O love, can the tree lure¹ the summer bird Again to the bough² where it used to sing,
When never a throat in the autumn is heard,
And never the glint of a vagrant³ wing?
—ARTHUR STRINGER.
 
The autumn days came, and all the landscape within the range of Granny Long's telescope turned golden with its wealth of harvest. The apples dropped, rosy-cheeked, from the orchard⁴ trees, the corn and the pumpkins⁵ ripened⁶ in the garden. All day the binder⁷ sang in the yellow fields, and at night a great harvest moon hung alone in the violet heavens. As soon as the first blue haze⁸ of autumn settled over the ravine the mill closed, and the men scattered⁹ to work in the fields, or at threshing-bees, or went farther north to the winter lumber¹⁰ camps.
 
John McIntyre did not leave, as people had expected. He remained in his old shanty¹¹ by the Drowned Lands, harvesting his little crop of potatoes, or laying up his stock of winter wood from the adjacent swamp. The village saw him only on the rare occasions when he came up to the flour-mill or store for provisions. But he did not live a solitary¹² life, for the eldest¹³ Sawyer orphan¹⁴ had now become his chum and confidant, and would have gone down to visit him almost every evening, even if old Hughie Cameron had reversed proceedings¹⁵ and paid him to stay away.
 
When the silent, dark man was removed from the village, and there was no likelihood of encountering him on the street in the evening, Dr. Gilbert Allen experienced a feeling of relief. Every time he met the man's disdainful gaze, the remembrance of his accusation¹⁶ returned, and with it a feeling of self-abasement. He longed to vindicate¹⁷ himself, to put it beyond the range of possibility that any man could say he had been dishonest. But that meant a great sacrifice, one that Gilbert was not yet prepared to make.
 
When the first chill of the waning¹⁹ year came the doctor had a new patient. All summer Miss Arabella Winters' health had been steadily²⁰ failing. She never complained, nor did she seem to have any disease, but just pined quietly away. Susan scolded and petted and doctored her, and made her wear flannel²¹ on her chest, but all to no avail. Miss Arabella, in her gentle, unobtrusive fashion, grew steadily worse. She seemed to have lost not only the power, but the desire, to get better.
 
Elsie Cameron had long noted²² the change in her friend, and strove in every way to arouse her. One day she organized a nutting party down into Treasure Valley, a still, smoky autumn day, when the rainbow leaves floated down and rested lightly upon the earth with a fairy touch. The orphans²³ came, of course, and they flew up and down the hill, gathering²⁴ hazelnuts and red berries and scarlet²⁵ leaves, while Miss Arabella strayed here and there, her arms full of purple asters, until the look of hopelessness left her eyes and her face took on a pretty pink flush. But the twins strayed away, and before they were found the amethyst²⁶ mists of the autumn evening were filling the valley. Miss Arabella took a severe cold, and the next day she went to bed.
 
Mrs. Winters scolded the whole picnic party, Arabella most of all; and having used all her medical skill upon her to no avail, she grew alarmed, and called in Dr. Allen.
 
He came to see the quiet, patient little woman nearly every day for a week, and at the end of that time was forced to confess that she was growing steadily worse, and that there was something wrong with her that quite baffled his skill.
 
He left her house one afternoon, and went slowly down the walk with a very grave face. Polly called after him from the veranda²⁷ that times were still very slow, but he did not hear, and he almost stumbled against Elsie Cameron as she came through the gateway²⁸ carrying a covered bowl.
 
"Ah, you are the very person I want to consult," he said, his face brightening. "I wish you would do something for my patient in there."
 
"Is her cold worse?"
 
"No, it isn't a cold that ails²⁹ her; I confess I don't know what it is. There seems to be some secret trouble weighing on her mind. I wish you could discover what it is, and see if you can help her. I am doing her no good, and there's no doubt that she is steadily growing weaker."
 
His manner was very serious, and Elsie entered the little house with a foreboding at her heart. He was right. Some strange trouble had been pressing upon Arabella's mind all summer, she felt sure. She passed through the house and placed the bowl on the kitchen table.
 
