There was no mistaking that imperative voice. By Jove, it must be Christina after all. And Eben went quickly out to meet her.

“Not you!” he said, laughing at her. “Not you limping like an old lady!”

“It’s this darned knee …”

“Well, come in, come in. You didn’t walk all the way, I hope?”

No, she had left the car on hardtop and walked up, and seen a fox; and now her brilliance, the flash of blue in her eyes swept over and erased his first vision of an old lady.

“I’ll take you down in the jeep. That’s no road for a lame knee—but it keeps the world from my door.”

He led her into his study, apologizing for disorder, explaining about Mrs. Goodnow, kneeling down to set a match to the fire in spite of Christina’s protesting that it was hardly worth lighting a fire, as she could only stay a few minutes.

“I must just say a word to Molly,” she said, and Eben could hear their two voices, warm with laughter, in the kitchen, and the whole house felt to him lit up, alive again. Life had been ebbing out of him lately in a queer way. Now here it was, flooding back. What had brought her here at last? What in all the world?

Only when she was settled on the little sofa did she really look at him—a quick, searching look.

“It’s no fair, Eben, that you look so young. I thought it so brave of you to stay on here after Olive died, and I’ve been meaning to come and pay a call all these years. Four? Five?”

“Five,” Eben said shortly. “Exactly five in December.”

Christina caught the dart and stumbled on. It was a rather awkward moment after all.

“It’s life, Eben—what with Cornelius (you know about his stroke), the children, the grandchildren—the summer simply flies away. We don’t have a cook any more.”

“Well, what brought you finally—after five years?” he asked more kindly. “Whatever it is, I am grateful.”

“I need your advice. There’s been trouble—a hunting incident on the place. Because Cornelius is so helpless now, he feels it more deeply than he should. In fact, he is in a terrible rage. I’m so worried about Nick and Ellen”—and the whole story poured out.

Eben sat in the wing chair smoking his pipe, his eyes half closed. At one point Christina thought he might have fallen asleep.

“Jim Heald’s the man,” he said when she had finished. “He’ll get them to talk it over. He’s awfully good at this sort of thing. Those New Yorkers will be only too glad to come to an arrangement. They don’t want to be hung up with a court case.”

“Of course.” Christina rubbed her forehead with one hand, a gesture so like the young Christina that Eben smiled.