were four of us—Cattermole with Mrs. Chantrey, and Marion and I. Morton Travers had ridden to the neighboring town on his bicycle. "For my part," remarked I to my companion, as we scrambled up the rocky path of the shaded glen, with the brook murmuring below, "I am old-fashioned enough to prefer walking to wheeling." As she made no rejoinder, I added: "If I could ride as well as Travers I might think dif- ferently. He is a fine fellow."
"I am glad he prefers wheeling," said she; and when I asked her why, she answered, "because I wouldn't like him beside me when I am looking at a beautiful view."
"He would distract your attention from it?" I suggested.
She did not at first reply; but presently said, curtly, "That was not what I meant."
This left me to infer that she did not like the young man, and it pleased me; for I was of the same mind about him, and I thought I had noticed that he was disposed to make advances to her. Cattermole, it is true, seemed to favor him; but I doubted whether Cattermole was a good judge of human nature; he lent to everyone from his own capital of goodness. I trusted much more in Marion's intuitions—especially as they confirmed my own.
We soon emerged on the Bowlder, the view from which was a noble one. The calm, winding river gleamed amid its dark hills, and the sun gathered gorgeous colors in the west. There was a rustic bench, on which the two women and I sat down; but Cattermole seated himself on a rock at the verge of the cliff and, taking off his hat, inhaled the cool air deeply.
"Such a scene as that teaches me that there is more good than evil in the world," said he.
"Didn't somebody say that 'Every prospect pleases, but only man is vile'?" asked Mrs. Chantrey, in her sprightly way.
"I once knew a man," said Cattermole, after a pause, "who displayed so many fine qualities that I grew very fond of him, and trusted him completely. He was about my age, and showed deep interest in the manner I was attempting to help some unfortunate persons abroad. His practical and administrative abilities led me to place in his hands a great deal of the work of distribution. After some months I accidentally discovered that there was a serious leakage somewhere, which my investigations unexpectedly brought home to my friend. Among other things there was a forgery of my name for several thousand pounds, which could have been done by no other than by him. I confronted him with the evidence, and he could make no effective defense. I would have given a hundred times the money to have proved him innocent. But a criminal of this kind is dangerous to society, and it seemed my duty to prosecute him. He had a son, a fine young fellow with the world before him; how could I endure to blight that young career? I passed a day and a night of very severe anxicty. What would you have done, Miss Marion?" he asked, suddenly turning to her.
"I cannot answer such a question; but I am sure you forgave him," said she.
I liked that reply. If women did not prefer love to justice, what would become of us? And what Marion ascribed to Cattermole she would have done herself, in spite of her disclaimer.
"The next morning," he went on, "the man's son himself came to me. What he said amounted to this: He had been in his father's confidence; it was possible that he had committed the forgery without his father's knowledge. 'And if you bring him to trial,' he added, 'I will go on the stand and swear that I am the guilty one. Even if the jury does not convict me, it must at least give my father the benefit of the doubt.'"
Marion's eyes grew tender, and she smiled.
"I wish I knew that son," said she.
