"It were—it were—"

But the halting tongue could not finish. Untutored as she was, Tess had read the message in the student's eyes. Love teaches in one night its dreadful longing and response. Its domineering power brought Frederick Graves nearer to Tess in her rags. It made them equal, even as all are equal in love—and in death. In an instant the girl in the fish-tainted tatters was clasped close to his heart, the bright, beautiful face lifted to his. Then came the kiss, the making of which blended two lives indissolubly together. The paleness of death settled over the boy; the strong muscles of his shoulders stood out beneath the whiteness of his shirt sleeves, while his fingers pressed the red-brown head closer to him, his kiss deepening the crimson richness in the squatter's face. It was the one supreme passionate moment of Tessibel's life. The sound of the whistling wind left her ears. The cold night blasts driving through the window were as the faint breezes of a summer's evening. The smoldering candle lifted its flame, blazing forth a glory that surrounded the student with a golden halo. Tessibel had experienced her first kiss. The nature in her demanded that she know the fullness of it—the pitying fullness which would bring to her that which it brings to all loving women dominated by the passion born within them. The blood of her race, her uneducated primeval race, rose and clamored for its own. In her untutored youth she could have crushed the lad in her wild longing for such another kiss.

Pantingly she drew herself from Frederick. Why? Tess could never tell why! Myra's love for Ben Letts rushed over her overwhelmingly.... The "brat's" mother knew the sweetness of a kiss, and in it had forgotten the blasting winter winds on the ragged rocks where Ben Letts had broken her arm.

Frederick, ashy-pale, struggled for control; a consciousness of the ignorance of the girl—and his own godly profession broke upon him; and he sank upon the stool with a sob. His face in his hands filled Tessibel's soul with remorse. Delicately, with the touch of a lady born, she rested her hand upon the student's dark head. The small fingers, used to the drudgery of a fisherwoman's life, lifted the damp hair from the high forehead. Her woman's sense of the fitness of things rose keenly to quiet the boy's grief over his indiscretion.

"It were good of ye to remember that Daddy were gone," she whispered. "He gives me kisses on the bill."

All passion had left her tones. Of course, thought the student, she was but a child—but a forlorn beautiful child born without—without what? If he could have known—

The next moment he did know. With abandon, complete and absolute, the hot blood coursing madly from her heart to her face, Tess threw herself upon the shanty floor. Frederick Graves drew her quickly to her feet.

"Tess ... Tessibel ... Tess ... Stand up, Tess!"

The last word came out in a shout. He had her in his arms, and she was clinging to him as ivy clings for life to an old church.

Tessibel made no effort to support herself. She was leaning limply against him with closed eyes.

"It air good to forget—sometimes," she stammered, "I air a forgettin' all but the—student."

As on that memorable day when "Daddy" had been taken to prison in Auburn, and she had planted herself in his arms not to be removed, so Tess hung to Frederick. Ben Letts was forgotten, the suffering child in the Longman shanty whom she loved was forgotten; even Daddy Skinner was forgotten. Tessibel had found her man, and all the experiences of her kind could not help her in her hour of temptation.

"Tessibel, Tess, we can't forget, stand up." The boy's words spread through the dazed brain. Frederick dragged her arms from his neck, forcing her to the stool.

"Tessibel, have you forgotten—the Christ, your father and me?"

Had she forgotten him? Only him she had remembered—only his voice rang through her like the sweetest music. But she was so quiet now that the boy seated himself beside her, drawing her hands into his.

"Tess," he began, intensely, bending to look into the flushed face, "Tess—look at me!"

Slowly the brown eyes dragged their gaze upward until the boy and girl were staring wide-lidded directly at each other.

"Tess, have you ever thought that, some time, we might be more to each other—some time in the future when you have learned and studied much?"

Wonderingly she drew her hands from his, hiding them in the folds of the torn gingham skirt.

"I air a squatter," she got out at last. "You be high—I air low, as Ben Letts said.... But, but," she faltered, finishing her sentence brokenly, "But I's yer squatter."

For one bitter moment the Longman child with its old-man face flitted across her vision. She shivered, rose hastily, and went to the stove, scattering the lids from their openings before uttering another word.

Frederick was watching her critically.

"You ought to go to school, Tess," he said presently.

"I has to stay here," she replied beginning to stir the embers. "If I left the hut alone yer pappy could fire it, and Daddy and me wouldn't have a home.... Ain't nice nights like this to be without a roof to cover ye."

Frederick realized this. Had he not been that very night with no place to lay his head, and no kindly hand save hers to give him something to eat? He flushed deeply at the mention of his father, and marveled that the squatter girl had not spoken with any hard feeling in her tone. It was what could be expected—so her voice implied; if she left the shanty alone, the rightful owner could then take back what the law would not allow if the squatters remained.

"Ye be a goin' to stay here to-morry?" asked Tess later by five minutes.

"If I may."

"Be ye goin' to tell me what ye air hidin' for?"

Frederick threw back his head and laughed. He had forgotten to tell her.

"Of course. You see I am the freshman class president.... The boys in the upper classes kidnaped me, and kept me prisoner in an unused house at the inlet.... I escaped last night, and you brought me here."

The story was so tame—so unlike what Tess had expected to hear that she drew a long, disappointed breath. There had been a vague wish within her heart that she were going to be of infinite benefit to him. It was such a little thing to lose a fine supper. His life had not been in danger as she had supposed.

"You understand, Tess, that it's a disgrace to our class not to have the president there," Frederick burst forth, "even if he is kept away by force. I would rather sacrifice anything than have it happen—only, I do not want to harm your good name, Tessibel."

Tess stared at him blankly.

"Squatter's brats don't have no names.... Ye can't do me any harm."

"Oh, yes, I could," insisted Frederick. "What if that scoundrel who was here a little while ago should say that I were here?... It would harm us both."

Tess paused in her breakfast preparations long enough to say simply,

"Yer Christ wouldn't let him harm ye, would He?"

The boy swept her with an incredulous glance.

Did she so thoroughly have faith in a miraculous interference in human affairs by divine power? The delicate face was lighted with exquisite coloring which came and went in the morning light like the tints of a sea-shell. The bright trustful eyes were shining into his, every motion of the lovely head and body bespeaking the blind faith in which the squatter girl lived. Frederick found himself wishing impetuously with all his soul that he could command a faith like hers. His own seemed so dead, so unlike a living faith that he sighed as he turned toward her.

"Tessibel," he said honestly, "you are a better girl than I am a boy ... I am learning many things from you." Then, looking up with a smile after a moment's thought, he finished: "No, I believe with you, that it is impossible for him to harm one of us if we have faith in God."

"So, I can help ye to-morry if ye ain't in Daddy's fix?"

Then Frederick understood that she would have saved him, even if he had been in danger of his life.

"Yes," he replied, "you can aid me.... Do you know where my fraternity is?"

Tess shook her head with a troubled expression.

"I can tell you where it is! I want you to go there and ask for Dan Jordan and tell him I am here. You must speak to no one else about me, or they will come and take me away, and I told you I would almost rather die than not be with my class at the banquet."

Tessibel's spirits rose high. She could help him—after all.

"How air ye goin' to get into the place where ye eats without gettin' took again?"

A flashing intelligence leaped into the brown eyes during her question.

"I knows how I can help ye." She lowered her voice and began to describe the escape and the final fulfillment of their plan.

Frederick chuckled when she had finished.

"That's capital. You tell Dan Jordan, then, to-morrow what you have told me. You see the banquet takes place to-morrow night."

"Yep, I tells him, so I will. I goes to town early to-morry and up to your house.... Come and eat now!"



CHAPTER XXIV

The next morning at eight o'clock Tessibel walked eastward up the long hill toward the college. The "Cranium" fellows were yet asleep. The whole house was tired out from looking for their captured president. The underclassmen did not know that Graves had escaped, Frederick's enemies keeping them in ignorance as long as possible.

Tessibel turned into the carriage drive toward the fraternity with a fish-basket upon her arm.

A man cleaning snow from the flight of steps addressed her.

"What do you want here?"

"I want to see Mr. Jordan.... He air here, ain't he? I has somethin' for him."

"Give it to me," ordered the janitor, "I'll take it to him."

"Can't! He said as how I wasn't to give it to no one but hisself, and I won't, so there!"

"He ain't up yet."

"Don't care, I'll wait, then.... Tell him, will ye, that I air a waitin'?"

Dan Jordan wondered as he crawled slowly out of bed what a girl could want of him at that early hour. He met Tess at the front door, and without waiting for him to speak Tessibel said in an undertone.

"I has somethin' to tell ye.... I air Tess the squatter's brat, what ye gived the coffee to at the parson's house. I said as how I has somethin' to tell ye!"

"Will you tell me now?" asked Dan kindly. "You see, I can't ask you in here—"

"I ain't a comin' in," and lowering her voice with a furtive glance she almost whispered, "I knows—I knows where the minister's son air."

Dan started and looked at her sharply. She could mean no other than Frederick. He placed his fingers on his lips.

"You have fish to sell," he asked, "I will take them all. Go around to the back door and leave them...." Then in a lower tone he ordered, "Meet me in five minutes at the bottom of the hill."

The last of the sentence was breathed rather than spoken. Dan Jordan turned into State Street some minutes afterwards, and he could see the glistening red head of the fisher-girl as she swung her empty basket on her arm and jingled the money in her hand which she had received for the fish.

"Tell me quickly where Mr. Graves is," commanded Dan rushing toward her.

"He air in my hut," answered Tess bluntly.

"Did the boys bring him there?"

"Nope, he got away.... And I took him there."

She described the plan she and Frederick had formed.

"Ye see by that way ye can get him to the supper, can't ye?"

"Yes," replied Dan delightedly, "and we will never be able to thank you enough for what you have done. Let me assure you that we are very grateful to you."

