"Can't shoot a pistol much, can you?"

"Ain't much of a hand with a pistol, Zeby."

"Haven't got one, have you?"

"Had one, but I believe Lyman took it up to his room. There's a good man, even if you have a cause not to like him; and when I got well acquainted with him I jest 'lowed that nothin' on the place was too good for him, so we brushed up the room right over the sittin' room, and there he sets late in the night and does his work, and sometimes, 'way late, I hear him walkin' up and down, arm in arm with an idea that he's tryin' to get better acquainted with, he says."

"Is he up there now?"

"No. He ain't come in yet. Sometimes he don't come till late. He's got fewer regular hours about him than any man I ever seen. He jest takes everything by fits and starts, and he's mighty funny about some things—he don't let a man know what he's doin' at all; never comes down and reads to a body the things that he writes—might write a hymn to sing at the camp-meeting, and he never would read it to you."

The old man drifted into another stage coach reminiscence and Sawyer sat in an attitude of pretended interest, but he heard nothing, so deep-buried was he within himself. He had not much time to spare, and there was one thing that must be done; it was absolutely essential that he must go to Lyman's room and get the pistol. He poured out more whisky for the old man. Jasper continued to talk, but the memories of the past did not arise to tickle him; they made him sad. He wept over a girl, his first love, a grave more than forty years old. He sobbed over his boy, killed in the army. His chin sank upon his breast. Sawyer got up quickly and began to search for the gun. He found it and hid it under a bed. Then he turned his attention to Lyman's room. The apartment was approached by an encased stairway, leading from the sitting-room. He lifted the latch and listened, the old man was snoring; the young man felt like a thief; but that was to be expected, and therefore did not alarm his conscience. The stairs creaked, still he did not pause. The door of Lyman's room, to the left at the head of the stairs, was not locked. Sawyer struck a match and stepped inside. He lighted a lamp and looked about the room. On the table lay sheets of paper, some of them covered with close, nervous writing, and upon others were scratches, half-formed words, the tracks of a mind wandering in a bog. He pulled open the table drawer and eagerly grabbed up a pistol. Then he turned out the light and walked hastily down the stairs. Old Jasper was still asleep, his head on one side, like an old hawk worn out with a long fight. Sawyer put the pistol on the side-board, behind a tin tray standing on edge, and then sat down to wait. It was nearly time for the "boys" to come. He heard a key in the front door lock, and he put out the light. The door opened and closed, the latch of the stair door clicked; he heard Lyman going up to his room.



CHAPTER XXII.

THE "BOOSY."

Lyman had been helping Warren with the work of putting the paper to press, and he was tired, but when he had lighted the lamp he drew the writing paper toward him, and took up a pen, turning it between his fingers, as if waiting for a word, but it did not come, and he sat there musing. His heart was heavy, though not with a sadness, but with an overweight of gentleness, a consciousness that he stood as a protector to bide the time of the lover's coming. He was proud, but had no vanity. He knew that he could win friendship, for in friendship a strong and rugged quality was a factor, but he did not realize that the same rugged quality appealed to a deeper affection. In his work he saw the character of woman, and he could fancy her capricious enough to give her heart to the most awkward of men, but when he turned this light upon himself, so many blemishes were brought out that he stepped back from the glaring revelation. He believed that in his peculiar position Eva gave him the affection that a daughter might give a father, and he was determined that this charming relationship should not be undone by the appearance, on his part, of a selfish love; and in his resolve he was strong, but in cold dread he looked forward to the time when she should come with a new light in her eyes and ask him to release her. Suddenly a noise came from below, the tramping of feet upon the veranda. Could it be a surprise party at so late an hour? He listened. The door was opened, but there was no sound of greetings, no laughter. The visitors were evidently trying to soften their foot-weight, but the house shook under their uneven tread. He heard the click of the stair-door latch; the stairs groaned. He remembered what Sawyer had said, and caution prompted him to lock the door. The next moment there came a gentle tap, but he knew that the gentleness was assumed, for he heard suppressed breathing at the head of the stairs.

"Who's there?" he asked.

"Open the door."

"But who's there?"

"The good of the community."

"Well, I don't know that I have any business with you at this time of night, Mr. Good-of-the-Community."

"But we have business with you. Open the door or we'll break it down."

Lyman stepped back and snatched open the table drawer. He straightened up and thought for a moment. They were throwing themselves against the door. He seized a light chair and stood near the door. Word to hurry up came from below. The door creaked.

"Once more, are you going to open it?"

"Wait a moment," said Lyman. "I don't know who you are, but I can guess at your business. You are violating the law, you are house-breakers and I wish to tell you—"

Crash went the door. And crash went the chair. The opening was narrow. The first man fell back. The second man staggered. The third man hesitated, then sprang upon Lyman, giving him no time to strike. Across the floor they struggled, the old house shaking. They strove to choke each other, they rolled upon the floor. Lyman got hold of the fellow's throat. His fingers were like steel clamps. The White-Cap gurgled. Lyman got up, dragged him to the door and tumbled him down the stairs. Just then there came shrieks from below. The two women had returned. The White Caps were treading one upon another in their hurry to get out. Lyman, with a chair post in his hand, followed them. They ran through the sitting-room, a flutter of white in the dark. Lyman went into the dining-room, whence the women had run. The lamp had been relighted, and there sat old Jasper, fast asleep.

"There's nothing to be alarmed about," said Lyman, as the women with their hands in the air, ran to him. "A few White Caps out of employment wanted work, and got it. There, now, don't take on. Sit down, Aunt Tobithy. Oh, old Uncle Jasper is all right."

"He is drunk," said the old woman, anger driving away her fright. "They have made him drunk and he would sit there and sleep and let them burn the house over his head. Oh, was there ever anything so disgraceful! Jasper! Jasper!" she shook him.

"Horse that would trot—trot—" the old man muttered.

"Oh, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Take hold of him, Annie, and let's put him to bed."

"I'll take care of him," said Lyman. They put him to bed and then sat down. "I don't understand it," the old woman remarked. "Did they hurt you?"

"No, they didn't get at me. They were at a disadvantage, out on the narrow landing, while I had plenty of room to swing around in. I must have hurt two of them pretty badly."

"What do you think of it?" Annie inquired

"Sawyer," said Lyman.

The old woman made a noise that sounded like a cluck. "And he fixed it so we were to go over to his mother's," she said. "Oh, it's perfectly clear. And he brought whisky here and got Jasper drunk. I do think this is the worst community the Lord ever saw. Talk about churches and school-houses, when such things are allowed to go on."

"What are you going to do about it, Mr. Lyman?" Annie asked. "Are you going to have them arrested?"

"They ought to be hanged," the old lady spoke up. "Oh, I knew something would happen the moment I put my foot off the place. I never did know it to fail. And I might have told this morning that something wrong was goin' to take place, for I had to try twice or three times before I could pick up anything when I stooped for it, and I saw a hen out in the yard trying to crow. But, Mr. Lyman," she added, reflectively, "I do hope you will think twice before you go to law about it. I don't tell you not to, mind you, for I am the last one in the world to tell a person not to have the law enforced, but if you could see that old woman—Zeb's mother—you wouldn't want to do a thing to bend her down with grief; it makes no difference how many laws it would enforce."

"And besides what would the law do?" Annie broke in, to strengthen her mother's position. "You might have him arrested and all that, and a trial and a scandal, too, but after all, it wouldn't amount to anything. I should think that his conscience would punish him enough. And you couldn't have the others arrested without bringing him into it."

"You don't need to argue any longer," Lyman replied. "The merest reference to his old mother settles it with me. The law part would be a farce anyway. But let me remind you that it is quite a serious thing when an American citizen is ordered to leave his home at the whim of a scoundrel."

He bade them good night and went up to his room. The door lay upon the floor and fragments of the cast-iron lock were scattered about. The image of Sawyer arose before him, as he had appeared in the office, and so hateful and disturbing was the picture, that he arose and bathed his face, as if to wash out the vision. He heard a man's voice below and he stepped to the head of the stairs and listened. He recognized the voice of the town marshal. Already the law had begun its feeble farce. The marshal came up the stairs and looked around, at the door and the fragments of the lock. He took up a bit of iron and put it into his pocket, as if he had found a ton's weight of evidence.

"I'll take this along," he said gravely.

"Help yourself," said Lyman.

"Yes, for little things count," the marshal replied with the air of a great and mysterious detective. "And now," he added, "have you any idea or any suspicion as to who led this gang?"

Lyman had sat down and was crossed-legged, swinging one foot. "Oh," he answered carelessly, "I guess you know who it is. However, we will let the subject drop. I don't wish to discuss it."

"But, my dear sir, the law—"

Lyman held up his hand. "Let us hear nothing more about the law," said he. "Good night."

The marshal tramped down the stairs and Lyman went to bed to forget the mob and to dream of the rippling creek and a voice that was softer and sweeter than the echo of a flute. At early morning there came a rapping on the stairway, to summon him to breakfast. Old Jasper, with his hot hands in his pockets and with a sick expression of countenance was doddering about the sitting room.

"Ah, Lord," he said, when Lyman stepped down upon the floor. "Walt a minute. Let me shut this door. The smell of the kitchen gig—gig—- gags me. Lyman, I do reckon I ought to take a rusty knife and cut my infamous old throat. Yes, I do. I deserve it. And all because I wanted to renew my youth. I know I've said it before, but I want to say right now that I'll never touch another drop of the stuff as long as I live, I don't care if Noah had it with him in the Ark. But it is a fact that I sat here asleep while a mob was in my house?"

"Yes," said Lyman, "you were asleep when I came down stairs."

"Well, sir, it's news to me. And it shows what licker will fetch a man to. It will take me some little time to explain it to Tobithy."

"I suppose it will," said Lyman, smiling at him.

