Pierre was greatly alarmed.

"Can't you give me something to wear?" he cried.

"O, yes!" answered the host, "we'll fix you all right in the morning so nobody will ever suspect you. Then I'll get Marin—he's got a good boat—to start right off and sail you round to Beausejour. But what about the little one?"

"O, she goes wherever I go!" said Pierre, decidedly.

"Yes, yes! But she's got to be kept out of sight," replied Breboeuf "She looks English, every inch of her; and if the people at the fort get eyes on her there'll be an investigation sure!"

"Can you speak English?" queried Pierre.

"Well enough!" replied his host.

"There'll be no trouble then," continued Pierre. "You can tell her to keep quiet and keep covered up when we're taking her to the boat. She'll mind, I'll answer you. And then, if Madame Breboeuf can give her a little homespun frock and cap, we'll pass her off all right should anyone see her. And when we get to Beausejour my father will make it all right for the clothes."

"He won't do anything of the sort," answered both Breboeuf and his wife in one breath. "We all know Antoine Lecorbeau, and we're proud to do his son a service. If we poor Acadians did not help each other, I'd like to know who'd help us, anyway!"

It was with a light heart that Pierre slept that night, and joyfully in the morning he put away the last trace of his hated disguise. His little charge showed plainly that she considered the change an improvement. The child told Breboeuf (whom she understood with difficulty) that her name was Edie Howe. At this Breboeuf was surprised, for, as he said to Pierre, there were no Howes at Kenneticook. When the Acadian tried to question Edie more closely, her answers became irrelevant, which was probably due to the deficiencies of Monsieur Breboeuf's English.

Pierre kept indoors most of the morning, as the little one would not let him out of her sight, and he dared not be seen with her. Soon after noon the tide was all ready for a departure, and not behindhand was the fisherman, Marin, with his stanch Minas craft. Marin had brought his boat up the St. Croix and into a little creek at some distance from the fort, because at the regular landing place there were always some English soldiers strolling about for lack of anything better to do. It was with some trepidation that Pierre set out for the creek. The little girl walked between her dear protector and their host, holding a hand of each, and chattering about everything she saw, till with great effort Breboeuf got her to understand that if she didn't keep quite quiet, and not say a word to anybody till they got safely away, in the boat, something dreadful might happen to her Pierre. She was dressed like any of the little Acadian maidens of Piziquid, and her blue cap of quilted linen was so tied on as to hide her sunny hair and much of her face; but the danger was that she might betray herself by her speech.

Before the party reached the boat they had a narrow escape from detection. They were met by three or four soldiers who were strolling across the marsh. In passing they gave Breboeuf a hearty good-day in English, and one of them called Edie his "little sweetheart." The child looked up with a laugh, and cried, coquettishly, "Not yours! I'm Pierre's." Then, as Breboeuf squeezed her hand sharply, she remembered his caution and said no more, though her small heart was filled with wonder to think she might not talk to the nice soldiers.

"Why, where did the baby learn her English?" asked the soldier in a tone of surprise. "You never taught her, I'll be bound."

"Her mother taught her. Her mother speaks the English better than you yourself," was Breboeuf's ready reply. Later in the day that soldier suddenly remembered that the good wife Breboeuf did not speak a word of English, and he was properly mystified. By that time, however, Pierre and the little one were far from Piziquid. With a merry breeze behind them they were racing under the beetling front of Blomidon.

On the day following they caught the flood tide up Chignecto Bay, and sailed into the mouth of the Au Lac stream, almost under the willows of Lecorbeau's cottage. The joy of Pierre's father and mother on seeing the lad so soon returned was mingled with astonishment at seeing him arrive by water, and with a little English child in his care. The little one, with her exciting experiences behind her, did not dream of being shy, but was made happy at once with a kind welcome; while Pierre, the center of a wondering and exclaiming circle, narrated the wild adventures of the past few days, which had, indeed developed him all at once from boyhood to manhood. As he described the massacre, and the manner in which he had rescued the yellow-haired lassie, his mother drew the little one into her arms and cried over her from sympathy and excitement; and the child wiped her eyes with her own quilted sunbonnet. At the conclusion of the vivid narrative Lecorbeau was the first to speak.

"Nobly have you done, my dear son," he cried, with warm emotion. "But now, where are your companions of that dreadful expedition? Not one has yet arrived at Beausejour!"



CHAPTER VII.

PIERRE'S LITTLE ONE.

This question which Lecorbeau asked, all Beausejour was asking in an hour or two. That night an Indian, sent from Le Loutre, who was lying in exhaustion at Cobequid, arrived at the fort and told the fate of the expedition.

As already stated, the English authorities in Halifax had been warned of the movements of the Indians—though they could only guess the part that Le Loutre had in them. Without delay they had sent small bands of troops to each of the exposed settlements, but that dispatched to Kenneticook arrived, as we have seen, too late. When the breathless soldiers, lighted through the woods by the glare of the burning village, reached the scene of ruin, of all who had that night lain down to fearless sleep in Kenneticook there remained alive but one, the little child whom Pierre had snatched from death.

When the English emerged from the woods and saw the extent of the disaster, they knew they were too late. Not a house, not a building of any kind, but was already wrapped in a roaring torrent of flame, and against the broad illumination could be seen the figures of the savages, fantastically dancing. The English captain formed his line with prudent deliberation, and then led the attack at a run.

Never dreaming of so rude an interruption, the raiders were taken utterly by surprise and made no effective resistance. A number fell at the first volley, which the English poured in upon them in charging. Then followed a hand-to-hand fight, fierce but brief, which Le Loutre didn't see, as he had wisely retired on the instant of the Englishmen's arrival. He was followed by two of the Acadians, and two or three of the more prudent of the Micmacs; but the rest of his party, fired with blind fury by the liquor which they had found among the village stores, remained to fight with a drunken recklessness and fell to a man beneath the steel of the avengers.

Left masters of the field, the rescue party gazed with horror on the ruin they had come too late to avert. With a grim, poetic justice they cast the bodies of their slain foes into the fires which had already consumed the victims of their ferocity. While this was going on the leader of the party, a young lieutenant, stood apart in deepest dejection.

"What's the matter with the general?" inquired a soldier, pointing with his thumb in the direction of his sorrowing chief.

"I'm afeard as how that little niece of his'n, as you've seed him a-danderin' many a time in Halifax, was visitin' folks here. If so be what I've hearn be true, them yellin' butchers has done for her, sure pop. I tell ye, Bill, she was a little beauty, an' darter of the cap'n they murdered last September down to Fort Lawrence."

"I ricklecs the child well" replied Bill, shaking his head slowly. "It was a purty one, an' no mistake! An' Cap'n Howe's darter, too. I swan!"

In a little while the careless-hearted soldiers were asleep amid the ashes of Kenneticook village, while the young lieutenant lay awake, his heart aching for his golden-haired pet, his widowed sister's child. The next day he gave his men a long rest, for they had done some severe forced marching. When at length he reached Piziquid he little dreamed that the child whose death he mourned was at that very moment sailing down the river bound for Beausejour and a long sojourn among her people's enemies.

In the house of Antoine Lecorbeau things went on more pleasantly than with most of his fellow-Acadians. With the good will of Vergor, the commandant of Beausejour, who made enormous profits out of the Acadian's tireless diligence, Lecorbeau became once more fairly prosperous; and Le Loutre had grown again friendly. But most of the Acadians found themselves in a truly pitiable plight. There were not lands enough to supply them all, and they pined for the farms of Acadie which Le Loutre had forced them to forsake. Threatened with excommunication and the scalping knife if they should return to their allegiance, and with starvation if they obeyed the commands of their heartless superiors at Quebec, they were girt about on all sides with pain and peril. Vacillating, unable to think boldly for themselves, they were doubtless much to blame, but their miseries were infinitely more than they deserved. The punishments that fell upon them fell upon the wrong shoulders. The English, who treated them for a long time with the most patient forbearance, were compelled at length, in self-defense, to adopt an attitude of rigorous severity; and by the French, in whose cause they suffered everything, they were regarded as mere tools, to be used till destroyed. At the door of the corrupt officials of France may be laid all their miseries.

After the affair at Kenneticook Le Loutre found that Cobequid was no longer the place for him. He needed the shelter of Beausejour. There, by force of his fanatic zeal, his ability, and his power over the Acadians, he divided the authority of the fort with its corrupt commandant. He never dreamed of the part Pierre had played that dreadful night on the Kenneticook. He knew Lecorbeau had somewhere picked up an English child. But a child was in his eyes quite too trivial a matter to call for any comment.

As time went on Pierre's little one, as she was generally called—"la p'tite de Pierre"—picked up the French of her new Acadian home, and went far to forgetting her English. In the eyes of Lecorbeau and his wife she came to seem like one of their own and she was a favorite with the whole family; but to Pierre she clung as if he were her father and mother in one. As soon as she had learned a little French she was questioned minutely as to her parents and her home. Her name, Edie Howe, had at once been associated with that of the lamented captain.

"Edie," good wife Lecorbeau would say to her, "where is your mother?"

At this the child would shake her head sorrowfully for a moment, and pointing over the hills, would answer:

"Away off there!"—and sometimes she would add, "Poor mamma's sick!"

At last one day she seemed suddenly to remember, and cried as if she were announcing a great discovery, "Why, mamma's in Halifax."

Mother Lecorbeau was not a little triumphant at having elicited this definite information.

On the subject of her father the little one had not much to say. When questioned about him she merely said that she was his little girl, and that he had gone away somewhere, and some bad people wouldn't let him come back again. She said her mamma had cried a great deal while telling her that papa would never come back—and from this it was clear at once that the father was dead. To get any definite idea from the child as to the time of his death proved a vain endeavor; she was not very clear in her ideas of time. But she said he was a tall man and a soldier. She further declared that he hadn't a lot of hair on his face, like father Lecorbeau, but was nice and smooth, like her Pierre, only with a mustache. All this tallied with a description of Captain Howe, so Lecorbeau concluded that she was Howe's child. As for the people with whom she had been visiting in the hapless village of Kenneticook, they were evidently old servants of her father's family.

