"Jim told me," Peter had confided to Jed Martin, "that he was going to get a posse from way-back and round Lawson up."

This was wholly false. White never took any one into his business secrets, least of all Greyson for whom he had deep contempt. "But I don't call that clean to us-all, Jed. We don't want strangers to catch Burke; we don't want them to—to string him up or shoot him full of holes; what we-all want is to force White to hand him over to justice, give him a fair trial, and then send him to one of them prison traps to eat his soul out behind bars. Jed—just you shut your eyes and see Burke Lawson behind bars—eating sop from a pan, drinking prison water—just you call that picture up."

Jed endeavoured to do so and it grew upon his imagination.

"We-all wants to trail him," Greyson continued, "we don't want to give him a free passage to Kingdom-Come by rope or shot—we-all want prison for Lawson, prison!"

As Jed was the one most concerned, this edict went abroad by mountain wireless.

"Catch him alive!" Friend and foe were alert.

"And when all's fixed and done—when Burke's trapped," Greyson said, "what you going to do—for me, Jed?"

This was a startling, new development.

"I didn't reckon yo' war doin' this—fur pay!" Jed faltered. Then Greyson came forth:

"No pay, Jed. Gawd knows I do my duty as I see it. But being keen about duty, I see more than one duty. When you catch and cage Lawson, Jed, I want to be something closer to you than a friend."

"Closer than—" Jed gasped.

"And duty drives me to confess to you, Jed, that the happiness of a lady is at stake."

Jed merely gaped now. Visions of Nella-Rose made him giddy and speechless.

"The day you put Lawson in jail, Jed, that day I'll give you the hand of my daughter. She loves you; she has confessed! You shall come here and share—everything! The hour that Burke is convicted—Marg is yours!"

"Marg!" The word came on a gasp.

"Not a word!" Greyson waved his hand in a princely way—this gesture was an heirloom from his ancestry. "I understand your feelings—I've seen what has been going on—but naturally I want my daughter to marry one worthy of her. You shall have my Marg when you have proven yourself! I've misjudged you, Jed, but this will wipe away old scores."

With a sickening sense of being absorbed, Jed sank into black silence. If Marg wanted him and old Greyson was helping her, there was no hope! Blood and desire would conquer every time; every mountaineer recognized that!

And so things were seething under a surface of deadly calm, when Truedale, believing that he had himself well in control, packed his gunny sack and started forth for a long tramp. He had no particular destination in mind—in fact, the soft, dreamy autumn day lulled him to mental inertia—he simply went along, but he went as directly toward the rhododendron slick as though he had long planned his actions. However, it was late afternoon before he came upon Nella-Rose.

On the instant he realized that he had been searching for her all day. His stern standards crumbled and became dry dust. One might as well apply standards to flickering sunlight or to swirling trifles of mountain mist as to Nella-Rose. She came upon him gaily; the dogs had discovered her on one of their ventures and were now quietly accompanying her.

"I—I've been looking for you—all day!" Truedale admitted, with truth but indiscretion. And then he noted, as he had before, the strange impression the girl gave of having been blown upon the scene. The pretty, soft hair resting on the cheek in a bewildering curve; the large, dreamy eyes and black lashes; the close clinging of her shabby costume, as if wrapped about her slim body by the playful gale that had wafted her along; all held part in the illusion.

"I had to—to lead Marg to Devil-may-come Hollow. She's hunting there now!" Nella-Rose's white teeth showed in a mischievous smile. "We're right safe with Marg down there, scurrying around. Come, I know a sunny place—I want to tell you about Marg."

Her childish appropriation of him completed Truedale's surrender. The absolute lack of self-consciousness drove the last remnant of caution away. They found the sunny spot—it was like a dimple in a hill that had caught the warmth and brightness and held them always to the exclusion of shadows. It almost seemed that night could never conquer the nook.

And while they rested there, Nella-Rose told him of the belief of the natives that he was the refugee Lawson.

"And Marg would give you up like—er—this" (Nella-Rose puffed an imaginary trifle away with her pretty pursed lips). "She trailed after me all day—she lost me in a place where hiding's good—and there I left her! She'll tell Jed Martin this evening when she gets back. Marg is scenting Burke for Jed and his kind to catch—that's her way and Jed's!" Stinging contempt rang in the girl's voice.

"But not your way I bet, Nella-Rose." The fun, not the danger, of the situation struck Truedale.

"No!—I'd do it all myself! I'd either warn him and have done with it, or I'd stand by him."

"I'm not sure that I like the misunderstanding about me," Truedale half playfully remarked, "they may shoot me in the back before they find out."

"Do you" (and here Nella-Rose's face fell into serious, dangerously sweet, lines), "do you reckon I would leave you to them-all if there was that danger? They don't aim to shoot or string Burke up; they reckon they'll take him alive and—get him locked up in jail to—to—"

"What, Nella-Rose?"

"Die of longing!"

"Is that what would happen to Burke Lawson?"

The girl nodded. Then the entrancing mischief returned to her eyes and she became a child once more—a creature so infinitely young that Truedale seemed grandfatherly by comparison.

"Can't you see how mighty funny it will be to lead them and let them follow on and then some day—they'll plump right up on you and find out! Godda'mighty!"

Irresponsible mirth swayed the girl to and fro. She laughed, silently, until the tears stood in the clear eyes. Truedale caught the spirit of her mood and laughed with her. The picture she portrayed of setting jealousy, malice, and stupidity upon the wrong trail was very funny, but suddenly he paused and said seriously:

"But in the meantime this Burke Lawson may return; you may be the death of him with your pranks."

Nella-Rose shook her head. "I would know!" she declared confidently. "I know everything that's going on in the hills. Burke would let me know—first!"

"It's like melodrama," Truedale murmured half to himself. By some trick of fancy he seemed to be looking on as Brace Kendall might have. The thought brought him to bay. What would good old Brace do in the present situation?

"What is melodrama?" Nella-Rose never let a new word or suggestion escape her. She was as keen as she was dramatic and mischievous.

"It would be hard to make you understand—but see here"—Truedale drew the gunny sack to him—"I bet you're hungry!" He deliberately put Brace from his thoughts.

"I reckon I am." The lovely eyes were fixed upon the hand that was bringing forth the choicest morsels of the food prepared early that morning. As he laid the little feast before her, Truedale acknowledged that, in a vague way, he had been saving the morsels for Nella-Rose even while he had fed, earlier, upon coarser fare.

"I don't know about giving you a chicken wing!" he said playfully. "You look as if you were about to fly away as it is—but unfortunately I've eaten both legs!"

"Oh! please"—Nella-Rose reached across the narrow space separating them, she was pleading prettily—"I just naturally admire wings!"

"I bet you do! Well, eat plenty of bread with them. And see here, Nella-Rose, while you are eating I'm going to read a story to you. It is the sort of thing that we call melodrama."

"Oh!" This through the dainty nibbling of the coveted wing. "I'm right fond of stories."

"Keep quiet now!" commanded Truedale and he began the spirited tale of love and high adventure that, like the tidbits, he knew he had brought for Nella-Rose!

The warm autumn sun fell upon them for a full hour, then it shifted and the chill of the approaching evening warned the reader of the flight of time. He stopped suddenly to find that his companion had long since forgotten her hunger and food. Across the debris she bent, absorbed and tense. Her hands were clasped close—cold, little hands they were—and her big eyes were strained and wonder-filled.

"Is that—all?" she asked, hoarsely.

"Why, no, child, there's more."

"Go on!"

"It's too late! We must get back."

"I—I must know the rest! Why, don't you see, you know how it turns out; I don't!"

"Shall I tell you?"

"No, no. I want it here with the warm sun and the pines and your—yourself making it real."

"I do not understand, Nella-Rose!" But as he spoke Truedale began to understand and it gave him an uneasy moment. He knew what he ought to do, but knew that he was not going to do it! "We'll have to come again and hear the rest," was what he said.

"Yes? Why"—and here the shadowy eyes took on the woman-look, the look that warned and lured the man near her—"I did not know it ever came like that—really."

"What, Nella-Rose?"

"Why—love. They-all knew it—and took it. It was just like it was something all by itself. That's not the sort us-all have. Does it only come that—er—way in mel—melerdrammer?"

"No, little girl. It comes that way in real life when hearts are big enough and strong enough to bear it." Truedale watched the effect of his words upon the strange, young face before him. They forced their way through her ignorance and untrained yearning for love and admiration. It was a perilous moment, for conscience, on Truedale's part, seemed drugged and sleeping and Nella-Rose was awakening to that which she had never known before. Gone, for her, were caprice and mischief; she seemed about to see and hear some wonderful thing that eluded but called her on.

And after that first day they met often. "Happened upon each other" was the way Truedale put it. It seemed very natural. The picturesque spots appealed to them both. There was reading, too—carefully selected bits. It was intensely interesting to lead the untrained mind into bewildering mazes—to watch surprise, wonder, and perplexity merge into understanding and enjoyment. Truedale experienced the satisfaction of seeing that, for the first time in his life, he was a great power. The thought set his brain whirling a bit, but it made him seriously humble as well.

Gradually his doubts and introspections became more definite; he lived day by day, hour by hour; while Jim White tarried, Nella-Rose remained; and the past—Truedale's past—faded almost from sight. He could hardly realize, when thinking of it afterward, where and how he decided to cut loose from his past, and all it meant, and accept a future almost ludicrously different from anything he had contemplated.

One day a reference to Burke Lawson was made and, instead of letting it pass as heretofore, he asked suddenly of Nella-Rose:

"What is he to you?"

The girl flushed and turned away.

"Burke?—oh, Burke isn't—anything—now!"

"Was he ever—anything?"

"I reckon he wasn't; I know he wasn't!"

