"Why?"

"To warm some milk. I brought it up for you."

"Pity we must eat to live. Then if I let you take your arms away, will you come back to me?"

"Yes. I'll bring the milk."

"There, go. I'm giving you your own way because I know I will recover the sooner the strength I have lost. A man flat on his back, with but one arm free, is no good."

"But you don't let me go."

"Listen, Ca.s.sandra. You brought me back to life. Do you know what for?

What did your father tell you? That one should be sent for you? It is I, dearest. From away over on the other side of the earth, I have come for you. We fought like beasts--Frale and I. I had given you up--you--Ca.s.sandra; had said in my heart, 'I will go away and leave her to the one she has chosen, if that be right,' and even at that moment, Frale shot me and sprang upon me, and I fought. I was glad the chance was given me there in the wilderness in that old and primitive way, to settle it and win you.

"I put all the force and strength of my body into it, and more; all the strength of my love for you. It was with that in my heart, we clinched.

I said I will fight to the death for her. She shall be mine whether I live or die. Stop crying, sweet; be glad as I am. Give thanks that it was to the life and not to the death. Listen, once more, while I can feel and know; give way to your great heart of love and treat me as you did after you had bound up my wounds. Learn the sweet lesson I said I would teach you."

Late that evening, Hoke Belew rode up to the door of David's cabin and called Aunt Sally out to speak with him.

"How's doc?"

"He's doin' right well. He's asleep now. Won't ye 'light an' come in?"

"I reckon not. Azalie, she's been alone all day, an' I guess she'll be some 'feared. Will you put that thar under doc's pillow whar he kin find hit in the mawnin'? Hit's a papah he sont me fer. Tell 'im I reckon hit's all straight. He kin see. Them people Ca.s.sandry was expectin' from Farington, did they come to-day?"

"Yas, they come. They're down to Miz Farwell's."

"Well, you tell doc 'at Azalie an' me, we'll be here 'long 'leven in the mawnin'." Hoke rode off under the winking stars, for the clouds after the long day of rain had lifted, and in the still night were rolling away over the mountain tops.

Aunt Sally slipped quietly back into the cabin and softly closed the door of the canvas room, lest the rustling of paper should waken her charge, for she meant to examine that paper, quite innocently, since she could neither read nor write, but out of sheer childish curiosity.

She need not have feared waking David, however, for, all his physical discomfort forgotten, dominated by the supreme happiness that possessed him, yet weak in body to the point of exhaustion, he slept profoundly and calmly on, even when she came stealthily and slipped the paper beneath his pillow, as Hoke had requested.

CHAPTER XX

IN WHICH THE BISHOP AND HIS WIFE Pa.s.s AN EVENTFUL DAT AT THE FALL PLACE

"Do you know, James," said Betty Towers, as she walked at her husband's side in the sweet morning, slowly climbing up to David's cabin from the Fall Place, "I feel almost vexed with you for never bringing me here before."

"Why--my dear!"

"Yes, I do. To think of all this loveliness, and for six years you have been here many times, and never once told me you knew a place hardly two hours away as entrancing as heaven. Even now, James, if it hadn't been for Ca.s.sandra, I wouldn't have come. Why--it's the loveliest spot on earth. Stand still a minute, James, and listen. That's a thrush. Oh, something smells so sweet! It's a locust! And that's a redbird's note.

There he is, like a red blossom in those bushes. There--no, there. You will look in the wrong direction, James, and now he's gone. You remember what David Thryng wrote? 'It's good just to be alive.' He's always saying that, and now I understand--in such a place as this. Oh, just breathe the air, James!"

"I certainly can't help doing that, dear." The bishop was puffing a little over the climb his slight young wife took so easily.

"I don't care. Here I've lived in cities all my life, while you have lived down here, and it has lost its charm to you. Only think of all this gorgeous display of nature just for these mountain people, and what is it to them?"

"To them it's the natural order of things, just as you implied in regard to me."

"Hark, James. Now, that's a catbird!"

"And not a thrush?"

"The other was a thrush. I know the difference."

"Wise little woman! Come. There's that young man getting up a fever by fretting. We said--I said we would come early."

"James, I'm going to stay up here and let you go to that stupid wedding down in Farington without me."

"Perhaps we may have something interesting up here, if you'll hurry a little."

"What is it, James?"

"I really can't say, dear." She took his hand, and they walked on.

"Wouldn't this be an ideal spot to spend a honeymoon? Hear that fall away down below us. How cool it sounds! Why don't you pay attention to me? What are you thinking about, James?"

"I am making a little poem for you, dear. Listen:--

"Chatter, chatter, little tongue, What a wonder how you're hung!

Up above the epiglottis, Tied on with a little knot 'tis."

"Only geniuses may be silly, James, but perhaps you can't help it. I think married people ought to establish the custom of sabbatical honeymoons to counteract the divorce habit. Suppose we set the example, now we have arrived at just the right time for one, and spend ours here."

"Anything you say, dear."

Being an absent-minded man, the bishop had fallen in the way of saying that, when, had he paused to think, he would have admitted that everything was made to bend to his will or wish by the spirited little being at his side. Moreover, being an absent-minded man, he drew her to him and kissed her. Aunt Sally, watching them from the cabin door, wondered if the bishop were going away on a journey, to leave his wife behind, for why else should he kiss her thus?

"Will you sit there on the rock and enjoy the mountains while I see how he is?" said the bishop.

So they parted at the door, and Aunt Sally brought her a chair and stood beside her, giving her every detail of the affair as far as she knew it.

She sat bareheaded in the sun, to Sally's amazement, for she had her hat in her lap and could have worn it.

The wind blew wisps of her fine straight hair across her pink cheeks and in her eyes, as she gazed out upon the blue mountains and listened to Sally's tale of "How hit all come about." For Sally went back into the family history of the Teasleys, and the Caswells, and the Merlins, and the Farwells, until Betty forgot the flight of time and the bishop called her. Then she went in to see David.

He had worked his right hand free from its bandages and was able to lift it a little. She took it in hers, and looked brightly down at him.

"Why, Doctor Thryng, you look better than when you were in Farington!

Doesn't he, James? Aunt Sally gave me to understand you were nearly dead."