"It's odd," she murmured once, "but we did seem so--so congenial. I can't remember when my brain has been so quick to catch a thought or supplement one. Have you ever wondered, Miriam, why we--we can't seem to marry one who brings out the best in us, like that?" "Can't? You mean, dear child, that we don't! Some of us because the 'best that is in us' is far, far too decently unexciting for daily diet. And some of us--oh, just because we haven't the sand and backbone, I guess!" But Barbara was too nearly asleep to catch the bitterness of that reply. Just once again, before she slept, she asked a question. "Should I have told Mr. O'Mara that my engagement to Archibald Wickersham was to be announced at the party?" she murmured. "Why should you have?" Miriam crisply wanted to know. "Oh, I don't know," she mused. "Only I thought he might be interested. You don't seem to realize that we are--very old friends!" And long after Barbara was sound asleep, her face buried in the palm of one hand, Miriam Burrell lay stiffly awake. Once she smiled a little, for such perplexities which, of themselves, must work out inevitably. When dawn came it found her still struggling stubbornly with her own, for which it seemed there could be no solution now. CHAPTER VIII GREETINGS, SIR GALLAHAD! It was late that night when Steve climbed into the rig which was waiting with Pat Joe at the reins and they turned north into the hills. For he had remained with Caleb and Miss Sarah long after the logs in the fireplace had crumbled away to a flaky ash, discussing that ink-smeared record which Caleb himself had ridden to find, ten years before, in the shack up-river. And the latter was surprised at learning how much of it was no longer news. "Yes, I know," Steve told them, after Caleb had finished relating, with quite ponderous pride, many things which he ascertained concerning the Stephen O'Mara who had gone before. "I know! Four or five years ago, when I found out that it was--customary for one to be certain as to such things, I started to look it up myself. And when I found out from the records that a boy by that name had disappeared--perhaps been stolen by an old servant--I remembered instantly, of course, the box over which Old Tom used to hang, hour after hour. I came back into the woods looking for it that summer and found it gone and nothing left of the Jenkins' cabin but a pile of charred logs. On my way out I stopped here--somehow I thought that maybe you might have it--but the house was closed. And no one seemed to know where you had gone or when you would return." Caleb nodded, and his eyes turned to Sarah. "We were sleuthing, Steve," he explained as soberly as he was able. "We were ranging from border to border and coast to coast, looking for you." He stopped to scan the browned face closely for an instant. "But couldn't you have written--or--or tried again? We've been waiting--boy!" Steve's face colored a little.