"I hope nothing has happened to the McKenna sisters," cried Mr.
Larramie. "They must have been in here!"

I did not suppose that anything serious had occurred, for the bear's
jaws were securely strapped, but with anxious haste I went into the
other part of the house. Across a hallway I saw an open door, and
from the room within came groans, or perhaps I should call them
long-drawn wails of woe.

I was in the room in a moment, and the others crowded through the
door-way behind me. It was a good-sized bedroom, probably the
"spare-room" of the first floor. In one corner was a tall and wide
high-posted bedstead, and in the very middle of it sat an elderly
woman drawn up into the smallest compass into which she could possibly
compress herself. Her eyes were closed, her jaws were dropped, her
spectacles hung in front of her mouth, her gray hair straggled over
her eyes, and her skin was of a soapy whiteness.

She paid no attention to the crowd of people in the room. Evidently
she was frightened out of her senses. Every moment she emitted a
doleful wail. As we stood gazing at her, and before we had time to
speak to her, she seemed to be seized by an upheaving spasm, the
influence of which was so great that she actually rose in the air, and
as she did so her wail intensified itself into a shriek, and as she
came down again with a sudden thump all the breath in her body seemed
to be bounced out in a gasp of woe.

"It's Susan McKenna!" exclaimed Walter. "What in the world is the
matter with her? Miss Susan, are you hurt?"

She made no answer, but again she rose, again she gave vent to a wild
wail, and again she came down with a thump.

Percy was now on his knees near the bed. "It's the bear!" he cried.
"He's under there, and he's humping himself!"

"Sacking bottom!" cried the practical Genevieve "There isn't room
enough for him!"

Stooping down I saw the bear under the bed, now crowding himself back
as far as possible into a corner. No part of his chain was exposed to
view, and for a moment I did not see how I was going to get him out.
But the first thing was to get rid of the woman.

"Come, Miss Susan," said Mr. Larramie, "let me help you off the bed,
and you can go into another room, and then we will attend to this
animal. You need not be afraid to get down. He won't hurt you."

But the McKenna sister paid no attention to these remarks. She kept
her eyes closed; she moaned and wailed. So long as that horrible demon
was under the bed she would not have put as much as one of her toes
over the edge for all the money in the world!

In every way I tried to induce the bear to come out, but he paid no
attention to me. He had been frightened, and he was now in darkness
and security. Suddenly a happy thought struck me. I glanced around the
room, and then I rushed into the hall. Genevieve followed me. "What do
you want?" she said.

"I am looking for some overshoes!" I cried. "India-rubber ones!"

Instantly Genevieve began to dash around. In a few moments she had
opened a little closet which I had not noticed. "Here is one!" she
cried, "but it's torn--the heel is nearly off! Perhaps the other
one--"

"Give me that!" I exclaimed. "It doesn't matter about its being torn!"
With the old overshoe in my hand I ran back into the room, where Mr.
Larramie was still imploring the McKenna sister to get down from the
bed. I stooped and thrust the shoe under as far as I could reach.
Almost immediately I saw a movement in the shaggy mass in the corner.
I wriggled the shoe, and a paw was slightly extended. Then I drew it
away slowly from under the bed.

Now, Miss Susan McKenna rose in the air higher than she had yet gone.
A maddening wail went up, and for a moment she tottered on the apex
of an elevation like a wooden idol upheaved by an earthquake. Before
she had time to tumble over she sank again with a thump. The great
hairy bear, looking twice as large in that room as he appeared in the
open air, came out from under the foot of the bed, and as I dangled
the old rubber shoe in front of his nose he would have seized upon it
if his jaws had not been strapped together. I got hold of the chain
and conducted him quietly outside, amid the cheers and hand-clapping
of Percy and Genevieve.

I chained Orso to a post of the fence, and, removing his muzzle, I
gave him the old rubber shoe.

"Shall I bring him some more?" cried Genevieve, full of zeal in good
works. But I assured her that one would do for the present.

I now hurried into the house to find out what had happened to the
persons and property of the McKenna sisters.

"Where are the other two?" cried Genevieve, who was darting from one
room to another; "the bear can't have swallowed them."

It was not long before Percy discovered the two missing sisters in the
cellar. They were seated on the ground with their aprons over their
heads.

It was some time before quiet was restored in that household. To the
paralyzing terror occasioned by the sudden advent of the bear
succeeded wild lamentations over the loss of property. I assured them
that I was perfectly willing to make good the loss, but Mr. Larramie
would not allow me to say anything on the subject.

"It is not your affair," said he. "The bear would have done no damage
whatever had it not been for the folly of Percy in bringing his gun--I
suppose the animal has been shot at some time or other--and my
weakness in allowing him to keep it. I will attend to these damages.
The amount is very little, I imagine, principally cheap crockery, and
the best thing you can do is to start off slowly with your bear. The
women will not be able to talk reasonably until it is off the
premises. I will catch up with you presently."

When the bear and I, with the rest of the party, were fairly out of
sight of the house, we stopped and waited for Mr. Larramie, and it was
not long before he joined us.

