It was the fear that she might not care which suddenly gripped him.  Surely this was not the moment to press his demands upon her—­when sorrow lay so heavily on her heart.

So blind, and cruel in his blindness, he held back the words which rose to his lips.

“Some day life will bring the things which belong to you,” he said at last.  “I pray God that it may bring them to you some day.”

A line of Browning’s came into her mind, and rang like a knell—­“Some day, meaning no day.”

She shivered and rose.  “We must go in; there’s rain in those clouds, and wind.”

He rose also and stood looking down at her.  Her eyes came up to his, her clear eyes, shadowed now by pain.  What he might have said to her in another moment would have saved both of them much weariness and heartache.  But he was not to say it, for the storm was upon them driving them before it, slamming doors, banging shutters in the big house as they came to it—­a miniature cyclone, in its swift descent.

And as if he had ridden in on the wings of the storm came Porter Bigelow, his red mane blown like a flame back from his face, his long coat flapping.

He stopped short at the sight of Roger.

“Hello, Poole,” he said; “when did you arrive?”

“This morning.”

They shook hands, but there was no sign of a welcome in Porter’s face.

“Pretty stiff storm,” he remarked, as the three of them stood by the drawing-room window, looking out.

The rain came in shining sheets—­the lightning blazed—­the thunder boomed.

“It is the first thunder-storm of the season,” Mary said.  “It will wake up the world.”

“In the South,” Roger said, “the world is awake.  You should see our gardens.”

“I wish I could; Cousin Patty asked me to come.”

“Will you?” eagerly.

“There’s my work.”

“Take a holiday, and let me show you the pines.”

Porter broke in impatiently, almost insolently.

“Mary needs companionship, not pines.  I think she should go to Constance.  Leila and the General will go over as they planned in May, and the Jeliffes——­”

“There’s more than a month before May—­which she could spend with us.”

Porter stared.  This was a new Roger, an insistent, demanding Roger.  He spoke coldly.  “Constance wants Mary at once.  I don’t think we should say anything to dissuade her.  Aunt Isabelle and I can take her over.”

And now Mary’s head went up.

“I haven’t decided, Porter.”  She was fighting for freedom.

“But Constance needs you, Mary—­and you need her.”

“Oh, no,” Mary said, brokenly, “Constance doesn’t need me.  She has Gordon and the baby.  Nobody needs me—­now.”

Roger saw the quick blood flame in Porter’s face.  He felt it flame in his own.  And just for one fleeting moment, over the bowed head of the girl, the challenging eyes of the two men met.