At the time of the accident to the binder, when Elizabeth knelt, broken with exhaustion and terror, looking at the man she loved who lay under the mass of machinery with the colour of death upon him, no one but a blind man could have mistaken the utter abandonment of her grief, and certainly of all men Luther was not blind. Now he recognized the heartache back of Elizabeth's question and with an instinct to cheer was almost persuaded to answer in the negative. In his heart he thought Hugh would die. The rapidly failing strength of the man indicated that he would do so unless something came to buoy him up. "I don't know, Lizzie," he added, as if squaring his conscience, "he looks so weak and troubled like." Luther realized the moment it was out of his mouth that he had said the wrong thing. Elizabeth's lips grew white and she held her breath a moment as if preparing to accept what she knew must be the truth. "Lizzie," asked Luther gently, "would you like to talk to me about it?" The girl's face tensed strangely and her quivering lips refused to do her bidding for a full minute, the relief was so great. "I--I came out for that," she said simply when she could speak. "It's so good of you to understand and make it easy for me. I'll walk over toward home with you." They walked slowly through the barnyard, across the creek, and over the pleasant pasture land. Neither spoke. Elizabeth, now that she had decided to talk to Luther about the circumstances with which she contended, could not bring herself readily to do so. Luther had always the insight of true wisdom, which let others gauge their own inclinations. When they came to the fence which was the boundary line between Luther's and John Hunter's farms, they stopped. There was a line of willow trees running at intervals down the fence, and Luther waved his hand in the direction of a shady spot beside them. "Set down, Lizzie," he said, seating himself half-facing her. Elizabeth Hunter crumpled up on the grass with her back against a fence post, and thought while Luther got out his knife and looked for something to whittle. "Tell me about it," he said at last. "You want to--and--and I'm a safe person." She looked up at him, glad that he had assumed it, and smoothed the path to confession. "I know you're safe, Luther. You're more than that, God bless you!" And to this man whom she had always trusted Elizabeth poured out all her fears, her feelings, and her frantic cry for help. "I've had no one to talk to, Luther," she ended, "and I don't believe a human being can go on always and not put things into words." They talked on and on. Having started, she let him see the consuming struggle between right and wrong which she waged every day. "Doctor Morgan says, 'Cheer him up! Cheer him up,' and what am I to do?" she closed in desperation.