Unconsciously his eyes wandered across the path where Kate’s house stood.  He could see the tall chimneys and the slope of the quaint roof, and but that the foliage hid the lower part, could have seen Kate’s own windows.  She was still at home, he had heard, although she was expected to leave for the Red Sulphur any day.

Suddenly, from away up the street, past the corner of the park, there reached his ears a low winding note, which grew louder as it turned the corner, followed by the rattle of wheels and the clatter of horses’ feet.  He leaned forward and craned his head in the direction of the sound, his heart in his throat, the blood mounting to his cheeks.  If that was not his father’s horn it was wonderfully like it.  At the same moment a coach-and-four swept in sight, driven by a man in a whitey-brown coat and stiff furry hat, with two grooms behind and a coachman next to him on the box.  It was heading straight for the club.

Every man was on his feet.

“By Jove!—­it’s Rutter.  Bowdoin!—­Clayton!—­here comes the colonel!”

Again the horn gave out a long withering, wiry note ringing through the leaves and along the brick pavement, and the next instant the leaders were gathered up, the wheel-horses hauled taut, the hub of the front wheel of the coach halting within an inch of the horse-block of the club.

“Bravo, Rutter!  Best whip in the county!  Not a man in England could have done it better.  Let me help you down!”

The colonel shook his head good-humoredly, rose in his seat, shifted a bunch of violets to his inner lapel, slipped off his driving-coat, threw it across the rail, dropped his whip in the socket, handed his heavy gloves to his groom, and slid gracefully to the sidewalk.  There he shook hands cordially with the men nearest him, excused himself for a moment until he had inspected his off leader’s forefoot—­she had picked up a stone on the way in from Moorlands—­patted the nigh wheel-horse, stamped his own feet lustily as if to be sure he was all there, and, with a lordly bow to those about him, slowly mounted the steps of the club.

Harry had already risen to his feet and stood trembling, one hand clutching the iron railing that guarded the marble steps.  A great throb of joy welled up in his throat.  His mother was right—­the loneliness had overpowered his father; he still loved him, and Miss Clendenning’s prediction was coming true!  Not only was he willing to forgive him, but he had come himself to take him home.  He could hardly wait until his father reached his side, so eager was he to open his arms and hands and his lips in apology—­and Kate!—­what joy would be hers!

St. George had also gained his feet.  What had brought the colonel into town, he said to himself, and in such state—­and at this hour of the day, too?  Could it be that Harry was the cause?

“How were the roads, Talbot?” he called out in his customary cheery tones.  He would start fair, anyway.