On Friday afternoon Harvey closed his desk with a feeling of relief. There had been plenty of work for the past few days, and Harvey's thoughts had acquired such wandering habits that his work seemed harder than usual. He had not seen Katherine since Tuesday evening, but another note, dated Thursday evening, was in his coat pocket. He read it again:—

Harvey slowly folded the note and replaced it in his pocket. Then he spoke to Jim.

“Mr. Weeks, will you need me to-morrow?”

Jim looked up pleasantly. Since the recent issue of M. & T. stock, Jim's eyes had smiled almost continuously.

“Guess not,” he replied. “Going away?”

“Just over Sunday.”

“You aren't going anywhere near Truesdale, are you?”

“Why, yes.”

Jim whirled around to his desk and rummaged through some pigeonholes.

“I want to get word to a man down there,” he said,—“some fellow that Fox talks about, who has a good team to sell. I thought I had his card. Well, never mind, I'll call up Fox in the morning and get his name and address. Then if you have time”—Jim smiled—“you might talk with him and see what they are. Don't commit yourself; just size things up.”

Harvey bowed.

“I don't believe you need come around in the morning. I'll call you up or wire you. But don't lose any dinners on account of it.”

The next morning Harvey went to Truesdale.

The Oakwood Club House stands on a knoll some eight miles up the river from Truesdale. Giant elms shade the wide veranda, while others droop over the white macadam drive that swings steeply down to the bridge and vanishes in a grove of oak, hickory, and birch. If you stand on the steps and look west, you can see, through the immediate foliage, the Maiden County hills, their blue tops contrasting with the nearer green of the valley. To the left, an obtruding wing checks the view; on the right, leading straight down to the river, is a well-worn path.

After dinner the party strolled up and down the veranda, gradually separating into couples. The twilight creeping down found Harvey and Miss Porter alone by the railing. She stood erect, looking out over the valley, her scarlet golf jacket thrown back, her hair disordered by the long ride and curling about her face. Harvey watched her in silence. He was glad that she was tall; he liked to meet her eyes without looking down. He had often tried to remember the color of those eyes. Presently she turned and looked at him.

“They're gray,” he said, half to himself.

“No,” she replied; “sometimes they are brown and sometimes green. They are not gray.”

Harvey leaned forward.

“I'm sure they are.”

For a moment they stood looking into each other's eyes, then she turned away with a little laugh and removed her sailor hat, swinging it from her hand.

“Look,” she said, with an impulsive gesture toward the west. Harvey followed her gaze. The dark was settling into the valley. There were splotches of foliage and waves of meadow, with a few winding strips of silver where the river broke away from the trees. “And to think that we have only a few more such days.”

“Yes,”—he spoke softly,—“we don't see things like that in Chicago.”

“Why don't you come to Truesdale?”

“So long as Mr. Weeks stays in Chicago, I am likely to be there too.”

“You are fond of Mr. Weeks?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I never met him—I've heard a great deal about him.” She sat upon the railing and leaned back against a pillar, her eyes turned to the foliage. “Father says he is a good business man.”

“He is.”

“Mr. West,” she threw her head back with a peremptory toss—“I want you to tell me something.”

“Wait,” he replied, “come to the river. Then I'll tell you anything.”

She smiled, but acquiesced, and they went down the path. Harvey drew up a cedar boat and extended his hand, but she stepped lightly aboard without his aid. Harvey pushed away from the bank and began slowly to paddle against the current.

“Now,” he said, “the Sister Confessor may proceed.”

She looked up at him. He thought she was smiling, but she spoke earnestly.

“I want you to tell me about this M. & T. fight.”

“I don't believe there is anything to tell.”

“You think I am not interested.”

“No—not that.”

“You men are all alike. You think a girl can't understand business.” She seemed to be musing. “You like a girl who is helpless and fluttery, who can be patronized.”

“No,” said Harvey, “not that either.”

“I wish you would tell me.”

“How much do you know?”

Before replying she looked out over the water for several moments. Harvey rested his oars and waited. She turned to him, still musing.

“I'll be frank,” she said. “I am not going to say how much I know, but I want you to tell me all about it.”

Harvey began to row.

“Of course,” she went on, “I have heard father's friends talking.”

Harvey smiled.

“You puzzle me,” he remarked.

“Why should any one wish to get control of your road?”

“Because there is coal on the line.”

“Is Mr. Weeks firmly in control?”

Harvey leaned over the oars.

“I wish I knew—” he hesitated. “Are we good friends?”

“I can speak for myself.”

“Why are you interested in this business?”

“Because—well, I will tell you the truth. Of course I know that father and Mr. Weeks are—I suppose you would call it fighting. Father doesn't understand how I could ask you down to-day.”

“I am glad you did.”

“I wanted you to feel that—you see we have been good friends, and it would be too bad to let a thing like this—don't you understand?”

Harvey leaned forward and impulsively extended his hand. She drew back.

“Just shake hands,” said Harvey. He clasped hers firmly, releasing it with a quiet “Thank you.”

