"They are like a pair of doves," said Shirley to herself; and then aloud, as she started for the door: "Miriam, I'm going to fix up a bit for dinner. I hope we're going to have a dozen courses, for I'm starved."

When the door had closed behind her, Miriam rose and started for the kitchen.

"Miriam, girl," said Challoner, gently, "never mind about the dinner now--that can wait."

"I haven't much to do, anyway," answered his wife.

"What have you been hiding from me for the past few weeks, Miriam?"

presently asked Challoner.

She looked quickly up at him and repeated:--

"Hiding----"

He pointed toward the closet.

"What have you been putting away there every night for the last few weeks? What is in that closet now?"

Miriam Challoner hesitated. When she found her voice, she asked tremblingly:--

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes," he answered in the same tone.

Miriam stepped to the closet, fumbled there among some things, and returning thrust something into his hands.

"There," she said, blushing.

Challoner held it up, looked at it a moment, finally he said, with just a tinge of suspicion in his voice:--

"This tiny dress--what?" He looked at his wife stupidly, and after a time, he added: "Why, Miriam, you never told me.... A little child for you and me?"

"Yes, Laurie," she whispered softly.

Challoner was visibly affected. For an instant he held the infinitesimal garment up before him; then acting upon a sudden impulse, he cuddled it down into the crook of his arm and held it there.

"A child--for me," he mused, and suddenly pa.s.sed the dress back to her, but as suddenly he held out his hands for it again, saying: "Give it back to me!" After a moment, he looked up and exclaimed: "I wonder if it is given to mere man to appreciate thoroughly the antic.i.p.ation of motherhood--the hours that are given to fashioning little garments like this, for instance! And yet it seems to me now that I could work forever for--" he broke off abruptly, quite overcome.

Miriam was deeply touched.

"Never fear, dear, there will be plenty of responsibility for you later on."

At that moment Shirley poked her head in through the door, and called:--

"Miriam! Miriam, the potatoes are burning!"

Miriam left the room hastily, leaving her husband still nursing the small garment in the crook of his arm.

"A father of a child!" he mused. "It's good to be a father--a good father." Suddenly he seated himself at the table and buried his face in his arms. For some time he remained thus; but when he raised his head again there were tears in his eyes.

"A little child for me--and I shot Hargraves," he moaned.

Just then Miriam came back into the room. At a glance she realised what was going on in his mind; and going over to him, placed her hand affectionately on his shoulder and with great tenderness said:--

"Don't think any more about that, Laurie, it's past and gone. You're a new man, don't you see?"

"I haven't thought of it for five years!" cried Challoner, fiercely. "I haven't dared to think of it--I haven't had time to think of it...." He paused a moment to pull himself together, and then suddenly went on: "But now I have got to think about it, if I'm going to be a father." He sighed reminiscently. "Poor Hargraves, I can see him now, Miriam, as he put up his arm...."

"Don't, Laurie!" she pleaded. "Don't! The forbidden subject--forget it, dear!"

"I can't forget it!" he returned. "It's all before me now." He glared into s.p.a.ce, as a man might who witnessed before his very eyes some conflict. "I can see it now, just as it happened----"

He stopped suddenly, fiercely, caught her roughly by the arm, and cried in a loud voice:--

"Miriam, Miriam, thank Heaven I have thought about it! Listen, dear--I can see it now--just as it happened." He stopped and looked down at her.

"Can you stand it, dear?"

"What is it?" asked his young wife, trembling with the horror of it all.

Challoner gripped her arm with painful force.

"I did not kill Richard Hargraves!" he cried in sudden joy. "No, I did _not_ kill him!"

Miriam caught her husband about the neck and tried to soothe him.

"Laurie," she said gently, "you're beside yourself."

"No," he answered calmly enough, though evidently labouring under great excitement, "no, I know! I did not kill Hargraves! It's the first time I have thought about it. Five years ago everything was muddled--life was a muddle then; and on that night at Cradlebaugh's everything was hazy. But now, Miriam, it's as clear as day. I can see it--I do see it!" He lifted his arm, his forefinger crooked significantly, and declared:--

"I shot...."

"Yes," she said eagerly, "you shot...."

"I shot at Hargraves, but I did not hit him. It's all come back; I can see it now!" And pointing toward the junction of the side wall and the ceiling, he went on to explain: "The bullet lodged in the panel of the wall. Hargraves put up his arm like this--I meant to kill him and I shot; but I didn't hit him. It was the last thing I remembered before I toppled over in the big chair--that, and his starting over toward the door. I remember that. It's all come back in a flash. But I never saw him after that."

"Yet," she protested, "you confessed...."

"Yes," he answered, "I tell you everything was muddled--life was hazy. I knew I shot at him--I knew I shot to kill. Of course I thought that I had done it; but it's not so. I tried to do it, and then----"

She caught him wildly about the body and cried hysterically:--

"Laurie--are you sure...."

"I know, I tell you," he answered, and hastened to add:--"Yes, and there's another man that knows--Pemmican, that's the chap!"

He stopped again and looked down at the small dress, which through all his excitement he had _held_ tenderly in the crook of his arm.

"I'm going to be a father," he went on, "and it's well that I didn't kill Hargraves. But I have got to prove it--the world must know that I didn't kill him. I must prove it--Pemmican will prove it for me--he was there."