer, and suddenly
the horseman came in sight. Holding the muslin curtain for a screen, she
still waited and watched for him. Then, with a faint cry--a cry almost
of terror--she shrank back.
For the man who was riding up the avenue to Anglemere was strangely like
Drake!
He had passed in an instant; his head was bowed, his face only for a
moment in the moonlight, and yet--and yet! Was she dreaming--was fancy
only trifling with her--or was it indeed and in truth Drake himself?