Neither Robin nor Frank spoke for a time after the reading of the letter. Then faithfully and with a few words they carried out the hermit's wishes. Tenderly and gently they bore him to the narrow resting-place which they prepared for him, and when the task was finished they stood above the spot for a little space with bowed heads. After this they returned to the cabin and gathered up such articles of Robin's inheritance as they would be able to carry down the mountain—the books and field glass, which had been so much to him; the gun above the mantel, a trout rod and a package of articles from the little chest which they had brought to the door and opened. At the top of the package was a small, cheap ferrotype picture, such as young people are wont to have made at the traveling photographer's. It was of a sweet-faced, merry-lipped girl, and Robin scanned it long and thoughtfully.
"That is such a face as my mother had when young," he said at last. Then turning to Frank, "Did he know my mother? Is that the story?"
Frank bent his head in assent.
"That is the story," he said, "but it is long. Besides, it is his wish, I am sure, that another should tell it to you."
He had taken from the chest some folded official-looking papers as he spoke, and glanced at them now, first hastily, then with growing interest. They were a quantity of registered bonds—the hermit's fortune, which in a few brief days had become, as he said, but a mockery of scrolled engraving and gaudy seals. Frank had only a slight knowledge of such matters, yet he wondered if by any possibility these old securities of a shipwrecked company might be of value to-day. The corporation title, he thought, had a familiar sound. A vague impression grew upon him that this company had been one of the few to be rehabilitated with time; that in some measure at least it had made good its obligations.
"Suppose you let me take these," he suggested to Robin. "They may not be wholly worthless. At least, it will do no harm to send them to my solicitor."
Robin nodded. He was still regarding the little tintype and the sweet, young face of the mother who had died so long ago.
"I only told him," Frank wrote that night to Constance, "that the hermit's story had a part in his mother's life. I suppose I might have told him more, but he seemed quite willing to wait and hear it from you, as suggested by the hermit's letter, and I was only too willing that he should do so. Knowing Robin, as you have, from childhood, and the sorrow of his early days and all, you are much better fitted to tell the story, and you will tell it much better than I. Robin is to leave again to-morrow on a trip over Marcy (Tahawus, I mean, for I hate these modern names), but will be back by the end of the week, by which time I hope you also will once more make glad these lonesome forest glades. Seriously, Conny, I long for you much more than perhaps you realize or, I am sure, would permit me to say. And I don't mean to write a love letter now. In the first place, I would not disobey orders to that degree, and even if I did, I know that you would say that it was only because poor old Robin Gray's story and his death, and all, and perhaps wandering about in these woods alone, had made me a bit sentimental. Well, who knows just whence and how emotions come? Perhaps you would be right, but if I should tell you that, during the two weeks which have nearly slipped by since that day when we found our way through the mist to the hermit's cabin, my whole point of view has somehow changed, and that, whatever the reasons, I see with different eyes—with a new heart and with an uplifted spirit—perhaps I should be right, too; and if from such a consecration my soul should speak and say, 'Dear, my heart, I love you, and I will love you all my days!' it may be that you would believe and understand."
Whether it was this letter, or the news it contained, or whether Mrs. Deane's improved condition warranted—from whatever reason, Constance and her mother two days later returned to the camp on the Au Sable. They were given a genuine ovation as they passed the Lodge, at which point Mr. Deane joined them. Frank found his heart in a very disturbing condition indeed as he looked once more into Miss Deane's eyes and took her hand in welcome. Later in the day, he deemed it necessary to take a walk in the direction of the camp to see if he could be of any assistance in making the new arrivals comfortable. It was a matter of course that he should remain for dinner, and whatever change may have taken place in him, he certainly appeared on this occasion much like the old light-hearted youth, with little thought beyond the joy of the event and the jest of the moment.
But that night, when he parted from Constance to take the dark trail home, he did not find it easy to go, nor yet to make an excuse for lingering. The mantle of gayety had somehow slipped away, and as they stood there in the fragrance of the firs, with the sound of falling water coming through the trees, the words he had meant to utter did not come.
He spoke at last of their day together on the mountain and of their visit to the hermit's cabin. To both of them it seemed something of a very long time ago. Then Frank recounted in detail all that had happened that quiet morning when he and Robin had visited the place, and spoke of the letter and last wishes of the dead man.
"You are sure you do not mind letting me tell Robin the story?" she said; "alone, I mean? I should like to do so, and I think he would prefer it."
Frank looked at her through the dusk.
"I want you to do it that way," he said earnestly. "I told you so in my letter. I have a feeling that any third person would be an intruder at such a time. It seems to me that you are the only one to tell him."
"Yes," she agreed, after a pause, "I am. I—knew Robin's mother. I was a little girl, but I remember. Oh, you will understand it all, some day."
Frank may have wondered vaguely why she put it in that way, but he made no comment. His hand found hers in the dusk, and he held it for a moment at parting.
"That is a dark way I am going," he said, looking down the trail. "But I shall not even remember the darkness, now that you are here again."
Constance laughed softly.
"Perhaps it is my halo that makes the difference."
A moment later he had turned to go, but paused to say—casually, it seemed:
"By the way, I have a story to read to you—a manuscript. It was written by some one I know, who had a copy mailed me. It came this morning. I am sure the author, whose name is to be withheld for the present, would appreciate your opinion."
"And my judgment is to be final, of course. Very well; Minerva holds her court at ten to-morrow, at the top of yon small mountain, which on the one side slopes to the lake, and on the other overlooks the pleasant Valley of Decision, which borders the West Branch."
"And do I meet Minerva on the mountain top, or do I call for her at the usual address—that is to say, here?"
"You may call for Minerva. After her recent period of inactivity she may need assistance over the hard places."
Frank did, in fact, arrive at the camp next morning almost in time for breakfast. Perhaps the habit of early rising had grown upon him of late. Perhaps he only wished to assure himself that Constance had really returned. Even a wish to hear her opinion of the manuscript may have exerted a certain influence.
They set out presently, followed by numerous injunctions from Mrs. Deane concerning fogs and trails and an early return. Frank had never ascended this steep little mountain back of the camp, save once by a trail that started from near the Lodge. He let Constance take the lead.
It was a rare morning—one of the first September days, when the early blaze of autumn begins to kindle along the hills, when there is just a spice of frost in the air, when the air and sunlight combine in a tonic that lifts the heart, the soul, almost the body itself, from the material earth.
"If you are Minerva, then I am Mercury," Frank declared as they ascended the first rise. "I feel that my feet have wings."
Then suddenly he paused, for they had come to a little enclosure, where the bushes had been but recently cleared away. There was a gate, and within a small grave, evidently that of a child; also a headstone upon which was cut the single word, "Constance."
Frank started a little as he read the name, and regarded it wonderingly without speaking. Then he turned to his companion with inquiry in his face.
