Tess sobered instantly. She was always very careful not to be irreverent about sacred things.

"You can bet your boots, I air some awful religious," she acquisced earnestly. "I've knowed about God and Jesus ever so long."

"That's nice," responded Burnett, becoming grave in his turn.

Oh, would he never go! Would he never finish?

When Burnett walked toward the ladder, she sighed dolefully.

"Does your foot hurt you, kid?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"Nope," faltered Tess. "I guess I were a thinkin' what'd happen to the little man when ye get 'im."

The warden was trying the strength of the ladder.

"Oh, I'll hike him back up state quicker'n scat when I get my fingers on 'im," said he, his head disappearing in the hole in the ceiling.

In less than thirty seconds he was down again and had taken a squint under the bed.

"There isn't any dwarf under there either," he said, amusement in his tones. He stretched forth his hand, reaching down to the girl on the cot.

"Now, don't hold nothing against me, kiddie, for comin' here, will ye? Just shake hands with a feller and say it's all right, eh?"

Tessibel lifted the owl high in the air and opened her fingers. There was a small ghostly flutter and in another instant Deacon had disappeared into the garret.

She gave the warden both her hands, and for the little minute Burnett stood by the bed holding them in his and assuring her of his good will. Tessibel sent up a prayer of thanksgiving. Her little Andy, Daddy Skinner's friend, was saved!

When Burnett reached the door, he looked back at her. The girl's lips were parted in a brilliant, farewell smile. He whirled about and came toward her again.

"Kid," he said huskily, "I'm a hard-headed old cuss, harder'n brass tacks. I been made so by just such men as Andy Bishop—" He paused, and during his short hesitation, pregnant with meaning, Tessibel kept her eyes on him. "I was wonderin', little one," he finished, shame-faced, "when you say your prayers, if you'd pipe one for me. I need it, so help me God, I do."

In another moment he was at the door, and in response to the hasty glance he sent her, Tess flung him a misty, loving smile.

"Sure, sir, sure I will," she called, "an' thank ye for bein' so kind."

Burnett strode out; Tessibel rolled off the dwarf's body to one side of the cot, and Andy gave an audible grunt.

"I air gee-danged glad that air over," sighed Tess. And as she lay very still, the warden's hearty voice came floating to her.

"That's a mighty fine girl you got, Skinner."

Tess also heard her father's husky reply. "Bet yer life, she air.... Good day to ye, sir."

Shortly after, the anxious listeners in the shanty heard the click of the horse's shoes and the rumble of the departing wheels on the stones amid the wagon's creaking complaints against the steepness of the hill.



CHAPTER XVI

TESSIBEL'S SECRET

Tessibel Skinner had been married to Frederick Graves for six long weeks: She had become somewhat accustomed to the deception practiced on Daddy Skinner, and Frederick was constantly allaying her fears and misgivings by telling her that she belonged to him now; that she was his darling, his joy, the better part of his life. Many times he assured her between kisses that it wouldn't be necessary to keep the marriage secret long. Each day, each hour, each minute, the girl-wife basked in the thought of her young husband's love. She unfolded the hidden beauties of her nature to him as spontaneously as the opening flower responds to the genial warmth of the rising sun.

Early one morning Tessibel arose, a new light shining in her eyes. Because Daddy Skinner was still abed, she started to the shore for water. It was a glad, shining, diamond-studded earth that greeted the view of the expectant girl; there was wonderful stillness everywhere, and for some minutes she stood contemplating the scene before her. South from the Hog Hole to the northern curve at Lansing, the lake was dappled, its surface broken here and there by little capfuls of breeze, which dimpled in the light, while the smooth spots reflected the blazing glory of the morning sun. The leaves of the weeping willow tree swept the rapt, upraised face, and Tess drew down about her head and shoulders one of the thickest branches. These century-old trees were really a vital part of her life—old loves to Tessibel, loves that had kept watch over her since the day of her birth in the shanty.



A brilliant flame flooded her face.... Frederick stood with her in spirit nearness. What she would tell him that evening would be whispered so low that not even the nesting birds could hear. She imagined the tenderness with which he'd clasp her in his arms, and thrilled, visualizing the darkening of his eyes. Tessibel was painting pictures—her exalted soul running the gamut of joy.

What a wonder-world it was! What a glad, peaceful, new day, her first real day of living—the beginning of life itself; Frederick's life and her life! Now, of course, he would tell his mother they were married—would take her to Daddy Skinner, and—and—She could plan no farther just then. Her whole being was God-lifted. Even the waves lapping at her feet seemed to speak the language of a world to come.

She dipped the pail into the lake slowly, filling it with water. Then with a last sweeping glance over the golden-tinted waves, she returned to the shanty. Daddy Skinner by this time was seated in his chair, his grey face wearing an expression of misery.

"Ye air sicker this morning, honey, huh?" asked Tess anxiously, lifting the pail to the table.

"Yep, brat, awful sick, but mebbe I'll feel better after a while."

"Yer coffee'll be ready quicker'n scat, dear," said the girl. "Flop on my bed an' stretch out a minute. Tessibel'll get her daddy's breakfast."

Five minutes later she had fried the fish and made the coffee.

"I air goin' to give Daddy his eatin's first, Andy," she called up through the hole in the ceiling.

"All right; sure, do, kid," assented the dwarf.

* * * * *

Daddy Skinner gradually felt better, and during the morning Tessibel's youthful spirits rose by leaps and bounds. All through the day she warbled out her happiness, lovingly bantering the two crippled men. Thus the minutes crept on to eventide, to that hour on the ragged rocks with Frederick.

She left the shanty early, that she might commune undisturbed for a time with her dear wild world. Through the gloaming the dull sound of the cow bells came distinctly from Kennedy's farm. The roosters were crowing a last good-night to the sun. The monstrous shadows of the great forest trees were going to sleep in the earth for another night. While the daylight was fading, the girl sat relaxed against the rocks, her unfathomable eyes contemplating the purple-spanned lake. She had drifted into a reverie ... blissfully dreaming, with Frederick the foremost figure of her dreams. The solemn descent of night ever signified the mystery of his love to her. Now, from the fullness of her unalloyed joy, she glanced up at the sky and blessed the whole world. In imagination she deciphered the words the stars were forming. Stretched from pole to pole, they lettered the heavens with the wonders of infinitude. In a diadem of gold, "God is love" was written; from the unsearchable north to the south where in their turn the slender rimming clouds sent it on to the world beyond. "God is love," whispered the swaying trees, and "God is love" came softly to the ear of the sensitive girl, as an echo is flung back from the rocks and is sent home to its maker.

And even as Tess dreamed, the passion stars in their invisible courses bent toward her. Impulsively she lifted her arms upward toward those twinkling participants of her secret, emblems of the immeasurable glory of her love for Frederick. By a simple turn, she could see the tree of her old-time fancies, the familiar figure in the tall pine, with swaying, majestic head and beckoning arms.

At that moment, she perceived Frederick making his way along the ragged rocks. She could hear her heart's blood pulsing madly, striking at her wrists, throbbing at her temples, making a race the length of her quivering body. Now, she could see him plainly in the dim light, and a smile deepened the dimple at each corner of her mouth. An indefinable shyness kept her from running to him to tell her glad tidings. But what made him walk so slowly and with hanging head? It wasn't like Frederick. Something unusual had happened or he would not lag so in coming to her.

She was even more mystified at the peculiarity of his greeting. With nerves as tautly drawn as fiddle strings, she remained very still. In his own time he would tell her all about it. She lifted her arms, but Frederick, unheeding, sank to the rocks beside her. She laid her hand on his, expressing her love to him by the simple contact.

"Don't!" he said shortly. He drew away from the caressing fingers impatiently. "I've come to tell you something."

"Well, here I air," answered Tess, quietly.

There was an exquisite tenderness in the young voice. In the white light of the early evening Tessibel could see Frederick's brows fiercely drawn together. Probably his mother was worse and that accounted for the change in him. She became instantly all devotion.

"Air ye goin' to tell me about it, honey?" she entreated softly. "It'll make ye feel better.... Tell Tessibel."

He turned away, and moved nervously until his shoulders were fitted into a rock cavity; then, he dropped his head back with a prolonged sigh. It was even more difficult than he had imagined.

"Of course I needn't tell you ... that I love you, need I, Tess?" he stammered, after a while.

He could not assure her too many times of his affection. She leaned against him, adoring, wrapped in the delight of his love as a water lily is wrapped in its green sepals.

"I know it, dearest!" she murmured, much moved. "Ye tell me that every day. But what else air ye—"

"You'll forgive me, and not be ... too unhappy?" Frederick interrupted her anxiously.

Unhappy, while her whole being was transfused with ecstasy! Unhappy, when his life and hers intermingled in one glad, glorious song of inseparable unity! There never could be a diminution of her joy. Frederick loved her! That was enough.

"There ain't nothin' I wouldn't forgive," she vowed, misty-eyed.

"But, Tess, I feel as though you won't forgive me this," sighed Frederick. "But if you'll promise me—"

"I do—I will," she interjected, sitting up. "Why, of course, I'd forgive ye anything."

Frederick dared not look at her. Even in the twilight he could feel her eyes searching his face for an explanation.

"I need you to help me, Tessibel," he said at length.

Help him! Hadn't she ever been ready to help him? He had but to ask her. She dropped her head against his arm again.

"Tell Tessibel," she urged, smiling.

One slender, girlish arm slipped lovingly about him. A set of small fingers took his cold hand in a firm grasp.

"Tess loves ye, dear," came soothingly. "Now tell 'er, an' then ye'll be happier."

Shame rose rampant in the boy's breast.

"I can't do it," he muttered under his breath.

But he knew all the time he would. The events of yesterday, culminating with Waldstricker's brilliant offer, closed every other path. He groaned, catching his lips tensely between his teeth. Some one had to suffer, but the sacrifice must not touch his mother nor estrange the Waldstrickers. That Madelene would be wronged by his action gave him little concern. But at that moment to hurt the girl at his side; oh, how he hated the bitter necessity! Conscious of the despicable part he was playing, but having really decided, he drew himself from the girl's arms. To gain a little more time, he thrust his fingers several times through his damp hair.

