“Yes,” answered Liney. “I don’t know how I did it; but after I had put my torch in the bear’s face, when he was over you, I—I pushed him into the river.” And she cast down her sweet, modest eyes, as if ashamed of what she had done.
“Liney, Liney—” began Balser; but his voice was choked by a great lump of sobs in his throat. “Liney, Liney—” he began again; but his gratitude was so great he could not speak. He tried again, and the tears came in a flood.
“Cry-baby!” said Jim.
“Jim, you’re a little fool,” said Liney, turning upon the youngster with a blaze of anger in her eyes.
“Jim’s right,” sobbed Balser. “I—I am a c-c-cry-baby.”
“No, no! Balser,” said Liney, soothingly, as she took his hand. “I know. I understand without you telling me.”
“Yes,” sobbed Balser, “I—I—c-c-cry—because—I—thank you so much.”
“Don’t say that, Balser,” answered Liney. “Think of the night in the forest, and think of what you did for me.”
“Oh! But I’m a boy.”
Balser was badly bruised, but was not wounded, except in the foot where the bear had caught him as he climbed the tree. That wound, however, was slight, and would heal quickly. The cubs had broken away from the loaded wagon, and Jim, Liney, Balser, dogs, and cubs all marched back to Mr. Brent’s in a slow and silent procession, leaving the load of nuts upon the path, and the bear dead upon a ripple in the river.