"I was staying at nurse's," she used to say. "Uncle Willie sent me there because my mamma was sick." Of this Uncle Willie she talked so much and so often that Pierre said he was jealous.

While several years rolled by, bringing no great event to the cabin in the willows at the foot of Beausejour, a cloud was slowly gathering over the fortressed hill. The relations between France and England in Acadie were growing more and more strained. It was plain that a rupture must soon come. In the cabin, by the light of fire or candle, after the day's work was done, Pierre and his father, with sometimes the old sergeant from the fort, used to talk over the condition of affairs. To Pierre and the sergeant it was obvious that France must win back Acadie, and that soon; and they paid little heed to Lecorbeau's sagacious comparisons between the French and English methods of conducting the government. Lecorbeau, naturally did not feel like arguing his points with much determination; but across the well-scrubbed deal table he uttered several predictions which Pierre recalled when he saw them brought to pass.

"Here's about how it stands," remarked the sergeant one night, shaking the ashes of his pipe into the hollow of his hand, "there's hundreds upon hundreds now of your Acadians shifting round loose, waiting for a chance to get back to their old farms. They don't dare go back while the English hold possession, for fear of His Reverence yonder"—signifying, of course, Le Loutre—"so they're all ready to fight just as soon as France gives the word. They don't care much for France, maybe—not much more than for the English—but they do just hanker after their old farms. When the government thinks it the right time, and sends us some troops from Quebec and Louisburg, all the Acadians out of Acadie will walk in to take possession, and the Acadians in Acadie will bid good day to King George and help us kick the English out of Halifax. It's bound to come, sure as fate; and pretty soon, I'm thinking."

"I believe you're right!" assented Pierre, enthusiastically.

"What would you think, now," said Lecorbeau, suggestively, "if the English should take it into their slow heads not to wait for all this to happen? What would you do up there in the fort if some ships were to sail up to-morrow and land a little English army under Beausejour? You've got a priest and a greedy old woman (begging Monsieur Vergor's pardon) to lead you. How long would Beausejour hold out? And suppose Beausejour was taken, where would the settlements be—Ouestkawk and Memramcook, and even the fort on the St. John? Wouldn't it rather knock on the head this rising of the Acadians, this 'walking in and taking possession' of which you feel so confident?"

"But we won't give the English a chance!" cried the warlike pair, in almost the same breath. "We'll strike first. You'll see!"

Meanwhile the English were making ready to do just what Lecorbeau said they might do. At the same time the French at Quebec, at Louisburg, at Beausejour, though talking briskly about the great stroke by which Acadie was to be recaptured, were too busy plundering the treasury to take any immediate steps. Following the distinguished example of the notorious intendant, Bigot, almost every official in New France had his fingers in the public purse. They were in no haste for the fray.

The English, however, seeing what the French might do, naturally supposed they would try and do it. To prevent this, they were planning the capture of Beausejour. Governor Lawrence, in Halifax, and Governor Shirley, in Boston, were preparing to join forces for the undertaking. In New England Shirley raised a regiment of two thousand volunteers who mustered, in April of the year 1755, amid the quaint streets of Boston. This regiment was divided into two battalions, one of which was commanded by Colonel John Winslow, and the other by John Scott. After a month's delay, waiting for muskets, the little army set sail for Beausejour. The chief command was in the hands of Colonel Moncton, who had been sent to Boston by Lawrence to arrange the expedition.

On the night when Lecorbeau, Pierre, and the old sergeant were holding the conversation of which I have recorded a fragment, the fleet containing the Massachusetts volunteers were already at Annapolis. A day or two later they were sailing up the restless tide of Fundy. On the first day of June they were sighted from the cloud-topped mountain of Chepody, or "Chapeau Dieu." As the sun went down the fleet cast anchor under the high bluffs of Far Ouestkawk, not three leagues from Beausejour. As the next dawn was breaking over the Minudie hills there arrived at the fort a little party of wearied Acadians, who had hastened up from Chepody to give warning. Instantly all Beausejour became a scene of excitement. There was much to be done in the way of strengthening the earthworks. Urgent messengers were sent out to implore reinforcements from Louisburg, while others called together all the Acadians of the neighborhood, to the number of fourteen hundred fighting men. As Pierre and his father were taking the rest of the family, with some supplies, to a little wooded semi-island beside the Tantramar, some miles from the fort, Lecorbeau said to his son:

"I rather like the idea of that bold stroke of yours and the sergeant's! When do you think it will be carried out?"

Pierre looked somewhat crestfallen, but he mustered up spirit to reply:

"Just wait till we've beaten off those fellows. Then you'll see what we'll do."

"Well," said his father, "I'll wait as patiently as possible!"

After placing the mother and children in their refuge, which was already thronged, our two Acadians, with a tearful farewell, hastened back to take their part in the defense of Beausejour.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE NEW ENGLANDERS.

The refuge of good wife Lecorbeau, and the children, and "Pierre's little one" was a wooded bit of rising ground which, before the diking-in of the Tantramar marshes, had been an island at high water. It was still called Isle au Tantramar. Among the trees, under rude lean-to tents and improvised shelters of all sorts, were gathered the women and children of Beausejour, out of range of the cannon balls that they knew would soon be flying over their homes. The weather was balmy, and their situation not immediately painful, but their hearts were a prey to the wildest anxieties.

By this time the New Englanders had landed over against Fort Lawrence, and had joined their forces with those of the English at the fort. The numbers of the attacking army filled the Acadians with apprehension of defeat. Many of them, like Lecorbeau, had in the past taken oath of allegiance to King George, and these feared lest, in the probable event of the English being victorious, they should be put to death as traitors. This difficulty was solved, and their fears much mitigated, in a thoroughly novel way. The commandant assured them solemnly that if they refused to join in the defense of the fort he would shoot them down like dogs. Upon this the Acadians conceived themselves released from all responsibility in the matter, and went quite cheerfully to work. Even Lecorbeau feeling himself secured by Vergor's menace, was quietly and fearlessly interested in the approaching struggle. Lecorbeau, was no faint-heart, though his far-seeing sagacity often made him appear so in the eyes of those who did not know him well. As for Pierre, he was now in his element, sniffing the battle like a young warhorse, and forgetful of the odds against him. Le Loutre was everywhere at once, tireless, seeing everything, spurring the work, and worth a hundred Vergors in such a crisis as this.

Beausejour was a strong post, a pentagon with heavy ramparts of earth, with two bombproofs, so called, and mounting twenty-five pieces of artillery. Some of the guns were heavy metal for those days and that remote defense. I have seen them used as gateposts by the more aristocratic of Beausejour's present inhabitants. Within the fort was a garrison of one hundred and sixty regulars. Three hundred Acadians were added to this garrison—among them being Pierre and his father. The rest of the Acadians spread themselves in bands through the woods and uplands, in order to carry on a system of harassing attacks.

Across the Missaguash, some distance from its mouth, there was a bridge called Pont-a-Buot, and thither, after a day or two of reconnoitering, Colonel Moncton led his forces from Fort Lawrence. They marched in long column up the Missaguash shore, wading through the rich young grasses. As they approached they saw that the bridge had been broken down, and the fragments used to build a breastwork on the opposite shore. This breastwork, as far as they could see, was unoccupied.

Appearances in this case were deceptive. Hidden behind the breastwork was a body of troops from Beausejour. There were nearly four hundred of them—Acadians and Indians, with a few regulars to give them steadiness. Pierre, as might have been expected, was among the band, beside his instructor, the old sergeant. Trembling with excitement, though outwardly calm enough, Pierre watched, through the chinks of the breastwork, the approach of the hostile column. Just as it reached the point opposite, where the bridge had been broken away, he heard a sharp command from an officer just behind him. Instantly, he hardly knew how, he found himself on his feet, yelling fiercely, and firing as fast as he could reload his musket. Through the rifts of the smoke he could see that the hot fire was doing execution in the English ranks. Presently, he heard the old sergeant remark:

"There come the guns! Now look out for a squall!"—and he saw two fieldpieces being hurriedly dragged into position. The next thing he knew there was a roar—the breastwork on one side of him flew into fragments, and he saw a score of his comrades dead about him. The roar was repeated several times, but his blood was up, and he went on loading and firing as before, without a thought of fear. At length the sergeant grabbed him by the arm.

"We've got to skip out of this and cut for cover in those bushes yonder. We'll do more good there, and this breastwork, or what's left of it, is no longer worth holding."

Pierre looked about him astonished, and found they were almost alone. He shouldered his musket and strode sullenly into cover, the old sergeant laughingly slapping him on the back.

Firing irregularly from the woods, the French succeeded in making it very unpleasant for the English in their work of laying a new bridge. But, notwithstanding, the bridge grew before their eyes. Pierre was disgusted.

"We're beaten, it seems, already," he cried to the sergeant.

"Not at all!" responded the latter, cheerfully. "All this small force could be expected to do has been already done. We have suffered but slightly, while we have caused the enemy considerable loss. That's all we set out to do. We're not strong enough to stand up to them; we're only trying to weaken them all we can. See, now they're crossing—and it's about time we were out of this!"

It was indeed so. The bridge was laid, the column was hastening across. A bugle rang out the signal for retreat, and the fire from the bushes ceased. In a moment the Acadian force had dissolved, scattering like a cloud of mist before the sun. Pierre found himself, with a handful of his comrades, speeding back to the fort. Others sought their proper rendezvous. There was nothing for the English to chase, so they kept their column unbroken. As Pierre entered the fort he saw the enemy establishing themselves in the uplands, about a mile and a half from Beausejour.

When night fell the heavens were lit up with a glare that carried terror to the women and children on Isle au Tantramar. Vergor had set fire to the chapel, and to all the houses of Beausejour that might shelter an approach to the ramparts. "Alas," cried the unhappy mother Lecorbeau to the children about her, "we are once more homeless, without a roof to shelter us!" and she and all the women broke into loud lamentations. The children, however, seemed rather to enjoy the scene, and Edie told an interested audience about the great blaze there was, and how red the sky looked, the night her dear Pierre carried her away from Kenneticook.