Then, like a flash, Truedale believed he understood what had happened. This simple girl meant more to him than anything else—more than the past and what it held! A baser man would not have been greatly disturbed by this knowledge; a man with more experience and background would have understood it and known that it was a phase that must be dealt with sternly and uncompromisingly, but that it was merely a phase and as such bound to pass. Not so Truedale. He was stirred to the roots of his being; every experience was to him a concrete fact and, consequently, momentous. In order to keep pure the emotions that overpowered him at times, he must renounce all that separated him from Nella-Rose and reconstruct his life; or—he must let her go!

Once Truedale began to reason this out, once he saw Nella-Rose's dependence upon him—her trust and happiness—he capitulated and permitted his imagination to picture and colour the time on ahead. He refused to turn a backward glance.

Of course all this was not achieved without struggle and foreboding; but he saw no way to hold what once was dear, without dishonour to that which now was dearer; and he—let go!

This determined, he strenuously began to prepare himself for the change. Day by day he watched Nella-Rose with new and far-seeing interest—not always with love and passion-blinded eyes. He felt that she could, with his devotion and training, develop into a rarely sweet and fine woman. He was not always a fool in his madness; at times he was wonderfully clear-sighted. He meant to return home, when once his health was restored, and take the Kendalls into his confidence; but the thought of Lynda gave him a bad moment now and then. He could not easily depose her from the most sacred memories of his life, but gradually he grew to believe that her relations to him were—had always been—platonic; and that she, in the new scheme, would play no small part in his life and Nella-Rose's.

There would be years of self-denial and labour and then, by and by, success would be achieved. He would take his finished work, and in this he included Nella-Rose, back to his old haunts and prove his wisdom and good fortune. In short, Truedale was love-mad—ready to fling everything to the ruthless winds of passion. He blindly called things by wrong names and steered straight for the rocks.

He meant well, as God knew; indeed all the religious elements, hitherto unsuspected in him, came to the fore now. Conventions were absurd when applied to present conditions, but, once having accepted the inevitable, the way was divinely radiant. He meant to pay the price for what he yearned after. He had no other intention.

Now that he was resigned to letting the past go, he could afford to revel in the joys of the present with a glad sense of responsibility for the future.

Presently his course seemed so natural that he wondered he had ever questioned it. More and more men with a vision—and Truedale devoutly believed he had the vision—were recognizing the absurdity of old ideals.

Back to the soil meant more than the physical; it meant back to the primitive, the simple, the real. The artificial exactions of society must be spurned if a new and higher morality were to be established.

If Truedale in this state of mind had once seen the actual danger, all might have been well; but he had swung out of his orbit.

At this juncture Nella-Rose was puzzling her family to the extent of keeping her father phenomenally sober and driving Marg to the verge of nerve exhaustion.

The girl had, to put it in Greyson's words, "grown up over night." She was dazzling and recalled a past that struck deep in the father's heart.

There had been a time when Peter Greyson, a mere boy, to be sure—and before the cruel war had wrecked the fortunes of his family—had been surrounded by such women as Nella-Rose now suggested. Women with dancing eyes and soft, white hands. Women born and bred for love and homage, who demanded their privileges with charm and beauty. There had been one fascinating woman, a great-aunt of Nella-Rose's, who had imperilled the family honour by taking her heritage of worship with a high hand. Disregarding the rights of another, she boldly rode off with the man of her choice and left the reconstruction of her reputation to her kith and kin who roused instantly to action and lied, like ladies and gentlemen, when truth was impossible. Eventually they so toned down and polished the deed of the little social highwaywoman as to pass her on in the family history with an escutcheon shadowed only, rather than smirched.

Nella-Rose, now that her father considered, was dangerously like her picturesque ancestress! The thought kept Peter from the still, back in the woods, for many a day. He, poor down-at-heel fellow, was as ready as any man of his line to protect women, especially his own, but he was sorely perplexed now.

Was it Burke Lawson who, from his hiding place, was throwing a glamour over Nella-Rose?

Then Peter grew ugly. The protection of women was one thing; ridding the community of an outlaw was another. Men knew how to deal with such matters and Greyson believed himself to be very much of a man.

"Nella-Rose," he said one day as he smoked reflectively and listened to his younger daughter singing a camp meeting hymn in a peculiarly sweet little voice, "when my ship comes in, honey, I'm going to buy you a harp. A gold one."

"I'd rather have a pink frock, father, and a real hat; I just naturally hate sunbonnets! I'd favour a feather on my hat—flowers fade right easy."

"But harps is mighty elegant, Nella-Rose. Time was when your—aunts and—and grandmothers took to harps like they was their daily nourishment. Don't you ever forget that, Nella-Rose. Harps in families mean blood, and blood don't run out if you're careful of it."

Nella-Rose laughed, but Marg, in the wash-house beyond, listened and—hated!

No one connected her with harps or blood, but she held, in her sullen heart and soul, the true elements of all that had gone into the making of the best Greysons. And as the winter advanced, Marg, worn in mind and body, was brought face to face with stern reality. Autumn was gone—though the languorous hours belied it. She must prepare. So she gathered her forces—her garden products that could be exchanged for necessities; the pork; the wool; all, all that could be spared, she must set in circulation. So she counted three dozen eggs and weighed ten pounds of pork and called Nella-Rose, who was driving her mad by singing and romping outside the kitchen door.

"You—Nella-Rose!" she called, "are you plumb crazy?"

Nella-Rose became demure at once and presented herself at the door.

"Do I look it?" she said, turning her wonderful little face up for inspection. Something in the words and in the appealing beauty made Marg quiver. Had happiness and justice been meted out to Marg Greyson she would have been the tenderest of sisters to Nella-Rose. Several years lay between them; the younger girl was encroaching upon the diminishing rights of the older. The struggle between them was as old as life itself, but it could not kill utterly what should have existed ardently.

"You got to tote these things"—Marg held forth the basket—"down to the Centre for trade, and you can fetch back the lil' things like pepper, salt, and sugar. Tell Cal Merrivale to fetch the rest and bargain for what I've got ready here, when he drives by. If you start now you can be back by sundown."

To Marg's surprise, Nella-Rose offered no protest to the seven-mile walk, nor to the heavy load. She promptly pulled her sunbonnet to the proper angle on her head and gripped the basket.

"Ain't you goin' to eat first?" asked Marg.

"No. Put in a bite; I'll eat it by the way."

As the Centre was in the opposite direction from the Hollow, as seven miles going and seven miles coming would subdue the spirits and energy even of Nella-Rose, Marg was perplexed. However, she prepared food, tucked it in the basket, and even went so far as to pin her sister's shawl closely under her chin. Then she watched the slim, straight figure depart—still puzzled but at peace for the day, at least.

Nella-Rose, however, was plotting an attack upon Truedale quite out of the common. By unspoken consent he and she had agreed that their meetings should be in the open. Jim White might return at anytime and neither of them wanted at first to include him in the bewildering drama of their lives. For different reasons they knew that Jim's cold understanding of duty would shatter the sacred security that was all theirs. Truedale meant to confide everything to White upon his return—meant to rely upon him in the reconstruction of his life; but he knew nothing could be so fatal to the future as any conflict at the present with the sheriff's strict ideas of conduct. As for Nella-Rose, she had reason to fear White's power as woman-hater and upholder of law and order. She simply eliminated Jim and, in order to do this, she must keep him in the dark.

Early that morning she had looked, as she did every day, from the hill behind the house and she had seen but one thin curl of smoke from the clearing! If White had not returned the night before the chances were that he would make another day of it! Nella-Rose often wondered why others did not note the tell-tale smoke—a clue which often played a vital part in the news of the hills. Only because thoughts were focussed on the Hollow and on White's absence, was Truedale secure in his privacy.

"I'll hurry mighty fast to the Centre," Nella-Rose concluded, after escaping from Marg's disturbed gaze, "then I'll hide the things by the big road and I'll—go to his cabin. I'll—I'll surprise him!"

Truedale had told her the day before, in a moment of caution, that he would have to work hard for a time in order to make ready for White's return. The fact was he had now got to that point in his story when he longed for Jim as he might have longed for safety on a troubled sea. With Jim back and fully informed—everything on ahead would be safe.

"I'll surprise him!" murmured Nella-Rose, with the dimples in full play at the corners of her mouth; "old Jim White can't keep me away. I'll watch out—it's just for a minute; I'll be back by sundown; it will be only to say 'how-de?'"

Something argued with the girl as she ran on—something quite new and uncontrolled. Heretofore no law but that of the wilds had entered into her calculations. To get what she could of happiness and life—to make as little fuss as possible—that had been her code; but now, the same restraint that had held Marg from going to the Hollow awhile back, when she thought that, with night, Burke Lawson might disclose his whereabouts, held Nella-Rose! So insistent was the rising argument that it angered the girl. "Why? Why?" her longings and desires cried. "Because! Because!" was the stern response, and the woman in Nella-Rose thrilled and throbbed and trembled, while the girlish spirit pleaded for the excitement of joy and sweetness that was making the grim stretches of her narrow existence radiant and full of meaning.

On she went doggedly. The dimples disappeared; the mouth fell into the pathetic, drooping lines that by and by, unless something saved Nella-Rose, would become permanent and mark her as a hill-woman—one to whom soul visions were denied.



CHAPTER VI

Wisdom had all but conquered Nella-Rose's folly when she came in sight of Calvin Merrivale's store. But—who knows?—perhaps the girl's story had been written long since, and she was not entirely free. Be that as it may, she paused, for no reason whatever as far as she could tell, and carefully took one dozen eggs from the basket and hid them under some bushes by the road! Having done this she went forward so blithely and lightly that one might have thought her load had been considerably eased. She appeared before Calvin Merrivale, presently, like a refreshing apparition from vacancy. It was high noon and Merrivale was dozing in a chair by the rusty stove, in which a fire, prepared against the evening chill, was already burning.

"How-de, Mister Merrivale?" Calvin sprang to his feet.

