Into the sacredness of reunion, when the little family on the knoll were discussing all that had befallen them, on either side, and the two men were renewing old affections, while Hallam and Amy were forming new ones for this new uncle, there came an alarming summons.

A local officer of the law presented himself before the group and on behalf of the public safety arrested the stranger.

"Arrest me? Why, what in the name of justice do you mean?"

"Just what I say. For the attack upon a peaceful citizen, who lies at the point of death, brought there by your villainous hand," repeated the sheriff, solemnly. He so seldom had opportunity to exercise his office that he now embellished it with all the dignity possible.

"Indeed, take care of your words, friend! It was a case of rescue, not attack. You are slightly mixed in your ideas, sir. I found him suffering a terrible horsewhipping at the hands of somebody whom I do not know, who slipped away from me when I seized him, and disappeared in the darkness. I was too anxious over Mr. Wingate to notice, or even care, which direction the rascal took. But—aha, it's too absurd!"

"Remember that whatever you say will be used against you," cautioned the officer of the law.

"Let it. I could ask no better treatment."

"You say you grabbed a fellow. What was he like?"

"It was too dark to see distinctly. He appeared rather tall and slim. I don't remember that he said a word, but he laughed harshly as he ran. Somehow, that laugh gave me the impression that the man was demented. But I have nothing else to judge by, and I would not be unjust. The thing for which to be thankful is that Dr. Wise hopes my kinsman's injuries are not fatal."

"Hmm. All the same, sir, you will have to go with me."

Frederic Kaye turned toward his friends a countenance which expressed as much amusement as annoyance. Cuthbert Kaye had risen, and his face was white with indignation. The sight of this, determined his brother-in-law to yield quietly to the inevitable. He had heard much during his night with Dr. Wise of the artist's recent condition, and he felt it would be criminal to let him become excited now. So he laid his hand affectionately upon the trembling shoulder, and remarked, with laughing disdain:—

"Why, lad, don't think of it. It's a ludicrous mistake, of course, and the best, the simplest way to correct it is for me to go with this gentleman; and I doubt not I'll be back in time for dinner. Why, Cleena, woman, take care! It's delightful to find you so loyal to your 'black sheep,' but fisticuffs won't answer, nor even a shillalah."

This was a diversion, and everybody laughed. For Cleena had advanced threateningly toward the sheriff, raising her rolling-pin, that she happened to have in hand, as if she would bring it down upon his offending head. Her hand dropped to her side, but her eyes did not cease to hurl contempt upon the officer, as, under cover of the merriment resulting, Frederic Kaye himself led the way out of the house toward the "bar of justice."

Because Cleena fancied that Amy had taken cold, the girl had remained at home that morning, but she now begged to be allowed to return to the mill.

"I want to go and see Mr. Metcalf. He'll be the very one to help Uncle Frederic, if he needs help, and I'd rather tell him the story myself."

"If you go, I will too," said Hallam, quickly. "I'll have no holidays you do not share."

"Nonsense! Your work is 'piece work.' If you get behind at one time, you can make it up at another. The superintendent told me you could soon bring it home to do, if you wished."

"But I shall not wish—not for the present. Let us both go."

Mr. Kaye looked up as if he would remonstrate. Then he took up a western newspaper that their guest had laid down, and began to read. But his children had seen his glance, and interpreted it to themselves by a swift exchange of their own. Amy's eyes spoke to her brother's, as plainly as words:—

"We mustn't leave him alone to-day," and Hallam's had telegraphed back:—

"No, I see that. One of us must stay."

"Well, father, Hal is not half so necessary to the success of Ardsley Mill as I am. He's going to help you mount those sketches this morning, while I hunt up Uncle Frederic, and try to get a 'day off' to visit with him. Cleena must dish up the remains of the yesterday dinner for us, and we'll keep Christmas over again. Isn't it just lovely, lovely, to have one's relatives turn up in this delightful fashion? First, Cousin Archibald, behaving just like other folks; and now this romantic arrival of the long-lost uncle. Good-by. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Mr. Kaye and Hallam repaired to the upper floor as Amy went away, but Cleena remained standing for a long time, motionless in the middle of the room. Her head was bent, and her gaze fixed, as if she were studying some matter deeply. Finally she roused with a mighty sigh and stalked out of the room.

"Sure, the pother o' life. It's an' up an' down, so fast it makes a body dizzy in their wits. That boy, Fayetty, one day as good as a fine fish o' Friday; the next—eatin' me heart out with the worry. Never a doubt I doubt 'twas himself belabored the old man on his road home. There's bad blood 'twixt 'em. But I'll aye see if he's in his bed the now."

So she ascended to the back chamber that Fayette used. To her knock there came, at first, no response; but she kept on with her tapping and interspersed this with coaxing tones, and finally a voice answered her.

"What you want?"

"Yerself, avick."

"Well, you can't have me."

"Can I no? It's two makes a bargain."

"Clear out."

"After you is manners for me. Come by."

"Leave me alone."

"I'd take shame to myself. Have ye heard the fine doin's? No?"

"What doings?"

"The lad's back from foreign parts, Miss Amy's uncle. He's the one has donkeys in his pocket. Heard ye ever o' him?"

"Where's he at?"

"Faith, I d' know. Belike he's after takin' a stroll about, meetin' old friends. What for no? Come on an' help me get a fine dinner out o' scraps."

"Suppose he'd give me one?"

"Never a doubt I doubt, he'll give ye all ye deserve. Come by. There's kindlin' to split an' praties to peel, an'—Whist! What's that I hear?"

Fayette's curiosity was very strong. It had led him into trouble more than once. It now induced him to open the door and peep through.

"What's that, Cleena? Anything happenin'?"

"Arrah musha, but I think yes!"

"What?"

"Sure, if ye're askin', I'm believin' it's Willyum Gladstone happenin' down in your minin' hole."

"Huckleberries!"

The door flew open, Fayette rushed by as if he could not move half fast enough. It seemed to Cleena he cleared the stairs with two bounds, and an instant after she heard him hurrying into the cellar at the same headlong pace.

"Hmm. I thought that'd fetch him," she chuckled. Then she suddenly remembered that she had once heard the lad speak of using "giant powder," or some such explosive in his work of the underground passage. She had strictly forbidden this, and had carefully watched lest any suspicious material might be brought upon the premises. She had even persuaded Teamster John to examine the trench and the articles which Fayette had placed there. He had found nothing wrong, and the pick and the shovel had been so long disused that they had rusted. Of late Cleena had let William Gladstone play down there in the soft dirt, while she was busy at other things.

"Alanna, the day!"

Cleena followed her leader only a trifle less swiftly, and reached the top of the cellar stairs just in time to receive a whirling object plump in her arms. The object was the incipient statesman, and in a second more the half-wit had also reached the kitchen floor and had shut the door behind him.

"I'll teach him to interfere with my gold mine!"



CHAPTER XXIV.

FAIRACRES IS CLOSED.

"Oh, Mr. Metcalf, may I come in?"

The superintendent was alone in his office and admitted Amy at once. "Such strange things have happened, I've not come to work to-day, but to ask your help. My Uncle Frederic—"

"Sit down, child, you are breathless with haste. You needn't talk. I have heard your news. Dr. Wise has sent me a message. I am expecting him here immediately."

"Isn't it dreadful?"

"Very," answered the gentleman, and his grave face emphasized his words. He knew Archibald Wingate better than anybody else could know him. He was the rich man's confidential employee, from whom no weaknesses were hid. He believed the mill owner to be vindictive, and he had heard his often-expressed contempt for the "whole family of Kaye, so far as its men are concerned." Of course, this had been some time ago; before Fairacres had become Mr. Wingate's home. Since then his enmity toward his relatives had seemed to slumber, it had even altered to a sort of friendliness; yet Mr. Metcalf had no faith in the endurance of this friendliness should any test be put upon it. The attack of the night before had pointed suspicion very strongly toward one of "the Kayes," and should the victim recover, he would, doubtless, prosecute to the full extent of the law the person who had assaulted him.

"Do you know how he is?"

"Of whom do you ask?"

"Cousin Archibald, of course. I am so sorry for him. If I hadn't to work, I would go and take care of him, if he'd let me."

"I don't think he would. Besides, you would not be either strong or wise enough. He must have trained nursing, the best obtainable. I hear that he has recovered consciousness and is resting quietly. What complications may arise one cannot foresee. He has been a high liver, and he is an old man; but I hope for the best. I hope it not only for his sake, but everybody's concerned."

"Wasn't it queer that that man, that officer,—a sheriff he called himself,—should come after my uncle? It frightened my father, so Hallam stayed with him. I'm sorry to be away from my place to-day, but Cleena fancies I have taken cold. Then, too, since Uncle Frederic came, of course I should devote myself to him. He's just splendid. So big and strong and jolly. Even under his sorrow about my mother he is as sunshiny as possible. He's like a fresh west wind that 'airs' a house so wonderfully. I do want you to see him; and I came to ask if you'd just go and explain to that sheriff how silly it is to suspect him."

Mr. Metcalf regarded Amy for a moment in silence. With all her good sense, she was as ignorant as a child of many things in practical life. He answered her very gently:—

"I expect to see him soon, that is my intention. Dr. Wise and I will become his 'bail', so that he can soon be set at liberty."

"I do not understand you. What do you mean?"

"Why, this: your uncle has been arrested upon suspicion of waylaying and assaulting Mr. Wingate. He will be imprisoned unless somebody becomes surety for him, that he will appear at court when summoned to stand his trial and prove his innocence if he can. It is right you should know this, though extremely disagreeable for me to speak of it."

Amy's face paled as he talked. She did not wonder that her father had been frightened. The thing was horrible, and the disgrace of it crushed her. She bowed her head beneath its weight, and sat silent so long that the superintendent was moved to rise and comfort her.