For several days the English made no further advance, and to Pierre and his fellow-Acadians in the fort the suspense became very trying. The regulars took the delay most philosophically, seeming content to wait just as long as the enemy would permit them. Pierre began to wish he was with one of the guerilla parties outside, for these were busy all the time, making little raids, cutting off foraging parties, skirmishing with pickets, and retreating nimbly to the hills whenever attacked in force. At length there came a change. A battalion of New Englanders, about five hundred strong, advanced to within easy range of the fort, and occupied a stony ridge well adapted for their purpose.

A braggart among the French officers, one Vannes by name, begged to be allowed to sally forth with a couple of hundred men and rout the audacious provincials. Vergor sanctioned the enterprise, and the boaster marched proudly forth with his company. Arriving in front of the New Englanders he astounded the latter, and supplied his comrades in the fort with food for endless mirth, by facing the right about and leading his shame-faced files quietly back to Beausejour. Pierre was profoundly thankful to the old sergeant for having dissuaded him from joining in the sally. Covering Vannes's humiliation the fort opened a determined fire, which after a time disabled one of the small mortars which the assailants had placed in position. Gradually the English brought up the rest of their guns, and on the following day a sharp artillery duel was carried on between the fort and the ridge.

Within the ramparts things went but ill, and Pierre became despondent as his eyes were opened to the almost universal corruption about him. Enlightened by the shrewd comments of the old sergeant, the quiet penetration of his father's glance, which saw everything, he soon realized that fraud and self-seeking were become the ruling impulse in Beausejour. "Like master, like man" was a proverb which he saw daily fulfilled. Vergor thought more of robbing than of serving his country, and from him his subordinates took their cue. Le Loutre, with his fiery fanaticism, went up, by contrast, in the estimation of the honest-hearted boy. As the siege dragged on some of the Acadians became homesick, or anxious about their families. These begged leave to go home; which was of course refused. Others quietly went without asking. An air of hopelessness stole over the garrison, which was deepened to despair when news came from Louisburg that no help could be expected from that quarter, the town being strictly blockaded by the English.

At length, in an ignoble way, came the crisis. In one of the two vaulted chambers of masonry which were dignified with the title of "bombproofs," a party of French officers, with a captive English lieutenant, were sitting at breakfast. A shell from the English mortars dropped through the ceiling, exploded, and killed seven of the company. Vergor, with other officers and Le Loutre, was in the second bombproof. His martial spirit was confounded at the thought that the one retreat might turn out to be no more "bomb-proof" than the other. Most of his subordinate officers shared his feelings, and in a few minutes, to the pleasant astonishment of the English, and in spite of the furious protests of Le Loutre and of two or three officers who were not lost to all sense of manhood, a white flag was hoisted on Beausejour. The firing straightway ceased, on both sides, and an officer was sent forth to negotiate a capitulation.

Pierre threw down his musket, and looked at his father, who stood watching the proceedings with a smile of grim contempt. Then he turned to the sergeant, who was smoking philosophically.

"Is this the best France can do?" he cried, in a sharp voice.

"The English do certainly show to rather the better advantage," interposed Lecorbeau; but the old sergeant hastened to answer, in a tone of sober grief:

"You must'nt judge la belle France by the men she has been sending out to Canada and Acadie these late years, my Pierre. These are the creatures of Bigot, the notorious. It is he and they that are dragging our honor in the dust!"

"Well," exclaimed Pierre, "I shall stay and see this thing through; but as there is no more fighting to be done, you, father, had better go and take care of mother and the children. There is nothing to be gained, but a good deal to be risked by staying here and being taken prisoner. The English may not think much of the powers of compulsion of a man that can't fight any better than our commandant"

"You're right, my boy," said Lecorbeau, cheerfully. "My situation just now is a delicate one, to say the least of it. Well, good-bye for the present. By this time to-morrow, if all goes as expeditiously as it has hitherto, we shall meet in our own cabin again."

With these words Lecorbeau walked coolly forth, on the side of the fort opposite to the besiegers, and strolled across the marshes toward Isle au Tantramar. Two or three more, who were in the same awkward position as Lecorbeau, proceeded to follow his example. The rest, considering that for them there was now no danger, the fighting being done, stayed to see the end, and to pick up what they could in the way of spoils. As for Le Loutre, realizing that his cause was lost and his neck in the utmost jeopardy, he hid himself in a skillful disguise and fled in haste for Quebec.

The same evening, at seven o'clock, the garrison marched out of Beausejour with the honors of war; whereupon a body of New Englanders marched in, hoisted the flag of England, and fired a royal salute from the ramparts of the fort. By the terms of the capitulation the garrison was to be sent at once to Louisburg, and those Acadians who in taking part in the defense had violated their oath of allegiance to King George were to be pardoned as having done it under compulsion. All such matters of detail having been arranged satisfactorily, Vergor gave a grand dinner to the English and French officers in the stronghold of which his cowardice had robbed his country. The fort was rechristened "Fort Cumberland," and the curiously assorted guests all joined most cordially in drinking to the new title.

On the following day Lecorbeau brought his wife and family back to the cottage under the willows, and Pierre was reunited to his beloved "petite." Isle au Tantramar was soon deserted, for the families whose homes at Beausejour had just been burnt returned to camp amid the ashes and erected rude temporary shelters. They were all overjoyed at the leniency of the English; but a blow more terrible than any that had yet befallen them was hanging over this most unhappy people.

Among the English officers encamped at Beausejour was the slim young lieutenant who had led the band of avengers at Kenneticook. He spoke French; he was interested in the Acadian people; and he moved about among them inquiring into their minds and troubles. The cabin under the willows, almost the only house left standing in Beausejour village, at once attracted him, and he sauntered down the hill to visit it.

The household was in a bustle getting things once more to rights; and a group of children played chattering about the low, red, ocher-washed door. As the lieutenant approached, Lecorbeau came forth to meet and greet him. The Englishman was just on the point of grasping the Acadian's outstretched hand, when a shrill cry of "Uncle Willie" rang in his ears, and he found one of the children clinging to him rapturously. For an instant he was utterly bewildered, gazing down on the sunburned fair little face upturned to his. Then he snatched the child to his heart, exclaiming passionately, "My Edie, my darling!" To Lecorbeau, and to his wife and Pierre, who now appeared, the scene was clear in an instant; and a weight of misery rolled down upon the heart of Pierre as he realized that now he should lose the little one he loved so well.

For a few moments the child and her new-found uncle were entirely absorbed in each other. But presently the little one looked around and pointed to Pierre.

"Here's my Pierre!" she explained in her quaint French—"and there's papa Lecorbeau, and mamma Lecorbeau, and there's little Jacques, and Bibi, and Vergie, and Tiste. Won't you come and live with us, too?"

Her uncle covered her face anew with his kisses. "My darling," he said, "you will come with me to Halifax, to mamma!"

"And leave Pierre?" she cried, her eyes filling. "I can't leave my Pierre, who saved me from the cruel Indians."

This recalled the young man's thoughts to the mystery of the little one's presence at Beausejour. Lecorbeau gave him a bench, and sitting down beside him told the story, while Edie sat with one hand in her uncle's clasp and the other in that of Pierre. The young Englishman was deeply moved. Having heard all, and questioned of the matter minutely, he rose and shook Pierre by the hand, thanking him in few words, indeed, but in a voice that spoke his emotion. Then he poured out his gratitude to Lecorbeau and his wife for their goodness, to this child of their foes; and little by little he gathered the Acadian's feelings toward the English, and the part he had played throughout. At length he said:

"Can you allow me to quarter myself here for the present? I cannot take Edie into the camp, and she would not be willing if I could. I see from her love for you how truly kind she has found you. I want to be with the little one as much as possible; and, moreover, my presence here may prove of use to you in the near future."

The significance of these last words Lecorbeau did not care to question, but after a glance at his wife, who looked dumfounded at the proposition, he said:

"You may well realize, monsieur, that with this small cabin and this large family we can give you but poor accommodation. But such as it is, you are more than welcome to it. Your coming will be to us an honor and a pleasure, and a most valued protection."

The lieutenant at once took up his abode in Lecorbeau's cabin. When, a few weeks later, the first scenes were enacted in the tragedy known as the "Expulsion of the Acadians," the friendship of the young lieutenant and of Edie stood Lecorbeau in good stead. This storm which scattered to the four winds the remnant of the Acadians, passed harmlessly over the cabin beneath the willows of Beausejour. When Acadie was once more quiet, and Edie and her uncle went to Halifax, Lecorbeau added fertile acres to his farm; while Pierre accompanied his "petite" to the city, where his own abilities, and the lieutenant's steadfast friendship, won him advancement and success.

* * * * *



HOW THE CARTER BOYS LIFTED THE MORTGAGE.



CHAPTER I.

CATCHING A TARTAR.

As long as they could remember, the roaring flow and rippling ebb of the great tides had been the most conspicuous and companionable sounds in the ears of Will and Ted Carter. The deep, red channel of the creek that swept past their house to meet the Tantramar, a half mile further on, was marked on the old maps, dating from the days of Acadian occupation, by the name of the Petit Canard. But to the boys, as to all the villagers of quiet Frosty Hollow, it was known as "the Crick."

To "the Crick" the Carters owed their little farm. Mrs. Carter was a sea captain's widow, living with her two boys, Will and Ted, in a small yellow cottage on the crest of a green hill by the water. Behind the cottage, framing the barn and the garden and the orchard, and cutting off the north wind, was a thick grove of half-grown fir trees. From the water, however, these were scarcely visible, and the yellow house twinkled against the broad blue of the sky like the golden eye of a great forget-me-not.

I have said that the Carters owed their little farm to the creek. That is to say, their farm was made up chiefly of marsh, or diked meadow, which had been slowly deposited by the waters of the creek at high tide, then captured and broken into the service of man by the aid of long, imprisoned ramparts of sodded clay. This marsh land was inexhaustibly fertile, deep with grass, purple in patches with vetch blossoms, pink and crimson, along the ditches with beds of wild roses. Outside the dikes the tawny current of the creek clamored almost ceaselessly, quiet only for a little while at high water. When the tide was low, or nearly so, the creek was a shining, slippery, red gash, twisting hither and thither through stretches of red-brown, sun-cracked flats, whitened here and there with deposited salt. Where the creek joined the Tantramar, its parent stream, the abyss of coppery and gleaming ooze revealed at ebb tide made a picture never to be forgotten; for the tidal Tantramar does not conform to conventional ideas of what a river should be.