"That was the first little Constance," she said. "I took her place and name. She always loved this spot, so when she died they laid her here. They expected to come back sooner. Her mother wanted just the name on the stone."
Frank had a strange feeling as he regarded the little grave.
"I never knew that you had lost a sister," he said. "I mean that your parents had buried a little girl. Of course, she died before you were born."
"No," she said, "but her death was a fearful blow. Mamma can hardly speak of it even to-day. She could never confess that her little girl was dead, so they called me by her name. I cannot explain it all now."
Frank said musingly:
"I remember your saying once that you were not even what you seemed to be. Is this what you meant?"
She nodded.
"Yes; that is what I meant."
They pushed on up the hill, without many words.
The little enclosure and the graven stone had made them thoughtful. Arriving at the peak they found, at the brow of a cliff, a broad, shelving stone which hung out over a deep, wooded hollow, where here and there the red and gold were beginning to gleam. From it they could look across toward Algonquin, where they tried to locate the spot of the hermit's cabin, and down upon the lake and the Lodge, which seemed to lie almost at their feet.
At first they merely rested and drank in the glory of the view. Then at last Frank drew from his pocket a folded typewritten paper.
"If the court of Minerva is convened, I will lay this matter before her," he said.
It was not a story of startling theme that he read to her—"The Victory of Defeat"; it was only a tale of a man's love, devotion and sacrifice, but it was told so simply, with so little attempt to make it seem a story, that one listening forgot that it was not indeed a true relation, that the people were not living and loving and suffering toward a surrender which rose to triumph with the final page. Once only Constance interrupted, to say:
"Your friend is fortunate to have so good a reader to interpret his story. I did not know you had that quality in your voice."
He did not reply, and when he had finished reading and laid the manuscript down he waited for her comment. It was rather unexpected.
"You must be very fond of the one who wrote that," she said.
He looked at her quickly, hardly sure of her meaning. Then he smiled.
"I am. Almost too much so, perhaps."
"But why? I think I could love the man who did that story."
An expression half quizzical, half gratified, flitted across Frank's features.
"And if it were written by a woman?" he said.
Constance did not reply, and the tender look in her face grew a little cold. A tiny bit of something which she did not recognize suddenly germinated in her heart. It was hardly envy—she would have scorned to call it jealousy. She rose—rather hastily, it seemed.
"Which perhaps accounts for your having read it so well," she said. "I did not realize, and—I suppose such a story might be written by almost any woman except myself."
Frank caught up the manuscript and poised it like a missile.
"Another word and it goes over the cliff," he threatened.
She caught back his arm, laughing naturally enough.
"It is ourselves that must be going over the cliff," she declared. "I am sure Mamma is worrying about us already."
With September the hurry at the Lodge subsided. Vacations were beginning to be over—mountain climbers and wood rangers were returning to office, studio and classroom. Those who remained were chiefly men and women bound to no regular occupations, caring more for the woods when the crowds of summer had departed and the red and gold of autumn were marching down the mountain side.
It had been a busy season at the Lodge, and Edith Morrison's face told the tale. The constant responsibility, and the effort to maintain the standard of entertainment, had left a worn look in her eyes and taken the color from her cheeks. The burden had lain chiefly on her young shoulders. Her father was invaluable as an entertainer and had a fund of information, but he was without practical resources, and the strain upon Edith had told. If for another reason a cloud had settled on her brow and a shadow had gathered in her heart, she had uttered no word, but had gone on, day by day, early and late, devising means and supervising methods—doing whatever was necessary to the management of a big household through all those busy weeks.
Little more than the others had she seen Robin during those last August days. He had been absent almost constantly. When he returned it was usually late, and such was the demand upon this most popular of Adirondack guides that in nearly every case he found a party waiting for early departure. If Edith suspected that there were times when he might have returned sooner, when she believed that he had paused at the camp on the west branch of the Au Sable, she still spoke no word and made no definite outward sign. Whatever she brooded in her heart was in that secret and silence which may have come down to her, with those black eyes and that glossy hair, from some old ancestor who silently in his wigwam pointed his arrows and cuddled his resentment to keep it warm. It had happened that during the days when Constance had been absent with her mother Robin had twice returned at an earlier hour, and this could hardly fail to strengthen any suspicion that might already exist of his fidelity, especially as the little woman in black had commented on the matter in Edith's presence, as well as upon the fact that immediately after the return of the absent ones he failed to reach the Lodge by daylight. It is a fact well established that once we begin to look for heartache we always find it—and, as well, some one to aid us in the search.
Not that Edith had made a confidante of the sinister-clad little woman. On the whole, she disliked her and was much more drawn toward the good-natured but garrulous old optimist, Miss Carroway, who saw with clear undistorted vision, and never failed to say a word—a great many words, in fact—that carried comfort because they constituted a plea for the creed of general happiness and the scheme of universal good. Had Edith sought a confidante merely for the sake of easing her heart, it is likely that it was to this good old spinster that she would have turned. But a nature such as hers does not confide its soul-hurt merely for the sake of consolation. In the beginning, when she had hinted something of it to Robin, he had laughed her fears away. Then, a little later, she had spoken to Frank Weatherby, for his sake as well as for her own. He had not laughed, but had listened and reflected, for the time at least; and his manner and his manhood, and that which she considered a bond of sympathy between them, made him the one to whom she must turn, now when the time had come to speak again.
There came a day when Robin did not go to the woods. In the morning he had been about the Lodge and the guides' cabin, of which he was now the sole occupant, greeting Edith in his old manner and suggesting a walk later in the day. But the girl pleaded a number of household duties, and presently Robin disappeared to return no more until late in the afternoon. When he did appear he seemed abstracted and grave, and went to the cabin to prepare for a trip next morning. Frank Weatherby, who had been putting in most of the day over some papers in his room, now returning from a run up the hillside to a point where he could watch the sunset, paused to look in, in passing.
"Miss Deane has been telling me the hermit's story," Robin said, as he saw who it was. "It seems to me one of the saddest stories I ever heard. My regret is that he did not tell it to me himself, years ago. Poor old fellow! As if I would have let it make any difference!"
"But he could not be sure," said Frank. "You were all in the world to him, and he could not afford to take the chance of losing you."
"And to think that all those years he lived up there, watching our struggle. And what a hard struggle it was! Poor mother—I wish she might have known he was there!"
Neither spoke for a time. Then they reviewed their visit to the hermitage together, when they had performed the last sad offices for its lonely occupant. Next morning Robin was away with his party and Frank wandered over to the camp, but found no one there besides the servants.
