Gifted was walking home, deeply immersed in thoughts excited by the hints which hail been thus wantonly thrown out to inflame his imagination, when all at once, on lifting his eyes, he saw Clement Lindsay coming straight towards him.  Gifted was unarmed, except with a pair of blunt scissors, which he carried habitually in his pocket.  What should he do?  Should he fly?  But he was never a good runner, being apt to find himself scant o’ breath, like Hamlet, after violent exercise.  His demeanor on the occasion did credit to his sense of his own virtuous conduct and his self-possession.  He put his hand out, while yet at a considerable distance, and marched up towards Clement, smiling with all the native amiability which belonged to him.

To his infinite relief, Clement put out his hand to grasp the one offered him, and greeted the young poet in the most frank and cordial manner.

“And how is Miss Susan Posey, Mr. Hopkins?” asked Clement, in the most cheerful tone.  “It is a long while since I have seen her, and you must tell her that I hope I shall not leave the village without finding time to call upon her.  She and I are good friends always, Mr. Hopkins, though perhaps I shall not be quite so often at your mother’s as I was during my last visit to Oxbow Village.”

Gifted felt somewhat as the subject of one of those old-fashioned forms of argument, formerly much employed to convince men of error in matters of religion, must have felt when the official who superintended the stretching-machine said, “Slack up!”

He told Mr. Clement all about Susan, and was on the point of saying that if he, Mr. Clement, did not claim any engrossing interest in her, he, Gifted, was ready to offer her the devotion of a poet’s heart.  Mr. Clement, however, had so many other questions to ask him about everybody in the village, more particularly concerning certain young persons in whom he seemed to be specially interested, that there was no chance to work in his own revelations of sentiment.

Clement Lindsay had come to Oxbow Village with a single purpose.  He could now venture to trust himself in the presence of Myrtle Hazard.  He was free, and he knew nothing to show that she had lost the liberty of disposing of her heart.  But after an experience such as he had gone through, he was naturally distrustful of himself, and inclined to be cautious and reserved in yielding to a new passion.  Should he tell her the true relations in which they stood to each other,—­that she owed her life to him, and that he had very nearly sacrificed his own in saving hers?  Why not?  He had a claim on her gratitude for what he had done in her behalf, and out of this gratitude there might naturally spring a warmer feeling.

No, he could not try to win her affections by showing that he had paid for them beforehand.  She seemed to be utterly unconscious of the fact that it was he who had been with her in the abyss of waters.  If the thought came to her of itself, and she ever asked him, it would be time enough to tell her the story.  If not, the moment might arrive when he could reveal to her the truth that he was her deliverer, without accusing himself of bribing her woman’s heart to reward him for his services.  He would wait for that moment.