"Tess," he hesitated, "you've promised you'd never tell about our being married."

An encouraging touch turned the boy's twitching face to hers.

"An' I ain't never goin' to till ye let me," she asserted soothingly. "Ye ain't lettin' that worry ye, darlin', eh?"

She encouraged him to answer by the tender cadence on the end of her question.

"No, no, Tess!" Then desperately, "Oh, in God's name, how am I ever going to get it out?"

Tessibel became suddenly terror-stricken. It must be something very serious to force from him such language in such heart-rending tones. She shivered nervously.

"You mustn't think for a moment, Tess," the boy burst forth, with renewed courage, "that I don't love you! I shall love you always, always."

"Always," echoed Tess, reassured. If Frederick loved her, nothing else mattered. Perhaps his mother was—Her thought snapped in two at an ejaculation from Frederick.

"And what I do is because—well, because—I must," he stammered. "You understand that, don't you, sweetheart?"

"Sure," agreed Tess, puzzled.

"And nothing will ever be changed between you and me—"

"Nothin' can ever hurt us, Frederick," she interrupted quickly.

And Tess believed this to be the eternal truth. Faith the size of a grain of mustard seed had piloted her through severe storms. Since Daddy Skinner had been restored to her, that faith had grown to the size of the mountain itself.

"I won't let it," went on the student, swiftly. "Neither must you. You must trust me—you must believe! No, don't put your arms around my neck till I've finished!... And then, oh, my little girl, I shan't let you out of my arms, ever! ever!"

Greatly moved, he suddenly reached forth and drew her unresistingly to him, smothering her hair, her eyes with kisses, clinging to her, as if he would never, never let her go.

Her heart beat wildly against his.... And she loved him more than all the world, and loved God more because of him.

But he released her almost immediately, and Tessibel sank back, sighing. She was no longer nervously eager to divulge her secret. She waited almost mechanically, as one waits for an advancing joy—as a hungry man watches abundant preparation for the appeasing of his hunger. Hearing him groan, she turned troubled eyes up to his.

"Daddy always says for to tell bad things quick!"

But this only served to call forth another deep breath of misery. After a lapse of what seemed ages to the waiting girl, Frederick gathered courage, and began,

"Tess, I've told you how very ill my mother is, haven't I?"

"Yes, an' I air awful sorry, dearie," she murmured.

The compassion he aroused subdued her voice to a whisper.

"And she's asked me to do something for her and I've—got to do it, Tessibel," faltered Frederick.

"Sure ye have," Tess agreed.

"I didn't decide to do it, honey,"—Frederick was avoiding the vital part—"until I saw how I could not let it make any difference to us. It won't make any difference, dear heart!"

And Tess, already living in some distant day with full heart and full arms, breathed.

"No, darlin', no difference to us.... 'Course not!"

"Oh, I'm glad, so glad to hear you say that!" said Frederick, relief in his voice. "It won't be so dreadful, my sweet, if you trust me. And it won't be long—perhaps a year, perhaps two years—"

Tessibel's muscles grew suddenly rigid.

"Years, ye say?" she repeated, stupefied. "What years? Why years?"

The resigned and submissive Tess changed instantly to an intense, resolute woman, with compelling, fear-clouded eyes. Frederick, alarmed, hastened to explain.

"You remember Madelene Waldstricker, don't you?"

Did she remember Madelene Waldstricker? Would she ever forget that one night when he had treated her, his own wife, as though she were a stranger?

"Sure, I remember 'er," she admitted, flushing. "What about 'er?"

Before replying, Frederick snatched her hand and kissed it.

"My mother.... Oh, Tessibel, it'll be all right—" He paused, then finished despairingly, "My mother wants me to marry her!"

Tess caught the picture his words suggested; then recoiled as if death in monstrous guise had appeared before her, open-armed. Incredulous horror leapt alive in her eyes. He had said, "My mother wants me to marry Madelene Waldstricker." But even though his mother had demanded it, he couldn't! He wouldn't.... But he'd said he must!

Tess clenched her hands until the nails pressed into the flesh of her palms. Her throat refused to yield a speaking voice, but something screamed aloud within her as if a giant hand had clutched and torn her soul.

"But ye air married to me," she got out at last, piteously.

Frederick put his arms about her.

"I know it, girlie dear!... I'm not denying that, but no one knows it but us, just you and me, and I'm afraid ... I've got to do ... this ... Mother ..."

"Oh, God, no!" shuddered Tess.

Oh, he couldn't mean to desert her now when she needed him so—needed him more than she had even in those days when the shadow of the hateful rope hung over her beloved father; even when Teola's child had been thrust upon her, and Ben Letts had daily menaced her desolate life.

She was still for so long a time Frederick feared she'd fainted.

"Tess!" he spoke sharply.

"What?"

But it didn't sound like Tessibel's voice answering.

"Will you hear me out, dearest?" he pleaded. "Oh, won't you listen to me?"

Surely she was listening intently. He had never spoken when she had not given loving heed, if she were within the sound of his voice. Frederick attempted to raise her face to his, but with a pathetic little word of protest, she slipped from his arms, and fell face downward to the rocks. The tortured boy would rather have had her scream, strike at him, anything, than sink into that accusing, forlorn prostration!

"Tessibel! Tess!" he cried. "Whatever I do can't separate you and me. It can't! I swear not to let it!"

He stooped and drew her gently to a sitting posture.

"No, I won't let it!" he reiterated excitedly. "I won't! No other woman could ever take your place. Can't you see, Tessibel? Can't you understand what I'm telling you?"

"Nope," whispered Tess. "I ain't able to understand. Oh—" She lifted a white, twitching face. "Oh, don't go 'way an' leave me! Not now—not just yet!"

"But you said," he entreated, "you've always said, honey, you'd stand by me, and you will, won't you? This is the only way you can help. You will, dear, please!"

"I 'spose I air got to," she stammered, shivering. "Course I do everything ye want me to. But—but—tell me ... why."

"It's just like this," Frederick explained reluctantly. "My mother needs—money. She's got to have it. She's already borrowed a lot of Waldstricker and ... even our lake place is mortgaged to him. His sister loves me—"

The speaker felt the slender body recoil as from a blow.

"Tess!" he cried, "I don't love her. Oh, can't I get you to understand anything? If you tremble that way, you'll drive me mad. I'm only going to marry her.... Well, to pay the money, that's all."

He cut and clipped the words as though he hated them, yet finished his explanation determinedly. As keenly as a darting flame, it burned into Tessibel's soul.

"Tell me ... more," she breathed dizzily.

"It'll only mean you and I will be apart for a little while, Tess," stated Frederick. "When I get back home, I'm coming straight to you, and—"

"She air lovin' ye, ye said?" interrupted Tess, huskily.

"But I don't love her, Tess!... I love only you!... You know that, sweetheart!... You hear me, darling?"

"Yep, I hear," whispered the girl.

Frederick settled back against the rocks, drawing her into his arms.

"My father," he proceeded more calmly, "left us without any money. I suppose I didn't realize how hard it's been for mother. She's only just told me she'd mortgaged the lake place to Waldstricker and had borrowed money from him. In a way I've been awfully selfish.... I've only thought of you, dear."

Of course, now she couldn't tell him that intimate secret! If he knew, he couldn't, he just couldn't do the thing his mother demanded; and she had promised to help him. He had said it was the only way she could be of any service, and her great love rose up and demanded the sacrifice. Tess scarcely recognized her own voice when she next spoke.

"Did ye tell Madelene—I mean Miss Waldstricker—ye'd marry her?" she asked.

"Well ... yes," stammered Frederick.

"And ye—ye—ye kissed 'er?... Oh, say ye didn't kiss 'er!... Ye didn't, did ye?"

It was a plea to which Frederick would have given worlds to truthfuly answer, "No." But his conscience, evidently sensitive in small matters, compelled an almost inaudible, "Yes."

Raging jealousy, unendurable pain, arose within her.

"But ye couldn't—be married—to 'er, Frederick. It ain't possible, it ain't!"

"I know I'm married to you," the boy assured her, swiftly. "I'd only be married to her in the eyes of the world!"

The eyes of the world, the world through which she had so far walked with proudly lifted head! Her dearly cherished love seemed to be tumbling in ignominious ruins, and that very love had left her defenseless. No one would ever know he belonged to her; that she belonged to him. She would have to creep with bowed head in assumed shame and disgrace even among the squatters.

"I'll die," she shivered, thinking of the coming spring.

His burning kisses stung her lips, through which his words tumbled one over the other.

"You can't!... You shan't die!... Tess, you shan't! I'm only going away for a little while.... You're mine, Tess, do you hear?... You've got to live and love me always! You're mine! Oh, my love! Don't cry like that!..."

The crushing strength of his arms hurt her. Suddenly another picture shot across her brain, like a searing rocket. She clung to his arm as if she feared that minute would snatch him from her. Then suppliantly she lifted not only her face, but also her hands.

"Oh, she won't be like I air been to ye—like—like—"

Frederick heard the anguish in the agonized, girlish voice.

"Not like—not like I air been to ye, darlin'. Oh, God, not that!" she cried again.

She waited in panting suspense for a fierce denial. Then she struggled frantically in his embrace. All that was alive within her—all the super-vitalized part of her soul—seemed scorched by the picture his significant silence had painted.

"Let me go!" she demanded.

Frederick tightened his arms about her.

"Not yet, not yet! Stay here, rest here, my sweet."

But again seeing that image of the small woman in her place, Tess struggled and freed herself.

"I air goin' to Daddy now," she whispered. "An' you can go home too, please."

But he caught her again to his breast.

"You belong to me!" he cried intensely. "I won't go!—I'm going to stay, Tessibel! I will—I will stay!"

Tess wrenched herself free.

"Ye c'n come again," she promised. "Some other time afore—"

Frederick caught her broken sentence and finished it.

"Yes, yes, Tessibel," he exclaimed. "I'll come back soon, very soon!"

"Sure, soon," quivered Tess, swaying, "go on, please!"

