It was broad daylight when Jacqueline was awakened by some one calling her by name, and shaking her none too gently.

"Come, come, Jacqueline, you must wake up, please! I have no time to waste."

She rubbed her eyes, yawning. "Let me alone, Phil! I'm half dead with sleep.—Heavens, where am I? Why are you so cross? Oh, Phil," she gasped, memory returning in a flood. "How is he? Is he conscious yet?"

"Who, Channing? Extremely conscious, I should say, and very much ashamed of himself. He is making an excellent breakfast in the next room."

His stern voice caused her to hang her head. "I suppose you're dreadfully mad at us, Reverend! Were you anxious?"

"Fortunately I didn't miss you till the school-teacher's messenger woke us with the news that you and Channing had been found lost in the woods somewhere. I've brought your clothes. It is a wonder you did not take pneumonia, wandering about half-dressed!"

She winced, and put out a wheedling hand, "My wrapper is just as warm as a dress, and—and it looks almost like one. See! it's—it's quite long, too, Phil!—I don't think he even noticed that my stockings weren't on."

"No?" He looked at her searchingly, and his face softened. The gaze that met his was deprecating and embarrassed, but frank as a child's.

"Still," she admitted, "it was a dreadful thing to do."

"It was a very silly thing to do, and as it turned out, very dangerous. These mountaineers are a wild lot, especially with a little moonshine in them. You might very well have been shot, instead of Channing."

"I wish I had been—oh, I wish I had been!" Her lip quivered. "You're so cross to me," she wailed, "and I've been through such a lot!"

He relented. "I don't mean to be cross, little girl. But you must see that I can't take the responsibility of such a madcap any longer. You will have to go back to civilization."

Her face fell. "Oh, Phil! You don't mean that you are going to give up the missionary expedition because of what I've done?"

"I do not," he said crisply. "I came to accomplish certain things up here, and I shan't leave till they are done. But I shall have to manage without my choir. You are going back to Storm, you and Mr. Channing."

"When must we go?" she asked meekly.

"To-day. At once."

"Oh, but Philip, we can't! Mr. Channing couldn't be moved so soon. His poor leg—"

"I'm afraid he will have to risk that valuable member for the good of the common cause. He is going to need much attention, that is plain, and we can't impose on this school-teacher."

"Oh, he won't mind!" interposed Jacqueline, eagerly. "He's as good as a doctor, and a perfect dear."

"'Dear' or not, he is a busy man, and we have no claim on his time. Channing himself wants to go down to the neighborhood of genuine doctors, I fancy. He seems to be alarmed for fear of blood-poison developing." Despite himself, Philip's lip curled a little.

"I don't believe you're one bit sorry for Mr. Channing!"

"Now that you mention it," murmured Philip, "I don't believe I am. It serves him damned right!" He turned on his heel and left the room.

But later when she came out to him, dressed and abjectly penitent, he spoke more gently. "Jacky dear, I've got to interfere once more in something that is perhaps not my business. How do matters stand between you and our author friend? Has he decided yet whether he wants to marry you?"

The hot blood rushed into her cheeks. "Why—why, I don't know," she stammered, "He never—Philip Benoix, that certainly is not your business! The idea!"

"Whatever is your mother's business I make mine," he said quietly. "Jacqueline, since you have tied my hands, I want you to promise me one thing. As soon as you get back, I want you to tell your mother everything about this affair with Channing."

Her head went up angrily. "I'll promise no such thing! What has mother to do with it? When Mr. Channing is ready," she said very stiffly, "I daresay he will speak to my mother himself, without any prompting from you."

It was her turn to walk away, outraged dignity in every motion.

Philip looked after her ruefully. "Of course she won't tell Kate, and I can't, and it would never occur to that dear woman to watch one of her own daughters.—I do wish," he muttered, "that Jemima were at home!"

It was an odd fact that many people who usually took young Jemima Kildare's existence very much for granted had a way of wishing for her suddenly when any emergency arose.

Jacqueline's dignity did not carry her far. She came back in a moment to ask humbly, "How am I ever to get Mr. Channing down to the railroad? He can't ride, and wheels are out of the question on that rough trail. Philip, really, he'll have to stay here till the wound is healed. It won't be any trouble for the teacher. I'll look after him myself."

"I think not," said Philip, grimly. "You will be safe at Storm by nightfall."

"You don't seem to realize that he is terribly wounded!"

"By no means 'terribly.' The school-teacher—who seems to be a capable person as well as a 'dear'—has made a very good job of removing the bullet, and there's no temperature. Believe me, your imaginative friend will manage to survive this affair. Everything is settled. Brother Bates will stay and see the school-teacher, and arrange with him about the mule-litter for Channing. He will go down with you himself, and see you safely into the train. Sorry I can't, but I'm expected on the other side of the mountain this morning for a 'buryin,' and as the deceased has been awaiting the occasion for several months—underground, I trust,—I don't like to postpone it any longer."

"Won't you even wait till we start?" she asked forlornly.

"I can't. Sorry not to see that school-teacher, too. He has gone off somewhere on an errand, the old woman in charge here says. Doesn't know when he will be back. I must be off."

"Aren't you going to say good-by to Mr. Channing?"

"I have already said good-by, and other things, to Mr. Channing," said Philip, grimly. "Au revoir, little girl."

He rode up the trail at a lope, passing as he went a group of laurel bushes, behind which, had he looked more closely, he might have detected the crouching figure of a man, who watched him wistfully out of sight. The teacher's errand had not taken him far.

When Philip stopped at the schoolhouse again that evening on his return from the "buryin'," he found it deserted. There was a sign on the door. "School closed for a week. Gone fishing."

"A casual sort of school-teacher, this," said Philip, disappointed. "A regular gadabout! I'm afraid I shan't see him at all. What did you say his name was?"

The man Anse, who was his companion, eyed Philip impassively. "Dunno as I said. Dunno as I ever heerd tell. We calls him 'Teacher' hereabouts."

"Do you mean to say you've never asked his name?" demanded Philip.

"Folks hereabouts ain't much on axin' questions," remarked Anse. "'T ain't allus healthy, Preacher."

Philip felt oddly rebuked.