"Aw, shut up!" Every white tooth showed in the wide smile, "I ain't done nothin'. He air done more than that for me."

The sweet face lighted by the infinite love for the student hidden in her hut spoke its own secret to Dan Jordan and through his recently acquired knowledge of heart emotions, he stared vaguely at the girl. Would Frederick—no, no—the minister's son was a better lad than he. His eyes filled with tears and a lump came into his throat. He stood watching the figure of Tess moving away, and regarded intently the great boots, the ragged skirt, the beautiful ringlets and the proud young head set so well upon the sloping shoulders. Dan's mind reverted to another girl, no older than the squatter, and with a sigh mournful enough he turned back to the fraternity.

* * * * *

Tess walked down the lane, running as she neared the foot of the hill. She wanted to impart to the student what Dan had told her. With her fingers upon the hut latch she stopped short. Voices came from inside. She dropped her hand—Ben Letts was there or another squatter. Suddenly she opened the door and stood in the entrance. Frederick was seated upon "Daddy's" stool; Professor Young was standing in his fur coat with his back to the stove.

The student's face had blanched to the hue of death; an expression such as Tess had never seen in human eyes rested in his. He was speaking and the girl's ears caught the words.

"I would forfeit my life before I would harm her, believe me!" Two pairs of masculine eyes turned at the opening of the door, and both men were looking into the eager face of Tessibel. The Professor did not come forward to meet her; his manner was stiff and formal. For a moment even the student's last words left her mind, and Daddy Skinner rose before her.

"Ye be here to tell me about Daddy?" she asked.

"You needed me to come more for yourself than to tell you of your father, child!" said Young with accusing eyes upon Frederick.

A sullen expression flitted across Tessibel's lips.

"Ye didn't need to come, if yer a goin' to make the student sorry," she answered haltingly. "Ye has yer own business to mind."

Tess was standing between them, her glance turning first to Frederick, then to the Professor. She didn't fully understand his words, but she knew that Frederick had been hurt by something the lawyer had said. Young began to button his coat. He had thought the girl worth saving, and Frederick had ever been in his mind as the perfection of young manhood. His throat tightened; he looked at Tess and thought of his love for her. It was almost mastering him. Why should he suffer over such a girl, who insulted him even while he was trying to help her?

Frederick stood up wearily. Professor Young ought to realize the situation, to remember that some shelter was necessary for him. Tess was stolidly arranging the table.

"You do not know how I came to be here," said Frederick briefly.

"It is enough that I see you here," replied Young.

In a temper Tess slammed the oven door loudly.

"She found me on the tracks," explained Frederick. "I escaped from the sophomores and she brought me here. I should have frozen to death otherwise—and I did not think that it might harm her."

"It ain't hurt me," cried Tessibel coming forward. "He air the one what helped me get my Daddy Skinner out of trouble. He air my friend!"

The rage of the girl when she wheeled impetuously upon him made the Professor catch his breath. He had been the one who had done all the work, had given her father a new lease of life. He had come now to tell her about the letter, and to hear her say that a lad with no influence whatever had done that which it would have been impossible for him to do, to hear Tess give the credit which should be his to Frederick made Young pass his fingers through his hair nervously, and wonder just what the student had done to gain such praise. His own love for Tess, his great desire, pleaded with him to believe in both the boy and the girl. Tessibel's soulful expression went far in giving back to Deforest Young the hope that had made his days brighter and filled the future with promise.

"May I stay with you to dinner, Miss Tessibel?" he said, shaking his shoulders. "I did not understand ... In fact I had forgotten about the banquet. I am glad you helped Mr. Graves make his class dinner.... May I stay?"

Frederick stepped forward, holding out his hand.

"Thanks," he said brokenly; "I shall never forget this—in you."

The clasping of the two hands and the smile on the lips of the student made Tess broaden her own.

"Yep, jerk off yer coat, and eat," ordered she. "Air ye heard about Daddy?"

"Yes." Young hesitated a moment.

"What is it, Professor?" ejaculated Frederick. "Don't keep her in suspense."

"Daddy ain't a-goin' to hang!... He can't!" Her eyes turned to Frederick. "'Cause ye said he couldn't."

The boy flushed to the roots of his hair and glanced at Professor Young. Again she was giving the credit to Graves—credit the lad so little deserved. Frederick felt this, and muttered:

"She doesn't understand yet what you've done, Professor—I'm sorry!"

"They've placed a stay upon your father's execution," explained Young, "that will give us a chance to prove him innocent.... I am positive that he didn't kill the gamekeeper. I went to the prison last week."

"Ye seed him?" asked Tess eagerly, striding close to him. He felt the hot breath against his face and a feeling of longing coursed through his veins.

"Yes," was all he said.

"What did he say about me?"

"Everything good! You will have him very soon here with you, Tessibel."

The girl was fatigued with turbulent emotions, lonely and heartsick. The shadow of the rope was gone from Daddy Skinner. Like a relieved child she sank down upon the floor and began to whimper. Both men were silenced by the swaying red head. The bacon sputtered in the frying pan upon the stove, spitting the grease to the lids, where it burned away in tiny yellow flames.

Then Tess raised her head.

"What a bloke I air to cry when Daddy air a-comin' home.... We air a-goin' to eat now," she ended, wiping her eyes.

Before the meal was over Tess was on better terms with Young than she had ever been before. He outlined to the delighted girl his visit to the prison.

"Your father says, child," he related, "that he took the gun from the stern of the boat, and laid it on the shore, near where he was hauling the net.... He heard a shot and ran forward and was arrested. He swore to me that he did not fire the gun and I believe him. The fatal step was in his taking the rifle at all, because that was disobeying the law."

"Ye air my friend, too," Tess said beamingly, leaning over and taking the Professor's hand in hers. Before he could stop her, she had raised it to her lips, kissed it several times, and dropping it again, calmly went on eating.



CHAPTER XXV

At the "Cranium" Fraternity, Dan Jordan was closeted with three little freshmen. Swipes looked downcast.

"I want to do something to help," he wailed; "I feel as if it were all my fault that the parson is gone. We can't have any fun without him. It's tedious, too, being cooped up here not being able to go anywhere for fear of being taken ourselves."

Dan cleared his throat preparatory to speaking.

"If you fellows won't peach," said he in an eager undertone, "I'll tell you something and you can help."

"What?"

"We'll have Graves if you will all do as I tell you."

"Watch me," cried Swipes, turning a somersault. When he was in the most harrowing position, Brown gave him a swift kick.

"Give him one for me, Shorts," whispered Spuddy, but Swipes was on his feet again, ready to listen.

There was a general hurrah when Jordan in subdued tones had outlined the plan.

"Where are Graves' evening clothes," demanded Dillon; "we must smuggle them into the opera-house some way."

"They'll be there all right," replied Jordan; "they've gone in with the caterer's stuff. You'd better send your own best togs in a barrel or the sophomores will see to it that you won't have them when you want them.... Now mind, mum's the word."

The fishermen of squatter's row did not recognize the stranger who slouched along by the side of Tessibel, the night of the freshman banquet. She was on her way to the city with her fish. One after another women poked frowsy heads from the hut windows at the barking of their dogs. But Tess went steadily on, not even heeding her companion who hurried his footsteps to keep close to her.

"Ye sells yer fish for a shillin' a pound," said she after a few minutes' walk.

The man nodded. Once only did he raise his eyes. They were passing a dingy-looking empty house, with a large broken window.

Just then, Ben Letts, accompanied by Ezra Longman, met them. The red head of the squatter girl rose a little higher, the lines growing deeper about the narrowed lids. To the fisherman she deigned no good-morrow, nor had she a thought of them after they had passed.

"He air a new squatter," said Ben laconically, turning to look at the queer pair.

"He air her uncle," added Ezra pompously; "he air here to help her pappy out of his scrape."

Ben did not answer, but stepped to the tracks with another evil backward look at Tess and her squatter friend.

* * * * *

Forty or fifty sophomores loafed about the opera-house watching the caterers buzz to and fro. Tables had been spread inside for several hundred guests, and the president's chair was decorated with roses and winter ferns. Three little freshmen and Dan Jordan, surrounded by many juniors went calmly in to inspect things.

Several underclassmen stood disconsolately inside.

"Be on your guard," whispered Dan, passing them.

The fifty sophomores outside were waiting for something to happen. Graves would be produced—how, they could not tell. The strangeness of the actions of Frederick's fraternity brothers made the affair more unsolvable. Threatening looks were showered upon them as freshman after freshman, guarded by juniors, filed in. Dan Jordan slouched to the door of the opera-house, his eyes falling mechanically upon Tessibel Skinner across the street. He heard her arguing with the man from the cafe about her fish. Tessibel then crossed to the opera-house.

"Does ye want any fish?" she smiled, showing her white teeth.

"No," replied Jordan. "What have you?... Eels?"

"No, nothin' but bullheads and suckers."

Dan looked about, grinning upon the sophomores.

"There's enough of them here already.... I want some eels—"

The sophomores pretended not to hear. They were not interested in fishermen, but kept their eyes open for a carriage that would dash in from the main street with the rescued president within it.

"Sling them eels over here," commanded Tessibel, beckoning to the slouching squatter across the way. The man with the basket offered the contents to Dan.

"I'll take what you have, too, girl," said Jordan in a loud voice, "how much do they weigh?"

"Don't know," replied Tess.

"Take them in and get them weighed," said Swipes, innocently coming to Dan's side.

"Hey there, you old guy," chuckled Spuddy; "drag your fish into the opera-house and dump them out.... We're going to have some fun.... If we can't have our president, eels will have to do."

The squatter disappeared inside the building.

"A pile of fun they'll have without their president," grunted a sophomore.

Tessibel gathered her empty basket upon her arm and amid the smiling looks of the students who stood watching her she walked away with her head high in the air.

