“But you must let me show you the way out—round under those trees—where no one can see you come.” She held out her hand.
“I'll go the way I came,” he said quietly, swinging himself silently from the nearest bough into the stream. And before she could utter a protest he was striking out as silently, hand over hand, across the current.
CHAPTER II.
A week later Madison Wayne was seated alone in his cabin. His supper table had just been cleared by his Chinese coolie, as it was getting late, and the setting sun, which for half an hour had been persistently making a vivid beacon of his windows for the benefit of wayfarers along the river bank, had at last sunk behind the cottonwoods. His head was resting on his hand; the book he had been reading when the light faded was lying open on the table before him. In this attitude he became aware of a hesitating step on the gravel outside his open door. He had been so absorbed that the approach of any figure along the only highway—the river bank—had escaped his observation. Looking up, he discovered that Mr. Alexander McGee was standing in the doorway, his hand resting lightly on the jamb. A sudden color suffused Wayne's cheek; his hand reached for his book, which he drew towards him hurriedly, yet half automatically, as he might have grasped some defensive weapon.
The Bell-ringer of Angel's noticed the act, but not the blush, and nodded approvingly. “Don't let me disturb ye. I was only meanderin' by and reckoned I'd say 'How do?' in passin'.” He leaned gently back against the door-post, to do which comfortably he was first obliged to shift the revolver on his hip. The sight of the weapon brought a slight contraction to the brows of Wayne, but he gravely said: “Won't you come in?”
“It ain't your prayin' time?” said McGee politely.
“No.”
“Nor you ain't gettin' up lessons outer the Book?” he continued thoughtfully.
“No.”