“In Paris we were safe enough,” Mr. Riddle threw in hastily.

“And why?” she flashed back at him.

He did not answer that.

“A truce with your fancies, madam,” said he.  “Behold a soul of good nature!  I have followed you through half the civilized countries of the globe—­none of them are good enough.  You must needs cross the ocean again, and come to the wilds.  We nearly die on the trail, are picked up by a Samaritan in buckskin and taken into the bosom of his worthy family.  And forsooth, you look at a backwoods urchin, and are nigh to swooning.”

“Hush, Harry,” she cried, starting forward and peering into my face; “he will hear you.”

“Tut!” said Harry, “what if he does?  London and Paris are words to him.  We might as well be speaking French.  And I’ll take my oath he’s sleeping.”

The corner where I lay was dark, for the cabin had no windows.  And if my life had depended upon speaking, I could have found no fit words then.

She turned from me, and her mood changed swiftly.  For she laughed lightly, musically, and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Perchance I am ghost-ridden,” she said.

“They are not ghosts of a past happiness, at all events,” he answered.

She sat down on a stool before the hearth, and clasping her fingers upon her knee looked thoughtfully into the embers of the fire.  Presently she began to speak in a low, even voice, he looking down at her, his feet apart, his hand thrust backward towards the heat.

“Harry,” she said, “do you remember all our contrivances?  How you used to hold my hand in the garden under the table, while I talked brazenly to Mr. Mason?  And how jealous Jack Temple used to get?” She laughed again, softly, always looking at the fire.

“Damnably jealous!” agreed Mr. Riddle, and yawned.  “Served him devilish right for marrying you.  And he was a blind fool for five long years.”

“Yes, blind,” the lady agreed.  “How could he have been so blind?  How well I recall the day he rode after us in the woods.”

“’Twas the parson told, curse him!” said Mr. Riddle.  “We should have gone that night, if your courage had held.”

“My courage!” she cried, flashing a look upwards, “my foresight.  A pretty mess we had made of it without my inheritance.  ’Tis small enough, the Lord knows.  In Europe we should have been dregs.  We should have starved in the wilderness with you a-farming.”

He looked down at her curiously.

“Devilish queer talk,” said he, “but while we are in it, I wonder where Temple is now.  He got aboard the King’s frigate with a price on his head.  Williams told me he saw him in London, at White’s.  Have—­have you ever heard, Sarah?”

She shook her head, her glance returning to the ashes.

“No,” she answered.

“Faith,” says Mr. Riddle, “he’ll scarce turn up here.”

She did not answer that, but sat motionless.