He surmised that Constance and her parents had gone to visit the little grave on the hillside, and followed in that direction, thinking to meet them. He was nearing the spot when, at a turn in the path, he saw them. He was unobserved, and he saw that Constance had her arms about Mrs. Deane, who was weeping. He withdrew silently and walked slowly back to the Lodge, where he spent the rest of the morning over a writing table in his room, while on the veranda the Circle of Industry—still active, though much reduced as to numbers—discussed the fact that of late Mr. Weatherby was seen oftener at the Lodge, while, on the other hand, Constance had scarcely been seen there since her return. The little woman in black shook her head ominously and hinted that she might tell a good deal if she would, an attitude which Miss Carroway promptly resented, declaring that she had thus far never known her to keep back anything that was worth telling.
It was during the afternoon that Frank, loitering through a little grove of birches near the boat landing, came face to face with Edith Morrison. He saw in an instant that she had something to say to him. She was as white as the birches about her, while in her eyes there was the bright, burning look he had seen there once before, now more fierce and intensified. She paused by a mossy-covered bowlder called the "stone seat," and rested her hand upon it. Frank saw that she was trembling violently. He started to speak, but she forestalled him.
"I have something to tell you," she began, with hurried eagerness. "I spoke of it once before, when I only suspected. Now I know. I don't think you believed me then, and I doubted, sometimes, myself. But I do not doubt any longer. We have been fools all along, you and I. They have never cared for us since she came, but only for each other. And instead of telling us, as brave people would, they have let us go on—blinding us so they could blind others, or perhaps thinking we do not matter enough for them to care. Oh, you are kind and good, and willing to believe in them, but they shall not deceive you any longer. I know the truth, and I mean that you shall know it, too."
Out of the varying emotions with which the young man listened to the rapid torrent of words, there came the conviction that without doubt the girl, to have been stirred so deeply, must have seen or heard something which she regarded as definite. He believed that she was mistaken, but it was necessary that he should hear her, in order, if possible to convince her of her error. He motioned her into the seat formed by the bowlder, for she seemed weak from over-excitement. Leaning against it, he looked down into her dark, striking face, startled to see how worn and frail she seemed.
"Miss Morrison," he began gently, "you are overwrought. You have had a hard summer, with many cares. Perhaps you have not been able to see quite clearly—perhaps things are not as you suppose—perhaps——"
She interrupted him.
"Oh," she said, "I do not suppose—I know! I have known all the time. I have seen it in a hundred ways, only they were ways that one cannot put into words. But now something has happened that anybody can see, and that can be told—somethinghasbeen seen and told!"
She looked up at Frank—those deep, burning eyes of hers full of indignation. He said:
"Tell me just what you mean. What has happened, and who has seen it?"
"It was yesterday, in the woods—the woods between here and the camp on the Au Sable. They were sitting as we are, and he held her hand, and she had been crying. And when they parted he said to her, 'We must tell them. You must get Mrs. Deane's consent. I am sure Edith suspects something, and it isn't right to go on like this. We must tell them.' Then—then he kissed her. That—of course——"
The girl's voice broke and she could not continue. Frank waited a moment, then he said:
"And who witnessed this scene?"
"Mrs. Kitcher."
"You mean the little woman who dresses in black?"
"Yes, that is the one."
"And you would believe that tale-bearing eavesdropper?"
"I must. I have seen so much myself."
"Then, let me say this. I believe that most of what she told you is false. She may have seen them together. She may have seen him take her hand. I know that Miss Deane told Robin something yesterday that related to his past life, and that it was a sad tale. It might easily bring the tears, and she would give him her hand as an old friend. There may have been something said about his telling you, for there is no reason why you should not know the story. It is merely of an old man who is dead, and who knew Robin's mother. So far as anything further, I believe that woman invented it purely to make mischief. One who will spy and listen will do more. I would not believe her on oath—nor must you, either."
But Edith still shook her head.
"Oh, you don't know!" she persisted. "There has been much besides. It is all a part of the rest. You have not a woman's intuition, and Robin has not a woman's skill in deceiving. There is something—I know there is something—I have seen it all along. And, oh, what should Robin keep from me?"
"Have you spoken to him of it?"
"Once—about the time you came—he laughed at me. I would hardly mention it again."
"Yet it seems to me that would be the thing to do," Frank reflected aloud. "At least, you can ask him about the story told him by Miss Deane. You—you may say I mentioned it."
Edith regarded him in amaze.
"And you think I could do that—that I could ask him of anything that he did not tell me of his own accord? Will you ask Miss Deane about that meeting in the woods?"
Frank shook his head.
"I do not need to do so. I know about it."
She looked at him quickly—puzzled for the moment as to his meaning—wondering if he, too, might be a part of a conspiracy against her happiness. Then she said, comprehending:
"No, you only believe. I have not your credulity and faith. I see things as they are, and it is not right that you should be blinded any longer. I had to tell you."
She rose with quick suddenness as if to go.
"Wait," he said. "I am glad you told me. I believe everything is all right, whatever that woman saw. I believe she saw very little, and until you have seen and learned for yourself you must believe that, too. Somehow, everything always comes out right. It must, you know, or the world is a failure. And this will come out right. Robin will tell you the story when he comes back, and explain everything. I am sure of it. Don't let it trouble you for a single moment."
He put out his hand instinctively and she took it. Her eyes were full of hot tears. It came upon Frank in that instant that if Mrs. Kitcher were watching now she would probably see as much to arouse suspicion as she had seen the day before, and he said so without hesitation. Edith made a futile effort to reflect his smile.
"Yes," she agreed, "but, oh, that was different! There was more, and there has been so much—all along."
She left him then, followed by a parting word of reassurance. When she had disappeared he dropped back on the stone seat and sat looking through the trees toward the little boat landing, revolving in his mind the scene just ended. From time to time he applied unpleasant names to the small woman in black, whose real name had proved to be Kitcher. What, after all, had she really seen and heard? He believed, very little. Certainly not so much as she had told. But then, one by one, certain trifling incidents came back to him—a word here—a look there—the tender speaking of a name—even certain inflections and scarcely perceptible movements—the things which, as Edith had said, one cannot put into words. Reviewing the matter carefully, he became less certain in his faith. Perhaps, after all, Edith was right—perhaps there was something between those two; and troubling thoughts took the joy out of the sunlight and the brightness from the dancing waters.
The afternoon was already far gone, and during the rest of the day he sat in the little grove of birches above the landing, smoking and revolving many matters in his mind. For a time the unhappiness of Edith Morrison was his chief thought, and he resolved to go immediately to Constance and lay the circumstances fully before her, that she might clear up the misunderstanding and restore general happiness and good will. Twice, indeed, he rose to set out for the camp, but each time returned to the stone seat. What if it were really true that a great love had sprung up between Constance and Robin—a love which was at once a glory and a tragedy—such a love as had brightened and blotted the pages of history since the gods began their sports with humankind and joined them in battle on the plains of Troy? What if it were true after all? If it were true, then Constance and Robin would reveal it soon enough, of their own accord. If it were not true, then Edith Morrison's wild jealousy would seem absurd to Constance, and to Robin, who would be obliged to know. Frank argued that he had no right to risk for her such humiliation as would result to one of her temperament for having given way to groundless jealousy. These were the reasons he gave himself for not going with the matter to Constance. But the real reason was that he did not have the courage to approach her on the subject. For one thing, he would not know how to begin. For another—and this, after all, comprised everything—he was afraid itmight be true.
