Then he remembered that if he would secure the daughter he must meet her mother,—once his wife. Could he do it, stained with sin as he was, and to find whom every foot in the valley had been gone over. There were placards out now he was sure in San Francisco and Stockton, offering thousands of dollars for his capture and that of his confederate. He had seen them before, and with Tom had stopped and read them, but never with a feeling that it was really himself that was meant. It had always been somebody else. Now it _was_ himself,—Mark Hilton,—who was wanted, and he could not meet Helen face to face. It was true she would not know the depths to which he had fallen. She would only be surprised to find him alive and very low down in the scale from what he was when she called him her husband. He could bear her look of proud disdain after her first fright was over, but, knowing himself as he did, he feared he could not meet her without betraying himself in some way. Tom could do it, and Tom must go. But Tom refused outright, and Mark was nearly beside himself. As the morning wore on Inez grew more and more restless, asking for Fanny and if she had come and if they had sent for her. About noon the doctor came and found her fever so high that he said to Mr. Hilton, “If that young lady can come she may save your daughter’s life.” Mark could hesitate no longer. “I am going for Fanny,” he said to Inez, “and will certainly bring her back.” He found the hotel full of excited people, all talking of the hold up of the previous day and all inquiring for Inez, of whose serious illness they had heard when the morning stage from the valley came in. He was told that Mrs. Prescott was in her room, but Fanny had gone with a party to visit the big trees. “I am not a card man now,” he thought, as he said to a servant, “Tell Mrs. Prescott that Mr. Rayborne wishes to see her,” and then sat down to try to quiet his nerves which tingled as if red hot lead was pouring through them. It was years since he parted from Helen in bitter anger, but he was not thinking of that time now. His thoughts were back in Ridgefield and the summer morning when he saw her on the north piazza and fell under the spell of her wonderful eyes. He could see the mischief in them now as they had looked when she said to Uncle Zach “Which is Mark and which is Craig? You did not tell me.” He could see Craig dropping his straw into his tumbler of lemonade as he sprang up to meet her and himself knocking his head against Craig’s as each seized the same chair for her. He remembered, too, the rose in her ribbons and knew that somewhere among his belongings the faded leaves and dried calyx were hidden away. It was strange how every detail of that morning came back to him as he sat waiting the return of the servant, who, when he came, said to him, “The lady will see you. Second floor, No. —, to the right.” CHAPTER XI. MARK AND HELEN.