The Lighted Match

For a time he sat in the dingy parlor of the place and listened to the

jarring talk of the commercial travelers. Already Galavia and the months

which had been, seemed receding into an improbable dream, but the misery

of their bequeathing was poignantly real.

He rose impatiently and made his way to the livery-stable, where he

hired a saddle horse. His idea was merely to be alone. The reins hung on

the neck of his spiritless mount and the roads he went were the roads it

took of its own unguided selection.

Suddenly Benton looked up. He was in a lane between overarching trees; a

lane which he remembered. Off to the side were the hills bristling with

pines, raised against the sky like the lances of marching troops. It was

the road he had ridden with her on that day when her horse fell at the

fence--and there, on the side of the hill, stood a dilapidated cabin:

the cabin upon whose porch he had poured water over her hands from a

gourd dipper.

It was only the end of September, but an early frost had flushed the

woods and hillsides into a hint of the crimson and gold they were soon

to wear in more profligate splendor. The fragrant, blue mist of wood

smoke drifted over the fields at the foot of the knobs. The hills were

seen through a wash of purple. From somewhere to the far left drifted

the mellowed music of fox-hounds. Riding slowly, the man came at length

to the cabin gate.

The same farmer sat as indolently now as then, on the top step. The

setter dog started up to growl as the horseman dismounted.

The man did not recognize him, but the proffer of Benton's cigar-case

proved a sufficient credential, and a discussion of the weather appeared

a satisfactory reason for remaining. It was only a verbal and logical

step from weather to crops, and in ten minutes the visitor was being

shown over the place. When the round of cribs and stables was completed

it was time for the host to feed his stock, and, saying good-by at the

barn, he left Benton to make his way alone to the cabin. Passing through

the house from the back, the man halted suddenly and with abrupt

wonderment at the front door.

For upright and slim, with a small gauntleted hand resting on one of the

rude posts of the porch, gazing off intently into the coloring west,

stood an unmistakable figure in a black riding habit. Incredulous,

suddenly stunned under the cumulative suspense of the past three

months, he stood hesitant. Then the figure slowly turned and, as the old

heart-breaking, heart-recompensing smile came to her lips and eyes, the

girl silently held out both arms to him.

Finally he found time to ask: "How long have you been here?"