Nevertheless, despite the tenderness of her tone and her gratitude openly expressed, something disconcerting had come into her eyes and voice. She was more and more the lady and less and less the recluse, and as she receded and rose to this higher plane, the ranger lost heart, almost without knowing the cause of it. At last he turned to Kauffman. "I suppose we'd better go," he said. "You look tired." "I am tired," the old man admitted. "Is it far to your hotel?" "Only a little way." "Good night," said Helen, extending her hand with a sudden light in her face which transported the trailer. "We'll meet again in the morning." He took her hand in his with a clutch in his throat which made reply difficult; but his glance expressed the adoration which filled his heart. * * * * * Kauffman left the house, walking like a man of seventy. "My bones are not broken, but they are weary," he said, dejectedly; "I fear I am to be ill." "Oh, you'll be all right in the morning," responded the ranger much more cheerily than he really felt. "Is it not strange that any reasonable being should accuse my daughter and me of that monstrous deed?" "That is because no one knows you. When the towns-folk come to know you and her they will think differently. That is why I am glad the coroner is to hold his court here in the town." "Well, if only we are set free--We shall be set free, eh?" "Surely? But what will you do then? Where will you go?" "I hope Helen will return to her people." He sighed deeply. "It was all very foolish to come out here. But it was natural. She was stricken, and sensitive--so morbidly sensitive--to pity, to gossip. Then, too, a romantic notion about the healing power of the mountains was in her thought. She wished to go where no one knew her--where she could live the simple life and regain serenity and health. She said: 'I will not go to a convent. I will make a sanctuary of the green hills.'" "Something very sorrowful must have happened--" said Hanscom, hesitatingly. The old man's voice was very grave as he replied: "Not sorrow, but treachery," he said. "A treachery so cruel, a betrayal so complete, that when she lost her lover and her most intimate girl friend (one nearer than a sister) she lost faith in all men and all women--almost in God. I cannot tell you more of her story--" He paused a moment, then added: "She believes in you--she already trusts you--and some time, perhaps, she herself will tell the story of her betrayal. Till then you must be content with this--she is here through no fault or weakness of her own."