CHAPTER XXVII

I It came clearly and suddenly on the air of a June evening. An old, old call—two higher notes and one long and soft and low. Emily Starr, dreaming at her window, heard it and stood up, her face suddenly gone white. Dreaming still—she must be! Teddy Kent was thousands of miles away, in the Orient—so much she knew from an item in a Montreal paper. Yes, she had dreamed it—imagined it. It came again. And Emily _knew_ that Teddy was there, waiting for her in Lofty John’s bush—calling to her across the years. She went d…