"If it ain't lil' Nella-Rose. How'se you-all?"

"Right smart. I've brought you three dozen eggs and ten pounds of pork." Nella-Rose almost said po'k—not quite! "And you must be mighty generous with me when you weigh out—let me see!—oh, yes, pepper, salt, and sugar."

"I'll lay a siftin' more in the scale, Nella-Rose, on 'count o' yo' enjoyin' ways. But I can't make this out"—he was counting the eggs—"yo' said three dozen aigs?"

"Three dozen, and ten pounds of pork!" This very firmly.

Merrivale counted again and as he did so Nella-Rose remembered! The red came to her face—the tears to her ashamed eyes.

"Stop!" she said softly, going close to the old man. "I forgot. I took one dozen out!"

Merrivale stood and looked at her and then, what he thought was understanding, came to his assistance.

"Who fo', Nella-Rose, who fo'?"

There was no reply to this.

"Yo' needn't be afraid to open yo' mind ter me, Nella-Rose. Keeping sto' is a mighty help in gettin' an all-around knowin' o' things. Folks jest naterally come here an' talk an' jest naterally I listen, an' 'twixt Jim White, the sheriff, an' old Merrivale, there ain't much choosin', jedgmatically speakin'. I know White's off an' plannin' ter round up Burke Lawson from behind, as it war. T'warnt so in my day, lil' Nella-Rose. When we-uns had a reckonin comin', we naterally went out an' shot our man; but these torn-down scoundrels like Jed Martin an' his kind they trap 'em an' send 'em to worse'n hell. Las' night"—and here Merrivale bent close to Nella-Rose—"my hen coop was 'tarnally gone through, an' a bag o' taters lifted. I ain't makin' no cry-out. I ain't forgot the year o' the fever an'—an'—well, yo' know who—took care o' me day an' night till I saw faces an' knew 'em! What's a matter o' a hen o' two an' a sack o' taters when lined up agin that fever spell? I tell yo', Nella-Rose, if yo' say thar war three dozen aigs, thar war three dozen aigs, an' we'll bargain accordin'!"

And now the dimples came slowly to the relieved face.

"I'll—I'll bring you an extra dozen right soon, Mister Merrivale."

"I ain't a-goin' ter flex my soul 'bout that, Nella-Rose. Aigs is aigs, but human nater is human nater; an' keepin' a store widens yo' stretch o' vision. Now, watch out, lil' girl, an' don't take too much fo' granted. When a gun goes off yo' hear it; but when skunks trail, yo' don't get no sign, 'less it's a smell!"

Nella-Rose took her packages, smiled her thanks, and ran on. She ate her lunch by the bushes where the eggs lay hidden, then depositing in the safe shelter the home bundles Merrivale had so generously weighed, she put the eggs in the basket, packed with autumn leaves, and turned into the trail leading away from the big road.

Through the bare trees the clear sky shone like a shield of blue-gray metal. It was a sky open for storm to come and pass unchecked. The very stillness and calm were warnings of approaching disturbance. Nature was listening and waiting for the breaking up of autumn and the clutch of frost.

It was only two miles from the Centre to White's clearing and the afternoon was young when Nella-Rose paused at the foot of the last climb and took breath and courage. There was a tangled mass of rhododendrons by the edge of the wood and suddenly the girl's eyes became fixed upon it and her heart beat wildly. Something alive was crouching there, though none but a trained sense could have detected it! They waited—the hidden creature and the quivering girl! Then a pair of eager, suspicious eyes shone between the dead leaves of the bushes; next a dark, thin face peered forth—it was Burke Lawson's! Nella-Rose clutched her basket closer—that was all. After a moment she spoke softly, but clearly:

"I'm alone. You're safe. How long have you been back?"

"Mor'n two weeks!"

Nella-Rose started. So they had known all along, and while she had played with Marg the hunt might at any moment have become deadly earnest.

"More'n two weeks," Lawson repeated.

"Where?" The girl's voice was hard and cold.

"In the Holler. Miss Lois Ann helped—but Lord! you can't eat a helpless old woman out of house and home. Last night—"

"Yes, yes; I know. And oh, Burke, Mister Merrivale hasn't forgot—the fever and your goodness. He won't give you up."

"He won't need to. I'm right safe, 'cept for food. There's an old hole, back of a deserted still—I can even have a bit of fire. The devil himself couldn't find me. After a time I'm going—"

"Where? Where, Burke?"

"Nella-Rose, would you come with me? 'Twas you as brought me back—I had to come. If you will—oh! my doney-gal—"

"Stop! stop, Burke. Some one might be near. No, no; I couldn't leave the hills—I'd die from the longing, you know that!"

"If I—dared them all—could you take me, Nella-Rose? I'd run my chances with you! Night and day you tug and pull at the heart o' me, Nella-Rose."

Fear, and a deeper understanding, drove Nella-Rose to the wrong course.

"When you dare to come out—when they-all let you stay out—then ask me again, Burke Lawson. I'm not going to sweetheart with one who dare not show his head."

Her one desire was to get Lawson away; she must be free!

"Nella-Rose, I'll come out o' this."

"No! no!" the girl gasped, "they're not after you to shoot you, Burke; Jed Martin is for putting you in jail!"

"Good God—the sneaking coward."

"And Jim White is off raising a posse, he means to—to see fair play. Wait until Jim comes back; then give yourself up."

"And then—then, Nella-Rose?"

The young, keen face among the dead leaves glowed with a light that sent the blood from Nella-Rose's heart.

"See"—she said inconsequently—"I have" (she counted them out), "I have a dozen eggs; give them to Miss Lois Ann!"

"Let me touch you, Nella-Rose! Just let me touch your lil' hand."

"Wait until Jim White comes back!"

Then, because a rabbit scurried from its shelter, Burke Lawson sank into his, and Nella-Rose in mad haste took to the trail and was gone! A moment later Lawson peered out again and tried to decide which way she went, but his wits were confused—so he laughed that easy, fearless laugh of his and put in his hat the eggs Nella-Rose had left. Then, crawling and edging along, he retraced his steps to that hole in the Hollow where he knew he was as safe as if he were in his grave.

With distance and reassurance on her side, Nella-Rose paused to take breath. She had been thoroughly frightened. Her beautiful plans, unsuspected by all the world, had been threatened by an unlooked-for danger. She had never contemplated Burke Lawson as a complication. She was living day by day, hour by hour. Jim White she had accepted as a menace—but Burke never! She was no longer the girl Lawson had known, but how could she hope to make him understand that? Her tender, love-seeking nature had, in the past, accepted the best the mountains offered—and Burke had been the best. She had played with him—teased Marg with him—revelled in the excitement, but now? Well, the blindness had been torn from her eyes—the shackles from her feet. No one, nothing, could hold her from her own! She must not be defrauded and imprisoned again!

Yes, that was it—imprisoned just when she had learned to use her wings!

Standing in the tangle of undergrowth, Nella-Rose clenched her small hands and raised wide eyes to the skies.

"I seem," she panted—and at that moment all her untamed mysticism swayed her—"like I was going along the tracks in the dark and something is coming—something like that train long ago!"

Then she closed her eyes and her uplifted face softened and quivered. Behind the drooping lids she saw—Truedale! Quite vividly he materialized to her excited fancy. It was the first time she had ever been able to command him in this fashion.

"I'm going to him!" The words were like a passionate prayer rather than an affirmation. "I'm going to follow like I followed long ago!" She clutched the basket and fled along.

And while this was happening, Truedale, in his cabin, was working as he had not worked in years. He had burned all his bridges and outlying outposts; he was waiting for White, and his plans were completed. He meant to confide everything to his only friend—for such Jim seemed in the hazy and desolated present—then he would marry Nella-Rose off-hand; there must be a minister somewhere! After that? Well, after that Truedale grasped his manuscript and fell to work like one inspired.

Lynda Kendall would never have known the play in its present form. Truedale's ideal had always been to portray a free woman—a super-woman; one who had evolved into the freedom from shattered chains. He now had a heroine free, in that she had never been enslaved. If one greater than he had put a soul in a statue, Truedale believed that he could awaken a child of nature and show her her own beautiful soul. He had outlined, a time back, a sylvan Galatea; and now, as he sat in the still room, the framework assumed form and substance; it breathed and moved him divinely. It and he were alone in the universe; they were to begin the world—he and—

Just then the advance messenger of the coming change of weather entered by way of a lowered window. It was a smart little breeze and it flippantly sent the ashes flying on the hearth and several sheets of paper broadcast in the room. Truedale sprang to recover his treasures; he caught four or five, but one escaped his notice and floated toward the door, which was ajar.

"Whew!" he ejaculated, "that was a narrow escape," and he began to sort and arrange the sheets on the table.

"Sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two. Now where in thunder is that sixty-three?"

A light touch on his arm made him spring to his feet, every nerve a-tingle.

"Here it is! It seemed like it came to meet me."

"Nella-Rose!"

The girl nodded, holding out the paper.

"So you have come? Why—did you?"

The dimples came into play and Truedale stood watching them while many emotions flayed him; but gradually his weakness passed and he was able to assume an extremely stern though kindly manner. He meant to set the child right; he meant to see only the child in her until White returned; he would ignore the perilously sweet woman-appeal to his senses until such time as he could, with safety, let them once more hold part in their relations with each other.

But even as he arrived at this wise conclusion, he was noting, as often before he had noted, the fascinating colour and quality of Nella-Rose's hair. It was both dark and light. If smoke were filled with sunlight it would be something like the mass of more or less loosened tendrils that crowned the girl's pretty head. Stern resolve began to melt before the girlish sweetness and audacity, but Truedale made one last struggle; he thought of staunch and true Brace Kendall! And, be it to Brace Kendall's credit, the course Conning endeavoured to take was a wise one.

"See here, Nella-Rose, you ought not to come here—alone!"

