"Gush is the word for it," I answered. "Tim never gives me a line about himself. It's all Edith—Edith—Edith."
"And he is engaged to Miss Smyth?" Weston struck his legging a sharp blow with his stick. "Confound it!" he cried, "I can't get it out of my head that our book-keeper's name is Smyth."
"But Tim knows, surely," said I.
"Yes—he must," answered Weston. "Of course I'm wrong. But this Miss Parker—are they engaged?"
"I can't tell from his last letter," I replied. "It seems that they must be pretty near it—that's what Mary says, too."
Weston started. Then he rose to his feet very slowly, and wheeling about looked down on me and smoked.
"Mary says so too," he repeated. "How in the world does Mary know?"
"I read her the letter," said I, apologetically. It did seem wrong to read Tim's letter that way. From my standpoint it was all right now, but Weston did not know that, so he whistled softly to himself.
From the hollow came the long-drawn cry of the hound. It was old Captain. Betsy joined in, then Mike; and now the ridges rang with the music of the chase. They were on a fresh trail; they were away over hill and hollow, singing full-throated as they ran.
"They've found him," I cried, rising to hear the song of the hounds.