“But can’t you tell me now?” he remonstrated, retaining her hand.

“Wait two days longer—­it isn’t much,” was all she vouchsafed to answer.

The two days passed.  Their former confidence and good fellowship were fully restored when the morning came on which he was to bring the answer from the post-office at Indian Spring.  He had talked again of his future, and had recorded his ambition to procure the appointment of naturalist to a Government Surveying Expedition.  She had even jocularly proposed to dress herself in man’s attire and “enlist” as his assistant.

“But you will be safe with your friends, I hope, by that time,” responded Low.

“Safe with my friends,” she repeated in a lower voice.  “Safe with my friends—­yes!” An awkward silence followed; Teresa broke it gayly:  “But your girl, your sweetheart, my benefactor—­will she let you go?”

“I haven’t told her yet,” said Low, gravely, “but I don’t see why she should object.”

“Object, indeed!” interrupted Teresa in a high voice and a sudden and utterly gratuitous indignation; “how should she?  I’d like to see her do it!”

She accompanied him some distance to the intersection of the trail, where they parted in good spirits.  On the dusty plain without a gale was blowing that rocked the high tree-tops above her, but, tempered and subdued, entered the low aisles with a fluttering breath of morning and a sound like the cooing of doves.  Never had the wood before shown so sweet a sense of security from the turmoil and tempest of the world beyond; never before had an intrusion from the outer life—­even in the shape of a letter—­seemed so wicked a desecration.  Tempted by the solicitation of air and shade, she lingered, with Low’s herbarium slung on her shoulder.

A strange sensation, like a shiver, suddenly passed across her nerves, and left them in a state of rigid tension.  With every sense morbidly acute, with every faculty strained to its utmost, the subtle instincts of Low’s woodcraft transformed and possessed her.  She knew it now!  A new element was in the wood—­a strange being—­another life—­another man approaching!  She did not even raise her head to look about her, but darted with the precision and fleetness of an arrow in the direction of her tree.  But her feet were arrested, her limbs paralyzed, her very existence suspended, by the sound of a voice: 

“Teresa!”

It was a voice that had rung in her ears for the last two years in all phases of intensity, passion, tenderness, and anger; a voice upon whose modulations, rude and unmusical though they were, her heart and soul had hung in transport or anguish.  But it was a chime that had rung its last peal to her senses as she entered the Carquinez Woods, and for the last week had been as dead to her as a voice from the grave.  It was the voice of her lover—­Dick Curson!

CHAPTER V.