When we reached the hay-barn we were met by the rest of the Larramie
family, all anxious to see the bear. Even Miss Edith, who had had one
glimpse of the beast, was very glad indeed to assure me that she did
not wonder in the least that I had supposed there would be no harm in
leaving such a mild creature for a little while by the side of the
road, and I was sure from the exclamations of the rest of the family
that Orso would not suffer for want of care and attention during his
stay in the hay-barn.

I was immensely relieved to get rid of the bear and to leave him in
such good quarters, for it now appeared to me quite reasonable that I
might have had difficulty in lodging him anywhere on the premises of
the Cheltenham, and under any circumstances I very much preferred
appearing at that hotel without an ursine companion. As soon as we
reached the house I told Mr. Larramie that it was now necessary for me
to hurry on, and asked if there were not some way to the hotel which
would not make it necessary for me to go back to the main road.

The good gentleman fairly shouted at me. "You aren't going to any
hotel!" he declared. "Do you suppose we are heathens, to let you start
off at this late hour in the afternoon for a hotel? You have nothing
to do with hotels--you spend the night with us, sir! If you are
thinking about your clothes, pray dismiss the subject from your mind.
If it will make you feel better satisfied, we will all put on golf
suits. In the morning we will get your machine from the Holly Sprig,
and when you want to go on we will send you and it to Waterton in a
wagon. It is not a long drive, and it is much the pleasanter way to
manage your business."

The family showed themselves delighted when they heard that I was to
spend the night with them, and I did not object to the plan, for I had
not the slightest desire to go to a summer hotel. Just before I went
up to my room to get ready for supper, the young Genevieve came to me
upon the porch.

"Would you mind," she said, "letting me feel your muscle?"

Very much surprised, I reached out my arm for her inspection, and she
clasped her long thin fingers around my _biceps flexor cubiti._
Apparently, the inspection was very satisfactory to her.

"I would give anything," she said, "if I had muscle like that!"

I laughed heartily. "My dear little girl," said I, "you would be
sorry, indeed, if you had anything of the sort. When you grow up and
go to parties, how would you like to show bare arms shaped like mine?
You would be a spectacle, indeed."

"Well," said she, "perhaps you are right. I might not care to have
them bulge, but I would like to have them hard."

It was a lively supper and an interesting evening. Miss Edith sat
opposite to me at table--I gave her this title because I was informed
that there was an elder sister who was away on a visit. I could see
that she regarded me as her especial charge. She did not ask me what I
would have, but she saw that every possible want was attended to. As
the table was lighted by a large hanging-lamp, I had a better view of
her features than I had yet obtained. She was not handsome. Her eyes
were too wide apart, her nose needed perhaps an eighth of an inch in
length, and her well-shaped mouth would not have suffered by a slight
reduction. But there was a cheerful honesty in her expression and in
her words which gave me the idea that she was a girl to believe in.

After supper we played round games, and the nervous young lady talked.
She could not keep her mind on cards, and therefore played no game. In
the course of the evening Mrs. Larramie took occasion to say to me,
and her eyes were very full as she spoke, that she did not want me to
think she had forgotten that that day I had given her her daughter,
and although the others--greatly to my satisfaction--did not indulge
in any such embarrassing expressions of gratitude, they did not fail
to let me know the high estimation in which they held me. The little
girl, Clara, sat close to me while I was playing, every now and then
gently stroking my arm, and when she was taken off to bed she ran back
to say to me that the next time I brought a bear to their house she
hoped I would also bring some little ones. Even Percy took occasion to
let me know that, under the circumstances, he was willing to overlook
entirely the fact of my being a school-master.

After the games, when the family was scattering--not to their several
bed-chambers, but apparently to various forms of recreation or study
which seemed to demand their attention--Miss Edith asked me if I would
not like to take a walk and look at the stars. As this suggestion was
made in the presence of her parents, I hesitated a moment, expecting
some discreet objection. But none came, and I assented most willingly
to a sub-astral promenade.

There was a long, flagged walk which led to the road, and backward and
forward upon this path we walked many, many times.

"I like starlight better than moonlight," said Miss Edith, "for it
doesn't pretend to be anything more than it is. You cannot do anything
by starlight except simply walk about, and if there are any trees,
that isn't easy. You know this, you don't expect anything more, and
you're satisfied. But moonlight is different. Sometimes it is so
bright out-of-doors when the moon is full that you are apt to think
you could play golf or croquet, or even sit on a bench and read. But
it isn't so. You can't do any of these things--at least, you can't do
them with any satisfaction. And yet, month after month, if you live in
the country, the moon deceives you into thinking that for a great many
things she is nearly as good as the sun. But all she does is to make
the world beautiful, and she doesn't do that as well as the sun does
it. The stars make no pretences, and that is the reason I like them
better.

"But I did not bring you out here to tell you all this," she
continued, offering me no opportunity of giving my opinions on the
stars and moon. "I simply wanted to say that I am so glad and thankful
to be walking about on the surface of the earth with whole bones and
not a scratch from head to foot"--at this point my heart began to
sink: I never do know what to say when people are grateful to
me--"that I am going to show you my gratitude by treating you as I
know you would like to be treated. I shall not pour out my gratitude
before you and make you say things which are incorrect, for you are
bound to do that if you say anything--"

"I thank you from the bottom of my heart," I said; "but now let us
talk some more about the stars."

