The Bell-Ringer of Angels | Page 6

two years ago?
How does that suit your Christian conscience, Mad?"
"I should have told him, had I not believed that everything was over
between us, or that it was possible that you and me should ever meet
again," he returned, in a tone so measured that the girl seemed to hear
the ring of the conventicle in it.
"Should you, BROTHER Wayne?" she said, imitating him. "Well, let
me tell you that you are the one man on the Bar that Sandy has taken a
fancy to."

Madison's sallow cheek colored a little, but he did not speak.
"Well!" continued Mrs. McGee impatiently. "I don't believe he'd object
to your comin' here to see me--if you cared."
"But I wouldn't care to come, unless he first knew that I had been once
engaged to you," said Madison gravely.
"Perhaps he might not think as much of that as you do," retorted the
woman pertly. "Every one isn't as straitlaced as you, and every girl has
had one or two engagements. But do as you like-- stay at home if you
want to, and sing psalms and read the Scriptures to that younger brother
of yours! All the same, I'm thinkin' he'd rather be out with the boys."
"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