"Oh, it's a fact. Women fight against reason, you know, as long as they can. Yes, sir, it will take me a month to convince her that I wa'n't drunk. I admit that I drank a few drinks, small ones, not enough to hurt me if I had been right at myself, but I was tired and sleepy before I touched a drop. Lyman, I wish you would explain it to her. She's got a good deal of confidence in you—a good deal more than she has in me. I wish you would tell her that I wasn't drunk."

"I think the best plan, Uncle Jasper, would be to say nothing about it."

"All right, we'll let it drop then. But I'll have to reason with her, and, as I said before, it is goin' to take some time to explain. Go in to breakfast and let me sit down here in my misery. Say, if you could hint that I am awfully sorry I'd be obliged to you; and if you could give them to understand that you don't think I'm goin' to live long, it would be a big favor."

When Lyman stepped out upon the street he was soon made to feel that the White Cap affair had become common property. Some of the villagers were inclined to treat it as a great joke, but the graver ones looked upon it as a serious infraction of the law. Sawyer's name was not mentioned, but everyone appeared to understand that he was the leader.

Warren was standing at the foot of the office stairs as Lyman came up. They smiled at each other.

"Well," said Warren, "have you got another piece of news to suppress?"

"I am afraid so," Lyman answered, as he started up the stairs.

"You are afraid so?" said Warren, tramping beside him. "How much longer is this suppression act to remain in force? Confound it, you help make three-fourths of the news in the neighborhood and then won't print it because it concerns you. All news concerns somebody, you must understand."

They went into the editorial room. Lyman took up his pipe and Warren stood looking at him. Lyman sat down and lighted his pipe. "My boy," said he, "it may seem hard, but I have a reason for keeping this thing out of print. It is not for myself, for my own sense of delicacy does not protest against it, but it would wound an old woman, and we can't afford to do that. We might say something about the mob, but it won't do to mention names."

"You mean Mrs. Sawyer?"

"Yes; it would hurt her."

"Lyman, you are the best writer I ever saw, but you were not intended for a newspaper man."

"I know that, my boy. If I thought we could sell ten thousand papers I wouldn't print a thing to hurt an old woman."

"Oh, I don't want to hurt an old woman or a young one either," said Warren, "but I look at the principle of the thing. Somebody's hurt every time a paper comes from the press, and if everybody was as tender-hearted as you are, there would be no newspapers after awhile, and then where would we be?"

"We would be slower, less wise, but in many instances more respectable," Lyman replied. He leaned back in his chair, slowly puffing his pipe.

"From the high-grade point of view I reckon you're right," said Warren, raking up the newspapers on the table, "but we can't all live on the high grades. By the way," he added with a laugh, "I walked over to the express office this morning and took my paper out, as if it were a matter of course. The fellow looked at me and sighed, and I thought he was going to say something about the numerous times I had bled under the hob-nailed heel of his company. But he didn't; he asked me to send him the paper, and he paid for it right there. Oh, things are getting pretty bright when trusts and corporations begin to bid for your influence. But what are you going to do with that fellow Sawyer?" he asked, becoming grave, or rather, more serious, for gravity could hardly spread over his lightsome face.

"I don't know," Lyman answered.

"But you can't afford to keep on letting him hurt you; you'll have to hunt him to shut him off."

"Yes, I'll have to do something, but I don't know what it will be. I have met a good many mean men—mean fellows at a saw mill, and I thought that a mean mill man was about the meanest—but Sawyer strikes off somewhat in advance of any meanness I ever encountered."

"Well, don't you get mad? Don't you feel like you want to take a gun and shoot him?"

"Yes, I have all sorts of feelings with regard to him; and sometimes when I awake at night it is a good thing he is not within reach. But I'll try to worry along with him. I don't expect to stay here very much longer."

Warren caught his breath, as if he had stuck a splinter into his finger, and his face pinched up with sharp anxiety. "I have been expecting to hear that," he said, smoothing out the papers on the table. "I have been looking for it, and I don't blame you in the least, though I hate to give you up. But," he added, brightening, "you have given me a start and they can't take it away from me. I'm all right and I know you are. And the first thing you know, I'm going to get married and settle down. I am about half way in love with a girl now. She put her hand on a high seat and jumped right up into a wagon. And when she batted her eyes, I wondered that they didn't crack like a whip, they were so sharp. I said to myself right then that I was about half way in love with her, and I watched her as she sat there, eating an apple; and when she drove away I went and got an apple and ate it, and I never tasted an apple before, I tell you. It must be a great girl that can give flavor to fruit."

"Who is she?" Lyman asked, his eyes brightening with amusement.

"I don't know her name. She drove in with her father—I reckon he was her father—and I didn't find out her name or anything about her. I went into the store where the man bought a jug of molasses and asked the clerk in there if he knew the man, and he said he didn't. But I'll find out and will marry her if she has no particular objections. A woman who can jump like that and then flavor an apple can catch me any day."

"You don't know but that she may be already married," said Lyman.

"Oh, no. We must not suppose that. Why, that would kill everything. Of course the fellow with her might be her husband, but it would be nonsense to presume so when, with the same degree of reason, I can presume he is not. If you've got to do any presuming, always presume for the best."

Lyman threw himself back and laughed. "Neither the ancients nor the moderns ever evolved from life any better philosophy than that," he declared. "Why, of course she is not married, nor shall she be until you marry her. It was intended that she should flavor your life, even as she flavored the apple. Here comes someone. Why, it's McElwin. Step out into the other room a moment, please. I believe he wants to see me alone."



CHAPTER XXIII.

AFTER AN ANXIOUS NIGHT.

McElwin arose after a night of cat-naps. He was up long before breakfast. He stood at the gate, looking up and down the road; and when a peddler came along the banker hailed him and asked if there were any news in the town. The fellow held up a chicken. McElwin shook his head and repeated the inquiry. The fellow put the chicken back into his cart and held up a duck, whereupon McElwin ordered him to move on. At the breakfast table he sat with an unseeing stare. The clouds were gone, the day was bright and the air came sweet from the garden. His daughter spoke to him and he broke his stare and looked at her.

"Did you speak to me?" he asked.

"I said I was afraid you were not well this morning."

"Oh, yes, quite well, I thank you. But I didn't sleep very much."

"You might say you didn't sleep at all," his wife spoke up; "and I don't think you ought to go down town today."

This preposterous suggestion made him nervous. "Gracious alive, don't make an invalid of me," he replied. "I am all right, but an over-concern about my health will make me sick. Did you ever notice that when the newspapers begin to discuss a man's health he dies pretty soon? It's a fact. One newspaper comes out and says that Mr. Jones is not looking well. Another paper declares that Mr. Jones is looking better than he has looked for years. Then all the papers have their fling and the first thing you know Mr. Jones is dead."

Eva laughed; the idea struck her as being so humorously true, and Mrs. McElwin smiled, but it was the sad smile of protest. "James," she said, "you are a man of wonderful judgment, but sometimes you persist in looking at life through stained glass. Something is wrong with you and you ought to see a doctor at once."

"There you go," he cried, winking at his daughter. "Call in a doctor and that would settle it. The newspapers would then have their fling and that would fix me. I am worried, I acknowledge that, but it won't last long. Who is that at the gate?" he broke off, looking through the window. "He's moving off now. I thought at first that it was old Jasper Staggs."

It was his custom to read a newspaper in the library after breakfast, but this morning he did not tarry a moment, but went straightway toward the bank. At the wooden bridge he met Caruthers, and halted to speak to him. It was the first time that the lawyer had ever received the great man's attention, but knowing the cause of the interest now manifested, he was determined to dally with it as a sort of revenge.

"Any news, Mr. Caruthers?"

"Oh, you know my name. I am much flattered, I assure you. Of course I have known you for many years, but I didn't think you remembered me."

McElwin stood blinking at the sun. "I think I have spoken to you on an average of once a day for the last fifteen years," said he. "I am not a gusher, however. I have not seen a newspaper this morning and ask you if there is any news."

"Oh, I suppose there must be," Caruthers replied, leaning back against the rail of the bridge. "I haven't seen a newspaper either and I don't know what may have happened in the outside world."

"Any news about town?"

"No, nothing unusual, I believe. A dog was found dead on the public square, I understand; and I hear that old Mart Henley's son has been suspected of stealing a ham from Avery's meat house. Let me see." He passed his hand over his brow, as if in deep meditation. "Maxey's cow tramped down the roses in Donalson's yard and Thompson's hogs, covered with mud, have rubbed themselves against Tillman's white fence."

"Such occurrences are of no interest to me," said the banker.

"No, nor to me either. Well, I'll bid you good morning. Wait a moment," he added. "There was something else on my mind. Oh, did you hear of the White Caps?"

"No!" McElwin said with a gasp. "What about them?"

"Well, they went last night to have some fun with Sam Lyman."

"Ah, and they took him out and whipped him?"

"Well, hardly. He wore out a chair over them, and about three miles from town, I understand that old Doc Mason has been kept pretty busy since midnight sewing up their heads. Lyman didn't tell me, but I got it pretty straight that somebody stole the pistol out of his room; and if it hadn't been for that the undertaker would have had no cause to complain of the dullness of the season."

"You don't tell me!"

"Yes, I am inclined to think I do. Old Jasper had a visitor early in the evening; the women went out calling, and the visitor got the old man drunk."

"And it is suspected that the visitor had something to do with the subsequent call of the White Caps?"

"Well, it is not only suspected, but pretty well established. I suppose you could guess the name of the visitor."

"How could I, sir?"

"Well, I have heard it said that the visitor never makes an investment without consulting you, and it is thought more than likely that he consulted you on the occasion of this bad investment."

Caruthers leered and the banker winced. "As yet I am at a loss as to who the visitor might have been," said McElwin; "but no matter who, I wish to say that he did not consult me. I have never been known to violate the law, sir."

"Oh, no one would suspect you of that, Mr. McElwin. We all know that you never break the law, but we don't know that you are not sometimes aware that the law is going to be broken. Good morning."

