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The winter passed, and the spring and summer waned, and Alma’s outward life flowed as smoothly as the currents of the seasons, broken only by vivid eruptions from Anna, who came over often from East Exeter, glorying in her young matronhood, “to cheer Alma up.” Alma, so said Exeter people, was becoming unsociable and old maidish. She lost her liking for company, and seldom went anywhere among her neighbours. Her once frequent visits across the yard to chat with old Mrs. Murray became few and far between. She could not bear to hear the old lady talking about Gilbert, and she was afraid that some day she would be told that he was coming home. Gilbert’s home-coming was the nightmare dread that darkened poor Alma’s whole horizon.

* * * * *

One October day, two years after Gilbert’s departure, Alma, standing at her window in the reflected glow of a red maple outside, looked down the lane and saw him striding up it! She had had no warning of his coming. His last letter, dated three weeks back, had not hinted at it. Yet there he was–and with him Alma’s Nemesis.

She was very calm. Now that the worst had come, she felt quite strong to meet it. She would tell Gilbert the truth, and he would go away in anger and never forgive her, but she deserved it. As she went downstairs, the only thing that really worried her was the thought of the pain Gilbert would suffer when she told him of Anna’s faithlessness. She had seen his face as he passed under her window, and it was the face of a blithe man who had not heard any evil tidings. It was left to her to tell him; surely, she thought apathetically, that was punishment enough for what she had done.

With her hand on the doorknob, she paused to wonder what she should say when he asked her why she had not told him of Anna’s marriage when it occurred–why she had still continued the deception when it had no longer an end to serve. Well, she would tell him the truth–that it was because she could not bear the thought of giving up writing to him. It was a humiliating thing to confess, but that did not matter–nothing mattered now. She opened the door.

Gilbert was standing on the big round door-stone under the red maple–a tall, handsome young fellow with a bronzed face and laughing eyes. His exile had improved him. Alma found time and ability to reflect that she had never known Gilbert was so fine-looking.

He put his arm around her and kissed her cheek in his frank delight at seeing her again. Alma coldly asked him in. Her face was still as pale as when she came downstairs, but a curious little spot of fiery red blossomed out where Gilbert’s lips had touched it.

Gilbert followed her into the sitting-room and looked about eagerly.

“When did you come home?” she said slowly. “I did not know you were expected.”

“Got homesick, and just came! I wanted to surprise you all,” he answered, laughing. “I arrived only a few minutes ago. Just took time to hug my mother, and here I am. Where’s Anna?”

The pent-up retribution of two years descended on Alma’s head in the last question of Gilbert’s. But she did not flinch. She stood straight before him, tall and fair and pale, with the red maple light streaming in through the open door behind her, staining her light house-dress and mellowing the golden sheen of her hair. Gilbert reflected that Alma Williams was really a very handsome girl. These two years had improved her. What splendid big grey eyes she had! He had always wished that Anna’s eyes had not been quite so black.

“Anna is not here,” said Alma. “She is married.”

“Married!”

Gilbert sat down suddenly on a chair and looked at Alma in bewilderment.

“She has been married for a year,” said Alma steadily. “She married Charlie Moore of East Exeter, and has been living there ever since.”