Twenty minutes later, his face and hands washed at the well, his short cropped hair brushed back with the palm of his hand, he went to the main cabin.  The door was shut but the smoke from the rough stone chimney spoke eloquently of supper being cooked within.  But he was not thinking a great deal of the supper.  He had found the pony in the barn, had even seen a quirt which he remembered, knew that he had not been mistaken in the matter of ownership of the trim boots that had left their marks at the spring, and realized that he was rather gladder of the circumstance than the mere facts of the case would seem to warrant.  And then, with brows lifted and mouth puckered into a silent whistle, he read the words on a bit of paper tacked to the cabin door: 

“We’ve gone over to Dave Wendells.  The old woman is took sick.  Back in the morning most likely make yourself to home.  W. Harte.”

He paused a moment, frowning, his hat in his hand.  It seemed to be in his thought to go back to his horse.  While he hesitated the door was flung open and a pair of troubled grey eyes looked out at him searchingly; a pair of red lips tremulously trying to be firm smiled at him, and a very low voice faltered, albeit with a brave attempt to be steady: 

“Won’t you come in...  Mr. Thornton?  And ... and make yourself at home, too?  I’ve done it.  I suppose it’s all right....”

And then when still he hesitated, and his embarrassment began to grow and hers seemed to melt away, she added brightly and quite coolly: 

“Supper is ready ... and waiting.  And I’m simply starved.  Aren’t you?”

Thornton laughed.

“Come to think of it,” he admitted, “I believe I am.”

CHAPTER VIII

IN HARTE’S CABIN

There was a rough board table, oilcloth-covered, in front of the fireplace.  There were coffee, bread and butter, crisp slices of bacon, a dish of steaming tinned corn.  There were two plates with knife and fork at the side, two cups, two chairs drawn up to the table.

“You see,” she said, gaily and lightly enough, “you have kept me waiting.”

He glanced swiftly at her as she stood by the fireplace, and away.  For though twilight in the wooded country had crept out upon them he could see the look in her eyes, the set of the red lipped mouth.  And he knew downright fear when he saw it, though it be fear bravely masked.

“Let’s eat,” he answered, having many things in his mind, but no other single thing to say to her just yet.

She flashed him a quick look and sat down.  Thornton dragged back the other chair, flung his hat to the bunk in the corner of the room, and disposed his long legs uncomfortably under the small table.  Inwardly he was devoutly cursing Dave Wendell for allowing anybody at his place to choose this particular time to get sick and the Hartes for going to the assistance of a ten-mile distant neighbour.