But Dan Jordan, with a mighty yell, triumphantly taken up by his classmen, grasped the hat from the squatter's head. The smiling, open face of Frederick Graves was before them. The sophomores never quite puzzled out how the freshman president was in his chair at the banquet, and directly in front of him in the place of honor was a huge dish of eels.

* * * * *

Shaking the snow from her shoulders like a great dog in a storm, Tess knocked softly on the Longman shanty door. Mrs. Longman had gone to the city with Satisfied, and Myra, with the whining brat in her arms, welcomed her.

One whole week had passed since Tess had seen the student—seven long interminable days since—and now she had come to ask Myra Longman some of the mysterious questions about the kiss that Frederick had given her. Myra relinquished the child to her and the little fellow sank to sleep under Tessibel's crooning voice. His regular breathing told her that he slept; she placed him in the box and sat thoughtfully down.

"Air Ben Letts been here lately?" she asked after a pause.

Myra shook her head.

"He ain't got no time for such as the brat and me," she replied bitterly.

Tess waited until Myra had ceased scattering the shanty chairs in her rage.

"Did he say as how he loved ye that night in the storm on the ragged rocks?" she asked presently.

"Yep, he did say it, he did," answered Myra.

"Air he—air he a-knowin'—how to kiss?"

The very word slipping from her lips brought back with a sudden joy that night a week ago, and the never-to-be-forgotten kiss of the student. She could feel again the warm, strong lips pressed to hers—the long muscular arms enfolding her.

Myra scanned her face closely.

"To kiss—yep; but he ain't never kissed the brat."

There was wonderful longing and passion in her tones.

This was a new thought for Tess. The "Pappy" should kiss his brat—but were they one and the same kisses? She remembered the sweetness of that first caress "Daddy" had given her on the stone window ledge of his cell. It was tinged with bittersweet—bitter because Daddy was going away, sweet because she had desired it so fondly. But it had not been like the student's kiss. She was going to ask Myra Longman to solve the first great problem of her life.

"Air the kisses what ye had from Ben Letts—burnin' ones? Did ye lose the thought of the night and the night things on the ragged rocks?... Did ye want 'em again and again—more and more kisses till they scorched yer face like the bread oven in the spring?"

Tess had risen to her feet, had whitened to the small ears covered with the tawny hair. Myra had risen also. Both girls were eying each other with intentness. Tess started to speak again, coming forward a step toward the other squatter.

"Did ye forget the storm, the wavin' trees and all 'cept—Ben Letts?"

"Ye air been to the ragged rocks," moaned Myra, sinking down upon the floor in a heap.

In a twinkling the meaning of Myra's words dawned upon Tessibel.

"I ain't been there with Ben Letts," she replied suddenly. "I ain't got no likin' for the brat's Pa's kisses—"

"But ye hev been to the ragged rocks," insisted Myra, settling back with a sob against the box where the child slept.

"Nope, I ain't; but I had a kiss, and Myra, it were—like the singin' in the heavens what the song tells about—like the feelin' in here," she placed her hand upon her heart, her eyes flashing golden, "when the world air filled with flowers and the birds air a singin'.... Were it like that with Ben Letts? Were it?"

"Nope," replied Myra sulkily, "Ben Letts ain't got no singin' kisses."

She rose languidly, tucked the blanket closer about the sleeping child's head.

"Tessibel," she broke forth hoarsely, "for all women folks there air brats a cryin' for their Pa's to tell 'em yep or nope. And there air men a-walkin' on the ragged rocks with singin' kisses for yer pretty face and tangled hair. There air a brat sleepin' till it's dead in the box." The tired young mother allowed her hungry gaze to fall upon the quiet infant. "Tessibel, yer brat—"

But Tessibel bounded out of the door, over the snow-covered rocks like a deer. She would not lose the sweetness of the kiss in Myra's warning words—that penetrating holy kiss she had treasured for seven long days and nights.

* * * * *

The torturing thoughts that had filled the mind of Professor Young at finding Frederick Graves in the cabin of the fisher-girl were new sensations to him. He loved Tessibel, and in her lay his future happiness. Her stolid indifference to his endeavors to aid her through her father had blasted his hopes somewhat. Then again he would feverishly reason that she had been born to overlook all save those whom she desired and for whom she fought. It was like her kind. Excuses for the girl in the aid she had given the student ran willingly through his brain. If Tess had seen the young fellow in the storm, it was but like the tender, loving heart to aid him. It was no proof that Frederick had found a place in her affections. With these thoughts in his mind he had worked for several days, quietly hoping that the girl might seek him.

Tess found him waiting at the shanty door for her one afternoon after returning from town. She smiled a welcome as she recognized her visitor.

"It air about Daddy ye comed," she said, lifting the padlock from the staple.

"Yes, child, I wanted to tell you of some new friends your father has made in Ithaca—strong friends to aid him."

"Friends," echoed Tess wonderingly. "Daddy Skinner had fishermen for his friends—and not people of Ithacy—come in," she added. The fire crackled on the hearth and Tess sat down to listen with open lips.

"I can't explain just how this came about," said Young, "but some of the people who were in the court-room the day your father was convicted have risen to befriend him."

Professor Young did not add that he himself had urged that money should be raised for a second defense.

"So last night," he went on, "there was a meeting of several prominent men and money has been placed in my hands for another trial for your father."

Tess tried to understand the long words, and blinked knowingly. The import of it was plain. Daddy was coming back—but how soon?

"When air he comin' home, then?" she demanded.

"After another trial.... See if you can read this?"

From a long envelope the lawyer took a piece of paper. Tess examined it carefully for some moments. Young eyeing her with a sense of happiness. He would fight for this child as man never before fought for woman. She would love him out of gratitude if for nothing else. He took the paper she was holding out to him.

"Can't read a damn word—can't read writin' anyway. Tell me what it says about Daddy."

"It's a list of names," replied Young, "mostly members—"

"Of Graves' church?" put in Tess eagerly.

Hadn't the student been praying for just this? she thought.

"Yes; they are all desirous to see your father home again with his little daughter."

"Air the minister givin' money for Daddy?" was the anxious demand.

Young shook his head. He felt a sudden swift-coming desire to tell her enough about the minister's family to make her hate them all. Deforest Young realized for the first time that he was jealous of the student, of a tall dark lad of whom in the past he had taken no more notice than of many other students.

He drew a long breath.

"Not exactly the minister," said he, flushing with shame. "Here—let me read the names to you. William Hopkins of the toggery shop, one hundred dollars. Do you know him?"

Tess shook her head in the negative.

"Deacon Hall and his wife Augusta gave one hundred dollars."

"I know her," Tess cried, "and I knows him a little, too. I tooked them berries and fish—they has a cottage below the ragged rocks."

"And there's the druggist, Mr. Bates—he did not put down his name on the list, but he gave fifty dollars."

Tessibel listened to the explanations as Young read on, making it all plain to her as he proceeded.

She was leaning far over toward him, her chin resting on her open palm.

"They be dum good blokes, to give their money to a squatter, ain't they?"

The professor started perceptibly. She did not understand that all had been done under his supervision; he had tried to impress upon her his great desire to help her, but no words of praise fell from her lips for him. He would have willingly given worlds had she said that he was "a dum good bloke."

"They are all sorry for you and your father," he ended lamely.

"It was the student, Graves, what brought Daddy the money," she burst out with a vivid blush.

"No, the student, Graves, had nothing to do with it," was the grim reply.

"He's a-been prayin' since Daddy went away—that air somethin'," Tess said stubbornly.

Professor Young rose—then seated himself again. He had come for something else, something that meant work and satisfaction for him.

"Now that your father is sure to be saved, will you leave this hut?" he asked peremptorily.

"Nope!"

"But it's not fit for you to be here alone, Tessibel. Listen ... I'll save your father's squatter rights, if you will study in some good school until he returns."

"Aw, cuss! Who air to pay all the money?" Tess got to her feet with effort.

"I will," deliberately answered Young.

"Nope, I air goin' to stay here," snapped Tess. "I can fish and live likes I have been doin' till Daddy comes. I promised him I'd stay. I can read the Bible now," she ejaculated, promptly producing the book from under the blankets of the bed. "I's a-readin it every day.... If ye don't believes, ye can listen and see."

She tossed back the curls from her shoulders as she ended emphatically: "I air a goin' to bring Daddy home through this here book—the student says."

Again the terrible jealousy of the handsome student flashed alive in the professor. Tess had opened the Bible to a chapter she had never read before.

"And straightway in the morning," she spelled, "the chief priests—Aw, that ain't no good! Wait till I find about Daddy."

Then suddenly she threw the Bible down upon the floor.

"There air places what says as how Daddy air a comin' home. The student says it air there. I ain't found it yet but I air a-lookin' for it every day. 'Tain't in that place where I just read about them geezers, the priests."

The lawyer stood up. A pain seized him. He would save this ignorant girl in spite of herself, marry her in spite of Frederick Graves. It would be as difficult as scaling the icy mountains, but he would force her to love him more than the whole world.

"You understand," he said shortly, "that these good people have given money toward helping your father come home. It will be some time before the trial will come up, but when it does—I will bring him back to you."

The assurance in his tones brought Tess to his side.

"Ye be a lawyer," she said abruptly, "and the squatters says as how lawyers air liars and tramps, but ye ain't no tramp, and ye ain't no liar, ye ain't—and when I sells a lot of fish I air bringin' ye the money for what ye air a doin' for Daddy and me. I says once and I says again as how ye air Daddy's friend, and I air glad that the student's meeting-house folks gived ye a little money to help us."

Mist had gathered in her eyes and she slipped her fingers into Professor Young's. She laid her lips upon his hand, covering it with tears and kisses. Opening the shanty doors, she said:

"I likes ye, I likes ye, but how much a squatter's brat likes don't make no difference. Ye go now, for the tracks get dark about five."

"I have my horse at the top of the hill," replied Young, confusedly.

