Miss Harlan was enjoying herself. She was enjoying herself despite the shadow of the tragedy that had almost descended upon her. And mirth, routing the bitter, resentful emotions that had dwelt in her heart during the night, twitched mightily at her lips and threatened to curve them into a smile. For during her last visit to the Arrow she had noted particularly that it had been Taylor’s _right_ ankle which had been bandaged, and now he appeared before her with the _left_ swathed in white cloth! But even had she not known, Taylor’s face must have told her of the deception. For there was guilt in his eyes, and doubt, and a sort of breathless speculation, and—she was certain—an intense curiosity to discover whether or not she was aware of the trick. But she looked straight at him, betraying nothing of the emotions that had seized her. “Does it pain you _very_ much?” she inquired. Had not Taylor been so eager to make his case strong, he might have noted the exceedingly light sarcasm of her voice. “It hurts a heap, ma’am,” he declared. “Why, last night——” “I shouldn’t think it would be necessary to lie about an ankle,” she said, coldly. Taylor’s face went crimson, and in his astonishment he stepped heavily upon the traitor foot and stood, convicted, before her, looking very much like a reproved schoolboy. She rose from her chair, and now she turned from Taylor and stood looking out over the big level, while behind her Taylor shifted his feet, scowled and felt decidedly uncomfortable. From where Taylor watched her she looked very rigid and indignant—with her head proudly erect and her shoulders squared; and he could almost _feel_ that her eyes were flashing with resentment. Yet had he been able to see her face, he would have seen her lips twitching and her eyes dancing with a light that might have puzzled him. For she had already forgiven him. “There’s lies—_and_ lies,” he offered palliatively, breaking a painful silence. There was no answer, and Taylor, desperately in earnest in his desire for forgiveness, and looking decidedly funny to Bud Hemmingway, who was watching from the interior of the room beyond the open door, walked across the porch with no suspicion of a limp, and halted near the girl. “Shucks, Miss Harlan,” he said. “I’m sure caught; and I’m admitting it was a sort of mean trick to pull off on you. But if you wanted to be near a girl you’d taken a shine to—that you liked a whole lot, I mean, Miss Harlan—and you couldn’t think of any _good_ excuse to be around her? You couldn’t blame a man for that—could you? Besides,” he added, when peering at the side of her face, he saw the twitching lips, ready to break into a smile, “I’ll make it up to you!” “How?” It was a strained voice that answered him. “By manhandling Bud Hemmingway for wrapping up the wrong ankle, ma’am!” he declared. Both heard a cackle of mirth from the room behind them. And both turned, to see Bud Hemmingway retreating through a door into the kitchen.