About four
o'clock on a December day, just over a year since leaving home, I leaped
the mare over a hedge and was at the old gate.
More of the dream was untrue. The winter sun was dropping down to the
hill-tops like a great carbuncle set in gold, and the Hanyards was all
aglow in its flaming rays. The gate was open, so that I could at least
begin by pitching into Joe Braggs for his negligence, and the windows of
the house-place shimmered a welcome because of the cheerful blaze within.
Not a soul stirred. I jumped down, threw the reins over the gate-post,
and walked stealthily into the yard and up to the window. Still not a soul
stirred.
I peeped in.
There was our Kate, leaning lovingly over my chair, pillowed as she had
never pillowed it for me, and in the chair was clearly a man, for I could
see his stockings and breeches stretching comfortably past her skirts. She
laughed merrily at something said, and then stooped and kissed the person
in the chair.
This was woman's faith! With a great clatter, I strode into the porch,
thrust open the door, and stepped in. There was a shout of delight, a
babble of, "It's our Noll! It's our Noll!" and Kate leaped into my arms
and rained kisses on me.
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