On the floor of the hut, which was entirely bare, lay a middle-aged man, with one arm bandaged and bleeding.  Seated on the floor, holding the head of the wounded man, and raining kisses upon it, sat Bunker County’s sheriff!

Then Jim heard some conversation which did not in the least allay his astonishment.

“Don’t cry, daughter,” said the wounded man, faintly, “I deserve to be shot by you—­I haven’t wronged any one else half so much as I have you.”

Again the wounded man received a shower of kisses, and hot tears fell rapidly upon his face.

“Arrest me—­take me back—­send me to State’s prison,” continued the man; “nobody has so good a right.  Then I’ll feel as if your mother was honestly avenged.  I’ll feel better if you’ll promise to do it.”

“Father, dear,” said the sheriff, “I might have suspected it was you—­oh! if I had have done!  But I thought—­I hoped I had got away from the roach of the cursed business for ever.  I’ve endured everything—­I’ve nearly died of loneliness, to avoid it, and then to think that I should have hurt my own father.”

“You’re your mother’s own daughter, Nellie,” said the counterfeiter; “it takes all the pain away to know that I haven’t ruined you—­that some member of my wretched family is honest.  I’d be happy in a prisoner’s box if I could look at you and feel that you put me there.”

“You sha’n’t be made happy in that way,” said the sheriff.  I’ve got you again, and I’m going to keep you to myself.  I’ll nurse you here—­you say that nobody ever found this hut but—­but the gang, and when you’re better the wagon shall take us both to some place where we can live or starve together.  The county can get another sheriff easy enough.”

“And they’ll suspect you of being in league with counterfeiters,” said the father.

“They may suspect me of anything they like!” exclaimed the sheriff, “so you love me and be—­be your own best self and my good father.  But this bare hut—­not a comfort that you need—­no food—­nothing—­oh, if there was only some one who had a heart, and could help us!”

“There is!” whispered Jim Williamson, with all his might.  Both occupants started, and the wounded man’s eyes glared like a wolf’s.

“Don’t be frightened,” whispered Jim; “I’m yours, body and soul—­the devil himself would be, if he’d been standin’ at this hole the last five minutes.  I’m Jim Williamson.  Let me help you miss—­sheriff.”

The sheriff blew out the light, opened the door, called softly to Jim, led him into the hut, closed the door, relighted the candle and—­blushed.  Jim looked at the sheriff out of the top of his eyes, and then blushed himself—­then he looked at the wounded man.  There was for a moment an awkward silence, which Jim broke by clearing his throat violently, after which he said: 

“Now, both of you make your minds easy.  Nobody’ll never find you here—­I’ve hunted through all these woods, but never saw this cabin before.  Arm broke?”