"You don't know the Beldens. My girl's character will be on trial in every house in the county to-morrow. The Belden side of it will appear in the city papers. Sympathy will be with Clifford. Berrie will be made an issue by my enemies. They'll get me through her." "Good Lord!" exclaimed Norcross, in sudden realization of the gravity of the case. "What beasts they are!" "Moore's gang will seize upon it and work it hard," McFarlane went on, with calm insistence. "They want to bring the district forester down on me. This is a fine chance to badger me. They will make a great deal of my putting you on the roll. Our little camping trip is likely to prove a serious matter to us all." "Surely you don't consider me at fault?" Worried as he was, the father was just. "No, you're not to blame--no one is to blame. It all dates back to the horses quitting camp; but you've got to stand pat now--for Berrie's sake." "But what can I do? I'm at your service. What rôle shall I play? Tell me what to do, and I will do it." McFarlane was staggered, but he answered: "You can at least stay on the ground and help fight. This is no time to stampede." "You're right. I'll stay, and I'll make any statement you see fit. I'll do anything that will protect Berrie." McFarlane again looked him squarely in the eyes. "Is there a--an agreement between you?" "Nothing formal--that is--I mean I admire her, and I told her--" He stopped, feeling himself on the verge of the irrevocable. "She's a splendid girl," he went on. "I like her exceedingly, but I've known her only a few weeks." McFarlane interrupted. "Girls are flighty critters," he said, sadly. "I don't know why she's taken to you so terrible strong; but she has. She don't seem to care what people say so long as they do not blame you; but if you should pull out you might just as well cut her heart to pieces--" His voice broke, and it was a long time before he could finish. "You're not at fault, I know that, but if you _can_ stay on a little while and make it an ounce or two easier for her and for her mother, I wish you'd do it." Wayland extended his hand impulsively. "Of course I'll stay. I never really thought of leaving." In the grip of McFarlane's hand was something warm and tender. He rose. "I'm terribly obliged," he said; "but we mustn't let her suspect for a minute that we've been discussing her. She hates being pitied or helped." "She shall not experience a moment's uneasiness that I can prevent," replied the youth; and at the moment he meant it. Berrie could not be entirely deceived. She read in her father's face a subtle change of line which she related to something Wayland had said. "Did he tell you what was in the telegram? Has he got to go away?" she asked, anxiously. "Yes, he said it was from his father." "What does his father want of him?" "He's on his way to California and wants Wayland to go with him; but Wayland says he's not going."