"Welcome to our camp," she said. "I have often wondered why you never came over this way. My parents will be so glad to see you. You must come right up to the house and have a cup of tea."
But Miss Carroway seated herself on the grass beside Constance, instead.
"I came over to see you," she said quietly, "just you alone. I had tea before I started. I want to talk about one or two things a little, an' mebbe to give you some advice."
Constance smiled and looked down at the mushrooms on the grass.
"About those, you mean," she said. "Well, I suppose I need it. I find I know less than I thought I did in the beginning."
Miss Carroway shook her head.
"No," she admitted; "I've give up that question. I guess the books know more than I do. You ain't dead yet, an' if they was pizen you would 'a' been by this time. It's somethin' else I want to talk about—somethin' that's made a good many people unhappy, includin' me. That was a long time ago, but I s'pose I ain't quite got over it yet."
A good deal of the September afternoon slipped away as the two women talked there in the sunshine by the Au Sable Falls. When at last Miss Carroway rose to go, Constance rose, too, and, taking her hand, kissed the old lady on the cheek.
"You are sweet and good," she said, "and I wish I could do as much for you as you have done, and are willing to do for me. If I have not confided in you, it is only because I cannot—to-day. But I shall tell you all that there is to tell as soon—almost as soon—as I tell any one. It may be to-morrow, and I promise you that there shall be no unhappiness that I can help."
"Things never can be set straight too soon," said the old lady. "I've had a long time to think of that."