So she began to think about future arrangements; and by the time that Mrs. Baxter looked benignantly out at her from beneath the Queen Anne doorway to tell her that breakfast was waiting, she was conceiving of the possibility of going up herself to London in a week or two on some shopping excuse, and of making one more genial attempt to persuade Laurie to be a sensible boy again.

During her visit to the fowl-yard after breakfast she began to elaborate these plans.

She was clear now, once again, that the whole thing was a fantastic delusion, and that its sole harm was that it was superstitious and nerve-shaking. (She threw a large handful of maize, with a meditative eye.) It was on that ground and that only that she would approach Laurie.  Perhaps even it would be better for her not to go and see him; it might appear that she was making too much of it:  a good sensible letter might do the work equally well....  Well, she would wait at least to hear from Mr. Cathcart once more.  The second post would probably bring a letter from him. (She emptied her bowl.)

She was out again in the spring sunshine, walking up and down before the house with a book, by the time that the second post was due.  But this time, through the iron gate, she saw the postman go past the house without stopping.  Once more her spirits rose, this time, one might say, to par; and she went indoors.

Her window looked out on to the front; and she moved her writing-table to it to catch as much as possible of the radiant air and light of the spring day.  She proposed to begin to sketch out what she would say to Laurie, and suggest, if he wished it, to come up and see him in a week or two.  She would apologize for her fussiness, and say that the reason why she was writing was that she did not want his mother to be made anxious.

“My dear Laurie...”

She bit her pen gently, and looked out of the window to catch inspiration for the particular frame of words with which she should begin.  And as she looked an old gentleman suddenly appeared beyond the iron gate, shook it gently, glanced up in vain for a name on the stone posts, and stood irresolute.  It was an old trap, that of the front gate; there was no bell, and it was necessary for visitors to come straight in to the front door.

Then, so swiftly that she could not formulate it, an anxiety leapt at her, and she laid her pen down, staring.  Who was this?

She went quickly to the bell and rang it; standing there waiting, with beating heart and face suddenly gone white....

“Susan,” she said, “there is an old gentleman at the gate.  Go out and see who it is....  Stop:  if it is anyone for me ... if—­if he gives the name of Mr. Cathcart, ask him to be so kind as to go round the turn to the village and wait for me....  Susan, don’t say anything to Mrs. Baxter; it may just possibly be bad news.”

From behind the curtain she watched the maid go down the path, saw a few words pass between her and the stranger, and then the maid come back.  She waited breathless.