The sensation from the moist lips upon his flesh prompted him for one brief moment to take the girl to him. He was filled with a strange desire to force this rude shanty maid from her surroundings and place her in another life with him.



CHAPTER XXVI

That night, as Tessibel slept and dreamed of Frederick, another girl waited for her lover. Teola Graves watched for the approach of Dan Jordan with strange emotions. When he was with her, his great strength and constant assurances that everything would go rightly with them gave the girl courage and confidence. But in the night-watches, when youthful sleep refused to come, she was afraid—afraid!

She stood just outside the door, upon the veranda, shrinking from the raw winter wind. Relievedly she noticed Dan's tall form, when he swung around the corner.

"You should not stand in the night wind, dear," Dan chided, gently kissing her. "There! now, I have come for a good chat. Teola, do not look so sad—please."

The little drawing-room in the Rectory was partially dark when they seated themselves on the divan.

"I am so unhappy Dan; so different from what I used to be. Then, life was sweet and I was glad to live—"

"But you don't want to be dead now, sweetheart!—Think of it, Teola. When I shall have finished college, I shall be of age. We will go away from Ithaca, and no one will ever know—"

"But we shall know, Dan. If I had only been a good girl!"

Dan was visibly moved.

"Let's make a bargain," said he suddenly. "To-night we won't talk of anything but the pleasantest of things. I have something funny to tell you."

"I have something to tell you, too," breathed Teola.

"Is it pleasant?" demanded the boy, bending and forcing the lowered eyes to his.

Teola shook her head.

"Then we will leave it until to-morrow," he exclaimed. "I'll tell you my news. Shorts, Spuddy and Swipes are in disgrace at the fraternity. If Shorts would keep away from those other two fellows, he might get through college. It was really their fault Frederick was stolen."

"What have they done now?" asked Teola listlessly. She had little interest in the boys of the society, for, nestled close to her heart, was a secret she could not forget. She had a realization that something unusual had fallen upon her of which she was afraid.

"Well, you see," explained Dan, "there is a comic opera playing here. This afternoon, Swipes, Shorts and Spuddy took some of the chorus girls to the house, when the other fellows were away. They might have known the officers would have found it out. Sure enough, they did! The little rascals were all drunk on champagne, and the girls had to be sent to their hotels in carriages. The kids received a great beating, let me tell you. They are all in bed, in the cupola prison rooms, trying to get over big heads."

Teola wanted to smile, to be happy, but the smiles refused to come. Dan turned the subject.

"Haven't they gathered a deal of money for Skinner?"

Teola nodded, and presently responded,

"Yes, and father thinks it is so strange. Mrs. Hall and Professor Young were at the bottom of the plan. They think the Skinner girl is a great marvel. I, too, think she is beautiful—and so does Frederick."

"She has a lot of courage," mused Dan, thinking of the girl who had rescued the class president from the hands of his enemies. Teola knew nothing of this episode, for Frederick had asked him to be silent upon it.

"Your father does not wish the man liberated?" The question in Dan's voice brought a flush to Teola's pale face.

"No; he thinks the tribe is a menace to the town, and he is sure the man is guilty. They do tell dreadful things of them, and I can't help but believe some of the tales, although I feel sorry for the girl. But her coming to the toffy pull that night made a great deal of trouble for brother and me."

"So I supposed. But I love you, Teola, for the manner in which you treated her."

Teola straightened herself from her lover's arms, and was about to speak. She would tell him, then, tell him her secret—tell all the fears that weighed upon her heart, as if they were loaded with lead. He would comfort, and tell her not to worry—cheer her, until she could smile again and be happy.

* * * * *

Shorts, Swipes and Spuddy had broken the laws of the fraternity. Rather than suffer the disgrace of leaving it, they had elected a severe punishment.

"I'd rather be cut to pieces, boys," Swipes hiccoughed, turning upon the grave seniors, "than let my mother know what a beast I've been. Go ahead and lick!"

Afterward, the three little freshmen slunk to the rooms in the top of the Society house, which were kept ready for young men whom the officers reprimanded. They had been ordered to bed for three days, and were thankful that the punishment had been no worse than it was.

Swipes demanded a cigarette.

"Go to sleep," ordered Shorts. "It was all your fault in the beginning, and you're drunk."

"No such thing! I couldn't haul a whole bunch of girls up here alone, could I, if I'm drunk! Could I, now? I wish there wasn't any such a being in the world as a woman.... They bring heaps of trouble on us poor men."

Saying this, Swipes tumbled into bed, and sank into a stupor.

* * * * *

The cry of "Fire!" rang out upon the night air, startling Dan Jordan and Teola Graves. The volunteer fire companies were gathering from all parts of the town, and Dan stepped on to the Rectory veranda as a hose-cart rolled by. In an instant he was back in the drawing-room.

"Sweetheart, sweetheart," said he, with a strangling kiss upon Teola's pale lips, "I am sure it's our fraternity house. I must go, dear. I must, I must!"

He pressed her to him again, bounded through the door and was gone.

"Dan! Dan!" exclaimed Teola. "Dan, come back! I have something to tell you ... I'm so—afraid—so afraid!"

* * * * *

Teola stood watching the yellow flames kiss the sky. The whole campus gleamed under the lurid glare of the fraternity fire; the light in the heavens told her that it was no ordinary conflagration.

Until the day of her death she would not forget that night. She was longing to hear one word from Dan or Frederick. Her world seemed charged with hideous forces hitherto unfelt. Teola sickened, and waited. If Dan would only come back!

* * * * *

The very moment after he had fallen asleep, it seemed to Swipes, Shorts was pulling him out of bed, and the room was full of smoke. Spuddy was sleeping in the next chamber, and the first sound came to him in a haze-like dream. He thought he heard a roar of thunder, and rain descending upon the roof. Never mind. He was safe in bed, and had just escaped expulsion from his fraternity. As he rubbed his aching head, a dazed resolution took form in his brain. He would never get drunk again—never—never! Then the fumes of the wine brought visions of bright-colored dresses, of pretty faces and tender loving arms, such as his father had told him to beware of. He would toss such joys from him, if it brought him—Spuddy groaned, turned in bed, and tried to wake up. But to wake up was to realize his disgrace. He groaned again, a sharp pain ripping through his head. He heard the sound of voices—he was dreaming, of course; the wine floated fantastic visions again through his misty brain, relieving it of the effort of thinking. Then Shorts' voice rang in his ear.

"For the love of God, Spud, get up! The house is on fire, and we're boxed in this cupola like rats in a trap."

Spuddy sprang out of bed. The thunder he had dreamed of was the roar of the fire in the walls of the great house. The rain descending on the roof was the water being thrown from the long fire-hose. A strong stream of ice-cold water suddenly broke the window, driving Swipes against the wall. He whimpered drunkenly.

"Plagued fire! 'Course the house had to burn down on a night like this!"

Screams and cries from the crazed mob below came up to the boys through the broken pane. The water ceased its flow, and Shorts, the most sober of the three, crept to the opening. Spuddy had crawled back to bed. Far beneath him, Shorts could see his fraternity brothers running wildly to and fro, frantically waving their arms to him. He could hear orders given in loud tones, and recognized the voices of Frederick Graves and Dan Jordan. It all flashed upon Shorts in a moment how greatly he and his chums were to blame for the disaster, for the fire must have started in the dining-room. He thrust his head through the lurid gleam to attract attention, and saw the men and boys in the yard bringing ladders to rescue them. Now they were splicing them together, to make it possible to reach the great height. Shorts made quick resolves.... If he lived.... He turned with a groan, and dragged Spuddy from the bed to the open window.

"Stay there, and be ready, if you don't want to die," he commanded curtly.

Shorts saw the ladder rear upward, and a form dart from the shadows. Dan Jordan was coming, hand over hand, toward him, the long ladder creaking under his weight. Jordan's face appeared at the opening.

"Come out here," he commanded Shorts.

Shorts pushed Spuddy forward.

"Take him first, Captain," he said, with a twist in his voice. "He's drunk."

Spuddy hung limp on the window-sill for an instant, and was then gathered into Dan's long arms. Shorts' bleared eyes saw the little chap handed safely to the earth, and the ladder again creaked under the upward steps of the big freshman. Shorts pushed Swipes toward the window as Dan called his name.... Now he was alone, and he leaned as far out as he could.

"God! God!" he groaned. "The Captain's face is scorched brown.... God! dear God, bless him!"

The crowds below were sending up cheer after cheer; myriads of sparks shot rocket-like high into the air, dying in the snow as they fell. Streams of water poured into the flaming windows. Jordan was coming up again.

"Come out, Shorts," he heard Dan say, and he clambered over the sill.

"Slip into my arms, old man," the deep voice persuaded. "Come, now; let go.... There, hang limper.... You're heavier than the others."

He felt Dan take a downward step, and his head whirled around and around. They passed window after window, Shorts being carefully held under Dan's arm. Flames licked at them greedily, touching and shriveling their flesh. Smoke choked their nostrils cruelly. Shorts could feel the trembling of Dan's body, as his burned fingers grasped each rung of the ladder. To his mind the figures below looked like goblins dancing in the light.

Suddenly, midway to the ground, the ladder creaked and groaned hideously. Jordan halted.

"The ladder is bending, Shorts," he breathed hoarsely. He did not finish his sentence, but shouted,

"Catch him!"

Little Brown shot into the air like a rubber ball.... A crashing sound broke over the silent, gaping throng below. Then a giant form turned twice in the air, shooting downward like a stone from a sling.... The crowd parted, and Dan Jordan struck the frozen ground. His fraternity brothers lifted up the unconscious boy, and the great roof above, with a sickening din, sank into the fire.

The bitter frost hardened the streams of water pouring from holes in the burning house into ropes of ice. Toward morning, the fire died, leaving the huge frame, like an ice-covered palace, looming darkly against the college hill.

