It often happens that schemes least calculated to succeed attain success.  Susannah and Halsey had not gone far, nor had they gone with great secrecy, yet it had happened that no one had observed them as they travelled, and as there was at that time of the year little communication between the towns to the east and west of Geneva Market, it was long before real news concerning them transpired.

At length, when many days had passed, it was told in Manchester where Susannah really was; and as if the mischief Rumour was ashamed of being caught telling the truth, she hastily added a lie, and one that had a fair show of evidence in its favour.  She declared that Susannah had not been married except by some mystical Mormon ceremony which was void in law.

When Ephraim heard this circumstantial story, and with it many new tales concerning wicked mysteries practised by the Mormons in Fayette, he threw down his books, as long ago the fabled fruit that had turned to ashes was thrown down, and prepared for the road.

In the first day’s journey he reached Geneva, and setting out again before it was light, he came to John Biery’s hotel when the sun was rising red beyond the gray elm boughs on the morning on which Susannah breakfasted alone.

Susannah looked up from her breakfast and saw Ephraim standing beside her.  It was his way to look calm outwardly, but she could see that he was struggling with the nervous untoward beating of his heart, so that he could not speak.  Susannah did not understand why she could not immediately rise and speak.  She was conscious of a red flush that rose and mantled her face, but she did not understand the emotion from which it arose.  She only knew that she was glad to see Ephraim, more glad than she could have thought to be of anything upon a day when her heart had been set mocking.

“You have come at last,” she whispered, and only knew when the words were said that she had hoped to see him before.  Her whisper was broken by rising tears, which she checked in very shame.

“I want to speak to you,” said Ephraim briefly.

So she rose and went out with him.  She put her shawl over her head and walked upon the roadside.  The day was mild, the first of the Indian summer.  Ephraim had not put up his horse; he led it by the bridle as he walked.

“Sure as I’m alive, it’s her uncle as has come after her at last,” said the wife of John Biery, gazing through the small panes of the kitchen window.  And, in truth, Ephraim did look many years older than Susannah, for his figure was bowed somewhat for lack of strength.

Susannah did not now think of Ephraim as old, neither did she think of him as young.  To her he was just Ephraim, bearing no more relation of comparison to any other mortal than if his had been the only soul in the world beside her own.  She was not aware of this; she was only thinking that if he had not shot Halsey she would have been able to speak freely to him now.  It was so wicked of Ephraim, above all others, to do such a thing.  It was, in fact, unforgivable because of the stain upon Ephraim’s own character more than because of Halsey’s blood.  But that again she did not analyse.  She only knew that her feeling kept her silent.