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But before he had passed the last group of cabins he met Langley himself, who by this time was well enough to resume his place in the small world, and, hearing his story, Langley’s anxiety was greater than his own. “I saw him last night on my way home,” he said. “About this time, too, for I remember he was sitting in the moonlight at the door of his shanty. We exchanged a few words, as we always do, and he said he was there because he was not needed, and thought a quiet night would do him good. Is it possible no one has seen him since?” in sudden alarm.

“Come with me,” said his companion.

Overwhelmed by a mutual dread, neither spoke until they reached the shanty itself. There was no sign of human life about it: the door stood open, and the only sound to be heard was the rustle of the wind whispering among the pines upon the mountain side. Both men flung themselves from their horses with loudly-beating hearts.

“God grant he is not here!” uttered Langley. “God grant he is anywhere else! The place is so drearily desolate.”

Desolate indeed! The moonbeams streaming through the door threw their fair light upon the rough boards and upon the walls, and upon the quiet figure lying on the pallet in one of the corners, touching with pitying whiteness the homely face upon the pillow and the hand that rested motionless upon the floor.

The doctor went down on his knees at the pallet’s side, and thrust his hand into the breast of the coarse garments with a half-checked groan.

“Asleep?” broke from Langley’s white lips in a desperate whisper. “Not–not”–

“Dead!” said the doctor–“dead for hours!” There was actual anguish in his voice as he uttered the words, but another element predominated in the exclamation which burst from him scarcely a second later. “Good God!” he cried–“good God!”

Langley bent down and caught him almost fiercely by the arm: the exclamation jarred upon him. “What is it?” he demanded, “What do you mean?”

“It is–a woman!”

Even as they gazed at each other in speechless questioning the silence was broken in upon. Swift, heavy footsteps neared the door, crossed the threshold, and Janner’s daughter stood before them.

There was no need for questioning. One glance told her all. She made her way to the moonlit corner, pushed both aside with rough strength, and knelt down. “I might ha’ knowed,” she said with helpless bitterness–“I might ha’ knowed;” and she laid her face against the dead hand in a sudden passion of weeping. “I might ha’ knowed, Jinny lass,” she cried, “but I didna. It was loike aw th’ rest as tha’ should lay thee down an’ die loike this. Tha’ wast alone aw along, an’ tha” wast alone at th’ last. But dunnot blame me, poor lass. Nay, I know tha’ wiltna.”

The two men stood apart, stirred by an emotion too deep for any spoken attempt at sympathy. She scarcely seemed to see them: she seemed to recognize no presence but that of the unresponsive figure upon its lowly couch. She spoke to it as if it had been a living thing, her voice broken and tender, stroking the hair now and then with a touch all womanly and loving. “Yo’ were nigher to me than most foak, Jinny,” she said; “an’ tha’ trusted me, I know.”

They left her to her grief until at last she grew calmer and her sobs died away into silence. Then she rose and approaching Langley, who stood at the door, spoke to him, scarcely raising her tear-stained eyes. “I ha’ summat to tell yo’ an’ sum-mat to ax yo’,” she said, “an’ I mun tell it to yo’ alone. Will yo’ coom out here?”

He followed her, wondering and sad. His heart was heavy with the pain and mystery the narrow walls inclosed. When they paused a few yards from the house, the one face was scarcely more full of sorrow than the other, only that the woman’s was wet with tears. She was not given to many words, Bess Janner, and she wasted few in the story she had to tell. “Yo’ know th’ secret as she carried,” she said, “or I wouldna tell yo’ even now; an’ now I tell it yo’ that she may carry the secret to her grave, an’ ha’ no gossiping tongue to threep at her. I dunnot want foak starin’ an’ wonderin’ an’ makkin’ talk. She’s borne enow.”