"Don't take it so to heart, my child; there is, of course, some great mistake. The thing is—to find out who the real assailant was and bring him to justice. This, unfortunately, will be a difficult matter."

"No; I won't mind it. Why should I? If he had done this wicked thing, I should be right to feel shame; but he didn't. Oh! I've just thought of something that might help. Uncle Frederic said he caught the man by the collar, and the man slipped out of his coat and ran away. Where is the coat? Has anybody looked for it?"

"Several persons, my own messenger among others. There is no trace of any garment anywhere near the highroad. If we could find that, as you say, it would simplify matters greatly. Come with me; I heard Nanette wishing she could show you her Christmas gifts. To hear her describe each, one would imagine she could see them. She is so interested about Balaam, too. She wonders where he is, and if he misses Pepita as much as she would miss one of her numerous sisters. When Dr. Wise has been here and we have concluded our business, I will call for you, probably, with your uncle. I have a new horse I'm anxious to try, and things are so unsettled here to-day—"

"Unsettled?"

"Yes; Ardsley doesn't often have such a sensation as its wealthiest citizen being horsewhipped. It's difficult to get the hands to work regularly. It's just as well you do not try, till it's blown over. You would be asked no end of questions, idle as the people who would put them."

In his kind heart he wished to save her not only the questions, but the shadow which might rest upon her because of her misjudged relative. By nightfall, or earlier, he was determined to have the Californian set at liberty. It was an outrage that one who acted the good Samaritan should receive such reward, and he believed that two as influential townsmen as Dr. Wise and himself could, by their indorsement of the prisoner, turn the tide of public opinion in his favor.

So Amy went again to the Metcalf home and forgot all her cares in the midst of its bright young people. The hours went swiftly round, and it was not till the gate clicked and a trio of gentlemen came striding up the path that she remembered how anxious she had been.

Then she sped out of the house and flung herself into her uncle's arms.

"Oh, I'm so glad they found out their mistake! How ashamed that sheriff will be! Please, Mr. Metcalf, may I show him his own little Pepita, that was? And thank you for helping him to explain, or for the 'bail,' and everything. Thank you, too, Dr. Wise. Do you know how Mr. Wingate is?"

"Improving. He's pretty badly scared and shocked, but I think he will come out all right."

"Can he tell who struck him? That would clear everything up all right."

"Yes; it would be a simple solution of the matter. I am hoping he will be able to tell, after a while; but for the present my object is to prevent, as far as possible, his recalling the incident. He must not be excited, else there may be fever. But all in good time, I think. Now Mr. Metcalf has invited us to ride behind his new horse. I have an hour of leisure, and I propose to show this old Ardsley boy the changes a few years have made, even in our quiet town. Did I hear anything about a small girl named Amy being one of the party?"

"Indeed, you did. Oh, what a treat! A real Christmas gift. To ride behind a brand new horse, beside a brand new uncle, in a brand new carriage, is enough to turn my head; so forgive me if I'm silly—sillier than common. And oh, Mr. Metcalf, can't Nanette go too? She's so little she takes up no room worth mentioning, and I love her."

It was a merry party. Amy believed that all the morning's trouble had been overcome, and did not realize that being out on bail was in itself sort of an imprisonment to a man of honor. Until the real culprit was found Frederic Kaye would still be under suspicion; yet he could enjoy his parole, and this ride had been purposely planned by his friends as a means of influencing that variable public opinion which had first promptly misjudged him.

Therefore, they drove through the principal streets of the town, past all its business places, and lingered by the haunts of the village gossips, that Ardsleyites might see and comment.

"Well, if that don't beat all!" exclaimed Mrs. Hackett to her customers. "There's Dr. Wise and the 'Supe' driving Mister Fred all over creation. I guess they don't believe anything against him, bad as things look. I don't know as 'tis right, either. I guess I'll wait and see before I make up my mind."

But having already spread the "news" by means of every villager who had visited her place of business that morning, this was rather late in season to stem the tide of rumor; though on the principle of "better late than never," it may have done some good.

When the ride was over and the Kayes deposited at the door of "Charity House," Amy was in the wildest of spirits. It seemed to her as if the world were the loveliest, friendliest place, and her gayety infected all about her. The gentlemen accompanied Mr. Frederic into the new home and spent an hour delightfully with the artist, amid his pictures. Then Cleena, aided by Amy, brought in a tray of luncheon, and they stayed to share it.

"Blessings on Teamster John's turkey. What a lot of comfort it has given lots of folks!" remarked Amy to Cleena, in the kitchen, as she surveyed the neatly arranged tray.

"Yes, so be. Arrah musha, were the man as sensible as his fowl I'd know. But, colleen, keep an eye to that back door. Fayette's behind, in the store closet. It's behind he must stay or there's mischief a-brewin'."

"Indeed, I wonder he isn't putting himself forward, to attract Uncle Frederic's notice, as he always does of strangers. Well, poor lad, I fancy the introduction can wait. When you've carried in the tray, I'll go and serve them."

But after the light meal was over and the guests departed, Hallam became absorbed in the new magazines that his uncle produced from his valise; while the elder Kayes dropped back into the reminiscences that were so interesting to themselves and so dull to Amy. Try as she would, now that all was quiet, she could not keep from her mind a picture of Archibald Wingate, riding home from a pleasant visit and suffering such mischance.

"My first little dinner-party, too. I must go and see him. I must tell him that I am sorry. I must offer to help."

So, after a while, as the afternoon waned, Amy put on her outdoor things, and telling only Cleena her errand, set off for Fairacres. She was admitted by a strange servant, and was passing straight toward the room which her cousin occupied when she was met and prevented by Marshall.

"If you please, miss, he's allowed to see nobody."

"Not even me? Surely, I will not disturb him. I won't even speak to him, if that will hurt him. I just want to satisfy myself how badly he's injured, and maybe smile at him. Just that little bit. Oh, Mr. Marshall, isn't it so sad! I'm so very, very sorry."

"Yes, and well you might be, miss. No, not even to look at him. He's not to be worried by nobody."

So Amy went sorrowfully home again, and as she had to resume her labor in the mill at such an early hour the following day, she could not repeat her visit until another night came round. Frederic Kaye had gone to the mansion, however, and had been coldly assured by the officious Marshall that "the master was doing well." This bulletin had been issued through the upper half of the old-fashioned door, which opened across its middle, and to effect an entrance the caller would have had to force the bolts of the lower half. The valet regarded the Californian with suspicion that, as the latter admitted, was not ill-founded; and he had not forgotten the feel of the stranger's boot-toe on the night of the accident. So he kept a safe barricade of the premises, and Frederic also went away unsatisfied.

For several days these visits were repeated, with similar results; but when Sunday came round and she had daylight for her purpose, Amy again hurried to Fairacres.

"I'll see him this time, if I have to climb over Marshall's objecting shoulders," she merrily cried to Cleena, as she departed.

But when she reached the old homestead she found it desolate. The light snow which had fallen overnight lay everywhere undisturbed. No paths had been cleared nor entrances swept. The windows were closed and shuttered as Amy never had seen them. Even the stables were shut up and deserted; and after a half hour of vain efforts to arouse somebody, the disappointed girl returned to "Charity House."

"Troth, ye went away like a feather, an' you come home like a log. What's happened, me colleen?"

"He's gone. I can't see him. I can't tell him. Oh, I'm so sorry, so sorry!"

To comfort her, Uncle Frederic paid a visit to Dr. Wise, and came back with news that was not very satisfactory. Without consulting the physician, Mr. Wingate had suddenly decided to go south for the winter. Marshall had attended to everything. The horses and cattle had been sent from Fairacres to one of the outlying farms belonging to the estate. There was no reference to future return, and Mr. Metcalf had been instructed to settle all accounts. Beyond this there was no mention of anybody, and no address was left except that of the mill owner's city bankers, who would forward any necessary papers. Mr. Wingate had gone away for absolute rest, and wished not to hear from Ardsley unless under extreme necessity.

So Amy's dream of a reunited family, of that peace and happiness which should exist between Fairacres and "Charity House," came to an end. But other hopes and plans took its place, and she returned to her mill work on the Monday, too busy and eager to spend time in useless regret.

"The best thing about life," observed this wise young person to her Uncle Frederic, "is that it has to keep right on. There's so much to do, and the days are so short, if a body grieves one moment he's sure to laugh the next. And, uncle, I've such a lovely idea about a 'club' for the mill folks. To take the place of one that—doesn't seem to help them much. I believe you're the very man to arrange everything, and that you were sent home just in time."

"Wh-e-w! A Daniel come to judgment? No, a faithful daughter of a brave, unselfish woman. You'll never be Salome, little girl, but maybe you will be an improvement even on her. All her good sense with a little more—snap."

"Considerable more snap than wisdom, I fancy," laughed she, and sped down the hill to join Gwendolyn for her walk millward.



CHAPTER XXV.

MYSTERIES AND MASTERIES.

"Sure, Mister Frederic, I'd be proud to show ye the cellar that's doin' below. Would he mind comin' the now?"

"A 'cellar below' is surely in its proper place. I'll be delighted to view it, Mistress Goodsoul."

"Alanna, it was ever yourself had a jest an' a twist of a body's words! To my notion, it's a tidy job, but I sometimes misgives it's no all right for the house."

"Then it surely should be looked after. Who's doing it for you?"

"That silly one I was tellin' you about. He's—he's—" The woman glanced over her shoulder, as if she feared to be heard. This was a curious circumstance in the case of one so frank as she, and her old friend commented on it.

"Why so mysterious, Cleena? Secrets afoot? But it's after Christmas, not before it."

"Come by."

He followed her gayly down the stairs into the one central cellar, and from this slightly farther into another, being opened toward the side. She carried a lighted candle in her hand, and pointed with pride to the neatness of the work as far as it had proceeded.

"Nobody could ha' done it finer, eh?"

"It seems all right. The walls will have to be supported, of course, though it looks a solid rock. Old Ingraham obeyed the Scripture injunction in letter, if not in spirit. What does Cuthbert think of this?"

