knew he had seen a vision. But it was a cruel one to visit a man who loved
her. He had summoned his philosophy and his courage in his interview with
himself on the way to Carlow, and they had answered; but nothing could
answer if his eyes were to play him tricks and bring her visibly before
him, and with such an expression as he had seen upon her face. It was too
real. It made his eyes yearn for the sight of her with an ache that was
physical. And even at that moment, he saw, far ahead of them on the road,
two figures standing in front of the brick house. One was unmistakable at
any distance. It was that of old Fisbee; and the other was a girl's: a
light, small figure without a hat, and the low, western sun dwelt on a
head that shone with gold. Harkless put his hand over his eyes with a pain
that was like the taste of hemlock in nectar.

"Sun in your eyes?" asked Keating, lifting his hat, so as to shield the
other's face.

"Yes."

When he looked again, both figures were gone. He made up his mind that he
would think of the only other person who could absorb his attention, at
least for a time; very soon he would stand face to face with the six feet
of brawn and intelligence and manhood that was young Fisbee.

"You are sure he is there?" he asked Tom Martin.

"Yes," answered Martin, with no need to inquire whom the editor meant. "I
reckon," he continued, solemnly, peering at the other from under his rusty
hat-brim, "I reckon when you see him, maybe you'll want to put a kind of
codicil to that deed to the 'Herald.'"