“I hope he is not worse,” said Mrs. Hale, with more than her usual languid gentleness.  “My mother is not here at present.  Can I—­can we—­this is my sister—­do as well?”

Without looking up he made a constrained recognition of Kate’s presence, that embarrassed and curt as it was, had none of the awkwardness of rusticity.

“Thank you; you’re very kind.  But my friend is a little stronger, and if you can lend me an extra horse I’ll try to get him on the Summit to-night.”

“But you surely will not take him away from us so soon?” said Mrs. Hale, with a languid look of alarm, in which Kate, however, detected a certain real feeling.  “Wait at least until my husband returns to-morrow.”

“He won’t be here to-morrow,” said the stranger hastily.  He stopped, and as quickly corrected himself.  “That is, his business is so very uncertain, my friend says.”

Only Kate noticed the slip; but she noticed also that her sister was apparently unconscious of it.  “You think,” she said, “that Mr. Hale may be delayed?”

He turned upon her almost brusquely.  “I mean that it is already snowing up there;” he pointed through the window to the cloud Kate had noticed; “if it comes down lower in the pass the roads will be blocked up.  That is why it would be better for us to try and get on at once.”

“But if Mr. Hale is likely to be stopped by snow, so are you,” said Mrs. Hale playfully; “and you had better let us try to make your friend comfortable here rather than expose him to that uncertainty in his weak condition.  We will do our best for him.  My sister is dying for an opportunity to show her skill in surgery,” she continued, with an unexpected mischievousness that only added to Kate’s surprised embarrassment.  “Aren’t you, Kate?”

Equivocal as the young girl knew her silence appeared, she was unable to utter the simplest polite evasion.  Some unaccountable impulse kept her constrained and speechless.  The stranger did not, however, wait for her reply, but, casting a swift, hurried glance around the room, said, “It’s impossible; we must go.  In fact, I’ve already taken the liberty to order the horses round.  They are at the door now.  You may be certain,” he added, with quick earnestness, suddenly lifting his dark eyes to Mrs. Hale, and as rapidly withdrawing them, “that your horse will be returned at once, and—­and—­we won’t forget your kindness.”  He stopped and turned towards the hall.  “I—­I have brought my friend down-stairs.  He wants to thank you before he goes.”

As he remained standing in the hall the two women stepped to the door.  To their surprise, half reclining on a cane sofa was the wounded man, and what could be seen of his slight figure was wrapped in a dark serape.  His beardless face gave him a quaint boyishness quite inconsistent with the mature lines of his temples and forehead.  Pale, and in pain, as he evidently was, his blue eyes twinkled with intense amusement.  Not only did his manner offer a marked contrast to the sombre uneasiness of his companion, but he seemed to be the only one perfectly at his ease in the group around him.