"Yes; they had scarcely led your horse to the stable when he rode up to make inquiries; but papa, pretending to fly into a rage, cried out that if he ever spoke to him again or crossed his door he would have him ducked in the river for harassing you so"; and her face lighted at the recollection as if the remembrance pleased her greatly. "What did Moth do then?" "Oh, he took it in good part, saying he did not expect help, and that what he wanted was for your good, however others might view it. After lingering about the town for a few days he went away, believing, we think, that you had not come to Appletop; for no one except those we trust know you are here." "That’s good, and I hope it is the end of him," I answered, feeling much relieved. "We think it is, for unless he has left some one to spy about, how will he ever find out you are here?" she added, as if to clinch the matter. This mention filled me with new apprehension, for I thought it just like Moth’s cunning to leave a spy behind. I said nothing to Constance, however, for it would do no good, and rather than disturb her I would have faced a hundred Moths, such was the tenderness I felt for her. One day not long afterward, when we sat looking across into the park, she suddenly turned to me, saying: "You have never asked about your friend Fox, Gilbert?" "Fox!" I answered, startled out of myself; for how could she know anything about that strange man, half robber, half priest. "Who told you about him?" "He came here to ask about you." "About me?’ "Yes; late one night a man rode up to the door and called for your Uncle Job, and when he went out, Fox was there. He told how you and he escaped from the jail, adding that he had greatly blamed himself for letting you go off alone that night." "That was kind of him," I answered, glad to have been remembered, though Fox was an outlaw and cast-off, and thought to be altogether bad. "Yes; and when your uncle told him of your illness, he was greatly distressed, and afterward kept coming to make inquiries till the doctor said you were out of danger. At last, when he went away, he asked your uncle to tell you that though he had taken Moth’s horse, he had returned it to the owner, adding, as if to make light of what he had done, that the horse was a poor thing, anyway, and not worth keeping." "That was fine of him, and to send word, too. He is no more a robber, though, than I am, only he has got into a loose way of living and there is no chance for him to quit, I am afraid. I only wish he lived in Appletop," I added. "Why?"