She flung up her hands, crying low in suppressed agony, as Frederick whirled from her and walked rapidly away. He had not taken ten steps before he was moved to go back, to take her again in his arms, but thinking over all that had happened, of how hard it had been to flounder through his explanation, he shut his teeth and went on.

With super-hearing, Tess listened until the sound of his footsteps died in the lane.

He had gone—Frederick—her husband! Gone to another woman! No, that couldn't be! He was hers always and forever. She sank down on the rocks—on the dear, ragged rocks, where she had watched for him and prayed for him, where life had been at its highest and best.

She tried to recall all he had said. Oh, yes, he was coming back. What did he mean by coming back? When? She dully wondered if it would be tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. Three days, perhaps, three long, interminable days to think of him and to long for him. Could she live three days? She sprang to her feet. She must see him again—now—this minute; hear him unsay that awful thing. Why, he couldn't belong to Madelene Waldstricker! Like a deer, Tess sped along the rocks in the direction of the lane. A night bird brushed a slender wing against her curls as he shot by her. To him she paid no heed save to swerve a little.

Wildly, twice, three times she cried, "Frederick!"

An owl hooted a mocking response from the willow tree nearby.

"Frederick! Frederick!" rang through the night, out over the lake, unanswered. He was gone! The realization of this brought the girl crouching, shivering to the shore, where her feet were lapped by the incoming waves. And there she lay, until as in a dream, a bewildered dream, she heard Daddy Skinner's voice calling her. By a supreme effort she gathered her senses together.

"I air comin', Daddy."

She stumbled through the night back to the shanty, her secret locked in her breast.



CHAPTER XVII

TESSIBEL'S PRAYER

For four lingering days, hour after hour, Tess of the Storm Country waited for Frederick. He had promised to return, and so each day when her household duties were completed, she hastened to the ragged rocks at the edge of the forest. But her eager hope passed into sick apprehension as the lingering twilights of successive evenings deepened into the darkness of night and he did not come. Tess grew paler and more dejected, so that even Daddy Skinner's fading sight remarked it.

"Ain't feelin' quite pert, be ye, brat?" he inquired.

Tessibel started nervously.... It was habitual now if any one spoke to her quickly.

"I ain't sick, daddy," she assured him. "I guess it air the hot day makin' me tired."

"Nuff to bake the hair off a cast iron pup," observed Andy, from the garret hole.

"I'll bet it air some warm up there, pal," sympathized Orn.

"Ye bet yer neck," agreed Andy cheerfully.

Then Tessibel hopefully started for the rocks in search of the sunshine which had left her life with Frederick four days before.

* * * * *

Deforrest Young, too, had noticed the change in his little friend ... had observed her extreme nervousness and unusual shyness when she recited her lessons. Today, moreover, she had not appeared at all. Late that afternoon he called at the Skinner home to find the reason.

Daddy Skinner occupied his customary seat on the bench in front of the shack, watching with listless, dull eyes the restless waves. He greeted the professor with his twisted smile, as the latter called to him from the lane.

"Where's Tessibel?" asked Young, after they had remarked upon the weather and the health of themselves and their friends.

"Well, I don't know just where she air gone," replied Orn, "but seems to me's if she went off toward the rocks. Shall I call her, eh?"

"No, no! I'll go look for her," answered the professor.

He found her sitting pensively on the rocks, her hand resting on the head of Kennedy's brindle bulldog, and in the moment he stood there gazing at the girl, he felt unaccountably saddened.

When Tess became conscious of his presence, she gave him a shadowy, fleeting smile, which vanished almost before it had fully appeared. Her eyes were heavy and dim with unshed tears, and she was as pale as the mist clouds that drifted slowly across the sky and away over the eastern hills. Perhaps it was the melancholy of that smile appealing to his deep love that made Professor Young hurry toward her, holding out his hands.

Pete greeted him with a welcoming whine, wagging his whole body, in default of the tail he had lost.

"Your father said you were here, child," Young said in a low voice. "May I sit down?"

Tess acquiesced by a nod of her head, and he settled himself comfortably on the rock. Crouching down on the other side of her, Pete put his head in the girl's lap. Her hands rested upon his broad back, while the man played with him, pulling and poking his heavy jowls and hanging lips, and the dog uttered delighted growls at the attention.

"I'm afraid my little girl hasn't been quite well of late," Young began presently.

The red-brown eyes fell and a flushed, lovely face bent beneath a shower of bronze curls.

"Has she?" he queried again, with tender sympathy.

Lower and lower bent the auburn head until the man could no longer see the troubled face.

"I knew there was something wrong with my little pupil," said he softly. "Now tell me about it."

"I can't," whispered Tessibel. "I ain't able."

Oh, if she only could! At that moment it seemed that all of her troubles would take wing if this thoughtful, solemn-eyed friend shared the burden of her heart. When she lifted her face again and repeated, "I can't tell," Deforrest Young placed his fingers under her chin and kept his eyes steadily upon her until the transparent lids drooped and the long lashes rested on her cheeks.

"Is it something you'll tell me some time?" he asked.

Tessibel shuddered, and made no reply, although there was a slight negative shake of her head.

"Then I'll ask you another question, Tess dear," insisted Young. "Isn't there something I can do to help you?"

Tessibel shook her head, a violent blush suffusing her face. Tears gathered thickly in the brown eyes. To see her thus was agony.... His great love sought to share and bear her suffering, yet he could not force her confidence.

"I'm going to exact one promise from you," he continued, much moved.

"I'll be awful glad to promise what I can," she murmured humbly.

"Then it's this." Compassion for her abject misery was expressed in the very tones of his deep voice. "If at any time in the future you need me ... for anything, no matter what, will you—will you come to me and tell me? Will you let me help you?"

Impetuous appreciation of his sincerity caused Tess to touch his arm.

"Nobody were ever so good to me in all the world," she said brokenly.

Never had Deforrest Young so keenly desired the right to care for her as he did then. The impulse to take her in his arms, to tell her, as he had once, that he loved her, almost unnerved him; but he could not. Tess seemed of late to have grown away from him, to be no longer the light-hearted child she had been, even in that dark time when her father was in prison.

"You haven't promised me yet, Tessibel," he insisted seriously.

"I promise ... sure!" said Tess, swallowing hard.

In the silence that followed, Pete, as though conscious that all was not well with his adored mistress, rose on his haunches, and tried to kiss her face. The dog's sympathy was sweet. She wanted Frederick so badly! Oh, she thought, if she dared ask Deforrest. She would! She could not bear another night of this uncertainty, this suspense.

"I air wishin' to ask ye somethin'," she stammered. "Don't tell anybody, will ye?"

"Certainly not," declared Young, quickly.

"Do ye—do ye happen to know where—the student Graves air—today?"

Young considered the long curls falling over each shoulder and the anxious eyes. She was staring fixedly at him. Was the student somehow connected with her present distress? Frederick's marked attention of late to Madelene Waldstricker was, he supposed, generally known. He had not seen him with Tess for a long time. He had concluded the young man's interest in the squatter girl had passed. Was it possible that Tess still cared for him?

"Well, that's hard to tell," he told her presently, looking out over the lake. "But if they've had good luck, I suppose the young people are quite well on their way to Paris by now. The ceremony, one of those hasty affairs, was performed yesterday. They took the night train to New York."

Tessibel's breath caught in her throat.... The heavens seemed to tumble into the lake.... An awful booming sounded in her ears. She grew limp, sick at heart, ... dizzy, but she made no outcry, only, unconscious of its pain, bit her lip until it bled. The hope she had nursed, that he would not do this awful thing was lost.

Pete stirred uneasily. Restrained by Tessibel's hand on his head, he laid down again making whining noises in his throat, inarticulate expressions of his love for the suffering girl.

"Didn't you know he was going to marry Miss Waldstricker?" asked Young.

"Yep,—I knew," whispered Tess, when she could breathe, "but—tell me—about it."

"There's not much to tell," explained the Professor, reluctant to distress her. "It seems the young lady didn't want a large wedding and did want to start abroad immediately, so they had a private affair—no one present but the relatives."

Tess made an effort to control herself.

"Graves won't go back to college any more," went on Young. "He's going into business with his brother-in-law, Mr. Waldstricker. I understand when they return from abroad they will live with my sister the rest of the winter."

There was no response from the drooping little figure at his side.

Tess was thinking of the winter without Frederick. She sickened as she pictured him away off in that foreign land. It seemed he must be at the very end of the world. It bewildered her to think of his being with another woman than herself. She could not think of them as married—He was her husband. She was silent so long that Young spoke to her softly. "Shall I take you home, my dear?"

Numb and dazed, she sat dumbly enduring the hurt.

"Nope, I air goin' to stay here awhile." 'Twas only a trembling breath that wafted the man his answer.

Young hesitated. Then rising he walked away along the rocks, leaving Tess and the brindle dog amid the falling shadows.

Spent with emotion, the squatter girl heard the retreating footsteps of her friend die away in the twilight. Then she pushed the dog gently from her lap and laid herself down upon the rocks and pillowed her aching head upon his body.

Gradually the tender melancholy of the dying day touched her mood with subtle sympathy and soothed her troubled spirit. Rapt in rueful revery, she followed mechanically the flight of a flock of birds. Like swift shadows flitting over the water, they dipped and winged upward and away, out of her vision.

Frederick had gone from her life almost as completely and as suddenly as those birds had disappeared from her sight. How mercilessly short had been her days of happiness, those days threaded and inter-threaded with her husband's love.

The sun had set and the purples and reds were fading from the fleecy clouds in the eastern sky. The gloaming grew in caressing cadences up from the limpid lake to the ragged rocks. The night winds blew gently down the hill side, the swaying leaves were whispering "hush, hush," and the surface of the lake, shimmering in the mellow light of the rising moon, was flecked here and there into silvery sparkles. The airs of evening fluttered the ringlets upon her forehead and enveloped her hot body in cooling comfort. Responsive to the quiet beauty about her, the turmoil of her thoughts subsided. The sharp anguish which had at first stunned her was becoming but a dull ache, permitting her to think connectedly.