Had the creek been their only creditor the Carters would have been fortunate. As it was, the little farm was mortgaged up to its full value. When Captain Carter died of yellow fever on the voyage home from Brazil, he left the family little besides the farm. To be sure, there was a share in the ship, besides; but this Mrs. Carter made haste to sell, though shipping was at the time away down, and she realized almost nothing from the sale. Had she held on to the property a year longer she would have found herself almost comfortable, for there came a sudden activity in the carrying trade, and shipowners made their fortunes rapidly. But Mrs. Carter cared little for business considerations where a sentiment was concerned; and being descended from one of the oldest and most distinguished families of the country, she had a lofty confidence that the country owed her a living, and would be at pains to meet the obligation. In this confidence she was sadly disappointed; and so it came about that, while Will and Ted were yet but small lads, the farm was mortgaged to Mr. Israel Hand, who greatly desired to add it to his own adjoining property.

It happened one summer afternoon, when Will was nearly eighteen years of age, and Ted fifteen, that the boys were raking hay in the meadow, while Mr. Israel Hand was toiling up the long hill that led from Frosty Hollow to the yellow cottage. The figure of Mr. Hand was hidden from the boys' view by the dense foliage of the maples and birch trees bordering the road. Toward the top of the hill, however, the line of trees was broken; and in the gap towered a superb elm. Immediately beneath the elm, half inclosed in a luxuriant thicket of cinnamon, rose, and clematis, stood an inviting rustic seat which commanded a view of the marshes, and the windings of the Tantramar, and the far-off waters of the bay, and the historic heights of ramparted Beausejour.

Toward the seat beneath the elm tree Ted kept casting eager but furtive glances. This presently attracted Will's attention.

"What have you, young one, been up to now?" he queried, in a tone half amused and half rebuking.

Ted's eyes sparkled mischievously.

"O, nothing much!" said he, bending his curly head over the remains of a bird's egg, which he suddenly discovered in the grass. But his denial was not intended to deny so much as to provoke further inquiry. He was a persistent, and sometimes troublesome practical joker; but he usually wanted Will to know of his pranks beforehand, that Will's steady good sense might keep him from anything too extravagant in the way of trickery.

"O, come off now, Ted," exclaimed Will, grinning. "Tell me what it is, or I'll go and find out, and spoil the fun."

"It's just a little trap I've set for a fellow I want to catch," replied Ted, thus adjured.

"Well?" said Will, expectantly.

"Well!" continued the joker. "I've set a tub of 'crick' water—with lots of mud in it—right under the seat up there, and fixed the bushes and vines round it so that it hardly shows. I've sawed the seat almost through, from underneath, so that when a fellow sits down on it—and after climbing the hill, you know, he always sits down hard—well, you can see just what's going to happen."

"O, yes," grumbled the elder boy, "I see just what's going to happen. I'll have to fix a new seat there to-morrow; for you can't make a decent job of it. But, look here, I don't think much of that for a trick: There's nothing clever about it, and you may catch the wrong person. I think you'd better go and fix it, before you do something you'll be sorry for."

"Don't you worry your old head!" answered Ted, determinedly. "I'm watching to see who comes along. Do you suppose I'd let Mrs. Burton, or the rector tumble into the tub? What d'you take me for, you old duffer?"

"Well," said Will, good-humoredly, "whom do you expect to catch?"

"Is your head so taken up with scientific musings that you haven't noticed how, lately, Will Hen Baizley has taken to going home this way every afternoon, instead of by the short cut over the back road? I expect he's got a girl down at the corners, or he wouldn't be coming such a long way round. Anyway, when he gets to the top of the hill he always sits down on our seat, and fills up his pipe. I've been looking for a chance at him this long while!"

Will Hen Baizley was the most objectionable "tough" that Frosty Hollow could boast. He was a bad-tempered bully, cruel in his propensities, and delighting to interfere in all the innocent amusements of the village youngsters. He was a loutish tyrant, and Ted had suffered various petty annoyances at his hands for several years. In fact, the boy was looking forward to the day when he might, without presumption, undertake to give the bully a thrashing and deliver the neighbourhood from his thraldom. As Will Hen, however, was about twenty years of age, large, and not unskillful with his fists, Ted saw some years of waiting yet ahead of him. Such suspense he could not endure. He preferred to begin now, and trust to fate—and his brother Will—to pull him through.

Will raked the hay thoughtfully for a few minutes without replying. He was a clear-headed youth, and he speedily caught the drift of Ted's ideas.

"It'll be good enough for him," said Will, at length, "but you've got a good deal of gall, it seems to me, young one! Why, Will Hen'll pound you for it, sure. He'll know it's your doing."

"Let him pound, the brute!" answered Ted, defiantly. "Anyway, I don't suppose you are going to let him handle me too rough! I dare say he won't actually punch me, for fear of getting into a row with you—though" (and here a wicked twinkle came into Ted's eye, for he knew the pugnacity that lurked in his big brother's scientific nature), "though he does say he can particularly knock the stuffing out of you!"

"Dear me," murmured Will, grinning thoughtfully. "If he talks to you about it, tell him there isn't any stuffing in me to speak of."

During this conversation the boys had both, for a few minutes, forgotten to watch the seat under the elm tree. Suddenly Ted glanced up, a thrill of mingled apprehension and delight went through him as he saw Mr. Israel Hand approaching the fatal spot.

"Look, quick!" he exclaimed, in a gleeful whisper.

Will looked. But Will was not amused.

"Hi! there! Don't sit down, Mr. Hand! Don't!" He yelled, jumping into the air and waving his hay rake to attract additional attention.

But it was too late!

Mr. Israel Hand was tired and hot from his walk up the hill. He was vexed, too, at the prospect of a disagreeable interview with Mrs. Carter, who would not understand business matters. The seat beneath the elm was a most inviting place. From it he could see the whole farm which he meant presently to annex to his own broad acres. He was on the point of seating himself when he heard Will's yell. He had a vague consciousness that the boys did not love him, to say the least of it. He concluded they were now making game of him. Why shouldn't he sit down? If it was their seat now, it would soon be his, anyway.

"Impudent young scoundrels!" he muttered, and sat down firmly.

As the boys saw him crash through, and disappear, all but his head and heels, in a great splash of leaves and blossoms and muddy water, Ted fairly shrieked with uncontrollable mirth. But as for Will, he was too angry to see the fun of the situation.

"There," he exclaimed, bitterly, with a ring in his voice that checked Ted's laughter on the instant, "your tomfoolery has fixed us at last. Out we'll go next spring, as sure as you want a licking. Hand'll foreclose now, for sure; and I can't say I'll blame him. No use me trying to stave him off now!"

Ted hung his head, feeling miserable enough, and casting about vainly for an excuse.

"But I never—"

"O, don't wriggle, now," retorted Will, sternly. "You know you saw him in time to warn him. You wanted to get him into it. You just come along with me, and apologize. If he is an old skinflint, you've got to remember he could have sold us out last year, only I succeeded in begging off. Mother's high and mighty airs to him made the job twice as hard as it might have been; but you've made it impossible to do anything more. Now he'll have us out in a twelve-month—and I was just getting things so into shape that with two years more I could have saved the old place!"

As the boys climbed the hillside Will's face was very white, and his mouth twitched nervously. He had taken hold of affairs about two years before, stopped a number of leaks, and displayed great tact in neutralizing the effects of Mrs. Carter's aristocratic and exclusive notions. Mrs. Carter was a woman of untiring industry, most capable in all household matters, but superbly uncommercial. Having got the management into his own hands, and having entirely won his mother's confidence, Will was beginning to see a gleam of light ahead of him. If he could keep Mr. Israel Hand pacified for two years more, and yet prevent the schemer from imagining that the mortgage was going to be paid in the end, he felt that victory was his. Mr. Hand wanted the farm—but if he could win a reputation for forbearance, and get the farm not less surely in the long run, he would be all the better satisfied. It was thus Will had gauged him. The boy's ambition was to clear off the debt, and then earn something wherewith to finish his own education and Ted's. Now, seeing the whole scheme nipped in the fair bud by Ted's recklessness, small wonder if his heart grew hard. Presently, however, catching sight of Ted's face of misery, stained with one or two furtive tears, his wrath began to melt.

"Well, Ted," said he, "never mind now. It's no use crying over spilt milk. You hadn't much time to think. I know you wouldn't have had it happen for a good deal if you'd had time to think. Brace up, and maybe we'll find some way out of the scrape!"

At this Ted's face brightened a little, and he ejaculated fervently:

"I wish I wasn't such an idiot!"

"Don't fret!" replied Will, and the two trudged on to the little white gate in front of the yellow cottage, carrying grievous apprehensions in their hearts.

Meanwhile, Mr. Israel Hand had extricated himself from the tub. He was not hurt saving as regards his dignity. But his heart was absolutely bursting with righteous rage. And yet, and yet, it was sweet to think of the revenge that lay so close within his grasp. No one now could accuse him of being too severe. Public feeling would justify his course—and Mr. Israel Hand had a good deal of respect for public feeling.

He did not pause to remove one atom of the sticky creek mud that plastered grotesquely his rusty but solemn suit of black. Drenched and defiled, he felt himself an object of sympathy. He would not even remove the occasional green leaves and rosebuds that clung to him here and there with a most ludicrous effect, making one think of a too festive picnicker. Mr. Hand was quite lacking in a sense of the ridiculous.

When he reached the door he knocked imperiously, and after a second, rapped again. Mrs. Carter was busy in the kitchen. She resented the hastiness of the summons. Under no circumstances would she let herself be seen in the role of kitchen girl. She clung to appearances with a tenacity that nothing could shake. Long practice in this sort of thing, however, had made her very expert; and by the time Mr. Hand had thundered at the knocker four or five times, his wrath getting hotter as his damp clothes got more chilly, Mrs. Carter had made herself presentable and was ready to open the door.