Mrs. Winters was there, and the place was dazzlingly clean. "There!" she exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction, "I've polished the stove and scrubbed the floor, an' put up five quarts o' pickled pears, an' to-morrow I'm goin' to house-clean the front part. Arabella always kept things kind of in order, but she was never anything of a manager. If you were thinkin' o' stayin' a little, Elsie, I'd run over an' look after my bread, an' then give Hannah a hand with her sewing. It's a caution how them twins get through their clothes. They ought to be well whipped for it. Now, that soup's just awful nice, Elsie. It was good of your ma to send it, an' it's only slops like that Arabella'll take. No, she ain't a bit better, the doctor says; an' I say it jist looks like as if she was too stubborn to quit bein' sick, now she's started. If yous folks hadn't gone gallivantin' off down the crick that day this would never 'a' happened. Arabella's too old for such foolishness, anyhow. Well, I'll run home. Tell her I'll be back in an hour or so an' shake out the mats."
 
Elsie went into the spare bedroom, where Miss Arabella lay, propped³⁰ up on pillows. Her little, wan¹⁸ face brightened at the sight of her visitor.
 
"Oh, Elsie, is it you? It's good o' you to come." She looked anxiously past her. "Where's Susan?"
 
"She's gone home, and I'm going to sit with you till she comes back."
 
Miss Arabella tried not to look relieved. "D'ye think it would hurt me much to have the curtains put back, Elsie? I'd love to see out."
 
"Of course not. You shall have the window taken right out if you want it." The girl rolled up the green paper blind, pushed back the stiff lace curtains, and opened the window from the top. It was a perfect October day, and Miss Arabella felt the gentle breeze, and saw the sumach at her gate, a patch of vivid scarlet against the deep blue of the sky. At a corner of the window the boughs³¹ of an old apple-tree, still green, looked in and nodded in a friendly manner. The invalid³² looked bright and interested for a few minutes, then sighed and grew wan and listless again.
 
Elsie pulled her chair up close to the bedside.
 
"Arabella, dear," she said earnestly, "what is the matter with you?"
 
"I—I—guess it's jist that cold I caught, hangin' on. Susan says it is."
 
"Dr. Allen doesn't think so. He says he doesn't know what is making you ill, and Susan doesn't know, and I don't know. But you do, Arabella, and, oh, I wish you'd tell me!"
 
She put her two strong, young hands over the thin little one lying on the coverlid. Her deep eyes were full of sympathy. A slow flush rose into Miss Arabella's face. She turned away from the girl's steady gaze.
 
"Elsie," she whispered, "he's right. There—there is something the matter with me, and I—I think—I'm pretty sure—I'm going to die."
 
"No, no, Arabella! You mustn't say that—you really mustn't!"
 
The invalid was perfectly³³ calm. "I think I am, though," she said quietly. "It's about the best thing I can do now, since——" She paused and turned away her head again.
 
Elsie slipped to her knees by the bedside. "Won't you tell me what is wrong, Arabella?" she whispered. "Something's been troubling you all summer. I've noticed it ever since I came home."
 
"Yes, it's jist about that time. But it can't be helped now. And it won't be long till it's all over. And, Elsie"—she glanced around, as though fearful of being overheard—"I'm goin' to leave you something!"
 
"Oh, Arabella! don't!" cried the girl, tears rising to her eyes. "I can't bear to hear you talk like that. You'll be better in a day or two."
 
Miss Arabella shook her head firmly. "No, Susan says I've got stubborn, an' I guess she's right; because I don't seem to want to bother about getting better. But I'd like you to have something to remember me by, Elsie. You were always different from the other girls, an' never acted as if I was old an' queer, an' I'm goin' to leave you—something."
 
She lay still for a few moments while her companion regarded her with sorrow-filled eyes. "Elsie," she whispered suddenly, "if I tell you something—something awful, mind you, will you promise never, never to tell it to a living soul? Not even after I'm gone?"
 
Elsie looked at her half alarmed. "Oh, Arabella!" she stammered³⁴, "of course I wouldn't tell—if you—that is if you'd really like to tell me."
 
Miss Arabella's cheeks were growing pale. "Yes, I'd better tell you. I'll have to if I—I leave it to you. Run out an' lock the door, Elsie—the back door, too, and bring Polly in. Somebody might come in an' see it."
 
Elsie obeyed, with a feeling of growing apprehension³⁵. She had evidently stirred up depths of which she had never dreamed. When she returned the invalid was half sitting up in bed, flushed with excitement. She pointed³⁶ to the gay Red Ridi............