"Young had better attend to his campus business," interrupted Graves. "He will have all he can do. There's no doubt in my mind that Skinner is guilty. I should have thought that his conviction was proof of that."

"But he didn't have a chance to prove his innocence," replied Hall. "He has such a good reputation among his own people that Young is going to take up subscriptions for another trial."

Elias turned sharply upon the gas official.

"Few people who understand the matter will give money to save the life of a squatter. That's another thing I'm going to preach upon next Sunday. The very manner in which they live would prove what bad citizens they are."

"We can't hang a man," argued Hall, "because he doesn't live in accordance with our stilted notions. Professor Young says that the girl is a genius—that she has a beautiful voice. I promised that if he took up—a contribution for the family that I would send him a check."

Elias Graves rose hastily to his feet, forgetting to put out his hand as he went out. He now hated Tessibel Skinner with a deep religious hatred, and it would be war between him and her for the life of the imprisoned squatter.

President Hall, with a smile upon his face, closed the door of his private office after his pastor had departed.

"It's evident why Graves wants the women turned down," mused he; "he thinks that he will draw about him again such men as Hopkins and Carey and that they will help him in removing Skinner from his land. I won't help persecute the poor devil—Gad, but that daughter of his did turn things upside down. I wonder what Augusta will say to me when I go home?"

* * * * *

It was a keen, cold and blizzardly Sunday morning when the bells of the different churches rang out upon the air. Ithaca was astir and her citizens anxious to worship. For one-half hour the streets teemed with well-dressed people, then became as silent as if the town were uninhabited. Minister Graves took his place in the pulpit and scanned the pews which were filled to overflowing. Not only had his members come, one and all, but people from other congregations were standing at the back of the railing, eager to hear the mighty effort which would be given forth from the clergyman's eloquent tongue. Elias Graves took his text from Genesis—"And thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee."

The minister leaned far over his flock, as he finished this impressive text.

His eyes fell upon Deacon Hall's pew, then upon his own in which sat his wife with Babe near her. Frederick was between Teola and the little girl, and they were all earnestly watching their father—something was going to happen, but they did not know what. The deep voice broke out into a prayer, followed by a soulful anthem from the choir.

Minister Graves rose with dignity, and began his sermon.

"It is my intention," said he, "to divide my sermon this morning directly in two, because my subjects are so entirely different. Before the expiration of it, you will see the force of my argument and will, I hope, profit by it."

He continued by saying, a house divided against itself would surely fall, that even a stone structure built upon sand would slip into the sea.

"Brethren, the sea of which I speak is a sea of discontent and disobedience. From my reading text you will see that God commanded that woman should be obedient, that she should obey her husband to the letter—to the letter, brethren."

There was a decided rustle of silken petticoats in the church.

"It was the disobedience of our first mother," spoke the clergyman, "that threw Adam into ill-repute with his Creator, and also Adam's love for her that drove him from the Garden of Eden. Brethren, God is good to mankind, ever ready to listen to his appeals. If Adam had only believed in the greatness as well as the goodness of God, he would have spurned the woman who had dared to so flagrantly disobey, instead of following her from the garden.

"Adam had more than one rib," went on the minister, "and how readily and kindly would God have disposed of the first sinning Eve and under the pleasant sleep of the man, Adam, extracted another rib out of which he would have constructed another and yet more beautiful woman. Some of us are finding it impossible to keep order in our families, and until we do, we cannot expect to live to the glory of God."

A loud hacking cough came from Deacon Hall's pew and many heads were turned toward it. This disconcerted the clergyman for a moment, but he picked up the threads of his sermon and resumed:

"If every man in this little city would rely upon the goodness of God to supply him with another Eve, when the woman joined to him in holy matrimony disobeys His law, it would be a simple matter to re-establish order in his household. Just as happiness was given to Lot after the turning to salt of his wife."

The minister paused—the silence was so deathly that it appalled him. He allowed his eyes to fall upon the memorial window with a man's face upon it. The words underneath the figure passed before him dimly. Then he remembered that he was preaching a sermon. Was he not the chosen shepherd of the flock? Was he not the one man called by God to show these people the righteous paths in which to walk? Should his voice be silenced because others did not believe as he did? And was he not showing them the light through the Scriptures? With these thoughts in his mind and renewed energy in his voice he spoke again:

"I should be the last man in the world to raise a false alarm, neither do I desire to enter homes and bring discord there. But I read from a passage under my hand, 'If thy right hand offend thee cut it off.'

"From the words of the Scriptures I have proven to you that a household must be ruled by the husband and by him alone. And that it is the duty of every wife to obey her husband as long as she shall live.

"I shall ask the women of this congregation not to rise next Wednesday evening in the prayer meeting, either to pray or testify. The privilege has been withdrawn as one perniciously against the tenets of the church. For Paul says in first Timothy, 'I suffer not a woman to teach nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence;' also I give you Paul's further command, 'Let the deacons be the husband of one wife, ruling their children and their own houses well.'"

He ran over the last few words quickly for the louder rustle of silk could be heard. The minister changed his subject and gave them another text which said that the wicked people of the earth should be cut down. Was the minister going to sanction the killing of wives who refused to obey their husbands? Had he lost his mind? But his voice rang out upon the congregation upon a subject in which they had recently become so interested.

"There is on our city," said the clergyman, "a terrible blot. The wicked ones of Jerusalem could not equal them in wickedness.

"The plans of God in keeping peace among his people are to be carried out to-day, with as much vigor as they were three thousand years ago. I need not give you the details of a murder committed a short time ago within the limits of our city. The very fact that the murderer has the chance of another trial after his conviction demonstrates that something must be done, and quickly. If the secular law is not able to wipe out such a blot then the church must help. It is my idea, brethren, that the weeds of the earth must be cut down, and by weeds I mean bad men. If a petition is handed you to sign asking time for Orn Skinner, I ask you one and all not to place your names upon it."

The clergyman suddenly stopped, closing his Bible. "Papa would cut off Tessibel's father's head if he could, wouldn't he, Frederick," whispered Babe.

Frederick gave the child a reproving glance and the little girl sank back after explaining that if Skinner were hung "papa" would have the land which ought to be his.

But as his father was speaking again the student turned his serious face toward the pulpit.

"Brethren," finished the pastor impressively, "before I close I would adjure every one of you to take the reins of his household into his own hands," and then looking straight at Deacon Hall, he concluded:

"And if you have never had the reins, then I command you to take them this day and rule your homes as God would have you. 'Let us pray.'"

Augusta Hall made but one remark on her way home from church.

"Wednesday evening, I am going to show Dominie Graves that he can't rule every woman in Ithaca, and I want you to go with me, dearie."



CHAPTER XVII

Orn Skinner was to be taken to prison the Monday after the famous sermon preached by Dominie Graves. Professor Young had gained permission for Tessibel to spend fifteen minutes with Skinner before his departure. There was something about the fishermaid that touched his heart. Her ignorance, her devotion to her father, and the loveliness of the anxious young face haunted the professor during his working hours, and at night, when he could not sleep, he created plans for her future and her father's release. He persuaded himself continually that Tessibel was not the motive for clearing the fisherman of the murder charge, it was the love of justice—justice to the squatter and his lovely child. Often the lawyer had set his jaw when he thought of Minister Graves and the evident malice shown by the parson against the fisherman.

That Monday afternoon he met Tessibel as she came into the jail-yard, much the same Tessibel he had seen in the court-room.

Professor Young took the girl's hand in his and led her into the small waiting room of the stone prison. He desired to be alone with her for a few minutes that he might satisfy himself as to her history, which since her dramatic entrance into the court-room had been so distorted.

"You have no mother, I understand, my dear," he began.

"Nope," and Tessibel shifted one boot along the seam in the red carpet.

"Do you remember her?"

"Nope; don't remember none but Daddy."

"Have you ever been to school?"

Tessibel shook her head, displaying her teeth in smile which quickly faded.

"Squatter's brats don't never go to school," she muttered.

She edged away from the professor, raising her eyes pleadingly to his. The man read the desire the girl dared not put into words, but without heeding her glance he proceeded to question her.

"Would you like to go to school?"

"Nope, all I want air Daddy home in the shanty. That air enough for me."

She suddenly turned her face away toward the door that led to the upper cells.

"But if I assure you," urged Professor Young, "that your father will positively get another trial, which is all that can be done at present, would you then like to study?"

A definite shake of her head and another quick glance was Tessibel's answer.

