The door opened under her impulsive hand. She faced the storm—and the tall, gaunt, emaciated form of Ezra Longman.



CHAPTER XXXVII

Ezra looked so like a wandering night-shade, so tall, wet and thin, that Tess uttered a shriek. The lad pushed his way into the cabin, and dropped on the floor. All thought of the student was driven from Tessibel's mind by her superstition at the sight of the boy.

"Ezy, Ezy, air it yerself, or air it yer shade what air here? It air yer own self, ain't it, Ezy?"

"Yep."

"Where air yer been?"

"I dunno. I air sick unto death, I air."

"Have ye seen yer mammy?"

"Nope."

"Nor Satisfied?"

"Nope."

"Then ye be a-goin' there now, ain't ye?"

"Yep."

"Was ye to Albany?"

"Nope. I were sick in a house, and the big man from the hill were a-takin' care of me. I weren't a-goin' to stay no longer, so I runned away. I air a-goin' home to Mammy."

"Yep, that air right," rejoined Tess with conviction, "for yer mammy air a-grievin' every day for ye, and Satisfied air a-gettin' older and older-lookin'. They thought as how ye might be in Albany."

Another loud cry caused Ezy to turn his head toward the infant.

"Ye air the same as Myry," he said slowly; but before he could say another word, the girl interposed hastily:

"It ain't my brat.... It belongs to a woman on the hill. I gets paid for it."

To every other man save to the one she loved was Tess able to deny the motherhood that had been thrust upon her. To the student she stood condemned of a sin he could not forgive. But to Ezra, Ben, and Professor Young she had told the truth.

The weakness of the squatter as he sat on the floor, panting for breath, aroused Tessibel's sympathy, and she proffered him a cup of little Dan's milk.

"Drink it," she commanded, "and then scoot to yer mammy. And—and ye needn't say as how I air a-carin' for another woman's brat, will ye, Ezy?"

"Nope; I ain't a-sayin' nothin' ... I goes home to my mammy."

If Tess had never seen the hue of death upon a human face, she saw it now. The boy rose totteringly, and Tessibel, with a tender expression in her eyes, opened the door.

"Ezy, I's sorry for ye! I's sorry that I slicked the dirty dishrag in yer face. Ye forgives me, don't ye, Ezy?"

"Yep." And Ezra stumbled away.

Tess watched him stagger along the shore through the rain, the shadows of the weeping-willow trees at last swallowing him up.

She turned back into the hut, barred the door, and fed the child with sweetened milk, forcing particles of bread into the yawning throat. Teola had sent the student from her, never to return, yet she fed the child tenderly, tucking it, with its sugar rag, in the warm blanket.

She snuffed the end from the candle, that it might burn brighter, took the little Bible, and sat down to read.

"Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?" she haltingly spelled.

Her eyes sought the small outline of Dan Jordan's babe in the bed. She hardly understood Paul's figurative words, but vaguely imagined that the apostle was afflicted with something like the wizened child which had been thrust upon herself.

Loud, impatient noises issued from the blanket. Tess rose, settled the baby more comfortably, and sat down again. Her eyes sought another verse.

"If ye have the faith of a grain of mustard-seed—"

The passage brought a vivid blush to her face. She rose silently, and knelt by the window.

"Take this here body of my death," she prayed, "and give the poor brat to the Christ! Make its ma tell the student, and give Tessibel faith like a mustard-seed." Thus ended her prayer.

* * * * *

Ezra Longman, sick unto death, as he had said, floundered his way along the wet path. The long walk through the storm from Ithaca had so weakened him that he could hardly stand upright. He wanted to see his mother once more, to be with Satisfied, and to warn Myra of the coming evil. A conversation he had heard between the nurse and Professor Young had decided him to go home if he could, for Ezra knew that his sister loved the ugly fisherman who had tried to put him to death in the Hoghole.

As he neared his cabin home, he saw the candle streaming its flickering ray upon the path that led to the rocks. He saw his mother snuff the flame and Satisfied take Myra's child up from the floor, but he did not see his sister. As if in answer to this thought as to her whereabouts, Myra appeared directly in front of him, carrying a pail of water from the spring. She did not notice him until he pronounced her name in an undertone. The pail dropped from her hand, splashing its contents over her garments, and she uttered a little frightened cry. He whispered her name again and Myra timidly put out her hand.

"Air it yerself, Ezy?" she implored.

"Yep, I air here. I comed to see Mammy and Satisfied, and to tell ye that it air time for ye to be savin' Ben Letts if ye loves him. Ben throwed me in the Hoghole, he did, but I know that ye loved him, and I comed."

The boy staggered with weakness, and his sister threw an arm around him.

"Ye air to come to Mammy," she urged. "Mammy loves ye, Ezy dear."

"Wait," whispered the boy. "Ben Letts air to be arrested."

"What?"

The cry was sharp—the words hurt.

"Ben Letts air to be tooked to jail. It were him what killed the gamekeeper. It weren't Orn Skinner."

"Who were a-sayin' it were Ben?" demanded Myra, her mouth hard and lined.

"I says it," replied Ezy. "I seed him when he done it, and I comed to tell ye, and to see Mammy and Satisfied."

"Then come in, and go to bed, for ye be sick."

A change gradually came over Myra: cunning grew in the faded eyes and determination straightened the thin shoulders, as she led her brother into the hut.

"Mammy," she called softly, opening the door, "here air Ezy!"

"Fetch him in," cried Satisfied.

Mrs. Longman sank weakly into a chair. The sight of her son, her only son, white and emaciated, and the appearance of the livid scar on his brow drew a painful cry from her lips.

"He air sick," continued Myra, "put him to bed."

"Where air ye been all this time, Ezy?" asked Longman, assisting him into the small back room. But Ezra was too ill to tell the story, and the mother hushed him to sleep just as she had in those childhood days when he had been good, and always at home.

Meantime, Myra, pale and thoughtful, moved about the shanty. Her mind was upon one subject—she must save Ben Letts from the dreaded rope. She did not question the verity of her brother's statement, for she realized that Ben was not only capable of killing the inspector, but also of placing the guilt upon an innocent man. It did not, however, change her squatter love. The more she thought of Ben's danger, the more she loved and wanted to save him, the more determined she grew to take him away to some place where the officers could not find him.

"Goin' to bed, Myry?" asked Longman, taking the candle and climbing the ladder to the loft.

"Yep, but I air a-goin' to rock the brat a little while. Ye and Mammy go to bed. I locks the door."

She settled herself in the wooden rocking-chair, trundling the child to and fro, and murmuring a doleful tune. Her son was now almost two years old, and beginning to toddle about upon a pair of crooked, thin legs. As often as Ben had visited the hut he had never deigned to look at the child, but Myra had a dull hope that, if she saved the fisherman, he would show some affection for the little boy.

An hour later, the regular breathing of her father and mother told Myra that they both slept. Ezra, too, was sleeping, for she had bent over him but a little time before. The clock on the mantel pointed to midnight. The girl rose, and fed the baby, dropping some paregoric into his milk to keep him asleep, and then drew a large shawl about the little one, rolling him gently in the warm folds. Finally, she took a piece of paper and a pencil from the shelf.

"Mammy," she wrote, "I's a-goin' to save Ben Letts. Ezy tells ye about it, as how Ben Letts killed the gamekeeper it werent Orn Skinner. I takes the brat cause it air Bens I luves yer and Satisfied."

She pinned the note to the handle of the copper kettle upon the stove, and, lifting the child in her arms, slipped through the door without a sound.

The rain still fell steadily, the turbulent roll of the lake lost only in thunder's roar. Once on the ragged rocks, Myra walked swiftly, afraid of the shadowy objects and ghostly sounds that spectered her path. She threw despairing glances about her, and shrank from the imaginary sneaking figures haunting the dismal night. Almost running, she reached the Letts' shanty.

How soon would the officers come for Ben? They might have been there before her. The cabin was dark, and she tapped timidly upon the kitchen door. Only a great snore from the sleeping Ben inside answered her. Trying the latch, it lifted in her fingers, and she crept stealthily through the narrow aperture, encircling the child with her left arm.

"Ben!" she whispered. "Ben!"

The squatter turned, muttering sleepily.

"Mammy! What be the matter, Mammy?" The fresh night air startled him.

"Who air it?" he demanded hoarsely.

"Myry," breathed the woman again. "Get up.... They air a-comin' to take ye to prison for the killin' of the gamekeeper. I comed to help ye, Ben Letts."

The words soaked slowly into the sluggish brain. Tired from the beating Frederick had given him, and lazy by temperament, Ben did not at first realize that Myra's message meant the hangman's rope for him. He turned again in bed, and sat up. Were the officers of the law waiting for him?

"Ezy air home," resumed Myra rapidly, leaning tensely toward him. "He walked through the rain from Ithacy. He says as how ye air goin' to be tooked to prison. I has the brat here with me ... we air a-goin' away.... Get up, Ben. Hustle yer bones!"