* * * * *

In another fraternity house, Shorts was in bed, face and hands swathed in bandages. Swipes and Spuddy, tear-stained and pale, stood by the door, waiting.

"If only they would come and tell us something!" moaned Spuddy. "Boys, if the Captain goes, I'm done for."

"We'll make it all right with him," came hopefully from Shorts. "He can't die, fellows! He's as strong as a horse. If he hadn't thrown me out into that snow pile, I would have been crushed under him. I'll never forget that in all my life," he finished, with a shudder.

"Gad, but he looked dead when they picked him up," said Swipes in despair. "I'm done for, too, if—if.... Here comes some one! It's Teddy!"

He stepped aside, and Manchester, entering deliberately, closed the door. Then he sat down dazedly.

"He's gone, boys. The Captain's gone." The words came in a stammer through pressed lips.

"I wish it had been I," muttered Swipes brokenly, when they were alone again. "It was all my fault." He burst into a wild sobbing. "I'd give my very life to have heard—the Captain—say he had forgiven me."

"I was more to blame than you were," replied Spuddy. "My mother.... God! look at that sun!"

Bright rays slanted golden through the window upon the three woful little freshmen who had ruined the "Cranium" Society.



CHAPTER XXVII

One day in the following July, Tessibel was going to Mrs. Longman's hut, with a list of Bible words she did not understand. She stopped at the edge of the forest, and listened to a curious sobbing sound she thought issued from beyond the gorge. Then, thinking herself mistaken, she ran nimbly on, avoiding the long thorns that lay in her path. The noise came more distinctly through the clear air, making the squatter girl lift her head and pause again. There was no mistake this time.

"It ain't no pup," she said aloud, "'cause a pup don't snivel like that."

Raising the red head, she tore long threads of hair loose from the briars, and, drawing the masses of curls about her shoulders, broke into the opening of the forest. Some one was crying, and any sign of suffering brought an immediate response from Tess. It might be Myra, or it might be some little lost child. Spurred on by sympathy, she bounded over a bed of dead chestnut burrs, waded through the water to the other side of the creek, and struggled up the rocks.

Teola Graves, crouched in an attitude of suffering and despair, was seated on the gnarled root of a huge tree. Tessibel watched her for an instant. Here was a holy personage to the squatter, touched with the finger of the mysterious God the student worshiped. And was she not the sister of Frederick, and had not Teola given her coffee from her own cup that winter night? Tessibel had not spoken to the minister's daughter since her father had been taken away to Auburn, and some of the intensity Tess had felt upon that one great day of her life came back to her as she stood hesitant, watching the student's sister.

Perhaps the girl was weeping for some pleasure denied her—perhaps for a jewel to wear about her neck. She went forward impulsively, and laid her hand upon the rounded shoulder.

"What be ye blattin' over?" she stammered, with a tinge of awe in her voice.

Teola struggled to her feet, suppressing her grief. The question stopped the flow of tears, and the two girls, so differently situated, the one the daughter of an eminent minister, and the other a squatter, wonderingly eyed each other.

"I thought I was alone," was Teola's answer.

"So ye was," replied Tess. "I heard ye cryin' from the lower ledge of the rocks. What air the matter?"

Infinite pity and tenderness in the coarse words, spoken in a sweet, persuasive voice, brought a fresh burst of tears from Teola.

"I'm—I'm ill to-day."

"Ye'll be all right to-morry.... 'T'ain't much, air it?"

"It is very much to me," whispered Teola. "I'm so lonely, and so afraid!"

Tessibel sat silently down beside the other girl, twining one arm about the twisted root of the tree. She was used to sorrow, used to watching the agony of human souls without hope. A bird in the top of the tree above them sent a plaintive note into the hot air. Another answered from the forest, and Tessibel raised her head and saw a scarlet bird take wing and disappear into the branches of the wood trees.

She waited for Teola to speak, but at last, seeing there was no cessation of tears, she leaned over and touched her.

"Be ye lonely for yer ma?" she murmured.

Teola shook her head in the negative.

"Then for yer pa?"

"No!"

Ah! Tess had forgotten. Had she not seen Frederick go away weeks before, in a boat filled with pots and kettles and food for a camping expedition? Had he not smiled at her brightly as she passed him on her way to the fish line? She could remember the tense feeling in her throat, and felt again the hot blood rushing madly into her face. Of course, the girl was weeping for her brother!

"Then air ye blattin' for the student?"

She could scarcely utter the last word, scarcely let Teola hear her voice use that beloved name.

"Yes, I was crying for him," replied Teola. "He is dead, you know."

For one instant Tess thought the world had lost its sun. Her face creased into lines, which tightened rope-like under the tanned skin. How could Frederick have died, and she not have known? She rose unsteadily to her feet, uttering one grunt significant of her suffering.

"Were he drowned?" she asked, in a voice so pained that Teola raised her head and looked at her. She did not understand the meaning of the whitened lips nor of the tense drawing-down of the long red-brown eyes.

"No," she replied slowly, "he was killed in the fire on the hill last winter."

The muscles relaxed in the squatter's face. Her legs refused to bear the slender body, and Tessibel dropped again at Teola's side. The kiss she had cherished burned hot upon her lips. Her student lived. The minister's daughter cried for the other one, for him who had called her Miss Skinner, and who afterward helped her smuggle Frederick into the opera-house.

"Why! he air been dead a long time, ain't he?"

"Yes; six months."

"And ye air a-lovin' him yet?"

"Yes."

"But he air dead," philosophized Tess. "He ain't with no other girl."

Teola shivered violently.

"Oh, I know that; I know that. But I—I need him. I want him so!"

"But he air dead," said Tess again steadily.

For many minutes neither spoke. For Teola's new burst of agony settled a solemnity upon Tess which she could not throw off. Forgetting her squatter position, she slipped her hand between the white fingers of the weeper. Teola did not care if the girl's finger-nails were filled with black soot, did not care if the squatter were covered with a dirty, ragged dress, or if her bare feet were calloused from the rocks. Tess was a human being who sympathized with her, and sympathy was as necessary to Teola's soul at that moment as breath was to her body. In the spasmodic whitening of the other girl's face Tess realized a desperate heart agony.



"Ye air sick," she said at last, an enlightened expression widening her lids. "A woman's kind of sick, ain't it? Eh?"

"Yes," answered Teola, flushing deeply; "yes."

"Then ye air a-comin' home with me to the shanty." Tess muttered this in a sly voice, almost in a whisper.

Teola raised her glance, and read in the eyes bent upon her that her whole secret was known. Tessibel Skinner, her father's foe, the daughter of a murderer, was helping her to her feet.

"I'm too sick to walk," she wept, in a barely audible voice. "I tried to throw myself from the rocks, over there, but the water was so silent, blue and terrible, that I couldn't."

"Ye be comin' with me," insisted Tess stolidly.

She was urging her forward, holding Teola by both arms.

"I can't! I can't! Leave me here—I am so ill! I am going to die!"

"Ye air to come," commanded Tess. "And, if ye will, I'll lug ye when ye can't walk. Women like ye don't die, and Mother Moll will come to the hut to-day."

"Mother Moll!" echoed Teola. "Mother Moll! Oh, you mean the witch? And will she—oh, will she help me so they will never know?"

"Yep. And now shut up. Ye air a woman, and was borned for things like this. If ye walks a spell, then I lugs ye across the gully."

"And my father and mother—"

"Shut up, I says," ordered Tess. "It ain't no time to think of fathers and mothers. They don't know nothin' about it, does they?"

"No," said Teola. "They have been in Europe with my little sister for nearly four months. I've been alone all summer, with Rebecca, our maid, and Frederick, my brother—"

Her lips closed over a moan of pain, and she did not continue her sentence.

Through the forest, over the gullies, and down toward the Skinner hut the two girls went slowly, Teola whimpering in her agony of soul, and Tess carrying her when she could not walk. Only once did Tessibel stop.

"Hold a minute," she said gruffly, releasing Teola. "One of the dum thorns went clean through my toe.... It air out now.... Come along! What does I care, if it does bleed!"

Teola drew a sigh of relief when they crept under the willow tree. The hut was in its usual dirty condition, the Bible in the accustomed place on the stool. The suffering girl did not notice that the table was littered with the remains of the dinner, and Tess put her in Daddy's bed, and said, with a compelling, forceful glance:

"Ye air to stay there till I gets back.... And remember we air a woman, and women, when they loves men, keep their mouths shet.... Even if their man air dead.... Ye won't let anyone hear ye a-yelpin' while I air gone, will ye?"

"No, no! Go quickly, Tessibel," murmured Teola. "Go quickly!"

This time the briars and thorns pierced the squatter's bare feet without avail. Tess was rushing away upon an errand of love. Was she not perhaps saving the sister of the student from death—keeping from him a knowledge that would rend his heart? Since that night when Daddy Skinner had been taken to prison, Tess had but once visited Mother Moll. In her impatience, she did not wait to reach the hut.

"Mother Moll!" she shouted, bounding across the gully. "Come out! Tess air here!"

"Come in," commanded a cracked voice.

Tessibel entered the shanty, finding Mother Moll stretched out on the bed, with a corn-cob pipe between her shriveled lips.

"Get up from there, Ma Moll," ordered Tess, "and come to my hut. I wants ye."

"It air too hot," muttered the witch. "I ain't a-movin' from the bed to-day."

Tessibel bent over the wrinkled face, and looked determinedly into the blood-shot eyes.

"I got someone what air sick," she exclaimed, grasping the hag's arm forcibly. "Ye air to come with me.... See? And if ye does come, I gives ye a mess of eels every week for a year—and more'n that. I'll pick yer berries from yer own patch, if ye can't pick them yerself."

"Who air a-ailin'?" asked the old woman, crawling out of bed.

"Never mind. Come along."