"Why? Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Of course. But why did you come?" This was risky. Truedale recognized it at once.

"Just to say—'how-de'! You certainly do look scroogy."

At this Truedale laughed. Nella-Rose's capacity for bringing forth his happier, merrier nature was one of her endearing charms.

"You didn't come just for that, Nella-Rose!" This with stern disapproval.

"Take off the scroogy face—then I'll tell you why I came."

"Very well!" Truedale smiled weakly. "Why?"

"I'm right hungry. I—I want a party."

Of course this would never do. White, or one of the blood-and-thunder raiders, might appear.

"You must go, Nella-Rose."

"Not"—here she sat down firmly and undid her ridiculous plaid shawl—"not till you give me a bite. Just a mighty little bite—I'm starving!"

At this Truedale roared with laughter and went hurriedly to his closet. The girl must eat and—go. Mechanically he set about placing food upon the table. Then he sat opposite Nella-Rose while she ate with frank enjoyment the remains of his own noon-day meal. He could not but note, as he often did, the daintiness with which she accomplished the task. Other women, as Truedale remembered, were not prepossessing when attacking food; but this girl made a gracious little ceremony of the affair. She placed the small dishes in orderly array before her; she poised herself lightly on the edge of the chair and nibbled—there was no other word for it—as a perky little chipmunk might, the morsels she raised gracefully to her mouth. She was genuinely hungry and for a few minutes devoted her attention to the matter in hand.

Then, suddenly, Nella-Rose did something that shattered the last scrap of self-control that was associated with the trusty Kendall and his good example. She raised a bit of food on her fork and held it out to Truedale, her lovely eyes looking wistfully into his.

"Please! I feel so ornery eating alone. I want to—share! Please play party with me!"

Truedale tried to say "I had my dinner an hour ago"; instead, he leaned across his folded arms and murmured, as if quite outside his own volition:

"I—I love you!"

Nella-Rose dropped the fork and leaned back. Her lids fell over the wide eyes—the smile faded from her lips.

"Do you belong to any one—else, Nella-Rose?"

"No—oh! no." This like a frightened cry.

"But others—some one must have told you—of love. Do you know what love means?"

"Yes."

"How?"

And now she looked at him. Her eyes were dark, her face deadly pale; her lips were so red that in the whiteness they seemed the only trace of colour.

"How do I know? Why because—nothing else matters. It seems like I've been coming all my life to it—and now it just says: 'Here I am, Nella-Rose—here'!"

"I, too, have been coming to it all my life, little girl. I did not know—I was driven. I rebelled, because I did not know; but nothing else does matter, when—love gets you!"

"No. Nothing matters." The girl's voice was rapt and dreamy. Truedale put his hands across the space dividing them and took hold of hers.

"You will be—mine, Nella-Rose?"

"Seems like I must be!"

"Yes. Doesn't it? Do you—you must understand, dear? I mean to live the rest of my life here in the hills—your hills. You once said one was of the hills or one wasn't; will they let me stay?"

"Yes"—almost fiercely—"but—but your folks—off there—will they let you stay?"

"I have no folks, Nella-Rose. I'm lonely and poor—at least I was until I found you! The hills have given me—everything; I mean to serve them well in return. I want you for my wife, Nella-Rose; we'll make a home—somewhere—it doesn't matter; it will be a shelter for our love and—" He stopped short. Reality and conventions made a last vain appeal. "I don't want you ever again to go out of my sight. You're mine and nothing could make that different—but" (and this came quickly, desperately) "there must be a minister somewhere—let's go to him! Do not let us waste another precious day. When he makes you mine by his"—Truedale was going to say "ridiculous jargon" but he modified it to—"his authority, no one in all God's world can take you from me. Come, come now, sweetheart!"

In another moment he would have had her in his arms, but she held him off.

"I'm mighty afraid of old Jim White!" she said.

Truedale laughed, but the words brought him to his senses.

"Then you must go, darling, until White returns. After I have explained to him I will come for you, but first let me hold you—so! and kiss you—so! This is why—you must go, my love!"

She was in his arms, her lifted face pressed to his. She shivered, but clung to him for a moment and two tears rolled down her cheeks—the first he had ever seen escape her control. He kissed them away.

"Of what are you thinking, Nella-Rose?"

"Thinking? I'm not thinking; I'm—happy!"

"My—sweetheart!" Again Truedale pressed his lips to hers.

"Us-all calls sweetheart—'doney-gal'!"

"My—my doney-gal, then!"

"And"—the words came muffled, for Truedale was holding her still—"and always I shall see your face, now. It came to-day like it came long ago. It will always come and make me glad."

Truedale lifted her from his breast and held her at arms' length. He looked deep into her eyes, trying to pierce through her ignorance and childishness to find the elusive woman that could meet and bear its part in what lay before. Long they gazed at each other—then the light in Nella-Rose's face quivered—her mouth drooped.

"I'm going now," she said, "going till Jim White comes back."

"Wait—my—"

But the girl had slipped from his grasp; she was gone into the misty, threatening grayness that had closed in about them while love had carried them beyond their depths. Then the rain began to fall—heavy, warning drops. The wind, too, was rising sullenly like a monster roused from its sleep and slowly gathering power to vent its rage.

Into this darkening storm Nella-Rose fled unheedingly. She was not herself—not the girl of the woods, wise in mountain lore; she was bewitched and half mad with the bewildering emotions that, at one moment frightened her—the next, carried her closer to the spiritual than she had ever been.



CHAPTER VII

Alone in his cabin, Truedale was conscious of a sort of groundless terror that angered him. The storm could not account for it—he had the advantage of ignorance there! Certainly his last half-hour could not be responsible for his sensations. He justified every minute of it by terms as old as man's desires and his resentment of restrictions. "Our lives are our own!" he muttered, setting to work to build a fire and to light the lamp. "They will all come around to my way of seeing things when I have made good and taken her back to them!"

Still this arguing brought no peace, and more and more Truedale found himself relying upon Jim White's opinions. In that troubled hour the sheriff stood like a rugged sign post in the path. One unflinching finger pointed to the past; the other—to the future.

"Well! I've chosen," thought Truedale; "it's the new way and—thank God!" But he felt that the future could be made possible or miserable by Jim's favour or disapproval.

Having decided to follow upon White's counsel, Truedale mentally prayed for his return, and at once. The fact was, Truedale was drugged and he had just sense enough left to know it! He vaguely realized that the half-hour with Nella-Rose had been a dangerous epoch in his life. He was safe, thank heaven! but he dared not trust himself just now without a stronger will to guide him!

While he busied himself at feeding the animals, preparing and clearing away his own evening meal, he grew calmer. The storm was gaining in fury—and he was thankful for it! He was shut away from possible temptation; he even found it easy to think of Kendall and of Lynda, but he utterly eliminated his uncle from his mind. Between him and old William Truedale the gulf seemed to have become impassable!

And while Truedale sank into an unsafe mental calm, Nella-Rose pushed her way into the teeth of the storm and laughed and chattered like a mad and lost little nymph. Wind and rain always exhilarated her and the fury of the elements, gaining force every minute, did not alarm her while the memory of her great experience held sway over her. She shook her hair back from her wide, vague eyes. She was undecided where to go for the night—it did not matter greatly; to-morrow she would go again to Truedale, or he would come to her. At last she settled upon seeking the shelter of old Lois Ann, in Devil-may-come Hollow, and turned in that direction.

It was eight o'clock then and Truedale, with his books and papers on the table before him, declared: "I am quite all right now," and fell to work upon the manuscript that earlier had engrossed him.

As the time sped by he was able to visualize the play; he was sitting in the audience—he beheld the changing scenes and the tense climax. He even began to speculate upon the particular star that would be fitted for the leading part. His one extravagance, in the past, had been cut-rate seats in the best theatres.

Suddenly the mood passed and all at once Truedale realized that he was tired—deadly tired. The perspiration stood on his forehead—he ached from the strain of cramped muscles. Then he looked at his watch; it was eleven o'clock! The stillness out of doors bespoke a sullen break in the storm. A determined drip-drip from roof and trees was like the ticking of a huge clock running down, but good for some time. The fire had died out, not a bit of red showed in the ashes, but the room was hot, still. Truedale decided to go to bed without it, and, having come to that conclusion, he bent his head upon his folded arms and sank into a deep sleep.

Suddenly he awoke. The room was cold and dark! The lamp had burned itself out and the storm was again howling in its second attack. Chilled and obsessed by an unnerving sense of danger, Truedale waited for—he knew not what! Just then something pressed against his leg and he put his hand down thinking one of the dogs was crouching close, but a whispered "sh!" set every muscle tense.

"Nella-Rose?"

"Yes—but, oh! be mighty still. They may be here any minute."

"They? Who?"

"All of them. Jed Martin, my father, and the others—the ones who are friends of—of—"

"Whom, Nella-Rose?"

"Burke Lawson! He's back—and they think—oh! they think they are on his trail—here! I—I was trying to get away but the streams were swollen and the big trees were bending and—and I hid behind a rock and—I heard!

"First it was Jed and father; they said they were going to shoot—they'd given up catching Burke alive! Then they went up-stream and the—the others came—the friends, and they 'lowed that Burke was here and they meant to get here before Jed and—and da some killing on their side. I—I thought it was fun when they-all meant to take Burke alive, but now—oh! now can't you see?—they'll shoot and find out afterward! They may come any minute! I put the light out. Come, we must leave the cabin empty-looking—like you had gone—and hide!"

The breathless whispering stopped and Truedale collected his senses in the face of this real danger.

"But you—you must not be here, Nella-Rose!"

Every nerve was alert now. "This is pure madness. Great heavens! what am I going to do with you?"

The seriousness of the situation overpowered him.

"Sh!" The warning was caused by the restlessness of the dogs outside. Their quick ears were sensing danger or—the coming of their master! Either possibility was equally alarming.