So he lingered there on the stone seat while the September afternoon faded, the sun slipped down the west, and long, cool mountain shadows gathered in the little grove. If it were true, there was no use of further endeavor. It was for Constance, more than for any other soul, living or dead, that he had renewed his purpose in life, that he had recalled old ambitions, re-established old effort.
Without Constance, what was the use? Nobody would care—he least of all. If it were true, the few weeks of real life that had passed since that day with her on the mountain, when they had been lost in the mist and found the hermitage together, would remain through the year to come a memory somewhat like that which the hermit had carried with him into the wilderness. Like Robin Gray, he, too, would become a hermit, though in that greater wilderness—the world of men. Yet he could be more than Robin Gray, for with means he could lend a hand. And then he remembered that such help would not be needed, and the thought made the picture in his mind seem more desolate—more hopeless.
But suddenly, from somewhere—out of the clear sky of a sub-conscious mind, perhaps—a thought, a resolve, clothed in words, fell upon his lips. "If it is true, and if I can win her love, I will marry Edith Morrison," he said.
The Circle of Industry had been minus an important member that afternoon. The small woman in black was there, and a reduced contingent of such auxiliary members as still remained in the wilds, but the chief director and center of affairs, Miss Carroway, was absent. She had set out immediately after luncheon, and Mrs. Kitcher had for once enjoyed the privilege of sowing discord, shedding gloom and retailing dark hints, unopposed and undismayed. Her opponent, for the time at least, had abandoned the field.
Miss Carroway had set out quietly enough, taking the path around the lake that on the other side joined the trail which led to the Deane camp. It was a rare afternoon, and the old lady, carefully dressed, primly curled, and with a bit of knitting in her hand, sauntered leisurely through the sunlit woods toward the West Branch. She was a peaceful note in the picture as she passed among the tall spruces, or paused for a moment amid a little grove of maples that were turning red and gold, some of the leaves drifting to her feet. Perhaps she reflected that for them, as for her, the summer time was over—that their day of usefulness was nearly ended. Perhaps she recalled the days not long ago when the leaves had been fresh and fair with youth, and it may be that the thought brought back her own youth, when she had been a girl, climbing the hills back of Haverford—when there had been young men who had thought her as fresh and fair, and one who because of a misunderstanding had gone away to war without a good-bye, and had died at Wilson's Creek with a bullet through her picture on his heart.
As she lingered here and there in the light of these pleasant places, it would have been an easy task to reconstruct in that placid, faded face the beauty of forty years ago, to see in her again the strong, handsome girl who had put aside her own heritage of youth and motherhood to carry the burdens of an invalid sister, to adopt, finally, as her own, the last feeble, motherless infant, to devote her years and strength to him, to guide him step by step to a place of honor among his fellow-men. Seeing her now, and knowing these things, it was not hard to accord her a former beauty—it was not difficult even to declare her beautiful still—for something of it all had come back, something of the old romance, of awakened purpose and the tender interest of love.
Where the trail crossed the Au Sable Falls, she paused and surveyed the place with approval.
"That would be a nice place for a weddin'," she reflected aloud. "Charlie used to say a piece at school about 'The groves was God's first temples,' an' this makes me think of it."
Then she forgot her reflections, for a little way beyond the falls, assorting something from a basket, was the object of her visit, Constance Deane. She had spread some specimens on the grass and was comparing them with the pictures in the book beside her. As Miss Carroway approached, she greeted her cordially.
"Welcome to our camp," she said. "I have often wondered why you never came over this way. My parents will be so glad to see you. You must come right up to the house and have a cup of tea."
But Miss Carroway seated herself on the grass beside Constance, instead.
"I came over to seeyou," she said quietly, "just you alone. I had tea before I started. I want to talk about one or two things a little, an' mebbe to give you some advice."
Constance smiled and looked down at the mushrooms on the grass.
"About those, you mean," she said. "Well, I suppose I need it. I find I know less than I thought I did in the beginning."
Miss Carroway shook her head.
"No," she admitted; "I've give up that question. I guess the books know more than I do. You ain't dead yet, an' if they was pizen you would 'a' been by this time. It's somethin' else I want to talk about—somethin' that's made a good many people unhappy, includin' me. That was a long time ago, but I s'pose I ain't quite got over it yet."
A good deal of the September afternoon slipped away as the two women talked there in the sunshine by the Au Sable Falls. When at last Miss Carroway rose to go, Constance rose, too, and, taking her hand, kissed the old lady on the cheek.
"You are sweet and good," she said, "and I wish I could do as much for you as you have done, and are willing to do for me. If I have not confided in you, it is only because I cannot—to-day. But I shall tell you all that there is to tell as soon—almost as soon—as I tell any one. It may be to-morrow, and I promise you that there shall be no unhappiness that I can help."
"Things never can be set straight too soon," said the old lady. "I've had a long time to think of that."
Miss Deane's eyes grew moist.
"Oh, I thank you for telling me your story!" she said. "It is beautiful, and you have lived a noble life."
The shadows had grown deeper in the woods as Miss Carroway followed a path back to the lake, and so around to the Lodge. The sun had vanished from the tree tops, and some of the light and reflex of youth had faded from the old lady's face.
Perhaps she was a little weary with her walk, and it may be a little disappointed at what she had heard, or rather what she had not heard, in her talk with Constance Deane. At the end of the lake she followed the path through the little birch grove and came upon Frank Weatherby, where he mused, on the stone seat.
Miss Carroway paused as he rose and greeted her.
"I just come from a good walk," she said peacefully. "I've been over to the Deanes' camp. It's a pretty place."
Frank nodded.
"I suppose you saw the family," he said.
"No; only Miss Deane. She was studyin' tudstools, but I guess they wa'n't pizen. I guess she knows 'em."
Frank made no comment on this remark, and the old lady looked out on the lake a moment and added, as one reflecting aloud on a matter quite apart from the subject in hand:
"If I was a young man and had anything on my mind, I'd go to the one it was about and get it off as quick as I could."
Then she started on up the path, Frank stepping aside to let her pass. As he did so, he lifted his hat and said:
"I think that is good advice, Miss Carroway, and I thank you for it."
But he dropped back on the seat when she was gone, and sat staring out on the water, that caught and gave back the colors of the fading sky. Certainly it was good advice, and he would act on it—to-morrow, perhaps—not to-day. Then he smiled, rather quaintly.
"I wonder who will be next on the scene," he thought. "First, the injured girl. Then the good old busybody, whose mission it is to help things along. It would seem about time for the chief characters to appear."
