"Why, no, I can't say that I do," Ethan was told. "Any of us might do something on the spur of the moment that we found reason to feel sorry for afterwards. Only the other day I bitterly repented of insulting that noble old bull moose by daring to snap my camera at him point-blank, didn't I? He made it pretty warm for me, I tell you."
"But this mysterious man must have done something dreadful, to have him say he was so repentant!" persisted Ethan.
"You're only jumping at conclusions," he was told, bluntly. "I heard him say at the time he was lying there in the pine woods and suffering, that he realized he had done somebody a great wrong, and that if he lived he meant to right it. Now, according to my notion, that was a fine thing for him to say."
"Mebbe so," remarked Ethan. "I've heard my father say that the best men are those who've been through the fire, done some wrong, and repented, so that they think they must spend the rest of their lives making good. And between us I kind of fancy Mazie's daddy. He seems to be a pretty nice man."
"Mazie evidently thinks there isn't another like him in the whole world," Phil told him; "look at her now as she sits there holding his hand. Why, Ethan, believe me, I can see what looks mighty like a tear running down his cheek. Yes, there, he wiped it away, and shook his head. That man's made up his mind to some big sacrifice, you mark my words."
"Then it must be in connection with Mazie," added Ethan, quickly; "because the sun rises and sets with her, in his opinion."
"I wonder now," began Phil, with lines on his forehead, as though a sudden idea had flashed into his mind that he hardly knew how to handle.
"What are you thinking about?" inquired Ethan, who knew the signs.
"But then there's no doubt he's her father, so that could hardly be," Phil went on to say, as though crushing the suspicion that had arisen.
"Well, what about it, Phil?"