“I didn’t dare cook you any coffee.  There’s nothing hot—­just what happened to be in the pantry.  Mrs. Allan won’t miss it, because the boys are always foraging at all hours.  She’ll think one of them got hungry.  Of course, I couldn’t wait till morning,” she explained, as she put the tray on the table.

Weaver experienced anew the stress of humility and emotion.  He caught up her little hand and crushed it with a passion of tenderness in his great fist.  She looked at him in the old, startled, shy way; then snatched her hand from him, and, with a wildly beating heart, scudded along the passage and down the back stairs.

He sank into a chair, with a groan.  What use?  This creature, fine as silk, the heiress of all that youth had to offer in daintiness and charm, was not—­could not be for such as he.  He had gone too far on the road to hell, ever to find such a heaven open to him.

How long he sat so, he did not know.  Probably, not long, but gray morning was sweeping back the curtain of darkness when he came from his absorption with a start.  Somebody had tapped thrice for admittance.

He arose and unlocked the door.  A young woman stood outside the threshold, peering into the semi-darkness toward him.

“Is it you, Phyl?” she asked.

The cattleman said nothing.  On the spur of the moment, he could not think of the fitting speech.  The eyes of his visitor, becoming accustomed to the dim light, saw before her the outline of a man.  She let out a startled little scream that ended in a laugh of apology.

“It’s Phil, isn’t it?”

There was no way out of it.  “No—­it’s not Phil.  Come in, ma’am, and I’ll explain,” said Buck Weaver.

Instead, she turned and ran headlong, along the passage, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.  Here she came face to face with her young mistress.

“What’s the matter?  You look as if you had seen a ghost.”

“I have!  At least, I’ve seen a man in your room.”

“In my room?  What were you doing there?” demanded Phyllis sharply.

“Looking for you.  I wakened and found you gone.  I thought—­oh, I don’t know what I thought.”

Phyllis knew perfectly how it had come about.  Anna Allan was a very curiosity box and a born gossip.  She had to have her little pug nose in everybody’s business.

“So you think you saw somebody in my room?” her mistress said quietly.

“I don’t think.  I saw him.”

“Saw whom?  Phil, or was it Father?” suggested the other, with a hint of gentle scorn.

“No—­he was a stranger.  I think it was Mr. Weaver, but I’m not sure.”

“Nonsense, Anna!  Don’t be foolish.  What would he be doing there?  I’ll go and see myself.  You stay here.”

She went, and returned presently.  “It must have been one of the boys.  I wouldn’t say anything about it, Anna.  No use stirring up bogeys now, when everybody is excited over the escape of that man.”