Once the sun is gone, twilight gathers quickly in the hills. The color blended out of the woods, the mountains around the lake faded into walls of tone, a tide of dusk crept out of the deeper forest and enclosed the birches. Only the highest mountain peaks, Algonquin and Tahawus, caught the gold and amethyst of day's final tokens of good-bye. Then that faded, and only the sky told the story to the lake, that repeated it in its heart.
From among the shadows on the farther side a boat drifted into the evening light. It came noiselessly. Frank's eye did not catch it until it neared the center of the lake. Then presently he recognized the silhoueted figures, holding his breath a little as he watched them to make sure. Evidently Robin had returned with his party and stopped by the Deane camp. Frank's anticipation was to be realized. The chief characters in the drama were about to appear.
Propelled by Robin's strong arms, the Adirondack canoe shot quickly to the little dock. A moment later the guide took a basket handed to him and assisted his two passengers, Constance and Mrs. Deane, to land. As they stood on the dock they were in the half dusk, yet clearly outlined against the pale-green water behind. Frank wondered what had brought Mrs. Deane to the Lodge. Probably the walk and row through the perfect evening.
The little group was but a few yards distant, but it never occurred to Frank that he could become an eavesdropper. The presence of Mrs. Deane would have dispelled any such idea, even had it presented itself. He watched them without curiosity, deciding that when they passed the grove of birches he would step out and greet them. For the moment, at least, most of his recent doubts were put aside.
But all at once he saw Constance turn to her mother and take her hands.
"You are sure you are willing that we should make it known to-night?" she said.
And quite distinctly on that still air came the answer:
"Yes, dear. I have kept you and Robin waiting long enough. After all, Robin is more to you than I am," and the elder woman held out her hand to Robin Farnham, who, taking it, drew closer to the two.
Then the girl's arms were about her mother's neck, but a moment later she had turned to Robin.
"After to-night we belong to each other," she said. "How it will surprise everybody," and she kissed him fairly on the lips.
It had all happened so quickly—so unexpectedly—they had been so near—that Frank could hardly have chosen other than to see and hear. He sat as one stupefied while they ascended the path, passing within a few feet of the stone seat. He was overcome by the suddenness of the revelation, even though the fact had been the possibility in his afternoon's brooding. Also, he was overwhelmed with shame and mortification that he should have heard and seen that which had been intended for no ears and eyes but their own.
How fiercely he had condemned Mrs. Kitcher, who, it would seem, had been truthful, after all, and doubtless even less culpable in her eavesdropping. He told himself that he should have turned away upon the first word spoken by Constance to her mother. Then he might not have heard and seen until the moment when they had intended that the revelation should be made. That was why Mrs. Deane had come—to give dignity and an official air to the news.
He wondered if he and Edith were to be told privately, or if the bans were to be announced to a gathered company, as in the old days when they were published to church congregations. And Edith—what would it mean to her—what would she do? Oh, there was something horrible about it all—something impossible—something that the brain refused to understand. He did not see or hear the figure that silently—as silently as an Indian—from the other end of the grove stole up the incline toward the Lodge, avoiding the group, making its way to the rear by another path. He only sat there, stunned and hopeless, in the shadows.
The night air became chill and he was growing numb and stiff from sitting in one position. Still he did not move. He was trying to think. He would not go to the Lodge. He would not be a spectacle. He would not look upon, or listen to, their happiness. He would go away at once, to-night. He would leave everything behind and, following the road to Lake Placid, would catch an early train.
Then he remembered that he had said he would marry Edith Morrison if he could win her love. But the idea had suddenly grown impossible. Edith—why, Edith would be crushed in the dust—killed. No, oh, no, that was impossible—that could not happen—not now—not yet.
He recalled, too, what he had resolved concerning a life apart, such a life as the hermit had led among the hills, and he thought his own lot the more bitter, for at least the hermit's love had been returned and it was only fate that had come between. Yet he would be as generous. They would not need his help, but through the years he would wish them well—yes, he could do that—and he would watch from a distance and guard their welfare if ever time of need should come.
Long through the dark he sat there, unheeding the time, caring nothing that the sky had become no longer pale but a deep, dusky blue, while the lake carried the stars in its bosom.
It may have been an hour—perhaps two of them—since Robin with Constance and her mother had passed him on the way to the Lodge, when suddenly Frank heard some one hurrying down the path. It was the rustle of skirts that he heard, and he knew that it was a woman running. Just at the little grove of birches she stopped and seemed to hesitate. In the silence of the place he could hear her breath come pantingly, as from one laboring under heavy excitement. Then there was a sort of sobbing moan, and a moment later a voice that he scarcely recognized as that of Edith Morrison, so full of wild anguish it was, called his name. He had already risen, and was at her side in an instant.
"What is it?" he demanded; "tell me everything—tell me quickly!"
"Oh," she wailed, "I knew you must be here. They couldn't find you, and I knew why. I knew you had been here, and had seen what I saw, and heard what I heard. Oh, you must go to her—you must go at once!"
She had seized his arm with both hands, shaking with a storm of emotion—of terror, it seemed—her eyes burning through the dark.
"When I saw that, I went mad," she raved on. "I saw everything through a black mist, and out of it the devil came and tempted me. He put the means in my hands to destroy my enemy, and I have done it—oh, I have done it! You said it was the Devil's Garden, and it is! Oh, it is his—I know it! I know it!"
The girl was fairly beside herself—almost incoherent—but there was enough in her words and fierce excitement to fill Frank with sudden apprehension.
"What is it you have done?" he demanded. "Tell me what you mean by the devil tempting you to destroy your enemy. What have you done?"
A wave of passion, anguish, remorse broke over her, and she clung to him heavily. She could not find voice at first. When she did, it had become a shuddering whisper.
"I have killed her!" she managed to gasp. "I have killed her! I did it with the Yellow Danger—you remember—the Yellow Danger—that day in the Devil's Garden—that poison one—that deadly one with the cup—there were some among those she brought to-night. She must have left them there by mistake. I knew them—I remembered that day—and, oh, I have been there since. But I was about to throw them away when the devil came from his garden and tempted me. He said no one could ever suspect or blame me. I put one of the deadly ones among those that went to her place at dinner. When it was too late I was sorry. I realized, all at once, that I was a murderer and must not live. So I ran down here to throw myself in the lake. Then I remembered that you were here, and that perhaps you could do something to save her. Oh, she doesn't know! She is happy up there, but she is doomed. You must help her! You must! Oh, I do not want to die a murderer! I cannot do that—I cannot!"
The girl's raving had been in part almost inaudible, but out of it the truth came clearly. Constance had brought some mushrooms to the Lodge, and these, as usual, had been sent in to Edith to prepare. Among them Edith had found some which she recognized as those declared by Constance to be deadly, and these she had allowed to go to Constance's plate. Later, stricken with remorse, she had rushed out to destroy herself, and was now as eager to save her victim.