This place and this hour held the most vital associations of her young life. Here in the gathering gloom, Frederick had wooed and won her, and had spent with her many of the too few hours of her wedded bliss. Upon such another evening, she had made him the promises that had led to her only deceptions of Daddy Skinner, and here, four short days ago, her husband had murdered her joy.

Reflecting upon her plight, its hopelessness well nigh overwhelmed her. Through the utter desolution of her life rang the haunting, words of the Cantata she'd heard sung last Eastertide in the Big Ithaca Church.

"Oh, was there ever loneliness like this?"

Over and over the melody repeated itself, insistently recalling the Master's agony in the garden, and lifting her thoughts slowly upward away from herself to His ultimate triumph and glory.

Betrayed and deserted by the man that loved her, she fixed her attention instinctively upon the Divine Love "with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning" and sought courage from the words of Him "who spake as never man spake." His command, "Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you and pray for them which despitefully use you," came to her tortured heart, a healing inspiration.

Immediately she got to her feet. The dog, tired of the enforced inactivity, jumped up and ran to and fro on the rocks, barking. She had given her husband up to another woman—he had said it was all she could do for him. But she loved him and her love rejoiced in giving. Pete, puzzled that the girl did not join him in his play as usual, came back and stood in front of her and looked up into her face. She turned to the old pine tree, her familiar friend, and extended her arms to the God of her exalted faith.

"Goddy, dear, goodest Goddy," she prayed, "bless my Frederick wherever he air—an'—help Tessibel to die—in—in the spring."



CHAPTER XVIII

A LETTER

A great deal had happened during the three weeks Frederick had been gone. Helen Young had married Ebenezer Waldstricker, and they had been away now nearly two weeks on their honeymoon. Deforrest Young, too, had spent most of the time out of Ithaca. Tessibel Skinner heard from him frequently, and through his good letters, she had been able to keep up her studies.

One Monday morning while Tess was doing the simple chores around the shack, she had the door open to admit the vagrant breezes of the summer day. Andy, as his custom was on such occasions, lay quietly upon the attic floor, secure from the observation of any chance passer-by. Stepping to the door to shake her dust rag, Tess saw Jake Brewer coming up the path.

"Hello, Jake," she called, a little loudly to warn Andy, "how air ye?"

"Pretty tol'able, thank ye, Tess," Brewer answered politely, "how air you, and how's yer pa?"

"Daddy's pretty bad this mornin'," she told him, a reluctant smile appearing for a moment at the corners of her mouth.

"Pshaw! Tessie, ye don't tell me. It air the heat, ain't it? But Tess, I air got somethin' for you," he sniggered. "Bet ye can't guess what it air."

"Sure, I can't, Jake." The girl tried to match his cheerful manner.

She wished she might greet her squatter friends as of yore, but her heart was sad and lay stonelike in her breast. Of late, Jake had been very kind, running many errands for her. Daddy Skinner was a favorite with the inhabitants of the Silent City, and now that he was so ill, all the other squatters did what they could for his sorrowing daughter.

"Come in, Jake," invited Tess. "Mebbe Daddy'd like to see ye.... He ain't up yet.... Wait a minute.... I'll ask 'im!"

Jake stayed her with a chuckle and a beckoning motion of his forefinger.

"First I'll give ye what I brung ye, Tess," he said, while he fumbled in his pocket. "Here! Look! It air a letter with a big ship up in the corner of it.... Ain't it cute?"

Tessibel held out a trembling hand for the square envelope Brewer proffered her. How many times within the past weeks had she visualized a ship as it took its rapid way to the other side of the world! How many times had she seen her husband with Madelene Waldstricker on that pictured steamer! Now here it was before her very eyes, more stately even than her mind had portrayed it. She stared at the letter, her face going very white.

"Ye don't seem to be tickled, brat," said the squatter, grinning.

"I air, though, Jake," she replied, "awful tickled.... Come on in an' see Daddy!"

She slipped the letter into her pocket and led the way to the back room.

She bent over the bed and roused her father.

"Jake air here to see ye, Daddy," she said. "Sit down, Jake! He can't talk very loud, but ye can see he air awful glad to have ye here.... Daddy dear, Jake Brewer air tryin' to shake hands with ye."

Orn's great hand lifted slowly.

"Glad to see ye, Jake," he mumbled. "I ain't the best this mornin'!"

"Ye'll get better with the goin' of the warm weather," consoled Jake. "These days be hot now for the wellest of us."

"Yep," murmured Daddy Skinner, drowsily.

Tessibel left the two men alone, and went back to the kitchen. Her throat was filled with longing, her lips drawn a little closer together. She sat down near the door, looking out upon the lake. She dared not open the letter then, not until Jake had gone and Daddy was asleep.

Brewer came out quietly, his cheerful manner subdued somewhat.

Tess got to her feet. She tried to smile, but the serious expression on the squatter's face brought her quickly to his side.

"Jake," she murmured, quick-breathed, "ye think he air awful sick, eh?"

Brewer shifted his gaze out through the door. The sight of the girl's pleading face hurt him.

"He ain't real pert; that air a fact," was his reply.

"We air doin' everythin' we can think of," Tess told him. "Mr. Young's doctor comes awful often, an' he says Daddy air got heart trouble."

"He do seem to have a hard time breathin'," answered Jake, trying to be cheerful; "but if I was you, Tessie, I wouldn't worry. He'll be gettin' well. He air stronger'n a horse."

Tess wanted to believe her father was better. She couldn't allow her mind to take any other view of it.

"He air always been right rugged," she said, nodding, "an' if his heart'd only stop beatin' so hard—" She hesitated and touched Brewer's arm. "Thank ye fer bringin' my letter," she interrupted herself irrelevantly.

"That air all right, Tess," smiled Brewer. "Ye see when I go to the Postoffice fer our mail, I ask fer your'n an' fer Longman's, an' I most allers get some fer one or t'other.... Nice day, eh, ain't it?"

"Yep," affirmed Tess, dully. She bade the fisherman good-bye and stood watching him take his way along the lakeside until he had disappeared.

When she turned she caught sight of Andy's glistening eyes looking at her.

"Jake air a good feller, ain't he, brat?" he asked.

Tess came directly under the ceiling hole.

"Yep, he sure air," she answered. "Andy, I air a feelin' so bad today. Will ye listen for Daddy if I go out a spell?"

"Course I will, go long," he urged. "Close the door when ye go out. I'll keep my ears open."

Tess walked slowly along the lake shore path, her head drooping wearily. She knew the letter in her pocket was from Frederick. To have opened it even before Andy's loving eyes, or in the presence of any other person, would have been, in her opinion, a desecration.

Against the high gray shoulder of a ragged rock, she sat down pensively. It was here she and Frederick had spent so many happy hours and, now, alone, she had come to read his letter. She took it slowly from her pocket, studied the picture of the ship in the corner, and whispered over and over the name under it. It seemed almost impossible to tear it open. What had he told her? She pressed the envelope to her lips. Her darling's hands had touched it, his fingers had written her name upon it. Ripping it slowly along the edge, she took out the contents, and there fluttered to the rock a yellow backed bill. Tess picked it up and examined it carefully. Frederick had sent her some money. Tess laid it down again and placed a small stone upon it. Then she took up the letter.

For a few seconds her eyes misted so profusely she could not read. She dashed the back of her hand across her lids, choking down hard sobs that rose insistently. When she could control her emotions enough to read, she fixed her eyes upon the first words: "My own darling:"

Crunching the paper between her fingers, she dropped her head and wept wildly for several minutes. She wanted Frederick then as she had never wanted a soul in all the living world.

"I am here alone in the writing room," Tess read on, wiping her eyes. "Oh, Tessibel, when I think of you there without me, I go almost mad! What I've done seems the very worst thing in the world, and it grows worse as the hours go by. Forgive me, my darling. I dared not come back after that night; I was afraid some one would see me and tell my mother or some of the Waldstrickers. Tessibel, if I could only jump into the sea and get back to you, I should be the happiest fellow in the world. I love you more and more, and I'm perfectly miserable without you."

Her fingers on her lips, and her eyes on the letter, Tess wept softly. Oh, how she loved him, too, her husband.

"I won't stay away very long, my dearest," the letter continued. "I'm coming back to you and shall never leave you again. I'm sending you some money which I want you to use, and I'll send more very soon. This will make you comfortable for a little while."

Tess picked up the bill and looked at it once more. Then she put it down again and went on reading the letter.

"I shall always love you better than any one else in the world, Tessibel ... when I return we shall be together most of the time. I shall, I hope, get over my fear of Ebenezer Waldstricker. I'm studying in my mind a way to make it possible for us to have a home together, of which no one shall know. Believe that I love you ... always and always, my darling. Your Frederick."

Tess lifted her head with a long-drawn sigh. But there was something more to read, a line or two tacked on the end of the letter.

"P. S. My darling, I want you to burn this! I fear some one might get hold of it. F."

After reading over and over the letter, until she had almost learned it by heart, she went back to the shanty, to do as Frederick had bidden her. Kissing the pages again and again and weeping softly so as not to disturb Andy, Tess burned the letter.

That night when Daddy Skinner was sleeping, his laboring breath heard plainly through the shanty, a red-brown head bent over the kitchen table. Around the flickering light fluttered the summer moths, and once in a while one of Tessibel's beloved night things dashed in at the window, took a zig-zag course about the lamp, and flew out again into the shadowy weeping willows. A long, sobbing sigh from the girl brought the dwarf's eager face to the hole in the ceiling.

"Air ye sick, brat?" he whispered.

Tess lifted her eyes from the table.

"Nope, Andy, I were thinkin', that's all," she answered, low-toned.

And perhaps fifteen minutes later, when she had written a name on several envelopes and had torn them up in seeming disapproval, Andy ventured again.

"Ye act awful sad, brat dear. Can't ye tell me about it?"

Tessibel rose to her feet, the gleam of the night light radiating upon the red-brown of her eyes. She swallowed the lump in her throat before she could speak.

"I air a little sad, Andy dear," she murmured.

"What were ye doin', honey?" asked the dwarf.

