Bradley turned upon him
in surprise.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," said Westerfelt; "my wound twinged just a little, that is
all."

"I was driving too fast over these rocks anyway," said Bradley,
solicitously.

The horse stopped at a clear mountain stream that leaped in a
succession of waterfalls down the sheer hill-side into the valley.
Bradley got out to loosen the bridle to allow the animal to drink, and
stood with one foot on the shore and the other on a brown stone in the
water. Try as he would, Westerfelt could not banish Harriet from his
mind. Her sweet personality seemed to be trying to defend itself
against the unworthy thoughts which fought for supremacy in his mind.
He thought of her wonderful care of him in his illness; her unfailing
tenderness and sympathy when he was suffering; her tears--yes, he was
sure he had detected tears in her eyes one day when the doctor was
giving him unusual pain in dressing his wound. Ah, how sweet that was
to remember! and yet the same creature had loved a man no higher than
Wambush; had even sobbed out a confession of her love in the arms of
his father. Such was the woman, but he loved her with the first real
love of his life.

The next day but one, Westerfelt, feeling sufficiently strong, was
driven by Washburn down to the livery-stable, where he sat in the warm
sunshine against the side of the house. While sitting there watching
the roads which led down to the village from the mountains, he was
surprised to see Peter Slogan ride up on his bony bay horse and alight.

"Howdy' do, John?" he said. "I wus jest passin' on my way home an'
thought I'd halt an' ax about that cut o' yore'n."

"Oh, I'm doing pretty well, Peter," answered Westerfelt, as he extended
his hand without rising. "But I didn't know that you ever got this far
from home."

"Hain't once before, since I went to fight the Yanks," grinned Slogan.
"Seems to me I've rid four hundred an' forty-two miles on that
churndasher thar. My legs is one solid sore streak from my heels up,
an' now it's beginnin' to attact my spine-bone. I'm too ol' an' stiff
to bear down right in the stirrups, I reckon."

"What has brought you over here?" asked Westerfelt, with a smile.

Slogan took out his clay pipe with its cane stem and knocked it on the
heel of his boot, then he put it into his mouth and blew through it
till the liquid nicotine cracked audibly. "I've been huntin'," he
said, dryly. "In my day an' t