"Wait a moment, sir. Do you mean to tell me that I am suspected of complicity in this infamous outrage?"

"No, I don't mean to tell you that. Neither do I mean to say that you would be wrong in doing so. You have had cause. Lyman's stubbornness is quite enough to rasp a saint. I couldn't stand it; and between me and you, I wish they had lashed him till he would have craved the privilege of going away."

"Wait just one more moment, Mr. Caruthers. Is what you have told me in reality suspected by the people or did you evolve it out of your own richness of observation?"

Caruthers bowed his head under the outpour of this compliment. "It is not public talk," he admitted.

"Ah, thank you. Drop in at the bank some time and see me, sir. Good morning."

* * * * *

Warren stepped out of the room, merely nodding to McElwin as he passed. Lyman got up, handed McElwin a chair, and without speaking, sat down again. McElwin stood with his hands on the back of the chair, looking at Lyman, and evidently embarrassed as to what he ought to say. "Beautiful morning," said Lyman, seeing his embarrassment and feeling that it was his duty as host to help him out of it.

"Yes, very bright after the rain."

"That's a fact; it did rain last night."

"Mr. Lyman, I heard something this morning that has grieved me very much."

"Oh, about the White Caps. Sit down, won't you?"

McElwin sat down. "Yes, the White Caps." He was silent for a moment and then he continued: "The intercourse between you and me has been far from friendly. I do not deny that I should like to see you leave this place, never to return; I acknowledge that I would bribe you to go, but I would not give countenance to a mob that would force you to leave."

Lyman looked at him with a cool smile. "Do you mean to tell me, Mr. McElwin, that Sawyer did not speak to you of his intention to take me out as if I were a thief or a wife-beater—"

"Stop, sir!" McElwin commanded, holding up his hand. "I forbid you to—"

"Forbid is rather a strong word. Don't you think that request would be better?"

"Well," said McElwin, softening, "we will say request. As I tell you, your presence in this community is distasteful to me, and your farcical marriage stands directly opposed to my plans. But I would not violate the law and commit a misdemeanor to drive you off. You have reasons for believing that Mr. Sawyer—"

"Yes, he was the organizer."

"But not with my sanction, sir."

"No? But perhaps not without your knowledge."

"Sir!"

"Keep your seat. Now I am going to tell you what I believe. I believe that Sawyer came to you, after I had burned the check, and told you what he intended to do."

"He did, and I told him not to do it."

"Ah. But did you go to the law and enter a protest against an outrage which you knew he was going to commit? Did you send me a word of warning or did you quietly wait in the hope that the result might rid you of me?"

"Mr. Lyman, I am going to tell you the absolute truth. I advised against it, and after he was gone, I went out to look for him, but he had driven down into the country to—"

"To organize his mob," Lyman suggested.

"Well, yes, we will say that he had gone for that purpose. And at night I came down town in the rain to see if I could not find him, and when I failed in this, I thought that I would come up here to warn you." He hesitated, with a slight cough.

"But you didn't come."

"No, not all the way. I halted on the stairs and turned back. I felt that I—" He hesitated.

"You felt that you could not afford to antagonize Mr. Sawyer."

McElwin coughed. "It was not exactly that, Mr. Lyman. But I did think that it was meddling with something that—that did not concern me."

"Didn't concern you? I thought you were deeply concerned, enough at least to feel yourself warranted in attempting to buy me, to hire me to leave."

"You don't quite understand, Mr. Lyman."

"Oh, yes I do. The trouble with you is that I understand too well. Go ahead with your absolute truth."

McElwin cleared his husky throat. "I went home, sir, and passed a most anxious night; I suffered, sir, far more than you did."

"No doubt of that. I enjoyed myself."

"Mr. Lyman, will you please not make a joke of this affair."

"Oh, I won't make a joke of it. It will be earnest enough by the time it is over with. I am informed that Mrs. Sawyer is very old and that to introduce her son's name in connection with the White Caps would greatly distress her, and I have resolved not to do this. But there are punishments, moral lessons to be served out, and I think it well to begin with you."

"Mr. Lyman, we are not friends, but would you ruin me in the estimation of the public?"

"No, I will say nothing to the public. I will tell your daughter."

McElwin started. His mind had been so directly fixed upon the public that he had not thought of his home. Being the master there he could command respect, and it was on the tip of his tongue now to say that his daughter would not believe Lyman, but, as if a bitter taste had suddenly arisen in his mouth, he felt that this man's word out-weighed his own. He had a strong hope that when his daughter should be set free and left to choose at will, her judgment would finally settle upon Sawyer. But he knew that should she be convinced that her father had counciled him to engage the services of lawless men or had even connived at the brutal procedure—he knew that, convinced of this, she would turn in scorn upon Sawyer and, in a moment, wreck the plans that it had taken years to build.

"Mr. Lyman," he said, "I admit that I am largely to blame, and I now throw myself upon your mercy, sir. Please don't tell my daughter."

All his dignity and arrogance had vanished, and the chair creaked under him. His brown beard, usually so neatly trimmed, looked ragged now, and his eyes, which Lyman had thought were full of sharp and cutting inquiry, now looked dull and questionless. "I throw myself upon your mercy," he repeated.

"Then, sir, you knock my props from under me," Lyman replied. "I am not equipped with that firmness which men call justice. Nature sometimes makes sport of a man by giving him a heart. And what does it mean? It means that he shall suffer at the hands of other men, and that when his hour for revenge has come, his over-grown heart rises up and commands him to be merciful. McElwin, I ought to publish you—I ought to tell your wife and daughter that you have conspired with ruffians to have me whipped from the town, but I will not. You may go now."

The banker's arrogance flew back to him. "You may go" were words that pierced him like a three-pronged fork, but he controlled himself, for now his judgment was stronger than his dignity. He arose and stepped up close to Lyman. "I am under deep obligations to you," he said. "You are a kind and generous man."

"Why don't you say that you are thankful to find me a fool?"

McElwin took no notice of this remark. "And I hope that I may be able to do something for you," he said. Still he stood there, as if he had not struck the proper note. "Do something for you. And if you need—need money, I shall be glad to let you have it."

"Oh, you couldn't get away without mentioning your god-essence, could you? Good day."



CHAPTER XXIV.

AT MT. ZION.

On a Sunday morning, Lyman and Warren hired a light spring wagon and drove out through the green and romantic country that lay stretched and tumbled along the Mt. Zion road. The great clover-fields, now red with bloom, looked like a mighty spreading of strawberry-land ready for the pickers; and a red bird, arising from the ground, might have been a bloom of a berry suddenly endowed with wings. The air breathed delicious laziness, and when the horse stopped midway and knee-deep in a rivulet, he stood with his mouth in the water pretending to swallow, stealing the enjoyment of the cool current against his legs. The two men enjoyed the old rascal's trick, agreeing to let him stand there as long as he practiced the duplicity of keeping his mouth in the stream. Minnows nibbled at his lips, and he lifted his head, but observing the men, who leaned out to look at him, he again immersed his mouth and pretended to swallow. At last, as if ashamed of himself, he pulled out, trotting briskly in the sun, but hanging back in the shade. Down in the low places bright-winged flies had come in swarms to hum their tunes, and on the high ridges where the thin grass was wilting, the gaunt rabbit sat in the sun. Driving along the low, smooth and sandy margin of a stream, where the thick bushes bore a bloom that looked like a long caterpillar, they reached an iron spring, deep red, a running wound on the face of the earth. They came to an old water mill, long ago fallen into decay and halted to listen to the water pouring over the ruined dam. They turned into a broader road, and now saw numerous vehicles, bright with calico and dun with home-spun, all moving in one direction, toward the old Mt. Zion meeting house on a hill. To view one of those places of worship is to gaze upon religious history. We look at the great trees, the rocks worn smooth, the house squatting with age, and we no longer regard our country as new. In Mt. Zion there were loop-holes where men had stood to shoot Indians, while their wives were muttering a prayer. The old oak benches, made of split slabs, were almost as hard as iron. A slab, called the altar, but known as the mourners' bench, had caught the tears of many an innocent maiden and roistering youth.

Lyman unhitched the horse and led him down a glade to feed him in the cool shadow of a chestnut tree, and while he was spreading the oats Warren came running down to him.

"Lyman, she's here," he said. "It's a fact and I'll swear it. Yes, sir, she's here, and I was never more surprised in my life."

"I am not surprised," Lyman replied. "I expected her."

"The deuce you did! Then you know her."

"Know her. Of course I do."

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you? What do you mean?"

"Why, I mean that you ought to have told me. What's her name?"

"Look here, have you gone crazy?"

"No, but you have. How the deuce did you know she would be here? All right, but she won't get away from me so easy this time. I see the old man's with her, and the idea of supposing that he could have been her husband is preposterous."

"Oh," Lyman laughed, "I thought you meant my—meant Eva McElwin."

"No, I mean the girl that flavored the apple. Come up and I'll introduce you to her."

"But have you met her?"

"I met her in the path a minute ago."

"But have you been introduced to her?"

"No, but I'll fix that all right. Come on."

Lyman was laughing, but Warren was deeply in earnest. They went up the hill toward the church. Everybody was outside in the shade, the preacher not having arrived. "There she is," Warren whispered; "that girl standing with that man near the door. Stand here till I go and fix it."

He hastened toward the man, and not the slightest abashed, walked up to him. He said something; the man spoke to the girl and Lyman saw Warren lift his hat. They stood for a few moments, talking, and then they came out toward Lyman, the girl blushing and hanging back, and Warren gently urging her.

"Miss Nancy Pitt," said Warren, approaching, "I have the honor to present Mr. Lyman, one of the best writers in the country, although he is not cut out for a newspaper man."