"Oh, bother the stars!" said she. "But I will drop the subject of
gratitude as soon as I have said that if you ever come to know me
better than you do now, you will know that in regard to such things I
am the right kind of a girl."

I had not the slightest doubt that she was entirely correct. And then
she began to talk about golf, and after that of croquet.

"I consider that the finest out-door game we have," she said, "because
there is more science in it than you find in any of the others. Your
brains must work when you play croquet with intelligent opponents."

"The great trouble about it is," I said, "that it is often so easy."

"But you can get rid of that objection," she replied, "if you have a
bad ground. Croquet needs hazards just as much as golf does. The
finest games I have ever seen were played on a bad ground."

So we talked and walked until some of the lights in the upper windows
of the house had gone out. We ascended to the porch, and just before
entering the front door she turned to me.

"I wish I could go to sleep to-night with the same right to feel
proud, self-confident, superior, that you have. Good-night." And she
held out her hand and gave mine a strong, hearty shake.

I smiled as she left me standing on the porch. This was the same spot
on which her sister Genevieve had felt my muscle. "This is an
appreciative family," I said, and, guided by the sound of voices, I
found Mr. Larramie and his son Walter in the billiard-room.




CHAPTER XII

BACK TO THE HOLLY SPRIG


Before going to bed that night I did not throw myself into an
easy-chair and gaze musingly out into the night. On the contrary, I
stood up sturdily with my back to the mantel-piece, and with the
forefinger of my right hand I tapped my left palm.

"Now, then," said I to myself, "as soon as my bicycle is put into
working order I shall imitate travellers in hot countries--I shall
ride all night, and I shall rest all day. There are too many young
women in Cathay. They turn up one after another with the regularity of
a continuous performance. No sooner is the curtain rung down on one
act than it is rung up on another. Perhaps after a while I may get out
of Cathay, and then again I may ride by day."

In taking my things from my valise, I pulled out the little box which
the doctor's daughter had given me, but I did not open it. "No,"
said I, "there is no need whatever that I should take a capsule
to-night."

[Illustration: "I TAPPED MY LEFT PALM."]

After breakfast the next day Mr. Larramie came to me. "Do you know,"
said he, "I feel ashamed on account of the plans I made for you."

I did not know, for I could see no earthly reason for such feeling.

"I arranged," said he, "to send to the Holly Sprig for your machine,
and then to have you and it driven over to Waterton. Now this I
consider brutish. My wife told me that it was, and I agree with her
perfectly. It will take several days to repair that injured
wheel--Walter tells me you cannot expect it in less than three
days--and what will you do in Waterton all that time? It isn't a
pretty country, the hotels are barely good enough for a night's stop,
and there isn't anything for you to do. Even if you hired a wheel you
would find it stupid exploring that country. Now, sir, that plan is
brushed entirely out of sight. Your bicycle shall be sent on, and when
you hear that it is repaired and ready for use, you can go on yourself
if you wish to."

"My dear sir," I exclaimed, "this is entirely too much!"

He put his hands upon my shoulders and looked me squarely in the
face. "Too much!" said he, "too much! That may be your opinion, but I
can tell you you have the whole of the rest of the world against you.
That is, you would have if they all knew the circumstances. Now you
are only one, and if you want to know how many people are opposed to
you, I have no doubt Percy can tell you, but I am not very well posted
in regard to the present population of the world."

There was no good reason that I could offer why I should go and sit
solitary in Waterton for three days, and if I had had any such reason
I know it would have been treated with contempt. So I submitted--not
altogether with an easy mind, and yet seeing cause for nothing but
satisfaction and content.

"Another thing," said Mr. Larramie; "I have thought that you would
like to attend to your bicycle yourself. Perhaps you will want to take
it apart before you send it away. Percy will be glad to drive to the
Holly Sprig, and you can go with him. Then, when you come back, I will
have my man take your machine to Waterton. I have a young horse very
much in need of work, and I shall be glad to have an excuse for giving
him some travelling to do." I stood astounded. Go back to the Holly
Sprig! This arrangement had been made without reference to me. It had
been supposed, of course, that I would be glad to go and attend to the
proper packing of my bicycle. Even now, Percy, running across the
yard, called to me that he would be ready to start in two minutes.

When I took my seat in the wagon, Mr. Larramie was telling me that he
would like me to inform Mrs. Chester that he would keep the bear until
it was reasonable to suppose that the owner would not come for it, and
that then he would either sell it or buy it himself, and make
satisfactory settlement with her.

I know I did not hear all that he said, for my mind was wildly busy
trying to decide what I ought to do. Should I jump down even now and
decline to go to the Holly Sprig, or should I go on and attend to my
business like a sensible man? There was certainly no reason why I
should do anything else, but when the impatient Percy started, my mind
was not in the least made up; I remained on the seat beside him simply
because I was there.

Percy was a good driver, and glad to exhibit his skill. He was also in
a lively mood, and talked with great freedom. "Do you know," said he,
"that Edith wanted to drive you over to the inn? Think of that! But it
had all been cut and dried that I should go, and I was not going to
listen to any such nonsense. Besides, you might want somebody to help
you take your machine apart and pack it up."