"Oh! you do not understand," Nella-Rose was pleading by his knee. "If they-all see you, they will have you killed that minute. Burke is the only one in their minds—they don't even know that you live; they're too full of Burke, and if they see me—why—they'd kill you anyway."

"But what can I do with you?" That thought alone swayed Truedale.

Then Nella-Rose got upon her feet and stood close to him.

"I'm yours! I gave myself to you. You—you wanted me. Are you sorry?"

The simple pride and dignity went straight to Truedale's heart.

"It's because I want you so, little girl, that I must save you."

Somehow Nella-Rose seemed to have lost her fear of the oncoming raiders; she spoke deliberately, and above a whisper:

"Save me?—from what?"

There were no words to convey to her his meaning. Truedale felt almost ashamed to hold it in his own mind. They so inevitably belonged to each other; why should they question?

"I—I shall not go away—again!"

"My darling, you must."

"Where?"

The word brought him to his senses—where, indeed? With the dark woods full of armed men ready to fire at any moving thing in human shape, he could not let her go! That conclusion reached, and all anchors cut, the danger and need of the hour claimed him.

"Yes; you are mine!" he whispered, gathering her to him. "What does anything matter but our safety to-night? To-morrow; well, to-morrow—"

"Sh!"

No ear but one trained to the secrets of the still places could have detected a sound.

"They are coming! Yes, not the many—it is Jed! Come! While you slept I carried a right many things to the rhododendron slick back of the house! See, push over the chair—leave the door open like you'd gone away before the storm."

Quickly and silently Nella-Rose suited action to word. Truedale watched her like one bewitched. "Now!" She took him by the hand and the next minute they were out on the wet, sodden leaves; the next they were crouching close under the bushes where even the heavy rain had not penetrated. Half-consciously Truedale recognized some of his property near by—his clothing, two or three books, and—yes—it was his manuscript! The white roll was safe! How she must have worked while he slept.

Once only did she speak until danger was past. Nestling close in his arms, her head upon his shoulder, she breathed:

"If they-all shoot, we'll die together!"

The unreality of the thing gradually wore upon Truedale's tense nerves. If anything was going to happen he wanted it to happen! In another half-hour he meant to put an end to the farce and move his belongings back to the cabin and take Nella-Rose home. It was a nightmare—nothing less!

"Sh!" and then the waiting was over. Two dark figures, guns ready, stole from the woods behind White's cabin. Where were the dogs? Why did they not speak out?—but the dogs were trained to be as silent as the men. They were all part and parcel of the secret lawlessness of the hills. In the dim light Truedale watched the shadowy forms enter Jim's unlocked cabin and presently issue forth, evidently convinced that the prey was not there—had not been there! Then as stealthy as Indians they made their way to the other cabin—Truedale's late shelter. They kept to the bushes and the edge of the woods—they were like creeping animals until they reached the shack; then, standing erect and close, they went in the doorway. So near was the hiding place of Truedale and his companion that they could hear the oaths of the hunters as they became aware that their quarry had escaped.

"He's been here, all right!" It was Jed Martin who spoke.

"I reckon he's caught on," Peter Greyson drawled, "he's makin' for Jim White. White ain't more'n fifteen miles back; we can cut him off, Jed, 'fore he reaches safety—the skunk!"

Then the two emerged from the cabin and strode boldly away.

"The others!" whispered Truedale—"will they come?"

"Wait!"

There was a stir—a trampling—but apparently the newcomers did not see Martin and Greyson. There was a crackling of underbrush by feet no longer feeling need of caution, then another space of silence before safety was made sure for the two in the bushes.

At last Truedale dared to speak.

"Nella-Rose!" He looked down at the face upon his breast. She was asleep—deeply, exhaustedly asleep!

Truedale shifted his position. He was cramped and aching; still the even breathing did not break. He laid her down gently and put a heavy coat about her—one that earlier she had carried from the cabin in her effort to save him. He went to the house and grimly set to work. First he lighted a fire; then he righted the chairs and brought about some order from the chaos. He was no longer afraid of any man on God's earth; even Jim White was relegated to the non-essentials. Truedale was merely a primitive creature caring for his own! There was no turning back now—no waiting upon conventions. When he had made ready he was going out to bring his own to her home!

The sullen, soggy night, with its bursts of fury and periods of calm, had settled down, apparently, to a drenching, businesslike rain. The natives knew how to estimate such weather. By daylight the streams would be raging rivers on whose currents trees and animals would be carried ruthlessly to the lowlands. Roads would be obliterated and human beings would seek shelter wherever they could find it.

But Truedale was spared the worry this knowledge might have brought him. He concentrated now upon the present and grimly accepted conditions as they were. All power or inclination for struggle was past; the inheritance of weakness which old William Truedale had feared and with which Conning himself had so contended in his barren youth, asserted itself and prepared to take unquestioningly what the present offered.

At that moment Truedale believed himself arbiter of his own fate and Nella-Rose's. Conditions had forced him to this position and he was ready to assume responsibility. There was no alternative; he must accept things as they were and make them secure later on. For himself the details of convention did not matter. He had always despised them. In his youthful spiritual anarchy he had flouted them openly; they made no claim upon his attention now, except where Nella-Rose was concerned. Appearances were against him and her, but none but fools would allow that to daunt them. He, Truedale, felt that no law of man was needed to hold him to the course he had chosen, back on the day when he determined to forsake the past and fling his fortunes in with the new. Never in his life was Conning Truedale more sincere or, he believed, more wise, than he was at that moment. And just then Nella-Rose appeared coming down the rain-drenched path like a little ghost in the grim, gray dawn. She still wore the heavy coat he had put about her, and her eyes were dreamy and vague.

Truedale strode toward her and took her in his arms.

"My darling," he whispered, "are you able to come with me now—at once—to the minister? It must be now, sweetheart—now!"

She looked at him like a child trying to understand his mood.

"Oh!" she said presently, "I 'most forgot. The minister has gone to a burying back in the hills; he'll be gone a right long time. Bill Trim, who carries all the news, told me to-day."

"Where is he, Nella-Rose?" Something seemed tightening around Truedale's heart.

"Us-all don't know; he left it written on his door."

"Where is there another minister, Nella-Rose?"

"There is no other."

"This is absurd—of course there is another. We must start at once and find him."

"Listen!" The face upon Truedale's breast was lifted. "You hear that?"

"Yes. What is it?" Truedale was alarmed.

"It means that the little streams are rivers; it means that the trails are full of rocks and trees; it means"—the words sank to an awed whisper—"it means that we must fight for what we-all want to keep."

"Good God! Nella-Rose, but where can I take you?"

"There is no place—but here."

It seemed an hour that the silence lasted while Truedale faced this new phase and came to his desperate conclusion.

Had any one suggested to him then that his decision was the decision of weakness, or immemorial evil, he would have resented the thought with bitterest scorn. Unknowingly he was being tempted by the devil in him, and he fell; he had only himself to look to for salvation from his mistaken impulses, and his best self, unprepared, was drugged by the overpowering appeal that Nella-Rose made to his senses.

Standing with the girl in his arms; listening to the oncoming danger which, he realized at last, might destroy him and her at any moment; bereft of every one—everything that could have held them to the old ideals; Truedale saw but one course—and took it.

"There is no place but here—no one but you and me!"

The soft tones penetrated to the troubled place where Truedale seemed to stand alone making his last, losing fight.

"Then, by heaven!" he said, "let us accept it—you and I!"

He had crossed his Rubicon.

They ate, almost solemnly; they listened to that awful roar growing more and more distinct and menacing. Nella-Rose was still and watchful, but Truedale had never been more cruelly alive than he was then when, with his wider knowledge, he realized the step he had taken. Whether it were for life or death, he had blotted out effectually all that had gone to the making of the man he once was. Whatever hope he might have had of making Lynda Kendall and Brace understand, had things gone as he once had planned, there was no hope now. No—he and Nella-Rose were alone and helpless in the danger-haunted hills. He and she!

The sun made an effort to come forth later but the rush and roar of the oncoming torrent seemed to daunt it. For an hour it struggled, then gave up. But during that hour Truedale led Nella-Rose from the house. Silently they made their way to a little hilltop from which they could see an open space of dull, leaden sky. There Truedale took the girl's hands in his and lifted his eyes while his benumbed soul sought whatever God there might be.

"In Thy sight," he said slowly, deeply, "I take this woman for my wife. Bless us; keep us; and"—after a pause—"deal Thou with me as I deal with her."

Then the earnest eyes dropped to the frightened ones searching his face.

"You are mine!" Truedale spoke commandingly, with a force that never before had marked him.

"Yes." The word was a faint, frightened whisper.

"My darling, kiss me!"

She kissed him with trembling lips.

"You love me?"

"I—I love you."

"You—you trust me?"

"I—oh! yes; yes."

"Then come, my doney-gal! For life or death, it is you and I, little woman, from now on!"

Like a flash his gloom departed. He was gay, desperate, and free of all hampering doubts. In such a mood Nella-Rose lost all fear of him and walked by his side as complacently as if the one minister in her sordid little world had with all his strange authority said his sacred "Amen" over her.



CHAPTER VIII

There were five days of terrific storm. Truedale and Nella-Rose had fought to save White's live stock—even his cabin itself; for the deluge had attacked that while leaving safe the smaller cabin near by. All one morning they had worked gathering debris and placing it so that it turned the course of a rapid stream that threatened the larger house. It had been almost a lost hope, but as the day wore on the torrent lessened, the rough barrier held—they were successful! The gate and snake-fence were carried away, but the rest was saved!

In the strenuous labour, in the dangerous isolation, the ordinary things of life lost their importance. With death facing them their love and companionship were all that were left to them and neither counted the cost. But on the sixth day the sun shone, the flood was past, and with safety and the sure coming of Jim White at hand, they sat confronting each other in a silence new and potent.