Miss Pitt blushed and smiled and said that she was glad to meet him. She looked like a spirit of the woods, on a day when red buds and white blossoms are mingled; she was not handsome, but striking, fresh, and with an early morning brightness in her eyes; she was an untrained athlete of the farm, ready to put a back-log into the yawning fire-place or to choke a greedy calf off from its mother. She had no manners and was shy; and, without knowing how to play with a man's affection, was coy. Lyman looked into her eyes and thought of the bluish pink of the turnip. She blushed again and said: "I reckon we'd have rain if it was cloudy, but it ain't. Where's pa?" And then looking round she called: "Come on, pap."

"Comin'," the old man replied, walking with a limp in his Sunday shoes. He did not wait for an introduction to Lyman, but shook hands with him, glanced upward and said: "Mighty bright day."

"Just as fresh as if this were the first one," Lyman replied.

"Well, sir, I hadn't thought of that, but I reckon you're right." His daughter reached over and brushed a measuring-worm off his shoulder. "Going to get a new coat," she said. "Worm measuring you."

"Put him on me," said Lyman, looking about as if searching for the worm.

"Get away," Warren broke in, shoving him to one side. "I want him. Well, let him go. How far do you live from here, Mr. Pitt?"

"Well, a leetle the rise of three mile and a half, at this time of the year, but when the weather is bad, the road stretches powerful. My wife wanted to come today to hear the new preacher, but along come some folks visitin' from over the creek, with a passul of haungry children, and she had to stay and git 'em a bite to eat. Her doctrine is that it's better to feed the haungry than to eat, even if the table is served by a new preacher. Well," he added, as a hymn arose within the church, "they've struck up the tune of sorrow in there and I reckon we'd better go in."

Warren walked with Nancy. "What, we ain't going in the same door?" she said as they approached.

"Yes," he replied, "and I'm going to sit with you during the sermon."

"No," she said, drawing back. "That won't do. I have heard that in town the women and the men sit together in church, but they don't out here, and if I did I'd never hear the last of it."

"All right, I don't want to mark you in any way, but I want you to wait for me when you come out."

Bostic came in. His face was grave, and he carried the timid air of a first appearance as he walked slowly down the aisle. The men mumbled, the women whispered, and Lyman heard a girl remark: "He ain't so mighty good-looking." At the door, there was a rustle of strange skirts, and as if a new note had been introduced into an old melody, the congregation looked around. Lyman looked too, and his breast grew warm with the new beating of his heart. Mrs. McElwin and her daughter entered the church. The preacher glanced up from his text and saw them, and his eye kindled. He gave out an old hymn and the congregation arose. The air was vibrant in the unctuous swell of sound. The spider webs hanging from the rafters trembled; the woods caught up the echo and bore it afar through the timber-land, and the distant leaves caught it as a whisper and hushed it. In it there was not music, not the harmony that seeks the approval of the brain; it was a chant that called upon the heart to humble itself in the sight of the Lord and to be brave in the presence of man, the tune that subdued the wilderness of a new world, a tune that men have sung before plunging into the swallowing fire of battle. The city is ashamed of it, laughs at it, but, far away in the country, it is still the war-cry of Jehovah.

The preacher began in a rambling way, missing the thoughts that he expected to find, finding thoughts that surprised him. Sometimes his road was rough, and he clamored over rocks and fell into gullies, but occasionally he struck a smooth path and then he ran because the way was easy. After a time he forgot to be impressive and then he impressed. He filled the house with words, like a flight of pigeons, and on their backs some of them caught the sunlight that streamed through the cracks in the walls. Lyman was reminded of one Of William Wirt's stories—"The Blind Preacher"—the man who in a ruinous old house raised his hand and cried: "Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God."

There was to be another sermon in the afternoon, by an old man who plowed for a living and who preached without pay, and Lyman caught himself wondering whether the McElwins would remain to hear him. Through the window he saw a light buggy under the trees, and he mused that they would at least let him help them into it. He was afraid that they might get away, and he was nervous at the fear that slow-moving persons, halting in the aisle to talk over the sermon, might obstruct his path; and as soon as the benediction was pronounced, he hastened toward the rear end of the house. Eva stepped toward him and frankly held out her hand.

"Mother, this is Mr. Lyman," she said.

Mrs. McElwin bowed, resolved to be cool and dignified. She said that she was pleased to meet Mr. Lyman, which statement Mr. Lyman looked upon as a polite fib. She spoke of the charm of the day and expressed surprise that the young preacher had done so well. Lyman asked if she were going to remain to hear the afternoon sermon. She did not think it wise to stay so long. The road home was very attractive by day, with its over-hanging branches and streams of clear water, but it was dark and rather desolate at night. Still they would not start immediately. She would like to look at the old spring at the foot of the hill; history bubbled in its water; her grandfather had camped there. They walked down to the spring and seated themselves on the rocks. The men who had come down to "swap" saddles and lies, got up and moved away.

"Mr. Lyman," said Eva, sitting with her hands full of leaves and wild-flowers, and glancing down at them, "we were very sorry to hear that the White Caps had called on you."

"I wasn't expecting them," Lyman replied, "but I made them feel at home."

Mrs. McElwin looked at him with a cool smile. "Yes," she said, "for home probably means a fight with most of them. It was an outrage and everybody is glad that you sent them off with broken heads. Of course there has been a great deal of talk, but have you any idea as to who lead the party?"

"Not the slightest," Lyman answered, and the girl looked up at him.

"Some one has been mean enough, so a very dear friend told us, to insinuate that—that father knew of it in time to have prevented it," she said.

"Eva, why should you mention such a thing. Mr. Lyman couldn't give it credence, even for a moment." She frowned.

"Mr. McElwin was kind enough to come to me the next morning," said Lyman. "He was very much moved, and I feel that if he could he would have the ruffians punished."

"I thank you for saying that, Mr. Lyman," Mrs. McElwin spoke up. "I know he would." She glanced about and appeared to be nervous under the gaze of the people on the hill. "I don't know what they think of us three sitting here together," she said. "People out here are peculiar."

"Let them think," the girl replied.

Lyman looked down and saw her shapely foot on the rock. The light was strong where she sat, and he noticed a freckle on her cheek, and this slight blemish drew her closer to him.

"But we must respect their thoughts," the mother replied.

"We should not put ourselves out on account of their prejudices," Lyman was bold enough to remark. The girl smiled at him.

"Perhaps not," Mrs. McElwin weakly agreed.

"Perhaps not!" Eva repeated. "Mother, you don't seem to think that I am just as human as any of those girls up there, that I have practically the same feelings. But I am, and I am not a bit better than they—not any better than that girl up there under the tree talking to that young man. Why, he's from town."

"He is Mr. Warren, my partner," said Lyman.

"Oh, is he? They say he is such a funny man. But he's nice looking. I have seen him many a time, and he was pointed out to me once, but I had forgotten his name."

"We'd better go now," said Mrs. McElwin.

"Oh, not yet," the daughter replied. "There's plenty of time. It won't take us long to drive home. And besides, we haven't congratulated the preacher yet. And there he comes now, down this way. See that girl draw back as if she were going to throw something at Mr. Warren. He must be a tease. Look at that old man laughing. Everybody wants to shake hands with the preacher. I think he did splendidly. He surprised me, I'm sure."

"He surprised us both on one occasion," said Lyman. Eva laughed, but her mother looked grave. "Let us not speak of that," she said. "It has caused us trouble enough; and not even now do I fully understand it. Oh, I know that the legislature made some sort of blunder and that Henry Bostic had been ordained, but I cannot realize that I am sitting here talking to my daughter's legal husband. Still we can get accustomed to anything in time, I suppose."

"I can hardly realize that I am a married man," Lyman replied. Mrs. McElwin looked at him with a start, as if his words hurt her, as if she suddenly felt that she was doing a grave injustice to her husband to sit there talking to a man who would not have been permitted to cross her threshold. She got up. "We must go," she said.

"Oh, not now," the daughter pleaded.

"Yes, we must go."

"But can't you let me stay and come home with Mr. Lyman."

If the mother had been startled before she was shocked now. "If you talk like that, my daughter, I shall not believe that you are very much different from the girls up there. Do you want your father scandalized? Pardon me, Mr. Lyman, but I must speak plainly to her."

Lyman, who had also arisen, bowed to her. "No offense," he said. "I am thoroughly in harmony with the absurdity of my position, even if I can't realize that I am married."

Mrs. McElwin winced. "Please don't repeat that again," she said.

The girl stamped her foot upon the rock. "Don't talk that way," she commanded. "If Mr. Lyman wants me to stay and go home when he does no one could prevent it. He can command me to stay."

Mrs. McElwin fluttered, but afraid of a scene, she smoothed herself down. "I was joking," she said.

"We will go now," the daughter replied, "but I do wish you would stay. I'd like to go up there among those girls. I know they are having a good time. Help me up." She put out her hand and Lyman took hold of it, but she pulled back, laughing. "Help me up." She put out the other hand, her mother looking on in a fright. "You'll have to help me into the buggy," she said.



CHAPTER XXV.

AT NANCY'S HOME.

Lyman stood gazing after them as they drove away. The girl waved her hand at him, and then removing her glove, she waved it again. He saw the mother turn to her as if with a word of caution. The road was crooked, and a clump of bushes, a leafy bulge, soon hid them from view. Lyman walked slowly and not light of heart, up the hillside to the tree beneath which he had seen Warren and his new-found friends. There they were, sitting on the ground, eating.

"You are just in time for a snack," old man Pitt cried, waving the leg of a chicken.

"And here is some pie that Miss Nancy baked with her own hands," said Warren, moving closer to the girl to make room for his friend. "I have been telling Mr. Pitt about your funny marriage."