The blue-jeans breeches, streaked with the blood of many a fish, were drawn on in a twinkling. The great squatter boots quickly covered the horny feet, and trembling, Ben waited for Myra to lead him from the cabin.

"Where be we a-goin'?" he asked in a whisper.

"I takes ye 'cross the lake to Ludlowville, and then we goes into the hills. A awful storm air a-scootin' along from the north, but we can't wait, for ye'll be took."

By this time they were nearing the shore. The autumn lightning shot out from the sky, veering to the north and unmasking the black, raging lake and the distant city. A heavy roll of awe-inspiring thunder followed the flash. The man and woman did not speak until the flat boat topped the breaking waves.

"The storm air a-goin' to be worse," shouted Ben, scanning the dark clouds. "It air foolhardy to try it, ain't it, Myry?"

"Yep; but we go, all the same. I stays with ye, Ben!"

He did not answer to this, nor did he ask a question then about the return of Ezra. He was satisfied that what he had supposed was the boy's wraith—the disembodied spirit of the lad he had thrown into the Hoghole—was the living Ezra Longman. On his way home from the Skinner hut, Ben had planned a terrible revenge upon the student and Tessibel, but the advent of this unforeseen discovery had placed his enemies beyond his reach. The thought of Tess brought a rasp from his throat.

The creaking oars, under his experienced fingers, carried the boat far from the shadowy shore. Through the frequent lightning he could plainly see Myra in the stern, holding to the child. It was all ending differently from what he had hoped. That he had killed the gamekeeper he knew well, but, when Ezra Longman had disappeared into the Hoghole, Ben thought it took from the earth the only witness of his deed.

On and on through the night sped the boat, until Myra and Ben could see the lights on the college hill. Here and there in the valley beyond, the lightning revealed a farmhouse, the inmates of which were quietly sleeping.

Presently Ben spoke:

"What hes Ezy been a-sayin'?"

"Nothin' but that ye throwed him in the Hoghole, and tried to kill him, and that ye killed the gamekeeper."

"Where hes he been all this time?"

"I dunno. He air awful sick, and Ma put him to bed."

Their voices rose high above the shrieking of the wind. Myra's last words were screamed out. The boat tossed like a bit of tinder, but it was in the hands of a fisherman: Ben knew how to keep it in and out of the troughs of the waves. Once the boat lurched mightily, and Myra gave a frightened cry, wedging the child between her knees. Higher and higher rolled the waves.

"We hev got to bail the water out," yelled Ben. "Bail, Myry, while I rows."

The mother grasped the sleeping child tighter between her knees, and began to throw the water into the lake. Suddenly a great wave half filled the boat.

"Ye can't do it, Ben," Myra screamed. "Ye can't keep the boat top up, and we'll all die to once.... Does ye love yer brat, Ben Letts?"

The voice, prophetic and high-pitched, struck terror to the heart of the fisherman. He stopped rowing, and shouted out over the waves for help. The lightning made day of the inky night for an instant, and the squatter Ben saw the woman, holding the child under one arm and clinging to the side of the boat with the other, creep toward him.

"Keep away!" he bellowed. "Keep the boat top up!"

Another flash.... She was closer, her white face and her staring eyes frightening him. He raised one great boot to ward her off, but she was at his side before it touched her. A large wave lifted one oar from the lock and bore it away on its crest. The boat, without pilot power, tipped dangerously. Loosening her hand from the side of the boat, Myra wound one arm about the knees of the squatter.

"Ben Letts," she cried, shrieking the words into his ear, "kiss yer brat afore he dies with ye, will ye? Ye ain't so much as ever touched him."

A dark storm-cloud broke directly over their head—one brilliant sheet flared the sky from the north to the south. The child, sleeping heavily under the drug, was close to the squatter's face. A revulsion of feeling overwhelmed Ben—approaching death aided the ghosts of his past bad deeds in their attack upon his wretched, over-wrought soul.... With a sob, he laid his lips upon the slumbering babe. A long kiss followed the first; another, and then another.

Myra gasped, and drew the boy back to her. The boat reared high in the boiling, seething waves, and the next whitecap wrenched the child from her hands, snatching it into the water.

"Ben Letts, our brat air gone!... There he be!... God!... There! There!"

Through a sudden, resplendent flood of light, they saw the babe poised for one brief instant on a huge, foaming shoulder of the lake. In her frenzy the squatter woman was murmuring over and over strange, inarticulate words which Ben did not heed. Their arms were locked tightly about each other. Ben Letts slowly fixed his cold, shivering lips on those of the girl, drawing her closer and closer into his embrace. The majesty of death was upon them, this squatter father and mother. Another glare of light showed them still clinging together, but the one following failed to reveal either man, woman or boat.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

Professor Young knocked at the Skinner hut. Tess smiled at him from between the tatters of the curtain, and unlocked the door, standing, as her friend took the wooden rocker.

"Daddy air a-comin' home," she breathed timidly.

"Soon. Sit down, child. I have much to say to you.... We have discovered the murderer of the gamekeeper. We have positive proof that it was not your father."

Tess squatted on the floor, crossed her legs, and waited.

"Who were it?" she asked presently, as if afraid to speak.

"Ben Letts."

"The damn bloke!" she ejaculated, a dangerous light gathering in her eyes. "And he were a-lettin' Daddy be hung for his own dirty work! He air a wicked cuss, he air!"

"Ezra Longman saw him when he committed the murder," Young told her, watching the interest gather in the eager face. "Letts used your father's gun. That accounts for his having been accused."

Tess nodded her head.

"Ezy were here last night," she commented quietly. "He were sick."

"He was under my care for a long time," explained Young, "and last night escaped and walked home through the rain.... He is dead."

"Dead!" gasped Tess. "Dead!"

Impetuously she bent toward him, and finished:

"Ezy Longman ain't dead!"

"Yes, he is," replied Young. "He died in his father's hut, last night. I have just left there, and I feel heartily sorry for them both."

"Myry?... Did ye see Myry?"

"She's gone with Ben Letts."

"Gone where?"

"We don't know, but the officers are looking for them. I think the boy heard me tell the nurse that he would be held as a witness in your father's next trial. He must have warned Letts upon his arrival home, for—"

"He knowed Myry loved Ben," broke in Tess.

"That's what I thought," Young answered. "I found Longman and the mother mourning over the boy. They hope to hear from the girl soon."

"If Myry and Ben was in the storm last night—" began Tess.

"They may be dead," ended Young gravely. "Myra took her child with her. I found this note on the dead boy's bed, and brought it away with me. I would have liked to have put the boy on the witness-stand. Nevertheless, I hope to release your father on the evidence I have, without a trial."

For several moments silence reigned in the hut. The sun streamed through the window, and a steamer sent a shrill whistle over the lake, the sound echoing among the rocks. Tessibel was thinking of Ezra Longman; Professor Young was thinking of her.

Presently she leaned over, and took the letter from the man's hand, spelling out Myra's written message.

"Myry air a-writin' so dum well," she observed, handing it back, "that I can't make it out. What air she a-sayin'? You read it."

Young read the badly-spelled note.

"I knowed the brat was Ben Letts'," she said, after the man's voice had died away. "He were a cute kid."

"We hope to find them all," interposed Young thoughtfully. "But, if we don't, the evidence I already have—this note, and the fact that the fisherman is a fugitive—will liberate your father. I shall go to Albany to-morrow to see the Governor. I am sure he will consider the evidence I have. Then we shall know."

"You think the man at Albany will give him to me?"

"Yes, indeed, I do! I would not raise your hopes if I did not. If you persuade your father to leave here—" He stopped and looked at her with a questioning glance.

"I tells him that the hut ain't his'n," she asserted abruptly.

"If you do go away, I shall try to get your father steady work in the city. Would you like that?"

"Yep," replied Tess, in a thick voice. "He wouldn't have to net no more. And he wouldn't have no more froze toes."

"Neither would you, Tess," answered Young.

Suddenly Tess saw the man staring at her arm, where several blue stripes, mingling with red, ran long from her shoulder.

"Heavens! child, what's the matter with your arm?"

The brown eyes clouded. Tess swept her jacket over the marks, and muttered,

"It ain't nothin'. I scratched it on some thorns."

Professor Young leaned forward, and tilted the little chin upward. Still the eyes remained upon the floor.

"Tess!" he pleaded. "Tess! Are you telling me the truth?"

"Nope; I's lyin' to ye."

She tossed her head up angrily.

"I had a damn good lickin'," she finished.

Young sprang forward, and grasped her arm.

"Who dared to mark you like that?" he exclaimed, standing her on her feet. "Wait. I want to see it. Who did it?"

He pushed back the sleeve, and stood analyzing the bruised shoulder and arm.

"Who did it?" he persisted, drawing a quick, sharp breath.

"Dominie Graves," muttered the girl.

"What!" Two deep creases marked the fine brow.

"He licked me," reiterated Tess, with an indifferent droop to her lids. "He had a right. I were a-stealin'."

"Tessibel! Tessibel! Look at me."

She swept him with a glance of truth.

