STRANGERS ARRIVE

Dyck Calhoun's letter was never ended. It was only a relic of the years
spent in Jamaica, only a sign of his well-being, though it gave no real
picture of himself. He did not know how like a tyrant he had become in
some small ways, while in the large things he remained generous, urbane,
and resourceful. He was in appearance thin, dark-favoured, buoyant in
manner, and stern of face, with splendid eyes. Had he dwelt on Olympus,
he might have been summoned to judge and chastise the sons of men.

When Michael Clones came to the doorway, Dyck laid down his quill-pen and
eyed the flushed servant in disapproval.

"What is it, Michael? Wherefore this starkness? Is some one come from
heaven?"

"Not precisely from heaven, y'r honour, but--"

"But--yes, Michael! Have done with but-ing, and come to the real
matter."

"Well, sir, they've come from Virginia."

Dyck Calhoun slowly got to his feet, his face paling, his body
stiffening. From Virginia! Who should be come from Virginia, save she
to whom he had just been writing?

"Who has come from Virginia?" He knew, but he wanted it said.