“God grant it so,” exclaimed the girl fervently. “At least, now I _know_ that Burton is innocent.”
“Yuh don’t mean tuh sy yuh ever thought hit was Burton, do yuh?” demanded the boy, and there was a reproach in his tone that cut. “Yuh never thought that, did yuh?”
“No, I never thought him guilty. But if I could prove him innocent it would make a great difference to me—and to one or two others. The fact is I find myself in a rather embarrassing position. But you don’t understand, and I can’t ex——”
“Yes Hi do, though. Hit’s about that dog Gardiner. ’E’s worse’n Riles.”
“Hi mean it, han’ Hi can’t prove it hit, either.”
“But you must be wrong in this case. Mr. Gardiner has been a good friend, but that is all. That is the trouble. Why can’t a good friend remain a friend instead of spoiling it by wanting to be—something more?”
The boy flushed, but it was with the pride of victory. “Hit’s gettin’ light,” he said. “Hi must be goin’ now. Hif Hi see _’im_, is there hany message; hanything more than you ’ave said?”
She thought for a moment. “Only this,” she said, reaching for the little book of poems. It opened at a well-thumbed spot and she tore a leaf from the binding. She folded it twice and pressed it into his palm. “Give him that,” she said.
He took her hand. “Good-bye, Miss Vane,” he said.
She pressed a chaste kiss on his forehead. “Good-bye. God bless you.”
And he walked sturdily away, carrying unspoken the secret tragedy of his young life.
“We have smelt the smoke-wraith flying in the hot October wind, And have fought the fiery demon that came raging down behind.”
The harvest was at its height. Blood-red the sun rose every morning to plough its silent way across an ocean of polished steel, while white cloud-swans, with ruffled plumage, floated on its glassy bosom; blood-red it sank to rest every night behind the dim haze of harvest dust. The smell of ripe wheat filled the air, and where the binders clattered into fields of rusty oats a red cloud marked their pilgrimage as a modern people fought its slow way out of the land of bondage. The great, white, dangerous full moon of August had left the fields unharmed, and men and women and horses and steam and gasoline were deep in their pitched battle against time and the steadily shortening day and approaching winter.