"Are you—? Tess, I demand to know it all—all! Please, tell me about it!"

"There ain't much to tell," she returned; "only that I were a-stealin' from the Dominie's kitchen, and he licked me for it."

"What did you—steal?"

"Milk for the brat.... He can't starve, can he?"

Slowly Professor Young dropped her arm, gazing at her mutely.

"Ye ain't mad at me?" she ventured, watching him narrowly.

"No! I'm only sorry—infinitely sorry for you."

The tender tone in his voice, the mist rising in his eyes, brought Tess to his side.

"I thanks ye for all ye been a-doin' for Daddy and me," she said brokenly. "I does thank ye.... Don't look at me like that—it air a-hurtin' me."

The low voice, filled with unshed tears, rang with emotion.

A sudden inspiration seized Young.

"Child, if I bring your father back to you, will you—marry me?"

The unexpected question sent Tess staggering back; a tearful smile spread the red lips.

"Ye'r' batty," she said presently, with a dissenting shake of the red curls. "Ye'r' gone plumb crazy.... I's a squatter, nothin' but a squatter. I stays here with Daddy. I marries no man. See?"

The proud face of Frederick Graves rose before her. She turned away with a groan.

Young misinterpreted her expression.

"Circumstances have made you a squatter.... Sit down. I want to say more to you, Tess. Don't say you won't marry me, just yet. When your father comes home, we will talk to him about it.... I love you, child."

"My Daddy air a-wantin' me with him," faltered Tess. "He said oncet as how he wouldn't give me to nobody. Ezy Longman wanted me to marry him, but I hated him.... I don't now, though, 'cause he air dead."

"Tessibel, will you let me give you some money to buy milk for the strange little boy?"

"Somebody gived me some money after my lickin' last night, so I don't need none now."

A jealous feeling rose instantly in Young's heart.

"Who gave you money last night?"

"The student," replied Tess. "He said as how I shouldn't steal no more milk for the brat. I takes the student's money, I does."

A faint suspicion flashed over the lawyer.

"You told me the truth about the child belonging to a woman on the hill?"

Without answering his question, Tess stammered,

"Ye said as how ye trusted me, and I were happy because ye did.... Ain't ye trustin' me now?"

"Yes, child; but I am so bitterly unhappy over you, and my love for you makes me jealous—"

"Of the student?" queried Tess.

"Yes."

"Well, ye needn't care no more about him, 'cause he don't like me no more. He ain't never carin'—" She cut the words off with a snap. "I were a-goin' to lie then," she went on slowly. "He air a-carin', but—but—"

She dashed a loose curl from her eyes, and flung herself headlong upon the bed, with a burst of sobs that drew Young quickly to her.

"Tessibel Skinner, you love Frederick Graves?"

Tess straightened, and looked at him fearfully.

"Yep, I air a-lovin' him," she wailed.

"And he doesn't love you?"

"He be a-lovin' me, too." She was hardly able to utter the words.

"Then why do you weep, if you love him and he loves you?"

Tessibel's eyes settled upon the babe, yawning in the sun. Young followed her gaze.

"The child has separated you?" he said slowly.

"Yep."

"Why?"

"'Cause—'cause—"

All Teola's perfidy rushed over her in a twinkling. All the student's suffering stung her as if she had been struck in the face. She bounded from the bed, possessed of a dark spirit.

"A damn bloke air a-doin' it. It were a oath I took.... Will you go now?—Please!"

"Yes," assented Young. "But it is all a mystery to me. I cannot understand it."

And Tessibel, thinking of Teola, the child, and its dead father, muttered:

"I ain't understandin' it, nuther.... Good-bye."

Transfixed, Tess stood for many minutes where Young had left her. A shadow dropped upon the path. Teola, pale and ill, came toward her, and she did not move.

"My father and brother have gone to Ithaca, and I—Tessibel! Tess, don't look at me that way! Don't! don't!"

"You forgot to tell him," dropped from the squatter's lips.

"No, I didn't forget. Tessibel, I've tried, and I can't tell him.... I haven't the courage," she ejaculated, waiting long for a reply from the rigid girl. Her lips trembled as she faltered:

"My father was cruel to you, Tess!"

"I were a-stealin'," Tess muttered. "He wouldn't a whipped me if he—had knowed about it, would he?"

"No, no! He would have died first.... Tessibel, why didn't you tell him?"

"Didn't ye say it would kill the student if he knowed it? And I swored, didn't I? when the brat was borned, that I wouldn't tell—and I ain't no liar—leastwise about no brats. If it air told, the brat's ma's got to tell it," she finished.

Teola dropped beside her infant.

"I'm afraid to tell it. My father and brother have such confidence in me!" She shifted about, and looked at Tessibel. "We are going to move to the city, Saturday.... I have been thinking about the baby's milk—"

"I has money now," broke in Tess. "I don't have to steal no more. Daddy air a-comin' home soon, too."

"I know it. Father heard from Professor Young all about it. I am so glad for you, Tess. What will you say to him about the baby?"

"I dunno," grunted the squatter.

She answered no more of Teola's questions, but for a long time remained moodily looking, with narrowed eyes and burning heart, at the minister's daughter.



CHAPTER XXXIX

Two days later, on Friday evening, Teola slipped quietly from her home, and the Skinner hut opened to her timid knock. Tess had no more fear when visitors came. Ben Letts had gone with Myra, and Ezra Longman was dead.

The girls eyed each other for one embarrassed moment. The day for separation was at hand: Tess would face the lean winter, Teola the burden of a conscience in torment.

"Come in," muttered Tess.

"Tessibel," Teola burst out spontaneously, "we are going away to-morrow. I wish I were going to stay with you and the baby!"

Gloomily Tess scrutinized the young mother, checking an ejaculation that rose to her lips.

"I don't understand what you are going to do," said Teola. "Tess, do you think he is very ill? You do! I can see it in your face. Look how he yawns, and screws his mouth, and shuts his eyes! Oh, he is suffering, Tessibel!"

"Yep, he air sick," replied Tess, turning her back. She had grown to love the hapless thing, and knew that he suffered as all human beings suffer when they go slowly away to the mystery of mysteries.

Teola's next words brought her about sharply.

"Tessibel, do you—hate me?"

"Nope."

"Oh, what a coward I am! Frederick has forbidden me to come here."

"That air 'cause he air a good bloke," snorted Tess. "But if he knowed—"

"I can't get my breath when I think of telling him, Tess."

"He ain't to know never, then?" bounded from Tessibel's lips, the passion in the tones lowering the voice almost to a whisper.

"No," replied the young mother; "I can't tell him."

The squatter just caught the next words, "But I am going to die, too, Tess."

The conviction in the statement made Tess spring back.

"Ye ain't yet. Ye ain't goin' yet!"

"The doctor says I am very ill here." Teola placed her hand upon her chest. "I've had three hemorrhages. People ill like I am never get well. I don't want to—either," she ended brokenly.

She looked so forlorn, so thin and ill that Tess went awkwardly to her.

"I takes care of the brat if ye goes before him," said she.

"Thank you, dear," drifted from the depths of the child's box. "And forgive me all the sorrow I have caused you."

"I has forgivin' ye," assured Tess, seating herself. "I were—sorry about the student, though."

"I know, I know; and perhaps God won't forgive me, for I've been so wicked! I make up my mind every night, when I can't sleep, that I will tell; then in the daylight I am afraid."

Tess did not answer.

"I shall think every moment of the day about you two here. Oh, my precious baby! If I could only take him with me! That mark will never disappear," she concluded, rubbing the tiny red forehead with her fingers. "If he only goes when I do! God couldn't be so cruel as to let him live, with his face like that, and have neither father nor mother."

"Nope," replied Tess with decision. "He'll take the brat, too."

"Will he die soon, Tess?"

"Yep."

"Why do you think so? Why?"

"He air too thin to hold out much longer. He don't eat, nuther. He don't do nothin' but smack all day long on them sugar rags, like a suckin' calf. And there ain't no makin' him eat."

"But he doesn't cry much," argued Teola.

"That air 'cause he air so weak. Ma Moll were here with the hoss doctor, and they says he air to croak dum quick."

Teola raised her head, startled.

"Oh, I didn't know you had had a doctor. I was going to speak about it to-night." She dropped her eyes, reddened, and then added, "But the horse doctor, Tessibel?"

"Squatters allers has the hoss doctor—they air cheaper."

"But he can't die!" Teola moaned. "Not now—not yet! He has never been baptized. If he died now, he wouldn't go to Heaven!"

"Aw! shut up. He air a-goin' in faster'n any of them. Don't you worry yer head over that. God ain't that kind of a bloke that He wouldn't take in a sick brat what ain't never done no harm."

Tess had risen, and was standing over the child, Teola having placed him back in the bed.

"But you don't understand, Tess dear! You see, it's this way: the Bible says that if a child isn't baptized, he will go to a place where he must stay always. He won't go to Heaven. You understand?"

"Air the Bible a-sayin' that?"

"Yes."

"Won't he go to a place where God'll find him, if he ain't sprinkled?"

