of his visit to her garden in the valley seemed now like a
chapter in the story of a far-off community, and she could hardly relate
herself to the hermit girl who served the tea, but the forester--whom
she recognized as a lover--was becoming every moment nearer, more
insistent. A time of reckoning was at hand, and because she could not
meet it she was eager to escape--to avoid the giving of pain. His face
and voice had become dear--and might grow dearer. Therefore she made no
comment on his statement of a desire for a home, and he asked:

"Don't you feel like going back to your garden once more?"

"No," she answered, sharply, "I never want to see the place again. It is
repulsive to me."

Again a little silence intervened. "I hate to think of your posies
perishing for lack of care," he said, with gentle sadness. "If I can,
I'll ride over once in a while and see that they get some water."

His words exerted a magical power. She began to weaken in resolution. It
was not an easy thing to sever the connection which had been so
strangely established between herself and this good friend, who seemed
each moment to be less the simple mountaineer she had once believed him
to be. Western he was, forthright and rough hewn, but he had shown
himself a man in every emergency--a candid, strong man. Her throat
filled with emotion, but she walked beside him in silence.

He had another care on his mind. "You'd better let me round up your
household goods," he suggested.

"Oh no. Let them go; they're not worth the effort."

He insisted. "I don't like to think of any one else having them. It made
me hot just to see that girl playing your guitar. I'll have 'em all
brought down and stored somewhere. You may want 'em some time."

She was rather glad to find they had reached the door of Carmody's
office and that further confidences were impossible, for she was
discovering herself to be each moment deeper in his debt and
correspondingly less able to withstand his wistful, shy demand.

Mrs. Carmody, a short, fat, excited person, met them in the hall with a
cackle of alarm. "I'm awfully glad you've come," she exclaimed. "Your
father has been taken with a cramp or something."

Helen paled with apprehension of disaster, for she knew that her father
had been keenly suffering all the morning. "Here I am, daddy," she
cheerily called, as she entered the room. "It's all right. The inquest
is over and we are free to go."

Kauffman, who was lyin