“It’s mighty good of you to come down to see ’im all by yourself so early,” she said; “some gals wouldn’t do sech a thing.  The report is out that you notified John of what the band intended to do.”

Harriet nodded, and looked as if she wanted to get away.

“It wus mighty good of you, especially as you an’ Toot are sech firm friends,” went on Mrs. Bradley; “but it’s a pity you wusn’t a little sooner with yore information.”

“She told me in plenty of time,” corrected Westerfelt.  “It was my fault that I didn’t get away.  I didn’t go when Miss Harriet told me to.”

His reply did not please Mrs. Bradley, as she showed by her next remark.  “I’d think you’d be afeerd o’ makin’ Toot madder at you ’n he already is,” she said to Harriet.

The girl did not look at her.  She was watching Westerfelt, who had suddenly moved to the bed and sat down.  When she spoke she directed her explanation to Bradley rather than to his wife.

“Mother and I thought Mr. Westerfelt ought not to stay here alone, and that we’d get him to come over to the room he had in the hotel; so we—­”

“You an’ yore mother hain’t knowed ’im sence he wus knee-high like me an’ Luke has,” jealously retorted Mrs. Bradley.  “I reckon it’s time we wus givin’ the boy a little attention.  We’ve got the buggy down thar waitin’, John, an’ a hot breakfast ready at home.  I won’t stand no refusal.  You jest got to come with us; you needn’t make no excuse.”

“I’m not sick,” answered Westerfelt, with a faint smile.  He glanced at Harriet.  With an unsteady step she was moving away.  He wanted to call to her, but the presence of the others sealed his lips.  She turned out into the semi-darkness of the loft, and then they heard her descending the stairs.

The sun was rising as she went back to the hotel.  No one was in the parlor.  She entered it and closed the door after her.  She drew up the window-shade and looked down the street till she saw Mrs. Bradley and Westerfelt pass in a buggy.  Then she went into the dining-room, where a servant was laying a cloth on a long table, took down a stack of plates from a shelf, and began to put them in their places.

When breakfast was over that morning Westerfelt went back to the stable.  While sitting in the office.  Long Jim Hunter came to the door leading a fine bay horse, a horse that Westerfelt recognized at a glance as one he had seen and admired before.

“Oh, Mr. Westerfelt,” he called out over Washburn’s shoulder, who had gone to him.  “I wish you’d step heer a minute.  I know you don’t do the rough work round heer, but I like to have my dealings with the head of a shebang.  Wash, heer, never did have much more sense ’n a chinch, nohow.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Hunter?” asked the man addressed, coming out.

There was a decidedly sheepish look in the old man’s face, and he swung the halter of the horse awkwardly to and fro.