"I wants to read the Bible," she said, presently turning toward the professor; "it air a dum hard book to read, I hear."

Professor Young tugged at the corners of his mustache to keep down a smile.

"It would be easy for you to read any book if you went to school," he told her. "How old are you?"

"Comin' sixteen."

"And cannot read—it's a pity! And wouldn't you like to learn to sing?"

Young was desirous of touching a responsive strain in the girl.

"Dum sight rather see Daddy—that's what I came here for! Ain't ye going to let me see him?"

Professor Young rose with a sigh. Like the rest of her race, she did not know gratitude. He had worked diligently, preparing an appeal for a new trial which would bring acquittal to her humpbacked father, and he was interested in her own welfare, but her thankless words checked his inquiry. The professor did not realize what love meant to Tessibel, for every desire within her paled into insignificance beside her passionate devotion to Daddy Skinner.

Tess followed him silently up the long winding stairs, her heart thumping in anticipation. The deputy's search of her clothing brought a flush to her face, but without a word she allowed him to draw off the great boots and quietly watched him as he turned them upside down, receiving them back gravely. Her longing to see Daddy Skinner, to be in his arms, to hug the grizzled head, overshadowed even this indignity. So long had it been since Tess had nestled in the shaggy chin hair, that her heart was sore and wildly impatient. Faith in Frederick's God had been forgotten—no other thought occupied her mind save that they were going to take away her beloved—the only one left to her. She deigned not a glance at Professor Young after the deputy had gone, and measured the oilcloth-covered floor restlessly with the stamp, stamp, stamp of the big boots.

Professor Young's presence was no more to her than the small insects which scurried from the edge of the floor covering into the light and then back into their hiding places, afraid of the human giants which loomed up before them. What did she care for reading, writing and such things. She wanted to be with Daddy Skinner—wanted him home in the shanty, as of old.

She kept her eyes riveted upon the open door. Suddenly she leaned forward, for the ominous clanging of irons came to her ears. She thought of the night she had been found scaling the ivy to Daddy's cell—how long she had waited in the darkness for only a little word about him. They had given her none, and her vivid imagination brought back the anguish of that lonely walk through the storm to the hut.

Approaching footsteps made her alert, and in the paling of the sweet face Professor Young divined the tumult going on in the tender, uneducated heart.

"Child," exclaimed he, "don't make your father's going away harder for him!"

"Shut up," muttered Tess, just as the huge shackled prisoner appeared at the door.

Every muscle in the strong young body stiffened. Tess had not seen her father since the trial. Intensity narrowed the eyes, the drooping white lids covering the lights in the brown iris, the small hands clutched convulsively. Daddy Skinner—her Daddy—was standing before her, his blue-gray eyes piercing her very soul from under the long shaggy brows. She bounded toward him, and two creatures of primeval passion met in one long embrace. It was the passion of an aboriginal father for his child, of a primitive girl watching her loved one separate from her through the portals of death. Tess had lifted herself deftly to the bible-back, and lowered her head to the grizzled face, the man's large mouth covering the twitching lips of the girl. The shrouding red hair hid the squatter faces from the professor, and he turned his eyes away. He could not look upon them without distressing emotion. The strange maid was an enigma to him and he found himself wishing that he might guide her future. When Young glanced again, the fisherman had seated himself and had slipped Tessibel from his shoulders, gathering her closely into his great embrace—for she was the brawn of his brawn and the bone of his bone.

Under the squatter's huge red arm, the fisher-girl had wedged her head tightly, the low brows were taut with pain, the bronze eyes defiantly closed. Tess was as firmly fixed in her position as the iron chains that encased her "Daddy's" ankles. She had come to stay with Daddy Skinner, to go with him where he went, in spite of the great man from the hill, in spite of the majesty of the law—even in spite of Daddy himself.

The deputy warden with open watch stood over the prisoner with observing eye. The fifteen minutes allowed the girl were gone, and he slowly touched the humpback on the shoulder.

"Time's up, Skinner," said he. "Sorry, but it's the law, you know."

Skinner tried to draw the curly head from under his arm but the muscles in the girl's body only tightened, the white lips grew more rigid.

"It air time fer me to go, Tess," murmured the squatter in her ear.

"I air—I—I air a goin' with ye."

The words were scarcely more than the flutter of a breath. The deputy warden stepped forward a little, then back to his place by the door; the professor rose but sank again to his chair; the bible-back of the fisherman pulsated as if a separate heart was beating in each great hump. Tess was as immovable as if nature had aided her to grow into her position. Skinner again tried to loosen the bare red arms.

"Ye can't go to prison with me, Tess," he said coaxingly; "set up like a good brat ... Daddy'll kiss ye good-bye."

"I air goin'," she insisted. "It air like a dead man's yard without ye in the shanty.... I can wash dishes. I can do a hull lot if ye'll take me with ye, Daddy Skinner."

Not one whit less rigid was the slender body, the closed lids only pressed tighter together.

The deputy grunted impatiently.

"Come, Kid," said he gruffly; "it's the law ye're tamperin' with. Do you hear? Let the prisoner go."

Professor Young felt his throat tighten. The pitiful sight of the girl, the ragged skirt, the terrible unkemptness of the small body, almost brought a shout from his lips. It was a new sensation to the learned man, a stinging, rebellious, pitying sensation, a feeling that he wanted to shake the girl from her father's arms, and then care tenderly for her. One great boot had fallen from Tessibel's many times frozen foot. The little toe marked and cut by frost, limply hanging independent of its fellows, made Young wince.

Suddenly Tessibel sat up and wound her arms more tightly about the big humpbacked body.

"I can't go back to the shanty without ye, Daddy," she whimpered, "and they said—as how ye was comin'—home to stay.... And I ain't goin'—darned if I air."

Young turned his head again toward the window. He could not banish the wish that Tess would listen to him.

The deputy placed his hand firmly upon the prisoner's arm, the fisherman himself trying in vain to loosen the girl's fingers from the shaggy beard.

"I—I—air to go with Daddy—I air—I air!"

Tessibel brought out the words snappingly, but Skinner, with the aid of the deputy, opened the clenched hands. Tessibel gave way; she was unable to stop the awful impending danger that hung over her—absolute separation from Daddy Skinner.

"Daddy, Daddy," she gasped, sitting up straight: "man—man, let me go ... I air dyin' without my Daddy ... I air alone—all alone!"

The official moved anxiously as she made this appeal to him. She was now standing on her bare feet, but she bounded forward as the bible-back rose and fell, and large tears dragged themselves from the lowered lids of the fisherman's blue-gray eyes. She pantingly caught her father's hand in hers.

"Kisses, Daddy Skinner, kisses on the bill for Tess—before ye go ... Tess air a bad brat—"

She could not finish the sentence for the squatter had pressed her to him convulsively. Then Skinner dropped the slender, relaxed body into the wooden arm-chair, and iron-hampered, took up his march behind the deputy. The professor mutely watched the storm, desperate and terrible, break over the squatter girl. Her wild weeping settled into sobs, the sound of which rent and shook the man's emotions. At last he ventured to speak:

"Child, may I be your friend?"

"'Taint no friends I want. It air somethin' to love—to kiss. It air Daddy I want."

The voice came brokenly from the veil of red hair.

Just then the great iron door clanged in the distance behind the prisoner. Tessibel sprang to the open door, straining her ears to catch another sound from the "black place" which had enveloped her father within its menacing shadows.

"He air—gone.... Daddy—air—gone!"

The words were spoken slowly, and hurt the watching man almost as if the torture were his own. A shriek rose from the rounded white throat and the girl threw herself bootless upon the floor, and screamed in passionate childish sorrow, the wealth of disheveled hair mantling the dirty jacket, and covering the woful face.

Neither the professor nor Tessibel heard the hurrying footsteps upon the stone floor in the prison corridor, but Tess, still in the frenzy of her new grief, heard her name spoken through a maze:

"Tessibel Skinner!" And then again: "Tessibel Skinner!"

The squatter raised a pale, tear-streaked face to Frederick Graves. She sat up with a painful flush, drawing the bare legs closely under the wet skirt. The student spoke again:

"Tessibel Skinner has forgotten that God rules and is just. Have your prayers proven nothing to you?"

Tessibel gazed scarlet and embarrassed, into Frederick's face, her under lip quivering. The red head sank slowly down, and the exhausted child wept as only a hurt child can weep.

"I were a-goin' with him," she cried between her sobs, "I could have washed dishes in the prison—to be near Daddy. I air such a lonely Tess 'out him in the hut."

