“From Wimbleton to Wombleton is fifteen miles”—­

The familiar words formed themselves upon the girl’s lips before the message of the tune reached her brain and brought her, breathless, to her feet.  He was coming—­so soon!

Panic seized her.  Her hand flew to her heart—­she would hide in the school-room, anywhere!  Then she remembered Willits’ postscript, the postscript which she had thought so needless.  Her hand fell to her side.  The panic died.  Next moment, head high and eyes smiling, she walked down to the gate.

He was coming along the road under the budding elms—­hatless, carrying a knapsack.  His tweeds were splashed with mud from the spring roads, his face was thin, his hair was almost grey.  Yet he came on like a conqueror and there was nothing old or tired in the bound wherewith he leaped the gate he would not pause to open.

“Esther!”

She looked up into his eyes and found them shadowless.  Her own eyes veiled themselves,

Neither found anything to say.

But overhead a robin burst into heavenly song.