"I think you acted on a mad impulse. But that's not what's sticking in my crop. I can understand that, but why did you try to get me to run away and confirm Homer Steeves' suspicion before you told me the truth?" She gazed at him with many and conflicting expressions in her remarkable eyes--amazement, protest, appeal, anxiety, scorn, doubt, and a gleam of something unutterably tender and kind. Then she suddenly turned from him, sobbing. "Now ye done it, Jim!" exclaimed Grandfather Ducat from the stove. "Ye're comin' along, lad! Ye're the only young man I see yet could make Flora cry." Jim lit a cigarette and joined the old men. Flora dried her eyes, put the dishes away on the dresser shelves and went upstairs. Jim and the grandfathers played three-handed cribbage until ten o'clock, and the girl did not reappear once during that time. The old men retired at last, leaving Jim to bank the fire and wind the clock. Jim had no intention of going to bed that night. He was determined to see Flora and speak to her again before his flight. He owed this to her as well as to himself. He must know what she had meant by the look he had seen in her eyes, and he had to give her a chance to thank him for the very serious sacrifice he was about to make for her sake. Also, his heart was set on telling her once more that he thought none the less of her for the mad thing she had done. He sat by the fire, extinguished the lamp, and smoked a cigarette. He considered the disastrous situation from many angles, but not for a moment did he consider the advisability of standing his ground and stating his innocence and leaving the solving of Flora's problem to herself and the law. He didn't give that course a moment's thought, for Flora was a girl, and all the Ducats were his friends. He smoked two cigarettes, waiting and listening in the dark, angry and depressed and helpless. At last he fell asleep, despite his determination to remain awake and interview the girl. He sat up with a jerk and opened his eyes. A gray hint of light was at the eastern windows. The fire was burning and a kettle was steaming on the stove. Flora had been here and had put on the kettle for him. His heart lightened. He lit the lamp at his elbow and looked around the kitchen. He was alone. But perhaps she would be down again? Of course she would be down again! But a glance at the table took the edge off that hope. There lay a sheet of white paper marked with penciled lines, the points of the compass and a dozen words of instruction. A small pocket-compass held it down. About these were clustered dishes, the teapot, cream, bread and butter, sliced cold ham, and a jar of strawberry preserves. On the end of the big table lay his rifle and a large pack made up of a bag of provisions and a roll of heavy blankets. "Here's you hat: what's your hurry?" said Jim, bitterly.