The student lifted her gently in his arms and seated her in the wooden chair. With the tenderness of a brother, he placed the great boots once more upon the girl's feet, and Tessibel was ready to start again upon her long tramp through the row of huts to her shanty home.

The tears had ceased to flow, and with bowed head she was hanging upon every word the student uttered. Professor Young went quietly out, unheeded by either girl or boy.

"No one blames you for your grief, child, at being obliged to leave your father," Frederick said huskily. "But are you going to take off the 'Armor of God' and forget all that He has promised you?"

Tessibel blinked ignorantly at the long words, "Armor of God," "Armor of God." It was something she had not heard before—perhaps it meant that the student's Christ would not help her now. It all came back in a flood of light—her utter faithlessness in the prayers of the student, in the pine-tree God who had waved her so many assurances. She had not dared to look into the noble face above her, but when they stepped from the jail into the street, she raised her eyes to Frederick's and murmured:

"I air sorry cause I were so cussed ... I only wanted to go with Daddy."

"I realize that," replied Frederick, making preparations to walk with her by drawing his coat collar tightly about his neck, "but it was impossible, and, from now until the time he comes back, study your Bible."

Tess halted a moment, looking up steadily into the dark eyes of the tall boy.

"Does the Bible talk of Daddy Skinner?" she entreated; "does it tell as how he air comin' home?"

"Indeed, yes," was the student's answer. "There's nothing the Bible doesn't contain. The Saviour was nailed to the Cross bearing his misery to give you a heavenly harp and crown, Tessibel. If you read Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, you will see it all plainly. You can be happy if you pray and are a good girl while your father is away." Then, desiring to ease the tense-drawn face, he added:

"It will please him if you write him often and tell him about yourself.... Come now, it's getting too dark for you to walk those tracks. Child, haven't you a friend in town with whom you can pass the night? It's frightful to tramp that distance alone."

Tess stiffened instantly. Daddy's shanty was in her care, and of what night had she ever been afraid?

"I air a goin' home," she answered almost sullenly; "ain't a dum bit afraid of nothin'."

As Frederick turned to her side, Tess glanced up confusedly.

"Ye can't walk with me through the streets of Ithacy," said she.

"Why not?"

"Cause—well, cause ye can't, that's why!"

Frederick understood, and, gravely lifting his hat, turned in the other direction with the remark that he would see her again soon.

The girl stood for some seconds staring fixedly after him. Then, wiping her face with the sleeve of a ragged jacket, she started off toward the squatters' row.



CHAPTER XVIII

Many were the troubling thoughts which possessed the mind of Tess as she strode along. In the fulvid depths of her red-brown eyes there dwelt an expression of misery. As the child took her way through the streets, with none to care whither she went, her face lighted with a sudden determination. Frederick had told her to read, to study, to pray—that these three with faith would save Daddy Skinner from the rope of the Canadian Indian; but the student, like all those having plenty, forgot to enquire how Tess was to read without books, or study without anyone to teach her. True, Tess could pick out a few words which Daddy had taught her, could haltingly count the stars in the heavens at night, and the rain-drops on the shanty window. She could read the names upon the store signs and had often seated herself on the railroad tracks with a bit of newspaper to stammer forth the words she knew.

But it was a Bible she needed—to learn about the student's God and the Christ. Tess was more interested in the cross than the crown, more interested in the nails that had opened the wounds in the Saviour's hands and feet, than in any royal head-covering that might come in some future time to her. There was too much misery in her own life, too much desperate desire for her loved one, to allow the glitter of a promised crown to affect her. She wanted to know of the suffering Christ, to read of how He had promised—Here Tess stopped and tossed back the red hair. What was it she wanted to read about? Ah, yes—not heaven and its glories nor hell and its terrors, but of Daddy Skinner back in the shanty.

The Bible would tell her just how to bring him back,—but where should she get one? At the squatter mission, of course. Tessibel remembered that once she had been coaxed to enter the mission, but the children had laughed at her rags and after that she could not be induced to go again. Then in the bitterness of her heart she had thrown stones and clay from the edges of the track through the open window upon the other children, and had been told by the superintendent never to come near the small church again. But that was four long months ago, and not once since—since the horror of Daddy's going, had she even looked toward the mission.

The dusk fell, slowly striking out the day-shadows from the railroad bed and she halted where the two tracks met. The mission was opposite her. Would she dare ask for a Bible? A rich, warm light flooded through the window and then the old squatter who had kept the place in order for many years came out and closed the door. Tessibel's eyes followed his form through the dim twilight until he disappeared into his shanty.

Her hand clutched convulsively the knob of the mission door; it yielded to her touch, and for the second time in her life Tessibel Skinner was inside the mission room. The small reed organ stood open: a hymn book stretched back with a rubber band caught her eye. A bright bit of red carpet wound its way about the altar. The squatter did not pause to examine the pictures on the wall nor even an instant before the glowing fire. Her eyes were searching for a Bible—the shade deepening in them as she sidled toward the nearest seat.

She read "H-y-m-n-a-l" on the back of the first book—dropping it she gathered up another.

"H-o-l-y B-i-b-l-e," she spelled.

Thrusting it into her blouse, she bounded out into the night, and raced up the railroad track almost to the Hoghole trestle before she stopped, satisfied that no one had seen her theft.

Then, taking the book from her bosom, she kissed it reverently.

"Them old fools ain't goin' to have every damn Bible in this here town. I air a right like them to this un." Again she kissed it, as she mumbled: "Matthew, Mark, Luke and John."

That night the candle burned longer in the Skinner shanty, and an auburn head bent over an open book. A faltering voice spelled out the sufferings of the Nazarene. Once Tess smiled wanly when reading of how the Saviour had borne all the woes of the world—that any one believing could be saved. Her head nodded over the pages, and almost instantly the rapt face dropped upon the open Bible and Tessibel slept.

A strange dream filled her sleep. A great light flashed suddenly into the sky—Tessibel's sky—and through the brightness of it she could see the cross with the Man upon it; could see the nail prints in the swollen flesh, the thorns pressing into the bowed head. Then as Tessibel dreamed she moved upon the open Bible and groaned with the dream-Christ upon the cross. Directly in front of the crucified Saviour Daddy Skinner was coming toward her with the student.

She started up—a cry of disappointed anguish escaping her lips. The candle had burned out in the grease cup, the wind was rocking the shanty and making the rafters creak dismally. Tess shivered as she tossed her clothes upon the floor, and crept exhausted into Daddy's bed. The last thing she heard was the splashing of her pet eel in the water-pail.

The next morning, on a piece of yellow paper, she scratched Daddy a small note. Frederick's words that her father would be pleased with it filled her with a desire to write. For three hours she struggled with her first letter.

"daddy the ice air a goin out of the lake ben letts air a gettin well he air a cuss i air lonlie yit without ye i red my bible last nite i cribbed it frum the mishion it says as how god air gooder then i thote he wer cum home and i reads as how a brite lite was a shinin about the cross and as how the christ ruz up here air a story bout a squatter brat it air bout tess she cride and cride fer her dady til her eel what she luved herd her and he cride hisself to deth this here mornin he wer belly up in the bucket i air yer brat dady

"the man on the cross ruz fer the hull world aint it nise to ruz."

This delicate effusion of love to her father, Tess read over many times. With pardonable pride she folded it carefully and placed it in the Bible where she had read about the cross and dying Christ.



CHAPTER XIX

On Wednesday evening Deacon Hall tucked Augusta's pretty hand under his arm with a happy sense of proprietorship. He was proud to stand by his beautiful wife in her fight for church liberty. Hall really believed, as he had told Dominie Graves, that the world had outgrown its foggy notions, and he delighted in hearing Augusta air her ideas in meetings; in watching the rich blood mantling and playing under the transparent skin; and in listening to the modulated tones of the vibrant voice. Augusta was his style of woman. The thought of her force of character made him throw back his shoulders that Wednesday evening as they neared the church door. Few members had gathered for the hour was early. Deacon Hall nodded pleasantly to Bill Hopkins, and a broad smile parted the latter's lips, giving his square face a softer, more genial expression. Bill calmly took his seat on the left side of the room; crossed his legs, placed his fingers about the white wart, and then sat looking thoughtfully out of the window into the lighted street. For the first time in many months Bill Hopkins was in his chair at the weekly prayer meeting. His one idea in being present was to witness the Dominie's success in keeping the women in their places. He had had conscientious scruples about remaining in a church, which, in spite of the fact that its tenets forbade its females to rise and voice either prayers or opinions before the males, countenanced this very abuse.