"Sweetheart, you must go—for a few hours!"

Truedale bent across the table that separated them and took her clasped hands in his. He had burned all his social bridges, but poor Nella-Rose's progress through life had not been made over anything so substantial as bridges. She had proceeded by scrambling down and up primitive obstacles; she felt that at last she had come to her Land of Promise.

"You are going to send me—away? Where?"

"Only until White returns, little girl. See here, dear, you and I are quite gloriously mad, but others are stupidly sane and we've got to think of them."

Truedale was talking over her head, but already Nella-Rose accepted this as a phase of their new relations. A mountain man might still love his woman even if he beat her and, while Nella-Rose would have scorned the suggestion that she was a mountain woman, she did seriously believe that men were different from women and that was the end of the matter!

"You run along, small girl of mine—the skies are clear, the sun warm—but I want you to meet me at three o'clock at the spot where the trail joins the road. I will be there and I will wait for you."

"But why?—why?" The blue-gray eyes were troubled.

"Sweetheart, we're going to find that minister of yours if we have to travel from one end of the hills to the other!"

"But we-all are married!" This with a little gasp. "Back on the hill, when you told God and said He understood; then we-all were married."

"And so we were, my sweet, no minister could make you more mine than you already are, but the others—your people. Should they try to separate us they might cause trouble and the minister can make it impossible for any one to take you away from my love and care."

And at that moment Truedale actually believed what he said. In his heart he had always been a rebel—defiant and impotent. He had, in this instance, proved his theories; but he did not intend to leave loose ends that might endanger the safety of others—of this young girl, most of all. He was only going to carry out his original plans for her safety—not his own. After the days just past—days of anxiety, relief, and the proving of his love and hers—no doubt remained in Truedale's heart; he was of the hills, now and forever!

"No one can—now!" This came passionately from Nella-Rose as she watched him.

"They might make trouble until they found that out. They're too free with their guns. There's a lot to explain, little doney-gal." Conning smiled down her doubts.

"Until three o'clock!" Nella-Rose pouted, "that's a right long time. But I'll—just run along. Always and always I'm going to do what you say!" Already his power over her was absolute. She put her arms out with a happy, wilful gesture and Truedale held her closer.

"Only until three, sweetheart."

Nella-Rose drew herself away and turned to pick up her little shawl and hat from the couch by the fire; she was just reaching for her basket, when a shadow fell across the floor. Truedale and the girl turned and confronted—Jim White! What he had seen and heard—who could tell from his expressionless face and steady voice? The door had been on the latch and he had come in!

"Mail, and truck, and rabbits!" he explained, tossing his load upon the table. Then he turned toward Truedale as if noticing him for the first time.

"How-de?" he said. Finally his gaze shifted to Nella-Rose and seemed to burn into her soul.

"Goin', p'r'aps, or—comin'?" he questioned.

"I—I am—going!" Fright and dismay marked the girl's voice. Truedale went toward her. The covert brutality in White's words shocked and angered him. He gave no thought to the cause, but he resented the insult.

"Wait!" he commanded, for Nella-Rose was gone through the open door. "Wait!"

Seeing that she had for the moment escaped him, Truedale turned to White and confronted him with clear, angry eyes.

"What have you got to say for yourself?" he demanded fiercely.

The shock had been tremendous for Jim. Three weeks previously he had left his charge safe and alone; he had come back and found—But shock always stiffened Jim White; that was one reason for his success in life. He was never so inflexible and deadly self-possessed as he was when he could not see the next step ahead.

"Gawd, but I'm tired!" he said, when he had stared at Truedale as long as he cared to, "I'm going over to my place to turn in. Seems like I'll sleep for a month once I get started."

"You don't go, White, until you explain what you meant by—"

But Truedale mistook his man. Jim, having drawn his own conclusion, laughed and strode toward the door.

"I go when I'm damned pleased ter go!" he flung out derisively, "and I come the same way, young feller. There's mail for yo' in the sack and—a telegram." White paused by the door a moment while Truedale picked the yellow envelope from the bag and tore it open.

"Your uncle died suddenly on the 16th. Come at once. Vitally important. McPHERSON."

For a moment both men forgot the thing that had driven them wide apart.

"Bad news?" asked the sheriff.

Something was happening to Truedale—he felt as if the effect of some narcotic were losing its power; the fevered unreality was giving place to sensation but the brain was recording it dully.

"What date is this?" he asked, dazed.

"Twenty-fifth," Jim replied as he moved out of the door.

"When can I get a train from the station?"

"There's one as leaves anywhere 'twixt nine and ten ter-night."

"That gives me time to pack. See here, White, while it isn't any of your business, I want to explain a thing or two—before I go. I'll be back as soon as I can—in a week or ten days at furthest. When I return I intend to stay on, probably for the rest of my life."

White still held Truedale by the cold, steely gleam of his eyes which was driving lucidity home to the dulled brain. By a power as unyielding as death Jim was destroying the screen Truedale had managed to raise against the homely codes of life and was leaving his guest naked and exposed.

The shock of the telegram—the pause it evolved—had given Truedale time to catch the meaning of White's attitude; now that he realized it, he knew he must lay certain facts open—he could not wait until his return.

Presently Jim spoke from outside the door.

"I ain't settin' up for no critic. I ain't by nater a weigher or trimmer and I don't care a durn for what ain't my business. When I see my business I settle it in my own way!"—there was almost a warning in this. "I'm dead tired, root and branch. I'm goin' ter take a bite an' turn in. I may sleep a couple o' days; put off yo' 'splainifyin' 'til yo' come back ter end yo' days. Take the mare an' leave her by the trail; she'll come home. Tell old Doc McPherson I was askin' arter him."

By that time Jim had ceased scorching his way to Truedale's soul and was on the path to his own cabin.

"Looks like yo' had a tussle with the storm," he remarked. "Any livin' thing killed?"

"No."

"Thank yo'!" Then, as if determined not to share any further confidence, White strode on.

For a moment Truedale stood and stared after his host in impotent rage. Was Jim White such a lily of purity that he presumed to take that attitude? Was the code of the hills that of the Romany gypsies? How dare any man judge and sentence another without trial?

The effect of the narcotic still worked sluggishly, now that White's irritating presence was removed. Truedale shrugged his shoulders and turned to his packing. He was feverishly eager to get to Nella-Rose. Before nightfall she would be his before the world; in two weeks he would be back; the future would shame White and bring him to his senses. Jim had a soft heart; he was just, in his brutal fashion. When he understood how matters were, he would feel like the fool he was—a fool willing to cast a man off, unheard! But Truedale blamed himself for the hesitation that meant so much. The telegram—his fear of making a wrong step—had caused the grave mistake that could not be righted now.

At two o'clock Truedale started—on Jim's mare! White's cabin had all the appearance of being barred against intrusion. Truedale did not mean to test this, but it hurt him like a blow. However, there was nothing to do but remedy, as soon as possible, the error he had permitted to arise. No man on earth could make Nella-Rose more his than his love and good faith had made her, still he was eager now to resort to all the time-honoured safeguards before he left. Once married he would go with a heart almost light. He would confide everything to Kendall and Lynda—at least he would his marriage—and urge them to return with him to the hills, and after that White and all the others would have an awakening. The possibility thus conceived was like a flood of light and sweet air in a place dark and bewildering but not evil—no, not that!

As he turned from the clearing Truedale looked back at his cabin. Nella-Rose seemed still there. She would always be part of it just as she was now part of his life. He would try and buy the cabin—it would be sacrilege for others to enter!

So he hurried the mare on, hoping to be at the crossing before Nella-Rose.

The crisp autumn air was redolent of pines and the significance of summer long past. It had a physical and spiritual power.

Then turning suddenly from the trail, Truedale saw Nella-Rose sitting on a rock—waiting! She had on a rough, mannish-looking coat, and a coarse, red hood covered her bright head. Nella-Rose was garbed in winter attire. She had worn this outfit for five years and it looked it.

Never again was Truedale to see a face of such radiant joy and trust as the girl turned upon him. Her eyes were wide and filled with a light that startled him. He jumped from the horse and took her in his arms.

"What is it?" he asked, fearing some intangible danger.

"The minister was killed by the flood!" Nella-Rose's tones were thrilling. "He was going through Devil-may-come Hollow and a mighty big rock struck him and—he's dead!"

"Then you must come with me, Nella-Rose." Truedale set his lips grimly; there was no time to lose. Between three and nine o'clock surely they could locate a minister or a justice of the peace. "Come!"

"But why, Mister Man?" She laughed up at him. "Where?"

"It doesn't matter. To New York if necessary. Jump up!" He turned to the horse, holding the girl close.

"Me go away—in this? Me shame you before—them-all?"

Nella-Rose stood her ground and throwing the rough coat back displayed her shabby, shrunken dress.

"I went home—they-all were away. I got my warm things, but I have a white dress and a pink ribbon—I'll get them to-morrow. Then—But why must we go—away?"

For the first time this thought caught her—she had been whirled along too rapidly before to note it.

"I have had word that my uncle is dead. I must go at once, my dear, and you—you must come with me. Would you let a little thing like a—a dress weigh against our love, and honour?"

Above the native's horror of being dragged from her moorings was that subtle understanding of honour that had come to Nella-Rose by devious ways from a source that held it sacred.

"Honour?" she repeated softly; "honour? If I thought I had to go in rags to make you sure; if I thought I needed to—I'd—"

Truedale saw his mistake. Realizing that if in the little time yet his he made her comprehend, he might lose more than he could hope to gain, he let her free while he took a card and pen from his pocket. He wrote clearly and exactly his address, giving his uncle's home as his.

"Nella-Rose," he said calmly, "I shall be back in two or three weeks at the latest, but if at any moment you want me, send word here—telegraph from the station—you come first, always! You are wiser than I, my sweet; our honour and love are our own. Wait for me, my doney-gal and—trust me."