I was well satisfied to be accompanied by the boy and not by his
sister, and with the wheels and his tongue rattling along together, we
soon reached the inn.

Percy drove past it and was about to turn into the entrance of the
yard, but I stopped him. "I suppose your wheel is back there," he
said.

"Yes," said I, "but I will get out here."

"All right," he replied, "I'll drive around to the sheds."

At the open door of the large room I met Mrs. Chester, evidently on
her way out-of-doors. She wore a wide straw hat, her hands were
gloved, and she carried a basket and a pair of large shears. When she
saw me there was a sudden flush upon her face, but it disappeared
quickly. Whether this meant that she was agreeably surprised to see me
again, or whether it showed that she resented my turning up again so
soon after she thought she was finally rid of me, I did not know. It
does not do to predicate too much upon the flushes of women.

[Illustration: "THERE WAS A SUDDEN FLUSH"]

I hastened to inform her why I had come, and now, having recovered
from her momentary surprise, she asked me to walk in and sit down, an
invitation which I willingly accepted, for I did not in the least
object to detaining her from her garden.

Now she wanted to know how I had managed to get on with the bear, and
what the people at the Cheltenham said about it, and when I went on to
tell her the whole story, which I did at considerable length, she was
intensely interested. She shuddered at the runaway, she laughed
heartily at the uprising of the McKenna sister, and she listened
earnestly to everything I had to say about the Larramies.

"You seem to have a wonderful way," she exclaimed, "of falling in
with--" I think she was going to say "girls," but she changed it to
"people."

"Yes," said I. "I should not have imagined that I could make so many
good friends in such a short time."

Then I went on to give her Mr. Larramie's message, and to say more
things about the bear. I was glad to think of any subject which might
prolong the conversation. So far she was interested, and all that we
said seemed perfectly natural to the occasion, but this could not
last, and I felt within me a strong desire to make some better use of
this interview.

I had not expected to see her again, certainly not so soon, and here I
was alone with her, free to say what I chose; but what should I say? I
had not premeditated anything serious. In fact, I was not sure that I
wished to say anything which should be considered absolutely serious
and definite, but if I were ever to do anything definite--and the more
I talked with this bright-eyed and merry-hearted young lady the
stronger became the longing to say something definite--now was the
time to prepare the way for what I might do or say hereafter.

I was beginning to grow nervous, for the right thing to say would not
present itself, when Percy strode into the room. "Good-morning, Mrs.
Chester," said he, and then, turning to me, he declared that he had
been waiting in the yard, and began to think I might have forgotten I
had come for my wheel.

Of course I rose and she rose, and we followed Percy to the back door
of the house. Outside I saw that the boy of the inn was holding the
horse, and that the wheel was already placed in the back part of the
wagon.

"I've got everything all right, I think," said Percy. "I didn't
suppose it was necessary to wait for you, but you'd better take a look
at it to see if you think it will travel without rubbing or damaging
itself."

I stepped to the wagon and found that the bicycle was very well
placed. "Now, then," said Percy, taking the reins and mounting to his
seat, "all you've got to do is to get up, and we'll be off."

I turned to the back door, but she was not there. "Wait a minute,"
said I, and I hurried into the house. She was not in the hall. I
looked into the large room. She was not there. I went into the parlor,
and out upon the front porch. Then I went back into the house to seek
some one who might call her. I was even willing to avail myself of the
services of citric acid, for I could not leave that house without
speaking to her again.

In a moment Mrs. Chester appeared from some inner room. I believe she
suspected that I had something to say to her which had nothing to do
with the bear or the Larramies, for I had been conscious that my
speech had been a little rambling, as if I were earnestly thinking of
something else than what I was saying, and that she desired I should
be taken away without an opportunity to unburden my mind; but now,
hearing me tramping about and knowing that I was looking for her, she
was obliged to show herself.

As she came forward I noticed that her expression had changed
somewhat. There was nothing merry about her eyes; I think she was
slightly pale, and her brows were a little contracted, as if she were
doing something she did not want to do.

"I hope you found everything all right," she said.

I looked at her steadily. "No," said I, "everything is not all right."

A slight shade of anxiety came upon her face. "I am sorry to hear
that," she said. "Was your wheel injured more than you thought?"

"Wheel!" I exclaimed. "I was not thinking of wheels! I will tell you
what is not all right! It is not right for me to go away without
saying to you that I--"

At this moment there was a strong, shrill whistle from the front of
the house. A most unmistakable sense of relief showed itself upon
her face. She ran to the front door, and called out, "Yes, he is
coming."

[Illustration: "THE SCENE VIVIDLY RECURRED TO MY MIND"]

There was nothing for me to do but to follow her. I greatly disliked
going away without saying what I wanted to say, and I would have been
willing to speak even at the front door, but she gave me no chance.

"Good-bye," she said, extending her hand. It was gloved. It gave no
clasp--it invited none. As I could not say the words which were on my
tongue, I said nothing, and, raising my cap, I hurried away.

To make up for lost time, Percy drove very rapidly. "I came mighty
near having a fight while you were in the house," said he. "It was
that boy at the inn. He's a queer sort of a fellow, and awfully
impertinent. He was talking about you, and he wanted to know if the
bear had hurt you. He said he believed you were really afraid of the
beast, and only wanted to show off before the women.

