and
come up the mountain all the way in a devil wagon." She put her hand
to her mouth. "Sh! He's asleep! We won't wake him till dinner! He's all
tired out."

The Doctor nodded understandingly and turned toward Mary.

"And this young lady?"

"Oh, that's his wife from New York--ain't she purty?"

The Doctor saw the delicate hands trembling and extended his.

No word was spoken. None was needed. There was healing in his touch,
healing in his whole being. No man or woman could resist the appeal of
his personality. Their secrets were yielded with perfect faith.

"Come with me quickly," Mary whispered.

"I understand," he answered carelessly.

Turning again to Nance, he said with easy confidence:

"I'll not disturb you with your cooking, Mrs. Owens. Go right on with
it. I'll have a little chat with your son's wife. If she's from New York
I want to ask her about some of my people up there----"

"All right," Nance answered, "but don't you wake HIM! Go with her inter
the shed-room."

"We'll go on tip-toe!" the Doctor whispered.

Nance nodded, smiled and bent again over the oven.

Mary led him quickly through the living-room, head averted from the
couch, and into the prison cell in which she had passed the night. The
physician glanced with a startled look at the gold still scattered on
the floor.

She seized his hand and swayed.

He touched the brown hair of her bared head gently and pressed her hand.

"Steady, now, child, tell me quickly."

"Yes, yes," she gasped, "I'll tell you the truth----"

He held her gaze.

"And the whole truth--it's best."

Mary nodded, tried to speak and failed. She drew her breath and steadied
herself, still gripping his hand.

"I will," she began faintly. "He's dead----"

She paused and nodded toward the living-room.

"The man--her son?"

"Yes. We came last night from Asheville. We were on our honeymoon. We
haven't been married but three weeks. I never knew the truth about his
life and character until last night when he told me that this old woman
was his mother. I found a case of jewels in the bag he carried--jewels
that belonged to a man in New York who was robbed and shot. I recognized
the case. He confessed to me at last in cold, brutal words that he was
a thief. I couldn't believe it at first. I tried to make him give up his
criminal career. He laughed at me. He gloried in it. I tried to leave
him. He choked me into insensibility and drove me into this cell, where
I