Bill Hopkins had no objection to women in their places—in fact, he enjoyed the company of a pretty woman—but it was not her place to try and teach him. Hopkins had the overwhelming idea of the physical and moral superiority of men, while, as far as intellectuality was concerned, women were leagues and leagues behind.

Many a warm argument had been held between Bill and the pretty Mrs. Hall, and as this lady came into the chapel she saw the former elder seated in his old chair, the familiar wart shining high and white on the bald pate. She tilted her pretty chin an instant before inclining her head, then to the amazement of those present, she parted from her husband in the middle aisle, marching to the right, her amiable deacon taking the left. Bill Hopkins smiled inwardly as the thought flashed over him that there must have been a secret female conclave among the strong-minded women as well as among the men during the past week. The same idea occurred to the minister's mind as he saw his members separate in the middle aisle.

He drew his brow into a pucker which furrowed the flesh between his brows. Mrs. Graves was seated at the rear of the room to the right, her eyes upon an open book in her hand. She did not raise them as her husband took his chair behind the small pulpit table upon which lay a huge Bible marked by a dangling blue ribbon. The clergyman bent his head a few moments in secret prayer, drew the book toward him, opened it, found his text and placed the marker carefully between the pages. He coughed slightly and with an extra effort raised his eyes to his congregation. This is what he saw:

The middle aisle divided almost every woman from her husband; only here and there had a timid wife with lowered eyes followed her lord and master to the left.

Dominie Graves caught a peculiar gleam in the eye of Augusta Hall and followed the line of her vision which was leveled at Bill Hopkins. There was no enmity in the latter's mien, but Dominie Graves knew that when the elderly deacon toyed with the white wart his nerves were vastly disturbed. For an instant the thought traveled through the clergyman's brain, that if Tessibel Skinner could work with her magic words on the dull protrusion upon Hopkins's glistening head the former deacon would lose his favorite occupation. He looked doubtfully down upon his own hands and remembered the warts which Tessibel had whispered away. Then, trying to drive all thoughts of the fisher-girl and her squatter father from his mind, the minister rose to his feet. Frederick Graves had been watching his father intently and as he saw his effort to rise the boy whitened a little and settled back. Just growing into manhood and beginning to think for himself, the lad blushed with shame at the state of affairs that rose before his eyes this night. He threw a sidelong glance at Hopkins and met a dejected expression from the eyes of his mother. She looked so tired, so humiliated, that a bitter rebellious feeling arose in Frederick's heart against his father. Then his mind wandered again from the church to Tessibel Skinner in her shanty home. The quick look she had given him in the court-room had impressed him as nothing else could. He saw again the bright head thrown back in eager appeal and the shining eyes filled with pain. How he wished that his own faith in the Infinite had a touch of the strength which made that of Tessibel stand alone by itself! Little did Frederick realize or know that the intensity of the fishermaid, the wonderful faith and trust she had exhibited in her time of trial and trouble, had come to her from him. Every prayer Tessibel had uttered, every devout wish of her heart for Daddy Skinner, had been vaguely centered about the student. Her love for the Christ of whom she had heard so little was based upon the power of attraction that Frederick Graves held for her.

Twice had he, unobserved, seen Tessibel through the hut window; and the picture of the tired little figure with its drooping prayerful attitude came back with a force that brought a great lump into his throat, invigorating his desire to raise the standard of his own love for God's words and promises.

His father's eloquent voice brought him back to the present and, as his eyes fell upon Hopkins, he saw the nervous fingers twiddling the great white wart and a smile forced itself to his lips.

Then he dragged his truant mind from outside subjects and concentrated his attention upon the pulpit.

"In accordance with the creed of the church," the clergyman was saying, "and of the laws under which our beloved congregation holds together, I speak. It is with love for all I adjure you this night. When I say that the subject of my talk will be upon duty you will not be surprised, for you, one and all, know what I mean. I shall ask the sisters in the church not to rise again to speak. If they desire church work there are the poor, the blind, and always the needy. By needy I mean those desiring the faith of God and yet being unable to grasp it without help. To the dear sisters of the congregation I commend all these." He made no allusion to the division of the men and women, nor to the sermon of the past Sunday.

After the hymn he sat down, bowing his handsome dark head quietly, and remaining mute in the dismal silence that followed. Suddenly an elderly woman with a meek face struggled to her feet, glancing toward Augusta Hall for an encouraging smile. Several trimmed hats however loomed up between her and the deacon's wife, so still standing she lowered her eyes and began to pray. Simultaneously with hers a masculine voice broke through the air mingling with the weak petition of the woman. Frederick Graves lifted his head quickly—the trend of war cutting through his mind like a knife. It had evidently been planned before the meeting just how severely the women were to be dealt with, for Frederick noted that his father's eyes did not raise from his reverent position at the unusual happening. As the man's voice grew louder, importunately seeking guidance in this unhappy church affair, the woman closed her lips and fell backward upon the seat crying weakly. The masculine voice rose higher and clearer and finished the petition with ringing clarity. Another embarrassing silence out of which came scarcely a breath. Augusta Hall caught a glimpse of the piercing blue eyes peering from under the shaggy brows of Bill Hopkins. The deacon was watching her, and Augusta knew that he exulted as one woman after another was driven to her chair by the masculine voice of her shouting opponent.

So far the men held the day. This was demonstrated to Augusta Hall and Bill Hopkins by the undertoned sobs that continually emerged from behind the numerous white handkerchiefs. So dense was the quietude of the painful meeting that Frederick Graves could plainly hear the thumping of his own heart. Suddenly Augusta with a slight cough and a rustle of her fine skirts rose to her feet. She started to speak reverently in a low tone. It was the usual petition that blessing should descend upon the missions, the sewing circle and the children's work—and here her voice wavered a little, for a man's bass voice joined in with her own. It was that of the deacon who carried the offering plate each Sunday morning, opposite her husband. On and on both man and woman shouted their words with strength and rapidity upon their hearers' ears. The Deacon's voice lifted and fell with the power of an orator. Augusta strained forth her tones high and clear. Minute after minute until fifteen had passed was the oratorical word display of each pitted against the other.

Dominie Graves' fingers were twitching nervously beside his well-shaped nose. Bill Hopkins still twiddling his wart had drawn himself to a straighter position, and was listening with all intentness. The pallor of Deacon Hall's face deepened as Augusta talked on and on until all thought of prayer had left her mind, and her words shaped themselves into a discourse. She was holding the floor against the church official, whose brow was now running with the sweat of his embarrassment—his voice had become fainter and his words fewer and less well chosen. Augusta's voice, on the contrary, rang clearly through the room, a prepared speech upon the aptitude of women and their field of labor. Her husband was watching her intently—and thought how beautiful she looked as the blood mantled to her white forehead, descending and rising as her thoughts took turn after turn. The unfortunate deacon was mumbling forth a few ill-connected sentences. At last with a groan he sank to his seat and placed a handkerchief to his fevered brow. Presently Augusta sat down and there was again an awful silence. No one advanced another petition and Dominie Graves pronounced a halting benediction.

The congregation rose hastily and hurried toward the doors, with no desire for further discussion.

Bill Hopkins leaned back against the outer door and as Mrs. Hall passed him he grasped her hand.

"You had nerve," said he, "I'm not saying it's the right kind ... but it's nerve just the same, and, well, I do believe that you women have gained the day in this church."

Augusta, leaning on her husband's arm, looked down meekly from a pair of wicked twinkling eyes—she could be a sweet clinging creature if she wished, and this was her special charm to Deacon Hall.

Suddenly she raised her gaze and looked winningly into Bill Hopkin's face.

"I suppose you won't give me the money I asked you for, to aid Skinner," she said slowly.

"I'll send you the check to-morrow morning," and Bill Hopkins' big shoulders disappeared through the open door.

* * * * *

"It frightened me at first," exclaimed Deacon Hall to his wife afterward, "but, as your voice went up and up, I knew my little woman would win, God bless her."

"And we'll win about poor Skinner too," rejoined Augusta. "Every man and woman so far has agreed to help a little, and I don't want you to try to drive the squatters from our lake property."

Here her words were checked by a sudden thought which darkened her eyes—she burst forth with a rich low laugh:

"That'll make two triumphs over my haughty parson."