Severe and stately in her widow's garments, cool of countenance as if she had been but sitting in expectancy of callers, she opened the door and confronted Mr. Hand. Recognizing her unwelcome visitor, she drew herself up to her full height, and the little, dripping old man looked the more grotesque and mean by contrast.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Hand," she began in tones of ice; "can I do anything"—but at this point she took in the full absurdity of his appearance. With all her stateliness she had a keen appreciation of the ridiculous, and it was from her that Ted derived his excess of humor and his love of mischief. Passionately as she scorned Mr. Hand, she could forget herself so far as to let him amuse her. Her large face melted into a smile. She struggled to keep from open laughter.

"Look at me, just look at me, at my condition!" burst forth Mr. Hand "This is some of the work of your two brats of boys, madam. I'll horsewhip them, I'll have them horsewhipped!"

By this time Mrs. Carter was laughing unreservedly. She was consumed with mirth, as Mr. Hand continued:

"O, yes! I don't doubt you put them up to it! I don't doubt you think it is a great joke; a great joke, madam. But I'll make you smart for it! You think there's no one in Frosty Hollow fit to associate with you, eh! You're a pauper, and your brats are paupers! That's what you are. I'll foreclose that mortgage at once, and out you'll go, just as quickly as the course of law will permit. This time next year you'll have no roof over your head, and everyone in the village will say I have done quite right by you! I—"

"Really, Mr. Hand" exclaimed Mrs. Carter, interrupting, "you have no right to appear before me in such a shocking condition. If you wish to talk to me you must call again, and in more suitable attire. Excuse me!" And she shut the door in his face.

Mr. Hand shook his fist at the big brass knocker, then turned to go. The boys were just opening the little white gate. Mr. Hand paused between the beds of sweet williams and canterbury bells. He was in doubt as to the attitude he had better assume to Will and Ted. Glancing along the road he saw the figure of Will Hen Baizley inspecting curiously the ruins of the seat beneath the elm. Here was an ally if need should arise. He decided on prompt retribution, and seized his stick in a firmer grasp.



CHAPTER II.

THE HAND OF THE LAW.

"You pauper brats," began Mr. Hand, advancing along the garden path, "I'll teach you to play your dirty tricks on me!" And he raised his heavy cane.

With a quick movement of his arm, Will had the stick firmly in his grip so that Mr. Hand could not stir it.

"Stop that, Mr. Hand!" said Will, quietly. "You mustn't do that, sir. It was never intended you should fall into that trap, sir. It was set for another person altogether. You know, sir, you heard me yell to you not to sit down on it!"

"Let go of my stick, you young scoundrel!" exclaimed Mr. Hand, somewhat less outrageously than he had spoken before. The firmness of Will's grasp and the steadiness of his glance had a quieting effect on the money lender's temper.

"Certainly, sir," said Will, releasing the cane. "Only don't do anything foolish. I don't wonder you are angry, very angry indeed. But I tried to stop you. And now we want to apologize and tell you how sorry we—"

"Indeed, indeed we are sorry, sir," burst in Ted, impetuously. "We wouldn't have had it happen for worlds, Mr. Hand!"

"Very likely not—not for a farm, in fact," retorted Mr. Hand with elaborate sarcasm.

"But it was only I did it, and I'm the only one to blame, sir," urged Ted, desperately, catching the full meaning of the last remark.

By this time Will Hen Baizley had approached. He paused in the middle of the road, filled with curiosity. Catching sight of Mr. Hand's absurd appearance, he understood what had happened. He saw the whole thing, as he thought, and he relished the joke hugely. Shaking and cackling with laughter, he came over and leaned against the picket fence. His ridicule exasperated Mr. Hand, who suddenly resolved that he did not want Mr. Baizley's assistance. He scowled menacingly at the young ruffian, and then replied to Ted's beseeching plea:

"You needn't talk to me, and think you're going to come round me with your soft soap. You're all alike, the whole lot of you. You play a disgraceful trick on me, and then your mother slams the door in my face. You're a pack of fools. When you're just paupers, at my mercy for the roof that covers you, one'd think, even if you hadn't any decency, you might know what side your bread was buttered on. I reckon you expect everyone to lick your shoes because your name's Carter! Well, your name's mud now. I'm going to foreclose right off, and out you'll go next spring. And I don't want to hear no talk about it."

Ted's face got very red, and it was with difficulty he kept back the tears of shame and bitterness, as he realized the consequences of his folly. But Will Hen Baizley was there, so he held himself manfully erect, and glared defiantly at the tough who was grinning over the fence. Mr. Hand pushed past and was about to open the gate, when Will spoke:

"That's all right, Mr. Hand," said the tactful youth, soothingly. "Of course I can't blame you. Don't think I blame you. Business is business, and you might have honestly enough turned us out a year ago. We are grateful to you, Ted and I, for having been so forbearing in the past. We won't complain a bit. And as for mother, why, sir, you mustn't think hard of her if she complains, because you know she doesn't understand business. And then, she's had such a lot of trouble it has made her a little quick tempered to some people."

These remarks were very gratifying to Mr. Israel Hand. They did not alter his determination in the slightest degree, but they soothed his sense of injury. They largely removed his desire for revenge, and left nothing but his desire to possess the farm as soon as possible. The astute Will rightly judged that an opponent with two motives for hostility would be more difficult to handle than one with but a single motive.

"Well," said Mr. Hand, "you know now exactly what I'm going to do. You seem to be a very sensible young man, William, and please remember it was only on your representations and at your earnest request that I waited so long as I have. I look to you to prevent unnecessary fuss. You must yield to the inevitable. So don't let your mother raise any useless trouble. It won't do any good."

With a sense of satisfaction that quite outweighed the humiliations he had suffered, Mr. Hand strode off down the hill, ignoring Will Hen Baizley, and forgetful of the mud and rose leaves on his raiment.

"Haw!" exclaimed Will Hen Baizley. "That's a good un! You done that slick! An' the old fellow b'lieved yer, too! Couldn't 'a lied out'n it slicker'n that myself!"

"There was no lying about it," answered Ted, fiercely, flushing redder than ever. But Will replied more calmly:

"What we told Mr. Hand was the exact truth, Will Hen. You can just bet we didn't want to let him in for that. No, sir-ee! It was another lad altogether that little surprise party was intended for!"

And Will grinned mysteriously.

"Mebbe 'twas me you was after!" suggested Will Hen Baizley, with a snarl.

"I wouldn't bother my head about who it was intended for, if I were you," said Will, in a good-natured voice.

"Ef't had been me stidder old Hand, I'd 'a' broke every bone in yer carkus," growled Baizley.

"It wasn't Will that fixed the trap, anyway," said Ted. "It was me, and Will never saw it till he came up the hill just now!"

"O, 'twas you, was it!" remarked Will Hen Baizley. "I see, I see! Thought yer'd git square, eh? So it was me you expected to see flounderin' in that there old tub! I've 'most a mind to lick you fur it right now!"

Ted laughed; and the tough made a motion to spring over the fence.

"Baizley!" said Will. And the fellow paused.

"Go slow, now!" continued Will, with an amiable smile, but with a significant look in his eye. "I dare say you'd sooner fight than eat, but you'd better go home to your supper just now. Anyway, you mustn't come in here, for I don't want to be bothered!"

"Do you want to fight?" queried Will Hen Baizley, defiantly, but at the same time withdrawing from the fence. "I can lick you out o' yer skin!"

"But I don't want to be licked out of my skin, thank you, not this evening!" responded Will, sweetly.

"Yer dars'n't come out here an' stand up to me," said the tough.

"O, go along, Will Hen, and quit talking to your hat," laughed Will, picking up the hoe and beginning to attack some weeds. "Do you suppose I've nothing better to do than punching your soft head? Maybe I'll fight you some day when there's something to fight about, and then you won't be half as eager. Bye-bye!"

At this Ted tittered with delight. As for Will Hen Baizley, he was impressed by Will's confidence and coolness so much that he did not really wish just then to try conclusions with him. Therefore he contented himself with repeating his taunt of "you dars'n't!" and swaggered slowly away. The boys went into the house.

They found their mother in high good humor. She felt that she had come off victorious in the encounter with Mr. Hand, and she gave the boys a spirited account of the interview. This was received by Ted with unfeigned relish, but Will smiled rather grimly.

"And what was the impertinent old man saying to you out in the garden?" inquired the lady at length.

"O, nothing more than we expected to hear, mother," replied Will. "He merely gave us formal notice that he could let matters run on no longer, but would foreclose instantly."

"By all means let him foreclose, as he calls it!" said Mrs. Carter, loftily.

"We've got to let him, as we can do nothing else," answered Will. "But it's a little tough to think we'll have to leave the old place next spring!"

"Leave this place!" exclaimed Mrs. Carter, warmly. "Indeed, we won't do anything of the sort. I should like to see him try to turn us out! Old Hand, whose father used to blacken your poor grandfather's boots, turn us out of our own house! You don't know what you are talking about, Willie!"

To this Will made no reply. He merely smiled very slightly, and thrust his chin forward with an expression of mingled doggedness and good humor. His mother felt that he was not convinced.

"But, mother," began Ted, "Will does know all about it. Old Hand is going to—"

"You hush at once, Teddie," interrupted Mrs. Carter. "You are only a little boy. As for Hand, if he attempts to interfere with me I will drive over to Barchester and see the Hon. Mr. Germain about it. I will go to law, if necessary, to defend our rights!"

"The trouble is, mother, in this matter we haven't any rights left to speak of. It is the rights of Mr. Hand that the law will think of," said Will, gently.

"Willie," said his mother with severity, "I don't want to hear any more nonsense. I'm sure it was not so when I was young, that the law would allow our domestics to trample upon us. The judges in those days were all gentlemen. I'm sure, Willie, I don't know where you get those low, radical ideas. I fear I have been foolish not to look more closely into the kind of books you read!"

"Now, mother," began Ted, pugnaciously, fired as usual with indiscreet zeal to make his mother see things with Will's eyes.

But Will interrupted him. "Come off, Ted," said he, "mother's right. The very best thing she can do is to go and see Mr. Germain. Come along now, it's time the cattle were tended."