"Yes," Pitt spoke up, "and I was tellin' of him that if I was in your place and wanted her, now that I had the law on my side, I'd have her or a fight or a foot race, one or tuther, it wouldn't make much difference which. Of course I mean if I found out after the joke was all over that I wanted her, for I tell you—have a piece of this light corn bread—I tell you that it is a mighty serious thing when a man wants a woman and wants her bad. Here's some pickles—they ain't good, but they'll do at a shake-down. But this here ham's prime. Serious thing, sir, when a man wants a woman and wants her right bad. There's a case in our neighborhood of a young feller goin' crazy after a woman he wanted. It ain't but once in a while, you know, that a feller finds the woman set up to suit him, and when he do find her, why he ought to sorter spit on his hands—figurative like," he made haste to add, catching the reproving eye of his daughter. "Spit on his hands figurative like and give it out cold that he is there to stay till the cows come home. And that reminds me that this here butter ain't of the best. The cow eat a lot of beet tops and it didn't help her butter none, I contend, still some folks wouldn't notice it. I hear 'em say, Mr. Whut's-your-name, that you come from away up yander whar rocks is so plenty on the farms that in a hoss trade it would be big boot if a feller was to throw in a hankerchuf full of dirt. I don't blame you for comin' away from thar."

"It's pretty rocky up there," said Lyman. "One of our humorists—Doesticks," he added, nodding to Warren, "said that we had to slice our potatoes and slip them down edgeways between the rocks."

The old man sprawled himself on the ground and laughed. "Well, if they was to go out a shootin' at liars wheat straw would leak through that feller's hide. How are you gittin' along over thar, Mr. Warren?" he inquired, sitting up and again devoting himself to the chicken.

"First rate, don't know when I've eaten as much."

"Oh, you haven't eat a thing," Miss Nancy protested, looking at him in great surprise. "You'd soon die at this rate."

"You are right, but not of starvation. I suppose they are feeding the preacher," he said, looking round. "Yes, they've got him up there. Look the women are bringing him things from all directions. Lyman, your people didn't wait to congratulate him. I think it hurt him, too, for I saw his countenance fall. You must have said something to hurry the old lady off."

"No, on the contrary I rather urged her to stay."

"Yes, and that's what sent her off."

"But what's to be the outcome of the affair?" the old man asked. "Of course you wouldn't want to tie her up so she couldn't marry anybody else, though I honor your pluck in not lettin' 'em force you into signin' the paper. McElwin is a mighty over-bearin' sort of a man. I worked a piece of land year before last over on the creek near a field that belonged to him, and sir, the hired feller that delved and swetted thar 'peered like he thought it was a great privilege to drag himself over the ground that belonged to McElwin. He p'inted him out one day as he driv along in a buggy and when my eyes didn't pop out of my head he was might'ly 'stonished. Yes, sir, they think the Lord was proud of the job when that man was put on earth. Well, I believe they are gettin' ready to go back into the house, and if you folks want to go, don't let me hold you."

"Ain't you goin' to hear him, pap?" the girl asked, getting up and brushing the twigs from her skirt.

"Wall, I don't believe I will jest at the present writin'," he drawled. "He's a good old feller and all that sort of thing, and I reckon he do love the Lord, but he nipped me in a hoss swop about twenty-odd year ago, and whenever I hear him preach I can't git it out of my head that he's trying to nip me agin."

"Why, pap, that was long before he joined the church."

"Yes, but I can't help from holdin' that a man that will nip you in a hoss swop one time will do it agin if he gets the chance."

"Well," she said, "you would have nipped him if you could."

"Yes, that mout be, but I wouldn't have come round preachin' to him afterwards. Go on in, you young folks, and I'll waller around here a while and then go down and see how my hosses air gettin' along."

"And I will stay with you," said Lyman. The romance had gone out of the old house, for him, but not for Warren and Nancy. Warren walked to the church with her, and she pleaded with him to let her go up to the door alone.

"Why should we care what they think?" he said.

"Oh, I care a good deal. They would talk about me and laugh at me, and besides you ain't no kin to me. It's only kin folks that set together."

"They don't know whether I'm any kin to you or not."

"Yes, they do. They know that I haven't any young men kin folks round here but cousin Jerry."

"Who the deuce is he? Hold on a moment. Tell me about that fellow Jerry."

"Oh, there ain't nothin' to tell except he's my cousin. If you let me go in alone I'll tell you all about him when I come out."

He suffered her to go in alone, but he sat as close to her as he could, on a bench just opposite, and it was so evident that he wanted to be nearer that a hillside wag remarked to a friend; "See that young feller a leanin' in toward her like a young steer with a sore neck." The remark was passed from one to another and a titter went round the room. Warren saw her blush and realizing that he was the cause of her embarrassment, he leaned back, and the wag remarked: "Other side of his neck's sore now—he's leanin' tuther way."

Lyman and the old man walked about the grounds. Pitt suggested going to the spring, but Lyman drew back from the idea as if the place were desolate now. They went down the road to a mossy place where the ironwood trees leaned out over a stream. They looked at the sun-fish flashing their golden sides in the light; they sat down to smoke a pipe, the rising voice of the preacher seeming to sift in the leaves above them. The sun was shining aslant when they got up and a shadow lay upon the pool.

"He must be on the home-stretch," said the old man, nodding toward the house. "I'll go over and hitch up the horses."

"I have a similar task to perform," Lyman replied. "I'll see you again before I start home."

"All right, and I am much obleeged for your company."

The sermon was over before the horses were harnessed. Warren came running to Lyman. "You ride with the old man and let me take the girl in the spring wagon," said he.

"What; we may not go in the same direction."

"Of course we do. We are going home with them. It's all right. I've put the old man down for a year's subscription."

"And you want to go over there to board it out. Is that it?"

"I hadn't thought of that. But I could do it."

"Does he know that he's a subscriber?"

"Not yet, but I can tell him. Miss Nancy wants us to go."

"Did she say so?"

"Well, now what would be the use of saying so? She could say it as easily as not. And I guess she would have said it if she had thought to. But I know she wants us to go. Come, now, won't you go just to oblige me? Remember, I didn't kick very hard when you killed all my best pieces of news. Let me have a fling now, won't you? You've been having all the fun—marriage and White Caps. Won't you go just to oblige me?"

"Yes, I'll ride with the old man or I'll ride on a rail when you put it that way."

"All right. Here she comes now, and the old man's up there waiting for you."

During the drive, the old fellow commented upon the historical places along the road. He pointed out the spot where he had killed the last diamondback rattlesnake seen in that neighborhood; he directed Lyman's attention to a barn wherein five negroes had been hanged for rising against the whites in 1854; he pointed at a charred stump and told the story of a fanatic who had tied himself there and burned himself on account of his religion. They came at last to a large log house, the Pitt homestead, and had unharnessed the horses before Warren and Nancy came within sight. A tall woman, followed by a score of children of all sizes, came out to meet them.

"They ain't all mine," said the old man. "Them as looks about fryin' size belongs to the folks over the creek. Mother, this here is a friend of ourn from away up yonder whar they have to slice the potatoes and slip 'em down between the rocks, and I want to tell you that him and me fits one another like a hand and glove."

"I am mighty glad to meet you," said the woman, wiping her hands on her apron. "Come right in and excuse the looks of everything and make yourself at home. But, pap, where's Nancy?"

"Oh, she's comin' along in a carry-all with the town man that runs the paper. She's all right—she can take care of herself anywhere."

They went into the house, the children scattering and peeping from corners and from behind the althea bushes in the yard. Warren and Nancy soon came in laughing. The girl threw her hat on the bed, tucked up her skirts and went out to the kitchen to help her mother, and the old man excused himself on the grounds that he must go out to feed the stock.

"Warren, gallantry is all right, but this is cruel," said Lyman. "We are imposing on this family. Look how those women have to work, and they will strain every nerve to get us something to eat."

"Of course they will, and they like it. Do you know that? They do. You couldn't please them more than by eating with them, and I'm always willing to put myself out to please folks. Say, we'll stay here tonight and go in tomorrow."

"I am not going to stay. Doesn't it strike you that you are a trifle too brash, as they say around here? Don't you think so?"

"Not a bit of it. I want to stay till tomorrow to see whether I want to come back again or not. I want to find out whether I am in love with her or not. I think I am, but still I don't know, and my rule is that a man ought to know where he stands before he walks. We were passing under a tree and she reached up and pulled at a limb and her loose sleeve fell down and I saw her arm. That almost settled it. But I think I'll know definitely in the morning."

"Warren, I'm going back to town tonight."

"What, over that dark road? Don't you know we passed a good many dangerous places coming? Stay till tomorrow."

"No, I'll walk back and leave the wagon for you."

"That would be an outrage. If you go back, drive."

"No, to tell you the truth I would rather walk. I want to think."

"Then you'd rather go alone, anyway, wouldn't you? All right, and probably I can get her to come to town with me tomorrow. They've got to send in to buy things sometimes, I should think. By the by, I've got a lot of seeds sent by a congressman, and I'll tell the old man he can have them. Nothing catches one of these old fellows like seeds. He'll send her in after them tomorrow morning, and then I can find out how I stand."

"With her?"

"No, find out how I stand with myself—see whether I love her or not. Have you found out yet—in your case? Tell me, I won't say anything about it."

"Yes, I have found out."

"You needn't say—I guess I know." Warren reached over and took Lyman by the hand. "We save time and trouble when we put a man in a position so that he needn't say."

"Yes," said Lyman, "the greatest justice you can confer on a man, at times, is to permit him to be silent."

Nancy came hastily into the room and from the broad mantel-piece took down two beflowered tea-cups, kept there as ornaments. She smiled at Warren and brushed out with a mischievous toss of her comely head.

"We not only put them to extra trouble, but compel them to take down their decorations," Lyman remarked.

"But can't you see how she likes it?" Warren spoke up. "Probably it has been six months since they have had a chance to use those cups. We are doing them a favor, I tell you." He shook his head and sighed. "If she comes in here again and looks at me that way I'll know where I stand. Oh, I'm not slow, but I want to be certain."

They heard the old man talking in the kitchen, and then came his heavy tread on the loose and flapping boards of the passage-way. The door was cut so low that he had to duck his head. He came in with a stoop, but straightening himself in the majesty of conscious hospitality, he bowed and said: "Gentlemen, you will please walk out to supper."

