dream. How they could patiently wait, those home folks of hers! And how
dear they suddenly became, now that she was going into the new life that
promised her her Heart's Desire!

Then she decided: since she could not go to them she must write to Master
Farwell, he had never answered her last letter, and beg him to tell them
all about it. He would go, she felt sure, and, by some subtle magic, she
seemed to see him passing along the red-rock road, his long-caped coat
flapping in the soft wind, his hair blowing across his face, the dogs
following sociably. He'd go first to old Jerry's, and then afterward, an
hour, maybe, for it would be hard for Jerry McAlpin--he would go to
Lonely Farm by way of the wood path that led by the shrine in the open
place--was the skull still there with the long-dead grasses in its ears?
It would be night, perhaps, when the master reached the farm; maybe the
star would be shining over the hemlock----

At this point Priscilla paused and caught her breath sharply. She had
come out of the park by the gateway opposite Boswell's apartment, and
just ahead of her, across the street, was a thin, stooping figure with
caped coat flapping in the rising wind, and hair blowing across a bent
face.

"I--I am dreaming!" The words came brokenly. "I am bewitched!"

But with characteristic quickness of thought and action she put her doubt
to the test. Running across the space between her and that slow-stepping
figure she panted huskily:

"Master Farwell! Master Farwell!"