"Had his brother heard of the marriage?"
"Not a word. Derek had written to him only once, a strange sort of letter he said. He couldn't understand it. He's terribly upset. He has got leave and is coming to see. He should arrive to-day."
"Grace! And you were keeping all this from your father?"
"You keep things from me."
"What sort of things?"
"Things about Hobbs—and debts—and mistakes—and failures—only lately, too."
"My darling." He put his arm about her waist. "Only because I hate to see you worried."
She smiled up at him brightly. "Don't let's worry. Everything will come right. . . . With us, I mean."
They walked in silence for a space. The mellow light of the morning made known the imminence of autumn. Goldenrod rose, taller than the fences, its sprays imprisoning passing thistledown. The hips of the brier shone, plump and ruddy. Perhaps something of the gentle melancholy of the morning overtook those two people, usually so talkative when together, or perhaps each felt less certain of the other's state of mind than ever before.
When they came to the boundary between Durras and Grimstone they saw, crossing a field, the figures of two men. They were Derek and Edmund Vale.
"Shall we go on, or wait and speak to them?" asked Grace.
"We'll wait, don't you think so? They have seen us."
The two men hesitated, spoke together excitedly a moment, then Derek turned back and Edmund came on alone.
"I'm glad to see you back," said Mr. Jerrold when the greetings were over. "I suppose your brother is glad to have you."
