night before. A commission would add a little decoration to the name of Nathaniel Cawthorne; and to wrest that name from absolute indistinction for the sake of the girl who bore it had become a burning passion with him weeks before the commissions were awarded. On top of that triumph, to receive summons, underlined summons, from the girl herself, to come—please to come—well, it took hold of him right in the throat somehow.
If at first he had been in doubt about responding in person to Rebecca's summons, by dawn he had decided to go to her as soon as he could arrange a leave-of-absence. He would carry his captaincy to her himself, and lay it before her. But she wasn't to think that he expected anything in return. In spite of her letter, she wasn't to be afraid that he would take advantage of the impulse that prompted it. He would be so kind, so tender, so patient. If she cared for him, even a little—it seemed impossible, but if she did—oh, how he would court her all over again, as a girl of her class should be courted—slowly, painstakingly, as if there had been no exchange of plain gold rings, and with the possibility of failure always before him, so that he would be neither precipitous nor demanding.
The note Reba received from Nathan in answer to hers was mailed in Boston. It had no word of love in it. It was brief, almost formal. It told her that he had just arrived in the city, and that he would be very glad to meet her there somewhere and talk things over, at any time that was convenient to her during the next two or three days. If she preferred, he could come to Ridgefield, but he thought there would be less chance of interruption, perhaps, under that old horse-