"No."

"That air strange. The poor brat air so blue, so shiverin'—he air so sick! Aw! Christ'll love him, 'cause he ain't got no friends."

Her eyes spread wide with infinite compassion as she contemplated the grave-shadowed child.

"Did the student tell ye that the Bible were a-sayin' that?" she asked peremptorily.

"Yes; and my father has often preached upon it. I know that it is true," insisted Teola. "A child must be cleansed of its original sin in the church.... You see? You see, Tess?"

"I don't see—I don't know, nuther. But what the student says air right. If the little kid ain't to see God's face 'less he air slapped on the head with water in the church, then the brat air got to be tooked there."

"But—but, Tess, is it possible?"

Again the squatter bent her head to gather the words.

"He air a-goin' to die," she replied with conviction, "and he has to be hit with the water, if he air a-goin' to die, don't he? Air that what ye means?"

Teola, dropping her face upon the babe, bowed her head in assent, and wept silently, until the cough that had fastened itself upon the slender chest since the coming of the child, dried the tears.

Tess remained quiet until the paroxysm had passed.

"Air yer pappy a good sprinkler of brats?"

Teola nodded.

"Air it likely he would sprinkle this 'un'?"

"I don't think my father would turn away a dying babe that needed cleansing of its sin by the Holy Ghost."

"The Huly what? The student were a-talkin' 'bout him once."

"The Holy Ghost," explained Teola. "He lives in the church, and when a baby is baptized He comes and stands by the font, and when the water falls upon it, He takes away all the sin that it is born with."

Tess grunted disbelievingly.

"Can ye sees him?"

"No; He is a spirit."

"Ye mean that he air like the headless man from Haytes, and the squaw with her burnt brat?"

They were both down beside the babe again, Tess eying the mother eagerly.

"Oh, no, Tess! Those are but superstitions. This is the truth. No matter how little the child is, he won't go to a holy place if he isn't baptized."

"Air the Huly Ghost livin' only in the church?"

"Yes, He doesn't stay anywhere else."

"Who says it air true?"

"God."

"Your brother's God?"

"Yes."

"Then, of course, it air so. Why didn't ye say so before? Could the brat be sprinkled this comin' Sunday?"

"Yes; yes, it is baptismal Sunday. Deacon Hall's new baby is to be baptized, and lots of others, too!"

"Then yer brat air goin' to be sprinkled with 'em," decided Tessibel.

"Tess!" gasped Teola. "How? How?... I should die if I had to take him to the church."

"I takes him," replied Tess grimly. "I takes him, and I says to yer pappy, 'Dominie, I knows that ye don't like me nor my Daddy, but here air a brat what air sick to death.... He can't find God by hisself 'cause he air too little, and God won't try and find him if he ain't sprinkled. Will ye do it?'"

Teola shifted her position, and looked into the squatter's face. It was gleaming with heavenly resolve and uplifted faith.

"Tess, would you dare?" gasped she.

"Yep! The little brat has to go. I takes him."

The fisher-girl clambered to her feet, and shoved another log into the stove.

"It air a chilly night," she commented, "and the ghosts air a-howling like mad, 'cause Ma Moll's been here. She can raise spirits any time of night."

Teola evidently did not hear. Her eyes were fixed upon the face of the babe, her mouth twitching nervously at the corners. She wondered silently what her father would say when Tess presented the child for baptism on Sunday morning. She could imagine her own happiness after it was all over. She thought she would get better for a time. She remembered how her mother had worried over her cough, how her father had advised with the best doctors of the city; but they had gravely shaken their heads, saying that the girl might grow out of it; they hoped she would. But day by day she had seen herself growing more and more slender, more and more fragile-looking. And, as Teola knelt over the child in the flickering candlelight, Tess shivered superstitiously. The young mother was so white that the squatter could almost have imagined her one of Ma Moll's ghosts.

"They be a-callin' ye from yer house," remarked Tess, after a long stillness.

"Yes, I hear them.... It is my father. But I am so tired that it seems as if I could never climb the hill. I'll see you a minute to-morrow, Tess.... If I can't, will you bring the baby to the church Sunday, at eleven o'clock?... Thank you, dear; thank you.... Good-bye, precious little Dan.... And—and forgive me, Tessibel!"



CHAPTER XL

Minister Graves watched his child painfully climb the front steps. He could see, even through the dim shadows, how thin she had become, how she panted for breath over the slight exertion of walking up the hill. A thought that stung him like a whip seized him, convulsing his heart and shaking his powerful frame as if he had been attacked by sudden ague. Was his daughter going to die? She could not die—God would not take her from him! He remembered Teola's birth, with a groan of pain: remembered how he had taken the dark-haired babe, so tiny and helpless, into his study alone, and had uttered the sincerest prayer of a father's life, that the blessings of Heaven would cover his new-found treasure and would guide the little footsteps during the whole bright future—her future must be bright, with his love to shield her. He could remember each succeeding day—his pride and ambitions for her—and now—

Teola paused on the top step, clinging to the veranda pillar. He came hastily to her, the darkness covering the emotions that had paled his face, and bent over the exhausted girl, kissing her lips tenderly.

"Teola, darling! My darling, why will you persist in being out at night?... See, now, how you are coughing.... Child, what would become of me, if anything should happen to you?"

Teola knew the heart of her father. He had sternly preached orthodox doctrine, had persecuted the squatters according to his beliefs; but he loved his children, and especially had he idolized her. The thought of the babe in the fisherman's hut sped through her mind, her father's consternation and horror if she should be compelled to tell her secret. But Tessibel stood in her place as mother to the little boy, and had taken an oath that nothing could force her to break. The squatter had been the scapegoat upon which had been heaped the sins of a girl no one had thought capable of doing wrong. Teola, resting in her father's arms, struggled with her conscience, trying to press down the moral weakness that had compelled her to keep the tragedy in the cabin quiet. The minister helped her to her chamber, and, after she had retired, went in and prayed with and for her. His voice, low and tender, with the exquisite tones of an orator, was strangely moved.

"Child," he groaned, "I would give much to see you in good health again."

"I shall never be better, dearest; never. I know now that I cannot—that I sha'n't—"

His hand covered her lips.

"If you want to break my heart, Teola," he cried, unnerved, "then say what you were going to. I can't, and won't, bear it! You are not yet eighteen. You've always been well until these past few weeks.... Oh, I wish your mother and I had never gone abroad—or that you had gone with us.... But you begged so hard to stay at home!"

Teola had coveted the chance to tell him of the little human link between Dan Jordan's life and hers. She raised herself on her pillow, the long hair mantling her shoulders and aureoling the death-like face.

"Father," she gasped. "Father! Let me tell you something about Tessibel Skinner. No! Don't put your fingers over my lips! Don't! Don't! Listen."

"Teola," interjected Graves gravely, "if you want to displease me—"

"She's so lonely," broke in the girl, her courage ebbing away under the bent brows of her father. "I thought—you—might help her."

"Go to sleep," replied the minister, "there's a good girl!... Good-night."

For a moment, Teola lay panting nervously. She had been so near the confession, so near telling her father about the little babe in the shanty. She slipped out of bed to the window. The wind still flung the dead leaves, whirling them to and fro in the orchard like willful spirits. The night had darkened until, to Teola, shivering and ill, it seemed alive with shadowy goblins which mocked at her.

She could just make out the dark line of the hut under the willow branches. A candlelight flickered a moment in the window, and was gone. Teola moaned long, muttering loving messages to the child cuddled in Tessibel's arms. She loved it, but could not bring it home—yet! At last sleep, a deep, fatigued sleep, enveloped her. She was too tired to dream.

After Tess was alone, she made ready for bed. The child whimpered drowsily. The squatter lifted it up with infinite tenderness, binding the rags more closely about the scrawny body.

"Ye don't amount to as much as the tuft on Kennedy's mare's tail," she said aloud. "Eat now, I says, or I opens yer mouth and pours it full."

The words, gathered from the vocabulary of the squatter, were harsh, but the emotion in the tones softened them.

"Ye air a-dyin' 'cause ye won't eat, kid, and ye have the smell of a dead rat, too. Yer lips be that blue—and yer mouth air like a baby-bird's.... Eat, I says, damn ye.... Will ye swallow that?"

She held the withered lips open, and filled the cavity with warm milk.

"Eat, I says," crooned the girl; "eat, and Tess takes ye tight—like this—and the rats can't bite ye, or the ghosts get ye till ye air dead. Tess loves ye, ye poor little brat."

The child, strangling for breath, gulped down a mouthful of milk, but the jaws set again, and the lips settled into a blue line. Tess prepared the sugar rag, putting in a large amount of sweet, and dipped it in the tea-pan in which she had warmed the milk. Then she allowed a little of the syrup to fall upon the lips. The mouth snapped upon it, and long after Tess had gathered the infant into her arms the smacking went on and on, until both slept. Neither heard the wind that rattled the hut boards, that rasped its endless sawing on the tin roof; neither heard the willow branches brushing to and fro against the rickety chimney. The child slept the sleep of a human creature moving silently toward death; and Tess the sleep of the exhausted.

