"Did you meet her goin' out?" he asked. "Did I meet who, Creed?" inquired Judith, setting the bowl down on a splint-bottomed chair, spreading a clean towel across the quilts, and preparing for his breakfast. "Has there been somebody in here to see you a'ready?" "It was only Huldah," deprecated Creed. "You said--you asked--and she just slipped in a minute after you went out." Judith straightened up with so sudden a movement that the chair rocked and the contents of the bowl slopped dangerously. "Which way did she go?" came the sharp challenge. "Out that door," indicating with an air of childlike alarm the front way which led directly into the yard. Judith ran and flung it open. Nobody was in sight. Heedless of the sharp wintry air that blew in upon the patient, she stood searching the way over toward Jim Cal's cabin. "I don't see her," she called across her shoulder. "Mebbe she's in the house yet." She closed the door reluctantly and came back to the bedside. "No," said Creed plaintively, lifting a doubtful hand to his confused head, "she ain't here. She allowed you-all were mad at her, and I reckon she'll keep out of sight." "But she had to come to see you--her wedded husband," accused Judith sternly. He nodded mutely with a motion of assent. He seemed to hope that the admission would please Judith. The broth stood untouched, cooling on the chair. "Is she stayin' down at Jim Cal's?" came Judith's next question. "She never named it to me where she was stayin'," returned Creed wearily. As before, Judith's ill-concealed anger and hostility was as a sword of destruction to him; yet now he had more strength to endure with. "She just come--and now she's gone." He closed his eyes, and leaned his head back among his pillows. The white face looked so sunken that Judith's heart misgave her. "Won't you eat your breakfast now, Mr. Bonbright?" she said stiffly. "I don't want any breakfast, thank you. I can't eat," returned Creed very low. Judith pressed her lips hard together to refrain from mentioning Huldah again. She knew that she had injured Creed, yet for the life of her she could not get out one word of kindness. Finally she took her mending and sat down within sight of the bed, deceiving herself into the belief that he slept. The next day an almost identical scene pushed Judith's strained nerves to the verge of hysteria. In the afternoon when the old man came to relieve her he returned almost immediately from the sick-room, called her downstairs once more, and complained of Creed's progress. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Look like somethin' has went wrong here right lately. Ever sence you got that fool notion in yo' head that Creed and Huldy was man and wife, he's been goin' down in his mind about as fast as his stren'th come up. The best thing you can do is to put it out of yo' head."