"I stood up for you, and I told him about Edith's runaway, and then he
said, fair and square, that he didn't believe you stopped the horse.
He said he guessed my sister pulled him up herself, and that then you
came along and grabbed him and took all the credit. He said he
thought you were that sort of a fellow.

"That's the time I was going to pitch into him, but then I thought it
would be a pretty low-down thing for me to be fighting a country
tavern-boy, so I simply gave him my opinion of him. I don't believe
he'd have held the horse, only he thought it would make you get away
quicker. He hates you. Did you ever kick him or anything?"

I laughed, and, telling Percy that I had never kicked the boy, I
thanked him for his championship of me.




CHAPTER XIII

A MAN WITH A LETTER


When my unfortunate bicycle had been started on its way to Waterton, I
threw myself into the family life of the Larramies, determined not to
let them see any perturbations of mind which had been caused by the
extraordinary promptness of the younger son. If a man had gone with me
instead of that boy, I would have had every opportunity of saying what
I wanted to say to the mistress of the Holly Sprig. I may state that I
frequently found myself trying to determine what it was I wanted to
say.

I did my best to suppress all thoughts relating to things outside of
this most hospitable and friendly house. I went to see the bear with
the younger members of the family. I played four games of tennis, and
in the afternoon the whole family went to fish in a very pretty
mill-pond about a mile from the house. A good many fish were caught,
large and small, and not one of the female fishers, except Miss
Willoughby, the nervous young lady, and little Clara, would allow me
to take a fish from her hook. Even Mrs. Larramie said that if she
fished at all she thought she ought to do everything for herself, and
not depend upon other people.

As much as possible I tried to be with Mr. Larramie and Walter. I had
not the slightest distaste for the company of the ladies, but there
was a consciousness upon me that there were pleasant things in which a
man ought to restrict himself. There was nothing chronic about this
consciousness. It was on duty for this occasion only.

That night at the supper-table the conversation took a peculiar turn.
Mr. Larramie was the chief speaker, and it pleased him to hold forth
upon the merits of Mrs. Chester. He said, and his wife and others of
the company agreed with him, that she was a lady of peculiarly
estimable character; that she was out of place; that every one who
knew her well felt that she was out of place; but that she so graced
her position that she almost raised it to her level. Over and over
again her friends had said to her that a lady such as she was--still
young, of a good family, well educated, who had travelled, and moved
in excellent society--should not continue to be the landlady of a
country inn, but the advice of her friends had had no effect upon her.

It was not known whether it was necessary for her to continue the
inn-keeping business, but the general belief was that it was not
necessary. It was supposed that she had had money when she married
Godfrey Chester, and he was not a poor man.

Then came a strange revelation, which Mr. Larramie dwelt upon with
considerable earnestness. There was an idea, he said, that Mrs.
Chester kept up the Holly Sprig because she thought it would be her
husband's wish that she should do so. He had probably said something
about its being a provision for her in case of his death. At any rate,
she seemed desirous to maintain the establishment exactly as he had
ordered it in his life, making no change whatever, very much as if she
had expected him to come back, and wished him to find everything as he
had left it.

"Of course she doesn't expect him to come back," said Mr. Larramie,
"because it must now be four years since the time of his supposed
murder--"

"Supposed!" I cried, with much more excited interest than I would have
shown if I had taken proper thought before speaking.

"Well," said Mr. Larramie, "that is a fine point. I said 'supposed'
because the facts of the case are not definitely known. There can be
no reasonable doubt, however, that he is dead, for even if this fact
had not been conclusively proved by the police investigations, it
might now be considered proved by his continued absence. It would have
been impossible for Mr. Chester alive to keep away from his wife for
four years--they were devoted to each other. Furthermore, the exact
manner of his death is not known--although it must have been a
murder--and for these reasons I used the word 'supposed.' But, really,
so far as human judgment can go, the whole matter is a certainty. I
have not the slightest doubt in the world that Mrs. Chester so
considers it, and yet, as she does not positively know it--as she has
not the actual proofs that her husband is no longer living--she
refuses in certain ways, in certain ways only, to consider herself a
widow."

"And what ways are those?" I asked, in a voice which, I hope,
exhibited no undue emotion.

"She declines to marry again," said Mrs. Larramie, now taking up the
conversation. "Of course, such a pretty woman--I may say, such a
charming woman--would have admirers, and I know that she has had some
most excellent offers, but she has always refused to consider any of
them. There was one gentleman, a man of wealth and position, who had
proposed to her before she married Mr. Chester, who came on here to
offer himself again, but she cut off everything he had to say by
telling him that as she did not positively know that her husband was
not living, she could not allow a word of that sort to be said to her.
I know this, because she told me so herself."

There was a good deal more talk of the sort, and of course it
interested me greatly, although I tried not to show it, but I could
not help wondering why the subject had been brought forward in such an
impressive manner upon the present occasion. It seemed to me that
there was something personal in it--personal to me. Had that boy Percy
been making reports?

In the evening I found out all about it, and in a very straightforward
and direct fashion. I discovered Miss Edith by herself, and asked her
if all that talk about Mrs. Chester had been intended for my benefit,
and, if so, why.

