He could not ask him what had become of Joyce Cameron . The question was on his lips a dozen times , but he shrank from uttering it . He had a vague , secret dread that the answer , whatever it might be , would hurt him . In the evening he yielded to a whim and went across to the Cameron homestead , by the old footpath which was still kept open . He walked slowly and dreamily , with his eyes on the far hills scarfed in the splendour of sunset . So he had walked in the old days , but he had no dreams now of what lay beyond the hills , and Joyce would not be waiting among the firs . The stile he remembered was gone , replaced by a little rustic gate . As he passed through it he lifted his eyes and there before him he saw her , standing tall and gracious among the grey trees , with the light from the west falling over her face . So she had stood , so she had looked many an evening of the long-ago . She had not changed ; he realized that in the first amazed , incredulous glance . Perhaps there were lines on her face , a thread or two of silver in the soft brown hair , but those splendid steady blue eyes were the same , and the soul of her looked out through them , true to itself , the staunch , brave , sweet soul of the maiden ripened to womanhood . `` Joyce ! '' he said , stupidly , unbelievingly . She smiled and put out her hand . `` I am glad to see you , Cuthbert , '' she said simply . `` Stephen 's Mary told me you had come . And I thought you would be over to see us this evening . '' She had offered him only one hand but he took both and held her so , looking hungrily down at her as a man looks at something he knows must be his salvation if salvation exists for him . `` Is it possible you are here still , Joyce ? '' he said slowly .
`` And you have not changed XXXXX all . ''
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