CHAPTER XX

A sense of embarrassment accompanied Dominie Graves to the breakfast table the next morning after the triumphant victory of Augusta Hall. He made no remark upon the disagreeable episode of the previous night, and ate silently amid the chatter of Babe and the monosyllabic answers of her mother. Teola to break the strain spoke of the sleigh-ride and dance coming off that evening.

"I fear it will be too cold," objected Mrs. Graves, in her fretful, weary voice.

"I can wrap up warmly," argued Teola. "All the girls in town are going and Dan will take care of me. We are going in separate sleighs to Slaterville. I'm going, mother, and that's all there is to it."

"It seems to me that you are growing rather friendly with that young Jordan, Teola," her father said. "He's been here every night for a week, hasn't he?"

Teola muttered sullenly that she wasn't the only girl in town who had callers, and looked pleadingly to Frederick for aid. The young student flashed her a smile.

"Teola will be perfectly safe to-night, father," he exclaimed.

"Are you going?"

"No," answered Frederick, "but sister would be no safer if I were. I have implicit confidencs in Dan Jordan and the country roads are perfect.... By the way, Dan would like to take a class of boys in the Sunday School. I told him to see you about it."

The mollified minister finished his meal without further comment.

* * * * *

The sleigh-ride was a thing of the past. That it had brought disaster to Teola Graves showed in the tired eyes as they rested on the sky, gray with the coming morning. She had stolen silently into the house, reaching her chamber without disturbing either father or mother. At the window she halted. Here and there a star sparkled, dying dim in the advancing sky. Teola's eyes rested upon the street below for several minutes, then dragged her gaze upward and beyond—beyond to the long road that led to the yard of the dead which stretched over the hillside, rearing its monuments among the leafless trees, like sentinels over sleeping soldiers. There was something alluring, something compelling to the pale girl, watching the birth of her first real day of living. The University frowned down upon the graveyard; in its turn the graveyard frowned menacingly upon the town. A snow-bird peeped a "good-morning" to its mate in the Rectory eaves. A bell pealed out twice, striking the air with its sonorous sound reverberating into the hills. And still the girl stood waiting for—she knew not what.

Yesterday girlhood offered Teola Graves happy hours of peaceful meditation—to-day, the new day brought the woman its ceaseless silent agony of regret and remorse, strong forces of which she had known nothing.

If Dan were only glad that she loved him, if he loved her in return. Suddenly tears welled into the dark eyes; Teola Graves hid her face from the new world of painful joy—and forgot in sleep.

Teola's next hour with her lover was the most embarrassing one of her life. Dan took her hands in silence, and the seriousness of his face bespoke his heart pain.

"Sweetheart, is there anything in all the world that I can say to you to make you love me more—precious, precious little darling!"

"Only say that you do love me, Dan," breathed Teola, "and—and—"

"Don't turn your eyes away from me, sweetheart—love you, Teola? I'll study so hard, dearest, and when I finish college we'll get married, and go away and have a home of our own. Teola, forgive me and have faith in me! Will you, sweet?"

"Yes," murmured the trembling lips—and Teola buried her flushed face upon the broad breast of Dan Jordan and was happy.

* * * * *

Frederick Graves had been made president of the freshman class, a short time after entering the "Cranium" fraternity. He was considered by most of his fellow students a serious, earnest worker and had been taken many times into consultation with the upper classmen concerning plans for the development of the society.

In past years at the end of every January, the freshmen had held a banquet in the opera-house of the city. This event called forth practical jokes of all descriptions upon the first-year men from the sophomores and seniors, giving many anxious and worried moments to the younger students over the outcome of the one important event of the year. It had also been the custom to try to capture the president of the freshman class and hold him in seclusion until after the banquet, thereby making his opening speech impossible. The dread that they should lose their leader became more and more apparent among the banquet holders as the days advanced, and extensive plans had been made to protect Frederick Graves from his class enemies. For one whole month previous he had not been allowed to walk alone about the town, and it had been ordered that he should sleep at the fraternity house instead of at the Rectory, in order that the young president might be guarded against any surprise concocted by the sophomores.

One evening at the Cranium Society several freshmen were seated in the billiard-room.

"It's a great note," muttered Shorty Brown, "that we have to wait on those big lubbers of sophomores and seniors. I'd as soon die as to run down the hill after their letters."

"You might as well go, Shorts," put in Spuddy Preston; "you'll only get yourself disliked if you don't, and you'll be made to go in the end. The blessing of it all is that they did the same thing in their turn."

He took a slow measure of the distance between himself and the cuspidor, and shot a piece of gum into it.

"It doesn't make it any pleasanter," put in Swipes Dillon. "Just think of me, I haven't had a cent to spend on myself for weeks. Manchester's capacity for smoke is enormous. I wish I had knocked his head clean off his neck."

He looked gloomily out of the window as he muttered this, but instantly brightened as he finished:

"But I can stand almost anything if they don't get hold of Graves. That would spoil our fun altogether."

He unbent the small round body drawn up in a woful-looking ball, sitting up to hear what the others had to say.

"Just let them take him!" growled Shorty Brown. "We will make it warm for those sophs, but they're such sneaks that we can't put a moment's trust in them. Why don't you say something, Captain?"

"Nothing to say, Boy," replied Jordan musingly, "only that we must do all we can to shield Frederick. If they once get him we won't see him until after the banquet. I fear, too, they might hurt him, for he would be sure to put up a fight."

"So would I," boasted Spuddy. "You bet I would."

Swipes broke into a ringing laugh.

"You'd make a nice fighter, Spud," he chuckled; "you're not bigger than a minute with fifty seconds in it. Gosh, I wish something would happen. I'm tired sitting about doing nothing."

His words came to Dan Jordan through a dim maze of tangled thoughts. During all his short, happy life anxiety had never been his companion until now. It strangled his class ardor and made conscientious study impossible. Teola Graves' tearful, pain-stricken face rose constantly before him. His own eyes darkened at the thought. Oh, to go back to the toffy pull—to live over again those last few weeks—how different it all would be, and how repentant he was. He sighed and shook his great shoulders and rose to his feet.

"I wonder where Graves is now," he exclaimed. "I met Armstrong and Howe coming up the hill last night, talking with their heads close together. I noticed that they stopped suddenly when I came upon them."

The blood had crept accusingly into his face as he spoke Frederick's name. Never for one moment in the presence of Teola's brother had he forgotten—how could he ever forget! But he did love Teola Graves madly and wished with all his soul that he were through college. He had hoped that in the excitement of the banquet his remorse would be quieted a little, but his conscience lashed him so constantly with self-reproach that it seemed imperative for him to give up his studies, marry Teola, and take her away.

"Let's all go down town," cried Swipes in a loud tone with a side wink at Spuddy, "and get boiling drunk. If something doesn't happen—"

"Lordy," groaned Spuddy, "Swipes is always wanting something to happen. I bet it will before long. What you wish for you'll get, old horse! Don't forget that."

Spuddy went on tapping the window, staring out into the gloom.

"We'd better go down town and look for Graves and see that he is all right," said Dan. "That will be enough for you kids to do now. It's your evening anyway to guard him."

The four freshmen walked down the hill together. Dan separated from the three at the Ithaca Hotel with the injunction that they should keep their eyes open for the young president, guarding him while the other night watchers were having a play spell.

On the next corner Dan Jordan ran into Frederick with two of his own classmates.

"You fellows can go now," exclaimed Dan to Frederick's companions; "Brown, Preston and Dillon are just up there on the next corner, to protect Graves while you fellows go to supper. How are things going now, Frederick?"

A sinking sensation attacked his heart as he asked this question, and he remembered afterwards that he had expected Frederick to impart ill news to him. The fear had come from his over-burdened conscience.

"Everything is all right, but Teola wants to see you. Could you go down for a little while?"

Dan nodded and turned with a happier heart toward the Rectory, leaving Frederick looking for "Spuddy," "Shorts," and "Swipes."



CHAPTER XXI

Three hours afterwards the three little freshmen walked zig-zaggedly, arm in arm, up the long hill toward the University Campus.

Shorts had a shaky grasp of one arm of Dillon, and Spuddy the other. On through the cold night they dragged him, until they reached the broad white carriage way that led to the fraternity house. Here Swipes stumbled, loosening himself from the grasp of his companions.

"Well, ju—just look at him," growled Spuddy in a disgusted tone; "he ought to freeze stiff. Look how his le—legs wab—wabble! They lo—look like four—four—"

"Shut up, Spud," cried Shorts. "He's only got—got two legs. What the mat—matter with you?... You're as drunk as he is. Don't let him drop on those stones!"

