“Of Wambush, and all the rest.  Oh, Harriet, I’ve tried so hard to forget him and overcome my—­”

“What about him?  Answer me; what about him?”

“The letter I asked you to burn was not for me.  It was from old Wambush to Toot.  In it he mentioned you, and how you helped Toot hide that whiskey, and how you confessed your love and cried in the old man’s arms.”

“Mr. Westerfelt, are you crazy?  Are you a raving maniac?  I never did anything like that.  Toot Wambush was writing about Hettie Fergusson.  She is his sweetheart; she helped him hide the barrel of whiskey in the kitchen.  Oh, Mr. Westerfelt, was that what you’ve been thinking all this time?”

A great joy had illuminated his face, and he grasped her hands and clung to them.

“Harriet, I see it all now; can you ever forgive me?”

She did not answer, but hearing her mother’s step in the hall she called out, while she tightened her little fingers over his, “Mother, come in here; come quick!”

“What is it, darling?” asked the old woman, anxiously, as she entered the room.

“Oh, mother, he thought I was Hettie; he thought I loved Toot Wambush; he says he doesn’t care about the other thing one bit.”

“Well, I didn’t see how he could,” said Mrs. Floyd.  “I didn’t, really.”

“She hasn’t said she will forgive me for thinking she was in love with Wambush, and making such a fool of myself on account of the mistake,” said Westerfelt.  “I wish you’d help me out, Mrs. Floyd.”

“I may not forgive you for thinking I could love such a man,” answered Harriet, “but I don’t blame you a bit for the way you acted.  I reckon that was just jealousy, and that showed he cared for me; don’t you think so, mother?”

“Yes, daughter, I always have believed that Mr. Westerfelt loved you.  And if I had had the management of this thing there wouldn’t have been such a long misunderstanding.  Mr. Westerfelt, Hettie Fergusson is out in the kitchen, just crazy to know if you will withdraw the charges against Toot so that he can come back home.”

“I wouldn’t prosecute that man,” laughed Westerfelt, “not if he’d killed my best friend.  Tell her that, Mrs. Floyd.”

“Well, she’ll be crazy to hear it, and I’ll go tell her.”  She went into the hall and quickly returned.  “Will Washburn is in front and wants to speak to you,” she said.  But Washburn came to the door himself, an anxious look on his face.

“The hack’s still waitin’ fer you, Mr. Westerfelt,” he said.  “What must I do about it?”

“Tell Ridly to go on without me,” laughed Westerfelt.  “And—­Wash!” he added.  “Take all the money out of the cash drawer and go get blind drunk.  Shoot off all the guns you can find, and set the stable on fire.  Wash, shake hands!  I’m the luckiest fellow on God’s green earth.”

Washburn was not dense, and he reddened as it occurred to him that his reply ought to voice some sort of congratulations.