It was a strange couple, forging the gorges and gullies, pushing aside the brambles to the lane almost opposite Minister Graves' home. In the summer's quietude, the squatter girl could mark the long chairs on the Dominie's front porch, and the hammock sagging from the hooks in the corner. No one saw the witch and Tessibel enter the hut; no one heard the girl slip the night lock into its fastening. Teola, frightened and miserable, raised her head, and looked once at Mother Moll, then dropped it again.



CHAPTER XXVIII

Dusk had fallen over the lake, closing the shanty within the shadows of the weeping willows. Mother Moll had departed before sunset. Tessibel had four candles streaming their twinkling light upon the bare floor of the hut, and was busying herself at the stove. A voice from the bed faintly whispered:

"Did you tell Rebecca what I told you to? Tell me again what you said to her."

"I telled that ye was to stay to-night with a girl below the ragged rocks, and she didn't give a dum. She air only a workin' girl; she ain't yer own flesh and blood."

"And the baby, Tessibel? May I see my baby?"

"Nope, not to-night."

"Please, Tessibel! Please! Are his eyes grey, and has he dark hair on his head?"

"If ye don't shut up, I takes the brat to Ma Moll.... Now, then, drink this tea, and eat this bread. To-morry ye has to go home, ye know."

"But my baby, Tess! What shall I do about my baby?"

The nervous whining in Teola's voice brought Tess over to her. The squatter forced the soiled blanket over the young shoulders.

"If ye sleeps to-night, I tells ye in the mornin' about the brat.... Sleep, now."

For more than an hour Tessibel sat with Teola Graves' baby clasped tightly in her arms, moving back and forth silently in the wooden rocker. A broken board squeaked now and then under the girl's weight, but she slipped the chair into other positions, and rocked on.

She marveled at the child born but that afternoon. The eyes were large and grey. Locks of damp hair fell over a wrinkled, broad brow, giving the infant the expression of an old, old man. In the light Tess could mark every feature. She had never seen a babe so small, and so sickly-looking. She ran her fingers over the right cheek, tenderly, rubbing down a livid mark that extended from the dark hair to the upper part of the breast. It was the birth-mark of fire, red and gleaming crimson as the brightest blood, and it had been because of this mark that Tess had refused the young mother's request to see her child. Perhaps in the morning it would be gone. If not, Teola would be stronger and better able to bear the shock. After wrapping the infant closely in a warm cloth, Tess took it in her arms, and laid herself down beside Teola; and the trio slept as all youth sleeps, until the morning sun had been shining long in the window.

* * * * *

"Be ye better now?" asked Tess, trying to stand Teola on her feet.

"I am dreadfully ill yet," was the whispered answer. "But I want to see my baby.... And what shall I do with him? Oh, what shall I do?"

"He air a-sleepin' now," replied the squatter. "And he stays here with me, ye hear? Ye can't take him to yer pa's house, and the hut air good enough for him to live in, if it was good enough for him to be borned in."

"You mean, Tessibel, that you will care for my baby, until I can arrange something for him?—So that my father and mother may not know—"

"Er the student," broke in Tess.

"My brother! Tess, my brother Frederick! He must not know. It would kill him—and me. You, Tess,—you swear that you won't tell him?"

"I ain't a-tellin' him nothin'. I swears it, ye hear? I swears I won't tell the student nothin' about the little kid."

"Of course you won't," answered Teola weakly. "I trust you, Tessibel."

There was a deep questioning in the squatter girl's eyes as they rested upon the quiet bundle on the foot of the bed. How could a mother leave her child in the care of a stranger?—leave him in a squatter's hut, where the rats scurried hungrily about the floor, and the bats fluttered among the ceiling rafters!

"Don't look like that, Tessibel!" Teola burst in. "You understand, don't you, that I can't tell them?—that I can't take him home? My brother loves me better than any other person in the world, and I love him as much as he does me."

The blood suffused the drawn face to the hair line.

"And I want to see my baby before I go," she pleaded.

Tess shook her shoulders, and hesitated awkwardly.

"He air to sleep.... And ye ain't no business a-wakin' him up, nuther."

Suddenly a dread flashed into Teola's mind.

"Tessibel, he is.... There is something the matter with him!" She was fully dressed, tremblingly holding the post of the bed for support. "There is something the matter with him!" she gasped again.

"Nothin' that air a-hurtin' him," soothed Tess. "He air marked with the fire what killed his pa, that air all.... See, t'ain't much."

She lifted the babe from the bed and held him up. The covering dropped from the shoulder, exposing the brilliant scar.

"Not much," moaned Teola. "Not much! Poor little baby Dan!"

The mark gleamed out on the wizened old face, the deep veins in the thin skin showing darkly. To Tess it looked more horrible than in the night before. But she had to reassure the mother—the little mother who, before that year, had never known one twinge of agony.

"It sure goes away sometime," said Tess.

Teola took the infant in her arms for a moment only. Moving the child caused the large grey eyes to open, the mouth widening into a yawn.

"Take him, Tess!" mourned the mother. "Oh, I—I want to die. Dear God! Dear, good God! Dan!... Dan, I want to come to you!"

In the presence of such grief Tessibel was silent.

She covered the infant again, and for some minutes she sat by the bed, with her fingers tightly pressed in those of Teola. It was a tragedy with which Tess could not cope. So she remained there until Teola cried herself into a quietude that left an expression of wonder, knowledge and sorrow. As Tess led her up the hill to the minister's cottage, she saw that tears would come no more; that the mother would never know the emotions of a girl again. Teola resembled the squatter, Myra, with her pain-drawn face.

"She falled from the rocks," glibly lied Tess, as Rebecca placed the pale girl in a chair. "Better put her in bed.... She has a bad ankle.... She couldn't walk much."

The frightened maid quickly responded to the advice of the squatter.

"She found me," pleaded Teola, "and you will let her come once in a while to see me?"

Rebecca hesitated.

"Your mother and father—"

"They are not here yet, and I am so lonely and ill. Let Tessibel come once in a while!"

"I have my doubts," said the maid, and she followed Tess down the long stairs, just to see that the fisher-girl did not steal anything. Let that dirty squatter come into a minister's home! No, not again, vowed Rebecca inwardly. It was only the girl's duty to save a human being from a fall over the rocks. Tess turned and faced the woman when they were alone.

"I air a-comin' again," she said slyly, "and I ain't one what tells that ye slides from the house every night to the lake with Deacon Hall's coachman, I ain't. I has a tongue in my head, I has, but it ain't a-waggin' 'bout no coachman and yerself."

Tess saw instantly that her point was gained. That anyone had seen her meet the man by the light of the summer's moon had never entered Rebecca's head for one moment.

"And I don't steal from the minister's house, nuther," assured Tess, with a smile. "I brings ye some berries to-morry, and gives them to ye. And ye can keep the Dominie's money for a rag of a ribbon to light the coachman's eyes with."

She smiled again, and left Rebecca, with wide-open mouth, gaping after the scurrying figure.

In the hut Tessibel lifted the blanket from the scarred face, and contemplated it earnestly. She had forgotten all save the babe and the student. She knew that the Longman brat had sugar rags—she had arranged them herself many a time. Tearing a piece from the cloth that was wrapped about the child, she went to the shore, and washed it clean in the blue lake water. Filling it with bread and a liberal amount of sugar, Tessibel soaked it in some warm milk, and put the sop-rag into the small, gaping mouth. She must make a place for him to sleep during his stay in the shanty. Daddy would not need all the old coats hanging about the wall, and the blankets were longer than was necessary. From the back of the stove the squatter dragged a small box, and turned the splinters of wood into the fire. This, too, she washed in the lake, setting it in the sun to dry. From one of the hooks among the rafters she took a large-sized grape-basket, which also received its cleansing treatment. After a bit of blanket had been cut from those on Skinner's bed, Tess slipped the infant into the basket, to see if it were long enough. The tiny feet did mot reach the bottom.

"Ye air to sleep many a day in it," she said aloud, "for yer legs ain't as big as a rabbit's, and yer face ain't any beautifuller than Ma Moll's.... But ye air a livin' and that air somethin'."

Hardly had she got the words from her lips and fitted the cover securely before the door opened, and Ezra Longman stepped into the hut. Tessibel's clear hearing could detect an unmistakable smack from the babe.

"What did ye come for, Ezy?" she asked. "Air Myry all right, and yer ma?"

"Yep. I come to see ye to-day. Ben Letts says as how ye air a-goin' to marry him some time. Did ye tell him that?"

"Did he tell yer that?" asked Tess, instead of answering the boy's question.

"Nope. Jake Brewer says as how Ben telled him one night that when yer daddy air dead ye air goin' to his shanty. Ye ain't, air ye, Tess?" The pale eyes of the young squatter boy darkened under the emotion that rose in his breast. He looked at the girl he had loved since she had taken her first step. Every wicked act he had committed he laid fretfully at the door of her refusal to marry him.

Tessibel watched Ezra, waiting for him to speak again. She feared the child would cry out—feared that the dark secret of the improvised cradle would get into the hands of her enemies.

"Daddy ain't a-goin' to die," she said, quietly giving the grape-basket a touch with her foot, and deftly shoving it under the bed. Another smack told her that the infant was awake.

"And, what air more, Ezy, I ain't a-goin' to marry Ben Letts, or nobody else, for a lot of years.... I air a-goin' to wait here for Daddy."

"And if yer Daddy goes dead?" inquired Ezra longingly.

"If he goes dead," she interrupted, lifting her unfathomable eyes, "if he air hanged, then I comes to the Longman shanty and marries yer.... Now go, dum quick!"

She had quieted one of her enemies with a promise which she would never be forced to keep. For was not the student's God going to save Daddy Skinner? And wasn't she going to Auburn prison to see him? That clean skirt in the corner, washed and dried in the sun, Tess was going to wear. She was going with the great man from the hill. Suddenly came the thought of the babe. With whom could she leave it? Her face whitened with grief.... Of course she could not go now.

She turned again to Ezra, who was loitering at the door.

