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“My brother is God-fearing and conscientious,” said Madison quickly. “You do not know him. You have never seen him.”

“No,” said Mrs. McGee shortly. She then gave a little shiver (that was, however, half simulated) in her wet garments, and added: “ONE saint was enough for me; I couldn’t stand the whole church, Mad.”

“You are catching cold,” he said quickly, his whole face brightening with a sudden tenderness that seemed to transfigure the dark features. “I am keeping you here when you should be changing your clothes. Go, I beg you, at once.”

She stood still provokingly, with an affectation of wiping her arms and shoulders and sopping her wet dress with clusters of moss.

“Go, please do–Safie, please!”

“Ah!”–she drew a quick, triumphant breath. “Then you’ll come again to see me, Mad?”

“Yes,” he said slowly, and even more gravely than before.

“But you must let me show you the way out–round under those trees–where no one can see you come.” She held out her hand.

“I’ll go the way I came,” he said quietly, swinging himself silently from the nearest bough into the stream. And before she could utter a protest he was striking out as silently, hand over hand, across the current.

CHAPTER II.

A week later Madison Wayne was seated alone in his cabin. His supper table had just been cleared by his Chinese coolie, as it was getting late, and the setting sun, which for half an hour had been persistently making a vivid beacon of his windows for the benefit of wayfarers along the river bank, had at last sunk behind the cottonwoods. His head was resting on his hand; the book he had been reading when the light faded was lying open on the table before him. In this attitude he became aware of a hesitating step on the gravel outside his open door. He had been so absorbed that the approach of any figure along the only highway–the river bank–had escaped his observation. Looking up, he discovered that Mr. Alexander McGee was standing in the doorway, his hand resting lightly on the jamb. A sudden color suffused Wayne’s cheek; his hand reached for his book, which he drew towards him hurriedly, yet half automatically, as he might have grasped some defensive weapon.

The Bell-ringer of Angel’s noticed the act, but not the blush, and nodded approvingly. “Don’t let me disturb ye. I was only meanderin’ by and reckoned I’d say ‘How do?’ in passin’.” He leaned gently back against the door-post, to do which comfortably he was first obliged to shift the revolver on his hip. The sight of the weapon brought a slight contraction to the brows of Wayne, but he gravely said: “Won’t you come in?”

“It ain’t your prayin’ time?” said McGee politely.

“No.”

“Nor you ain’t gettin’ up lessons outer the Book?” he continued thoughtfully.

“No.”

“Cos it don’t seem, so to speak, you see, the square thing to be botherin’ a man when he might be doin’ suthin’ else, don’t you see? You understand what I mean?”

It was his known peculiarity that he always seemed to be suffering from an inability to lucid expression, and the fear of being misunderstood in regard to the most patent or equally the most unimportant details of his speech. All of which, however, was in very remarkable contrast to his perfectly clear and penetrating eyes.

Wayne gravely assured him that he was not interrupting him in any way.

“I often thought–that is, I had an idea, you understand what I mean–of stoppin’ in passing. You and me, you see, are sorter alike; we don’t seem to jibe in with the gin’ral gait o’ the camp. You understand what I mean? We ain’t in the game, eh? You see what I’m after?”

Madison Wayne glanced half mechanically at McGee’s revolver. McGee’s clear eyes at once took in the glance.

“That’s it! You understand? You with them books of yours, and me with my shootin’ iron–we’re sort o’ different from the rest, and ought to be kinder like partners. You understand what I mean? We keep this camp in check. We hold a full hand, and don’t stand no bluffing.”