Presently he slanted down the hillside past the camp, until he struck into a road leading towards town, where he began to walk forward, hatless and without coat, through the soft dusk. He was disinclined for work as 89 yet, the work always piled on his desk; he desired yet for a little to rest his spirit in the evening calm.
His thoughts had softened and turned to Janet Hosmer. He had not seen her since the morning at the court house. He had not spoken with her since that interview upon her veranda, which had terminated with his shocked utterance. That he had thus given away to his feeling he had a hundred times repented; and that he had so bruskly departed he was profoundly chagrined. But what could he have done? No explanation was possible. The situation in which he had been allowed of but one thing, escape.
With the rising tide of emotion reflected by memory of that moment his steps had quickened. All at once he discovered before him the rippling sheen of water. He was at Chico Creek, a mile from camp, where he first had met Janet Hosmer. Engaged with his tangled problem, he had been unaware of the distance covered.
Pausing but an instant he waded through, smiling to himself at thought of that afternoon’s spirited encounter with the girl. She had not dreamed then, nor he, that events would fling them together in a more dramatic second meeting at Martinez’ door.
Suddenly he perceived a white-clad figure before him, standing motionless, leaning forward to peer his way as he walked forth from the ford.
“It’s you, Mr. Weir?” came in soft inquiry.
“Yes. How in the world do you happen to be here, Janet Hosmer?”
She laughed.
“I thought I recognized you marching through the stream, so I wasn’t alarmed.”
“No one would think of harming you, I’m sure.”