“Oh!  Lewis.  What did—­could you have said?” faltered Betty.

“You think I hadn’t ought to speak to him of you?”

“I do not see why you should.  Of course you are my good friend, but he—­it is not like you to speak of me.”

“Fer once I don’t agree with you.  I knew how it was with him so I told him.  I knew how it was with you so I told him, and I know how it is with me, so I told him that too.”

“With you?” whispered Betty.

“Yes, with me.  That kind of gives me a right, don’t it, considerin’ it’s all fer your happiness?”

“With you?” echoed Betty in a low tone.  She was beginning to realize that she had not known this man.  She looked up at him.  His eyes were misty with an unutterable sadness.

“Oh, no!  No!  Lew.  Say it is not true,” she cried, piteously.  All in a moment Betty’s burdens became too heavy for her.  She wrung her little hands.  Her brother’s kindly advice, Bessie’s warnings, and old Grandmother Watkins’ words came back to her.  For the first time she believed what they said—­that Wetzel loved her.  All at once the scales fell from her eyes and she saw this man as he really was.  All the thousand and one things he had done for her, his simple teaching, his thoughtfulness, his faithfulness, and his watchful protection—­all came crowding on her as debts that she could never pay.  For now what could she give this man to whom she owed more than her life?  Nothing.  It was too late.  Her love could have reclaimed him, could have put an end to that solitary wandering, and have made him a good, happy man.

“Yes, Betty, it’s time to tell it.  I’ve loved you always,” he said softly.

She covered her face and sobbed.  Wetzel put his arm round her and drew her to him until the dark head rested on his shoulder.  Thus they stood a moment.

“Don’t cry, little one,” he said, tenderly.  “Don’t grieve fer me.  My love fer you has been the only good in my life.  It’s been happiness to love you.  Don’t think of me.  I can see you and Alfred in a happy home, surrounded by bright-eyed children.  There’ll be a brave lad named fer me, and when I come, if I ever do, I’ll tell him stories, and learn him the secrets of the woods, and how to shoot, and things I know so well.”

“I am so wretched—­so miserable.  To think I have been so—­so blind, and I have teased you—­and—­it might have been—­only now it’s too late,” said Betty, between her sobs.

“Yes, I know, and it’s better so.  This man you love rings true.  He has learnin’ and edication.  I have nothin’ but muscle and a quick eye.  And that’ll serve you and Alfred when you are in danger.  I’m goin’ now.  Stand here till I’m out of sight.”

“Kiss me goodbye,” whispered Betty.

The hunter bent his head and kissed her on the brow.  Then he turned and with a rapid step went along the bluff toward the west.  When he reached the laurel bushes which fringed the edge of the forest he looked back.  He saw the slender gray clad figure standing motionless in the narrow path.  He waved his hand and then turned and plunged into the forest.  The dog looked back, raised his head and gave a long, mournful howl.  Then, he too disappeared.