"Very well!" said Thursby. "He's coming to see you this afternoon."

"What?" cried Huntington.

"He's coming this afternoon. And he wished me to say explicitly that he will have no gun."

To Huntington this seemed almost incredible. He was heartily sick of the warfare, and glad of any way out of it that would not be too humiliating to himself. But Haig was coming to him; and this meant, surely, that something had occurred to his enemy that would make the event easy for himself, if not quite free from embarra.s.sment. He looked again at Marion; and at last, seeing her radiant countenance, he understood that this was her achievement, that it was for her Haig would be coming unarmed to the house of his bitter foe that afternoon.

"I'm ready," he said to Thursby, with an elation he was only partly able to conceal.

Smythe was the next visitor, arriving in a state of such contrition that Marion pitied him. His jaunty air was gone. He was quite unable to respond to Marion's gentle jesting, seeing that her cheeks were still sunken and pale, that the body whose graces he had so much admired was now palpably thin under her loose clothing. He had blamed himself bitterly for the disaster that had overtaken her, and his sufferings had been real and lasting.

"If I'd been half a man I'd never have let you go on alone that day,"

he said after she had greeted him brightly, giving him both her hands.

"Oh, indeed!" retorted Marion. "And what would you have done?"

"Gone with you."

"But I sent you back."

"I was a fool!"

"A fool to do as I told you, Mr. Smythe?" she demanded archly.

"Yes. You didn't know what you were doing."

"But I did know what I was doing."

This come with such depth of feeling that he knew he would no longer be able to bring her news of Philip Haig.

"Then I'm glad," he said simply.

Presently she told him her story; but much was omitted, especially the keenest of her sufferings, since remorse still haunted Smythe's solemn eyes.

"And what have you been doing?" she asked.

"Trying to read and study, but it's been no use."

"And you've lost a year in your career!"

"That's nothing. I can make it up, if you've forgiven me." She gave him her hand again.

"There's nothing to forgive!" she answered warmly. "You've been a good friend to me. I owe you--more than you know--more than I can tell you--now!"

On that she rose hurriedly, and went to her room for--a handkerchief.

It was quite ten minutes before she returned to finish their talk, and to tell him that he must come to see her often through the long months of winter that remained.

CHAPTER x.x.x

THE LAMP RELIGHTED

Marion, at the window, was the first to see him; and what she saw caused her to clutch at her throat to stifle a cry. He was not on horseback, though the roads were quite pa.s.sable, but in a sleigh; and there was a jingle of sleigh bells on the frosty air. He had come with the sorrels--for her--at last!

She opened the door for him, giving him her hand--was it possible?--a little shyly. Huntington, at Haig's entrance, rose from his chair before the fire; and Claire too, clinging to the chimney, scarce able to believe that there would not be such another scene as that of one evening long ago.

Silence, a little awkward for all of them, followed Marion's greeting, while the two men stood looking at each other. Then Haig walked direct to Huntington, frankly smiling.

"How are you, Huntington? And Mrs. Huntington?" he was saying quietly.

"All well," replied Huntington, rather stiffly, meaning to be very reserved in this business.

Claire inclined her head without speaking. Her blue eyes were round, her lips parted, and something of the old terror showed in her face, though she knew very well why Haig was there.

"Thursby has told you?" asked Haig.

"Yes," was Huntingdon's answer, still putting everything up to his enemy.

"Well then, Huntington, since you'll deal with Thursby now, I thought we might as well ask each other a few questions, and give straight answers."

"I'm ready," said Huntington gruffly.

"Thank you. First, did you drive that bunch of cattle off the cliff?"

"No. But did you scatter those twenty head of mine?"

"No. Both mere accidents undoubtedly. Second, did you advise setting an ambush for me?"

"No. That was--no matter who. I talked them out of it, and was sorry for it afterwards."

"But you did say you'd drive me out of the Park."

"Yes, and I'd have done it any way short of--"

"Sending me out in a coffin! But we all lost our tempers, of course."

"And with good reason on our side," retorted Huntington stoutly.

"Perhaps. But I'll ask you to remember that everything I did was open and aboveboard. If any of your cattle strayed, if any of _your_ fences were cut, I had nothing to do with it."

"I believe you--now, after what Thursby's told me."

"Thank you. We make progress. But there are two things more. Who cut the fence of my winter pasture?"

For a moment Huntington was silent, his face reddening.