All this rushed through Frank's brain in an instant, and for a moment he remembered only that day in the Devil's Garden, and the fact that a deadly fungus which Constance had called the Yellow Danger was about to destroy her life. But then, in a flash, came back the letter, written from Lake Placid, in which Constance had confessed a mistake, and referred to a certain Amanita which she had thought poisonous as a choice edible mushroom, called by the ancients "food of the gods." He remembered now that this was the Orange Amanita or "Yellow Danger," and a flood of hope swept over him; but he must be certain of the truth.
"Miss Morrison," he said, in a voice that was at once gentle and grave, "this is a bitter time for us all. But you must be calm, and show me, if you can, one of those yellow mushrooms you did not use. I have reason to hope that they are not the deadly ones after all. But take me where I can see them, at once."
His words and tone seemed to give the girl new strength and courage.
"Oh, don't tell me that unless it is true!" she pleaded. "Don't tell me that just to get me to go back to the Lodge! Oh, I will do anything to save her! Come—yes—come, and I will show them to you!"
She started hurriedly in the direction of the Lodge, Frank keeping by her side. As they neared the lights she seized his arm and detained him an instant.
"You will not let her die?" She trembled, her fear returning. "She is so young and beautiful—you will not let her die? I will give up Robin, but she must not die."
He spoke to her reassuringly, and they pushed on, making a wide detour which brought them to the rear of the Lodge. Through the window they saw the servants still passing to and fro into the dining-room serving a few belated guests. From it a square of light penetrated the woods behind, and on the edge of this they paused—the girl's eyes eagerly scanning the ground.
"I hid them here," she said. "I did not put them in the waste, for fear some one would see them."
Presently she knelt and brushed aside the leaves. Something like gold gleamed before her and she seized upon it. A moment later she had uncovered another similar object.
"There," she said chokingly; "there they are! Tell me—tell me quick! Are they the deadly ones?"
He gave them a quick glance in the light, then he said:
"I think not, but I cannot be sure here. Come with me to the guide's cabin. It was dark as we came up, but it was open. I will strike a light."
They hurried across to the little detached cabin and pushed in. Frank struck a match and lit a kerosene bracket lamp. Then he laid the two yellow mushrooms on the table beneath it, and from an inner pocket drew a small and rather mussed letter and opened it—his companion watching every movement with burning eager eyes.
"This is a letter from Miss Deane," he said, "written me from Lake Placid. In it she says that she made a mistake about the Orange Amanita that she called the Yellow Danger. These are her words—a rule taken from the book:
"'If the cup of the Yellow Amanita is present, the plant is harmless. If the cup is absent, it is poisonous.'"
He bent forward and looked closely at the specimens before him.
"That is surely the cup," he said. "She gathered these and put them among the others by intention, knowing them to be harmless. She is safe, and you have committed no crime."
His last words fell on insensate ears. Edith drew a quick breath that was half a cry, and an instant later Frank saw that she was reeling. He caught her and half lifted her to a bench by the door, where she lay insensible. An approaching step caught Frank's ear and, as he stepped to the door, Robin Farnham, who had seen the light in the cabin, was at the entrance. A startled look came into his eyes as he saw Edith's white face, but Frank said quietly:
"Miss Morrison has had a severe shock—a fright. She has fainted, but I think there is no danger. I will remain while you bring a cup of water."
There was a well at the end of the Lodge, and Robin returned almost immediately with a filled cup.
Already Edith showed signs of returning consciousness, and Frank left the two, taking his way to the veranda, where he heard the voices of Constance and her mother, mingled with that of Miss Carroway. He ascended the steps with a resolute tread and went directly to Constance, who came forward to meet him.
"And where did you come from?" she demanded gayly. "We looked for you all about. Mamma and I came over on purpose to dine with you, and I brought a very especial dish, which I had all to myself. Still, we did miss you, and Miss Carroway has been urging us to send out a searching party."
Frank shook hands with Mrs. Deane and Miss Carroway, apologizing for his absence and lateness. Then he turned to Constance, and together they passed down to the further end of the long veranda. Neither spoke until they were out of earshot of the others. Then the girl laid her hand gently on her companion's arm.
"I have something to tell you," she began. "I came over on purpose—something I have been wanting to say a long time, only——"
He interrupted her.
"I know," he said; "I can guess what it is. That was why I did not come sooner. I came now because I have something to say to you. I did not intend to come at all, but then something happened and—I have changed my mind. I will only keep you a moment."
His voice was not quite steady, but grave and determined, with a tone in it which the girl did not recognize. Her hand slipped from his arm.
"Tell me first," he went on, "if you are quite sure that the mushrooms you brought for dinner—all of them—the yellow ones—are entirely harmless."
Certainly this was an unexpected question. Something in the solemn manner and suddenness of it may have seemed farcical. For an instant she perhaps thought him jesting, for there was a note of laughter in her voice as she replied:
"Oh, yes; quite certain. Those are the Cæsar mushrooms—food of the gods—I brought them especially for you. But how did you know of them?"
He did not respond to this question, nor to her light tone.
"Miss Deane," he went on, "I know perfectly well what you came here to say. I happened to be in the little grove of birches to-night when you landed with your mother and Robin Farnham, and I saw and heard what took place on the dock, almost before I realized that I was eavesdropping. Unfortunately, though I did not know it then, another saw and heard, as well, and the shock of it was such that it not only crushed her spirit but upset her moral balance for the time. You will know, of course, that I refer to Edith Morrison. She had to know, and perhaps no one is to blame for her suffering—and mine; only it seems unfortunate that the revelation should have come just as it did rather than in the gentler way which you perhaps had planned."
He paused a moment to collect words for what he had to say next. Constance was looking directly at him, though her expression was lost in the dusk. Her voice, however, was full of anxiety.
"There is a mistake," she began eagerly. "Oh, I will explain, but not now. Where is Edith? Tell me first what has happened to Edith."
"I will do that, presently. She is quite safe. The man she was to marry is with her. But first I have something to say—something that I wish to tell you before—before I go. I want to say to you in all honesty that I consider Robin Farnham a fine, manly fellow—more worthy of you than I—and that I honor you in your choice, regretting only that it must bring sorrow to other hearts. I want to confess to you that never until after that day upon the mountain did I realize the fullness of my love for you—that it was all in my life that was worth preserving—that it spoke to the best there was in me. I want you to know that it stirred old ambitions and restored old dreams, and that I awoke to renewed effort and to the hope of achievement only because of you and of your approval. The story I read to you that day on the mountain was my story. I wrote it those days while you were away. It was the beginning of a work I hoped to make worth while. I believed that you cared, and that with worthy effort I could win you for my own. I had Robin Gray's character in mind for my hero, not dreaming that I should be called upon to make a sacrifice on my own account, but now that the time is here I want you to know that I shall try not to make it grudgingly or cravenly, but as manfully as I can. I want to tell you from my heart and upon my honor that I wish you well—that if ever the day comes when I can be of service to you or to him, I will do whatever lies in my power and strength. It is not likely such a time will ever come, for in the matter of means you will have ample and he will have enough. Those bonds which poor old Robin Gray believed worthless all these years have been restored to their full value, and more; and, even if this were not true, Robin Farnham would make his way and command the recognition and the rewards of the world. What will become of my ambition I do not know. It awoke too late to mean anything to you, and the world does not need my effort. As a boy, I thought it did, and that my chances were all bright ahead. But once, a long time ago, in these same hills, I gave my lucky piece to a little mountain girl, and perhaps I gave away my opportunities with it, and my better strength. Now, there is no more to say except God bless you and love you, as I always will."