* * * * *

The next morning she stood in the doorway, grimly watching the cottagers' boats, loaded with household goods, one by one as they passed. This time of year was prophetic of the coming winter, and told Tess a few more weeks would see the snow piled up about the hut and the lake covered with ice. Deacon Hall's private launch steamed by, with huge piles of bedding heaped up on the bow. One after another of the summer residents disappeared in the inlet, and Tess was waiting for the hill-house people also to leave.

She heard Frederick's voice in the lane, and closed the door, pressing her face to the window. She saw him climb into his father's little yacht to make it ready for the summer's stock from the cottage. Teola, too, was on the shore, and Tess saw the girl turn longing eyes toward the hut. Then, with a boyish tug at his belt, Frederick started up the hill. His face in profile showed the squatter that he had changed—he was thinner, paler, and looked years older. Closer pressed the sweet face to the dirty pane, brighter grew the brown eyes. Drawn by his own desire, the student turned and looked at her. First an expression of eagerness leaped into his face; then one of sorrow settled upon it. He went on to the cottage without even nodding his head. He would soon come down with his father, mother and sister Babe, and Tess would see him no more.

She sank down upon the bed beside the sucking child, and did not hear the hut door open softly.

"Tess, Tess! It's Teola, dear. What is the matter?"

The squatter choked back her tears, and sat up.

"There ain't nothin' the matter," she replied sulkily. "I can cry if I wants to, can't I?"

"But, Tessibel, I have never seen you cry like that before, never! Is it money? Here, dear; here is a dollar. Father gave it to me. It will buy some milk, until I can send more. Oh, let me see my baby again. Darling little man! Your mother does love you, even if she must leave you. Tess, he looks worse than he did when I went home last night. You—you will bring him to the church to-morrow?"

"Yep."

"And, Tess, I left a lot of white cloths on the pear-tree near the barn. I could not bring them to you before, for Mother only sorted them out to throw away this morning. Oh, the baby looks so thin and ill, Tess!"

Tears trickled down upon the infant. Teola pressed her lips again and again to the thin mouth. The vivid mark was offering its crimson tinge sharply against the dead blue of the rest of the baby face.

"And, Tess," burst forth Teola, "how gladly I would give you a dress for yourself if I could, and a dress for him! You can't bring him like this to the church. You don't mind coming as you are?"

"Nope," came the bitter interruption from the squatter. "I don't need no clothes to have a brat sprinkled. I air a squatter, and squatters don't give—a hell about nothin'."

Her looks belied the words. With the dignity of a queen, the fine young head had settled back upon the broad shoulders sloping bare at the arms. The sweet face gave the lie to the hardened speech uttered from the grief she had just spent upon the bed.

"Don't speak like that, Tess! Don't! don't!" gasped Teola. "Some day, after the babe and I are dead—"

Teola had come close to the fisher-girl, her pale face thrust beseechingly forward. Tess hesitated; then flung out her arms and drew the minister's daughter into them. Her eyes were filled with awe indescribable.

"I's a mean brat to make ye say that," she faltered. "I brings the kid to-morry to the church. And, yes, I gets him a dress, too. See? And I buys milk for him, and makes him eat, and he sleeps here," Tess pounded her own strong breast, and ended, "till his dead pappy and his ma come after him, poor little cuss."

Both girls cried softly, till Frederick's voice on the hill rang out sharply in answer to a question from his father. Teola kissed her babe over and over, drawing a small shawl about her shoulders, and picked a path out through the fish-bones on the floor. When Frederick returned to the boat, she was listlessly throwing small stones into the water.



CHAPTER XLI

Tessibel watched Minister Graves' yacht steam by the Hoghole, across the head of the lake and into the inlet. With it went the hopes of reconciliation with the student; the Dominie and his glowering glances of hatred; and Teola with her illness, leaving her the helpless babe.

She suddenly decided to share her secret with Mrs. Longman. She would beg a dress for little Dan to wear to the church for his baptism. She had stubbornly kept the presence of the child in her hut from her squatter friend, although Myra had usually had a way of worming into her innermost confidence. But Tess had given her oath and loyalty to Teola, and feared to tell the other girl the parentage of the child, lest Myra, who loved Ben Letts, should blab the truth to him.

During the weeks the babe had been with her, Tess had sent endless excuses about her absence to the Longman hut. She had to read the Bible; was waiting for someone to bring her a message from Daddy; fishing; getting ready for the winter; anything to keep Myra in ignorance of the tragedy being enacted in Skinner's hut. But now Myra was gone with Ben; Ezra was dead; and Mrs. Longman would not be curious about the little child.

She prepared the basket with the clean clothes that Teola had left on the tree, and, with the easy grace of a barefooted squatter, set out for the ragged rocks with bounding steps.



Across the lake the patches of forest, shaded with the scarlet and green of dying leaves, relieved the bareness of the harvested wheat-fields. Tessibel had a passion for the tumbling waves, they seemed to speak an unknown language to her, but to-day the lake was smooth like polished, clear, blue glass, and the birds were racing in flocks over it from the north toward the south. Their flight was so rapid that the squatter paused and followed them with her eyes. One flock after another disappeared behind the college hill so quickly that Tess could scarcely bid them farewell. They were her summer friends, had filled the day with brilliant song, and the night with love-twitterings.

Tessibel's forest solitude and rambles, her communion with night things had passed, gone with the coming of Teola, gone with the care of the babe. A longing for her old free life came back to her. She stooped down and placed the basket upon the rocks, and, with her arms flung over her head, tossed her face up to the sun. Her soul was dreaming, and the dream changed the half-closed eyes from brown to black.

She stood silently, her gaze roving after the fleet-winged birds. They were leaving her to the winter—and the sick child.

But Daddy, dear old Daddy, was coming back home! She caught her breath. At that moment her father was the panacaea for all that she had suffered during the last few weeks. Tears welled into her eyes. Just then another great flock of black birds, huddling together, skimmed by through the clear air. Tess threw out her hands.

"Good-bye, good-bye!" she shouted, with conflicting emotions. "Come back again soon. It air lonely in the winter without ye."

As if the birds understood the longing in a kindred soul, the flock halted an instant, seemingly loath to go, circled their mass of black toward the sky, swept to the water's edge, poised for the fraction of a second, then shot towards the University hill, and disappeared.

With the light-heartedness of youth, Tess reached the Longman cabin. A silence reigned within which at first astonished her. The door was closed, and Satisfied was nowhere in sight. She paused before rapping, and looked to the shore for the boat. Disappointment shot through her: Satisfied and Mrs. Longman had gone to the city. Nevertheless, Tess tapped lightly, and then again. But no voice ordered her in. She lifted the latch, felt the door yield to her touch, and stepped inside. Four lean rats scurried cornerward, sinking from sight into dark holes; numbers of lizards tailed silently backward from the sunbeam slanting across the shanty door. But the sight was so usual to Tess that she merely turned her head slightly, and smiled as if to departing friends, and closed the door behind her. A long object stretched out upon a board arrested her steps. It was covered with a sheet, and the breathless gloom of the shanty caused Tess almost to drop the basket as she set it down. The silent, white thing on the board brought an exclamation of fear from her. With horror settling deep in her eyes she backed against the door. Did the sheet cover death? No; for Ezra had been carried to his grave the day before. The thought freed her from a terror that had gripped her senses at first. She took two steps forward, bent down and looked under the board. Little streams of water had made dark tracks across the hut floor. The corners of the sheet were drenched through. This sent Tess back once more to the door. Would she dare lift the sheet? Controlling her fear by an effort, Tess gathered her courage together and crept again to the long board. With shaking fingers, she lifted the cloth, and drew it back gently. Then a horrified cry fell sharply from her lips, and she dropped it. Ben Letts and Myra Longman, hugged in each other's arms, lay dead before her.

Fascinated and trembling, she stood considering the livid squatters, no sound, after the first cry, issuing from her pale lips. The dead faces were so close to each other that a human hand could not pass between them. Upon the plain face of Myra rested a peaceful expression, as if she possessed a quietude she had never known before. Her eyes were closed, and one arm was tightly clasped about Ben's neck—the other about his waist. The storm had loosened the meager hair, had flung it in disorder over the fisher-girl's shoulders. Ben's brown teeth gleamed dark; the drawn lips were stretched wide, as if a pain, dreadful and torturing, had opened them never to be closed again. His two huge arms, twisted about the frail frame of the girl, were locked together by the horny fingers. To Tessibel it seemed that Myra smiled faintly in the possession of her longed-for happiness. She had Ben Letts at last, and forever—he was her gift of the storm, the eternal gift of a wild night. Myra had sought, and had found him.

The shanty door pushed open. Like one in a dream, Tess was still looking down upon the dead. Lifting her gaze, she saw Satisfied watching her, his eyes glowing with subdued pain.

"Myry air dead," he said, in a low voice, coming forward.

"Ben Letts, too," added the squatter girl.