"The same as of most things—nothin' at all. So long as he's his bit pictures an' books to pore over, the very house might tumble about his ears an' no heed. There's been no nerve frettin' nor crossness since the mistress was called—not once. He's a saint the now. But it's aye good ye're come home, Mister Fred."

"And it's good to hear you say so, old friend. Yet if it suits you just as well, I'd prefer to have you say it up in the open. I'm not a lover of dark cellars, or of holes that may be cellars some day. Come out of it; it gives me the 'creeps.'"

"Ye believe it's all safe, eh?"

"Safe enough so far."

"Come by. If you like not this place, you must e'en bide the kitchen a bit. I've somewhat to speak to you."

Cleena started back over the way they had come, and Mr. Kaye was following her, when he stumbled against something soft, and fell headlong in the mud; but he was up again in an instant, no worse for the accident save by the soil upon his clothing. He had grasped the thing over which he had tripped, and held it up to the candle-light.

"Hello! Seems to me I've seen this garment, or felt it, before. That peculiarity of a cloth coat with a leather collar is noticeable. Whose is it, Cleena?"

"Fetch it," she commanded tersely, and he obeyed her. Once in the better lighted kitchen she extinguished the candle, carefully closed all the doors, and seated herself near her visitor. She had taken the coat from him, and laid it upon her own knees. Her manner was still full of that mystery which consorted so oddly with her honest, open face.

"I thought so. I thought so, so I did."

"Very likely."

"Cease yer haverin', lad. There's matter here."

"Considerable. Upon my clothes, too. The matter seems to be of the same sort—rather brown and sticky, what the farmers call 'loom.'"

"Know you whose coat this be?"

"Never a know I know," he mimicked, enjoying his bit of nonsense with this old friend of his youth.

"It's Fayetty's."

"Your superior cellar digger? Whew!"

He had now become quite as serious as she desired. "Cleena, this is a bad business. This coat was on the back of the man who horsewhipped Mr. Wingate."

"I thought it; but, mind you, me lad, he's not for punishin'."

"Hold on, he certainly is. Don't you know that I—I, a Kaye, am under suspicion of this dastardly thing? Of course you do. Well, then, I'm going to step out from under the suspicion with neatness and despatch. How long have you been hiding this, Cleena?"

"The poor chap's been here ever since. Only once a day he slips out, but he's back by night. Oh, he's safe enough the now."

"Glad of it. Like to have him handy; and as soon as you've finished what you have to say, I'll walk into the village and inform the sheriff, or somebody who should know."

"You'll do naught like it."

"Why, Cleena, woman, have you lost your good sense?"

"Have I saved it, no? Hear me. I know 'twas me poor little Gineral Bonyparty 't did the deed. I knew, soon as I heard the tale o' the coat. You're no so stupid yerself. You recognized it immediate. It was a part o' his uniform he wore a-paradin'. His notion 'twould save the collar clean o' the jacket I fixed him. He's never no care in all his hard life till he met up with me. The poor little gossoon!"

"Cleena, Cleena, turncoat! Wasn't I once, on a day gone by, another 'poor little gossoon'? But come, drop nonsense; it's a disgracefully serious business for me and for your whole family."

"It's because o' the family I say it. The lad's for no punishin'. Not yet. You're big an' strong, an' uncommon light o' heart. It'll do ye no harm. The suspicioned you must be till—Wait lad. You loved the mistress, Salome?"

"Why, Cleena, you know it!"

"Love you her childer?"

"Dearly; for their sakes I must shake off this obnoxious misjudgment." He shrugged his shoulders as if the obloquy were a tangible load that could be shifted.

"Hallam, the cripple, that's walked never a step since a diny dony thing, an' a bad nurse set him prone on the cold stones o' the nasty cellar house where her kind lived. That winter in the town, an' me mindin' the mistress with Miss Amy a babe. How could we watch all the time? He must have the air, what for no? An' her with a face as smooth as bees-wax. Down on the cold, damp stones she'd put him, whiles off with her young man she'd be trapesin', an' him made a cripple for life."

"Yes, Cleena, I remember it all. And how, as Amy tells me, almost a fortune has been spent to restore him. But if ever I earn enough to try again, I'll never rest till every doctor in the world, who understands such things, shall tell me there is no hope."

"Good lad. Aye, aye, good lad!"

The gentleman looked at her in amazement. This had been the old servant's term of commendation when he had refrained from some of his youthful and natural mischievousness. She seemed to mean it just as earnestly now. Suddenly she leaned forward and placed her hands upon his knees.

"Say it again, avick. You'd do all in your power for me darlin' Master Hallam, what for no?"

"What idleness to ask! I would give anything in this world to see him cured."

"The Kayes are aye proud, in troth. Yer honor, lad; even yer honor?"

"Hmm, well—yes. Even my honor."

"Hark to me."

For five minutes thereafter Cleena talked, and not once did her listener interrupt. Her words were spoken in that sibilant whisper that is louder than ordinary speech, and not one of them was lost. When she had finished, she rose and demanded, laying her hand upon Mr. Kaye's shoulder:—

"Now, Mister Fred, will ye leave me gineral be?"

"Yes, Cleena. For the present, till a final test comes, he shall be safe from any interference from me. I'll take him under my personal protection. I'll make myself his friend. He shall have a fair chance. If he fails—"

"He'll no fail! he'll no fail, laddie! Such as him is the Lord's own. Whist, alanna, here he comes."

Fayette approached the entrance, walking stealthily, and casting furtive glances toward that part of the building where the guest had hitherto remained. Apparently satisfied that the coast was clear, he crept to the door and tapped it twice.

Cleena nodded her head, and Frederic Kaye opened to admit the boy, who would have retreated when he saw the stranger, had not his arm been caught and held so firmly he could not writhe himself free.

"Leave me alone. What you doin'?"

"Why, I haven't had the pleasure of meeting you since Christmas night."

"'Twasn't me. I never done it. Leave me be. Huckleberries! I'll smash ye!"

"Why, Fayette, I'm astonished. Be quiet, listen. I know you—I know all about you. You have got to behave. You must stay here and do exactly what Cleena and I tell you to do. You'll be treated well. I'll show you how you can make a lot of that money you like so much; upon condition, though—upon the one condition that you simply behave correctly. You are wise enough to understand me. If you disobey or prove tricky—well, I have but to hand you over to the law and you're settled. Do you understand?"

"You mean, if I don't mind, they'll jail me?"

"That's it, exactly. You're cleverer than I hoped."

"All right; I'll do it. Say, I believe Balaam's sick."

"Balaam? Have you got him, too? Are you a horse thief as well as highwayman? Well, poor fellow, it's lucky your lot is cast in this peaceful valley instead of on the frontier. Where is he?"

"I rode him to a place I know. There was plenty o' fodder once, but it's been took. He hain't had much to eat, an' maybe that's it. I was bound old Wingate shouldn't get him."

"Look here, young man, call nobody names. That's not allowed. And now you travel after Balaam. If he's too sick for you to manage alone, I'll go with you; if not, you must do it. How far away is he?"

"Not more 'n a mile."

"Fetch him. I've something to tell you, for your own benefit. I'll teach you how to grow mushrooms, down in that cellar you're digging. Well-grown ones will bring you a dollar a pound. I know, I've raised them. I'd made a fortune only I love daylight and hate darkness. If you can stand the underground part just for fun, you'll make it pay."

"Huckleberries! I'll get him. I'll hurry back."

As if he expected the new enterprise to begin that very night the lad started down the hill. Already there was a manlier bearing about his ill-shaped body. The necessity for hiding which he had felt had been removed, and he was a free lad again.

An hour later Frederic Kaye saw him reappear, riding the apparently restored burro, and smiled grimly.

"Hmm. Well, I'm in for it. I'm to remain under the cloud for an indefinite time. If it succeeds—I'll not regret. If it doesn't, maybe the Lord will square it up to my account, against the thoughtless neglect I showed Salome. Now, I'll go out and interview my old acquaintance of the Sierras. I wonder is his voice as mellifluous as erstwhile!"

"Br-a-a-ay! Ah-umph! A-h-h-u-m-p-h!!" responded Balaam, from afar.



CHAPTER XXVI.

A PICNIC IN THE GLEN.

It is amazing how fast time flies when one is busy. At "Charity House" all were busy, and to all the winter passed with incredible swiftness.

To Amy each day seemed too short to accomplish half she desired, and each one held some new, fascinating interest in that study of life which so absorbed her.

"You're the funniest girl, Amy. Even the lengthening of the days, getting a little lighter in the mornings, week by week, so we can see the sun rise and such things, as we walk to work—I'd never think of it, 'cept for you."

"Now you do think of it, isn't it interesting?"

"Yes, I like it. Things seem to mean something, now I know you. Before, well—'pears like I didn't think at all; I just slid along and took no notice."

"But it's so wonderful. Everything is wonderful,—even the way the months have gone. Here it is spring, the bloodroot lying in a white drift along the brookside, and the yellow lilies opening their funny tooth-shaped petals everywhere in the woods. Yet only a minute ago, as it seems, the dead leaves were falling, and I was on my way for the first time to work in the mill. I belong there now, a part of it. I have almost forgotten how it used to be when I was so idle."

"Seems to me you could never have been idle, Amy. Anyway, you've got on splendid. The 'Supe' says he never had a girl go ahead so fast. Isn't it grand, though, to be out of the mill this lovely day? Saturday-half means ever so much more fun now than it used to do, and doesn't cost half so much money. Don't worry you half so much either, as it did to go shopping all the time. Say, Amy, I've about got Mis' Hackett paid up."

"I'm delighted; it must be wretched to feel one's self in debt, I think."

"It's mighty nice to feel one's self out of it. I've got you to thank for that, too, 'long of lots of other things. Isn't the club doing fine? We wouldn't have had that, either, but for you."