She laughed. "I expected you to come and ask me about that," she said,
"for of course you could see through a good deal of it. It is all
father's kindness and goodness. Percy was a little out of temper when
he came back, and he spun a yarn about your being sweet on Mrs.
Chester, and how he could hardly get you away from her, and all that.
He had an idea that you wanted to go there and live, at least for the
summer. Something a boy said to him made him think that. So father
thought that if you had any notions about Mrs. Chester you ought to
have the matter placed properly before you without any delay, and I
expect his reason for mentioning it at the supper-table was that it
might then seem like a general subject of conversation, whereas it
would have been very pointed indeed if he had taken you apart and
talked to you about it."

"Indeed it would," said I. "And if you will allow me, I will say that
boys are unmitigated nuisances! If they are not hearing what they
ought not to hear, they are imagining what they ought not to
imagine--"

"And telling things that they ought not to tell," she added, with a
laugh.

"Which is an extremely bad thing," said I, "when there is nothing to
tell."

For the rest of that evening I was more lively than is my wont, for it
was a very easy thing to be lively in that family. I do not think I
gave any one reason to suppose that I was a man whose attention had
been called to a notice not to trespass.

As usual, I communed with myself before going to bed. Wherefore this
feeling of disappointment? What did it mean? Would I have said
anything of importance, of moment, to Mrs. Chester, if the boy Percy
had given me an opportunity? What would I have said? What could I have
said? I could see that she did not wish that I should say anything,
and now I knew the reason for it. It was all plain enough on her side.
Even if she had allowed herself any sort of emotion regarding me, she
did not wish me to indulge in anything of the land. But as for myself.
I could decide nothing about myself.

I smiled grimly as my eyes fell upon the little box of capsules. My
first thought was that I should take two of them, but then I shook my
head. "It would be utterly useless," I said; "they would do me no
good."

In the course of the next morning I found myself alone. I put on my
cap, lighted a pipe, and started down the flag walk to the gate. In a
few moments I heard running steps behind me, and, turning, I saw Miss
Edith. "Don't look cross," she said. "Were you going for a walk?"

I scouted the idea of crossness, and said that I had thought of taking
a stroll.

"That seems funny," said she, "for nobody in this house ever goes out
for a lonely walk. But you cannot go just yet. There's a man at the
back of the house with a letter for you."

"A letter!" I exclaimed. "Who in the world could have sent a letter to
me here?"

"The only way to find out," she answered, "is to go and see."

Under a tree at the back of the house I found a young negro man, very
warm and dusty, who handed me a letter, which, to my surprise, bore no
address. "How do you know this is for me?" said I.

He was a good-natured looking fellow. "Oh, I know it's for you, sir,"
said he. "They told me at the little tavern--the Holly something--that
I'd find you here. You're the gentleman that had a bicycle tire eat
up by a bear, ain't you?"

I admitted that I was, and still, without opening the letter, I asked
him, where it came from.

"That was given to me in New York, sir," said he, "by a Dago, one of
these I-talians. He gave me the money to go to Blackburn Station in
the cars, and then I walked over to the tavern. He said he thought I'd
find you there, sir. He told me just what sort of a lookin' man you
was, sir, and that letter is for you, and no mistake. He didn't know
your name, or he'd put it on."

"Oh, it is from the owner of the bear," said I.

"Yes, sir," said the man, "that's him. He did own a bear--he told
me--that eat up your tire."

I now tore open the blank envelope, and found it contained a letter on
a single sheet, and in this was a folded paper, very dirty. The letter
was apparently written in Italian, and had no signature. I ran my eye
along the opening lines, and soon found that it would be a very
difficult piece of business for me to read it. I was a fair French and
German scholar, but my knowledge of Italian was due entirely to its
relationship with Latin. I told the man to rest himself somewhere, and
went to the house, and, finding Miss Edith, I informed her that I had
a letter from the bear man, and asked her if she could read Italian.

"I studied the language at school," she said, "but I have not
practised much. However, let us go into the library--there is a
dictionary there--and perhaps we can spell it out."

We spread the open sheet upon the library-table, and laid the folded
paper near by, and, sitting side by side, with a dictionary before us,
we went to work. It was very hard work.

"I think," said my companion, after ten minutes' application, "that
the man who sent you this letter writes Italian about as badly as we
read it. I think I could decipher the meaning of his words if I knew
what letters those funny scratches were intended to represent. But let
us stick to it. After a while we may get a little used to the writing,
and I must admit that I have a curiosity to know what the man has to
say about his bear."

After a time the work became easier. Miss Edith possessed an acuteness
of perception which enabled her to decipher almost illegible words by
comparing them with others which were better written. We were at last
enabled to translate the letter. The substance of it was as follows:

The writer came to New York on a ship. There was a man on the ship,
an Italian man, who was very wicked. He did very wicked things to the
writer. When he got to New York he kept on being wicked. He was so
wicked that the writer made up his mind to kill him. He waited for him
one night for two hours.