"And the brat," finished Longman.

Tess, startled, lifted up her head.

"The brat! I had forgot him," she muttered. "He air dead, too?"

"Yep. He air here."

Longman drew down the sheet still further, exposing the lifeless baby. The thin little body lay between the father and mother.

For many minutes they surveyed the dead trio in rapt attention.

"Where air Myry's ma?" asked Tessibel presently.

"Back there, in Ezy's bed. She air sick, and so air Mammy Letts."

"Ezy were buried yesterday," ruminated Tess.

"Yep, and Myry be a-goin' to the same place. Ma and me air—alone."

There was something strangely pathetic in the quiet words, in the stolid, ugly face with its hard lines, in the mouth twitching at the corners as he spoke. Tess sprang toward him, and wound her strong young arms about him.

"Myry air happy," she burst forth; "happier than when she were livin' with you. She air with Ben Letts."

Satisfied, towering over her, blinked confusedly at her words. Puzzling, he drew his heavy brows down darkly.

"Myry were a-seekin' Ben," Tess went on hurriedly, "and the brat couldn't stay without its pa and ma. I says as how Myry air happy, Satisfied."

"She were a-lovin' Ben Letts?" The pain in his clouded blue eyes stung Tess to the heart. The grief of this lonely old man, bereft of his all, seemed the most tragic spectacle she had ever faced.

"Yep," she replied, trying to smile through her tears; "she were a-lovin' him, and were a-seekin' his lovin's all the time. It were only in the storm—she found what she were a-seekin'."

She turned her head sharply toward the dead.

"Ye can see she air a-smilin', Satisfied, can't ye? And Ben air a-huggin' her up to him. That air somethin' Myry wanted. And ye air a-goin' to leave them like that, ain't ye? Don't tear Ben's arms loose, 'cause Myry won't be happy if ye does. Can't ye put 'em in a box, just like they air?"

Longman made a protesting motion. Some fishermen had picked the two dead ones up, locked in each other's arms. And he himself had covered them with a sheet, without making an effort to part them. He had not thought of putting them in the squatters' cemetery together.

"And let the brat stay with 'em, too," Tess broke in on his reverie.

"Yep," he replied; "I lets 'em all stay together. What Myry seeked for and found, she can have for all of me."

The listening girl knew there was hatred in the father's tones for Ben Letts. Well, she had hated Ben too, but he was all Myra's now, and there was no more hatred for the ugly squatter in the heart of Tessibel.

"She air a-smilin', Satisfied," Tess said again.

Longman loosened Tessibel's arms, and, walking slowly forward, looked down upon his daughter.

"I hain't seed before that she were a-smilin'," he said, taking a long breath. "Ye says as how she air happy, Tess?"

"Yep; she air with Ben Letts."

"I air a-goin' in to tell her ma that Myry air happy," asserted Longman, with relief in his voice. "I thank ye, Tess, for tellin' me that she were. I weren't thinkin' of nothin' but the storm, the water, and the time that ma and me were a-sleepin' when Myry were a-dyin'. She air happy, ye air sure, Tess?"

"Yep, for she were a-seekin' Ben Letts. She told me as how—" Tessibel choked back the words.

"She told ye what?"

Tess was going to tell him of the night on the ragged rocks and of Myra's broken wrist, but, with a flashing glance at the dead woman, changed her mind. In her vivid imagination she thought that Myra was silently entreating her not to speak ill of the dead man in her arms.

"She told me that Ben were the brat's pa, and that—" her eyes gladdened as she finished—"she were a-lovin' him; and, Satisfied, when we air a-lovin', and lovin' damn hard, then ain't we happy when we air with them what we loves?"

She had come close to him, standing near the dead man and woman. The girl slipped her hand into Longman's reassuringly, as she asked the last question.

"Yep," replied Satisfied, disappearing into the back room.

Tessibel had forgotten the child in the basket. She turned her eyes toward it, and a movement of the cover told her that the little Dan was awake. She was bending over it when Longman appeared at her side.

"Mammy says as how ye air to come in, Tess," he said, his eyes falling upon the child. "Whose brat air it?" he asked, with no shadowing suspicion in his glance. "Where did ye get it, Tessibel?"

"I air a-carin' for it for a while. I comed, Satisfied——"

Could she ask these people in sore grief for a dress that the dead child on the board had worn?

"Ye comed for what?" asked the man.

"I air a-wantin' to take him to the church, and I ain't got no dress for him. Would Mammy Longman let me take one?"

"Yep. Go in, and tell her. She air in bed."

Tess covered the babe's face, and placed the basket on the table.

"I can't leave him in the hut," she explained; "the rats air too thick."

"Yes," was all Longman said, and he fell to thinking deeply.

Tess crept away to the back room.

"I comed to see ye, Mammy Longman, and——"

"Sit down on the bed," interrupted the tired voice. "Myry and Ezy air both gone. Satisfied says as how Myry air a-smilin' and as how ye said she were happy. Satisfied and me feels better, we does."

Tessibel choked back the welling tears.

The gray head resting upon a soiled pillow, the pale face turned toward the wall, which had not turned to her, struck Tess deeper than Satisfied's stolid grief.

"Ye be sure Myry air happy?" came the tired voice again.

"Yep."

Mrs. Longman threw her eyes on Tessibel.

"If she air happy, what air ye cryin' for?"

"'Cause it air lonely for ye and Satisfied without her and the brat. I knows, 'cause I ain't had Daddy in such a long time."

"We was lookin' for Myry back, but not like—"

Tess broke in upon her words.

"Mammy Longman, I air a-carin' for a little chap what ain't goin' to live, and I wants a dress to take him to the church. Will ye let me have one?"

Mrs. Longman sat up, a new interest dawning in her faded eyes.

"To a church? Why to a church? He ain't dead yet, air he?"

"Nope; but his ma wants him took to the church where the Huly Ghost air, to have the water put on him.... Can I take the dress?"

"Yep, Tess; take one from Myry's box. They ain't good, but our little brat wored them."

Aimlessly, she lay down again and ceased speaking, but whimpered until Tess left the room. The girl made her choice from the small stock of dresses that had been worn by the Longman family, and had at last descended to the little dead boy.

* * * * *

On her way home to the hut once more, Tess paused on the rocks. The spectacle at Longman's had filled her eyes with the shadow of longing. She had seen Myra clasped in the arms of the man she loved. Tessibel's thoughts flew to the student. She could imagine her own happiness if she had been in the storm, and Frederick had taken her in his arms, and they should have—

"I wish almost I was Myry," she moaned, "and the student was Ben Letts.... No, no! not that! not that!"

She sank under the burden of a new thought. Myra had sought, and had found—had searched for Ben in the storm, and had found him. Myra had had more faith than she had.

"Faith the size of a mustard-seed," flashed into her mind. Her own past unbelief pressed upon her, and the color fled from her cheeks, leaving them pale.

She opened the basket, and put her wistful face close to the sleeping child, her mental tension gone in her uprising faith.

"I thought as how ye were a-keepin' the student from me, but ye ain't. God ain't ready to let me have him. But he air a-goin' to let me have him some time. I air glad I got ye, and I hopes that ye live, too. Myry air got Ben Letts, and I air a-goin' to have—Frederick." She walked home in a reverie deep and sweet.



CHAPTER XLII

Sunday morning, Tessibel was out upon the tracks, walking swiftly toward the city. She could hear the church bell at Haytes Corner ringing out a welcome to the country folk; she could hear the tolling of the chapel bell from the University hill. Clothed in the clean skirt she had washed at the time she had thought of going to Auburn prison, and a worn but clean jacket, Tess felt fit to face the best-dressed in Ithaca. Of course she was barefooted, for Daddy's boots were too big to wear into the house of the student's God. Earlier in the morning Tessibel had sat for a long time upon the small fishing dock, swinging her feet in the clear water. They, too, like the skirt and jacket, were clean.

In the basket, snuggling in the nest of white clothes, lay little Dan. He was robed, in the much-worn garment of the Longman child, and Tessibel had looked at him with pride as she settled him in his bed preparatory to her trip.

She passed swiftly through the city, and crossed Dewitt Park. How vividly she remembered the many midnights she had taken the same way, turning toward the jail to visit "Daddy"!

Tessibel paused before Minister Graves' church, and heard him read in deep tones from the Scriptures: "Suffer little children to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven." The harmonious voice floated through the window to the fisher-girl, now crouched in the sun. Every word fell distinctly upon her ear.

She lifted the basket cover, and peeped in upon the babe. He looked bluer and thinner than Tess had ever seen him; his lips rested upon the rag with no indrawing movement. Unblinkingly stared the wide gray eyes when the sunbeams flashed upon his face. The vivid birth-mark grew fainter in the yellow light. Tess drew him into the shade, and waited.