They were drifting down stream under the trees with no sound save a faint rustle from overhead. Strands of moonlight sifted through the foliage, blurring the east bank into shadow.

“Do you know what I am thinking of?” Harvey asked in a low tone. She smiled faintly and shook her head. They swung into a patch of moonlight, and for a moment their eyes met; then she looked away and said,—

“We must go back.”

“It isn't late,” Harvey remonstrated.

“We must go back.”

Harvey obediently took up the oars, then hesitated.

“Please don't stay here,” she said.

They went up the path in silence. The brake stood at the steps, and the other members of the party were laughing and talking on the veranda. Harvey stopped before they left the shadow. Miss Porter walked a few steps, then turned and faced him.

“What is the matter?” he asked. “Can't you trust me? Are you afraid of me?”

She came forward and laid her hand upon his arm.

“Don't misunderstand me,” she said with hesitation. “If I were as sure of myself as I am of you—Come, they are watching us.”

An hour later they stood at Mr. Porter's door.

“Good night,” said Harvey, but she lingered.

“Shall I see you to-morrow?”

“Do you think I had better come?”

“Why not?”

“Perhaps your father—”

“I want you to. Anyway,” smiling, “father is in Chicago.”

Harvey smiled too.

“I'll send the trap for you, and we'll drive—at ten, say. I suppose you are at the hotel.”

“Yes,” said Harvey. “Good night.”

Mr. Porter's summer home was located on the river bank, something less than a mile from the Truesdale Hotel. The walk was somewhat lonely, and it gave Harvey time to think. At first he was bewildered. She had seemed to be mistress of the situation, but at any rate he had told her nothing about M. & T. affairs. There came into his mind a suspicion that she knew more than she had led him to believe, for she would naturally not let a man who had no claim upon her sway her loyalty to her father. And yet, those eyes were honest. They had looked into his with an expression that would charm away graver doubts than his. “I'll make her tell me,” he thought. “I'll find out to-morrow just what she means, and if—” In spite of himself, Harvey's heart beat fast at thought of the possibilities which lay behind that “if.” From doubt, he drifted back into a review of the evening. He called up pictures of her on the brake, on the boat, or on the shaded path. When he reached the hotel he sat down on the veranda and lighted a cigar. “Yes,” he repeated to himself, “I'll make her tell me.” But in the morning, after a more or less steady sleep, Harvey looked out at the calm sunlight and changed his mind. “I'll wait,” he thought, “and see what happens.”

At ten, the Porter trap stood in front of the hotel, and Harvey climbed into the trap and took the reins. As he started, a telegraph boy ran down the steps calling to him. Harvey took the yellow envelope and with a thought of Jim's errand he thrust it between his teeth, for the horses were prancing. Later he stuffed it into his pocket until he should reach the Porters'. The drive was exhilarating, and by the time he pulled up in the porte-cochere he had himself well in control. She did not keep him waiting, and they were soon whirling down the old river road.

Katherine was in a bright mood. For a space they talked commonplaces. Harvey thought of the telegram, but dared not take his attention from the horses until they should run off a little spirit, so he let them go.

“Isn't it splendid,” she said, drawing in the brisk air and looking at the broad stream on their right. “Do you know, I never see the river without thinking of the old days when this country was wild. It seems so odd to realize that Tonty and La Salle paddled up and down here. They may have camped where we are now. Sometimes in the evenings when we are on the river, I imagine I can see a line of canoes with strange, dark men in buckskin, and painted Indians, and solemn old monks, with Father Hennepin in the first canoe. So many curious old memories hover over this stream.”

The horses were slowing. Harvey said abruptly,—

“Will you mind if I open a telegram?”

“Certainly not.” She reached out and took the reins. Harvey opened the envelope with his thumb. He read the message twice, then lowered it to his knees with a puzzled expression.

“Bad news?” asked Miss Porter.

“I don't know. Read it if you like.”

She handed back the reins and read the following:—

“Well,” he said, “what do you think?”

She slowly folded the paper and creased it between her fingers.

“Can you make it?” she asked.

Harvey looked at his watch. “Train goes at eleven. I've got thirteen minutes.”

“Turn around. It's only three miles. We can do it.”

Harvey pulled up and turned. Then he hesitated.

“How about the team?” he said; “I can't take you home.”

“Never mind that. Quick; you can't lose any time. I'll get the team back.”

Harvey nodded and gripped the reins, and in a moment the bays were in their stride. Harvey's hands were full, and he made no effort to talk. Miss Porter alternately watched him and the horses.

“They can do better than that. You'll have to slow up in town, you know.” And Harvey urged them on.

As they neared the town, Harvey spoke.

“Will you look at my watch?”

She threw back his coat and tugged at the fob until the watch appeared. “Three minutes yet. We're all right.”

But a blocked electric car delayed them, and they swung up to the platform just at train-time. Harvey gripped her hand:—

“Good-by. I shan't forget this.”

But though her eyes danced, she only answered, “Please hurry!”

As Harvey dropped into a seat and looked out the car window, he saw her sitting erect, holding the nervous team with firm control. And he settled back with a glow in his heart.