“You were right,” said the voice.  “It was the whistle that made him so angry.”

Indistinctly she associated a slowly-shaping figure with the voice and realized that she had been away in the unknown for a second.  Yes, it was all very well to talk about Sir Walter being out of fashion, but she had been near to fainting, and in none of the affectation of the hoop-skirt age, either.  Had she done any foolish thing in expression of a weakness that she had never known before?  Had she extended her hand for support?  Had he caught her as she wobbled in the saddle?  No.  She was relieved to see that he was not near enough for that.

“By no stretch of ethics can you charge yourself with further responsibility or fears,” he continued.  “Pete and I understand each other perfectly, now.”

But in his jocularity ran something which was plain, if unspoken.  It was that he would put an end to a disagreeable subject.  His first words to her had provided a bridge—­and burned it—­from the bank of the disagreeable to the bank of agreeable.  Her own desire, with full mastery of her faculties coming swiftly, fell in with his.  She wanted to blot out that horror and scotch a sudden uprising of curiosity as to the exact nature of the gamble in death through which he had passed.  It was enough that he was alive.

The blurry figure became distinct, smiling with inquiry in a glance from her to the stack of papers, magazines, and pamphlets which crowded his circling arms.  He seemed to have emptied the post-office.  There had not been any Pete Leddy; there had been no display of six-shooters.  He had gone in after the mail.  Here he was ready to deliver it by the bushel, while he waited for orders.  She had to laugh at his predicament as he lowered his chin to steady a book on the top of the pile.

“Oh, I meant to tell you that you were not to bring the second-class matter!” she told him.  “We always send a servant with a basket for that.  You see what comes of having a father who is not only omnivorous, but has a herbivorous capacity.”

He saw that the book had a row of Italian stamps across the wrapper.  Unless that popular magazine stopped slipping, both the book and a heavy German pamphlet would go.  He took two hasty steps toward her, in mock distress of appeal.

“I’ll allow salvage if you act promptly!” he said.

She lifted the tottering apex just in time to prevent its fall.

“I’ll take the book,” she said.  “Father has been waiting months for it.  We can separate the letters and leave the rest in the store to be sent for.”

“The railroad station is on the other side of the town, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I shall camp nearby, so it will be no trouble to leave my burden at your door as I pass.”

“He does have the gift of oiling the wheels in either, big or little moments,” she thought, as she realized how simple and considerate had been his course from the first.  He was a stranger going on his way, stopping, however, to do her or any other traveller a favor en route.