Dr. Allen had been driving Speed all day, and his other horse was out in the pasture-field; so, early in the evening, he walked down toward the Drowned Lands to see a patient, taking the pathway through the ravine. He had not been down there since the winter road had broken up, and he found Treasure Valley all a wonder of purple and gold--where the violets carpeted the banks and the marigolds choked the stream.

Down in the fragrant stillness the sounds of the village grew faint and far away. Here was only the murmur of the water over the white stones, or the even-song of the vesper sparrows in the sumachs along the banks.

As Gilbert came down to the water's edge he spied another figure approaching from the opposite bank, a slim figure in a white gown, with a crown of hair that rivaled the golden blossoms in the stream. He hesitated a moment, then crossed over to her.

"May I help you across?" he asked with a stiff formality he would not have used a few weeks previous.

The minds of both recurred to their first meeting in this very spot, a little more than a year before.

"I hope you will not object to my company for that length of time," he added, finding it impossible to keep something of his grievance out of his voice.

"Oh, no, certainly not," she stammered, not knowing how to truthfully refute his implied charge.

There was that look of distress in her eyes that filled him with compunction. When they reached the other side he stood and looked down at her with the old feeling that, somehow, he was all in the wrong, and she entirely right.

"Won't you tell me what I have done to offend you?" he asked abruptly.

A deeper rose color came to her cheeks. This was just the question she was dreading. "I--I--nothing," she stammered incoherently.

"Then won't you tell me why you treat me so?" His indignation had vanished; his tone was very humble. "I cannot help seeing that you have changed, and I have done nothing, I _could_ do nothing, wittingly, to hurt you."

"You have not done anything to offend _me_," she said in a low tone, with a slight accent on the p.r.o.noun.

"Then what has changed you? We are not good friends any more?" His voice was inquiring.

She would have given much to contradict him, but her nature was essentially honest, and she breathed the low answer, "No."

"I feared it, I knew it; but don't you think you might, at least, tell me the reason?" He was surprised at his own meekness.

The girl looked down into the murmuring, brown Water. Something arose in her throat and threatened to choke her. If he would only not be so humble. If he were haughty and indignant, her task would be much easier. And then, might she not be wrong? Oh, if he would only tell her she was mistaken! She struggled for some words by which she might avoid telling him the truth, but she was a country-bred girl, all unused to the small equivocations of social usage, and the uncompromising integrity of her nature forbade trifling.

"Dr. Allen," she faltered at last, "I--perhaps I have judged you harshly. Please do not ask me the reason. I would rather not talk about it."

"But I do ask you," said Gilbert determinedly. "Is it quite fair to condemn a man unheard?"

"I may have accused you wrongly," she said, the necessity of the case driving her again to speech, "but I--we all"--she plucked a feathery spray of the long-stemmed water-gra.s.s and examined it minutely--"everybody thought you so good and kind--and I learned something--accidentally--that disappointed me."

She glanced up with a mute appeal; but his looks were uncompromising.

"Well?" he asked quietly.

She looked up and down the shadowy ravine as if seeking help. Why not tell him? There could be no harm to Arabella. He would know soon, anyway, and she need not mention the wedding, and perhaps he might vindicate himself. So, with her eyes on the golden-brown pool at her feet, she told him the story, simply and sorrowfully, and as gently as possible, of Miss Arabella's years of patient waiting, of the blue silk gown laid away so long, of all Martin had suffered from poverty and sickness, unhelped when he needed help so badly; and then of the sequel of the story which he himself had told.

She looked at him when she had ended, and Gilbert could not help seeing that the telling of it had hurt her almost as much as it had hurt him.

And how it had stung him! Martin starving in a mining camp while he spent his money on roses and theater tickets for Rosalie Lane! Martin, sick, poor, and struggling to make a home for the woman he loved, while he--the man he had made--spent all upon his own pleasures and ambitions! He was aghast at the far-reaching power of his fault. He had selfishly neglected a man away off in the Klond.y.k.e, and had hurt a frail little woman at his door, whom every instinct of his manhood called upon him to protect.

His sorrowful-eyed accuser was looking at him, in the eager hope that he might deny the charge. But he did not attempt the smallest palliation. He scorned to make the paltry plea that, at the eleventh hour, he had paid the debt of so many years' standing. As if he could ever pay Martin!