"Hurry in again, then," said Mrs. Carter, mollified. "I'm going to have pancakes for you to-night, because you've been working so hard."

"Bully for you, muz!" cried Ted, joyously, regardless of his mother's aversion to slang. And Will smiled back his gratification as they started for the barn.

In a few minutes the cow stable was musical with the recurrent bubbling swish of the streams of milk which the boys' skilled hands were directing into their tin pails.

"Say, Ted," exclaimed Will, from under the red and white flank of his cow.

"What's up now?" inquired Ted.

"I've just got hold of a brilliant idea," continued Will. "We may escape old Hand yet, and come out of this scrape fairly and creditably."

"But you are a clever old beggar!" responded Ted, in a voice of admiration. "You've got the brains of the family! What is it?"

"Come down to the crick with me after tea, and I'll explain," said Will. "But don't say anything to mother. It's no use worrying her, and she's got enough to attend to!"

"Now don't keep me dying with curiosity," urged Ted, pausing in his milking and turning round. "Just give me a hint, to keep me from 'bursting,' so to speak!"

"Well," answered Will, "it's new marsh I'm after. Some more dike. See? Now wait till we're on the spot. I'm thinking."

"By all means, let it think if it can think like that," exclaimed Ted, jubilantly, and went on with his milking. Already he saw the mortgage lifted, and all their difficulties at an end, so unbounded was his confidence in Will's resources.

After tea Will led his brother down to the marsh. Along the breezy top of the dike the boys walked rapidly, one behind the other, the dike top being narrow. It was near low tide, and the creek clamored cheerfully along the bottom of its naked red channel. A crisp, salty fragrance came from the moist slopes and gullies; and here and there a little pond, left behind by the ebb, gleamed like flames in the low sunset.

Toward the upper end of the Carter farm the dike curved sharply inland till it joined the steep slope of their pasture lot. Here was a spacious cove, inclosed by the Carter's pasture lot on the south and west, by their dike on the east, and on the north by the channel of the creek. At the time the dike was built the channel had lain close in along the foot of the upland, but it had gradually moved out to a straight course as the cove filled up with sediment. Of this change the dike itself had been the main cause. Now the cove appeared at high water as a bay or lagoon; but very early in the ebb its whole surface was uncovered, and, except along the outermost edge, thin patches of salt grass were already beginning to appear.

To this spot the boys betook themselves, treading the way gingerly over the tenacious but slippery surface. Will pointed to a half barrel sunk level in the ooze. It was full to the brim with fine silt.

"What do you think of that?" inquired Will, mysteriously.

Ted racked his brain for a suitable reply. He could gather no clew to Will's purpose, so he remarked:

"Very nice, healthy looking mud, seems to me? Going to sell it for brown paint?"

"Paint!" exclaimed Will, scornfully. "But how long do you suppose that tub has been there?"

"Looks as if it had been there from the year one," replied Ted, still hopelessly adrift.

"I put it there just three weeks ago!" said Will, watching his brother's face.

"You did!" said Ted, blankly. Then a light dawned upon him. "But that's mighty quick work!" he continued. "You don't mean to tell me that all that mud was deposited by the tide in three weeks!"

"Every bit of it!" averred Will. "You see the Tantramar water is just loaded with silt. It has so much that the moment it stops to rest it throws down as much of the load as it can. When it gets moving, regularly under way, it has to pick it up again. But the longer it stops the more it throws down; and the slower it moves the less it picks up again. Inside the tub it is always slack water, so whatever falls there stays there. That's why the tub has filled up so quick. Nearly a foot and a half in three weeks! Why, Ted, a raise of a foot and a half along the outer slope of this cove, and we could dike in the whole cove. See?"

Ted's eyes grew round and triumphant at the suggestion.

"But how can it be done?" he asked

"Won't we have to wait till the tide does it for us?" and his tone dropped gradually from elation to dejection.

"Not much!" said Will, turning back to the dike. "Just look here a minute!"

Seating himself on the dike top, he took a book from his pocket and began making rough diagrams on the fly leaf.



CHAPTER III.

A PIECE OF ENGINEERING.

Ted craned his neck eagerly to watch the movements of Will's pencil.

"You know," began Will, with his head on one side, "in some parts of the world, when they want to make the tide work for them, they use things they call 'warping dikes.' These run on a slant out from the shore toward the channel. They generally slope up stream pretty sharply. The tide comes in, loaded right up with fine mud, flows over and into and around the long lines of warping dike, then stops and begins to unload. Now, you see, when there are no warping dikes, the current has nothing to delay it, so it soon gets going on the ebb so fast that it washes away pretty near all it has deposited. But these warping dikes bring in a new state of affairs. They so hinder the ebb that there is more silt deposited, and at the same time there is less current on the flats to carry the mud away. As the engineers say, there is not so much 'scouring'—a first-rate word to express it. Haven't you noticed how, in some spots, the current seems to scour away all the mud and leave naked stones and pebbles?"

"Yes," exclaimed Ted, "I get hold of the idea now. And when the warping dikes have got their work in, what then?"

"Why, we'll dike the whole cove in. A short bit of dike from that corner straight across to the point will do it. We'll be able to get at it in a couple of months; and then, if you and I can't put the job through before the ground gets frozen, why, I'll hire help, that's all!"

"But it's a pretty big contract you're giving us, isn't it?" queried Ted, doubtfully. "Those warping dikes you're talking of look to me like an all summer's job. What'll they be like, anyway?"

"O, they'll be very slight. We can run them, with the help of old Jerry to haul for us, in less than no time, working evenings and wet days. We'll just lay lines of brush a foot high, and pile heavy stones along the top to keep it in place. Then we can raise them a little higher as the place fills up!"

"O!" murmured Ted, greatly relieved. "I thought we'd have to dig them all, like the other dikes."

After this the boys' talk was of nothing but deposits and warping dikes and scouring. Their evenings and rainy days, usually spent in their mother's company and in study, were now devoted to the labor of hauling stones and brush down to the shore of the cove. To Mrs. Carter they explained the scheme, but without reference to its connection with Mr. Israel Hand. She grasped its possibilities at once, being clear-headed except where her prejudices were involved.

"How many acres do you expect to reclaim?" she inquired, after praising Will's sagacity warmly.

"Well," said Will, "of course we won't have it surveyed till the work's done and we are sure of the property; but I have an idea it will go a good ten acres, or maybe twelve."

"And good diked land, or ma'sh as these people call it, is worth about two hundred dollars an acre, isn't it?" went on Mrs. Carter.

"This will be, in two or three years, anyway," answered Will, "for it will be deep marsh, alluvial to the bottom and permanently fertile."

"And what do you suppose it ought to be worth next year, as soon as it's diked in?" asked Ted.

"O," said Will, carelessly, "maybe a hundred and fifty, or ten better, perhaps!"

"Dear boys," said Mrs. Carter, "if all goes well you'll both be able to get through college, perhaps. I must keep on steadily with Ted's Latin this fall and winter. Dear me, I'm so sorry I let them laugh me out of my desire to study Greek when I was a girl. I could be so useful to you both now if I'd learnt it!"

"Don't you worry about that, muz," said Ted, jumping up to kiss her. "If you plug me up in my Latin, we'll find some way to manage about the Greek time enough!"

When haying was over there was a slack time on the farm for a few weeks, and these few weeks sufficed the boys, working with eager energy, to get all the warping dikes laid down. To avoid the nuisance of neighbors' questionings, the idea occurred to Ted of sticking up stakes at intervals along the rows of brush and stone. When these stakes were connected at the tops by binders, they looked like the framework of a long and elaborate series of fish weirs. Gaspereaux were fairly abundant in the creek at certain seasons, so there was nothing unreasonable in the supposition. But the dwellers in Frosty Hollow laughed hugely.

"Them Carter boys thinks they knows everything," was the universal comment, "but they don't know the first thing about how to run a fish weir. Why, them there weirs 'll shet every gaspereaux aout o' the cove, 'n 'tain't much of a place fur gaspereaux, anyways!"

When such remarks were tendered to the boys they would merely reply, "You just wait till you see how our way works. If it doesn't work the way we expect, then maybe it'll be time enough to try your way!" The experiment interested the village for a few weeks, and at length died out of notice.

It was utterly eclipsed, indeed, by a topic of profounder interest. The village learned that Mr. Hand was foreclosing his mortgage, and that the Carters were to be sold out the ensuing spring. Some of the people were sympathetic, but others, resenting Mrs. Carter's proud exclusiveness, took a malicious delight in the near prospect of her humiliation.

Roused at last to a sense of the reality of the danger, Mrs. Carter, who was quite too busy at her buttermaking and other indoor farmwork to spare time for her threatened visit to Barchester, wrote urgently to the Hon. Mr. Germain. The boys posted her letter, from which they knew nothing could come, and then went to comfort themselves with a sight of the way the silt was piling up inside their warping dikes.

The growth of the deposit had exceeded their most sanguine expectations. Early in August they decided that it was time to begin the permanent dike, the "running dike," as it was called in local parlance. That same day came a letter from Mr. Germain. When the boys came in to tea they found their mother in tears of indignation and despair.

"There's what he says!" exclaimed she, pointing to the open letter, which she had laid on Will's plate. "I do think things have come to a strange pass in these days. I certainly never dreamed that Charles Germain could change like the rest!"

"Never mind, mother dear," said Will, soothingly. "We're not in our last ditch yet. Trust me!"

And taking up the letter he read aloud for Ted's benefit:

"My dear Mrs. Carter: Believe me, it gives me great grief to learn of the difficulties you are in, and to feel myself so powerless to render you assistance. I feel bound to tell you that Mr. Hand, if I understand your letter, is entirely within his rights. You would have not a shadow of a case against him in the courts. There is but one way of escape from the penalty, and that is by payment of your indebtedness to him. In this, alas! I cannot help you at all adequately, as I have lately suffered such losses that I am just now financially embarrassed. Even had you good security to offer I could not lend you the sum you need, as my own borrowing powers (this strictly between ourselves) are just now taxed to their utmost. I think I can, however, offer one of your boys a position in my office on a small salary; and for the other I could, perhaps, within the next few months, obtain a situation in the Exchange Bank of this town. This, perhaps, would relieve your most pressing anxieties, and it would be a great pleasure to me to serve you.

