e ford she stopped and loosened the bridle, let the
colt drink a little, then drove him across, up the other bank and on
up the stiff slope.

She did not know the trail, but she knew the general run of the
country that way and had no doubt of finding her road.

Now she told herself that it was certainly a wild goose chase. Jeffrey
had merely found that he had to see some one in French Village and had
gone there and, of course, had spent the night there.

By the time she had come over the ridge of the hill and was dropping
down through the heavily wooded country toward French Village, she had
begun to feel just a little bit foolish. But she suddenly remembered
that it was Saint John the Baptist's day. It was not a holy day of
obligation but she knew it was a feast day in French Village. There
would be Mass. She should have gone, anyway. And she would hear with
her own ears the things they were saying about Jeffrey Whiting.

Arsene LaComb sat on the steps of his store in French Village in the
glory of a stiff white shirt and a festal red vest. The store was
closed, of course, in honour of the day. In a few minutes he would put
on his black coat, in his official capacity of trustee of the church,
and march solemnly over to ring the bell for Mass.

The spectacle of a smartly-dressed young lady whom he seemed to know
vaguely, riding down the dusty street on a shiny yellow side saddle on
the back of a big, vicious-looking black colt, made the little man
reach hastily for his coat of ceremony.

"M'm'selle Lansing!" he said, bowing in friendly pomp as Ruth drove
up.

"How do you do, Mr. LaComb? I came down to go to Mass. Can you tell me
what time it begins?"

"I shall ring the bell when I have put away your horse, M'm'selle."
Now no earthly power could have made Arsene LaComb deviate a minute
from the exact time for ringing that bell. But, he was a Frenchman.
His manner intimated that the ringing of all bells whatsoever must
await her convenience.

He stepped forward jauntily to help her down. Ruth kicked her feet
loose and slid down deftly.

"I am glad to see you again, Mr. LaComb," said Ruth as she took his
hand. "Did you see Jeffrey Whiting in the Village last night?"

A girl of about Ruth's own age had come quietly up the street and
stood beside them, recording in one swift inspection every detail of
Ruth from her little riding cap to the tips of her brown boots.

"'Cynthe," said the little man briskly, "you