Lyman began to offer an apology for putting the household to so much trouble. The old man bowed again and said: "We didn't bring no trouble home with us from church, but ruther a pleasure, sir."



CHAPTER XXVI.

OUT IN THE DARK.

Warren argued, the old man urged and the old lady pleaded as she fanned her hot face with her apron, catching it up by the corners, but Lyman was determined to go home. Warren went out with him and together they walked down the dark road, in the cool air of the night and the hot air that lagged over from the heat of the day. There was no moon, but in the sky, which the slowly-moving boughs of over-hanging trees seemed to keep in motion, there was a blizzard of stars. From the dust-covered thickets along the road arose the chirrup of insects, the strange noises that make night lonesome; and a small stream, which in the light has flowed without noise over the slick, blue rocks, was rushing now with a loud gurgle, as if to hurry out of the dark.

"Well, I turn back here," said Warren. "It is a piece of foolishness for you to go. There's no need of it. You haven't anything to do tomorrow that you can't do next day."

"No, but, alone in the woods, I can do a piece of work that would never come within range of me in town."

"I understand. You want to shake everybody and be absolutely alone."

"Yes, absolutely."

"But stay here over night, and if you must, walk in tomorrow. You would be just as much alone then, wouldn't you?"

"No, I am never perfectly alone except in the dark."

"Well, I have worked with you the best I know how; and you see how I'm fixed—got to find out how I stand. But I hate to see you go off in this way alone. Just look how dark it is down yonder. And I am to go back to the light and to sit there and think of you trudging along in the dark. Just think of the light I am going into—the light of that smile."

"And from away out in the woods I may turn to see you blinking in the glare. But I am keeping you. Good night."

"Wait a moment. Now, you won't think hard of me, will you?"

"Hard of you? Not if you go back."

"All right, then. Good night."

Pitt had given Lyman minute directions as to the road he should take, a pathway through the woods and across fields, and leading to the county road at a point not far from the ruined dam. The path was not straight, and in the dark woods he kept it with difficulty, having to pat with his foot to find the hard ground, but in the turned-out fields the way was well-defined and he walked rapidly. Once he crossed a stretch of ripening oats, and in a dip-down where the growth was rank he heard voices and a song—hired men lying out to wear off the effect of a visit to the distillery. He came to the dam much sooner than he had expected, and near the trickling water he sat down upon a rock to rest. An island of willows had grown up in the broad shallow pond. Out from this dark thicket, a great bird flew and with its wings slapped the face of the quiet water, and the frogs hushed and the world was still, save the trickling from the dam, till the frogs began again. For days, there had been in his mind the vague form of a story, and he strove to summon it now, but the forms that came were shadows with no light in their eyes. Throughout all the dark woods this dim web of a plot had not come to him, though he had thought to ponder over it before setting out, but had forgotten it when once on the road. He sent his mind back over the course he had followed, to pick up any little suggestions that might have come to him to be held for a moment and dropped, but there was none. Instead, everywhere in the spread of his mind there was an illuminated spot, shifting, and in the bright spot sat a figure on a rock, a brown head, a face with one freckle, and an impetuous, graceful foot that sometimes stamped in impatience. Into the light there came another figure, strong, ruddy, and with a calico skirt tucked up. One was refinement, the other strength; one nerves, the other muscle. Onward he strode, the road damp from its nearness to the creek. Out upon the higher land he turned, the shale clicking under his feet. He had the feeling that some one was walking slowly behind him, stealing the noise of his footsteps to conceal a stealthier tread, and he smiled at his fear, but he halted to listen. He thought of a poem, "The Stab," and he repeated it as he walked along, and the swift falling of the knife, "Like a splinter of daylight downward thrown," found an echo in his footsteps. He came to the creek wherein the old horse had stood to cool his hot knees; he crossed the foot-log and was about to step down again into the road when he heard the furious galloping of horses and the rattle of a buggy. The team plunged into the creek, not directly at the ford; the buggy struck a rock and flew into fragments; the horses came plunging on, leaving a man in the water. Lyman rushed forward as the horses dashed past him. By the light of the stars he saw the flying fragments of the buggy—saw the water splash where the man fell. The man made no effort to get up, and Lyman thought that surely he must have been killed. But when Lyman reached him he was trying to crawl against the shallow but swift current. Lyman seized him, dragged him to the shore, stretched him upon the ground.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, feeling for his heart. The man muttered something. Lyman struck a match, looked at the man's face, blew out the match, tossed the burnt stem into the road and said to himself: "Of course I had to be the one to find him. Are you hurt, Sawyer?"

"You fling me 'n creek?" he muttered, filling the air with the fumes of whisky. "Fling me 'n creek, got me to whip. Tell you that, hah? Hear what I said? Got me to whip."

"Blackguard, I don't know but I ought to have let you drown."

"Good man to drown me, tell you that," he said, sitting up. "Horses gone?"

"Yes, and your buggy is smashed all to pieces."

"I believe it is. Bring me the pieces, won't you." He leaned over and laughed like an idiot. "Stopped at a distillery, and stopped too long. Don't take a man long to stop too long at a distillery. What's your name? You ain't Jim, are you? What's your name, anyway; why don't you talk to a feller."

"It won't do to leave him here," said Lyman, looking about as if searching for the light from a house. "Do you think you can walk?" he asked.

"Walk a thousand miles. Hear what I said? Thousand miles. Where do you want to go, Jim?"

"I want to take you to a house."

"Oh, I'm all right. But don't leave me, Jim. Whatever you do, don't leave me. I couldn't get along without you. Hit Bob a crack over the head and addled him so he ain't at himself yet. They took him away round here to his uncle's to keep him out of the way, and I drove out there to see him and stopped at distillery and stayed too long. Ever stay too long, Jim?"

"Do the doctors think that Bob will get well?"

"Yes, in a measure; he won't go round White-Capping any more, though. But I'll make that all right. I'll meet that feller Lyman and put up his shutters. Sit down."

"No, there's a house up yonder and I'll take you there. You may be injured in some way. Let's see if you can walk. Lean on me. That's it."

"I can't walk fast, Jim. Believe I am hurt some. I'd a drounded out there if it hadn't been for you, Jim. Ah—h. I don't believe I can go on. I'm sick."

"Here, let me get my arm around you so I can hold you up better. Now you're all right. It's only a little way."

They soon came to the house. The barking of dogs brought a man out to the fence. In a few words Lyman told him what had happened. Sawyer was unable to walk further and they took him into the house and put him upon a bed. An excited woman bathed his face, and a barefoot boy, as fleet as a deer, was sent across the creek for a doctor. Lyman waited until he came. He said that Sawyer was badly bruised, but added that he did not appear to be fatally hurt. While they were talking, Sawyer opened his eyes. "Where's Jim?" he inquired.

"Here," said Lyman, stepping forward.

"Merciful God," the wounded man moaned, and covered his face with his hands. Lyman stepped back, and Sawyer, putting out his hand, with his eyes closed, said to him: "Please don't leave me."

"I will stay until daylight," said Lyman.

"Thank you, sir. Don't leave me."



CHAPTER XXVII.

THE REVENGE.

Early the next morning Pitt and his daughter drove to town with Warren. The promise of government seeds had greatly excited the old fellow, and, three times before the breaking of day, did he get up and look out, impatient of the darkness that still lay in the east. Warren gave him the seeds and had gone down to see them off for home before he happened to realize that Lyman was not in the office. He went up stairs and inquired after him. The boy said that he had not come. He sat down in a fear that his friend was lost in the woods, and was thinking of setting out to look for him when Lyman walked in, looking worn and tired.

"Why, what's the matter?" Warren cried. "You look like a whipped rooster."

"I am," said Lyman sitting down. "A prop has been knocked from under me and I have fallen down. For several days I have been nursing a sweet revenge. I said nothing about it, but I was going to knock a man down, tie him and horse-whip him."

"Well, why don't you? Is he gone?"

"Yes, beyond my reach. I thought that for once in my life I would act the part of a very natural man, but it has been denied me. I will tell you."

He narrated his adventure. Warren sat staring at him. "It's just your luck, Lyman. But, why didn't you throw him back into the creek? Why didn't you stamp him into the ground? And you have spoiled another piece of news. What do you expect will become of you if you keep on this way?"

"He mistook me for some one else—he called me Jim. I couldn't abuse his drunken mistake and show him that I was not his friend Jim. It would have been cruel. And when he recognized me he threw himself on my mercy and begged me not to leave him. In a vague way, this morning, he remembered all that had taken place. He is not much hurt, but the doctor will keep him in bed for a day or two. He is completely cowed and I felt sorry for him. He hung to my hand when I bade him good-bye and tears ran out of his eyes. He declared that I had whipped him more severely than if I had used a raw-hide, and I believe I have; so, after all, I had my revenge."

"Lyman, I guess your sort of punishment lasts longer. But I confess that I am not strong enough to indulge that sort of revenge. It takes too much time. Well, if you haven't turned things over since you came to this place I don't want a cent. Old Ebenezer didn't know what novelty was until you struck it. We had a great time last night," he went on, after a few moments of silence. "Nancy sang a song, a come-all-ye about a girl that hanged herself because she had cause to think that a fellow didn't love her. And you bet she can sing. She brought tears to my eyes, and a woman has to get up early and sing with the birds before she can do that."

"Did you find out how you stand?" Lyman inquired, smiling at him.

"Oh, yes; that's settled. I know how I stand, and now I've got to find out how she stands. It takes time, I tell you. I don't want to hurry her, so I thought I'd wait till tomorrow and go out there and ask her about it."

"Oh, no, I wouldn't hurry her," said Lyman, laughing. "I'd wait till noon-time tomorrow, anyway."

"Yes, along about there. What are you laughing at me for? This thing is serious with me. I went out with her this morning to milk the cows. Talk about milking." He leaned back and shut his eyes as if to reproduce the scene. "I don't want to draw any comparisons, old fellow, but do you suppose Miss Eva could milk? Do you suppose she could grab a calf and make him feel ashamed of himself?"