"Nonsense! Indeed, you would. Hallam was as interested as I in the subject; and as soon as we told Uncle Fred, he was even more eager than we. But it is to father we all owe the most, I think."

"So do I. To dream of a splendid gentleman like him, and such a painter, taking so much time and trouble just for a lot of mill folks, I think it's grand. I don't understand how he can."

"Seeing that his own two children are 'mill folks,' I can, readily," answered Amy, laughing. "But, indeed, I know he would go on with it now just as thoroughly, even if we were not in the case at all."

This talk occurred one lovely afternoon when the half-holiday made a club picnic a possible and most delightful thing. The two girls, Gwendolyn and Amy, were a little earlier than the others, and were on their way to the appointed meeting place, "Treasure Island," a small piece of wooded ground rising in the middle of the Ardsley's widest span. From the island to the banks, on either side, were foot-bridges, and in the grove tables and benches had been built by the lads of the organization. It was an ideal picnic ground, and these were ideal picnickers; for those who toil the hardest on most days of the week enter most heartily into the recreations they do secure.

The girls were passing down into the glen where Amy had once lost her way and been rescued by Fayette. It seemed so long ago that she could hardly realize how few months had really elapsed.

She spoke of the matter to her companion, who seemed to be in a reflective mood that afternoon, and who again remarked upon the change in the mill boy, also.

"Your uncle and Cleena Keegan have made him different, too. He's as proud as Punch of his mushroom raising, isn't he? He owes that to Mister Fred; but, odd! he's as scared of Cleena as if she owned him. He didn't forgive that thing about Balaam, and seems to feel he has a right to him, same's Mr. Metcalf has."

"Poor old Balaam, he's made a lot of trouble, first and last; but I guess he's all right now, only Cleena won't let Fayette talk of him. She says it's 'punishment,'—the only sort she can inflict. I don't understand why she wants him punished, anyway."

"Maybe for stealing him that Christmas night out of Mr. Wingate's stable."

"Possibly; I don't know. She's like a mother puss with her kitten. One minute she pets him to foolishness, the next she gives him a mental slap that reduces him to the humblest, most timid mood. Well, I'm glad the burro business is settled, though it's odd how Fayette covets that animal; and the exercise of going up and down to his work, the days he has to go, isn't hurting Hallam at all. I never knew him to be so well and strong as he seems this spring."

"Amy, how was it about Balaam? Ma says she never heard the rights of it yet. And say, she likes that book you lent her, about the woman went round the world alone, visiting them hospitals, better 'n any novel she ever read. She's going to give up the other story papers soon as the subscription runs out an' take one o' them library tickets you were telling about, or your uncle, where they send the books to you by mail and you can have your choose of hundreds. Say, wouldn't it be prime if we could get a big library here?"

"Grand! We will, some day, too."

"My! You say such things as if you expected them to be. How, I'd like to know?"

"Well, if in no other way, by just us mill folks banding together and making a beginning. Indeed, I think my father would give his own little library as a start. There's a fine one at Fairacres, and I'm hoping when Cousin Archibald comes back he'll get interested in our work and help along."

"Might as well look for miracles."

"I do. I'm always finding them, too. There's one at your very feet. Don't tread upon it, please."

Stooping, the girl pulled Gwendolyn's dress away from a tiny green speck, growing in dangerous proximity to the wood road.

"What's it?"

"This baby fern."

"All that fuss about a fern!"

"It's life, it's struggle. See, so dainty, so fine, yet so plucky, forcing its soft frond up through the earth, among all these bits of rocks; never stopping, never fearing, just trusting the Creator and doing its duty. It would be a pity to end it so soon."

"Amy, did I ever! Well, there it is again. I shall never be able to crush anything like that without remembering what you've said just now. I—I wish you wouldn't. It makes me feel sort of wicked. And that's silly, just for a fern."

"Gwen, anything that makes us more merciful can't be silly. Heigho! there are the picnickers all coming along the banks and over the bridges. Truly, a goodly company, yet we began with just you and Lionel, Mary Reese, Hallam, and me. Now there are a hundred members, old and young. There's one of the everyday miracles for you!"

The vigorous young association which went by the name of the "Ardsley Club" flourished beyond even Amy's most sanguine expectation. Three rooms of "Charity House," the sunny western side of the higher story, had been cheerfully offered by Mr. Kaye as a home for the club. These rooms he had had fitted up under his own supervision, though the work had been done by the members themselves, in hours after mill duties were over. The color mixer had supplied the material with which the once ugly white walls were tinted; and upon the soft-hued groundwork there had been stencilled a delicate conventional design. At one end of the large room designated the "reading room" a scroll bore the legend which old Adam Burns had given Amy as a "rule of life": "Simplicity, Sincerity, Sympathy," and opposite gleamed in golden letters the other maxim: "Love Conquers All."

"Love, Simplicity, Sincerity, and Sympathy, which is the synonym of Love, and forms with it the golden circle," was adopted as one of the by-laws, and it is true that each member endeavored to keep this one law inviolably. The result was a spirit of peace and goodwill rarely found in a gathering of so many varying natures. It had been Mr. Kaye's idea to make the affair one of no expense to the members, outside of his own household, but Frederic promptly vetoed that.

"In the first place, there are none of us rich enough to do such a thing. There will be lights, firing, musical instruments, books, current literature, games—any number of things that cost money. Amy's idea is fine. A club of the right sort will be a powerful factor for good in this community of mill workers, but it must be made self-supporting. If you give the use of the rooms and will act as instructor along some lines,—art and literature, which you comprehend better than financiering, respected brother,—you will have done your generous share. Amy and Cleena will keep the rooms in order, with occasional aid from the girl members—after we secure them. A small sum, contributed by each member, will run the whole concern. People who are as constantly employed as these mill operatives have not the leisure nor means to acquire a book education, but a more intelligent, wider-awake, more receptive class is not to be found. Yet let nobody dare to approach them with anything at all in the nature of 'charity' or mental almsgiving. Your democrat beats your aristocrat in the matter of pride every time, and that is a paradox for you to consider. I relinquish the floor."

"After having exhausted the subject," laughed Hallam. But the subject had not been exhausted. Amy proposed the matter the very next day, at "nooning," and secured the members as mentioned by her to Gwendolyn. In a week the membership had doubled; and as soon as the affair was really comprehended, that it was a mutual benefit organization in the highest sense of the word, applications were plentiful.

Uncle Frederic had been a literal globe-trotter, and his journeyings on foot made him able to discourse in a familiar way of things no guide-book ever points out. Nor did Cleena's good cookery come in for any poor show among these healthy, happy folk. The club paid for the simple refreshments provided at their weekly "socials," and Cleena prepared them. Even this day, for their out-of-door reunion, she had made all the needful preparations, and had been so busy she had scarcely remembered to keep a close watch upon Fayette.

"But troth, it's no more nor right he should take his bit fun with the rest," she remarked to herself, as she pulled the last tin of biscuits from the chimney oven and spread them with sweet butter and daintily sliced tongue. "He's aye restless betimes; and—but it's comin', it's comin', me blessed gossoon!"

But to whom Cleena's exclamation referred it would have been difficult to say,—though possibly to Fayette, as her next words seemed to indicate. For the good creature still "conversed with Cleena" in every instance when she happened to be left alone, it being a necessity of her friendly nature that she should talk to somebody.

"Me gineral's never got over the burro business yet, alanna! An' it do seem hard how 't one has so little an' t' other so much. That Mr. 'Super' Metcalf now, as fine a man as treads shoe leather, never a doubt I doubt, yet himself judgin' it fair, since the man Wingate wanted the beast, the man Wingate should have him. Anyway, there he stands, brayin' his head off in the 'Supe's' stable, in trust for the old man'll never bestride him. Nobody rides him at all, Miss Amy says; yet here's me gineral heart-broke for him; an' the cripple goin' afoot; an' all them little Metcalfs envyin' an' covetin'; an' all because a man who's word is law said he'd take him for rent an' just kept him, whether or no. But a good job it was when Mister Fred come home, with money for rent an' a few trifles, but not much besides. Well, where's the need? Eight dollars a week is Miss Amy's wage now, God bless her! an' Master Hal's nigh the same,—let alone them bit pictures the master's be's doin' constant. Mister Fred's the knack o' sellin' 'em too. Well, if the mistress could see—and hark, me fathers! What's that?"

Down in the fragrant glen and on the little island the hungry "Ardsleyites" waited long for the promised supper; and up on Bareacre knoll things were happening that would provide another sensation for the little town, quiet now since the Christmas horsewhipping episode.



CHAPTER XXVII.

A DOUBLE INHERITANCE IN A SINGLE DAY.

Almost before she asked it, Cleena answered her own question.

"The powder! the powder! It's Fayetty a-meddlin'! Oh, is he killed, the witless gossoon?"

Then she turned toward the stairway leading into the cellar, and from whence she had heard the dull roar, and now imagined she saw smoke as she certainly did smell suggestive fumes. She needed not to descend, however, for at the stair's head the lad rushed against her, bruising her with something hard and heavy that he carried, and thus dispelling her first fear of his personal injury.

"Fayetty—Fayetty! Hold by! What's amiss? What's—"

He deposited a box upon the kitchen table, plump in the tray of biscuits, and catching Cleena about the waist began to execute a grotesque dance with her for helpless partner. After a moment she was able to extricate herself from his frantic clutch and to demand sternly:—

"Ye omahaun, are ye gone daft?"

"It's money, Cleena Keegan! It's money! The cellar's full of it! Money, money, money! Chests full, cellars full—oh! oh! oh!"

Then did her eye fall upon the box and the spot where it rested, and indignation seized her soul. With one grasp of her strong hands she flung it to the floor, where it fell heavily, cracked, and burst asunder.

