The youth's frank words and his sympathetic voice disarmed McFarlane completely. Even the slight resentment he felt melted away. "It's no use saying _if_," he remarked, at length. "What we've got to meet is Seth Belden's report--Berrie has cut loose from Cliff, and he's red-headed already. When he drops onto this story, when he learns that I had to chase back after the horses, and that you and Berrie were alone together for three days, he'll have a fine club to swing, and he'll swing it; and Alec will help him. They're all waiting a chance to get me, and they're mean enough to get me through my girl." "What can I do?" asked Wayland. McFarlane pondered. "I'll try to head off Marm Belden, and I'll have a talk with Moore. He's a pretty reasonable chap." "But you forget there's another tale-bearer. Moore's daughter is with them." "That's so. I'd forgotten her. Good Lord! we are in for it. There's no use trying to cover anything up." Here was the place for Norcross to speak up and say: "Never mind, I'm going to ask Berrie to be my wife." But he couldn't do it. Something rose in his throat which prevented speech. A strange repugnance, a kind of sullen resentment at being forced into a declaration, kept him silent, and McFarlane, disappointed, wondering and hurt, kept silence also. Norcross was the first to speak. "Of course those who know your daughter will not listen for an instant to the story of an unclean old thing like Mrs. Belden." "I'm not so sure about that," replied the father, gloomily. "People always listen to such stories, and a girl always gets the worst of a situation like this. Berrie's been brought up to take care of herself, and she's kept clear of criticism so far; but with Cliff on edge and this old rip snooping around--" His mind suddenly changed. "Your being the son of a rich man won't help any. Why didn't you tell me who you were?" "I didn't think it necessary. What difference does it make? I have nothing to do with my father's business. His notions of forest speculation are not mine." "It would have made a difference with me, and it might have made a difference with Berrie. She mightn't have been so free with you at the start, if she'd known who you were. You looked sick and kind of lonesome, and that worked on her sympathy." "I _was_ sick and I was lonesome, and she has been very sweet and lovely to me, and it breaks my heart to think that her kindness and your friendship should bring all this trouble and suspicion upon her. Let's go up to the Moore camp and have it out with them. I'll make any statement you think best." "I reckon the less said about it the better," responded the older man. "I'm going up to the camp, but not to talk about my daughter." "How can you help it? They'll force the topic."