"Oh, he was berrying, I suppose, and I happened to overtake him on the trail, I had been down the river making a sketch of Yelm Jim, fishing, and Lem had gone home without me. I noticed the bear moving ahead of me towards the creek, but I thought he was just a great pig until he lumbered around to look at me. And the moment I caught his profile, you may be sure I turned and went flying back to the river, on over the log where I had left the old chief—he gave me right of way—and into the midst of the Laramie barn-raising. ’Come, quick,’ I said, ’I have seen a bear.’ And they all came; two had guns. But he was gone; he hadn’t left a track, and I found myself, suddenly, standing there under the scrutiny of the whole settlement. It was only my second week, then, and teachers, up the Nisqually, are more unusual than bears." But the amusement went out of Forrest’s face. "You should have at least the security of a good horse. You must take Colonel. I can’t use him at the new mills," he explained quickly, "and I don’t want to sell him. He never knew another master. Will you keep him while I stay at Freeport?" "I keep Colonel? Oh, there’s nothing I should like better; nothing. You are the best, the most generous man I ever knew." She leaned a little towards him, all delight, eagerness, charm. "I can’t ever hope to repay you, Paul, but I’d be glad of the opportunity to do anything—anything in the world—for you." "I wish I could be sure of that. See here,"—his voice deepened and shook,—"I don’t ask you to come to Freeport, or anywhere, until I can offer you something worth while, only—if you care enough for me to wait for me, Alice—tell me so." She drew back; the delight went out of her face; she rose in consternation to her feet. "You," she faltered. "You— Oh, what made you, Paul? What made you?" "How could I help it?" He, too, rose and stood looking down into her flushed face. "I always have loved you, Alice,—don’t you know it?—even when you were a small girl and I carried your books to school. Once I was late and you came up the road to meet me.—Don’t you remember?—It was my last year at the Academy, when you were twelve. You were reading your first Waverley novel, and you told me that morning, some day your knight would come riding down the ridge. I never forgot. I was the better horseman for it. Long afterwards, when I bought Colonel, I thought of it. I always meant to be that knight." He smiled, half ashamed of that boyish dream, but she drew herself straight and turned her eyes again to the tower. "You," she said, "whom I have known my whole life through." "Yes, does that count so much against me?" "I’m so sorry. You’ve been the best friend I ever had; the one I could always depend on. Oh, I wish—I wish it hadn’t happened."