She was all joy again—all sweetness. He kissed her, turned, then came back.

"Where will you go, my darling?" he asked.

"Since they-all do not know"—she was lying against his breast, her eyes heavy now with grief at the parting—"I reckon I will go home—to wait."

Solemnly Truedale kissed her and turned dejectedly away. Once again he paused and looked back. She stood against the tree, small and shabby, but the late afternoon sun transfigured her. In the gloomy setting of the woods, that fair, little face shone like a gleaming star and so Truedale remembered her and took her image with him on his lonely way.

Nella-Rose watched him out of sight and then she turned and did something that well might make one wonder if a wise God or a cruel demon controls our fates—she ran away from the home path and took the trail leading far back to the cabin of old Lois Ann!

There was safety; there were compassion and comprehension. The old woman could tell marvellous tales and so could beguile the waiting days. Nella-Rose meant to confide in her and ask her to hide her until Truedale came for her. It was a sudden inspiration and it brought relief.

And that night—it was past midnight and cold as the north land—Burke Lawson came face to face with Jed Martin! Lawson was issuing from his cranny behind the old still and Martin was nosing about alone. He, like a hungry thing of the wilds, had found his foe's trail and meant to bag him unaided and have full vengeance and glory. But so unexpectedly, and alarmingly unconcerned, did Burke materialize in the emptiness that Jed's gun was a minute too late in getting into position. Lawson had the drop on him! They were both very quiet for a moment, then Lawson laughed and did it so boldly that Jed shrank back.

"Coming to make a friendly call, Martin?"

"Something like that!"

"Well, come in, come right in!"

"I reckon you an' me can settle what we've got ter settle in the open!" Jed stuttered. It seemed a hideous, one-sided settlement.

"As yo' please, Jed, as yo' please. I have a leanin' to the open myself. I'd just decided ter come out; I was going up ter Jim White's and help him mete out justice, but maybe you and me can save him the trouble."

"You—goin' ter shoot me, Burke—like a—like a—hedgehog?"

"No. I'm goin' ter do unto yo' as yo' would have—" Here Burke laughed—he was enjoying himself hugely.

"What yo' mean?"

"Well, I'm goin' ter put yer in my quarters and tie yer to a chair. Yo'll be able to wiggle out in time, but it will take yer long enough fur me to do what I'm set about doin'. Yo' torn down traitor!—yo' were 'lowing to put me behind bars, wasn't yer? Yo' meant to let outsiders take the life out o' me—yo' skunk! Well, instead, Jed—I'm goin' on my weddin' trip—me and lil' Nella-Rose. I've seen her; she done promised to have me, when I come out o' hidin'. I'm coming out now! Nella-Rose an' me are goin' to find a bigger place than Pine Cone Settlement. Yo'll wiggle yer blasted hide loose by mornin' maybe; but then her an' me'll be where you-all can't ketch us! Go in there, now, you green lizard; turn about an' get on yer belly like the crawlin' thing yo' are! That's it—go! the way opens up."

Jed was crawling through the bushes, Lawson after him with levelled gun. "Now, then, take a seat an' make yerself ter home!" Jed got to the chair and turned a green-white face upon his tormentor.

"Yer goin' ter let me starve here?" he asked with shaking voice.

"That depends on yo' power to wiggle. See, I tie you so!" Lawson had pounced upon Jed and had him pinioned. "I ain't goin' ter turn a key on yer like yo' was aimin' ter do on me! It's up to yo' an' yer wigglin' powers, when yo' get free. The emptier yer belly is, the more room ye'll have fer wiggling. God bless yer! yer dog-gone hound! Bless yer an'—curse yer! I'm off—with the doney-gal!"

And off he was—he and his cruel but gay laugh.

There was no fire in the cave-like place; no light but the indirect moonlight which slanted through the opening. It was death or wiggle for Jed Martin—so he wiggled!

In the meantime, Burke headed for Jim White's. He meant to play a high game there—to fling himself on White's mercy—appeal to the liking he knew the sheriff had for him—confess his love for Nella-Rose—make his promise for future redemption and then go, scot-free, to claim the girl who had declared he might speak when once again he dared walk upright among his fellows. So Lawson planned and went bravely to the doing of it.



CHAPTER IX

At Washington, Truedale telegraphed to Brace Kendall. He felt, as he drew nearer and nearer to the old haunts, like a stranger, and a blind, groping one at that. The noises of the city disturbed and confused him; the crowds irritated him. When he remembered the few weeks that lay between the present and the days when he was part and parcel of this so-called life, he experienced a sensation of having died and been compelled to return to earth to finish some business carelessly overlooked. He meant to rectify the omission as soon as possible and get back to the safety and peace of the hills. How different it all would be with settled ideas, definite work, and Nella-Rose!

While waiting for his train in the Washington station he was startled to find that, of a sudden, he was adrift between the Old and the New. If he repudiated the past, the future as sternly repudiated him. He could not reconcile his love and desire with his identity. Somehow the man he had left, when he went South, appeared now to have been waiting for him on his return, and while his plans, nicely arranged, seemed feasible the actual readjustment struck him as lurid and impossible. The fact was that his experience of life in Pine Cone made him now shrink from contact with the outside world as one of its loyal natives might have done. It could no more survive in the garish light of a city day than little Nella-Rose could have. That conclusion reached, Truedale was comforted. He could not lure his recent past to this environment, but so long as it lay safe and ready to welcome him when he should return, he could be content. So he relegated it with a resigned sigh, as he might have done the memory of a dear, absent friend, to the time when he could call it forth to some purpose.

It was well he could do this, for with the coming of Brace Kendall upon the scene all romantic sensation was excluded as though by an icy-clear, north wind. Brace was at the New York station—Brace with the armour of familiarity and unbounded friendliness. "Old Top!" he called Truedale, and shook hands with him so vigorously that the last remnant of thought that clung to the distant mountains was freed from the present.

"Well, of all the miracles! Why, Con, I bet you tip the scales at a hundred and sixty. And look at your paw! Why, it's callous and actually horny! And the colour you've got! Lord, man! you're made over.

"You're to come to your uncle's house, Con. It's rather a shock, but we got you as soon as we could. In the meantime, we've followed directions. The will has not been read, of course, but there was a letter found in your uncle's desk that commanded—that's the only word to express it, really—Lynda and you and me to come to the old house right after the funeral. We waited to hear from you, Con, but since you could not get here we had to do the best we could. Dr. McPherson took charge."

"I was buried pretty deep in the woods, Ken, and there was a bad hitch in the delivery of the telegram. Such things do not count down where I was. But I'm glad about the old house—glad you and Lynda are there."

"Con!"—and at this Brace became serious—"I think we rather overdid our estimate of your uncle. Since his—his going, we've seen him, Lyn and I, in a new light. He was quite—well, quite a sentimentalist! But see—here we are!"

"The house looks different already!" Conning said, leaning from the cab window.

"Yes, Lyn's had a lot to do, but she's managed to make a home of the place in the short time."

Lynda Kendall had heard the sound of wheels in the quiet street—had set the door of welcome open herself, and now stood in the panel of light with outstretched hands. Like a revelation Truedale seemed to take in the whole picture at once. Behind the girl lay the warm, bright hall that had always been so empty and drear in his boyhood. It was furnished now. Already it had the look of having been lived in for years. There were flowers in a tall jar on the table and a fire on the broad hearth. And against this background stood the strong, fine form of the young mistress.

"Welcome home, Con!"

Truedale, for a moment, dared not trust his voice. He gripped her hands and felt as if he were emerging from a trance. Then, of a sudden, a deep resentment overpowered him. They could not understand, of course, but every word and tone of appropriation seemed an insult to the reality that he knew existed. He no longer belonged to them, to the life into which they were trying to draw him. To-morrow he would explain; he was eager to do so and end the restraint that sprang into being the moment he touched Lynda's hands.

Lynda watched the tense face confronting her and believed Conning was suffering pangs of remorse and regret. She was filled with pity and sympathy shone in her eyes. She led him to the library and there familiarity greeted him—the room was unchanged. Lynda had respected everything; it was as it always had been except that the long, low chair was empty.

They talked together softly in the quiet place until dinner—talked of indifferent things, realizing that they must keep on the surface.

"This room and his bedchamber, Con," Lynda explained, "are the same. For the rest? Well, I hope you will like it."

Truedale did like it. He gave an exclamation of delight when later they entered the dining room, which had never been furnished in the past; like much of the house it had been a sad tribute to the emptiness and disappointment that had overcome William Truedale's life. Now it shone with beauty and cheer.

"It is not merely a place in which to eat," explained Lynda; "a dining room should be the heart of the home, as the library is the soul."

"Think of living up to that!"—Brace gave a laugh—"and not having it interfere with your appetite!" They were all trying to keep cheerful until such time as they dared recall the recent past without restraint.

Such an hour came when they gathered once more in the library. Brace seized his pipe in the anticipation of play upon his emotions. By tacit consent the low chair was left vacant and by a touch of imagination it almost seemed as if the absent master were waiting to be justified.

"And now," Truedale said, huskily, "tell me all, Lynda."

"He and I were sitting here just as we all are sitting now, that last night. He had forgiven me for—for staying away" (Lynda's voice shook), "and we were very happy and confidential. I told him some things—quite intimate things, and he, well, he came out of his reserve and gruffness, Con—he let me see the real man he was! I suppose while he had been alone—for I had neglected him—he had had time to think, to regret his mistakes; he was very just—even with himself. Con"—and here Lynda had to pause and get control of herself—"he—he once loved my mother! He bought this house hoping she would come and, as its mistress, make it beautiful. When my mother married my father, nothing mattered—nothing about the house, I mean. Before my mother died she told me—to be kind to Uncle William. She, in a sacred way, left him to me; me to him. That was one of the things I told him that last night. I wish I had told him long ago!" The words were passionate and remorseful. "Oh, it might have eased his pain and loneliness. When shall we ever learn to say the right thing when it is most needed? Well, after I had told him he—he grew very still. It was a long time before he spoke—the joy was sinking in, I saw that, and it carried the bitterness away. When he did speak he made me understand that he could not trust himself further on that subject, but he tried to—to explain about you, Con. Poor man! He realized that he had made a failure as a guide; but in his own way he had endeavoured to be a guardian. You know his disease developed just before you came into his life. Con, he lived all through the years just for you—just to stand by!"