"I must, at least, thank you for your candor," he said at last, a little unsteadily.

Her eyes grew dark with disappointment. Her suspicions had been only too well founded, then! She spoke no word of blame, there was no righteous indignation in her face, only a cutting disappointment; and there Gilbert felt the greater sting. He had not offended her personally, it seemed; he had merely fallen wofully short of her standard. There was no more to be said. He bade her a courteous good-evening, and she turned slowly and pa.s.sed up the hill, while he followed the path down the stream. One of old Hughie Cameron's philosophic remarks, which he had heard one evening on the milk-stand, was sounding in his ears: "The Almighty would be laying his bounds about every one of us--the bounds of His righteous laws. We may be dodging them on one side, oh, yes; but they will be catching us up on the other."

The girl climbed slowly up the bank. Her head was bent, and could Gilbert have seen her face he would not have been quite so sure that his shortcoming was to her such an entirely impersonal affair. With her usual self-effacement, she made a brave attempt to put aside her grief. She had promised to spend this last evening with Arabella, and she must be cheerful and comforting. As she neared Mrs. Munn's house, Davy and Tim were sitting on the sidewalk before the gate, talking so volubly that they did not notice her approach.

"Yessir," Mr. Munn was saying, in a voice m.u.f.fled by a mouthful of chewing-gum, "they're goin' to do that thing--what d'ye call it when two folks that's sparkin' run away?"

"Elope," said the orphan, from the depths of a profound experience of the world.

"Yes, elope. Don't you ever tell, Tim; but I bet that's what Jeannie an' me'll do some day; only I wish she wasn't such an awful girl to laugh!" He sighed deeply, and the orphan grunted disgustedly.

"Aw, g'wan, ye silly duck! Say! le's set up all night an' watch.

They'll be goin' 'fore daylight, I bet----"

Elsie Cameron's light footfall sounded on the sidewalk, and the two suddenly fell silent. Their shoulders sagged, and they sat gazing vacantly across the street, as though life were a deadly bore.

The girl regarded the two curved, inscrutable backs in dismay. How on earth had those two scamps penetrated Arabella's secret?

"Oh, boys!" she cried, coming up to them in hurried distress. "Hush!

How did you find out? Promise me you won't tell."

The two stood up and looked at her sheepishly. "We ain't tattlers,"

said the eldest orphan haughtily. "How'd _you_ find out?" he added indignantly.

"Are you sure you've neither of you told anybody?" she asked, fixing her searching eyes upon each in turn.

"Sure! Cross my heart!" declared Tim; and Davy nodded agreement.

The wire door of the doctor's house swung open creakingly, and Mrs.

Munn came slowly down the garden path. "Listen," whispered the girl hurriedly, "I'll give you each a quarter to-morrow night if you'll promise faithfully you won't tell, and that you'll do everything you can--everything, mind--to help. Now, you will, won't you, boys?"

It was impossible to resist such an appeal to their chivalry. Tim became a man on the spot. "Don't you worry," he declared with a grand air. "We'll look after things. Me an' Dave here'll not squeak, you bet."

Mrs. Munn opened the gate. "I'm goin' along with you to Arabella's for a minit," she said. "Davy, don't you go away from the house while I'm out, mind ye."

"How long'll ye be?" Inquired her son, in a tone that showed he was prepared to argue the question.

"Jist a minit. If anybody comes for the doctor, jist say he's gone away."

"I know he walked down the holler to see John Cross's kids."

"Hish!" she cried, looking about in alarm, as though the doctor had gone off on a murderous expedition. "You can jist say he won't be home till it's late. I guess there'll be no harm in them knowin' that. Now mind."

Elsie gave a parting glance full of warning, and Tim answered with a solemn wink.

The two boys watched the retreating figures until they disappeared into Miss Arabella's gateway. Instantly Tim's languid air changed to keen alertness.

"Say!" he exclaimed, "Ella Anne must 'a' told her! Lookee here! We've gotter help them to 'lope now, or there's no quarter. What'll we do?"

Davy humped his shoulders rebelliously. "I ain't stuck on helpin' that MacDonald c.o.o.n to 'lope with n.o.body," he grumbled. "Don't you mind the time he took after us?"

The orphan chuckled. "Cracky! he did lambaste you, though, didn't he?