At last Tibby could stand the uncertainty no longer. She must know if she was forgiven and reestablish the friendship between them, and thank Donald for preserving her life. She resolved to interrogate Mrs. Cramer, and act upon her advice. For some reason she felt less reluctant to advise with her than with Mrs. Wylie. She found her hostess putting on her wraps preparatory to going out. “My dear Mrs. Cramer,” she said coaxingly, “I want to see Donald Bartram, and thank him for rescuing me. I was too ill to do so when he was here, and besides I did not know the magnitude of the risk he ran. Do you think it would be proper for me to send him a note, asking him to call?” There was a touch of anxiety in Tibby’s tone. “Why, certainly,” replied Alice. “We are not at all conventional here. Besides, the straightforward way is always the best, I think.” “I hope so,” responded Tibby soberly. “Yes, you write your note, and I will take it over to him now. Mrs. Wylie and I are going over to Lissa’s.” “Here it is, I have written it beforehand,” Tibby returned, a flush of carmine vividly emphasizing her embarrassment. “I would rather you did not—that is—Mrs. Wylie need not know of it—at least not now,” she stammered. “Certainly not. I’ll give it to Donald myself.” And Alice took the gingerly proffered note and slipped it into her pocket. “It is all right, dear,” she smiled cheerily, in answer to the pathetic questioning of Tibby’s eyes, and she tripped away blithely, happy at the thought that she had made a discovery which would aid in adjusting matters to her liking. Alice awaited her opportunity to place the missive in Donald’s hand, unobserved by any one else, and was pleased to see the start he gave as he looked at it. Alice Cramer, like every other womanly woman, was a born matchmaker, and this evidence of contrition on the part of Tibby filled her benevolent heart with delight. This submissive, questioning air of the girl was so unlike her usual imperious manner that Alice augured much from it. “You will go, Don?” she whispered when he again approached her. “Yes, if you think best.” He met her eyes with an inquiring look. Alice nodded. “Now?” “Yes.” Donald set out across the fields toward Mark’s home with some reluctance. He knew he had, by rescuing Tibby, put her, in a sense, under obligation to him, and he dreaded to meet her upon such a footing. He had remained away from her, resolved that until the remembrance of that struggle in the storm had become less vivid, he would never force his attentions upon her; would never annoy her with words of love. “If she really cares for me she will be conscious of it in time, and I shall know it,” he reflected. “I will not trade upon the service I have done her. I want her _love_, not her _gratitude_.” And he set his lips firmly in the resolution not to be betrayed into a renewal of his suit until a more fitting season.