“Yes, to see Mary,” I answered.

Then, with a little flourish of triumph, I handed him her note.

Tim read it.  His face became very grave, and he looked from it to me, and then turned and, with an elbow resting on the mantel, stood gazing down into the empty fireplace.

“Well?” I exclaimed, angered by his mood.

“This is two weeks old, Mark,” he said, handing me the paper.

“What of it?” I cried querulously, putting on my hat and moving to the door.

My hand was on the knob turning it, when Tim said, “Mary has left the valley.”

It did not bother me much when he said that.  I was getting so used to being knocked about that a blow or two more made little difference.  The knob was not turned though.  It shot back with a click, and I leaned against the door, staring at my brother.

“And when did she go?” I asked.  “And where—­back to Kansas?”

“To New York,” Tim answered, “and with Weston—­she has married Weston.”

I was glad the door was there, for that trip over the mountain, with the creek, and the powwowing and all that, had left me still a little wobbly.  Tim’s announcement was not adding to my spirit.  Long I gazed at his quiet face; and I knew well enough that he was speaking the truth.  And, perhaps, after all, the truth was best.  It was all over, anyway, and we were just where we started before she came to the valley.

I was just where I was before I found that note lying on the door-sill.  I had been foolish, sitting there on the floor reading that message of hers that she had belied.  But that was only for a minute, and I would never be foolish again.  Trust me for that.

“She has married Weston,” I said.  “Well, the little flirt!”

Tim got down on the hearth and began piling paper and kindling and logs in the fireplace.  He started the blaze, and when it was going cheerily he looked up to find me in my old chair by the table, with Captain beside me, his head on my knee as I stroked it.

“The little flirt!” I said again, bound that he should hear me.

He heard.  He took his old chair, and resting his elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hands, a favorite attitude of his, he sat there eying me quietly.

“The little what, Mark?” he said at last.

“Flirt,” I snapped.

It was simply a braggart’s way.  I knew it.  Tim knew it, too.  He seemed to look right through me.  I was angry with him, I was jealous of him, because she had cared for him.  I knew she had.  I knew why she had.  Tim and I were far apart.  But he had made the breach.  All the wrong wrought was his, and yet he sat there, calmly eying me, as though he were a righteous judge and I the culprit.

“Why did you say flirt?” he asked quietly.

“She promised to marry me,” I said.

“Yes.”

“She loved you, Tim.”