"I ain't drunk," retorted Preston. "What's the mat—matter with you, yourself? I bet I can ge—get into—that—that fraternity without any of the fe—fellows seeing me!"

"I don't believe you will," returned Shorts in a more sober manner. "Look there, Spud, the whole house is alight. I say—Swipes—Swipes, it's after midnight, and the fraternity is all lighted up."

"I—I—I don't care if it is," grunted Swipes in a low, thick voice. "I—I want to go to bed. Tha—that's what I want to do."

He sank into a stupor again but the boys dragged him to his feet.

"Do you want Jordan and Graves to see you like this, Swipes?" demanded Shorts stopping in the center of the carriage drive. "If you don't—you take a mighty quick sneak up the back stairs, and—"

The sentence was never finished for the door opened and Dan Jordan's big form loomed up before their dazed eyes.

"Is that you, Shorts?" called Dan.

"Yes."

"Where have you been for the last three hours?"

"Down there," mumbled Shorts in a smothered tone, desiring to hide their plight if possible.

"For the love of all that's good, Shorts," groaned Spuddy, "let me get into the house and change my clothes.... There goes Swipes again in the snow. Get up, fool, here's the 'Captain.'"

"To—to the devil with the 'Captain,'" muttered Swipes.

But Dan's next sentence completely awoke the senses of all save Swipes. He only grasped it dimly through the cobwebs of his drunken brain.

"Where's Graves?" demanded Jordan, coming to the top step.

The silence that followed was as grim as the falling snow. Spuddy and Shorts were dragging the limp Swipes up the long steps.

"Graves?... We haven't seen him," interjected Shorty Brown, and Dan Jordan answered gravely:

"Then the sophomores have captured him, that's a certainty! He hasn't been here, and he hasn't been to the Rectory."

Shorts, now thoroughly sober, followed the big freshman into the drawing-room, where a dozen or more downcast-looking boys were curled up on divans. Swipes was being urged up the broad oak stairs, Spuddy now and then giving him a severe poke in the ribs. Preston perched the hapless boy against his chamber door with the injunction to get to bed the best he could. Swipes turned helplessly to his room-mate.

"Look here, Spuddy, help a fellow, will you? Just give me my pyjamas."

"Get them yourself!" retorted Preston, shoving Dillon into his bed-chamber. "It's a nice mess we're in with the 'Parson' gone."

With a disgusted kick at Swipes he left him reeling desperately once more. Dillon swayed forward from the center of the room toward the doorway. He had heard as in a dream Spuddy's parting shot about fellows getting drunk and forgetting how to act. Suddenly the floor rose up and hit him on the nose, but the polished boards, so bright that he could see his face in them, fell back politely, leaving Swipes standing, looking helplessly about him. Every piece of furniture, bed, bureau, table and chairs, flew around and around him in the wildest disorder.

His eyes reeled after them, in their flight through the room. Around and around past the bed to the door—once Swipes thought they would fly through. Bracing himself to catch the flying bed, he came up with a bang against the beveled mirror which broke and splintered under his weight. He was lying in the ruins when some one came and put him to bed.

The regret of the little freshman the next morning when the dismal news of the missing president came to him was intensely genuine. They told him that the whole town had been searched, but that Graves had disappeared as completely as if he were no longer on the earth.

* * * * *

When Dan Jordan left Frederick Graves on the corner of Ithaca's main street, the young president began to search for his three classmates. Shorts and the other two must be somewhere near for Dan had told him so. He turned to the left, walking toward "Jay's" resort, where with his knowledge of the three little freshmen's habits, he would probably find them. It was a nuisance to be followed about and guarded as if he were a criminal, yet he would go through anything rather than be absent from the banquet.

Suddenly he felt a bag thrown over his head and he was dragged completely off his feet. Then with much force he was shoved into a carriage, a heavy hand held over his mouth. He heard a pair of horses whipped into rapid motion. Frederick could not imagine in which direction he was being driven, for the constant turning of corners made it seem to the smothered boy that they were tearing around in a circle.

Suddenly the vehicle came to a sharp standstill. During the ride his ankles and wrists had been tightly corded, and no sooner had the carriage halted than several pairs of hands carried him swiftly up a flight of stairs into a house and along a carpetless hall.

When the cloth was removed from his head, Frederick was in the presence of two sophomores, Mathew Armstrong and Paul Howe.

"Hard luck," said Armstrong, looking at Frederick with a grin.

"Rather," he replied, glancing about. "But what can't be cured must be endured. If I am to stay here, I hope I am to be fed."

"Not with banquet cake, Freddy," laughed Howe; "you'll have plain bread—until after the banquet. Now just give us your coat and vest, old chap, and your collar and tie."

Frederick's ready obedience made Armstrong exclaim jovially:

"That's the right attitude, isn't it, Howe? No one would think to look at you, Graves, that you were so docile. You knew what you were saying when you said, 'what couldn't be cured must be endured,' and I say, 'all's fair in love and war,' so you stay here until after that grand supper."

Without answering, Frederick turned his eyes gloomily about his prison. The room was almost bare. In one corner was a bed, in another a cot with some blankets upon it. A long window ran nearly to the floor, minus a blind on one side while on the other a green shutter hung by one hinge, making a creaking noise as the wind swung it back and forth. Frederick reasoned that the window faced the street for he could hear crunching footsteps in the hard snow as pedestrians passed.

A wagon rolled squeakingly by and all was quiet.

In the night Frederick endeavored to plan his escape. He believed the house to be within the city limits, but during the long, dark drive he had lost all sense of direction. Through the flickering of the smoky lamp he saw Armstrong with a revolver in his hand, watching him intently. So the darkness passed and the daylight came in at the window, throwing long slant rays upon the dusty floor and lighting the faded paper on the wall.



CHAPTER XXII

Dominie Graves had a consultation with Dan Jordan over the disappearance of his son, and then climbed the University hill to Professor Young's office.

"I feel sure that Frederick has not been harmed," said Graves after greeting the professor, but there was question in his voice.

An expression of deep concern spread over Young's face.

"I heartily hope not," responded he, "for I know of no finer young man in the University."

"I think the boy would put up a great fight if he had a chance," resumed the minister, "but with a lot of fellows against him one chap can't do much. I hardly know what to think. There seems to be nothing to do but to await his return. Young Jordan said last night that they had searched every place where it was possible for him to be, but the boy was not to be found. His mother is growing anxious."

"I should think that she would be worried," replied Young. "It's a beastly practise this stealing of the freshman's president, and unworthy of such a college as this. I shall be glad when it is abolished. There is nothing during the year that creates such furore as this banquet."

A file of papers was under Professor Young's hand and as he spoke he toyed absent-mindedly with one of the long official envelopes. Dominie Graves caught a glimpse of some words that made the color rush hot into his face. The envelope contained an appeal for a new trial for Orn Skinner. He coughed slightly and opened a new topic.

"I see you are still interested in Skinner?"

"Yes!"

"Have you succeeded in getting him a new trial?"

"Not yet, but at any hour I expect to hear that the governor will give me an opportunity to defend him. I fully believe that the man is innocent, that he ought to have another chance for his life. As I said in the court-room the squatter trials are but farces. I don't approve of them."

"You're but a stranger in our town," interposed the Dominie. "When you've been here as long as I have, Professor Young, you will see that the strictest measures are necessary with these people. The rope is none too good for that man, Skinner."

"God forbid," ejaculated Young, "that I should live ever to wish away a man's life on any—personal motive."

Tessibel's sweet upturned face, shrouded in red-brown hair rose before him, but it did not obscure the dark flush that swept over the handsome face of the minister. The professor had intimated that he thought personal motives were being used to persecute the squatter. This tried the patience of Elias Graves as he sat gathering an argument to refute the accusation. He had even persuaded himself that it was for the good of the town to remove one after another of the loathsome fishermen either by the rope or imprisonment. Without their men the squatter women also would disappear from the shores.

He rose with a sense of coming evil stealing over him for the man seated opposite was a tower of strength and his own position in the town had been weakened in the late church conflict. The reins of affairs were being swept from his hands. He could not speak out more emphatically than he had against Skinner. On all sides, friends were rising mushroom-like to rescue the fisherman from the hangman's noose.

If he himself could gain a few strong friends he would be able to sweep the squatter from the face of the earth.