"I don't know as to her handling of calves, I'm sure; but I know that she can throw a light into dark places; that white clover springs up where she walks; that if she were to sit asleep in a garden the bees would fight over the sweetness of her lips; that her mind is as fresh, as full of bright images as a stream of pure water; that her foot as I saw it upon a rock has grace enough to redeem an awkward world; and that in comparison with the notes of her voice all earthly music is flat and dull."

"Lyman, I guess you know where you stand. But have you found out where she stands? Have you asked her to define her position?"

"Her position defines itself. I am to protect her from the man whose life I saved last night."

"Yes, I know, but after you have protected her—what then?"

"I am to present her with a certificate of freedom."

"But don't you suppose she'd rather have a partnership than freedom?"

"Not with me. I am something of a novelty to her as a protector, but I am afraid that to propose a closer relationship would make me appear commonplace enough."

"Well, you know your own business, and it's not worth while to give you advice; but you are a strange sort of a contradiction. As a general thing a fellow that's easy with man is severe with woman, but you are disposed to let them all get away. They don't get away from me, I'll give you a pointer on that. By the way, here's a package that I found here for you. Came by express, pre-paid, mind you. Think of that."

In Lyman's eyes there was the soft light of a sad victory as he opened the package and displayed a dozen copies of his novel, fresh from the publisher. He took a volume upon his knee, as if it were a child; he opened the leaves, carefully separating them as if tenderly parting curly hair. Warren snatched up a book with a cry of delight; he swore that its fame was assured; he knew that it would sell as fast as it came from the press; but Lyman sat in silence, his eyes growing sadder. It was so small a thing to have cost so many anxious days and nights. He had worked on it so intently that often when he had stepped out, the real world seemed unreal; and now it appeared so simple as to lie within the range of any man's ability. Here was a place where there had been a kink, and he had worried with it day after day, carrying the sentences about in his mind; and now at a glance he saw where the wording might have been improved. He was afraid that he had been too simple, too close to the soil; in seeking the natural he was almost sure that he had found the tiresome. He got up.

"Where are you going?" Warren asked.

"Oh, out somewhere, to get away from this poor hunch-back." He smiled sadly at the book.

"Hunch-back? Why, it's a giant. Look, here's a jolt like a wagon running over a root. It's all right. And I want to take one out to Nancy, and when she reflects that a friend of mine wrote it, her position will be defined. She can't help it. It makes no difference whether a woman can read or not, a book catches her. Ain't you going to send one to Miss Eva?"

"Yes, I believe I will."

"Well, scribble in one and I'll send it right now, by the boy. It's not right to let such things get cold. Is that all?" he asked when Lyman had written his name on the fly leaf.

"Yes, that's enough."

"It may do for her, but I want you to spread out a whole page for Nancy. Say, go and lie down. You look like a ghost—going up and down the creek at night, pulling fellows out. But wait. Give Nancy's book a whirl first."

Lyman covered the fly-leaf with a memory of Mt. Zion. With brightening eyes Warren read the lines. "This will fetch her," he said. "She can't hold out against it. Let me see. I don't know but the old man ought to have one. It would stimulate him mightily. But never mind. The seeds are enough for him. It won't do to stimulate him too much at once."

"Old boy," said Lyman, "I admire your enterprise, it is a bright picture, but don't go out there so soon. Wait at least a week. If she finds that you are too anxious it might prejudice her against you."

"I don't know but you are right. I'll send the book anyway. But say, she's got a cousin Jerry and I don't like that very much. I never saw a fellow named Jerry that wasn't dangerous. But if you say wait, I will."

"I say wait."

"All right, then wait it is, but I don't like that Jerry idea. What sounds more devilish than 'Cousin Jerry.' Sort of an insinuating, raspberry jam sound. But I'll wait. Go on and lie down."



CHAPTER XXVIII.

A GENTLEMAN MULE-BUYER.

Two days later Lyman was sitting in his office, musing over a pink note from Eva, thanking him for the book, when Zeb Sawyer tapped at the door. Lyman bade him enter and he stepped forward with a limp. He sat down before saying a word, took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.

"Haven't you got out of bed rather soon?" Lyman asked.

"No, I reckon not, though the doctor told me to lie there awhile longer. But I couldn't—I wanted to come to see you. I am not much of a writer," he added, looking about, "but I want to write an article for your paper. I want to tell the public what a wolf I've been. And it was mostly owing to liquor. I shot a man once when I was about half drunk, and nearly every mean thing I ever did I can trace to whisky. I don't often get what you might call drunk, but I generally go about with a few drinks and that makes me mean. Will you print the article?"

"No; let it all go. We all do wrong at times; we all have little meannesses, like rheumatic pains in bad weather."

"Well, is there anything I can do to prove—to prove—you know what I mean."

"Yes, you can be gentler toward man, remembering that there is something good in every one."

"I believe that more than I used to," said Sawyer, mopping his perspiring face. "I have laughed at preachers, and I hated you, but you came along and showed me that, whether a man professes it or not, there is something in the doctrine of mercy and forgiveness. I don't think I ever prayed with my heart till this morning, and then I prayed to be forgiven for my meanness; and it seemed to me that if you would forgive me, the Higher Power would. I drove over to mother's before I came here and I told her how mean I had been, and it struck her to the heart with grief, but when I told her that I was going to be a better man and follow in my father's footsteps, she cried for joy. She is so shaken with palsy that she can't write, but she managed to write this and she told me to give it to you." He handed Lyman a piece of paper, and on it were the words: "God will bless you."

"She didn't think it would disturb you so, or I am sure she wouldn't have sent it," he said, looking at Lyman.

"Tell her," said Lyman, "that her blessing alone is more—give her my kindest regards," he added, with an effort.

Sawyer wiped his eyes. "I went to another place before coming here," he said. "I went over to the bank and waited till McElwin came, and I had a talk with him. I told him that his daughter could never care for me, and that even if you should sign the petition I would refuse to recognize his authority in trying to compel her to marry me. She is in every way above me, so far beyond my reach that I don't love her. I have to go to another place—the court house. I am going to surrender myself to the law and be punished for that White Cap affair. I am going to acknowledge the whole thing."

"No," said Lyman. "The law knows well enough what was done and who did it. And, besides, your old mother—"

"Yes," Sawyer broke in, "but I thought it might be kept from her."

"No, some one would tell her, some over-zealous friend. Let it drop."

"Your word is law with me. And now I hope you won't feel hurt if I ask you something?"

"The time for you and me to hurt each other is passed," said Lyman.

"I thank you for saying that. You are a man if I ever met one. And how did you get the name of being desperate?"

"I simply punished an over-bearing bully and my act was exaggerated."

"They always exaggerate such things in this country. But that's not what I wanted to ask you. It's this: Do you need any money? now don't feel hurt; do you need any, and, if you do, won't you let me lend it to you for a year or so without interest?"

"My dear fellow," said Lyman, "my affairs have prospered wonderfully of late. It's a singular position for me to be in, but I don't need money."

"I was in hopes you did. I told McElwin just now that your check would be good as long as I had any money at his bank, and it made him wink, but before I went out he acknowledged that you were about the truest sort of a man he ever ran against. You have educated us all. And now as to a more delicate matter. I don't know what Eva thinks of you, or what you think of her, but I believe that the old man would be willing to recognize the law as young Bostic administered it. But we won't talk about that, and I ought not to have mentioned it. Is Mr. Warren out there? I want to see him a moment."

He shook hands with Lyman and they parted friends. Shortly after Sawyer went out, Warren came running into the room. "Old Billy Fate is trying himself," he cried. "What do you think has happened? That fellow Sawyer has subscribed for fifty copies of the paper, for one year, and has paid for them in advance. He has put down uncles, aunts, cousins—but there's one thing about it I don't like. That fellow Jerry, Nancy's cousin, is a sort of tenth rate cousin to Sawyer, and he has put him down. Jerry Dabbs. Think of that poor girl becoming Nancy Dabbs. There ought to be a law against such outrages. And now he'll read your stuff and commit the odd phrases to memory and give them to her. I don't see how I can keep away from there for a week. I'm going out there Friday. Well, after all, I guess it was better that you didn't drown that fellow. Fifty subscribers are not picked up every day. I don't know but sometimes it pays to let revenge go."

"It pays the heart," Lyman replied. "Did you ever think that when the heart was paid the whole world is out of debt?"

"I never thought of it, but I guess you are right. I met the express agent this morning and he tipped his hat to me. And it's all owing to you. Everybody is talking about you. Where are you going?" he asked as Lyman got up.

"One day, while walking about aimlessly," said Lyman, "I stopped in front of a house down the street not far from here, and saw a boy digging in the yard. At the window I saw the pale face of a man. He lay there to catch the last rays of the world, slowly fanning himself. I asked the boy what he was doing and he said that he was digging a grave for his father. The pale face at the window haunted me. I made inquiry and found that a very poor family inhabited the house, and I have called there several times to talk with the man. I am going there now."

"I know, he's a fellow named Hillit. He's got consumption. I send him the paper free. Give him my regards, please, and tell him that I have put him down as a life subscriber."

"It won't be for long," said Lyman, as he turned away.

The sun had baked the ground and the strange child had suspended his labor, but heaps of earth beneath the bushes showed that he had continued his work as long as his rude spade was adequate to a disturbance of the soil. The boy looked up as the gate latch clicked, and stood surveying Lyman with his feet far apart and his hands in his pockets. Lyman spoke to him, and bringing a nail out of his pocket he held it out to the visitor as an offering of his hospitality. Lyman tossed him a piece of money; he caught it up and with a shout he disappeared in the shrubbery. The visitor's knock at the door was attended by a frail, tired woman. She stood with her hand on the door as if meekly to tell the comer that he had doubtless made a mistake in the house. He bowed and asked if she were Mrs. Hillit, and when she had nodded an acknowledgment, with no word, though her thin lips moved, he informed her that he desired to see her husband. She preceded him into the sick man's room.