The tones rolled out like thunder when Dominie Graves bade the members of his flock bring their children to the Holy Font, that they might receive the blessing of God, and everlasting life. Tess heard him say that the Father in Heaven demanded that all children should be baptized in the name of the crucified Saviour—that to put off such a duty might prove dangerous to their eternal welfare. Many of the long words the squatter did not understand, but she gathered enough to know how necessary it was to obey the minister's commands. She glanced again at the babe, with a worried pucker between her eyes. There was the same stare, the same unmoving lips. But he was quiet, and Tessibel let him lie.

"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy-laden—" rang forth the powerful voice. It fell upon the red-haired girl and soothed her.

Tess knew that Teola would be expecting her, and that Frederick would turn his face away when she presented the child for baptism, but no cloud gathered into the downcast eyes, for Tessibel's faith had grown since she knew that Myra's prayers had been answered. Had she not seen the girl clasped in the arms of the fisherman, who had once said that he hated her? Had she not seen the smile upon the dead lips which dripped with lake water? Tessibel had never before been so confident in prayer, and upon this beautiful Sunday morning, in the white light of day, kneeling under the church window, she believed that God would give her back the student—some time. She thought of the pain that would rest in the proud dark eyes of the boy when he saw her; but she smiled, because she knew that God lived, heard and answered the prayers of the heavy-laden.

An anthem rolled up from the church choir, chanting out the love of Christ, chanting His crucifixion and death for a dying world.

"Come unto me, come unto me," it sang, and "Come unto me," rose from the lips of the squatter waiting to take the little human thing, with its burden of sickness and death, to Dominie Graves, that he might petition the Holy Ghost to take away its sin.

"Come unto me," again sang the choir. Then silence. Tess leaned nearer the window. Dominie Graves read out the names of the babies to be baptized that day.

A carriage rolled rapidly to the church door, and Deacon Hall, accompanied by his wife, stepped to the pavement. The Deacon held a bundle with long white draperies hanging from it. It was their new baby, with lace upon its frock, going in to receive a blessing at the altar of God. Tess peered down upon the little Dan, and pulled the coarse dress closer about his chin. A violent wish born of the love she had for him came into her heart. Oh, that she had one bit of lace, to make his skin look less blue and the mouth less drawn! The wide eyes were still fixed upon her, immovable and unblinking. Once only had she seen the lids fall slowly downward, to rise again over the unseeing eyes.

"He knows he air a-goin' to church," she muttered lovingly. "I wonder if that air why he air so good.... Mebbe the spirit of his pappy air here."

She heard the names fall from the lips of the clergyman, as he took the infants, one by one, and placed his hand upon them with the water.

"I baptize thee, John Richard," Graves said slowly, "in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."

"Of the Holy Ghost...." He was the Spirit of God Who stood by the children, to take away the sin with which they had been born. Teola had told Tess so. The Holy Ghost would take away the sin of little Dan.

"I baptize thee," broke the silence, time after time, amid the tiny splashes of falling water. The last must have gone up to the altar, for Tess heard the minister telling the fathers and mothers the duty they owed their children.

"I finish my service to-day," said he, "by praying God to bless you all, and calling down the good-will of Heaven upon your children just baptized in His name."

Tessibel did not wait to hear the rest. She raised the child from the basket, shielding him from the sun with her body, stretched him out reverently upon her hands, and tiptoed up the long flight of steps into the church. A sea of heads rose before her startled vision. Transfixed, she paused in the door, waiting for Graves to cease speaking. Her eye caught the pew of the minister. Teola sat next to Frederick on the end, Mrs. Graves between her and her younger daughter. Tess noticed the tense expression upon the sharp profile of the babe's mother. How glad Teola would be when the baby was baptized! How happy in the new-found Heaven for her child!

The minister's voice had fallen into a prayer. And still Tess waited with the dying infant, staring wide-eyed upward at the great church dome. Every head was bowed: no one saw the strange girl, with hair flung wide about her shoulders, nor the tiny human being resting upon her hands.

Silence fell upon the congregation, and Tessibel commenced her walk down through the sea of faces to the pulpit. She gave no glance toward Teola as she passed, but kept her eyes fixed upon Dominie Graves, who, without noticing her, had turned to the little flight of steps that led to his pulpit. When he reached the Bible stand, and opened his lips to speak, his gaze dropped upon the squatter. At first he thought he was dreaming. He looked again—looked at her—at the child—and paled to his ears. Tessibel was holding the infant up toward him, with a beseeching expression in her eyes that staggered him.

Teola had seen Tess pass, and had caught a glimpse of the thin child upon her hands. The pursed baby lips, from which hung the useless sugar rag, made her lower her head to the prayer cushion, shuddering violently. Frederick had also seen the squatter—everyone in the church had seen her, and the silence grew wider and wider, until even breathing was hushed to catch her words.

Her low, sweet voice began to speak; it thrilled through the congregation like the song of angels.



"I has brought ye a dyin' brat, Dominie Graves," began Tess with shaking voice, "who has got to be sprinkled, or he can't go to Heaven."

The vast silence of the edifice echoed her petition.

The gaping minister never once took his eyes from her face, and made no move to answer her.

"It air a-dyin', I say," she went on, "and I wants ye to put the water on it."

So deadly in earnest was the girl that a sob broke out in the back of the church. The lithe, barefooted squatter, and the feeble, dying child offered a living picture of pathos, which with its tragedy slowly dawned upon the more sensitive minds, silently telling its tale of human suffering. Minister Graves refused to answer her. He wore the same expression of scorn Tess had seen in the student when she had acknowledged the child as hers.

"Be ye goin' to sprinkle him?" she demanded steadfastly, her voice growing stronger with her emotions. "Be ye?"

"No, I'm not." Graves' voice fell like the sound of a deep-toned bell.

"Be ye goin' to let him go to a place where God can't find him? Be ye?" Tess entreated.

Anger and revolt glinted through the golden-brown of her eyes; she swayed back a little from the font, still holding out the babe.

"He air so little," she pleaded with a choke, "and so awful sick. Mebbe he won't live till mornin'. He can't hurt the others, now they air done with the water, can he?"

She peeped into the marble basin, and lifted her eyes to his face.

"There air lots of water left. Be there other babies wantin' it worse than this one?"

She turned half-way round, and faced the wall of white faces, sending the question out in high-pitched tones.

Then Graves spoke with austerity and strength, riding down his anger with a mighty effort.

"You will please take the child from the church. You have your own squatter mission for such as that."

He had forgotten his members—forgotten that he was a man of God. As he bent toward her, he remembered only that she was the girl who had thwarted him, who had won in the squatter fight against his own influence. Tessibel heard the words "squatter" and "mission." It had not occurred to her to take the child there. She looked down upon the little fire-marked face. Would baby Dan live until she could get him there? He might be dead before she could carry him to the inlet and cross the tracks to the young rector's house. Teola had said that the baby would never be with his father without baptism, that even she, his mother, could not see him when she, too, went away. Little Dan, uncleansed, would live far from the bright angels. Her anger rose in a twinkling. She took another backward step, threw the red curls into a mass over her shoulder, and spoke again.

"Air I to take him from the church without the water?"

"Yes."

"I'll be damned if I's a-goin' to take him away," she flung back, panting. "He air so near dead, he air blind—look at his eyes! I says, he air to be sprinkled, he air! If ye won't give the Huly Ghost a chance at him—" Here she stepped forward to the font, flashed a look of hatred at Graves, and suddenly dipped her hand into the water.

"I sprinkles him myself," she ended.

The drops fell upon the livid baby face, dripping down upon the bare feet of the squatter.

"I baptize—" Tess wavered for lack of words. She had thought she could not forget the benediction.

A voice from the back of the church broke in abruptly upon her hesitation.

"I baptize thee, child," it rang, "in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."

Bill Hopkins was in the middle aisle, coming toward her. Tess snatched one glimpse of his face, still holding her wet hand upon the dark-haired babe.

"Say it, girl," Hopkins commanded. "Say it, quick. The child is dying."

"I baptize thee, child, in the name—" gasped Tess.

She stepped back again, throwing an entreating, silent appeal to the huge, bald-headed man.

"Of the Father, and of the Son," repeated Bill.

"Of the Father, and of the Son," echoed Tess.

"And of the Holy Ghost," ended Hopkins.

"And of the Huly Ghost," whispered Tess.

"Amen" rolled from a hundred tear-choked throats, like the distant murmuring of the sea. Hopkins sat down, saying no more.

Minister Graves had sunk into his chair, and on the girl's last words the congregation drew a long, gasping breath. The eyes of the babe gazed steadily on into the shadows of eternal silence; the water seemingly unfelt upon its head. The small boy was slipping away to that place of mystery where his father, Myra and Ben Letts had gone. The long days of suffering with the child in the hut rushed over Tess. She dropped on her knees, facing the pulpit, and hugged him to her breast, and whispered,

"Suffer little children to come unto me—"

Then another voice, shrill, sobbing and terrible, hushed her prayer. The squatter instinctively shifted her position toward the Dominie's pew. Teola Graves was standing up, tall and pale, and was looking directly at the minister.

"Father," she cried, "Father, if you don't take the baby and baptize him in the name of the Saviour, you will consign to everlasting darkness—" She lost her breath, caught it again, and finished, "your own flesh and blood. God! dear God, take us both to Dan!... Tessibel, Tessibel, give me my baby!"