Both were then too astonished to speak. Fayette's wildest dreams had, evidently, come true. Cleena could not believe her eyes. Never in all her life had she seen so many precious coins. They were dimmed by age and moisture, yet, unmistakably, they were of gold, with a few that might be silver. All the fairy tales of her beloved Ireland rushed through her mind, and she regarded the half-wit with a new veneration.

"Sure, you're one o' them elf-men, I believe; that different from ordinary you can even make dollars o' doughnuts. Arrah musha, 'twas a smart decent day when Miss Amy fetched you home to Fairacres! Sent, was ye, to make the old family rich; and the marvel o' cure in your long, lean hands. Troth, I'm struck all of a heap."

But Fayette was not. He had never been so active. He began to gather up the coins which had been scattered by the breaking of the chest and, for want of something better in which to store them, pulled Cleena's apron from her waist and piled them in that. She sat on, silently regarding him. For a few minutes she honestly believed that he was a genuine specimen of the "little people" who were said to make green Erin their favorite home. But when he began to gabble in a hoarse, excited tone of how he had long been expecting this "find"; how he had watched his opportunity when all the household should be absent that he might disobey and use the explosive that would lessen his labor so greatly, she came back to common sense.



"So you've been lookin' for it, have ye? Well, now you've got it, but ye might ha' been killed in the job. What for no? With Mister Fred gone to town an' him tellin' ye most explicit ye should no touch nor meddle at all. Was aught like this found in either of them mushroom ones?"

"I—don't—know," answered Fayette, slowly, still stooping and tying his bundle. "If there was—that man's—got it. It was mine. I begun the digging. I—"

"An' he finished, eh? Well, you take up your pack an' put it here in my dresser. Then go wash your face. Such a sight! Hold, did ye any more harm there below?"

"Harm! harm! to dig such a treasure as this out of my mine? Well, if I used only a little bit of powder and got so much, what a lot I might have found if I'd used more. I'll bet the whole ground is full."

"Oh, ye silly! Put that stuff down. It's makin' ye lose what little sense you've got. An', me neighbor, look here. See them beautiful biscuits all spoiled the day, the day!"

This reminded the lad that he was hungry. He had been hard at work all day in the underground passage, the third and last of those he had set out to make beneath "Charity House." The first two had been completed, the walls shored, the rich beds for mushroom-raising made upon the dark damp floors. Already these beds were dotted with the white growths, that in a marvellous short time would be full-grown mushrooms and finding a place upon many an epicure's table.

That very hour, even, Frederic Kaye was in the city negotiating for their regular sale at profitable prices; and wondering not a little, it may be, at the strange fact that "Spite House," instead of being the barren, unproductive spot at first supposed, would prove instead a veritable mine of support to the whole household. Of that other "mining," with its anticipated results in gold of which Fayette had sometimes babbled, Mr. Kaye took no account. Old Jacob Ingraham who built the house had been a hard, close-fisted man, if all accounts were true, and not at all likely to deposit his money in the ground, when there were investments which would help to increase it. But of old Jacob's wife, history said little, and Frederic never thought.

Fayette placed the apron in the cupboard, as he had been bidden, and when he would have added the broken box also, Cleena prevented.

"Oh, ye dirty boy! That—that mouldy, muddy, nasty thing! No, no! No, no!" and she tossed it unceremoniously into the box of kindling-wood. In the roomy "Dutch" oven in the wall she had baked many of her picnic biscuits, and she regarded the ruin Fayette had wrought among her sandwiches with an air absurdly sad.

Now he had no scruples against a bit of dirt, and had already crammed his mouth full of the broken food, when Cleena looked round and saw him. His mouth was distended with laughter as well as bread, and this provoked her still further. Sweeping her long arm over the table, she brushed all the sandwiches into a big pan that stood conveniently near, and remarked grimly:—

"Not another bite o' better food do you get till them's all ate."

"All right. I like 'em. But what's the picnickers goin' to do?"

"The best they can. An' you're to help. Go wash your hands."

"I have."

"Again, once more; then show 'em to me."

The lad laughingly obeyed. Then demanded:—

"What for?"

Cleena replied by action rather than word. She tied a fresh gingham apron about his shoulders and brought the strings around in front so that his mud-stained clothing was entirely covered. Then she led him to her kneading-table and set a bucket of sifted flour before him.

"Make biscuit."

"How many?"

"Three hundred. Fall to, measure, I'll count."

She did. For two whole hours the pair labored in that kitchen, Fayette kneading, cutting out, slipping the pans into the ovens and removing them; while Cleena spread and cut tongue after tongue, till even more than the original supply had been reproduced. Then she paused and looked up.

There stood Teamster John in the doorway, smiling and watching Fayette's new occupation with genuine surprise.

"Shucks! makin' a cook out of him? Ain't ye rather late with your luncheon? I drove up to carry the baskets down to the 'Island.'"

"Humph! Ready they was, fast enough. But—man, look here," and she opened the cupboard door to draw forth the apron of gold.

"No, you shan't! He shan't touch it! It's mine—it's mine!" cried Fayette, and snatched the bundle from her hands. He had not tied it securely, and again the long-buried coins rolled into the sunlight and spread themselves over the floor.

"To the—land's—sake!"

"They're mine—they're all mine—every single one. I found 'em. I blasted 'em out. Nobody shall touch them—nobody!"

"You—blasted them—out? From the cellar of this house? You—simpleton!"

"Like to ha' done it yourself, hey?"

"No; but I'm sorrier than I can tell that ever you were let to fool with powder. How'd Mister Frederic allow it?"

Cleena answered promptly, "He didn't. He strict forbid it. Yes, I know, I know. It was a chance. If me guardian angel hadn't been nigh, you might never ha' seen old Cleena again. Arrah musha, but I'm that shook up I'd know! What say? Is it time yet for their supper down yon, or what?"

"It'll be a little late, maybe, but never mind. My, my! Chests o' gold! Who'd believe it? Like a story book, now, ain't it? And where, in the name of common sense, did you get all this flour and meat an' fixings, Cleena, woman?"

"Mister Fred. The last day he went to town. He was to buy enough for one picnic, so he brought home enough for two. That's ever his way. He's the good provider, is Mister Fred. Bless him!"

"Exactly. Well, I'll tell you, it is late, so I'll just drive down to tell the youngsters they'd better come up here and eat their supper. They'll be crazy wild for a sight of that chest and what was in it; and if they don't come to-day, they'll be besieging you all day to-morrow. When a thing like this happens, it belongs to the town."

"Don't neither; belongs to me. I found it. I'll keep it. I dare ye!"

"All right, lad. Don't worry. I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole. I've heard of such things afore now, and never once that they didn't bring trouble. All I'm thankful for is you didn't kill anybody nor smash up the house with your fool blastin'. You won't get another chance to try, if I have to come right here and stay myself;" and he smiled sweetly toward Cleena, who ignored the smile, but agreed with the suggestion.

"Yes; that's right. That's sense. What for no? Troth, to-morrow's a Sunday, an' not to be disturbed o' none such havers. What's a bit of old dollars dug out o' the mud? An' Monday's me wash. Faith, it's sense in small matters ye're havin', Teamster John. Drive yon an' make haste back. I'll spread me a cloth on the grass an' each may eat like a heathen, does he like, that same as he was down in the woods."

"But they shan't touch it—they shan't even see it! It's mine. I'll keep it, understand?"

Cleena understood not only the words, but the lad with whom she had to deal.

"Whist, alanna, would you hide yourself, then? Faith, no; run avick. Put on your Sunday suit, brush yer hair, make yerself tidy, then stand up like a showman at Donnybrook fair, an' pass the time o' day with who comes. What for no? The box an' the gold must be showed. Such a thing can't be hid. Well, then, gossoon, just show it yerself."

So when, not long after, the whole band of merrymakers came trooping over the knoll of Bareacre, they found not only their belated supper spread for them, but a sight to amuse their curiosity in the buried treasure, estimated at various sums by the excited beholders, and with an ever increasing value as the story passed from mouth to mouth.

"It will belong to 'Bony,' of course."

"No; to the Kayes. He doesn't own the house."

"Nor they. If they did, they wouldn't take it from him. They're not that sort of folks."

"But they're as poor as anybody now."

"Archibald Wingate owns the property. I should think it belonged to him."

"The 'Supe' will probably take it in charge."

So the talk bandied back and forth till poor Fayette's weak brain was in a whirl; and amid it all there was one name that fell upon his hearing with a sense of pain,—"Archibald Wingate." The man he hated. Well, of one thing he was resolved—this unearthed treasure might be the mill owner's, but if it were, he should never, never touch it.

Poor Fayette! So he still stood and proudly exhibited the wonder, and told over and again exactly how he had long suspected its existence, and had watched his opportunity, with this result. Since he was happy and watchful, Cleena felt he was secure—for the present. But all the time she longed for Mr. Frederic's return, or even for that of Mr. Kaye, who was abroad upon a sketching ramble. There should be somebody in authority present, since Hallam and Amy were both too young, and Teamster John—well, he might "do at a pinch." In any case, he must remain on guard till a better man appeared.

This better man did arrive, just as the evening fell, in the person of Uncle Fred, riding up the driveway in old Israel Boggs's farm wagon. Amy was first to discover their approach and ran gayly to meet them, beginning her tale of the afternoon's adventure with her very salutation; but long before she reached the side of the wagon she saw that something was amiss with her jolly uncle. His face was very grave, and even his voice was hushed, so that though his greeting to his niece was even kinder than usual, it startled her by its solemnity.

"Why, Uncle Fred, what is the matter? What has happened?"

"I'll tell you presently. But how come so many here? I thought the picnic was at 'Treasure Island.'"

She nodded cheerfully to Israel, whose face was even more sad than Frederic Kaye's, and gave a rapid history of events. Strangely enough, neither of the two newcomers appeared much interested. It was as if some greater matter absorbed them, and their manner subdued Amy to silence; while the farmer tied old Fanny, and then followed his friend into the front part of the house, quite away from the excited groups surrounding Fayette and his wonderful exhibit.

