Later he told her that he had become involved in financial straits, and that unless he could raise a large sum by a certain date he would be ruined.

And it was this day that Allie sat on a bench in the little arbor and watched the turbulent river.  She was sorry for her father, but she could not help him.  Moreover, alien griefs did not greatly touch her.  Her own grief was deep and all-enfolding.  She was heart-sick, and always yearning—­yearning for that she dared not name.

The day was hot, sultry; no birds sang, but the locusts were noisy; the air was full of humming bees.

Allie watched the river.  She was idle because her aunt would not let her work.  She could only remember and suffer.  The great river soothed her.  Where did it come from and where did it go?  And what was to become of her?  Almost it would have been better—­

A servant interrupted her.  “Missy, heah’s a gennelman to see yo’,” announced the Negro girl.

Allie looked.  She thought she saw a tall, buckskin-clad man carrying a heavy pack.  Was she dreaming or had she lost her mind?  She got up, shaking in every limb.  This tall man moved; he seemed real; his bronzed face beamed.  He approached; he set the pack down on the bench.  Then his keen, clear eyes pierced Allie.

“Wal, lass,” he said, gently.

The familiar voice was no dream, no treachery of her mind.  Slingerland!  She could not speak.  She could hardly see.  She swayed into his arms.  Then when she felt the great, strong clasp and the softness of buckskin on her face and the odor of pine and sage—­and desert dust, she believed in his reality.

Her heart seemed to collapse.  All within her was riot.

“Neale!” she whispered, in anguish.

“All right an’ workin’ hard.  He sent me,” replied Slingerland, swift to get his message out.

Allie quivered and closed her eyes and leaned against him.  A beautiful something pervaded her soul.  Slowly the tumult within her breast subsided.  She recovered.

“Uncle Al!” she called him, tenderly.

“Wal, I should smile!  An’ glad to see you—­why Lord!  I’d never tell you! ...  You’re white an’ shaky, lass....  Set down hyar—­on the bench—­beside me.  Thar! ...  Allie, I’ve a powerful lot to tell you.”

“Wait!  To see you—­and to hear—­of him—­almost killed me with joy,” she panted.  Her little hands, once so strong and brown, but now thin and white, fastened tight in the fringe of his buckskin hunting-coat.

“Lass, sight of you sort of makes me young agin—­but—­Allie, those are not the happy eyes I remember.”

“I—­am very unhappy,” she whispered.

“Wal, if thet ain’t too bad!  Shore it’s natural you’d be downhearted, losin’ Neale thet way.”

“It’s not all—­that,” she murmured, and then she told him.

“Wal, wal!” ejaculated the trapper, stroking his beard in thoughtful sorrow.  “But I reckon thet’s natural, too.  You’re strange hyar, an’ thet story will hang over you....  Lass, with all due respect to your father, I reckon you’d better come back to me an’ Neale.”