The day dragged slowly on; "from heat to heat" the sun had kissed the tree-tops with its drowsy warmth, hushing to sleep the countless birds that make the mountain-side their home. With the cool of evening came the low breeze that shook the sleepers from repose, and sighed sadly, sadly through the pines.
"Has the stage come in?" asked Ben Brodie slowly, as he lay with closed eyes and feverish brow on his bed in the cottage.
"Nearly an hour ago," answered Si Perkins, in his growling voice. He had tried hard to maintain his usual key, but his eyes rested with deep concern on his friend's face as he spoke.
"And was there any one in the stage whom you knew?"
"No one."
The sick man opened his eyes, and closed them again wearily. His lips worked spasmodically for an instant; then he asked resolutely, but in an almost inaudible tone, "Did not she come back, Si? Are you sure? Did you see all the passengers?"
"It's no use, Ben; she's gone, and she'll never come back."
"But, Si"—the quivering lips could hardly frame the words—"have you been to her cottage? I had not asked you to look, you know; but will you go to her room now, and see if she has not come back?"
Without a word Si took his hat, his lips twitching almost as perceptibly as Ben Brodie's. When he had reached the door the sick man said, "You are not mad, Si, are you? Have patience with me; I shall be better—so much better—soon, and then you will forgive me."
Si turned and held the feverish hand a moment, muttering that he'd go to—a very hot place if his partner bade him, and then left the room.