"Yours, with sincerest regards and sympathy, CHARLES GERMAIN."

"That's a jolly nice letter!" exclaimed Ted.

"Yes, mother," said Will, handing it back to her, "I don't see anything the matter with that."

Mrs. Carter drew herself up proudly. "Don't you see," said she, "that he puts me off! I asked him to extricate me from this difficulty, to defend for me my rights! In reply he offers me, as if I were a beggar, employment for my sons. Practically, he takes the part of old Hand. O, I've no patience with such men! I'm serious!"

"Well, mother, you must allow," said Will, "that if Mr. Germain says so, it's no use thinking of going to law against old Hand, is it? As for Mr. Germain's kind offer to find places for Ted and me, why, if the worst comes to the worst, that wouldn't be too bad. We could live pretty comfortably in Barchester with our little salaries and your clever housekeeping. But maybe we won't have to leave here after all! That's what Ted and I have been up to all summer. We anticipated that Mr. Germain would disappoint you; but we wouldn't say so. Our plan is to sell the new marsh, when we get it diked in, and with the proceeds pay off Hand's mortgage with all the arrears of interest. There ought to be something left over, too!"

"But I was proposing—I wanted to deed that piece of marsh to you boys!" objected Mrs. Carter, in a voice of mingled gratification and doubt.

"O, muz!" answered Will, putting his arm around her, "what do we want of it? The whole farm is ours, in that it's yours. That's all we want the new marsh for—just to clear off the mortgage. And we're going to do it, too! We begin work on the running dike to-morrow."

"You are two dear, good boys!" exclaimed their mother, tenderly. "If only your poor father could have lived! How proud he would have been of both of you!" And her eyes filled with tears. Next day Will and Ted armed themselves with diking spades, and set to work determinedly. They had the old horse, Jerry, on the spot, harnessed to a light cart, ready to haul material as wanted. They began at the lower end of the cove, building upward from the corner of the old dike. Their purpose in this was to keep the scouring in check. By this method of procedure they would have the final outlet (usually so difficult to close) located at the shallowest part of the cove. There would thus, as soon as the dike extended a little distance, be some water left behind after every flood tide, and there would be so much less to make violent escape with the ebb. If there should be left, finally, more imprisoned water than the sun could well evaporate that autumn, Will explained to Ted that it would be a simple matter to drain it off and close up the outlet between tides.

At the end of the first day's work Mrs. Carter came down to note progress, and was shown several feet of sound, shapely dike, with planks and large stones laid on the exposed end as a protection against the tide. A little calculation showed that it would be quite feasible, with perhaps a week or so of hired help toward the last, to finish the dike before hard weather should set in.

Everybody now at the yellow cottage on the hill was cheerful in the hope of speedy success. To their ears the clamor of the ebbing and flowing tides was a jubilant music. Their loved "crick" was becoming their friend-in-need. Its unctuous red flats acquired a new beauty in their eyes, and the mighty, sweeping tides they came to regard as the embodiment of their good genius.

With the rapidly growing dike all went swimmingly for a time. But the neighbors were now completely undeceived. Though nettled at their former dullness, they could not but applaud the ingenuity of the scheme; and they rather approved the reticence which the boys had observed in the matter.

Among the villagers, however, there was one who did not like the turn affairs were taking. Mr. Hand perceived that he might yet be defeated in his effort to gain possession of the Carters' farm. He was an astute old man, if he didn't at first understand the warping dikes.

His first step was to threaten Will with proceedings to stop the work. He owned the marsh on the opposite side of the creek, and he claimed that the building of the new dike would so alter the channel that his property would be endangered. Will presently proved to him, beyond cavil, that the slight deflection of the currents would only throw the scouring force of the stream against a point of rocky upland, some hundreds of yards below his marsh, where it could not possibly do any harm. Then Mr. Hand professed himself entirely satisfied, and departed to devise other weapons.

By the middle of September the dike extended more than halfway across the mouth of the cove, and the work was daily growing easier. The facing of the water front, of course, was being left to do afterwards, when the weather should be unfit for digging.

One morning, after a very high tide, the boys came down to find a good ten feet or more of their work washed away. They were terribly cast down.

"How on earth did it happen?" groaned Ted. "Do you suppose we didn't protect the end properly?"

"I don't see any other explanation," said Will, gloomily.

"But if the stones were swept off by the tide," exclaimed Ted, with sudden significance, "wouldn't they be lying to one side or the other? These look as if they had been pulled off!"

"By the great horn spoon, you've hit it, young one!" cried Will, excited beyond his wont. "Good for you! The tide never did it! Some one has been helping the tide!"

"Will Hen Baizley!" declared Ted. "I shouldn't wonder a bit!" said Will. "Well, Ted, there's nothing to do but go to work and build it up again. And to-night, why, we'll 'lay for him,' that's all!"

Doggedly and wrathfully the boys toiled all day. At tea they told their mother what had occurred. Mrs. Carter was furious. But when Will declared their intention of watching that night for the depredator, her anger vanished in fear. At first she forbid positively all thought of such a thing. Will declared that he must do it—it simply had to be done. Thereupon she said she would forbid Ted going. At this Ted burst forth indignantly.

"What, mother, would you have me leave Will all alone out there?" An idea which was, of course, to Mrs. Carter intolerable. She forgot to be imperative; she became appealing.

"But, muz," said Will, reassuringly, "there is no danger at all. You can trust me, can't you? Ted and I will each take a good, big club, and if, as we think, it is Will Hen Baizley, we'll give him a pounding that will keep him civil for a while."

"But what if he should have some ruffians with him?" urged the mother.

"Well, just to be safe, I'll take my gun, so as to be able to give them a scare, you know. But Ted is so impetuous and bloodthirsty that he'd better not take anything but a club!"

"O, dear me! I suppose you will go!" said Mrs. Carter. "But at least you must wrap up warm and take something in your pockets to eat!"

Just about dark the boys betook themselves to the lower corner of the new dike. Under the shelter of the old dike they fixed themselves a hiding place of brush and grass. From this point they could see distinctly the figure of anyone approaching across the marsh. When they were comfortably established Ted inquired:

"Say, old fellow, have you got your gun loaded?"

"No!" whispered Will.

"Why not?" asked Ted, anxiously.

"You don't suppose I want to shoot anybody, do you?" said Will. "I've got both barrels loaded with powder and wadding, so I can scare them out of their wits. And I've some bird shot in my pocket, to pepper their legs with if I should have to!"

"O!" said Ted.

The boys talked for perhaps an hour, in a cautious undertone, not audible ten feet off by reason of the rushing and hissing and clamoring of the incoming tide. Then they were silent for a while. At length Ted murmured:

"O, I say, but I'm getting sleepy. Can't you let me go to sleep for a bit? Wake me in an hour, and I'll let you snooze."

"S't!" whispered Will, laying his hand on his brother's arm. "I heard something splash in that pool yonder!"

The boys noiselessly raised their eyes to a level with the top of the dike. At first they could see nothing. Then they detected a shadowy figure making for the place where they had last been at work.



CHAPTER IV.

A RESCUE AND A BATTLE.

"He's alone!" whispered Ted. "Shall we jump on him?"

"Hold on; wait till he gets to work," said Will. "Then, if we catch him in the act, he can't make any excuse, but just take his medicine like a man!"

"It's Baizley, eh?" murmured Ted.

At this moment they heard the stones and planks being pulled off the end of the dike. Then came the sound of a spade thrust into the clay with violence.

"Now," exclaimed Will, "let's onto him! let me get hold of him first, and then you take a hand in."

Grasping their clubs, and leaving the gun lying by their nest, the boys slipped over the dike and dashed upon the marauder. So occupied was the latter with his nefarious task that he heard nothing till the boys were within ten feet of him. Then he started up, and raised his spade threateningly.

"Drop that, Baizley, or I'll blow a hole in you!" cried Will, springing at his neck.

At this instant the silent figure flung itself adroitly off the dike, dropping the spade and eluding Will's grasp. It started swiftly across the muddy flat, the two boys close on its heels.

For a few yards the boys just held their own. Then Ted, being the swifter, forged ahead. In a few seconds more he overtook the fugitive, sprang upon his neck, and bore him headlong to the ground. The next moment, before either could recover, Will had come up, and his iron grip was on the stranger's throat.

"No nonsense, now," said Will, in a voice that carried conviction, at the same time tapping the fellow's cranium lightly with his club. "If you don't want the life half pounded out of you, keep still!"

The fellow lay quiet, only gasping:

"Don't choke me!"

Will relaxed his grip, and then exclaimed to Ted, in astonishment:

"Why, it ain't Baizley!"

"Course, it ain't!" growled the fallen one, sullenly, appearing indignant at the imputation.

"Sit up, and let's look at the fellow that goes round nights cutting people's dikes!" commanded Will.

The fellow turned over on his face.

"Sit up!" repeated Will, in a cold voice, which sounded as if he was in earnest.

"Why," exclaimed Ted. "If it isn't Jim Hutchings!"

"Old Hand's man, eh? I begin to smell a mouse," said Will, sarcastically.

"It's as plain as a pikestaff!" almost shouted Ted. "It's old Hand that ought to get the licking we were going to give you. But we'll have to pound you a little for his sake and your own too!"

"No, Hutchings," said Will, after a moment's thought. "You deserve a licking, but we'll let you off. Only take warning. I'll blame old Hand this time, and you can let him know he's likely to hear from us about this, and about last night's work. But as for you, if we catch you fooling round this dike again, you'll be sorry as long as you live. We're on the watch for you and the likes of you. And over yonder I've got my gun, in case there were more than one of you in the scrape."

"We've loaded her up, both barrels," said Ted, maliciously, "with big charges of bird shot, so she'll scatter well and everybody get his share!"

By this time Jim Hutchings was on his feet.

"Now clear out!" was Will's peremptory direction.

Hutchings started back toward the dike to get his spade.

"No, you don't," laughed Ted. "That's confiscated!'"

"Never mind the spade!" said Will, firmly, as Hutchings hesitated. "We'll keep it and try and find some use for it!"