"Ye go now, Ezy, and tell Myra I ain't a-comin' this evenin', and I hopes her brat won't be yelping too much."

* * * * *

The next day Tess appeared at the back of the minister's cottage, with a basket slung over her arm. Rebecca ushered her up the stairs to the pretty blue room. Teola moved her head languidly, but, recognizing her visitor, brightened a little.

"I am so glad you came. Tell me how he is.... I have nearly died to see him."

"He air well. Have ye had a doctor?"

"Yes, and I have told him all about it, for I was so sick. I told him about you, and he ordered Rebecca to let you come and see me. He is a friend of my father's, and will never tell anyone."

Tess walked to the door, and listened; then laid her finger on her lips. She raised the basket from the floor, slipped back the cover, and Teola Graves was peeping in upon a tiny sleeping face.

"He air a-goin' with me wherever I has to go.... I ain't a-comin' here again with him, fearin' some one will know.... I think ye be happier, now that ye hes seen his bed—eh? Now I air a-goin', and when ye gets well ye can come to the hut to see him. He air gettin' powerful hungry. He can smack louder than a dog can holler.... Poor little devil!"

That night, a small figure left the Skinner shanty bent upon an act of theft. Up through the lane to the tracks, with a small pail in her hand, Tessibel went. The brindle bull capered about her as she slid through the wires. Without the slightest compunction, Tessibel returned to the shanty with the warm milk which she had taken from one of the fine cows at Kennedy's; then by the light of the candle she filled the tin cup, and warmed it over the fire. This, too, would have to be sweetened. Spoonful after spoonful she emptied into the smacking lips, and, when the babe slept, Tess placed it under the blankets, and took up the Bible to read of the promises of the student's God.



CHAPTER XXIX

During the illness of Teola, Tessibel had forgotten that she had promised Professor Young she would come some morning to his office in Morril Hall on the hill. Two weeks after the birth of the baby, Tess filled his small stomach with warm milk, shoved the sugar rag into his mouth, hung the child's bed over her arm, and made off toward the tracks. The sun was far in the heavens before she stopped at the building in which Deforest Young had his office. He was looking from the window, and saw her glance about hastily, settling the cover to her basket a little closer.

"That child will be my ruination," he muttered, seating himself at the desk. "She affects me so strangely that I can't get her out of my mind. To bring her to a place of safety.... But what can I do? She won't let me help her!"

The thought of Frederick Graves came over him with torture. Was it possible for her to love a lad who could not, and did not aid her? If he could but guide the girl, he would know who her companions were. Tessibel stood in the door, the red curls covering the burden upon her arm—one would have thought it was purposely done, if she had not placed it carefully in the corner. She awkwardly seated herself in the chair Young had placed for her near him.

"I thought you were never coming," said he. "I have been looking for you for many days."

"I were a comin', but I couldn't.... And I can't go with ye to see Daddy."

Her eyes filled with tears, but she hastily wiped them away with her sleeve.

"Of course you are going," replied the professor. "I suppose you think you can't go in with bare feet. But I will get you a pair of shoes."

"I could get a pair good 'nough for a squatter," Tess assured him, "but I can't go."

"Why?"

"'Cause I can't! I has somethin' to do."

"Can't you do it after you return? Your father will be so disappointed if you do not go to him when you have promised."

He was gazing at her keenly. Her eyes dropped upon her folded hands in her lap.

"I knows that," she breathed, "but I can't go, just the same."

Young did not persist in the argument.

"It is almost a certainty that your father will get another trial," he went on presently. "I shall act as his lawyer, and, little girl, when the snow flies again, your father will be home in the cabin with you."

She flashed him a radiant smile through the tears which still clung to her lashes. He loved to watch the color coming and going swiftly, and the glints thrown into her eyes by the sun.

"It air the student's God what will bring him." She bent eagerly toward him, with a quick motion. "Be ye one of the prayin' kind what tells God all ye needs? Daddy would have been a-hung by the neck till he was dead, only the student telled me how to pray and he air a-prayin', too."

She finished the sentence in a low tone. Young leaned back in his chair, grasping at the arms to hide his emotion. The girl was so close to him that he could feel her warm, swift-coming breath upon his face. How long would he have to suffer over this primitive child? But he loved her, and the only course left him was to snatch her from young Graves while there was opportunity to see her now and then. Her brown eyes were piercing his very soul. The childish excitement upon the upturned face almost tempted him to force her into his arms, to awaken the soul beneath the soiled jacket, to make the girl into a woman in spite of her environment.

"You are still determined to live in the hut?" he said, after clearing his throat, and overlooking her question.

"Yep, till Daddy comes home. And then I's a-goin' to make him get offen that land, 'cause it ain't his'n. It air Minister Graves'."

"But your father has his squatter's right," put in the lawyer, feeling that he was giving the student less chance if he said this. "No one can take the place from him."

"He ain't got no right there," she insisted again, "'cause I asks the student, and he says as how Daddy can have the ground by the law, but that it air a-belongin' to his pappy."

Her face was perfectly grave and serious, and she spoke slowly.

Would the name of Frederick Graves always be flaunted in his face? Deforest Young believed that he was beginning to hate the boy. Suddenly he leaned over, and touched the bell. It pealed loudly through the building. Tess sat up. The bell disturbed her, and she cast her eye upon the basket, with a shifting, darting glance. The janitor appeared at the door.

"Hyram," said Young, "could you find a vessel which would hold berries or fish? I would like to take some home with me."

"I ain't got no fish nor berries," said Tess, rising with a burning blush.

"Then what have you in your basket?" asked the lawyer, getting up also. "Child, you need not feel badly over the money I give you for the food you sell." He was standing beside her when his eyes fell upon the waiting janitor. "Never mind, Hyram," he exclaimed, "Miss Tessibel says she hasn't anything to sell."

Hyram closed the door before Young spoke again.

"Why won't you let me help you, poor little girl?"

Tess stepped between the professor and the babe, lifting the child's bed in one hand.

"I ain't got nothin' to-day," she muttered sullenly. "And when I says I ain't got nothin', I ain't."

"Then why did you bring that with you?" insisted Young, with a motion of his hand. "It is certainly heavy, or you would not have laid it down so carefully.... Child, if you won't let me give you anything, please allow me to buy the food which you work so hard to get."

His hand fell upon the handle of the grape-basket, but Tessibel's remained obstinately on the other side.

"I's a-wantin' ye to help Daddy Skinner," she whispered, with drooping lids. "I don't need no help."

At that moment a wail from the infant startled them both. Professor Young's hand dropped as if it had been struck. Tess only grasped the basket more firmly. Her secret was out. Without a word, she slipped the cover from the child's face, and pushed the sugar rag into its mouth.

"Ye can see it ain't no fish," she said stolidly.

"A child!" murmured Young. "Where did you get that baby, Tessibel Skinner?"

"He air a little bloke without no one to take care of him, and I has him in the basket—that's all."

It seemed for a long time to the man that his brain would burn from the fire kindled in his heart. The sight of the marked baby horrified him, but he took the basket from her hands, and placed her forcibly in a chair. Tess allowed him to do so without speaking.

Young set his teeth fiercely.

"Tessibel Skinner, do you want to save your father—from hanging?"

"Yep," she answered, her eyes roving toward the babe.

"Then listen to me. Is that child yours?"

Her glance sought his for a twinkling, as if she thought he had lost his mind.

She shook her head.

"Nope."

She was not disloyal to Teola in saying this.

"I have offered you all the help a man can give to another human being." Here his voice broke a little. "All I have offered to do for you, you have refused. Now, if you want me to continue to help your father, you are to tell me whose child it is."

Before the vivid mind of the girl rose the handsome, manly face of the student. Her labor for the child and its mother had been wholly for Frederick's sake—not for anything in the world would she have consented to do what she had done, if it had not been to save him pain.

"Well, 'tain't mine," she drawled after a time, "and it ain't belonging to anyone ye know. It air only a brat what ain't nothin' but a grape-basket to sleep in. And now ye says that if I wants my Daddy saved from the rope, I must tell yer whose it air. I says it ain't mine. And I says as how ye knows a new little bloke when ye sees one. Here it air! And if ye don't know that it ain't mine, then ye air a bigger fool lawyer than I thinks ye air."

She was speaking rapidly, and had again slipped the cover from the babe, lifting it from its bed. The fire scar was uppermost, and the loud smacking of the half-naked child caused the man to sink into his seat. The blood-red cheeks of the squatter denoted perfect health. The eyes were wide, confiding and entreating. Young held out his hands and took it from her. Then, for the second time in her life, Tess noted emotion in a man. Once in Daddy Skinner, in the jail—she had given way before it. And now in the strong friend of her father, who laid his face on the body of the infant, and sobbed.

In an instant Tess was on her knees before him.

"Air ye a-blattin' 'cause ye thinks it air my brat? Aw, ye knows it ain't. Ye knows I air but a-takin' care of it till its ma can. If I swears by the student's God, will ye believe?"

Young rose, white and nervous, from his chair. With tender fingers he placed the little one in the receptacle, set the rag securely between its lips, and turned to Tess.

"I believe you, child," he said wearily. "I thought at first—oh, it was an awful thought for me ... because I love you, Tessibel."

Tess blinked her eyes as if she were looking into a powerful sun. The strong form of the lawyer was bending over her. She lifted her face to his, not realizing the greatness of his love. She only knew that he was her friend—Daddy's friend. She grasped his hands in hers, kissed them tearfully, and took up the basket.

"I were a-goin' with ye on Thursday, but I can't now. Thank ye for believin' me, and I'll work as hard as ye says I must, and if I air a bad brat, then I air sorry."

She had gone out, crying bitterly, before he could say another word; but a happier feeling was in his heart than had been for many weeks. She had promised to work, and in that promise had failed, for the first time, to utter the name of Frederick Graves.