"A gentleman wishes to see you," she said.

The sufferer turned his wasted face toward Lyman and asked him to sit down. Then followed a few words of explanation.

"I am very glad you came," said Hillit, speaking slowly and with effort. "We have been getting your paper for some time and it has been great company for us. The neighbors have been very kind, but when a man hangs on this way he wears everybody out."

The woman had left the room, and Lyman was relieved to find that she had not remained to hear her husband's hopeless words. "You ought not to feel that way," he said.

The consumptive withdrew his wistful gaze from the bar of sunlight that lay across the window sill, and looked at Lyman. "I am in a position to say what I think, and that's what I do think," he answered. "But I do hope it won't be much longer. I see by the paper that the farmers have been praying for rain. I have been praying for light, light, light—all the time praying for light. When a passing cloud hides the sun my heart grows heavier, and when the night comes I feel the shadow of eternity resting cold upon me."

In reply to this Lyman could say nothing; he simply said: "You haven't lived here long, I understand."

"Not long. I came from the city to look for a place where I could die cheap. I lost my place—my brethren lost their place—we were swept away by the machine. I am a compositor."

"Oh, are you? Then I am more than glad I came."

"And I am more than glad to see you. I have seen you stop at the fence, and I managed one day to learn your name. You are making a name for yourself; I have read your work at night and there is sunlight in it. Ah, the old craft is gone," he said. "We sang like crickets, laughing at the idea that a frost might come in the shape of a machine to set type; we worked three days a week and spent our money, with no thought of the destroyer slowly forming fingers of steel under the lamp light. But the machine came. It was like the bursting of a shell, and our army, the most intelligent body of craftsmen ever known, was scattered over the face of the land. Once in a while I had a serious moment, and I kept up my life insurance, but what is to become of the other women and children the Lord only knows."

"The picturesque old philosopher known as the tramp printer is only a memory now," said Lyman. "I have seen him strolling along the road, sore of foot, stubble-faced, almost ragged, hungry, but with a cynical head full of contempt for the man of regular habits. I recall one particularly—Barney Caldwell."

"What?" cried Hillit, raising upon his elbows, "did you know old Barney? He was once foreman of an office in Cincinnati where I was a cub. He was comparatively young then, but they called him the old man. And what a disciplinarian! He used to say, 'Boys, if you get drunk with me it is your own look out, and if you don't walk the chalk line that's my look out. Don't expect favors, because you happen to be a good fellow.' One day, he came into the office, and after starting to put on his apron he hesitated, and turning to a fellow named Hicks, he said: 'Charley, I've a notion to be a gentleman once more.' Then I heard a man standing near me say: 'There'll be a vacant foremanship in this office within five minutes. The old man is going to take to the road.' And he did. He resigned his position and walked out. Life was worth living in those days, Mr. Lyman."

Just at this moment Mrs. Hillit appeared at the door. "The young lady who brought the flowers has come again," she said. Lyman looked up and his heart leaped, for, in the hall-way, stood Eva with her hands full of roses. She turned pale at seeing him, but with the color returning she came forward and held out her hand. Hillit's wasted eye, slow in movement but quick in conception, divined the meaning of the changing color of her face, and when his wife had brought a vase for the roses, he said: "I hope you two will talk just as if I wasn't here. And I won't be here long, you know."

"William," his wife spoke up, turning from the table whereon she had placed the young woman's contribution, "you promised me that you wouldn't talk that way any more."

"I forgot this time," he replied.

"Mr. Lyman," said Eva, "I want to thank you again for the book. I have read it twice, and I hope you won't think I gush when I say it is charming. One idea was uppermost in my mind as I read it—that I had never before heard the beating of so many hearts; and the atmosphere is so sweet that, more than once, I fancied that the paper must have been scented."

"Oh, come now," Lyman cried, "you are guying me."

"It does sound like it, I admit, but really I am not. And I don't bring you my opinion alone. Last night I induced father to read a chapter. He read chapter after chapter, and when I asked him what he thought, he simply said, 'Beautiful.' Wasn't that a conquest?"

"It was a great kindness."

"But why should you be surprised? Haven't you worked year after year and now should a just reward come as an astonishment?"

"It's all luck," said the consumptive, looking at his thin hands lying on the counterpane. "If a man has luck early in life, he's likely to pay for it later; and if he has bad luck till along toward middle life, the chances are that he will pick up. I had my luck early; I sang my song and finished it." His wife looked at him beseechingly. "I'm not complaining," he added. "It's no more than just. You and the young lady were speaking about a book, Mr. Lyman. How long did it take you to write it?"

"It seems now that I had to live it," Lyman answered. "The actual work did not take long, but the dreams, the night-mares, were continued year after year. To be condemned to write a conscientious book is a severe trial, almost a cruel punishment, and I am not surprised that the critics, sentenced to read it, should look upon it as an additional pain thrust into their lives."

The talk wandered into the discussion of books in general. The young woman told of the great libraries she had visited abroad. The printer had helped to set up a Bible and he gave an amusing account of the mistakes that had crept into the proof-sheets. A careless fellow had made one of the Prophets stricken with grip instead of grief, and another one had the type declare that Moses lifted up the sea serpent in the wilderness. The bar of sunlight passed beyond the window ledge and the sick man fell into silence. Eva rose to go. Lyman said that he would walk a part of the way with her. She smiled but said nothing. They bade the invalid and his wife good-bye and passed out into the shaded thoroughfare. A man stared at them, but a woman passed with merely a glance.



"Even in a village a wonder wears away after awhile," said Lyman. "Yes," she laughed, "our strange relationship has almost ceased to be an oddity."

They turned into a lane. He helped her across a rivulet and felt her hand grow warm in his grasp. She looked up at him and his blood tingled. He felt a sense of gladness and then remembered that she had praised his book. It was a victory to know that it had broken through her father's hauberk of prejudice. He spoke of Sawyer. She had heard of his narrow escape from drowning; indeed, he had called at the house.

"He did not hesitate to acknowledge everything," she said, "and I never liked him half so well as I did today."

"But you couldn't like him well enough to marry him," Lyman was weak enough to say.

"Oh, no; I liked him because he acknowledged your generosity," she frankly confessed. Lyman had weaknesses, and one of them was an under-appraisal of self. At times and in some men this is a virtue, but more often it is a crime committed against one's own chance of prosperity. The people's candidate is the man who loudest avows his fitness for the office.

"You remember last Sunday as you were driving away from the church—" he said.

"Yes—" she answered, walking close beside him.

"I thought I saw your mother reprimand you for urging her to stay."

"Yes. She was half inclined to yield and she was really scolding herself for her weakness."

"You went away without congratulating the preacher."

"That was thoughtless. We have sent him a letter of congratulation."

"How stately your house looks from here; how cool and restful."

"I used to take great pride in the fact that I lived there, as I looked at the humbler homes scattered about, but I haven't been so foolishly proud since I came to know you."

"Then that is where we must have fallen apart. I have been prouder since I knew you."

"I said foolishly proud," she replied, laughing.

They came to the wooden bridge. "Well, I turn back here," he said, halting and leaning against the rail.

"Surely there would be no harm in your coming to the house," she replied. "You are my protector," she added, with a smile. He was beginning to dislike the word, and now he felt a heaviness settle upon his heart.

"When your father has invited me as a friend of the family, I will come," he said, leaning over and looking down into the water. He looked up and in her eyes he thought he saw a gentle rebuke, but it was gone in a moment. She must have had it in her mind to tell him that he ought to be bolder, but another feeling seemed swiftly to come, and she said: "Your instinct is right." She held out her hand. He grasped it, looked into her eyes, turned about and hastened toward the town.



CHAPTER XXIX.

GONE AWAY.

A few days later, at the breakfast table, Mrs. Staggs remarked that Mrs. McElwin and her daughter were gone on a visit to friends and would be absent several weeks. Lyman did not think to disguise his concern. With an abruptness that made the cups totter in the saucers he shoved himself back from the table and fell into a deep muse. Why should the girl have gone away just at that particular time? Was it a blow aimed at him? He had wanted to tell her something. It was in the nature of a confession, not startling, not, as he now viewed it, beyond a commonplace acknowledgment, and he wondered why he should have suppressed it. He wanted simply to tell her that, at the time when the joking ceremony had been performed, he had looked at her, with his mind reverting to the sick man whose face he had seen that day at the window, and had thought of the charm she could throw upon the gloom-weighted scene should she step into the room. This had come to pass; he had beheld it, and his mind had been sweetened by it; he had walked nearly all the way home with her and had not mentioned it. He had been too talkative as a protector and too silent as a man. And, all day, there was a bitter taste in his mouth, and, at evening, as he sat alone in the office he cut himself with a cynical smile. Warren came in, bright and brusque.

"Well, I've just got back from old man Pitt's," said he. "I couldn't wait any longer, so I went. The old man was at work in the field and I went out and told him not to disturb himself. The old lady was weaving a rag carpet, and I told her not to let the loom fall into silence. The girl was churning and I told her to keep at it. Ah, what a picture, that girl at the churn. Her red calico dress was tucked up, and her sleeves were rolled, and her hair had been grabbed in a hurry and fastened with a thorn. She blushed and put her hand to her hair as if she wanted to fix it, but I cried to her not to tamper with it. I said that she might have gold pins, but couldn't improve on that thorn; I swore that the finest hairdresser in the world would spoil it; and she laughed and I saw the inside of her mouth—"

"A rose with the bud pinched out," said Lyman.

"How did you know? Did you ever see the inside of her mouth? You've hit it all right. Yes, sir, that's what you have. Well, I took hold of the churn dasher and helped her, and she pretended to be afraid that we might turn the churn over, and our hands came together and I felt like throwing up my hat and dancing right there."