The fellow would have liked to contest the point, but he remembered the feeling of Will's grip. With an oath he turned on his heel and made for the uplands. Then the boys went back to the dike, possessed themselves of the spade, and repaired the slight damage that had been done.

"Shall we stay any longer?" asked Ted, again getting sleepy.

"No, I fancy we won't be bothered this way any more!" answered Will. "At all events, Jim Hutchings won't come back!" And he chuckled to himself.

Will proved right. The dike was no more molested. By the middle of October it was within two or three yards of completion. At the gap the ground was high, so that at ordinary tides there was small outflow and inflow. Two or three days more of satisfactory work, and the new marsh would be an accomplished fact Will and Ted were in a fever of anxiety, day and night, lest something should happen at the last to mar their plans. Above all, they had a vague dread of some sinister move on the part of Mr. Hand.

Just at this time it happened that old Jerry lost a shoe. Ted was away in the woods looking for a stray cow, so Will had to take the horse down into the village to the blacksmith.

On his return, about the middle of the forenoon, he passed a field in which Will Hen Baizley was at work digging a ditch. Along the foot of the field ran a clear trout brook, into which it was evidently the intention to drain a little swamp which lay further up the slope. Near where Baizley was digging, the brook widened out into a sandy-bottomed, sunny pool, in which the minnows were always darting and flickering.

Not far off stood the house of Mr. Israel Hand, where he guarded the one being he was supposed to love, his little four-year-old orphan grandson. Whether or not he cared for anyone else, it would be hard to say; but there was no questioning the fact that he absolutely worshiped Toddles, as the baby was called. The little one was a blue-eyed, chubby, handsome lad, with long yellow curls and an unlimited capacity for mischief.

As Will passed along the road he saw Toddles playing in the field where Baizley was digging. Presently he was tickled to observe that the child had discovered Baizley's tin dinner pail, hidden in a clump of raspberry bushes. The mischievous little rascal promptly emptied the contents out upon the sward, and then, with his chubby hands full of cheese and pumpkin pie, scampered over to the edge of the pool.

"Pitty pishies! give pishies 'eir dinner! Pishies! Pishies!" cried the gleeful little voice; and splash into the pool went the cheese and pumpkin pie, frightening the "pishies" nearly out of their wits.

Will exploded with laughter; and at the same moment Baizley, looking up from his work, discovered the fate that had befallen his dinner.

Now Will Hen Baizley was in an unusually bad temper. Digging ditches was not a labor he was accustomed to, and it made his back ache. In his best of humors he was a coarse and heartless bully. On this occasion he was filled with rage against the baby depredator. Toddles had annoyed him on several previous occasions, and just now Will's laughter was the one thing best calculated to sting his annoyance into fury. With a roar that frightened Toddles into instant silence, he rushed forward and grabbed the child, giving him a violent cuff on the side of the head.

It happened that Mr. Hand was looking out of the window of his house on the hillside and saw all that happened. With a hoarse cry of rage and terror he rushed out to the rescue. But the house was three or four hundred yards away, and his old knees trembled beneath him as he thought of what the little one might suffer before he could get there.

The poor little fellow was dazed by the blow, and could not get his breath to scream. The next moment Baizley had seized him by the legs and soused him in the pool. When he came out again he found his voice, and a long shriek of pain and terror went through Mr. Hand's heart like a knife.

All this had happened so quickly that Will was unable to hinder it. He was choking with indignant pity, and found himself on the fence and half way across the field before he could yell:

"Drop that, you brute!"

Baizley was too much occupied to hear or heed. He was just about to duck the little one a second time when Will arrived.

With one hand Will seized the child by the petticoats, and with the other dealt the ruffian a blow in the mouth that staggered him and made him release his victim. Will had just time to drop the little fellow to one side and put up his guard when Baizley was upon him with a curse.

The blow was a mighty one, and so sudden that Will parried it with difficulty, at the same time almost staggering upon Toddles, who lay on his face wailing piteously. Afraid lest the child should get injured in the conflict, Will dodged aside and ran off a few paces. Ascribing this movement to fear, Baizley followed him up impetuously, with oaths and taunts.

On a bit of level, dry turf Will faced his big antagonist. Baizley was heavy of build, strong of arm, and not without some knowledge of the pugilistic art. He was also a little taller than Will. To the casual glance the latter appeared no match for him. Fair-skinned, slender, and with something of a studious stoop to his shoulders, Will's appearance gave small indication of the strength that lurked in his well-corded sinews. Under his pale skin he concealed almost as much sheer lifting power as Baizley's big frame could muster; and the steel-like elasticity of his compact muscles gave his blows swiftness and precision.

Keen of eye, and with a cool, provoking, indulgent smile hovering faintly about his mouth at times, he successfully parried several terrific lunges. He spoke not a word, husbanding his wind prudently, while Baizley, on the other hand, kept interjecting bursts of fragmentary profanity. About this time Mr. Hand arrived upon the scene, panting heavily, and seating himself on the ground, gathered the sobbing Toddles into his arms.

Will's first intention was to act on the defensive till he should weary his opponent; but his opponent's sledge-hammer fists were not easily warded off. He got one heavy blow on the chest that made him gasp for breath; then he tried dodging, and giving ground nimbly and unexpectedly. At length he saw an opening, and quicker than thought he struck heavily with his left fist on Baizley's eye. At the same instant in came a terrific blow which made his head ring and the stars chase themselves before his eyes.

For a moment the two combatants lurched apart. Will was the first to recover himself. A white rage surged up within him, and he felt his veins prickle, his sinews tighten. A new access of nervous energy seemed to flow into him, and he imagined his strength had been suddenly doubled. The ruffian's hands struck out both together wildly.

Will's chance had come, and he grasped it. The bully reeled under a blow between the eyes, and fell headlong.

For a moment he did not stir. Then he began to gather himself up.

"Have you had enough?" inquired Will.

"Yes, I've quit!" growled Baizley.

"You are a contemptible, cowardly brute," continued Will, "and it's in jail you ought to be. Mind you, now, if I catch you, or hear of you abusing a youngster again, it's in jail you'll certainly be!"

As Baizley slunk away, Mr. Hand came up with Toddles in his arms. The little one was still shaking with sobs, and his tear-stained face looked so white and pitiful that Will felt like going after Baizley and giving him another thrashing.

"Poor little kid!" he said, compassionately, taking no notice whatever of Mr. Hand.

But Mr. Hand positively refused to be ignored.

"God bless you, God bless you, William!" he exclaimed, with the ring of sincere feeling in his voice. "You're a noble young man, a noble young man. I can't thank you; words can't express what I—what I feel toward you for this."

Here he kissed passionately the yellow head of Toddles as it lay on his shoulder.

"Don't speak of it, Mr. Hand," said Will, wiping his bleeding face. "Any other fellow would have done the same if he'd had the chance. That cowardly brute! I wish I hadn't let him off so easy!"

"I'll have him arrested to-morrow," burst out Mr. Hand, his voice quavering and shrill with anger. "But as for you, William," he continued more quietly, "what you've done for my Toddles I never can forget. You sha'n't have no cause to say I'm ungrateful to one that's been a friend to Toddles!"

"Well, Mr. Hand," said Will, returning to his wagon, "all I can say is I'm mighty glad I happened along just when I did. Toddles is a great boy, and I've always liked him, whatever I may have had against his grandfather since that night on the dike! I hope Toddles won't be a bit the worse now!"

"Don't talk about that dike," pleaded Mr. Hand, nervously. "Don't mention it again! Don't, William! And, William, you will hear from me in a day or two about business matters. Or, I'll be in to see you!"



CHAPTER V.

A TRANSFER OF THE MORTGAGE.

When Will reached home Ted met him at the gate with a cry of surprise and commiseration.

"What in the world have you been doing to your face?" he questioned.

"Thrashing Baizley!" said Will, tersely.

Ted's exclamations had brought Mrs. Carter to the door in time to hear Will's reply. She was alarmed at the sight of Will's swollen and discolored features; and her alarm made her angry.

"I'm ashamed of you, Willie," she cried, "stooping to brawl with a low fellow like that. It serves you right if you have got hurt. Come, run in and get your face bathed in hot water. Why, it's dreadful! Go right up stairs and get me the arnica, Teddie!"

As Mrs. Carter bathed the swollen face in hot water, Ted standing by with the arnica bottle, Will managed to get out a somewhat grimly jocose account of the affray. Ted, of course, was jubilant. From time to time he sprang up and shouted. At length, clapping Will on the back, so violently that his mother spilled the hot water, he cried:

"Good boy! Good boy! O, if I'd only been there!"

As for Mrs. Carter, her assumed vexation had quickly disappeared. She listened proudly and in silence. At the end she merely said:

"Dear boy, that was fine of you. It was just what your poor father would have expected of you!"

Will spluttered some discolored water out of his mouth before replying, and twisted his features into a lugubrious attempt at a smile.

"I felt pretty big, myself just after it was over," he said at length, "but now it's sort of different. A fellow can't feel heroic with his face bunged up like this. But say, muz, old Hand can't be as bad as they make out when he's so wrapped up in Toddles. He just worships the youngster!"

There was a pause, and in through the window came the rushing clamor of the creek.

"Well," said Mrs. Carter, rather reluctantly, "Mr. Hand has probably his redeeming qualities. At least, he appreciated your courage. By your account he did speak quite nicely."

"What do you suppose he meant by saying you would hear from him in a day or two?" queried Ted.

"O," said Will, "I think the old fellow is grateful; and I think he's mighty ashamed of what he got Hutchings to do to our dike that time. I shouldn't wonder if he'd offer us more time, and withdraw proceedings against us!"

"I should think so!" exclaimed Mrs. Carter, indignantly. "He could hardly have the face to sell us out now! But I don't wish to be under any obligation to him, that's certain. When the new marsh is sold we can be entirely independent of him!"

"Yes, muz, that's so," said Will, "but do let me arrange with him! You say you wanted to deed that new marsh to Ted and me! Now I make a request of you. Don't talk business at all with Mr. Hand till I've had a talk with him myself. I promise you I'll consider your wishes in the matter!"