It was almost dusk.  Tim had come on a mission to Robert Weston.  I had sent word to him of the accident, that Weston’s friends might know, and the first thought of the injured man’s partner was to hurry to Six Stars, but my second despatch, announcing that our friend was well on the road to recovery, led to the change in plans that brought Tim to us.  Mrs. Bolum did not succeed in alarming the village before he and I were well up the road, past the school-house and climbing the hill to Warden’s.

Tim had a great deal to tell me in that short walk.  I had much to tell him, but I was silent and let him chatter on, giving but little attention to what he said, for I was planning a great surprise.  The simplest thing would have been to tell him my secret then, but I had pictured something more dramatic.  I wanted Mary to witness his dumfounding when he heard the news.  I wanted her to be there when its full import broke upon him; then the three of us, Mary and Tim and I, would do a wild jig.  What boon companions we should be—­we three—­to go through life together!  And Edith?  Four of us—­so much the better!  I had never seen this Edith, but Tim is a wonderful judge of women.

So I let him talk, on and on about the city and his life there, until we reached the house.  We found that Mrs. Spiker had secured her rights, and was on duty that day as nurse.  The young doctor was there, too, as were Mrs. Tip Pulsifer and a half dozen others, a goodly company to greet us.

“Hello, Mary!” Tim cried, breaking through the others, when he caught sight of her, standing at the foot of the stairs with a lighted candle in her hand.

“Hello, Tim!” cried Mary.  “And where is Edith?”

“Edith?” Tim exclaimed, stopping as if to collect the thoughts her sudden taunting question had scattered.  “I left her behind this time, but when I come again you shall see her.”  Tim, with arms akimbo, stood there laughing.

“We country girls, I understand, cannot compare with her,” said Mary, tilting her chin.

She had started up the stairs, and now paused, looking down on us.  And I looked up at her face showing out of the darkness in the half light, and I laughed, wondering what Tim thought, wondering if he was blind, or was this Edith really bewildering.

“Did I say that?” cried Tim.  “Then I must have meant it when I said it.  To-night I have learned better, Mary, but you know I never saw you standing that way before—­on the stairs above me—­kind of like an angel with a halo——­”

“Indeed!” retorted Mary; “but we women of Black Log deck ourselves out in gaudy finery, Mr. Tim, I believe.  We women of Black Log do not inspire a man, like your Edith.”

“Confound my Edith!” Tim exclaimed hotly.  “Why, Mary, can’t you see I was joking?  The idea of comparing Edith with you—­why, Mary——­”