“Sister Angela is a wonderful needle-woman,” Sister Teresa could not help adding with modest pride.  “She learned to sew and to do the finest embroidery while she was studying in a convent in France.  She could earn a great deal of money for the little ones if we were where there were more patrons who wished to have such fine sewing done.  But nobody in this wild country ever wants it except Mr. Alston for Ruth.”

“Mr. Alston for Ruth,” Paul Colbert repeated, wonderingly.

“Oh, yes.  He thinks nothing is fine enough for Ruth,” said Sister Teresa, simply.  “And he pays anything that Sister Angela asks.  He never says a word about the price.  Sometimes I fear we ask too much.  But then, the children need so many things, and we have so few ways of earning money.  You won’t mind stopping to tell Ruth, doctor?  Ask her to come early to-morrow morning, please.  And another thing, if it isn’t too much trouble.  Tell her to bring more of the finest thread lace.”

This was the first time that Paul Colbert had heard Philip Alston’s name associated with Ruth.  It was a shock to hear the names called in the same breath, for he already knew as much of Philip Alston as any one was permitted to know.  He was aware of the suspicion which blackened his reputation.  He had learned this on first coming to the country.  Father Orin, when asked, had told him something of the reasons for the general distrust and fear of the man.  But the doctor himself had never seen him, and, naturally enough, thought of him as the usual coarse leader of lawlessness, only more daring and cunning, perhaps, than the rest of his kind.  Thus it was that trying to understand only bewildered the young man more and more, so that he was still filled with shocked wonder when he came within sight of Ruth’s home.

The day was nearing its close.  In the forest bordering the bridle-path, dark shades were noiselessly marshalling beneath the great trees.  But the sunset still reddened the river, and the reflected light shone on the windows of Cedar House.  He glanced at her chamber window before seeing that she stood on the grass by the front door, giving the swan bits of bread from her fingers while the jealous birds, forgetting to go to roost, watched and scolded from the low branches overhead.  But she had seen him a long way off and looked up as he approached.

“Isn’t he a bold buccaneer?” she said, with a smile, meaning the swan.  “We thought at first that he couldn’t be tamed—­Mr. Audubon, too, thought he couldn’t—­and we clipped his wings to keep him from flying away.  And now he wouldn’t go.  See!  He is the most daring creature.  Why, he will go in the great room before everybody and walk right up to aunt Penelope when she’s making the coffee, without turning a feather!”

It was not till he was leaving that Paul remembered the Sister’s message which had served him as a pretext for stopping.  And he was sorry when he had given it, for a shadow instantly came over the brightness of Ruth’s beautiful face.  Riding on to his cabin he wondered what could have cast the shadow.