Once inside the shelter of the passage, Mr. Frederic laid his hand upon Amy's shoulder, and said, very gently:—

"Prepare for a great sorrow, Amy dear. I have just come from the death-bed of our good friend, Adam Burn."

Never till that moment had the girl known how well she loved the saintly old man. Rarely meeting, he had still exercised over her young life one of its most powerful influences, and an influence all for good.

"Oh, Uncle Fred, it can't be. It mustn't be. He was so good, so kind, so—"

"Altogether lovely. Yes, dear, all that. Old Israel, here, needs comfort. Talk to him a little."

So she led the heart-broken Israel into the farthest room, and sitting down beside him persuaded him to speak with her of the one that had passed on, and in the act to find relief. Then she slipped away a moment and found Hallam, who, when he had heard this later news, quietly dismissed the club and brought the happy holiday to a reverent close.

"Land! that makes all such ilk," said Teamster John, pointing to Fayette's glittering heap, "to seem of small account. What's a litter of gold alongside of such as him?"

And not one among them all who had ever known Adam Burn found anything now worth discussing save the goodness and simplicity of their dead neighbor and friend.

But late that night, after Israel had gone back to the desolate Clove, to make such arrangements for the old man's burial as his friends at "Charity House" had deemed fitting, Uncle Frederic remarked, casually:—

"By the way, Amy, Mrs. Burn ('Sarah Jane,' you know) told me a bit of news, to the effect that you are the old man's heiress, because of your name that was his wife's. She says he gave you a sealed letter before he left Ardsley, which letter explained everything,—where the will was to be found, and the few directions necessary for the settlement of the estate. Your father and I are trustees, she thinks, until you come of age, but you are the heir. Good night."

"No, no, uncle, I don't want to be! I want nothing that is gained by his death. And—I lost that letter, anyway."

"Lost it? That's serious. However, it can doubtless be arranged. Good night."



CHAPTER XXVIII.

ONE WONDERFUL AUTUMN DAY.

The months flew by. The summer came and went. It was the hour for closing on a "Saturday-half," a whole year since Amy Kaye first visited the mills of Ardsley, and now she felt as they were a part of her very life. Beginning at the bottom she had industriously worked her way upward till she had just been promoted to the pleasant and well-paying task of "setter," in the big clean room, where the open windows admitted the soft air of another Indian summer.

Away, at the extreme end of the long apartment, was a sunshiny office, lately constructed for the personal use of Archibald Wingate. This office was partitioned from the setting room by a glass sliding door, and through this, as Amy now lifted her eyes, she could see the broad back of her relative bending above a desk full of correspondence.

At every setting frame there are two operators, for left hand and for right; and it was Amy's good fortune to have Mary Reese for her comrade, and a more sunshiny pair of workers could be found nowhere.

For Hallam, also, it had been a busy, happy year. Like Amy, having begun with the humblest task and smallest wage, he had now advanced to be bookkeeper in one department, while he still retained his work of coloring and preparing the patterns for use in the weaving of the famous Ardsley carpets. He looked a far stronger, healthier lad than of old, and his disposition to think upon the dark side of things had now no time to develop, for activity effectually prevents brooding.

Fayette was still a member of the Kaye household, and seemed to belong there as much as any of the others. He had been busy, too, all the year through, with his mushroom-raising, his gardening, and now that the autumn had come round again, with odd jobs at the mill. His deftness would always procure him employment of some sort, yet only that morning Mr. Metcalf had remarked to Hallam, confidentially:—

"Queer, but I can never trust 'Bony.' He seems as honest and reliable as possible for a time, and then, suddenly, he will do something to disappoint me. I don't like his demeanor toward the 'boss.' Ever since Mr. Wingate returned, late this summer, and took to coming here every day, 'Bony' has come too. Have you noticed?"

"I know he comes. I hadn't connected the two comings, however. I guess he's all right. There's a splendid side to that poor lad's nature, if you but knew it. Some day, I hope before very long now, he and I are to surprise the world."

"Why, Hal, you're as gay as a blackbird. What's the surprise, eh? Too precious to disclose even to me?"

"At present, yes. In a little while, a few days—Heigho!" and the lad looked significantly toward his crutches, leaning against the desk where he wrote.

But the superintendent did not observe the glance. His mind was full of misgiving. Within a day or two he had had occasion to suspect that the half-wit had some uncanny scheme on hand. The lad's dislike of the old mill owner appeared to grow with the passage of time. The dull brain never forgot an injury, and it always seemed to Fayette that Mr. Wingate had wronged him. From the old days of his "bound out" life on the farm, when whippings and punishments were of almost daily occurrence, to the present, there had been no diminution in the mill boy's resentment. Now there was this later injury, or injustice, as he believed, about the money found in the cellar of "Charity House."

The facts were these: the glittering coins had, when estimated, been of about one thousand dollars' value. To Fayette this seemed an enormous sum; to Mr. Wingate, a trifle. In the chest with the treasure had been also a time-yellowed letter, or memorandum, signed by the wife of Jacob Ingraham, and decreeing that the property thus hidden had been placed by her own hands in the wall of the cellar of "Spite House" for the "benefit of my nearest of kin."

The document, in itself, was as curious as its hiding-place, and proved that the ancient dame had been a keen observer of men's failings, if not their virtues.

"For I have seen, in this, my lifetime, that gold profits a man nothing. It is ever a bone of contention, and he who has it is poorer than he who has it not. I hope this chest will do him good who finds it; and if it is never found, then the earth will be so much the richer by this small portion of the wealth it has lost. In any case, to prevent evil, and, if possible, to secure a blessing, I have said one prayer over each coin herein disposed, and so, in duty to my conscience, I lock the box and throw the key down the old well of this Bareacre knoll."

The letter had further added that nobody, not even Jacob Ingraham, had known of this bestowal of the chest, because had anybody, "most of all, he," so known, it would have been excavated and its contents scattered.

Now Archibald Wingate was, on his mother's side, the last direct descendant of Mrs. Ingraham, and the property was clearly his. To him, as soon as he returned from his prolonged stay out of town, the broken chest and intact contents had been given by the superintendent, who, Mr. Kaye promptly decided, would be the proper guardian of the treasure until his employer returned.

There had been a terrible scene with Fayette when Cleena told him this decision, and for several days thereafter the lad had not been visible. Some thought he had gone off in one of his wanderings through the woods and fields; but the truth was, he had been kept under lock and key by the energetic and masterful Cleena Keegan. She had assured that patient listener, herself, that:—

"Sure, it do be right. Will I lose all the good we have gained for the sake o' bad temper? The end's in sight,—the blessed end o' the secrecy, an' the weary struggle o' keepin' me gineral's nose to the grindstone, and now to leave go? Not while Cleena Keegan draws a free breath, an' can handle a silly gossoon, like him yon."

From the first it had been a strange and powerful influence that this good woman exercised over the foundling she adopted, and fortunately his imprisonment was not so very long, else it would have been impossible to conceal it from the rest of the household; not one of whom did, however, suspect such a proceeding.

When the object for which she had restrained him of his liberty seemed quite gained, Cleena let Fayette go; and, oddly enough, after his liberty was granted him, he no longer cared for it. He kept close to Bareacres, bare no longer, but teeming with the rich vegetation resulting from his own labor, guided by Frederic Kaye's trained judgment. The summer had proved a most interesting as well as busy one to both these gardeners. The results of their mutual labor were harvested and stored for the family's winter use, and Fayette had returned to the mill. Idleness, or the want of that regular employment he had enjoyed, now reawoke the dark thoughts which had disturbed his clouded brain during the time of his "retreat" under Cleena's compelling will.

This day, when Amy watched her cousin through the glass partition, and waited with Mary for Hallam to complete his own task in a room adjoining the private office of Mr. Wingate, Fayette was hanging about the mill, as if himself waiting for some one.

Amy called to him once, and received a surly answer:—

"I'll go when I get ready. I ain't hurting nobody—yet."

"Of course not, who'd suppose so? I'd think you'd like a run in the woods after hours. There was a frost a few nights ago. There may be hickory nuts to gather."

"Gather 'em, then, if you want 'em. I don't. I've got other fish to fry. I'll fry 'em, too."

"Well, you're cross, 'Fayetty, me gineral.' I'll not wait much longer, even for Hal. You can come home with him, and help him bring the patterns he is to show father, please."

"I thought you wanted to see Mr. Wingate, too, Amy," observed Mary, "about that legacy of yours. You're the queerest girl. Any other would be wild to have things fixed, but you don't seem to care a bit."

"Why should I? We are very comfortable at 'Charity House.' Mrs. Burn, dear Adam's daughter-in-law, has gone abroad again. If she had time, she'd cheerfully help us—if she could. We think the letter of instruction will sometime be found, and that will make all clear. We don't like law, and Adam would have hated it. No; we'll wait for a time longer, but I promised father I'd consult Cousin Archibald, and see when he would meet either father or Uncle Fred to discuss it.

"Meanwhile, old Israel and his wife are doing just the same at Burnside as if their master were still there. All I could think of taking the property for, it seems to me, would be to give my father such a lovely home again."

"Well, Amy, I must go. I want to finish reading that book Mr. Kaye lent me, this afternoon. I'll see you at the club to-night. Good-by."

With a kiss and a hand pressure, which revealed the depth of their friendship, Mary departed, and Amy turned to the open window to watch the cloud shadows drift over the lovely valley, wherein the Ardsley leaped and sparkled. As she gazed, thinking of many things, she became conscious, in an idle sort of fashion, that Fayette had passed out of doors, and was walking close beneath, or along the building's wall, and in a stealthy manner, suspicious in itself.

