Up a long hill she went, and down again to the level country.  Then there was a slighter rise in the road, and when she reached its summit she saw, less than a mile away, the toll-gate surrounded by its trees, the thick foliage of the fruit-trees in the garden, the little tollhouse and the long bar, standing up high at its customary incline upon the opposite side of the road.  Down the little hill she went; and then, steadily and swiftly, onward.  Presently she saw that some one was on the piazza by the side of the tollhouse; his back was toward her, he was sitting in his accustomed armchair; she could not be mistaken; it was her uncle.

Now and then, while upon the road, she had thought of what she should say when she first met him, but she had soon dismissed all ideas of preconceived salutations, or explanations.  She would be there, and that would be enough.  Her father’s letter was in her pocket, and that was too much.  All she meant to do was to glide up to that piazza, spring up the steps, and present herself to her uncle’s astonished gaze before he had any idea that any one was approaching.

She was within twenty feet of the piazza when she saw that her uncle was not alone; there was some one sitting in front of him who had been concealed by his broad shoulders.  This person was a woman.  She had caught sight of Olive, and stuck her head out on one side to look at her.  Upon her dough-like face there was a grin, and in her eye a light of triumph.  With one quick glance she seemed to say:  “Ah, ha, you find me here, do you?  What have you to say to that?”

Olive’s heart stood still.  That woman, that Maria Port, sitting in close converse with her uncle in that public place where she had never seen any one but men!  That horrid woman at such a moment as this!  She could not speak to her; she could not speak to her uncle in her presence.  She could not stop.  With what she had on her mind, and with what she had in her pocket, it would be impossible to say a word before that Maria Port!  Without a swerve she sped on, and passed the toll-gate.  She only knew one thing; she could not stop.

The wildest suspicions now rushed into her mind.  Why should her uncle be thus exposing himself to the public gaze with Maria Port?  Why did it give the woman such diabolical pleasure to be seen there with him?  With a mind already prepared for such sickening revelations, Olive was convinced that it could mean nothing but that her uncle intended to marry Maria Port.  What else could it mean?  But no matter what it meant, she could not stop.  She could not go back.

On went her bicycle, and presently she gained sufficient command over herself to know that she should not ride into the town.  But what else could she do?  She could not go back while those two were sitting on the piazza.  Suddenly she remembered the shunpike.  She had never been on it, but she knew where it left the road, and where it reentered it.  So she kept on her course, and in a few minutes had reached the narrow country road.  There were ruts here and there, and sometimes there were stony places; there were small hills, mostly rough; and there were few stretches of smooth road; but on went Olive; sometimes trying with much effort to make good time, and always with tears in her eyes, dimming the roadway, the prospect, and everything in the world.