The memory of his visit to her garden in the valley seemed now like a chapter in the story of a far-off community, and she could hardly relate herself to the hermit girl who served the tea, but the forester--whom she recognized as a lover--was becoming every moment nearer, more insistent. A time of reckoning was at hand, and because she could not meet it she was eager to escape--to avoid the giving of pain. His face and voice had become dear--and might grow dearer. Therefore she made no comment on his statement of a desire for a home, and he asked: "Don't you feel like going back to your garden once more?" "No," she answered, sharply, "I never want to see the place again. It is repulsive to me." Again a little silence intervened. "I hate to think of your posies perishing for lack of care," he said, with gentle sadness. "If I can, I'll ride over once in a while and see that they get some water." His words exerted a magical power. She began to weaken in resolution. It was not an easy thing to sever the connection which had been so strangely established between herself and this good friend, who seemed each moment to be less the simple mountaineer she had once believed him to be. Western he was, forthright and rough hewn, but he had shown himself a man in every emergency--a candid, strong man. Her throat filled with emotion, but she walked beside him in silence. He had another care on his mind. "You'd better let me round up your household goods," he suggested. "Oh no. Let them go; they're not worth the effort." He insisted. "I don't like to think of any one else having them. It made me hot just to see that girl playing your guitar. I'll have 'em all brought down and stored somewhere. You may want 'em some time." She was rather glad to find they had reached the door of Carmody's office and that further confidences were impossible, for she was discovering herself to be each moment deeper in his debt and correspondingly less able to withstand his wistful, shy demand. Mrs. Carmody, a short, fat, excited person, met them in the hall with a cackle of alarm. "I'm awfully glad you've come," she exclaimed. "Your father has been taken with a cramp or something." Helen paled with apprehension of disaster, for she knew that her father had been keenly suffering all the morning. "Here I am, daddy," she cheerily called, as she entered the room. "It's all right. The inquest is over and we are free to go." Kauffman, who was lying on a couch in a corner of the office, turned his face and bravely smiled. "I'm glad," he weakly replied. "I was afraid they would call me to the stand again." Kneeling at his side, she studied his face with anxious care. "Are you worse, daddy? Has your pain increased?" "Yes, Nellie, it is worse. I fear I am to be very ill."