As he walked toward the Rectory after leaving Professor Young he set his teeth hard, these thoughts rushing through his mind, and inflaming his desire to rule in Ithaca as he always had. Even his anxiety about Frederick was obscured by the multitudinous plans that one after another were born in his brain. He closed the library door of the Rectory with an annoyed air and dropped into an arm-chair to think.

* * * * *

Professor Young sat long after the departure of Dominie Graves, looking at the bundle of papers in his hand. He had not dared to venture to the Skinner hut, although his heart called constantly for the red-haired girl who was holding the shanty home against her enemies. He knew that Tess was living as best she could, existing on the meager fare allotted to her kind. Young had seen Tessibel but once since her father had been taken to Auburn Prison and his face flushed as he thought that in a few days he would be able to tell her that her "Daddy" had received a stay upon his execution, that he honestly believed the shadowing rope would never seek the beloved head again.

It was only of late that Deforest Young would allow himself to admit that Tessibel Skinner had a stronger hold upon him than he ever thought possible for any woman to obtain, much less a child of such a race. He knew now that his life's interest lay in making a woman of her, a woman such as only Tess could make, with her deep primeval nature and splendid soul. If the girl could but return his love in part, it would place him in a position to help and educate her, but his great growing love gave birth to a fear that he might not be able to awaken in the squatter girl a soul affection for himself. Nevertheless he would spare nothing to elevate her. He expected a hard task to prove Skinner not guilty, and every hour he hoped to receive a letter from the Governor of the state giving him the desired year to gain the necessary evidence in favor of the fisherman.

He was still meditating in this strain when the Governor's letter was handed to him. For almost an hour he sat with his head in his hands, building an imaginary home, which he had never thought would be his, and in still sweeter imaginings he held close to his heart a fair, sweet girl, growing into her heritage of womanhood.

* * * * *

For two whole days Frederick Graves had been held a captive in his unfurnished prison. He knew that forty-eight hours marked the time before the banquet, also that if he could not escape before then he would have to be absent from the class dinner. Only once had Armstrong spoken to him that day and an expression of fine scorn upon the handsome president's face had been the answer. The sophomore was stretched out upon the bed, the revolver still in his hand, and drumming with the fingers of his left hand upon the much soiled wall:

"Graves," he began, "if you think this is any snap for me or that I like my job you're mistaken. I hate to be cooped up here as much as you do."

Frederick might not have been within hearing of the words for all the attention he paid to the speaker. Armstrong sat up straight with a deep far-fetched yawn.

"Come on, Graves," implored he, "let's play cards. It's hanged dismal with nothing to do."

Still Frederick kept his dignified silence. He looked down upon his coatless arms and pondered, then raised his eyes to the long window, but settled them again upon his boots. From the corner of his eye he saw his jailer place the revolver upon the table—it roused him suddenly for he was getting desperate to escape. With lightning-like rapidity he made up his mind to action. Lunging forward he brought his right fist in heavy contact with his companion's nose while the strong left hand swept the revolver under the opposite bed.

Simultaneously with the sound of the falling weapon came the crash of broken glass—Frederick Graves had swept like a young hurricane through the long window. The falling of the heavy body, and running footsteps brought Armstrong hastily to his feet. He dazedly brushed back a lock of hair from his brow, scrambled back under the bed after the gun then rushed to the broken window.

"By gosh, that was brave," ejaculated he.

Three times he fired the pistol into the night—the signal of trouble to give to his classmates—then sat down and waited disgustedly, nursing his bruised nose.

Frederick landed in the street, stunned for a single instant, but the snow was soft and the moment critical. He gathered himself up, rubbed off the blood that trickled from his fingers, and broke through the street on a run. He found himself in the lower portion of the town not far from the Leigh Valley tracks. To go eastward toward home would attract attention for he was without hat, coat, or vest, and it would probably lead to his recapture. He crossed the inlet bridge, passing a man here and there who stared after him as if he were a shade, which had risen from its grave seeking some kindred soul to haunt.

As Frederick passed the lighted squatter mission, the thought of the warmth within made his teeth chatter. He would have given much to have been able to place his cold hands over the fire which burned brightly in the room. Suddenly he stopped in his rapid flight for liberty for stepping to the tracks directly in front of him was the squatter girl. She had not noticed him and the student knew that she was homeward bound.

"Tessibel Skinner!"

The girl stopped, electrified, and tossed up her head.

"Tessibel Skinner!" called Frederick again.

When the girl recognized him, she came toward him with the awkward, conscious gait of a maid walking before the man she loved. Her eyes took in the half-clothed form of the student with one hasty glance.

"What air the matter?" she asked in an undertone.

Had the student been brought face to face with a dilemma like that of Daddy Skinner? With the instincts of a squatter Tess could think of nothing that would intimidate but the law.

"I have just escaped," replied Frederick, shivering.

Then he was in danger. He needed her as she had needed him, and Tess had no doubt but that he was on his way to her shanty to ask her aid.

"Ye air runnin' from some bloke?" she demanded slyly.

"Yes."

"But ye air cold," said she, "ye can't walk four miles without a coat."

"Where are you going to take me?" Frederick scented a place of safety.

"To my hut," replied the squatter stoically. "Wait! Ye stop here a minute."

She bounded into the road from the railway tracks, leaving Frederick staring helplessly after her. At the door of the mission she halted with the slyness that had been taught her from the cradle, bending her head forward to ascertain if any person were witness of her action. She opened the door and fled like a young deer toward the organ, then, ripping the crimson cloth from the altar, she fled out again into the night, running pantingly toward the student.

"It air for you—put it on," she ordered, proffering him the embroidered spread.

"Where did you—?" hesitated Frederick.

"Put it on, I say. I'll fan it back some time if ye will. Ye can't freeze with that—and there air bacon, fish and bread in the hut."

Her voice was low and vibrant with untried emotions. Something uplifting in the criminal action of the girl so touched Frederick that the nearness of tears called a throb to his throat. Without expostulating he wrapped the brilliant covering about his head, the embroidered ends hanging to his waist. Frederick Graves appreciated for the first time in his short, shielded life the awful temptations that make these squatter people in their cold and misery take what did not belong to them. He followed Tessibel, with no spoken word; on and on, up past the lighted huts, to the gaping gorge under the trestle. Tessibel knew that the student could not traverse it without her help, and she also knew that to touch his hand would be the sweetest of happiness to her. At any other time her soul would have recoiled from such temerity, but the life and welfare of Daddy's deliverer were at stake. She halted abruptly. The night was so dark she could scarcely outline the student as he stood near her.

"Take hold of my hand," she ordered. "It air the trestle. It air a long one and the steps be far apart."

Without a demurring word, Frederick grasped the strong fingers she held out to him. A smile, obscured by the darkness, played about the girl's sensitive mouth. The young body was pulsing with life—with intense gratitude, for was not she, Tessibel Skinner, helping her friend? With halting steps the boy and girl commenced the most perilous part of their journey, Tessibel leading the way. The student stopped in the middle of the long trestle.

"Are we nearly over?" he asked in a low voice. The awful magnificence of the dark night, the rushing water tumbling and roaring over the rocks beneath them, awed him into what was almost timidity.

"Nope; come on, don't stop here," urged Tess. "'Taint a good place."

At the end of the gap Tess tried to draw her hand away, but it was a feeble motion and she ceased as she noted that Frederick was still clinging to it.

"Let me walk with your hand in mine," he said simply with no extra pressure of the fingers within his. "It is dark for us both."

During the rest of the journey a silence fell upon them. Kennedy's brindle bull, scenting a friend, capered madly for a word from Tess, but the squatter paid no heed to her dog chum.

She took her hand from Frederick's to unfasten the door and light the candle. While they were walking the tracks, the woman in her had tried to remember in what condition she had left the hut. She looked about hastily. Before lighting another candle she smuggled the frying pan from the floor and picked up the loaf of bread that had fallen behind the stove from the table. While Tessibel lighted the fire, Frederick sat huddled in the wooden rocking-chair, still wrapped in the crimson altar-cloth, and watched the girl, who, as she moved clumsily to and fro, uttered no sound save now and then a characteristic grunt. Instinct told the squatter that she would choke the sensitive throat of the student if she raised the dust by sweeping and she refrained from using a broom, but Frederick wished vaguely that she would gather up the fish bones and crumbs of bread from her path that they might not crunch so audibly under her heavy boots. An open Bible placed on Daddy Skinner's stool attracted his attention in his survey of the room. Through the flickering light he could see the passages Tessibel had marked. He must say something or his brain would burst.