[Illustration: DECIPHERING THE DAGO'S LETTERS]

At last the moment came. It was very dark, and the victim came,
walking fast. The avenger sprang from a door-way and plunged his knife
into the back of the victim. The man fell, and the moment he fell the
writer of the letter knew that he was not the man he had intended to
kill. The wicked man would not have been killed so easily. He turned
over the man. He was dead. His eyes were used to the darkness, and he
could see that he was the wrong man.

The coat of the murdered man had fallen open, and a paper showed
itself in an inside pocket. The Italian waited only long enough to
snatch this paper. He wanted to have something which had belonged to
that poor, wrongly murdered man. After that he heard no more about the
great mistake he had committed. He could not read the newspapers, and
he asked nobody any questions. He put the paper away and kept it. He
often thought he ought to burn the paper, but he did not do it. He was
afraid. The paper had a name on it, and he was sure it was the name
of the man he had killed. He thought as long as he kept the paper
there was a chance for his forgiveness.

This was all four years ago. He worked hard, and after a while he
bought a bear. When his bear ate up the India-rubber on my bicycle he
was very much frightened, for he was afraid he might be sent to
prison. But that was not the fright that made him run away.

When he talked to the boy and asked him the name of the keeper of the
inn, and the boy told him what it was, the earth seemed to open and he
saw hell. The name was the name that was on the paper he had taken
from the man he had killed by mistake, and this was his wife whose
house he was staying at. He was seized with such a horror and such a
fear that everything might be found out, and that he would be
arrested, that he ran away to the railroad and took a train for New
York.

He did not want his bear. He did not want to be known as the man who
had been going about with a bear. One thing he wanted, and that was to
get back to Italy, where he would be safe. He was going back very soon
in a ship. He had changed his name. He could not be found any more.
But he knew his soul would never have any peace if he did not send
the paper to the wife of the man he had made a mistake about. But he
could not write a letter to her, so he sent it to me, for me to give
her the paper and to tell her what he had written in the letter. He
left America forever. Nobody in this country would ever see him again.
He was gone. He was lost to all people in this country, but his soul
felt better now that he had done that which would make the lady whose
husband he had killed know how it had happened. The bear he would give
to her. That was all that he could do for her.

There was no formal close to the letter; the writer had said what he
had to say and stopped.

Miss Edith and I looked at each other. Her eyes had grown large and
bright. "Now, shall we examine the paper?"

"I do not know that we have a right to do so," I said. I know my voice
was trembling, for I was very much agitated. "That belongs to--to
her!"

"I think," said Miss Edith, "that we ought to look at it. It is merely
a folded paper. I do not think we ought to thrust information upon
Mrs. Chester without knowing what it is. Perhaps the man made a
mistake in the name. We may do a great deal of mischief if we do not
know exactly what we are about." And so saying she took the paper and
opened it.

It was nothing but a grocery bill, but it was made out to--Godfrey
Chester, Dr. Evidently it was for goods supplied to the inn. It was
receipted.

For a few moments I said nothing, and then I exclaimed, in tones which
made my companion gaze very earnestly at me: "I must go to her
immediately! I must take these papers! She must know everything!"

"Excuse me," said Miss Edith, "but don't you think that something
ought to be done about apprehending this man--this Italian? Let us go
and question his messenger." We went out together, she carrying,
tightly clasped, both the letter and the bill.

The black man could tell us very little. An Italian he had never seen
before had given him the letter to take to Holly Sprig Inn, and give
to the gentleman who had had his tire eaten by a bear. If the
gentleman was not there, he was to ask to have it sent to him. That
was everything he knew.

"Did the Italian give you money to go back with?" asked Miss Edith,
and the man rather reluctantly admitted that he did.

"Well, you can keep that for yourself," said she, "and we'll pay your
passage back. But we would like you to wait here for a while. There
may be some sort of an answer."

The man laughed. "'Taint no use sendin' no answer," said he; "I
couldn't find that Dago again. They're all so much alike. He said he
was goin' away on a ship. You see it was yesterday he gave me that
letter. I 'spect he'll be a long way out to sea before I get back,
even if I did know who he was and what ship he was goin' on. But if
you want me to wait, I don't mind waitin'."

"Very good," said Miss Edith; "you can go into the kitchen and have
something to eat." And, calling a maid, she gave orders for the man's
entertainment.

"Now," said she, turning to me, "let us take a walk through the
orchard. I want to talk to you."

"No," said I, "I can't talk at present. I must go immediately to the
inn with those papers. It is right that not a moment should be lost in
delivering this most momentous message which has been intrusted to
me."

"But I must speak to you first," said she, and she walked rapidly
towards the orchard. As she still held the papers in her hand, I was
obliged to follow her.




CHAPTER XIV

MISS EDITH IS DISAPPOINTED


As soon as we had begun to walk under the apple-trees she turned to me
and said: "I don't think you ought to take this letter and the bill to
Mrs. Chester. It would not be right. There would be something cruel
about it."

"What do you mean?" I exclaimed.

"Of course I do not know exactly the state of the case," she answered,
"but I will tell you what I think about it as far as I know. You must
not be offended at what I say. If I am a friend to anybody--and I
would be ashamed if I were not a friend to you--I must tell him just
what I think about things, and this is what I think about this thing:
I ought to take these papers to Mrs. Chester. I know her well enough,
and it is a woman who ought to go to her at such a time."