Without answering at that moment, Tess took up the envelope she'd sealed. Two steps took her to the mantel, where she placed the letter against the clock, standing a minute to gaze at it. The next instant she explained to the little man leaning above her.

"I were writin' a little, Andy, darlin'."

Then she went softly into Daddy Skinner's room and closed the door.



CHAPTER XIX

ITS ANSWER

While Tessibel Skinner, lonely and despondent, was grieving in the squatter country, Frederick Graves arrived in Paris with his young wife. There had been for him but few hours since that last evening upon the ragged rocks, during which Tessibel's face had not haunted him, the brown eyes, sometimes smiling, more frequently shadowed with tears. Impotent remorse possessed his days and filled his wakeful nights with anguish. At such times when life seemed intolerable, the thought of the comfort he had supplied for his mother and sister was balm to his troubled soul.

He regretted, too, that he had not gone to the squatter settlement to see Tess again before his marriage to Madelene. He had thought, then, that the sight of her pleading pain would be more than he could bear. He had already vowed to himself over and over with clenched teeth that he would stay but a short time away from America. He must see Tess. He did not worry over her keeping the secret of their clandestine marriage ... he had implicit confidence in her promise.

Madelene's keen enjoyment in displaying the many sights, already familiar to her, bored him to distraction, and they had been in France but a few days before she discovered his indifference to the wonders which seemed of such importance to her. On the way over she had noticed his spells of abstraction. She had seen how quickly the shadows descended upon her husband's face when it was in repose. With an intuition characteristically feminine, she concluded rightly that Frederick's interest was not in her, that his attention was really concentrated upon something quite apart from his wife and their honeymoon. She determined to find out the reason.

One morning, breakfasting in their charming room, Madelene started a bright conversation, which Frederick met with but a chilly response.

"What's the matter with you, Fred?" she demanded curiously. "You haven't spoken a pleasant word for two days."

A faint smile sketched itself about the corners of Frederick's lips.

"Aren't you stretching that a little, my dear?" he evaded half-playfully.

"Well, perhaps a wee bit," laughed Madelene, ruefully. "But honestly, dear, you look as if you'd lost your last friend instead of being on your—honeymoon."

She sprang up, rounded the table and perched daintily on the arm of his chair.

"I do want to make you happy, darling," she urged. "What's the trouble?"

Frederick made a slightly impatient gesture with one shoulder.

"I'm happy enough, Madelene! But it's this beastly weather! I suppose that's the reason I feel so lackadaisical. If you don't mind, I don't believe I'll go out today."

Madelene uttered a little cry of disappointment.

"Now, I am vexed!" she pouted prettily.

"Oh, then I'll go with you, of course," Frederick hastily cut in. "It doesn't make any difference to me."

The young wife felt an impulse to anger.

"But it ought to make a difference, Fred dear," she pointed out to him. "Why, you make me feel so small ... so insignificant.... I don't want to drag you about if you don't want to go."

Absorbed in his self-centered meditations his wife's sightseeing excursions seemed to him a perfect nuisance.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, dear," he apologized hurriedly.

Madelene got up and went to the window and gazed down upon the street.

"I know what we'll do," she stated, dancing back to the table. "Let's go to some quiet, cool place for a week or two. I hate Paris in the hot weather, anyway. And it'll be fun to be by ourselves ... and we'll have long walks.... Would you like that?"

The dark wave of blood surging into Frederick's temples made her look curiously at him. Why should he be embarrassed at such a suggestion?

"As you please, my dear," he interrupted her thought.

Madelene sighed. He did look ill. It might be the hot weather, but he had such a strange, detached manner most of the time ... as if he were far away ... or she was. Her mind was busy with the problem. She could not eat.

Frederick, too, was but toying with his breakfast. He was wondering just what Madelene was planning to do in the country. It would be even harder for him there than in the city. With Tessibel's face always between them, he could not make a lover's love to her anywhere.

An hour or so later, while Frederick had gone to smoke under the trees, his wife stood critically studying her reflection in the glass ... with but few misgivings. She was pretty, surely so, and very rich! What more could a man want? In the coolness of the country, Frederick would be better. He would lose his moroseness and give his undivided attention to her. She would make all the arrangements for the change without disturbing him. He should not be bothered a little bit; and Madelene grew quite happy again with the thought of having Frederick all to herself in some romantic country spot.

She summoned her maid, and for a while with the aid of the hotel officials, she sought for a place near Paris, yet far enough away to escape its harassing heat and noises. By night Madelene had decided upon a farm near the village of Epernon.

"We can get in to the city to shop, Marie," she told her maid. "But Mr. Graves simply can't stand the hot weather in town."

"He does look sick and worried, ma'am, doesn't he?" agreed the maid.

Twenty-four hours later Frederick and Madelene were settled in a pretty villa nestled at the edge of the forest. Nature in its noblest expression surrounded them. At the going down of the sun, Madelene stood beside her husband on the porch, and pressed her cheek fondly against his shoulder.

"It's so beautiful, isn't it, dear?" she whispered coaxingly.

Out of his wife's words and the gentle gloaming, came a deadly sense of loneliness. A shiver shook Frederick from head to foot. His only answer was an ejaculated affirmative in a hoarse voice. The weird sighing of the trees took him back to Ithaca, back to the ragged rocks ... to Tessibel. For a moment he was so agonized that tears stung his lids to a deep hurt.

If in noisy Paris he had been carried in spirit to the squatter country, where a girl stood and gazed at him with red-brown eyes, how much more did she haunt him in the quiet spot where the leaves sang the same old tunes they sang in her world, where the wind played among them as it did in the Silent City! Now and then from yonder clump of trees a bird twittered; an owl screeched from the tall tree at the right, and farther on a brook chanted its purling song like Tessibel's brook under the mudcellar. Oh, his dear little girl! His Tess of the Storm Country! If in those olden days he had desired her, now that desire was a hundred times more poignant. In all his willful life he had never suffered like this. Tess with her clinging arms, her sweet, winning ways! He sighed a deep, long sigh. Yet soon he would hear something from her. He had written her, ... had sent her money for the necessities of her simple life ... his heart throbbed at the thought of a letter from her.

Madelene's conversation he had not heard, and it was not until she spoke directly to him that he remembered her presence.

"Don't you think so, Fred?" she was asking.

He heaved another sigh as he left Ithaca and came back to France after that flight of fancy.

"Don't I think what? I really didn't hear what you said, Madelene," he admitted guiltily.

Madelene experienced a hot flash of indignation.

"Do you mean to say you've allowed me to talk all this time and you haven't heard a word I've said?" she demanded in a thin, rasping voice.

"I'm sorry," murmured Frederick. "Pardon."

Then the girl lapsed into a sulky silence, and Frederick, too sick at heart, too indifferent to her likes and dislikes to care, did not encourage her to repeat what she had said.

It was perhaps a week later when young Mrs. Graves felt her first real jealousy. In the happiness of her hasty marriage, she had almost forgotten the story told her by the gossips of Ithaca. It was only when her husband's eyes were encircled and darkened by a far-away expression that Tess entered her mind. But even then, after a glance in the mirror, she dismissed the little singer contemptuously.

One morning just before breakfast, they were standing under the trees. On Frederick's face was that dreary look of discontent. Madelene contemplated him steadily. She had watched and studied, but had not yet solved the problem that occupied her mind. Was the squatter girl the obstacle? she wondered. It didn't seem possible. Frederick was so fastidious. Why, the girl could scarcely speak a word of good English! But it would do no harm to make sure. She decided to speak to her husband of Tessibel Skinner. But how?

Frederick owed her some consideration, and Madelene deeply desired he should be more attentive to her. Suddenly she laughed aloud. Frederick turned, the cloud partially lifting from his eyes.

"A happy thought, I dare say?" he inquired.

"Not very," answered Madelene flippantly. "I was wondering how long it would take that Skinner girl to earn enough money to pay for a trip like this."

Had a bomb gone off in his face, Frederick couldn't have been more appalled. His brows drew together in a dark frown; his face grew livid and tensely lined. Madelene noted the effect of her words. Her suspicion was confirmed,—the problem solved! It was the squatter girl who stood between her and her husband!

"I forbid you," said Frederick in a low, angry voice, "ever to mention that name again."

Then he whirled about and walked away through the trees. In alarm, Madelene sped after him.

"Frederick!" she implored. "I'm awfully sorry I said that.... I didn't mean to hurt you."

He shook her from his arm.

"Very well," he replied savagely, "but just please don't speak of her again."

Tears blinded the girl's vision.... An enraged feeling rose in her heart. Never in all her spoiled life had any one spoken to her in such a way. If Ebenezer had been there, Frederick would never have dared!

By this time, having stood mute for several seconds, she was thoroughly indignant. This was her first real conflict with Frederick, and she began to feel ill as well as incensed.

"It's dreadfully disagreeable of you to get angry over a little thing like that," she said impetuously. "One would think you loved that girl and not me. I was told lots of times you were crazy about her, but of course,—"

She hesitated now. She wanted to say cruel things about the squatter girl back in Ithaca, but she dared not. She was overwrought with anger, but her husband's threatening face forced her to silence.

"Are you determined to keep harping on a subject I wish to forget?" His words carried an ominous meaning, which quickened her already awakened jealousy. Determined to probe the matter to the bottom she demanded.

"Why should you wish to forget her? Does she disturb your memory as much as that?"

"Perhaps," replied Frederick gloomily.

He saw the danger involved in the discussion and curbed his tongue. Then he left her and walked quickly into the house. Madelene followed, angry and rebellious, and found him seated at the table, white-faced, with the morning mail unnoticed before him. Still enraged, she glanced over the letters indifferently.

"They're all for me with the exception of one," she said sulkily, "and it's an Ithaca letter.... May I open it?"

Frederick took it from her and looked at the envelope. His name was staring back at him as if every cramped letter were an accusing eye, and the writing was in the hand of Tessibel Skinner! He studied it a minute....

"You have mail of your own to read, my dear," he said quite kindly. "Let's have breakfast."

