Brooke was a trifle astonished, and noticed a sudden warmth in Barbara's face.
"If I remember correctly, you had gone into the ranch, Miss Hume," he said, severely.
"No," said Hetty. "You may have fancied so, but I hadn't. I was the only chaperon Barbara had, you see. I hope she didn't tell you not to lavish the dollar on whisky. No doubt you spent it wisely on tobacco."
Brooke made no answer, and his smile was somewhat forced; but he went with the others into the house, and it was an hour or two later when he and Barbara again stood by the riverside alone. Neither of them quite knew how it came about, but they were there with the black shadows of the beeches behind them and the flashing water at their feet. Brooke glanced slowly round him, and then turned to the girl.
"It reminds one of that other river—but there is a difference," he said. "The beeches make poor substitutes for your towering pines, and you no longer wear the white samite."
"And," said Barbara, "where is the sword?"
Brooke looked down on her gravely, and shook his head. "I am not fit to wear it, and yet I dare not give it back to you, stained as it is," he said. "What am I to do?"
"Keep it," said Barbara, softly. "You have wiped the stain out, and it is bright again."
Brooke laid a hand that quivered a little on her shoulder. "Barbara," he said, "I am not vainer than most men, and I know what I have done, but unless what once seemed beyond all hoping for was about to come to me, you and I would not have met again beside the river. It simply couldn't happen. You can forget all that has gone before, and once more try to believe in me?"
"I think," said Barbara, quietly, "there is a good deal that you must never remember, too. I realized that"—and she stopped with a little shiver—"when you were lying in the Vancouver hospital."