As she spoke, she handed the letter to Conrad Lagrange who read it and gave it to the artist.  It was a pitiful little note—­rather vague—­saying only that she must go away at once; assuring Myra that she had not meant to do wrong; asking her to tell Mr. King and the novelist good-by; and begging the artist’s forgiveness that she had not understood.

Aaron King looked from the letter in his hand to the faces of his two friends, in consternation.  “Do you understand this, Miss Willard?” he asked, when he could speak.

The woman shook her head.  “Only that something has happened to make the child think that her friendship with you has injured you; and that she has gone away for your sake.  She—­she thought so much of you, Mr. King.”

“And I—­I love her, Miss Willard.  I should have told you soon.  I tell you now to reassure you.  I love her.”

Aaron King made his declaration to his two friends with a simple dignity, but with a feeling that thrilled them with the force of his earnestness and the purity and strength of his passion.

Conrad Lagrange—­world-worn, scarred by his years of contact with the unclean, the vicious, and debasing passions of mankind—­grasped the young man’s hand, while his eyes shone with an emotion his habitual reserve could not conceal.  “I’m glad for you, Aaron”—­he said, adding reverently—­“as your mother would be glad.”

“I have known that you would tell me this, sometime Mr. King,” said Myra Willard.  “I knew it, I think, before you, yourself, realized; and I, too, am glad—­glad for my girl, because I know what such a love will mean to her.  But why—­why has she gone like this?  Where has she gone?  Oh, my girl, my girl!” For a moment, the distracted woman was on the point of breaking down; but with an effort of her will, she controlled herself.

“It’s clear enough what has sent her away,” growled Conrad Lagrange, with a warning glance to the artist.  “Some one has filled her mind with the notion that her friendship with Aaron has been causing talk.  I think there’s no doubt as to where she’s gone.”

“You mean the mountains?” asked Myra Willard, quickly.

“Yes.  I’d stake my life that she has gone straight to Brian Oakley.  Think!  Where else would she go?”

“She has sometimes borrowed a saddle-horse from your neighbor up the road, hasn’t she, Miss Willard?” asked Aaron King.

“Yes.  I’ll run over there at once.”

Conrad Lagrange spoke quickly; “Don’t let them think anything unusual has happened.  We’ll go over to your house and wait for you there.”

Fifteen minutes later, Myra Willard returned.  Sibyl had borrowed the horse; asking them if she might keep it until the next day.  She did not say where she was going.  She had left about four o’clock.

“That will put her at Brian’s by nine,” said the novelist.

“And I will arrive there about the same time,” added Aaron King, eagerly.  “It’s now five-thirty.  She has an hour’s start; but I’ll ride an hour harder.”