When during the morning Frederick found a moment to himself, he took from his pocket the letter that had been searing through his clothing to his heart. Gazing upon it, he shook as if he had the ague. Trembling hands held it up to the light. Several times he turned it over. What had Tess written to him? Had she told him, as he had her, that she loved him better than all the rest of the world? He uttered a desperate ejaculation and stretched out his arms. If he could have spanned the world that separated them, he would have dragged her to him by the terrible force of his desire. Again he turned the letter over.

Something kept him from ripping it open. He longed to delay the happiness of reading it, and while he waited, he lifted it to his lips and passionately kissed the crude writing. It ran up hill a little, but that only made him smile and love it the more. It brought memories of past joys, memories of Tessibel's endeavor to learn. Poor little child! Suddenly he slipped the paper knife into the envelope and slowly dragged it across the top.... Then he inserted his fingers and pulled out—the bill he had sent her. In a sudden passion he looked frantically into the empty envelope.... Nothing!... Absolute emptiness!

The money fluttered from his hand to the floor, where it lay like a sentient thing, staring back as if mocking him. He stood half-blindly gazing upon it. When he looked more closely, he stooped and picked it up. There written across its yellow back was the one little line,

"Darlin', I air a prayin' for you every day. Tessibel."

In a storm of remorse, he collapsed to the floor with his face in his hands.



CHAPTER XX

MADELENE COMPLAINS TO EBENEZER

"Read that letter; then you'll see why I'm angry," said Ebenezer Waldstricker to Helen one morning after he had frowningly perused a letter from Madelene. "Her last two have had a touch of this thing in them, too. If I find—"

He stopped because his wife had dropped her eyes and begun to read.

"Dear Eb:—

"Your letters have come along one after another, but they haven't made me feel happier. I do dislike to act as if I were telling tales; but I'm so miserable, and you're the only one in the world I can call on in my distress. You will forgive me, I know, dear Ebenezer. We've been here now such a long time, that I really feel as if we ought to come home, but I simply dread it more and more I think of it.

"You can't imagine how doleful Fred is, and I know it's the Skinner girl who's causing it."

Helen uttered an anxious exclamation. She knew her husband's dislike of the squatters. Her quick glance at his face called from his stern lips the cold question.

"Have you finished?"

"No."

"Then do!" he snarled, opening and closing his hands impatiently.

"You may ask me what proof I have," Helen read on, a slight pucker between her brows, "and I will say this: Fred has two or three times called me by her name, nearly dying of embarrassment when I asked him to account for it. Then once in his sleep he called out quite sharply, 'Tessibel!' He flies into all kinds of rages when I ask him questions about her. He won't admit he's ever cared anything for her—"

Helen looked up again and paused momentarily.

"Well, Ebenezer, he used to like Tessibel!"

Waldstricker waved his hand angrily.

"What's past is past!" he roared. "And now he's got to treat my sister decently, or I'll know the reason why.... The young pup! Why, here I've given him the chance of his life!... But finish the letter!"

Helen sighed as she again allowed her eyes to rest on the page in her hand.

"But I feel sure his interest in her isn't because of what she did for his sister," Madelene's letter continued. "Will you take some pains to find out all you can for me, Eb dear? It might be well for you to see her yourself, and perhaps you could make her admit something. I don't want you to worry about me, though. If I can make Fred act like a human being, I'll be happy enough. Tell Helen I shall bring her a lot of pretties from Paris, and will be awfully glad to see you both. Love to all. Madelene."

"P. S. Perhaps you can make that girl tell you whether she's had a letter from Fred or not, and make her give it to you if you can. I think he's written her, but he says not."

"I'm very sorry about it," Helen murmured. She laid the letter on the table and looked across at the dark-faced man opposite, "but really I don't think Tess cares for him at all now. Deforrest has repeatedly said she never speaks of him, and that as far as he can make out, she has quite forgotten him."

"I'll make it my business to find out," muttered Waldstricker. "If I discover she has any hold on that young—"

"They may just've been romantic," excused Helen. "Why don't you ask Deforrest to find out for you?"

Ebenezer shook his head.

"I'm going down first myself," said he.

Helen rose and went to her husband's side. Her eyes were misty with unshed tears. She so desired Ebenezer to be himself again. She felt a little rebellious when she considered Madelene's turning her peaceful home into such a turmoil.

"You won't be stern with her, dear?" she pleaded.

"I'll treat her as she deserves," snapped Waldstricker.... "If Deforrest weren't so stubborn and hadn't rented Graves' place for the next four years, I'd do my best to oust the Skinners from that property.... One thing is certain, the old witch has got to go."

Helen sighed, exasperated. Her husband's face was crimson and the cords in his neck as rigid as taut ropes.

"Ebenezer dear, why will you get yourself into such a state of excitement over a set of people who'll never come into your life at all?" she begged of him.

There was gentle reproof in her tones. Ebenezer glanced at her sharply.

"Never come into my life at all!" he repeated. "Does this look as if they never came into my life, eh?" He leaned over and tapped Madelene's letter. "Am I going to see my sister—"

"Madelene is probably mistaken," interjected Helen, hopefully.

"It'll be better for the squatter girl if she is," answered Ebenezer, whirling and going out.

Now it happened that Tessibel was standing outside the cottage clipping her hedge when she heard the sound of horses' hoofs coming down the lane. She stepped to the shanty door, gave the sound which warned Andy of a stranger's approach, and was back again when Waldstricker's great black horse came in sight. Opposite her, he drew his steed to a standstill and bowed curtly. Tess had never seen his lips so sternly set, not even when he had dragged her from Mother Moll's hut. She made no move to go to him.

"I came to speak to you, Miss Skinner," he called. "Come here?"

Then Tessibel went a few steps nearer, without laying down her shears. Looking up into his face, she asked,

"What do ye want, Mr. Waldstricker?"

It was hard for Waldstricker to tell just what he did want when that pair of red-brown eyes were gazing at him.

"I think I'll dismount," he said suddenly.

Throwing one leg over the broad back of the horse, he slipped to the ground. The bridle over his arm, he walked toward the girl until she was standing but a step away.

"You haven't any news of Bishop for me, I suppose?" he asked.

Tess grew suddenly intuitive. Immediately she knew he had not come to ask her about Andy. She shook her head, her tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth.

"Have you done anything to locate him?" persisted Waldstricker.

He was feeling his way to bring in the other matter, and looking more closely at the girl, he reluctantly admitted to himself she was beautiful.

"My daddy's been awful sick," said Tess quickly. "I ain't much time to do anything but take care of 'im an' sing in the church."

Waldstricker was not interested in the sick squatter, so he gave no sign of sympathy. Rather, he wanted to come to the crucial point immediately, but Tess was so unapproachable that he remained quiet a few embarrassing moments to think of the right thing to say.

"You must be a little lonely now Mr. Graves is married," he stated presently.

Tessibel grew deathly pale, and took one backward step. Had he come to talk of Frederick? Had he found out the secret she had kept religiously so many weeks?

"Mr. Graves?" she repeated, and then again in almost a whisper, "Mr. Graves?"

It was the first time in ever so long she'd pronounced that loved name aloud.

"Yes," said Waldstricker, darkly, "and I came down today to see the letters you've received from him."

Tess lifted her head and looked him straight in the eyes. Did he know she had had that one precious letter? Who'd told him about it? But she couldn't give it to him,—it was burned. Neither would she admit receiving it.

"What letters?" she asked, when she could speak.

"Those Mr. Graves sent you from France!" responded Waldstricker, in very decided tones.

Tess thought quickly. Frederick had told her he was afraid of Waldstricker. So was she! He was the man who had been instrumental in taking her husband away from her. She felt a cold rage growing into active life within her. How dared he come here.

She was looking at him so steadily that the powerful churchman lowered his eyes, and for a moment pretended to be arranging the horse's bridle. Then, he centered his bold, black eyes upon her until her nerves tingled.

"I wish to see what he's written you," he repeated, this time rather lamely.

"I ain't got any letters," Tess told him.

"Haven't you received any from him?" demanded Waldstricker.

The girl shook her head so decidedly that her curls vibrated to the very ends. It was as though every bit of her loving body would shield the dear one way off in France from this compelling, mesmeric man.

Waldstricker felt she was not telling the truth. He grew enraged, the blood flying purple to his face.

"I said I wanted you to give them to me," he repeated emphatically, going nearer her.

"An' I says as how I didn't have none," evaded Tess, growing angrier by the minute. "An' if I did, I wouldn't give 'em to you. 'Tain't none of yer business if I get letters, I'll have ye know!" She took several backward steps toward the shanty. Her rising temper stirred up the impudence she used in her conflicts with the rude fishermen. "Jump on yer horse an' trot home," she finished tauntingly.

Waldstricker's mingled surprise and anger showed in his exclamation. What an impertinent little huzzy she was! In his heart he believed Madelene was right, but the defiant squatter girl baffled him. He would go home more than ever satisfied Tess Skinner was keeping from him something about his young brother-in-law. He mounted his horse, his muscles working with rage.

"I'll make you confess sooner or later," he muttered ominously, "or I'll know the reason why."

"Scoot!" was all Tess said, and she waved her hand and snapped the pruning shears together derisively.

Waldstricker whirled his horse up the lane, and striking the animal with a spur, bounded away.



CHAPTER XXI

THE END OF THE HONEYMOON

Helen Waldstricker walked nervously up and down the library. Many times during the past hour she had gone to the window and stared out into the night. It was almost impossible to read or work with her mind in such a state of perturbation. Every sound caused her to lay aside her book. She was waiting for Ebenezer to return from the station with Madelene and Frederick.

Helen dreaded the home-coming of the newly married pair. Ebenezer was all upset over the letters his sister had written him from abroad, and as Deforrest was obliged to be away so much, she had spent many hours of mental worry by herself.

The sound of a carriage took her into the hall, where she stood until Ebenezer threw open the door.

The first sight of her young sister-in-law showed Mrs. Waldstricker that the girl was not at all contented and happy. Madelene's face was pale, but not more so than Frederick's. Ebenezer looked like a thunder cloud. Helen, with her usual tact and sweetness greeted the young people in a sisterly manner.

