“No, no; I’m going back to the stable,” he said, fiercely.  “I will not stay here any longer—­not a day longer!”

He saw her start, and then she put down the blanket and stood up.  “I do not understand you at all, sometimes” she faltered, “not at all.”

“But I understand you, God knows,” he returned, bitterly.  “Harriet, little, suffering, wronged woman, I know something about you.  I know what has been worrying you so much since I came here.”

She started and an awful look crept into her face.

“Oh, Mr. Westerfelt, do you?”

“Yes, I know it—­that’s enough now; let’s agree never again to speak of it.  I don’t want to talk about it, and I reckon you don’t.  Anyway, it can’t be helped.”

“No, it can’t be helped.”  Her lips began to twitch and quiver, and her eyes went down.

“I understand it all now,” she added.  “And I don’t blame you.  I told mother yesterday that I thought you might suspect—­”

“Your mother knows then?”

“Yes, of course,” raising her eyes in surprise.

For a moment they were silent.  Westerfelt leaned against the mantel-piece; he had never felt such utter despair.  It was like being slowly tortured to death to hear her speaking so frankly of the thing which he had never been able to contemplate with calmness.

“So you see now that I’d better go back to the stable, don’t you?” he asked, gloomily.

“I suppose so,” she said.  “I suppose you mean that—­” but she was unable to formulate what lay in her confused mind.  Besides, Luke Bradley was coming in.  They heard his heavy tread on the veranda.

“Well, come on, John, ef you are ready,” he called out.  “That blamed nag o’ mine won’t stand still a minute.”

When Westerfelt had been driven away, and Harriet had watched him out of sight down the road, she came back to the fire and sat down in the chair Westerfelt had used during his convalescence.  She kept her eyes fixed on the coals till her mother entered the room.

“I reckon he thought funny that I didn’t come in to tell him good-bye,” she said, with a knowing little laugh; “but I’ll be bound he was glad I didn’t.  Even Mr. Bradley had the good sense to go outside.”

“Mother, what are you talking about?”

“You know mighty well what I mean,” returned Mrs. Floyd, with a smile.  “I know Mr. Westerfelt is dead in love with you, and goodness knows you couldn’t fool me about how you feel if you tried.  I was a girl once.”

“Mother,” said Harriet, “I never want you to mention him to me again,” and she put her hands over her face and began to cry softly.

“Why, what is the matter, dear?” the old woman sat down near her daughter, now alarmed by her conduct.  Harriet stared her mother in the face.  “He knows all about it, mother—­he knows I am not your child, that nobody knows where I came from.  Oh, mother, I can’t stand it—­I simply cannot.  I wanted him to know, and yet when he told me he knew, it nearly killed me.”