Rudolph was studying the ground again. His thoughts, then, had wronged
her. Drenched and downhearted, holding this strange burden in his
jacket, he felt that he had foolishly meddled in things inevitable,
beyond repair. She was right. Yet some vague, insurgent instinct, which
would not down, told him that there had been a disappointment. Still,
what had he expected? No woman could help; no woman.

Then suddenly he mounted, bundle and all, and turned his willing pony
homeward.

"Come," he said; and for the first time, unwittingly, had taken charge.

"What is it?" she called. "You foolish boy! What's your plan?"

"We shall see," he answered. Without waiting, he beckoned her to follow.
She came. They rode stirrup to stirrup, silent as in their escape at
dawn, and as close bodily, but in spirit traveling distant parallels. He
gave no thought to that, riding toward his experiment. Near the town, at
last, he reined aside to a cluster of buildings,--white walls and rosy
tiles under a great willow.

"You may save your steps," she declared, with sudden petulance. "The
hospital's more out of funds than ever, and more crowded. They'll not
thank you."

Rudolph nodded back at her, with a queer smile, half reckless and half
confident.

"Then," he replied, dismounting, "I will replenish my nunnery."