. He rode over the little
ridge and so came into sight of the three log cabins under the oaks of
Harte's place. Beyond was the barn. He would go there, find her horse
at the manger. Then he would go up to the cabin in which the Hartes'
lived and there find her.

Twenty minutes later, his face and hands washed at the well, his short
cropped hair brushed back with the palm of his hand, he went to the main
cabin. The door was shut but the smoke from the rough stone chimney
spoke eloquently of supper being cooked within. But he was not thinking
a great deal of the supper. He had found the pony in the barn, had even
seen a quirt which he remembered, knew that he had not been mistaken in
the matter of ownership of the trim boots that had left their marks at
the spring, and realized that he was rather gladder of the circumstance
than the mere facts of the case would seem to warrant. And then, with
brows lifted and mouth puckered into a silent whistle, he read the words
on a bit of paper tacked to the cabin door:

"We've gone over to Dave Wendells. The old woman is took sick. Back in
the morning most likely make yourself to home. W. HARTE."

He paused a moment, frowning, his hat in his hand. It seemed to be in
his thought to go back to his horse. While he hesitated the door was
flung open and a pair of troubled grey eyes looked out at him
searchingly; a pair of red lips tremulously trying to be firm smiled at
him, and a very low voice faltered, albeit with a brave attempt to be
steady:

"Won't you come in... Mr. Thornton? And ... and make yourself at home,
too? I've done it. I suppose it's all right...."

And then when still he hesitated, and his embarrassment began to grow
and hers seemed to melt away, she added brightly and quite coolly:

"Supper is ready ... and waiting. And I'm simply starved. Aren't you?"

Thornton laughed.

"Come to think of it," he admitted, "I believe I am."

CHAPTER VIII

IN HARTE'S CABIN

There was a rough board table, oilcloth-covered, in front of the
fireplace. There were coffee, bread and butter, crisp slices of bacon, a
dish of steaming tinned corn. There were two plates with knife and fork
at the side, two cups, two chairs drawn up to the table.

"You see," she said, gaily and lightly enough, "you _have_ kept me
waiting."

He glanced swiftly at her as she stood by the fireplace, and away. For
though twilight in the wooded country had crept out upon them he could
see the l