Once in the river-path, he stood gloomily, and let Mrs. Forrester canter up to join him.  Indeed, he had almost forgotten her.

“Splendid!” she laughed.  “What a figure of fun!  But what can you have brought back?  Oh, please!  I can’t wait!”

He turned on her a muddy, haggard face, without enthusiasm, and gently unfolded the coat.  The man and the woman looked down together, in silence, at the child.  He had some foolish hope that she would take it, that his part was ended.  Like an outlandish doll, with face contorted and thick-lidded eyes shut tightly against the sunshine, the outcast whimpered, too near the point of death for even the rebellion of arms and legs.

The woman in the saddle gave a short, incredulous cry.  Her face, all gay curiosity, had darkened in a shock of disgust.

“What in the world!” she scolded.  “Oh!  Such a nasty little—­Why did—­What do you propose doing with it?”

Rudolph shook his head, like a man caught in some stupid blunder.

“I never thought of that,” he explained heavily.  “She has no—­no friends.”

“Cover it,” his companion ordered.  “Cover it up.  I can’t bear to see it.”

With a sombre, disappointed air, he obeyed; then looked up, as if in her face he read strange matter.

“I can’t bear,” she added quickly, “to see any kind of suffering.  Why did—­It’s all my fault for sending you!  We were having such a good ride together, and now I’ve spoiled it all, with this.—­Poor little filthy object!” She turned her hands outward, with a helpless, dainty gesture.  “But what can we do?  These things happen every day.”

Rudolph was studying the ground again.  His thoughts, then, had wronged her.  Drenched and downhearted, holding this strange burden in his jacket, he felt that he had foolishly meddled in things inevitable, beyond repair.  She was right.  Yet some vague, insurgent instinct, which would not down, told him that there had been a disappointment.  Still, what had he expected?  No woman could help; no woman.

Then suddenly he mounted, bundle and all, and turned his willing pony homeward.

“Come,” he said; and for the first time, unwittingly, had taken charge.

“What is it?” she called.  “You foolish boy!  What’s your plan?”

“We shall see,” he answered.  Without waiting, he beckoned her to follow.  She came.  They rode stirrup to stirrup, silent as in their escape at dawn, and as close bodily, but in spirit traveling distant parallels.  He gave no thought to that, riding toward his experiment.  Near the town, at last, he reined aside to a cluster of buildings,—­white walls and rosy tiles under a great willow.

“You may save your steps,” she declared, with sudden petulance.  “The hospital’s more out of funds than ever, and more crowded.  They’ll not thank you.”

Rudolph nodded back at her, with a queer smile, half reckless and half confident.