"You have a Bible, I see?"

His words sounded strained and his voice foreign to his own.

"Yep."

"Can you read it?"

"I spells at it," Tess replied in tones a little surly.

"Where did you get it?" asked Frederick presently.

She waited a moment before answering, straightening up from the oven where she had placed the cold bacon left from her breakfast to heat.

"Where did I get what?" she demanded.

"The Bible," replied Frederick.

He had asked about the book in the first place for something to talk of, for the roaring of the wind through the hut's rafters distracted him. He desired to hear the squatter say something—it all seemed so much like a dream that he feared to awaken only to find himself in the empty house with the sophomore's revolver staring at him.

"I cribbed it from the mission," answered the girl, pronouncing her words plainly. She leaned toward him and finished abruptly. "I took it from the place that comed from."

She was pointing toward the warm red altar-cloth bound about Frederick's head. Alas, Tess had needed a Bible and had stolen it; he had needed warm covering and had accepted it. There was no difference between the minister's son and the squatter's daughter. Vicissitude had forced each into a like position, and somehow Frederick lost his sense of right and wrong, for he could not sit in judgment upon either action. Never before in all of his short young life had he really needed anything for personal comfort—but the altar-cloth. Tess saw the struggle going on in his mind; she bent toward him, reasoning:

"I needed the Bible, didn't I? Didn't ye say that to save Daddy Skinner's life I had to have it? Ye needed that red rag what ye got round yer head. There air only one way in this world—" She was moving toward him inch by inch, the soles of the fisherman's boots dragging the bread crumbs and fish bones beneath them. "Ye takes what ye need to save yer life, or the life of yer Daddy. Folks mostly never steals what they ain't needin'."

The message went straight home to Frederick. He could not combat such reasoning. He knew well that he would have frozen but for the timely stealing of the altar-cloth—also, he knew that the Bible was as necessary to Tess as the altar-cloth was to him. He mentally lashed himself into a state of unrest. Why had he not thought of a Bible and given Tess one? It would have been so easy for him to have supplied her small needs!

He was watching the girl through the gloomy haze of the bacon smoke, but spoke no more until Tessibel ordered him to draw up to the table and eat.

"Have a piece of bacon," said she.

Frederick held up his plate, and Tess shoved a generous portion into it. She gave him a tempting brown fish, cut a slice of bread, placing it upon the side of his tin plate, and commenced to eat rapidly from her own.

Neither boy nor girl mentioned sleeping until the hands of the small nickel clock on the shelf in the corner pointed out the hour of eleven. Then Tessibel opened the subject without hesitation or embarrassment.

"It air time fer ye to turn in," said she, banking the embers in the stove for the night.

"I shall sit up," replied Frederick stiffly.

"There air two beds," commented Tess in simple ignorance of all law save necessity. "Mine air under Daddy's—see?"

She dragged the rope cot from under the larger bed—a cloud of dust rising white to the shanty's rafters and settling like a soft mist upon the student.

"I air goin' to sleep here," explained Tess with no mention of the lately exposed dirt. "I only slep' in Daddy's bed cause he wasn't here.... Ye go to bed while I gets the sticks fer the mornin'."

Frederick placed his hand on her arm almost timidly. She was so different from any girl he had ever known!

"Please allow me to get the wood for you."

Two rows of white teeth bared themselves in a frank smile.

"I's a squatter," she said, "and squatter women allers gets the wood. Scoot to bed."

When Tessibel came in from the mud cellar, Frederick lay with his face toward the wall, Orn Skinner's soiled blankets wrapped closely about his shoulders. Tessibel placed the leather strap over the staple in the door, and barred up for the night.



CHAPTER XXIII

For almost an hour Tessibel lay thinking deeply, her brain alive with the past rapid happening of events. That the student would ever sleep under her roof was more than she had dreamed. She could hear him breathing evenly; he was asleep with "Daddy's" blankets wrapped tightly about his finely shaped head. Through the dim light Tessibel could follow the outline of the great form stretched out on the roped bed. A feeling of thanksgiving swept over her—she was his protector. She had not thought of asking about his crime. Of course he was fleeing from the law, but he could have done nothing that would lessen her desire to aid him. If he had murdered, then it was necessary that he should; if he had stolen, it was the common lot of all men in need. The one thing to do was to keep him from the clutches of the law. She felt herself getting drowsy, and soon the even breathing of the squatter and the student told that both slept.

Tess would never know what time it happened. Suddenly her eyes flew open and through the light of a lantern she saw Ben Letts leering into her face. The frosty air was blowing in gusts through the window which the squatter Ben had forced open. The horror of the situation came slowly over her. For the instant she forgot the student sleeping in her father's bed, and Ben Letts had not noticed him.

Ben began to speak in low tones:

"If ye wants to live, don't holler ... Get up!"

Tess crawled out of bed, fully dressed. Frederick slept on, hearing no sound, for the cold room had compelled him nearly to cover his head. Suddenly the presence of the student came into the girl's mind; but she only threw a furtive glance at the sleeping youth.

"What do ye want?" she demanded vaguely.

"First ye air to come with me to the Brindle Bull at Kennedy's—I air got somethin' for him.... He air dead in the mornin' by the hand of the girl what loves him."

There was unlimitable sarcasm in the vile, low face as Ben hissed this out.

"And after that?" asked Tess, edging toward the lower part of "Daddy's" bed. There she could reach for the covering over Frederick, and he would save her. The feeling of the night before that she was his protector vanished. He would—

"Never mind after that," growled Ben. "Ye had yer chance at bein' hones' and ye wouldn't take it."

Tessibel slipped her feet into Daddy's boots—she was strangely buoyant and unafraid. It was the woman in her rising to that supreme moment when she should call upon the man she loved, and he would answer. Ben was leaning against the wall, his eyes having sought for no other person in the room.

With the agility of a hare, Tessibel dashed around him toward Frederick, and snatched the blankets from the bed. The workings of Ben's mind were so slow that the form of the student loomed up, before he realized that the minister's son was in Tessibel's cabin.

"Ye air here to save me, Frederick," cried Tess, the light of the lantern sending a ray into the upturned widening eyes.

Letts dropped his under jaw, his body relaxing in fear. He was an arrant coward like the most of his downtrodden race. Then something shifted through his thick brain, and he smiled knowingly.

"So the high and the low air together—eh? The Dominie's son, and the fisherman's brat—the student—and the—"

Before he had finished the sneering words, Frederick had struck him full in the face. Boyish dignity—his father's position—God—everything was forgotten save Tess. He only knew that she was being maligned, and that her holy mission of rescuing him from the frost of a night like this was being turned into evil by a squint-eyed fisherman whom he had never seen before.

Into the man's fat flabby body crashed Frederick's strong fists. Tessibel stood looking on, her head bent forward alertly. One arm was clasped about her neck—excitement sparkling from the flushed face and panting lips. Once the throat sound that came when she was excited rolled forth; otherwise she was silent.

Thrashed from side to side, his ragged coat made worse by the severe shaking Frederick was administering, Ben Letts groaned audibly.

"Have you had enough?" demanded the student, standing over the fisherman.

"Yep, I's a goin' home."

Tess laughed low and wickedly. She loved to see the blood oozing from the mark in the ugly face. Every drop matched those dragged from the hearts of the brat's mother, who had suffered for Ben, and of the poor little miserable child himself, struggling for life in the Longman shanty.

"You'd better go home," ordered Frederick, "and I want to tell you something. If I ever hear you uttering a word about my being in this hut, I'll follow you to the ends of the earth, and flog the life out of you.... Don't try any of your tricks on me, either."

Frederick shivered as the wind swept cold from the frozen lake to his damp brow. Ben had lifted his lantern and was swaying toward the door.

"I'll go hum," said he, "but I ain't done with ye—some day—"

Frederick bounded forward like a whiplash, but Tess held him back. Ben gave a quick jump and was gone.

"He wasn't worth a-hurtin' any more," Tess commented, lighting a candle. "I know he air the man what killed my other Frederick."

The name slipped out with loving intonation.

Then the boy and the girl turned and faced each other. The shanty rocked in the wind like the cradle of a child. The willow mourned its tale of winter over the roof, scraping the broken tin in hollow groans, shrieking now and then as a gust roared through it.

For fully three minutes after the going of Ben, Tessibel stood looking at the student. He had saved her from Myra's fate, from a hated thing that made her teeth press hard together, and her eyes gather an expression of melting gratitude.