“Oh, never mind just now, Moira. In this country we don't take up with strangers.”
“Strangers?” echoed the girl, pain mingling with her surprise. “And yet he saved my life!”
“Yes, thank God, he saved your life,” cried her brother, “and we shall never cease to be grateful to him, but—but—oh, drop it just now please, Moira. You don't know and—here we are. How white Mandy is. What a terrible experience for us all!”
“Terrible indeed,” echoed the doctor.
“Terrible?” said Moira. “It might have been worse.”
To this neither made reply, but there came a day when both doubted such a possibility.
CHAPTER XI
SMITH'S WORK
The short September day was nearly gone. The sun still rode above the great peaks that outlined the western horizon. Already the shadows were beginning to creep up the eastern slope of the hills that clambered till they reached the bases of the great mountains. A purple haze hung over mountain, hill and rolling plain, softening the sharp outlines that ordinarily defined the features of the foothill landscape.