It was that season in the summer when, in regions remote from fields of harvest, time itself stands still. Nothing is doing in the wild wood. Each young thing is fledged and flown, or, strong in its coat of fur, is off and away; the flower of the season is passed, the berry hangs green on the bush. The panting trees of the valleys speak to the trees of the mountains, telling them, in hot, dry whispers, to look out for the autumn that comes from afar. Only sometimes, in the morning on the hilltops, a courier comes from the season that tarries. With feet that trip on the nodding weeds, and a voice singing in the fluttering trees, and a smile that speaks in a bluer sky, the unseen courier of autumn comes and goes. The hearts of men and beasts are excited, they know not why, and the berry and the grape and the tender leaf turn red. Such was the weather in which the time of waiting passed. Within two days Bertha passed down the road twice on village errands. Her horse each time loitered as it passed the mine until Durgan at last went out and walked a few steps by her bridle. He was afraid to talk with her lest he should say more, or less, or something quite different from what he would wish to say. But Bertha would speak. "Mr. Durgan, are you still quite sure? I cannot tell you how you have lightened my heart, but I must hear it again. It came to you freshly the other night; after thinking it over, are you still quite sure?" "Of what?" he asked. He could not think of anything connected with Bertha's misfortunes of which he was sure at all. "That it could not have been as I thought--that my dear sister----" "Your sister has no mental weakness; and she did not commit that crime," he said almost sharply. "If that is what you mean, I am as sure of it as that I stand here." "Don't be angry with me. You speak so severely. But I can't tell you how I like to hear you say it." "It was a bugbear of your own imagination, and I feel angry with you when I think of it. And if you take my advice you will never, never, under any circumstances, let her, or anyone else, know that you thought such a thing." "I would rather tell her all about it sometime. She would forgive it." "I dare say she would." Durgan spoke bitterly. "I don't know what forgiveness in such a case is; but no doubt, whatever it is, it would cost her more than you can conceive. She would give it to you; but you are a child if you think that she would ever recover from the wound of such knowledge. God may put such things right in the next life, but never in this. That, at least, is my opinion." "I am offended with you," she said. She was looking very well that day. Her blue cotton riding-dress and blue sun-bonnet well displayed the warm color and youthful contour of her face. There was a peace in her eyes, too, that he had never seen there before. "I wanted to tell you something else, but you have made me angry." "Forgive me, then. It is so easy." There was sarcasm in his voice.