"Heigho! What now, I wonder. He's up to some mischief, I'm afraid. How queer he is at times. Why, even when he was told that Mr. Wingate knew him for the person who horsewhipped him last Christmas and had refused to take any notice of it, except to thank Uncle Fred for his rescue—even then Fayette would not say that he thought my cousin good. All he did say was: 'Well, he better not. He knows too much. If he locked me up or had me fined, I'd lick him again soon's I got out. He ain't no fool. But that don't make me feel any different. He ain't jailed me, but he's got my money. Mine; I dug it out the cellar an' blasted, to the risk o' my life. He keeps it, when he's got a bank full, they say. Kept Balaam, too, or give him to one of them Metcalf youngsters. Well, his time'll come. I'm not forgettin', if I do keep my mouth shut for a spell.'"

Recalling this speech, Amy tried to put herself in the half-wit's place, which effort made her pity him the more, yet watch his present manoeuvres none the less closely. But presently he disappeared in a distant lower doorway, and she forgot him and returned to her happy day-dreams.

Fayette had bided his time. On such an afternoon, at such an hour, he judged that nobody would be in the mill building save the distant watchman and that indefatigable toiler, Archibald Wingate, with whom was the half-wit's present business. He had seen the last whisk of Mary's blue skirt disappearing above the back-stairway, and, knowing that Amy and she were waiting for Hallam, concluded that the trio had departed together.

So he entered the little basement door gleefully. All seemed propitious, yet he meant once more and carefully to examine the preparations he had made, to see if there was any flaw anywhere. He was so absorbed, so excited, that he scarcely breathed as he crept slowly along the inside of the wall, just as a moment before he had passed along its outer surface. At one spot he paused and tried a simple-looking tube that had been brought from the outside, through a convenient aperture, into the inside of the building. The thing looked harmless, yet it ran along the groove where the floor and wall joined, clear into that cheery inner office, where Archibald Wingate sat that very moment, signing his name to one of the most generous letters of his life.

"There," he reflected, as he leaned back in his chair and tossed aside his pen; "there, that is foolish enough to satisfy even my impractical small kinswoman, bless her! A thousand dollars isn't much, but it's—a thousand dollars; and when I double it by another thousand, which has never been buried by any ancient ancestress, it makes a tidy sum for a foundling lad. Poor 'Bony,' he hates me like poison. I wonder, when he finds out that I've done this for him, when I place it in his hands myself, and tell him, furthermore, that I have asked Fred Kaye to send west for several more of those burros he's given us a sample of, and that one is for the 'Rep-Dem-Prob' himself—I wonder, will there rise in his stunted heart some perception of what life should mean; of what it shall mean, during my last brief hold of it, to me? and all because of a girl's bright trustfulness and love."

It was a day for musings. Even Fayette, intent on evil, had his own—like Amy and the lonely old man in the silent office. He wondered, pausing for a moment, how "it would feel to be blown up. That day when I found the money he's took from me, if I'd had a bigger charge of powder, would I ha' knowed what struck me, if it had gone off sudden? Hmm. I almost hate to do it. He seems—he'll never guess, though, and he hadn't any right. He's been again' me from the first. I'll do it. He hain't had no mercy—I won't, neither."

So he crept softly back to the low entrance, and stooping, struck a match. The match burned well, and in an instant had communicated its own flame to the cheap fuse that ran along the wall. In the far-off office, concealed beneath the mill owner's desk, there was already waiting a powerful explosive, which Fayette had purloined from the store of the workmen who were excavating for the new wing of the building. In a moment more the fuse would have burned unnoticed to its fatal end, and an awful crime, of whose enormity the dull criminal had no real comprehension, would have been committed.

But Hallam had caught the prevailing mood. He, like the others left lingering about the silent building, had fallen into a reverie which, judging by his bright expression, was full of happiness. For many months, and for the first time in his life, he had kept a secret from his father and Amy. If that can be called a secret which was known also to Cleena, to Uncle Frederic, and to Fayette, upon whose aid alone the success of this mystery had depended. The lad had been faithful. At most times his help had been rendered freely, out of love and sympathy; at others there had been compulsion on Cleena's side and from the other one of the quartette, who had himself suffered false blame and the disgrace of suspicion because of the secret.

"To-morrow, please God, it shall end. I couldn't bear to tell them, who love me so, until I was sure, sure. The old surgeon said it might be a miracle would be enacted for my benefit. Well, it has, it has! I've known it, really, almost from the beginning, though it's been so hard and at times so seemingly hopeless. But if I hadn't loved them even more than myself, I wouldn't have kept on trying. To-morrow—the experiment in their presence! Will it ever come!"

The lad stood up and arranged the papers in his own desk. Then he heard, or fancied that he did, a slight sound in the deserted building. The corps of operatives had been well drilled to watch for any sign of that dreaded element, fire, and he was alert now,—the more that, following this, there was a slight odor, pungent and more alarming than even the first sound.

He wheeled about and—what was that? In the dimness of the angle where it lay, away out toward that closed office with its unsuspecting occupant, a tiny spark was making its steady, creeping progress. For an instant Hallam gazed at it astonished, the next he realized its full meaning and horror. Could he reach it? Was there time?

With a shriek of warning he rushed forward,—stumbling against, leaping over obstacles,—gaining upon that menacing point of fire and fume, which now seemed to race him like a living thing.

The miracle was wrought—two miracles! A few more seconds, and it would have been too late; but now the lame walked and, as it were, the dead came back to life.

Hallam's shriek, the uproar of overturned obstructions, reverberated through the empty building and brought Archibald Wingate, Amy, and poor Fayette face to face with the panting, excited rescuer. All comprehended at once what had been attempted and how prevented. The mill owner laid an iron grip upon the half-wit's shoulder, who made no effort to escape; for at last, at last, there had penetrated to his dim intelligence the wide, the awful difference between good and evil. When he saw the once crippled lad, whom his own hands had restored to health, thus fling away his life with unstinted hand, that he might save the life of another,—once his enemy also,—there had roused within the dormant brain of the foundling a sudden perception of Hallam's nobility and his own baseness. Therefore, stunned by this new knowledge, he stood humble and unresisting.

Amy's great heart comprehended just what and how her poor protege was suffering. With her, to think was to act. She sprang to him and laid her small hand on his other shoulder, and the tender sympathy of this touch thrilled him more than the hard grasp of his master.

"Oh! but Hallam—Hallam—you walked! walked! you ran! You—you—who never—"

Her voice choked, ceased, and she turned from Fayette to fling herself headlong into her brother's arms. For the first time in their lives he could receive her and support her firmly. Then she stepped back and shook him. Gently at first, then violently. His crutches were—nobody cared where, though certainly not at hand; yet he stood fixedly, resisting her attacks, and again catching her to him with that overflowing joy that only such as he could guess.

"But I don't understand. Tell—tell; not here, though. Is all safe? No danger any more?"

"No," said Fayette to her demand, "there ain't no danger. Not 'less the fuse had burned out to the end. It's under the desk. He'll find it. I—I—but it's put out. I—"

"You didn't mean it, did you, boy? You could not. You didn't understand."

"No, I didn't, I didn't," whimpered the stricken fellow.

Mr. Wingate relaxed his hold. How could he retain his fury against such an enemy? It was too unequal. The lad was dangerous, he must be punished, he—

Hallam read these unspoken thoughts.

"For my sake, Cousin Archibald, forgive him. It is he who has made me able to save you this day, even though it was he who put you in such peril. Months ago, Amy read in a paper how a lad was cured whose case was just like mine. There was only will power on the cripple's part, and the daily, sometimes hourly massage by one of those persons whose physical magnetism, or whatever it is, was strong. 'Bony' was such a person, and I just such a cripple. We began. For weeks I couldn't move my legs without using my hands to help. Then one day I found, just after the rubbing was over, that I could push one foot along the floor a tiny way. That gave us both courage. He has been untiring. We were soon on the road to what I believed, though with lots of set-backs, would be a cure. Uncle Fred knew; that's why he wouldn't let Fayette be arrested or punished for assaulting you. He took the blame himself, if the boy would stick to me. Cleena knew, too—"

"And not us, father nor me!" exclaimed Amy, in a hurt tone.

"No; that was to be my blessed surprise for you two. It was to your own suggestion, which I suppose you forgot soon after, with the newspaper scrap you brought, that I owe the beginning. It was Cleena kept us at it. She wouldn't let us give it up,—no, not if she had the whole crowd under lock and key on a bread and water diet; eh, Fayette?"

The shamefaced fellow looked up, with a slight gleam in his eye, then dropped his gaze again.

Hallam went on: "To-morrow, the First Day that mother loved, I was going to make an experiment before you all—my surprise. I have practised in private continually, and uncle, as well as Cleena, has urged me to tell you before; but I kept it till the anniversary—you know."

"Ah," said Archibald Wingate, with a sudden recollection, "so it is. She was my best friend, my best beloved. You are her children. All my hard middle life seems to have slipped out of my memory, like a bad dream, and I am back in our youth-time again, with Salome and Cuthbert and Fred,—all gay and glad together. I wonder, I wonder what she would bid me do to you, poor fellow," he finished, regarding the abject natural with a pitying air.

"I know! Forgive him, else thy Salome and my mother were not one."

"Amy, thee is right. Come into the office, all of you."

"Is it safe?" she asked, hanging back.

"We'll make it safe. 'Bony,' or Fayette, take that stuff you put under the desk and step out there to the Ardsley. Behind that rock is a deep hole. I used to fish there as a lad. I can see if you obey. Drop that death powder into the stream and come back."

Fayette obeyed, and they watched him, shivering. But when the water flowed on after an instant, undisturbed and merrily singing its deathless song, they breathed deeply and with complete relief.

"Look here, Fayette; you think I've been a hard man. So I have—so I have. You've been a bad boy too, eh?"

"Yes; I won't never—"

"Of course you won't. Look here, I say. What's this—this heap of stuff I took out of the safe? Did you ever see it before?"

"Yes; it's the money I blasted out."