And a moment later he added:
"I left Miss Morrison with Robin Farnham in the guide's cabin. If she is not there you will probably find her in her room. Be as kind to her as you can. She needs everything."
He held out his hand then, as if to leave her. But she took it and held it fast. He felt that hers trembled.
"You are brave and true," she said, "and you cannot go like this. You will not leave the Lodge without seeing me again. Promise me you will not. I have something to say to you—something it is necessary you should know. It is quite a long story and will take time. I cannot tell it now. Promise me that you will walk once more with me to-morrow morning. I will go now to Edith; but promise me what I ask. You must."
"It is not fair," he said slowly, "but I promise you."
"You need not come for me," she said. "Our walk will be in the other direction. I will meet you here quite early."
He left her at the entrance of the wide hall and, ascending to his room, began to put his traps together in readiness for departure by stage next day.
Constance descended the veranda steps and crossed over to the guides' cabin, where a light still shone. As she approached the open door she saw Edith and Robin sitting on the bench, talking earnestly. Edith had been crying, but appeared now in a calmer frame of mind. Robin held both her hands in his, and she made no apparent attempt to withdraw them. Then came the sound of footsteps and Constance stood in the doorway. For a moment Edith was startled. Then, seeing who it was, she sprang up and ran forward with extended arms.
"Forgive me! Oh, forgive me!" she cried; "I did not know! I did not know!"
True to her promise, Constance was at the Lodge early next morning. Frank, a trifle pale and solemn, waited on the veranda steps. Yet he greeted her cheerfully enough, for the Circle of Industry, daily dwindling in numbers but still a quorum, was already in session, and Miss Carroway and the little woman in black had sharp eyes and ears. Constance went over to speak to this group. With Miss Carroway she shook hands.
Frank lingered by the steps, waiting for her, but instead of returning she disappeared into the Lodge and was gone several minutes.
"I wanted to see Miss Morrison," she exclaimed, in a voice loud enough for all to hear. "She did not seem very well last night. I find she is much better this morning."
Frank did not make any reply, or look at her. He could not at all comprehend. They set out in the old way, only they did not carry the basket and book of former days, nor did the group on the veranda call after them with warning and advice. But Miss Carroway looked over to the little woman in black with a smile of triumph. And Mrs. Kitcher grimly returned the look with another which may have meant "wait and see."
A wonderful September morning had followed the perfect September night. There was a smack of frost in the air, but now, with the flooding sunlight, the glow of early autumn and the odors of dying summer time, the world seemed filled with anodyne and glory. Frank and Constance followed the road a little way and then, just beyond the turn, the girl led off into a narrow wood trail to the right—the same they had followed that day when they had visited the Devil's Garden.
She did not pause for that now. She pushed ahead as one who knew her ground from old acquaintance, with that rapid swinging walk of hers which seemed always to make her a part of these mountains, and their uncertain barricaded trails. Frank followed behind, rarely speaking save to comment upon some unusual appearance in nature—wondering at her purpose in it all, realizing that they had never continued so far in this direction before.
They had gone something less than a mile, perhaps, when they heard the sound of tumbling water, and a few moments later were upon the banks of a broad stream that rushed and foamed between the bowlders. Frank said, quietly:
"This is like the stream where I caught the big trout—you remember?"
"It is the same," she said, "only that was much farther up. Come, we will cross."
He put out his hand as if to assist her. She did not take it, but stepped lightly to a large stone, then to another and another—springing a little to one side here, just touching a bowlder all but covered with water there, and so on, almost more rapidly than Frank could follow—as one who knew every footing of that uncertain causeway. They were on the other side presently, and took up the trail there.
"I did not know you were so handy crossing streams," said Frank. "I never saw you do it before."
"But that was not hard. I have crossed many worse ones. Perhaps I was lighter of foot then."
They now passed through another stretch of timber, Constance still leading the way. The trail was scarcely discernible here and there, as one not often used, but she did not pause. They had gone nearly a mile farther when a break of light appeared ahead, and presently they came to a stone wall and a traveled road. Constance did not scale the wall, but seated herself on it as if to rest. A few feet away Frank leaned against the barrier, looking at the road and then at his companion, curious but silent. Presently Constance said:
"You are wondering what I have to tell you, and why I have brought you all this way to tell it. Also, how I could follow the trail so easily—aren't you?" and she smiled up at him in the old way.
"Yes," admitted Frank; "though as for the trail, I suppose you must have been over it before—some of those times before I came."
She nodded.
"That is true. You were not here when I traveled this trail before. It was Robin who came with me the last time. But that was long ago—almost ten years."
"You have a good memory."
"Yes, very good—better than yours. That is why I brought you here to-day—to refresh your memory."
There was something of the old banter in her voice, and something in her expression, inscrutable though it was, that for some reason set his heart to beating. He wondered if she could be playing with him. He could not understand, and said as much.
"You brought me here to tell me a story," he concluded. "Isn't that what you said? I shall miss the Lake Placid hack if we do not start back presently."
Again that inscrutable, disturbing look.
"Is it so necessary that you should start to-day?" she asked. "Mr. Meelie, I am sure, will appreciate your company just as much another time. And to-day is ours."
That look—it kept him from saying something bitter then.
"The story—you are forgetting it," he said, quietly.
"No, I am not forgetting." The banter had all gone out of her voice, and it had become gentle—almost tender. A soft, far-away look had come into her eyes. "I am only trying to think how to tell it—how to begin. I thought perhaps you might help me—only you don't—your memory is so poor."
He had no idea of her meaning now, and ventured no comment.
"You do not help me," she went on. "I must tell my little story alone. After all, it is only a sequel—do you care for sequels?"
There was something in her face just then that, had it not been for all that had come between them, might have made him take her in his arms.
"I—I care for what you are about to tell," he said.
She regarded him intently, and a great softness came into her eyes.
