“And he is engaged to Miss Smyth?” Weston struck his legging a sharp blow with his stick.  “Confound it!” he cried, “I can’t get it out of my head that our book-keeper’s name is Smyth.”

“But Tim knows, surely,” said I.

“Yes—­he must,” answered Weston.  “Of course I’m wrong.  But this Miss Parker—­are they engaged?”

“I can’t tell from his last letter,” I replied.  “It seems that they must be pretty near it—­that’s what Mary says, too.”

Weston started.  Then he rose to his feet very slowly, and wheeling about looked down on me and smoked.

“Mary says so too,” he repeated.  “How in the world does Mary know?”

“I read her the letter,” said I, apologetically.  It did seem wrong to read Tim’s letter that way.  From my standpoint it was all right now, but Weston did not know that, so he whistled softly to himself.

From the hollow came the long-drawn cry of the hound.  It was old Captain.  Betsy joined in, then Mike; and now the ridges rang with the music of the chase.  They were on a fresh trail; they were away over hill and hollow, singing full-throated as they ran.

“They’ve found him,” I cried, rising to hear the song of the hounds.

Weston sat down on the log.

“They are making for the other ridge,” said I, pointing over the narrow gully.  “Hark!  There’s young Colonel.”

But Weston went on smoking.  “Poor Tim!” I heard him say.

Full and strong rang the music of the dogs, as they swung out of the hollow, up the ridge-side.  For a moment, in the clearing, I had a glimpse of them, Captain leading, with Betsy at his haunches, and Mike and Major nose and nose behind them.  Far in the rear, but in the chase, was little Colonel.  A grand puppy, he!  All ears and feet.  But he runs bravely through the tangled brush.  Many a stouter dog comes from it with flanks all torn and bloody.  I waved my hat wildly, cheering him on.  I called to him loudly, in the vain hope he might look back, as though at a time like this a hound would turn from the trail.  On he went into the woods—­nose to the ground and body low—­all feet and ears—­and a stout heart!

“Now we must wait,” I said, “and watch, and hope.”

Already they had turned the crest of the hill, and fainter and fainter came the sound of the chase.

“Mark,” Weston began, “I hope this affair of Tim’s turns out all right.  What little I can do shall be done, and to-night I’m going to write to the office that they must help him along.  He deserves it.”

“But the poorer men are, the greater their love,” I laughed.  “With money to marry, Tim might think that after all he’d better look around more—­take a choice.”