“Oh,” she begged, “don’t labor the explanation. You are one of the party and our friend.”
Prescott bowed.
“I’ll try to make that good. I’m going off to look for your brother in a few more days, but it will cost me something to leave the homestead now.”
He had spoken the truth. Until lately the man had been bereft of all the amenities of life, but he had now grown to appreciate the society of cultured people; the task of cheering and encouraging his guests had become familiar; he might even have been drawn to the beautiful woman he had comforted had not his heart been filled with the image of Muriel.
“But after the summer’s hard monotonous work, a change must be nice,” she suggested.
“Yes; in a way. The trouble is that I must leave my guests.”
Gertrude’s eyes grew soft as they rested on him.
“We shall miss you,” she murmured. “But you must go and find out all you can; I’m afraid the mystery and suspense are breaking my father down.”
They walked on in silence for a while, and then Svendsen appeared near the homestead, waving his arm.
“Looks as if I were wanted,” Prescott remarked; “I believe there’s a wagon to be fixed. Will you excuse me? I’ll ride over and have a talk with Leslie in the morning.”