"It is the sequel of a story we heard together," she began, "that day on McIntyre, in the hermit's cabin. You remember that he spoke of the other child—a little girl—hers. This is the story of that little girl. You have heard something of her already—how the brother toiled for her and his mother—how she did not fully understand the bitterness of it all. Yet she tried to help—a little. She thought of many things. She had dreams that grew out of the fairy book her mother used to read to her, and she looked for Aladdin caves among the hills, and sometimes fancied herself borne away by the wind and the sea to some far Eastern land where the people would lay their treasures at her feet. But more than all she waited for the wonderful fairy prince who would one day come to her with some magic talisman of fortune which would make them all rich, and happy ever after.
"Yet, while she dreamed, she really tried to help in other ways—little ways of her own—and in the summer she picked berries and, standing where the stage went by, she held them out to the tourists who, when the stage halted, sometimes bought them for a few pennies. Oh, she was so glad when they bought them—the pennies were so precious—though it meant even more to her to be able to look for a moment into the faces of those strangers from another world, and to hear the very words that were spoken somewhere beyond the hills."
She paused, and Frank, who had leaned a bit nearer, started to speak, but she held up her hand for silence.
"One day, when the summer was over and all the people were going home—when she had gathered her last few berries, for the bushes were nearly bare—she stood at her place on the stone in front of the little house at the top of the hill, waiting for the stage. But when it came, the people only looked at her, for the horses did not stop, but galloped past to the bottom of the hill, while she stood looking after them, holding that last saucer of berries, which nobody would buy.
"But at the foot of the hill the stage did stop, and a boy, oh, such a handsome boy and so finely dressed, leaped out and ran back all the way up the hill to her, and stood before her just like the prince in the fairy tales she had read, and told her he had come to buy her berries. And then, just like the prince, he had only an enchanted coin—a talisman—his lucky piece. And this he gave to her, and he made her take it. He took her hand and shut it on the coin, promising he would come for it again some day, when he would give her for it anything she might wish, asking only that she keep it safe. And then, like the prince, he was gone, leaving her there with the enchanted coin. Oh, she hardly dared to look, for fear it might not be there after all. But when she opened her hand at last and saw that it had not vanished, then she was sure that all the tales were true, for her fairy prince had come to her at last."
Again Frank leaned forward to speak, a new light shining in his face, and again she raised her hand to restrain him.
"You would not help me," she said, "your memory was so poor. Now, you must let me tell the story.
"The child took the wonderful coin to her mother. I think she was very much excited, for she wept and sobbed over the lucky talisman that was to bring fortune for them all. And I know that her mother, pale, and in want, and ill, kissed her and smiled, and said that now the good days must surely come.
"They did not come that winter—a wild winter of fierce cold and terrible storms. When it was over and the hills were green with summer, the tired mother went to sleep one day, and so found her good fortune in peace and rest.
"But for the little girl there came a fortune not unlike her dreams. That year a rich man and woman had built a camp in the hills. There was no Lodge, then; everything was wild, and supplies hard to get. The child's brother sold vegetables to the camp, sometimes letting his little sister go with him. And because she was of the same age as a little girl of the wealthy people, now and then they asked her to spend the day, playing, and her brother used to come all the way for her again at night. There was one spot on the hillside where they used to play—an open, sunny place that they loved best of all—and this they named their Garden of Delight; and it was truly that to the little girl of the hills who had never had such companionship before.
"But then came a day when a black shadow lay on the Garden of Delight, for the little city child suddenly fell ill and died. Oh, that was a terrible time. Her mother nearly lost her mind, and was never quite the same again. She would not confess that her child was dead, and she was too ill to be taken home to the city, so a little grave was made on the hillside where the children had played together, and by and by the feeble woman crept there to sit in the sun, and had the other little girl brought there to play, as if both were still living. It was just then that the mother of Robin and his little sister died, and the city woman, when she heard of it, said to the little girl: 'You have no mother and I have no little girl. I will be your mother and you shall be my little girl. You shall have all the dresses and toys; even the name—I will give you that.' She would have helped the boy, too, but he was independent, even then, and would accept nothing. Then she made them both promise that neither would ever say to any one that the little girl was not really hers, and she made the little girl promise that she would not speak of it, even to her, for she wanted to make every one, even herself, believe that the child was really hers. She thought in time it might take the cloud from her mind, and I believe it did, but it was years before she could even mention the little dead girl again. And the boy and his sister kept their promise faithfully, though this was not hard to do, for the rich parents took the little girl away. They sailed across the ocean, just as she had expected to do some day, and she had beautiful toys and dresses and books, just as had always happened in the fairy tales.
"They did not come back from across the ocean. The child's foster father had interests there and could remain abroad for most of the year, and the mother cared nothing for America any more. So the little girl grew up in another land, and did not see her brother again, and nobody knew that she was not really the child of the rich people, or, if any did know, they forgot.
"But the child remembered. She remembered the mountains and the storms, and the little house at the top of the hill, and her mother, and the brother who had stayed among the hills, and who wrote now and then to tell them he was making his way. But more than all she remembered the prince—her knight she called him as she grew older—because it seemed to her that he had been so noble and brave to come back up the hill and give her his lucky piece that had brought her all the fortune. Always she kept the coin for him, ready when he should call for it, and when she read how Elaine had embroidered a silken covering for the shield of Launcelot, she also embroidered a little silken casing for the coin and wore it on her neck, and never a day or night did she let it go away from her. Some day she would meet him again, and then she must have it ready, and being a romantic schoolgirl, she wondered sometimes what she might dare to claim for it in return. For he would be a true, brave knight, one of high purpose and noble deeds; and by day the memory of the handsome boy flitted across her books, and by night she dreamed of him as he would some day come to her, all shining with glory and high resolve."
Again she paused, this time as if waiting for him to speak. But now he only stared at the bushes in front of him, and she thought he had grown a little pale. She stepped across the wall into the road.
"Come," she said; "I will tell you the rest as we walk along."
He followed her over the wall. They were at the foot of a hill, at the top of which there was a weather-beaten little ruin, once a home. He recognized the spot instantly, though the hill seemed shorter to him, and less steep. He turned and looked at her.
"My memory has all come back," he said; "I know all the rest of the story."
"But I must tell it to you. I must finish what I have begun. The girl kept the talisman all the years, as I have said, often taking it out of the embroidered case to study its markings, which she learned to understand. And she never lost faith in it, and she never failed to believe that one day the knight with the brave, true heart would come to claim it and to fulfill his bond.
"And by and by her school-days were ended, and then her parents decided to return to their native land. The years had tempered the mother's sorrow, and brought back a measure of health. So they came back to America, and for the girl's sake mingled with gay people, and by and by, one day—it was at a fine place and there were many fine folk there—she saw him. She saw the boy who had been her fairy prince—who had become her knight—who had been her dream all through the years.
"She knew him instantly, for he looked just as she had known he would look. He had not changed, only to grow taller, more manly and more gentle—just as she had known he would grow with the years. She thought he would come to her—that like every fairy prince, he must know—but when at last he stood before her, and she was trembling so that she could hardly stand, he bowed and spoke only as a stranger might. He had forgotten—his memory was so poor.