"Thank you, Joe; you are kind--and good."

He returned then to his apartment. His pipe was out, but he picked
up a newspaper instead, threw himself into an armchair, and in a
half-hour was in the land of dreams.

When Charlie came home in the morning, after a six-mile walk into
the country and back again, his foolish anger was dead and buried.
Logan's "Poor old Charlie" did not ring so distinctly in his ears.
Mrs. Stuart's horrified expression had faded considerably from his
recollection. He thought only of that surprisingly tall, dark girl,
whose eyes looked like coals, whose voice pierced him like a
flint-tipped arrow. Ah, well, they would never quarrel again like
that, he told himself. She loved him so, and would forgive him after
he had talked quietly to her, and told her what an ass he was. She
was simple-minded and awfully ignorant to pitch those old Indian
laws at him in her fury, but he could not blame her; oh, no, he
could not for one moment blame her. He had been terribly severe and
unreasonable, and the horrid McDonald temper had got the better of
him; and he loved her so. Oh! He loved her so! She would surely feel
that, and forgive him, and-- He went straight to his wife's room.
The blue velvet evening dress lay on the chair into which he had
thrown himself when he doomed his life's happiness by those two
words, "God knows." A bunch of dead daffodils and her slippers were
on the floor, everything--but Christie.

He went to his brother's bedroom door.

"Joe," he called, rapping nervously thereon; "Joe, wake up; where's
Christie, d'you know?"