A woman, tall, somewhat angular, dark of hair and eye, strong of features--a woman now approaching middle age--sat looking out over the long, tree-clad slopes that ran down from the gallery front of the mansion house to the gate at the distant roadway. She had sat thus for some moments, many moments, her gaze intently fixed, as though waiting for something--something or someone that she did not now see, but expected soon to see. It was late afternoon of a day so beautiful that not even old Albemarle, beauty spot of Virginia, ever produced one more beautiful--not in the hundred years preceding that day, nor in the century since then. For this was more than a hundred years ago; and what is no…
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