"Well, if it were yours, would you promise never again to blast anything or anybody or anywhere? Your very own to keep forever, if you liked."

"Huckleberries! Do you mean it?"

"If you promise, I mean it."

"Oh, I do—I do. I'll keep my word. I meant to try and I did. But it's over. I'm glad; I wasn't happy, never. I promise, whether or no, money or not."

"I believe you'll keep that promise: Hallam and Amy, here, are witnesses. Now, listen: I, too, promise. I'll not only give you this old hoard, but this besides." He swept into view a pile of golden eagles, larger than any there save himself had ever seen, and placed it beside that time-worn lot of similar material. In bestowing his gift he had provided to have it in such shape as he knew the half-wit would best comprehend. "This is for you, also. It is just as much more as you found. I give it to you because my little cousin here has taught me it is better to give than to receive. You must take both piles, in this new hand-bag, and ask Mr. Metcalf to take care of it for you. You trust him, don't you?"

"Yes—yes," answered Fayette, in breathless eagerness.

"Now, the condition: if you ever again, by word or deed, do any sort of injury to any human being or to any helpless animal, I will have you punished, punished in full for all you have done wrong in the past. Do you understand?"

"Yes," sobbed the grateful and greatly excited youth. Somewhere he had heard, maybe from Cleena's lips, something about heaping coals. He felt at that moment as if the living coals were lying upon his own poor head.

"Then go; and if it will give you any pleasure to know it, I believe that you are now about the richest of the mill operatives living in Ardsley village."

Stumbling, through his tears, and truly far more grateful for the prevention of his crime than even for his unexpected good fortune and full forgiveness, Cleena's Fayetty went.

As his footsteps died away, Amy, who seemed given to outbursts to relieve her full heart, threw her arms about the old man's neck and kissed him over and over.

"That's better, child, that's better. The first time thee planted it on my nose, I seemed to have a dim perception that this was not the regulation feature for such gifts, but it answered; though I like them better on my cheek, child. Thee's improving. Now let's go home. Yes; it's the carryall. There's room for us all. On the way I'll tell thee—"

"No, no; wait till we get home. Don't let's leave anybody out any more. By thy face I can see it's something delightful thee is going to tell. Oh, make the old horse travel, travel—fast, fast!"



CHAPTER XXIX.

CONCLUSION.

On half-holidays Cleena had always the best dinner of the week. To its enjoyment were usually brought the best appetites of the week as well; for there was leisure and talk and laughter, and that interchange of experiences which kept their family life so united.

Archibald Wingate joined the party at this present half-holiday dinner; yet even with such cheerfulness about him could not but shiver now and then, as he recalled his narrow escape of the afternoon. To have taken his meal alone, on that day, would have been to suffer greatly.

But Amy had brought him in and placed him in the seat of honor, and amid the general rejoicing over Hallam's wonderful recovery and surprise, they had made him feel that he was a sharer. They had just drawn back from the table, and were going into the sitting room, when there came a tap at the door that Cleena answered. It was a small tap, very low down on the panel, but it was given due importance; for wasn't the visitor Master "Willyum Gladstone Jones," and wasn't Cleena just making fine progress in teaching him his "manners"?

So they all paused to wait the child's important entrance, and to smile over Goodsoul's greeting:—

"The top o' the evenin' to you, Mister Jones. An' what may be givin' us the pleasure of a visit from your lordship the now? A what? Speak up; a box is it? Miss Amy's box. Never a doubt I doubt you've made messes of its insides, by the way. No? Then your improvin', to that extent I must even be givin' ye a bite o' this fine apple pie. Hmm; exactly. Well, give the young lady her bit property, again' I slips on a plate an' teaches ye how to eat decent, as ye should."

So the little fellow, who had just been promoted to his first trousers and felt as all boys do in such a case, walked proudly across the room and offered Amy a japanned casket.

"Why, Sir William, how came you by that? I haven't seen it for ever so long. I used to keep my few letters in it. I wonder if they're here now."

"Ev'y one. My mamma seen 'em all. She said the top one—I don't know. Somefin."

"Arrah musha! but I remember one day, long syne, he was aye botherin' an' I set him to orderin' the box neat an' nice. He must ha' took it away with him an' me not payin' no attention. Well, a box o' such truck's neither here no more there, I forecast."

Amy had stopped to admire the new garment, fashioned from an old one of Hallam's, and having thus satisfied the little one's innocent pride, now opened her recovered keepsake. She lifted the letters idly, dropped them, and again catching one that had, indeed, lain upon the top, sprang up and waved it overhead.

"The letter! the letter! The lost one of Adam!"

"No; is it really? To come in such a way—"

"On such a day—oh, Hal!"

She caught her brother's hands and wrung them in delight, then ran to her father and placed the letter before him.

He looked at it critically.

"Yes; that is Adam Burn's handwriting. His own familiar seal. These people who have had it in keeping—"

"I hided it. Zen I dugged it out. Same like Fayetty," explained Sir William, between mouthfuls.

"The blessed baby! that explains."

"Let us go into the parlor and read it. It is yours, daughter; you must yourself break the seal."

"Oh, I'll break it fast enough."

"Hmm. Young lady, I thought you were the girl who didn't want to be an heiress," commented Uncle Fred, teasingly.

Amy's face sobered.

"You are right. I didn't so wish then, when the shock and sorrow were fresh; but now I do. Just think of all the comfort for all you folks in that lovely home."

"Then I must lose my tenants, eh?" asked Mr. Wingate, smiling.

"Thee'll lose nothing! Wait. If thee has plans to tell, so have I."

The letter was a simple one, plain, and leaving no room for any sort of legal difficulty. Amy could enter upon her heritage that day, if she wished. The place where the will was stored was designated, and they knew it would there be found. But after the reading a little silence fell upon them all.

The old mill owner was the first to break this. He did it almost reverently.

"Speaking of wills, and after the events of the day, I've been thinking of mine. By the way, Amy, I suppose thee'll cease to work for me now."

"I don't see why I should, unless my father needs me at home. We will see about that afterward. Tell us thy plans, please. I'd like to hear them."

"And I'd like to have thee make them for me."

"Make them? I?"

"Yes; in truth and deed. If thee were me and had as much money as I have, and were just such a lonely, childless, forlorn old man, what would thee do, that would accomplish the most good? according to thy judgment, which I have found a fairly sound one."

The elder Kayes listened in astonishment. They had been prepared by various matters for a great change in their kinsman, though not for one so radical. But the father began to perceive how this change had been wrought, and his heart gave thanks for the devoted, sunshiny daughter who seemed to shed an influence for happiness and goodness on all whom she knew. It was due to her, he believed, that this new Archibald had replaced the old.

"Does thee mean it, truly?"

"Yes; I mean it. Let me hear. If it is possible, I will carry out the wishes thee expresses, knowing they will be all for the benefit of somebody deserving."

"Well, then, I'd help the unpractical Kaye family to get settled at Burnside Farm, on the condition that for my services I was given a big, delightful room in the old farmhouse, to live in and with them, forever and ever and ever, so long as the dear Lord permitted—that's if I were thee, Cousin Archibald."

"But would that ne'er-do-well Kaye family take in an old curmudgeon, does thee think?"

"Never. A curmudgeon is a thing they detest. They'd take in a nice, fat, old fellow, whose heart was so big it made his body grow to hold it, and who meant to do all the good with his money that his money would do, and not leave it for anybody to squabble over after he died."

"Excellent, Miss Wisdom; proceed."

"After I'd got a niche at Burnside, I'd take 'Charity House' and remodel it into a Modern Industrial School. I'd have 'designing' taught, in regular classes, by a well-known artist, named Cuthbert Kaye. I'd have agriculture under the instruction of another expert, Frederic Kaye. I'd have a school of scientific cookery—not by you, my Cleena, but by somebody who hates pies and adores oatmeal and et cetera. No, really, I do think the mill folks should understand more about foods and their uses. They'd save so much money and—dyspepsia."

"Hurry up. Where do I come in?"

"At the mercantile college end of the establishment, learned brother. There should be a splendid library, a gymnasium, a swimming pool—"

"A swimming pool on the top of Bareacre knoll!"

"Please don't interrupt, Hal. It's impolite. I'd have it—somewhere. I'd have a paddock full of burros—"

"They're already ordered," cried Archibald, forgetting everything in his enjoyment of her happy face.

"Am I to continue? May I let my fancy riot?"

"Yes, indeed; give thyself full freedom for once."

"Then I'd take beautiful Fairacres, that has been a happy home for generations, and I'd make it a Happy Home, with capital letters. I'd call to it all the tired and ailing mill folks in the country. I'd make its disused studio and book rooms into a hospital, and where father painted his picture of pain, that he destroyed, let all pain be soothed; and all the other big chambers into havens of rest for other girls who, unlike me, have no fathers, nor Uncle Freds, nor Hallams, nor Cousin Archibalds, nor anybody. I'd have Mary Reese trained to be its Little Mother; and Archibald Wingate should be full manager of all, beloved and venerated, reaping the happiness he has himself bestowed; and oh, cousin, if it might be true! and if I were not out of breath! There! have I 'rioted' enough?"

Mr. Wingate turned his head sidewise and looked admiringly upon the unselfish girl who had planned so much for others, and had not, apparently, remembered to plan anything for herself.

"Yes; thee has rioted enough. But, little one, if thee pleases, if my other kinsfolk here so please; if the dead past is indeed the dead past, and the future may be our happy own, there is no reason under the blue heaven why thee has not prophesied aright. What say, my friends? Shall Amy's word be that which the Spirit has moved her to say? Shall we make it real and tangible, this beautiful, helpful dream of hers? You are all interested alike. You are my next of kin. After me you will inherit—or these others whom she has named. Was Amy's word the true Word, Cuthbert? The word Salome would have spoken?"

"It was the true Word, Archibald. Let it be as Salome's child has spoken," said Cuthbert Kaye, grasping his kinsman's hand.