"I'm so glad to have you both back," she purred, kissing first one, then the other. "Now, dear,"—to Madelene, "come along up with me and get off your wraps and then we'll have dinner."

The two women went upstairs together in silence, and it was not until Helen had closed the door and Madelene had removed her wraps that Mrs. Graves turned upon her brother's wife.

"I suppose you noticed from Ebbie's letters that I've been awfully unhappy?"

"Yes," admitted Helen, "but I was in hopes it had passed over."

"It's worse now than it was before," answered Madelene, "I'm perfectly certain he doesn't care for me—"

"Then why did he marry you?" interrupted Helen.

"For my money! That's why!"

Helen's answering ejaculation brought a short, bitter laugh from the girl.

"Oh, no, dear," protested Mrs. Waldstricker. "You must be mistaken. I'm positive, he's an honorable young man."

Madelene flung herself impatiently into a chair.

"Sit down," she said. "Don't stand up!... Oh, I'm so tired! It seems years since we left France. And Fred's been like a death's house all the time. I can't for the life of me see why he should act the way he does. Why, Helen, he goes days without as much as ever starting to speak to me. If he talks at all, I simply have to drag the words from him."

"That's dreadful," sympathized Helen, "but perhaps he isn't well, dear. Why don't you get him to see a doctor?"

Madelene shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.

"It's not a doctor he wants, it's that Skinner girl, I can see that plainly enough."

Helen dropped on the arm of the girl's chair and slipped her arm around her neck.

"Well, now you're home," she soothed. "Ebenezer'll help you if he can, and I know Deforrest will. I'm perfectly certain though, Tessibel Skinner would do nothing to make Frederick swerve from his loyalty to you."

"Do you know whether Eb went down there to see her?" asked the girl, wearily.

"I think he did. He asked Tess for Frederick's letters, but she said she hadn't received any from him. And really, I don't believe she did, for she tells everything to Deforrest and she'd tell him that, I'm sure."

Madelene shook her head incredulously.

"I feel perfectly positive he wrote her," she asserted.

"Well, perhaps!—" said Helen.

Then they were silent a few moments.

"I suppose you haven't guessed something I have to tell you," stammered Helen, presently.

Madelene turned her eyes upon her sister-in-law. Then she smiled.

"Helen, dearest, aren't you glad about it?"

Helen blushed and radiated a smile.

"Yes, very, and so is Ebenezer! We both feel as if we have much to be thankful for—and now if you were only happy—"

"Oh, Helen, I know I've upset Ebbie a whole lot,—but who else could I go to?... Do tell me when—"

"In May, dear," whispered Helen. "I wish you were as happy as I.... But there's the dinner bell. Let's go down."

When they entered the dining room, Ebenezer was standing alone, his back to the grate.

"Did you say anything to him, Eb?" demanded Madelene.

"Certainly, child, but he insists he scarcely knows her. He rehearsed the trouble his sister had before she died—"

"Oh, he's told me that, too," interjected Madelene, tartly, "but that wouldn't make him mix her name up with mine, would it, and make him get mad every time I mention her?"

"He seems to be very much incensed that any one should accuse him of caring for her," observed Ebenezer. "And Madelene—"

Helen went quickly to her sister-in-law.

"Dear," she interrupted her husband, "if I were you, I wouldn't say anything more about it to Frederick until you're certain.... Here he comes, now. Do be pleasant to him, both of you."

But in spite of Helen's good offices, the first dinner at home was anything but a happy one for the young couple.



CHAPTER XXII

THE REPUDIATION

A week after the arrival of Frederick and Madelene Graves in Ithaca, Tessibel Skinner sat sewing near the kitchen stove and talking to Andy Bishop in the shanty garret. Outside the wind gusted over the lake, the snow birds making shrill, protesting twitters against the coming blizzard.

"You ain't mournin' 'bout somethin', kiddie, be ye?" whispered the dwarf from the hole in the ceiling.

"A little," she confessed, glancing up at the dwarf, while she knotted the thread. "I air jest thinking how awful it air fer Daddy to sleep so hard. That medicine he takes must be awful strong."

"So it air, brat, but he don't suffer," comforted Andy.

"Get back, Andy," warned Tess, getting up. "Some one air walkin' in the lane."

She could hear the steps plainly, now. Whoever it was paused in front of the shack. When the knock came, she placed her sewing on the chair. With a glance at the attic, she walked forward and took down the bar. The opening door revealed Frederick Graves standing in the falling snow.

"I've come back, Tess," he breathed brokenly.

The girl staggered back speechless to the middle of the room. Dismayed eyes sought Frederick's, eloquently demanding a reason for his coming. The boy followed her swiftly in and closed the door. How ill she looked! God, could it have been his own conduct that had made Tessibel so fragile! He had promised to love and cherish her forever. The thought that he could revivify her by the very strength of his overflowing love took him forward a step. Tess looked helplessly about and retreated a little.

"Daddy's sick," she murmured.

"I'm sorry. I'm very sorry, dear.... I had to see you, Tessibel," cried Frederick, passionately. "I hurried back from abroad because of you, my darling.... Oh, Tess dear—"

Tessibel made a dissenting gesture.

"Please go away," said she, in agitation. "Go away, please."

Instead of obeying her, the boy came nearer.

"I can't go!" he answered hoarsely, running his fingers through his thick hair. "I've suffered horribly for what I've done.... Tess, don't make me suffer any more—Oh, darling, please understand—"

"I air understandin'," interrupted Tess, steadying herself. "Ye can't do nothin' now.... Won't ye please go?"

"No," replied Frederick, setting his teeth sharply. "No, I won't! I came to tell you what I want you to do."

Tessibel sank into the chair, her legs refusing to hold her up any longer. Frederick was looking down at her sorrowfully. How could he ever have left her? His excuse about his mother's needing money now seemed small and unimportant. How like a glorious golden mantle her curls encompassed her! A spasmodic desire to twine them again around his fingers gripped him. He wanted to take her in his arms, to love her, to be loved in return, as she had loved him on the ragged rocks. How beautiful she was—yet how frail and worn! It seemed as if the ice that had warped and frozen his heart to a hard, unresponsive mass, during the months with Madelene, was melting in the presence of the girl he loved. His soul had thirsted for the sight of her, his arms yearned to hold and press her close. He stood a moment undecided, then suddenly bent forward and drew her forcibly to him. Groaning deeply, he dropped his hot lips upon her neck, and Tessibel started back as if he'd stung her.

"If you look at me so cold and white, Tess," he moaned, "I shall—I'll—"

Then he sought for her lips and found them, kissing her stormily until she felt a keen sense of terror and physical pain. His passionate insistence carried her completely out of herself for the instant.

"Tess, Tess!" he murmured, "nothing matters now! Don't send me away from you again, sweet."

Tess lay in his arms, mute and unresponsive.

"Say one little kind word to me, Tess," he implored again, brokenly.

But Tess couldn't speak. She felt her tongue burn as if infinitesimal sparks had touched each groove upon it. She could not stay in his arms! Before the world he belonged to another woman. She pushed him away, drew herself from his embrace, and sat down again. Her action brought a fierce ejaculation from the boy's lips.

When Frederick ordered his horse that morning, Madelene had slipped her hand into his.

"May I go with you, dear?" she begged. "Do order my horse, too, won't you?"

He colored to the roots of his hair and shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"I'd rather go by myself," he returned so curtly that Madelene bit her lips to keep back the tears.

Stung with jealousy, the young wife watched her husband ride out under the bare trees to the road beyond. Then she ordered her own horse, and dressed herself quickly.

Affairs between the young couple had reached a crucial point. Madelene's suspicions of Frederick were unusually active. She had it clearly in mind that he had gone to the Skinner hut. All the distance to the lake her face burned. She knew well enough she was doing something unpardonable, but how could she stay calmly at home when stinging jealousy goaded her to action?

She cantered past Kennedy's farm and on down the hill, her thoughts in a turmoil. If Frederick were not with the squatter girl, how happy she'd be! She hadn't formulated an excuse for Tessibel if she found her suspicions incorrect. She'd have to tell her something reasonable. Ah, she would pretend she'd come about the church singing.

Beyond and below the lake lay grey and somber, shadowed by the winter sky. The wind stung her face and tweaked her fingers through her warm gloves. Directly in front of the Young house, she reined in her horse and contemplated it. How much had happened since she had married Frederick, and Ebenezer had married Helen Young—how much to her and to him!

Frederick's conduct had destroyed her illusions about marriage. She could be supremely happy if he would treat her a little more as if she were his wife, more as the husbands of her friends treated them. She rode on again slowly until through the willow trees she saw the smoke curling upward from the chimney of the Skinner shanty. Her heart beat furiously when she slipped from her horse and tied him to a fence post. Intuitively, she felt she'd find her husband with Tessibel Skinner. She walked the rest of the way down the hill, stopped before the hut and looked it over. All without lay dressed in its winter garb, and the small house, save for the smoke, appeared uninhabited.

Then as a human sound from a tomb, came Frederick's voice. Madelene staggered back. She realized that not for one single instant had she doubted she would find her husband there. And he was there! She'd heard his voice passionately insisting something. Red fire flashed in front of her eyes.

Without thought of consequences, she flung open the door and stood on the threshold, breathless and crimson, in all her indignant wifehood. Frederick stood near the chair in which sat Tessibel. In one single moment Madelene sent an appraising glance over the girl huddled in the wooden rocker—a woman's glance, mercilessly discovering her condition. Then her blazing eyes came back to Frederick. He had not spoken at her appearance—he had only reeled backward a few steps.

"You see I followed you," said Madelene in cold, metallic tones. "I knew you were coming here when you left home."

Tessibel got up slowly, went forward, and closed the door. Once more the man she loved had brought humiliation upon her.

"He were just a goin' to go!" she whispered, and she went back and dropped into her chair.

"Oh, he was, eh?" Madelene laughed harshly. "It's very good of you to let him go. I'll give you to understand my husband—"

She made a rapid step toward Tess, whose head went up instantly. The red-brown eyes battled an instant with the blue, stopping Madelene's progress. Frederick, stung to action, reached forth and grasped his wife's arm.

