Chapter IX. The Ride up the Bow - Page 2

"What is all this about the Indian, Dr. Martin?" inquired the girl at his side as they cantered down the street.

"Didn't your brother tell you?"

"No."

"Well, I've done enough to you with that Indian already to-day."

"To me?"

"Didn't I like a fool frighten you nearly to death with him?"

"Well, I was startled. I was silly to show it. But an Indian to an Old Country person familiar with Fenimore Cooper, well--"

"Oh, I was a proper idiot all round this morning," grumbled the doctor. "I didn't know what I was doing."

The brown eyes were open wide upon him.

"You see," continued the doctor desperately, "I'd looked forward to meeting you for so long." The brown eyes grew wider. "And then to think that I actually didn't know you."

"You didn't look at me," cried Moira.

"No, I was looking for the girl I saw that day, almost three years ago, in the Glen. I have never forgotten that day."

"No, nor I," replied the girl softly. "That is how I knew you. It was a terrible day to us all in the Glen, my brother going to leave us and under that dreadful cloud, and you came with the letter that cleared it all away. Oh, it was like the coming of an angel from heaven, and I have often thought, Mr. Martin--Dr. Martin you are now, of course--that I never thanked you as I ought that day. I was thinking of Allan. I have often wished to do it. I should like to do it now."

"Get at it," cried the doctor with great emphasis, "I need it. It might help me a bit. I behaved so stupidly this morning. The truth is, I was completely knocked out, flabbergasted."

"Was that it?" cried Moira with a bright smile. "I thought--" A faint color tinged her pale cheek and she paused a moment. "But tell me about the Indian. My brother just made little of it. It is his way with me. He thinks me just a little girl not to be trusted with things."

"He doesn't know you, then," said the doctor.

She laughed gayly. "And do you?"

"I know you better than that, at least."

"What can you know about me?"

"I know you are to be trusted with that or with anything else that calls for nerve. Besides, sooner or later you must know about this Indian. Wait till we cross the bridge and reach the top of the hill yonder, it will be better going."

The hillside gave them a stiff scramble, for the trail went straight up. But the sure-footed ponies, scrambling over stones and gravel, reached the top safely, with no worse result than an obvious disarrangement of the girl's hair, so that around the Scotch bonnet which she had pinned on her head the little