The answer to Durgan's question, "Why I?" was obviously, "There is no one else." He felt disposed to consider the reason inconclusive till, lying awake that night, he had watched many stars set, one by one, over the purple heights. Thus pondering, he admitted that he was already in a measure Bertha's protector. However inexplicable the circumstance which had given him this office, he could not rid himself of its responsibility. He did not greatly blame young Blount's lack of chivalry in silently hearing the girl's name taken in vain. Still less did he use the word "duty" of his own intention. He only grew more conscious that, forlorn as his present state was, he had stumbled into a useful relation to this radiant and kindly fellow-creature. When the next day was declining and Durgan, having dismissed his negroes, was preparing his evening meal, he heard Bertha's step on the narrow trail that, hidden in rocks and shrubs, led from the summit. She paused on a ledge that overlooked his platform, and, holding with one arm to a young fir tree, lowered a basket on the crook of her mountain staff. Framed in a thicket of silver azalea buds, strong and beautiful as a sylvan nymph, she looked down at him, dangling her burden and laughing. "Pudding!" said she in oracular tone. "For me?" "Pie!" said she. He lifted a vain hand for what was still above his reach. Then she lowered the staff with an air of resigned benevolence. "Pudding and pie. But you don't deserve them, for you were too proud to come to supper, even when I invited you." "You must remember that to be worthy of my hire I grow stiff by sundown." She was looking at him now with grave attention. "Have you got a looking-glass?" she asked. He raised his eyebrows in whimsical alarm. "If not, you may not have observed how very thin you are growing. Do not kill yourself for hire." "I shall batten on pudding." She was retracing her steps when he recalled her. "Will you pardon a word of warning?" She instantly descended the remainder of the path. It led her round a clump of shrubs, and when he met her at its foot he was startled at the change the moment's suspense had worked. She now wore the face of terror he had seen when he caught her guarding his door in the April dawn. So surprised was he that his speech halted. She was probably not at all aware of her pallor or dilated eyes. "I am not alarmed," she said. "What is it?" But her breath came quick. "I must apologize for what may seem an impertinence. I had a little daughter once, and I sometimes think if she had lived she would have looked like you--let that be my excuse." "Thank you, indeed; but what----" She almost tapped her foot in strained impatience. Then he told her, in guarded terms, that someone had suggested that young Godson did not understand his inferior position.