"That message was intrusted to me," I said. "Of course it was," she
answered, "but the bear man did not know what he was doing. He did not
understand the circumstances."

[Illustration: "'I DON'T THINK YOU OUGHT TO TAKE THIS LETTER'"]

"What circumstances?" I asked.

She gave me a look as if she were going to take aim at me and wanted
to be sure of my position. Then she said: "Percy told us he thought
you were courting Mrs. Chester. That was pure impertinence on his
part, and perhaps what father said at the table was impertinence too,
but I know he said it because he thought there might be something in
Percy's chatter, and that you ought to understand how things stood.
Now, you may think it impertinence on my part if you choose, but it
really does seem to me that you are very much interested in Mrs.
Chester. Didn't you intend to walk down to the Holly Sprig when you
were starting out by yourself this morning?"

"Yes," said I, "I did."

"I thought so," she replied. "That, of course, was your own business,
and what father said about her being unwilling to marry again need not
have made any difference to you if you had chosen not to mind it. But
now, don't you think, if you look at the matter fairly and squarely,
it would be pretty hard on Mrs. Chester if you were to go down to her
and make her understand that she really is a widow, and that now she
is free to listen to you if you want to say anything to her? This may
sound a little hard and cruel, but don't you think it is the way she
would have to look at it?"

She stopped as she spoke, and I turned and stood silent, looking at
her.

"My first thought was," she said, "to advise you to tell father about
all this, and take his advice about telling her, but I don't think you
would like that. Now, would you like that?"

"No," I answered, "I certainly would not."

"And don't you really think I ought to go to her with the message, and
then come back and tell you how she took it and what she said?"

For nearly a minute I did not speak, but I knew she was right, and at
last I admitted it.

"I am glad to hear you say so!" she exclaimed. "As soon as dinner is
over I shall drive to the Holly Sprig."

We still walked on, and she proposed that we should go to the top of a
hill beyond the orchard, where there was a pretty view.

"You may think me a strange sort of a girl," she said, presently, "but
I can't help it. I suppose I am strange. I have often thought I would
like very much to talk freely and honestly with a man about the
reasons which people have for falling in love with each other. Of
course I could not ask my father or brother, because they would simply
laugh at me and tell me that falling in love was very much like the
springing up of weeds--generally without reason and often
objectionable. But you would be more likely to tell me something which
would be of advantage to me in my studies."

"Your studies!" I exclaimed. "What in the world are you studying?"

"Well, I am studying human nature--not as a whole, of course, that's
too large a subject, but certain phases of it--and I particularly want
to know why such queer people come together and get married. Now I
have great advantages in such a study, much greater than most girls
have."

"What are they?" I asked.

"The principal one is that I never intend to marry. I made up my mind
to that a good while ago. There is a great deal of work that I want to
do in this world, and I could not do it properly if I were tied to a
man. I would either have to submit myself to his ways, or he would
have to submit himself to my ways, and that would not suit me. In the
one case I should not respect him, and in the other I should not
respect myself."

"But suppose," said I, "you should meet a man who should be in perfect
harmony with you in all important points?"

"Ah," she said, "that sort of thing never happens. You might as well
expect to pick up two pebbles exactly alike. I don't believe in it.
But if at any time during the rest of my life you show me any examples
of such harmony, I will change my opinions. I believe that if I can
wait long enough, society will catch up with me. Everything looks that
way to me."

"It may be that you are right," I answered. "Society is getting on
famously. But what is it you want to ask me?"

"Simply this," she replied. "What is it which interests you so much in
Mrs. Chester?"

I looked at her in astonishment. "Truly," I exclaimed, "that is a
remarkable question."

"I know it," she replied, "and I suppose you are saying to yourself,
'Here is a girl who has known me less than three days, and yet she
asks me to tell her about my feeling towards another woman.' But,
really, it seems to me that as you have not known that other woman
three days, as much friendship and confidence might spring up in the
one case as affection in the other."

"Affection!" said I. "Have I said anything about affection?"

"No, you have not," she replied; "and if there isn't any affection, of
course that ends this special study on my part."

We reached the top of the hill, but I forgot to look out upon the
view. "I think you are a strange girl," I said, "but I like you, and I
have a mind to try to answer your question. I have not been able quite
to satisfy myself about my feelings towards Mrs. Chester, but now I
think I can say that I have an affection for her."

"Good!" she exclaimed. "I like that! That is an honest answer if ever
there was one. But tell me why it is that you have an affection for
her. It must have been almost a case of love at first sight."

"It isn't easy to give reasons for such feelings," I said. "They
spring up, as your father would say, very much like weeds."

"Indeed they do," she interpolated; "sometimes they grow in the middle
of a gravel path where they cannot expect to be allowed to stay."

I reflected a moment. "I don't mind talking about these things to
you," I said. "It seems almost like talking to myself."

"That is a compliment I appreciate," she said. "And now go on. Why do
you care for her?"

"Well," said I, "in the first place, she is very handsome. Don't you
think so?"

"Oh yes! In fact, I think she is almost what might be called exactly
beautiful."

"Then she has such charming manners," I continued. "And she is so
sensible--although you may not think I had much chance to find out
that. Moreover, there is a certain sympathetic cordiality about her--"