They were about to part—for the trapper meant to spend the night in the woods and the farmer wanted to get home before dark—when Goodine turned again, a daring and attractive figure with axe and pack on his right shoulder and the rifle in his left hand. "But don't think that I'm even expectin' to be good enough for her," he said. "I'll try to be decent, God knows!—but I'll still be just a poor, ignorant bushwhacker. You are more the kind she ought to marry."
"Me! What are you thinking of, Dick?" cried Rayton.
"That's all right," replied the trapper, and vanished in the underbrush.
Rayton tramped and scrambled along with his mind so busy with thoughts of Dick Goodine, of Nell Harley, and of David Marsh that, when he arrived at his own pasture fence shortly after sunset, he discovered that he had not added so much as one bird to his bag.
"The devil!" he exclaimed. "That comes of woolgathering. But never mind, Turk, we'll do better to-morrow."
When he reached the house he found Doctor Nash's buggy in front of the door, and the doctor inside.
"I thought I'd drop in and have a talk over that queer business of a couple of nights ago," said Nash.
This dealt a blow to Rayton's suspicion. "Drive 'round and we'll put the nag under cover, and give her a feed," he said.