orn out in our service. It is the blackest ingratitude. It is a
disgrace to the commonwealth."

"Pardon me," said William Pressley, with his cool smile; "but as I look
at the matter, there is no one but himself to blame. It is solely the
result of his own negligence and ignorance. He did not observe the plain
requirement of the law."

"But, William," said Ruth, impulsively, with a brighter color in her
cheek, "just think! How could he know--a simple old hunter, just like a
little child, only as brave as a lion!" There was a quiver in her voice
and a flash in her soft eyes.

"We can but hope that the state will remember what it owes," said the
doctor, moving toward the door.

He felt that he had been tempted to linger too long. Father Orin was
still waiting for him in the desolate cabin where the Cold Plague had
left the three orphans. His conscience smote him for lingering, and yet
he could not leave, even now, without speaking again of the poems, and
saying that he would fetch the book and leave it the next time he rode
by Cedar House.

When he was gone, Ruth looked at William Pressley in silent, troubled
perplexity. She was wondering vaguely why she had felt so
ashamed--almost as if she had done some shameful thing herself--when he
had spoken as he had done before the doctor about Daniel Boone. It must
have been plain to the visitor that she did not think as William
thought. And yet she flinched again, recalling the doctor's glance at
William, and wondered why it should have hurt her, as if it had fallen
upon herself. She was not old enough or wise enough to have learned that
the mere promise to marry a man makes a sensitive woman begin forthwith,
to feel responsible for everything that he says and does; and that this
is one of the deep, mysterious sources of the misery and happiness of
marriage.

X

FATHER ORIN AND TOBY MEET TOMMY DYE

Under the spur of his conscience the young doctor rode fast. He was not
the man to let duty wait even on love, without trying to make amends.
But a sharper pang stung him when he reached the desolate cabin in which
the Cold Plague had left the orphans.

It seemed to him that Toby, standing by the broken door, gave him a look
of reproach. Toby had not failed or been slow in doing his part; Father
Orin and he had already done all that they could, though this was
piteously little. The one had cut fire-wood from the near-by fallen
trees, and the other had drawn it to th