From out the shadow where he sat, Brace spoke unevenly:

"Too bad you don't—smoke, old man!" It was the only suggestion he had to offer in the tense silence that gripped them all.

"It's all right!" Truedale said heavily. "Go on when you can, Lynda."

"Do you—remember your father, Con?"

"Yes."

"Well, your uncle feared that too much ease and money might—"

"I—I begin to understand."

"So he went to the other extreme. Every step of your well-fought way was joy to him—the only joy he knew. From his detachment and loneliness he planned—almost plotted—for you, but he did not tell you. It would all have been so different—oh! so different if we had all known. Then he told me a little—about his will."

No one saw the sudden crimson that dyed Lynda's white face and throat. "He was very fantastic about that. He made certain arrangements that were to take effect at once. He has left you three thousand a year, Con, without any restrictions whatever. He told me that. He left his servants and employees generous annuities. He left me this house—for my mother's sake. He insisted that it should be a home at last. A large sum is provided for its furnishing and upkeep—I'm a trustee! The most beautiful thing, perhaps, was the thought expressed in these words of his, 'I want you to do your mother's work and mine, while still following your own rightful desires. Make this house a place of welcome, peace, and friendliness!' I mean to do my best, Con."

"And he's left me"—Brace found relief in the one touch of humour that presented itself—"he's left me a thousand dollars as a token of his appreciation of my loyalty to you, when you most needed it."

But Truedale hardly heeded. His eyes were fixed upon the empty chair and, since he had not understood in the past, he could not express himself now. He was suffering the torture that all feel when, too late, revealment makes clear what never should have been hidden.

"And then"—Lynda's low, even voice went on—"he sent me away and Thomas put him to bed. He asked for some medicine that it seems he always had in case of need; he took too much—and—"

"So it was suicide!" Truedale broke in desperately. "I feared that. Good God!" The tragedy and loneliness clutched his imagination—he seemed to see it all, it was unbearable!

"Con!" Lynda laid her firm hand upon his arm, "I have learned to call it something else. It has helped me; perhaps it will help you. He had waited wearily on this side of the door of release; he—he told me that he was going on a long journey he had often contemplated—I did not understand then! I fancy the—the journey was very short. There was no suffering. I wish you could have seen the peace and majesty of his face! He could wait no longer. Nothing mattered here, and all that he yearned for called loudly to him. He simply opened the door himself—and went out!"

Truedale clasped the hand upon his arm. "Thank you, Lynda. I did not realize how kind you could be," was all he said.

The logs fell apart and filled the room with a rich glow. Brace shook the ashes from his pipe upon the hearth—he felt now that he could trust himself.

"For the future," Lynda's calm voice almost startled the two men by its practicability and purpose, "this is home—in the truest, biggest sense. No one shall even enter here and feel—friendless. This is my trust; it shall be as he wished it, and I mean to have my own life, too! Why, the house is big enough for us all to live our lives and not interfere with each other. I mean to bring my private business here in the rooms over the extension. I'll keep the uptown office for interviews. And you, Con?"

Truedale almost sprang to his feet, then, hands plunged in pockets, he said:

"There does not seem to be anything for me to do; at least not until the will is read. I think I shall go back—I left things at loose ends; there will be time to consider—later."

"But, Con, there is something for you to do. You will understand after you see the lawyers in the morning. There is a great deal of business: many interests of your uncle's that he expected you to represent in his name—to see that they were made secure. Dr. McPherson has told me something about the will—enough to help me to begin."

Truedale looked blankly at Lynda. "Very well, after that—I will go back," he spoke almost harshly. "I will arrange affairs somehow. I'm no business man, but I daresay Uncle William chose wise assistants."

"What's the matter with you, Con?" Brace eyed his friend critically; "you look fit as a fellow can. This has demanded a good deal of self-denial and faith from us all, but somehow this duty was the biggest thing in sight; we rather owe him that, I fancy. You know you cannot run to cover just now, old man. This has been a jog, but by morning you'll reconsider and play your part." There was a new note in Kendall's voice. It was a call to something he hoped was in his friend, but which he had never tested. There was a sudden fear, too, of the change that had come to Truedale. It was not all physical. There was a baffling suggestion of unreality about him that made him almost a stranger.

"I dare say you are right, Ken." Truedale walked the length of the room and back. "I own to being cut up over this. I never did my part—I see that now—and of course I'll endeavour to do what I should. My body's all right but my nerves still jangle at a shock. To-morrow the whole thing will settle into shape. You and Lynda have been—well—I cannot express what I feel." He paused. The hour was late, and for the first time he seemed to realize that the old home was not his in the sense it once had been. Lynda understood the moment's hesitation and smiled slightly.

"Con, there's one other thing in the house that remains as it was. Under the eaves the small room that was yours is yours still. I saw to it myself that not a book or picture was displaced. There are other rooms at your disposal—to share with us—but that room is yours, always."

Truedale stood before Lynda and put out his hands in quite the old way. His eyes were dim and he said hoarsely: "That's about the greatest thing you've done yet, Lyn. Thank you. Good-night."

At the door he hesitated—he felt he must speak, but to bring his own affairs into the tense and new conditions surrounding him seemed impossible. To-morrow he would explain everything. It was this slowness in reaching a decision that most defeated Truedale's best interest. While he deplored it—he seemed incapable of overcoming it.

Alone in the little room, later, he let himself go. Burying his tired head upon his folded arms he gave himself up to waves of recollection that threatened to engulf him. Everything was as it always had been—a glance proved that. When he had parted from his uncle he had taken only such articles as pertained to his maturer years. The pictures on the walls—the few shabby books that had drifted into his lonely and misunderstood childhood—remained. There was the locked box containing, Conning knew full well, the pitiful but sacred attempts at self-expression. The key was gone, but he recollected every scrap of paper which lay hidden in the old, dented tin box. Presently he went to the dormer window and opened it wide. Leaning out he tried to find his way back to Pine Cone—to the future that was to be free of all these cramping memories and hurting restrictions—but the trail was too cluttered; he was lost utterly!

"It is because they do not know," he thought. "After to-morrow it will be all right."

Then he reflected that the three thousand dollars Lynda had mentioned would clear every obstacle from his path and Nella-Rose's. He no longer need struggle—he could give his time and care to her and his work. He did not consider the rest of his uncle's estate, it did not matter. Lynda was provided for and so was he. And then, for the first time in many days, Truedale speculated upon bringing Nella-Rose away from her hills. He found himself rather insisting upon it, until he brought himself to terms by remembering her as he had seen her last—clinging to her own, vehemently, passionately.

"No, I've made my choice," he finally exclaimed; "the coming back unsettled me for the moment but her people shall be my people."

Below stairs Lynda was humming softly an old tune—"The Song of To-morrow," it was called. It caught and held Truedale's imagination. He tried to recall the lines, but only the theme was clear. It was the everlasting Song of To-morrow, always the one tune set to changing ideals.

It was the same idea as the philosophy about each man's "interpretation" of the story already written, which Conning had reflected upon so often.

At this time Truedale believed he firmly accepted the principle of foreordination, or whatever one chose to call it. One followed the path upon which one's feet had been set. One might linger and wander, within certain limits, but always each must return to his destined trail!

A distant church clock struck one; the house was still at last—deathly still. Two sounded, but Truedale thought on.

He finally succeeded in eliminating the entangling circumstances that seemed to lie like a twisted skein in the years stretching between his going forth from his uncle's house to this night of return. He tried to understand himself, to estimate the man he was. In no egotistical sense did he do this, but sternly, deliberately, because he felt that the future demanded it. He must account to others, but first he must account to himself.

He recalled his boyhood days when his uncle's distrust and apparent dislike of him had driven him upon himself, almost taking self-respect with it. He re-lived the barren years when, longing for love and companionship, he found solace in a cold pride that carried him along through school and into college, with a reputation for hard, unyielding work, and unsocial habits.

How desperately lonely he had been—how cruelly underestimated—but he had made no outcry. He had lived his years uncomplainingly—not even voicing his successes and achievements. Through long practise in self-restraint, his strength lay in deliberate calculation—not indifferent action. He hid, from all but the Kendalls, his private ambitions and hopes. He studied in order that he might shake himself free from his uncle's hold upon him. He meant to pay every cent he had borrowed—to secure, by some position that would supply the bare necessities of life, time and opportunity for developing the talent he secretly believed was his. He was prepared, once loose from obligation to old William Truedale, to starve and prove his faith. And then—his breakdown had come!

Cast adrift by loss of health, among surroundings that appealed to all that was most dangerous in his nature—believing that his former ambitions were defeated—old longings for love, understanding and self-revealment arose and conquered the weak creature he was. But they had appealed to the best in him—not the evillest—thank God! And now? Truedale raised his head and looked about in the dim room, as if to find the boy he once had been and reassure him.

"There is no longer any excuse for hesitation and the damnable weakness of considering the next step," thought Truedale. "I have chosen my own course—chosen the simple and best things life has to offer. No man in God's world has a right to question my deeds. If they cannot understand, more's the pity."

And in that hour and conclusion, the indifference and false pride that had upheld Truedale in the past fell from him as he faced the demands of the morrow. He was never again to succumb to the lack of confidence his desolate youth had developed; physically and spiritually he roused to action now that exactions were made upon him.