* * * * *

"Tess air a-gettin' stylish," said Mrs. Longman, rattling the newspaper one Sunday morning. "Her name air right here, in print."

"What do it say, Mammy?" asked Ezra, lighting his pipe with a piece of burning paper.

"As how Tessie air a-goin' to see her Daddy, with the big man on the hill."

Ben Letts shoved his big boots from one side to the other, plainly disturbed by the news.

"Folks on the hill air a-doin' better if they minds their own business, I air a-sayin'," grumbled he. "There ain't no reason why Orn Skinner can't go dead, like other squatters has before him."

His red bandana handkerchief sought the blurred blue eye. A pair of pale gray ones from above the smoking pipe of Ezra Longman settled upon Ben Lett's face, with a tightening of the thick lids.

"Tessibel air so sure that her father air innocent that I hopes they prove it," Myra Longman said, trundling her babe to and fro, in the huge wooden rocker.

"There be some folks as knows more than they'll tell," put in Ezra, keeping his eyes upon the squatter Ben.

"And there air folks what thinks they knows a dum sight more than they can prove," replied Ben.

The great white eye jerked open, the crossed blue one twisting to bring Ezra Longman within its vision.

An expression of deadening hate flashed for a moment across the red face, and the white eye closed again. Myra had seen the by-play, and sat up with a gasp. What was there between Ben and her brother?

Placing the child upon her mother's lap, she stirred the stew bubbling in the pot on the stove.

"Scoot, and get an armful of wood, Ezy," ordered she; and no sooner had the tall boy disappeared than she slipped after him.

She stood beside him at the wood pile, staring down upon the crouched form.

"Hold a minute, Ezy," commanded she.

Ezra stood up.

"What air the matter with yer and Ben Letts?"

"Nothin' ain't the matter."

"There air," insisted Myra, "and it air Tess what air a-doin' it. Ben Letts air a-lovin' Tessibel. And ye hates him."

"Yep."

"Tess ain't for none of ye! She ain't like other squatters. The man from the hill says as how Tess can read better'n most gals can, and she has done it all herself."

"Don't care," grunted Ezra, stooping again. "Ben Letts can keep his hands offen her, or I tells what I knows."

This was Myra's chance. She grasped the boy's arm, and twisted him about so that he faced her.

"What can ye tell?"

"Somethin'."

"About Skinner?"

"Yep."

"Ye'd hang Ben Letts if ye could. But ye won't, ye see? Ye'd not hang a man what ought to be in yer own fambly, would ye?"

"If I tells Pa Satisfied that ye said that, Myry," muttered the boy, "he wouldn't wait for the law to handle Ben Letts—he'd shoot his dum head offen him quicker than a cat can blink."

"I knows a hull lot about you, Ezy," warned Myra, "and if ye tells on Ben, I tells on yer, too. I loves Ben Letts, I does!"

"Bid him keep from Tess, then," answered Ezra sulkily, filling his arms with wood. Myra looked after him fearfully.

The trouble between her child's father and her brother had come upon her so suddenly that she had given Ezra another hold upon the man she loved, by telling him her secret.

That afternoon she followed Letts a short distance along the shore toward his cabin. When out of sight of her own home, she ran forward.

"Ben! Ben!" she called.

The fisherman turned impatiently.

"What air ye wantin', Myry?"

"Be you and Ezy hatin' each other?"

"He ain't nothin' but a brat," replied Ben scornfully. "Let him keep out of my way, or I fixes him."

"He air a-sayin' the same thing," cautioned Myra. "Ye air a-seekin' Tess? He says as how ye air to keep from her."

She was walking beside him, her red hands rolled in her gingham apron. The hot sun shone on her colorless hair, which was drawn back from the plain face.

"Ye air a-helpin' him with Tess," Ben grunted presently. "If ye ever wants me to come to yer hut, keep yer mouth shet, and let me and Ezy fight it out. Do ye hear?"

"Yep."

"Then scoot home now."

Myra turned, and then stopped.

"Ben," she called softly again.

"What be ye a-wantin' now?"

"If I keeps Ezy away from Tess, will ye—?"

"Ye air a-wantin' me to do somethin' for ye, Myry?" Ben answered, coming toward her eagerly.

"Yep."

"What?"

"If ye'll kiss the brat when Mammy and Satisfied ain't a-lookin'—"

"Scoot home, I says. Scoot home," shot from Ben's lips.

And home she went, this girl of but eighteen with an old woman's face, a tired young heart beating lovingly for the brat in the box and—for its father.

Her mother was still spelling from the paper when she returned. Satisfied was stretched on the long wooden bench outside the door. Ezra, with his cap pulled over his nose, sat sulking in the corner. Ben was a powerful enemy. The boy knew that the fisherman would stop at nothing to gain an end. But Tess had told him that she wouldn't marry Ben, and Myra had as good as told him that the squatter was the cause of her trouble. He knew another secret that would bring a halt upon Ben's pursuance of Tessibel Skinner. He had told Myra to warn him. Suddenly he rose from his chair, set his cap far back on his head, and disappeared into the underbrush that lay thick back of the hut.

* * * * *

The cause of the hatred between Ezra Longman and Ben Letts was quietly eating her dinner. Teola's child lay smacking the sugar from the wet rag. The large, knowing gray eyes were directed toward the sunlight upon the wall, the blood-red scar shining more crimson in its rays.

Tess was picking the flesh from the spine of a fish, throwing the bones on the floor. Youthful as she was, she was already beginning to show fatigue from staying awake nights, and caring for her dark secret in the daytime.

With the alertness of an Indian she heard the crackling of twigs in the underbrush. She closed the door, slipped the lock and tucked the babe in the basket, and waited. Somebody was coming from the hill above, breaking the branches as he ran. It was Ben Letts, probably. A light tap came upon the door. To Ben she would not open, but, glancing at the window, she saw Ezra Longman's face pressed against the pane.

Slipping back the lock, she flung open the door.

"Ezy, ye air allers a-comin' when I wants to read the Bible. I tells ye to stay away from the shanty, and ye won't!"

Would the babe remain quiet until the pale squatter boy had departed?

"Ben Letts air a-comin' to see ye to-day," Ezra returned sulkily, "and I comed, too."

"Did he tell ye as how he was a-comin'?"

"Nope; but I knowed."

"He can't come in," replied Tess, crossly. "I ain't no notion for company, nohow.... Air the men a-nettin' to-night?"

"Yep."

"Air Ben a-goin' with ye?"

"Yep; Ben has a heavy hand, and nets air hard to haul."

Scarcely had the words fallen from his lips before Letts appeared at the door. Both boy and girl saw him, and Tessibel rose up.

"Sunday ain't a good day for ye to be comin' here, Ben," she said sullenly. "I air a-wishin' to be alone to-day."

In spite of the girl's flashing eyes, Ben stepped in, glared at Ezra, and took the stool, from which he moved the Bible with trembling hands. Tess had never been quite so frightened—never so fearful of her own squatter men-folk. Ben and Ezra had come to stay a long time, for each had dragged off his cap, leaving his dirty head exposed. Still the babe slept on, no tell-tale smack coming from it. Tess lifted the Bible, determined to let the men sit as she read, curled up in the wooden rocker, humming as she swung to and fro. A shadow dropped long upon the shanty floor. In the doorway stood Teola Graves, tall, thin, and distressingly pale. Tessibel had not seen her since the day she had carried the babe to the hill-house. That was three whole weeks ago. Tess moved awkwardly from the chair, motioned for Ezra Longman to get up, and stuttered out an invitation for the girl to be seated.

Teola shook her head, and Tess noted her quick survey of the hut.

"I can't sit down," she said weakly, although she allowed Tess to place her in the chair. "I have been ill for some time, but I could not forget how kind you were to me when you found me on the rocks, with my ankle sprained."

The white eye of Ben followed the blue one in its twisting search for the minister's daughter. Teola Graves had lost her sparkling beauty; had lost the vivid coloring and the shy expression of youth that had rested in the dark eyes until the death of Dan Jordan. From her face Ben's one eye turned to the beautiful squatter, and he settled back with a firmer resolve that she should be his. Tess stood thinking rapidly. She made no attempt to introduce the strange trio.

Then she allowed her fingers to come in contact with Teola's shoulder, pressing into the girl's mind some message.

"Ye be a-goin' to see the sick woman to-day, ain't ye?"

Tess could scarcely utter the words. Would Teola understand what she wanted to impress upon her? Her fingers sought the shoulder again.

"Yes," came the low answer.

"Might I ask ye to take her a bit of fish, what I promised her? I has company now, and can't go. And I thought as how if you was a-goin', ye might do it for me."

She stooped and raised the grape-basket in her hand, tendering it to Teola. The white lips became paler—the young mother understood.

"It air a nice day, and the sun will do ye a heap of good," explained Tess. "If I didn't have company, I wouldn't ask ye."

Ben Letts stared sharply. Ezra Longman stupidly shuffled his feet upon the floor. Teola accepted the basket, and answered Tess with meaning:

"I'll take it for you, if you will wait until I return with the money. The fish are to be paid for, aren't they?"

"Yep; come back when ye can. I allers need the money."

For some minutes Tessibel stood in the door, watching the tall figure of the Dominie's daughter as she struggled through the brambles surrounding the mud-cellar creek, until she was lost to view.

Tess took a long breath. Ben and Ezra must go before the babe returned. She set herself to rid the shanty of the two men. Without speaking, she took the Bible, and repeated slowly aloud some of the passages she knew best. Both fishermen stared at her in admiration. To read and not spell out almost every word was more than Ezra's own mother could do, and she was the best-educated person in the settlement.

"'But I know ye that ye have not the love of God in ye,'" read Tess.

Ben Letts broke in upon the girl's voice:

"Tessie, will ye row on the lake after the goin' down of the sun? I'll take my fiddle.... Ye like my fiddlin', don't ye, Tess?"