She wrenched herself loose from Frederick's detaining fingers, and was in the aisle before her brother realized what had happened.

"He's my baby," she cried, between the spasmodic pressures upon her chest. "Tess! Tess, is he dead?"

"Yep, he air dead," fell from Tessibel; for she had seen the large, glazed eyes draw in at the corners and the little face blanch. The tiny spirit fled as the frantic girl-mother clasped her babe to her breast.

"But he air gone to his pappy," consoled the squatter.

For one awful moment, Dominie Graves looked into the accusing eyes of his congregation. Bill Hopkins was seated, with his face in his hands, but Augusta Hall, with her new baby folded tightly in her arms, was looking at him in dark-eyed disdain.

Graves swayed dizzily, ... caught at the pulpit table for support.

"Jesus," he appealed dizzily, "Christ Jesus."

Frederick pressed his way to his sister's side. The squatter threw up her head before him: for the first time since that last dreadful night, she looked directly into his eyes, her dishonor slipping from her like a loosened garment. Frederick's soul shone forth in the glance he sent her. God in His own time had given her back the student.

Tessibel turned, and passed up through the mute gathering. Bill Hopkins put out his hand, and touched her.

"Child," he said brokenly, "you are the one bright spirit in this generation."

But Tessibel did not understand. She went down the long flight of steps, and into the sun-lit street, with but a backward glance at the rag-draped basket she had left under the church window.



CHAPTER XLIII

Tessibel was a child again, a happy, free-hearted child. The body of her death had fallen away as Christian's burden had slipped from his shoulders at the foot of the cross. The babe had gone to its father with the blessing of the Holy Ghost!

Then Tess thought of Teola, and stopped on the tracks, the Dominie's last words rushing into her mind. She had understood the import of them. It had been carried to her by the awful expression upon Graves' face. He was sorry, this minister who had persecuted her father and herself—sorry for Teola, sorry for the brat!

"The Dominie ain't likin' Daddy and me, though," she murmured. "But the student air a-likin' me!"

For the next two miles she sang lustily, childishly, with the complete abandon of a girl without a burden. Daddy Skinner was coming home, and God had given her back the student. The remembrance of his eyes thrilled her from head to foot.

Tess passed down the lane, glad for Myra, glad for Teola and her child—glad for everyone. She was still singing when she crossed the wide plank that spanned the mud-cellar creek. She saw Professor Young leaning against the shanty door, and the memory of their last conversation, when he had asked her to marry him, made her pause awkwardly, the color flying in rich waves from the red forehead ringlets to the shapely neck.

Young took her hand, looking searchingly into her face.

"Where is the child?" he demanded in low tones.

"I took it back to its ma—she wanted it," was all Tess replied. "Air ye comin' in and tell me about Daddy?"

"Your father will—"

Tessibel halted, with her hand on the door, waiting for him to finish.

"Go in, child. I will tell you—in there."

He spoke slowly, deliberately.... Tess gazed at him, trying to read his thoughts. Nevertheless she obeyed him, pressing open the door with an impatient movement of her head. She had waited so long for just this moment. To know when the big, humpbacked father was coming home seemed more precious to Tessibel than all the uplifting joy she had experienced that day. Her eyes swept the hut; then they rested in a frightened glance upon Daddy Skinner seated on his own stool. He was smiling at her with misty, shaggy-browed eyes, his lips showing his dark teeth with each incoming breath.

Deforest Young saw the girl bound forward, and the red curls shroud the huge fisherman's face. Tears blurred his sight. He turned into the day to regain his control.

"Ye be here to stay!" gasped Tess, sitting up presently, and holding the thick neck with her curved arm. "Ye ain't never goin' back to Auburn?"

"Nope; I's here to stay with my pretty brat.... Air ye glad to see yer Daddy?"

"Glad! glad! Daddy, daddy! I air a-goin' to be your brat till we dies!" She had nestled, as in the old days, completely under his chin hair, crying silently, deeply, with low-caught sobs.

For a long time they sat thus, until the man outside entered and spoke to them.

* * * * *

Tess jubilantly cooked the fish for dinner, spattering the bacon fat upon the floor. She smiled alternately at her father and Professor Young; she caroled like a spring bird with bursts of happy song. Then they three sat down to the table to eat the homely squatter fare.

A sickening longing swept over Deforest Young. To have the love of this girl he would be willing to live in the shanty—to eat just such food for the rest of his life. But during the few days past, he had fully realized that he could not make Tess love him. He would never speak of love to her again.

Yet it pleased him to remain with them through the long afternoon, with Tess near him to watch the sun sink behind the western hill.

He had drawn on his coat preparatory to leaving, and stood with Tessibel's hand in his. A sharp, quick knock on the door stayed his farewell. Orn Skinner lifted the latch, and Frederick Graves entered at the fisherman's bidding. His face was drawn and pale, his eyes red from weeping. Tessibel's heart bounded in sympathy, but she remained backed against the shanty wall until his eyes searched hers for a welcome. He spoke first.

"My sister is dead," he said slowly, his voice breaking as the tears came into the dark eyes; "and my father sent you this."

Daddy Skinner was seated blinkingly on his stool; Professor Young, hat in hand, waited for the girl to take the extended paper. But for several seconds she stood staring at Frederick, with wide-eyed wonderment. He had said that his beautiful sister was dead, that she had gone with the thin babe to her loved one, even as Myra Longman had gone with Ben Letts. To Tess it was but another answered prayer, showered from Heaven. She felt no thrill of grief; she was only glad that the pale, sick mother had had her wish.

She took the paper awkwardly, and scanned it with painful embarrassment.

"I can't read the writin'," she said, handing it back. "Will ye tell me what it says?"

"Oh, I can't, I can't, Tessibel! I am so ashamed, so miserable!"

Tess silently handed the paper to Professor Young; then she slipped forward and stood close to Frederick, rapidly considering his face with forgiving eyes.

Young turned to the student.

"Shall I?"

An acquiescent nod gave him permission to lift the note and read:

"Dear Child:

My daughter is dead. Frederick will tell you. If you can forgive me for all I have done against you and your father, will you come here to us, and tell Mrs. Graves and myself of the past few weeks. Frederick has told me that he loves you, and of your sacrifice for Teola. I can only say at present that we thank you.

Yours in grief and gratitude, Elias Graves.

P. S.—When your father comes back, I shall ask you to give him the title of the ground upon which your house stands."

Professor Young read it slowly, word by word; each breath taken by the four people could be plainly heard in the silence that followed.

Frederick broke it.

"Tess, will you come to our home, and tell Father and Mother about—Teola?"

The name slipped into a whisper from his lips, and, leaning against the hut door, he burst into boyish, bitter tears.

"Forgive me, please," he murmured; "but it was so awful! And what she must have suffered!... And I didn't know—we none of us knew." He lifted his face, swept them with a heartrending glance, and finished. "She died in the church to-day with the baby."

"She air happy to be with the man what she loves, ain't she?" said Tess, softly.

Frederick grasped her hands, her brilliant smile easing the pain that like a knife stabbed his heart.

"You think she was happy to die, Tess?... Tell me all she said.... Did she know she was going away?"

For an instant the rapid rush of questions daunted Tessibel. But she sorted them out, commencing from the first one to answer them.

"Yep, she air happy," she said positively; "awful happy. She wanted to go to her man in the sky.... He were a-waitin' for her every day, and she knowed she were a-goin' to die, 'cause—'cause she prayed every night that God'd take her and the brat."

"Prayed? She prayed to die, when we all loved her so?" stammered Frederick.

"Yep. She were a-lovin' the burnt student better'n anything else. And, when women air a-lovin' like that—"

She ceased abruptly, and her own love for him attacked her as lightning attacks an oak in the autumn. Teola Graves had gone willingly to the burnt student, and Myra Longman had loved the ugly fisherman with a love that hurt like hers.

No one asked the short-skirted, barefooted girl to finish her sentence. The three men understood that her last passionate statement rang from the depths of her woman's heart. Frederick lifted his head.

"Tess—Tessibel, I can only say with my father that we all love you for what you have done for her."

His voice broke.

"And for myself, I say again, as I have said many times, that I—I love you—with my whole soul!"

His fingers closed over hers in an intense, desperate clasp. How long she had waited for him to tell her this once more! And he had confessed his great love in the presence of Daddy Skinner and the big man from the hill.

Her father watched her, this child whom but a year before he had left almost a baby. She was a woman now, with a woman's voice and a woman's love. The fisherman passed his hand over his face with a forlorn gesture. Had he found his darling again but to lose her?

Impetuously Tess turned toward him, and met his misty gaze with her tear-dimmed eyes. The student was still clinging to her hand.

"I air Daddy's brat," she whispered. "But I says," and she flashed Frederick a lightning-like glance through the red lashes before she dropped her eyes, and murmured, "but I says, as how I said before, that I air yer squatter."



* * * * *



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