"Madelene!" he exclaimed. His tone brought flashing eyes upon him.

"You think I'm going to stand tamely by and watch you come here to see her?... You both think I'm a fool, I suppose. Well, I'm not such a fool as I look!"

Defiantly, the speaker surveyed her husband up and down. "I knew very well you intended coming here. That's why I asked—you to take me today and why I—followed you. I've had hard work to make myself believe you'd leave me for—"

Her scintillating look swept again over Tess from head to foot. Her eyes drew down at the corners; so did her lips. It dawned dazedly on Tess how much Madelene looked like her brother. Then, suddenly Mrs. Graves laughed, a note of triumph riding in her tones. She faced Frederick and throwing out both hands, disdainfully, at the squatter girl huddled in the chair, cried,

"My God, look at her! If you've any eyes, you'll see ..." and turning upon Tessibel, "Were you trying to pass off on my husband a spurious—" The scorn in the contemptuous tones of the shrill voice stung like a whip lash.

The appeal gathering slowly in Tess' eyes was but a dumb response to the other woman's taunting, bitter words. She could not have spoken had her life been at stake. She crouched down in terrified shame.

Then like a flash the meaning of his wife's words rushed over the almost stupefied man! God! and he had not known! Tessibel, her new light of coming motherhood, cowered before him like a stricken thing. He sprang forward during Madelene's hesitation and grasped his wife's arm again. He was so furiously angry his tightening fingers brought a cry of pain from her.

"Hush!" he cried peremptorily. "Hush!... You're crazy!... Haven't you any heart?... You've gone mad!"

Madelene shook off his hand.

"Yes, I'm mad half crazy. And you've made me so. Ever since I married you, you've had this girl in your mind morning, noon and night.... Now I know it! Oh, what a fool I was! I—I suppose possibly the next thing we'll know you'll be claiming the—"

Frederick shook her roughly.

"I said to stop it," he gritted. "Come away this minute."

Madelene, crying now, was struggling to pull herself from Frederick's grasp.

"I want to talk to that woman before I go," she screamed in desperation. "Let me go, Fred! I will speak to her."

"You'll not if I can help it," answered Frederick. "Come out of here, I say!"

By main strength he was drawing his wife toward the door. Tess was staring at them as if they were creatures from another world.

"I'm sorry," Frederick said directly over Madelene's head to her. "Dreadfully sorry."

"Sorry!" shrieked Madelene. "Sorry for such a woman! Look what you've done to me, both of you!" She wrenched herself from the strong fingers and flung back to the squatter girl. "I want to know if my husband is the father—"

Frederick had hold of her once more. The anger in his white face was terrible to see.

"If you speak to her again," he said murderously, "I'll—I'll—"

"I suppose you'll kill me," shrilled his wife. "Well, go ahead! The only way you'll ever get her will be when I'm dead!" Then she thrust her white working face close to his. "If she won't speak, will you? You're my husband, and I find you here with this—this—.... Are you the father of her baby?"

"No," said Frederick, dropping his eyes. "No, of course not!"

Tessibel bent her head to receive the last brutal stroke he had to give. She moved but uttered no sound.

"Well, do you love her then?" demanded Madelene.

And Frederick, not daring to look at Tess, repeated, "No, of course not.... Don't be a fool!"

"Then, what do you want of him, girl?" Madelene cried hoarsely to Tessibel. "You've heard what he said."

Tess thought she was going to die. All the awful hurt which had lain dormant for so many weeks rose up with ten thousand times the vigor. It was as if Heaven had belched out flames to consume her, and she knew there was no escape from this thing that had come upon her. Frederick had not only repudiated his love for her, but his baby too. She threw back her curls with a proud gesture.

"I don't want 'im," she said straight to Madelene. "Take 'im away an' don't let 'im come here any more."

When Madelene started to speak again, Frederick shoved her from the hut into the gray day. He turned once and looked at Tess. She was just where he'd left her, her eyes brimmed with sorrow and her teeth locked tightly together.

Then the door banged shut and she was alone in the kitchen. A little later she heard as in a dream the sound of horses' hoofs retreating far up the lane. Then all the powers of darkness closed in about her, and malicious elfin voices chattered her shame in her ears. Frederick had repudiated her and his child and had gone! Tess staggered forward, and a few minutes afterward, when Andy slipped down the ladder, he found her curled up on the cot insensible, her face shrouded in red curls.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE QUARREL

When Frederick Graves closed the door of the Skinner hut, he wheeled furiously upon his young wife.

"Come home," he said gruffly. "You've done enough harm for today."

"If I've done more than you have," retorted Madelene, tartly, "then I'm some little harm maker!" Suffering intensely from jealousy, she whirled about, crying, "That's what's been the matter with you all the time we've been abroad! And I know very well Tessibel Skinner sent for you to come home."

"That's a lie," interrupted Frederick, fiercely.

Madelene paused in her ascent of the hill lane.

"What made you come down here today, then, if you didn't want to see her yourself?"

Frederick was silent. He hated scenes like this. If he spoke his real mind, he'd plunge himself into hot water at once. And he was always careful not to do that. Silence at the present moment was better than speech. Besides, his late contact with Tessibel Skinner had left him aquiver. Oh, how he loved her! Every nerve in his body called out for sight of his beloved. He would have gone back to the shack if he'd dared.

"Where did you leave your horse?" snapped Madelene, when they'd nearly reached her own.

"In the lower stable at my father's old place,—over there."

"I'll help you mount and then get my horse," said he. "Do you wish to ride on without me?"

Mrs. Graves made a dissenting gesture.

"No, of course, I don't. I want you to come with me directly. I won't let you out of my sight so near that girl. I think it's perfectly outrageous! I somehow believe you lied to me about—"

"Keep your opinions to yourself," growled Frederick. "I've no wish to hear them."

Madelene was about to put her foot into the stirrup. Instead, she stood while fresh tears gathered under her lids.

"Frederick, you're cruel and awfully ugly to me," she said plaintively. "How can you do such things after all the money I've given you?"

Frederick expressed his feeling by a cynical little laugh.

"Perhaps if you didn't throw up your confounded benevolence so often, I might show more gratitude," he snapped back.

Then he lifted her to the saddle, gave her the bridle, and walked beside her to the barn.

His thoughts were busy until, when they reached home, the silence between them was appalling. Thankful to be a few minutes by himself, the young man went away to stable the horses and his wife entered the house. Madelene found her brother sitting before the grate fire. Helen looked up and smiled at her sweetly.

"Come and get warm, dear," she said. "You've had a long ride, haven't you?... Why, what's the matter, Madelene?"

Mrs. Graves dropped into a chair.

"I'm so awfully unhappy," she cried, "and Frederick's as mean as he can be.... I hate that Skinner girl!"

Mrs. Waldstricker dropped her work into her lap.

Ebenezer looked at his sister critically.

"What's she done to you now?" he asked, without waiting for his wife to speak.

Madelene flung up an angry, flushed face.

"She's done enough! I hate her and always shall. She sent for Frederick to come down there—and he went—"

"Are you sure?" asked Mrs. Waldstricker, in a shocked voice.

"Of course I'm sure! I'm not in the habit of saying things I'm not sure of, Helen. I might have known when people told me he was in love with that squatter it was true."



Her loud, angry voice reached Frederick as he entered the room. The frown deepened on his brow. He looked at his brother-in-law for a minute. He never remembered being so angry before.

"Madelene has told a direct falsehood when she says Tessibel Skinner sent for me," he said. "She did not!"

"But I found him in her shanty, Ebenezer dear," thrust in Madelene, "and she's a wicked, little huzzy."

"Hush!" cried Frederick, white-lipped.

"I won't hush, so there!" screamed his wife. "I won't! I won't!... And, Ebenezer, she's bad, she is! She's going to have a—"

Frederick wheeled around desperately. Madelene was placing him at the extreme of his endurance. Human nature could bear no more.

"Oh, my God, such a woman!" he exclaimed.

"There, you see!" gasped Madelene. "He won't listen to a thing against her, and he's been acting as guilty as he could all the way home.... No wonder I don't believe a word he says!"

Mrs. Waldstricker picked up her work, folded it, and laid it on the table.

"But, Madelene, it's so bewildering," she exclaimed. "Tell us, dear, just what happened."

Between sobs and tears Madelene went over the trial she had passed through, and continued, "While we were abroad, I thought there was something the matter with him, and I know one day he got a letter. He wouldn't let me see it, though I begged him to. Now, I know it was from her!" The speaker flung about upon her sister-in-law. "If you could have seen her today, Helen, the shameless thing! She didn't even have the grace to say she was sorry for anything she'd done."

"She probably wasn't," monotoned Waldstricker. Then he looked directly at his wife. "I've often argued with your brother about those squatters. They're a pest to the county. Deforrest—"

"Oh, don't blame Deforrest, Ebenezer," Helen interjected agitatedly. "He's so good at heart, and he did all he could for the little Skinner girl. I know there's some mistake. I'll go down and see her tomorrow."

Waldstricker got up heavily.

"You'll do no such thing," he retorted. "Don't dare go near—her!"

Helen flushed at her husband's tone.

"But Deforrest is away," she argued timidly. "I feel I ought to do something."

Madelene went hastily to her brother's side.

"Don't let her go, Ebbie," she gasped. "It's an awful place; a little bit of a hut—"

"I've been in it many times," interrupted Helen, with dignity, "and I do feel, Ebenezer—"

"I want no argument about the matter," said Waldstricker, sternly. "If she's in the condition Madelene says she is, then her home is no place for my wife.... It's shameful, absolutely shameful!"

"But, Ebenezer, she's probably been unfortunate. Poor little child! I wish you'd—"

Waldstricker cut her plea in two with an angry gesture.

"I command you not to go there," said he, sharply.

"Very well," sighed Helen. "Of course, I'll do as you wish."

Then she got up quietly and went upstairs. Indeed, had she her way, she'd have gone to Tessibel Skinner without hesitation. She knew her brother would be grieved to his heart's core, if this awful thing had happened to the little red-headed squatter girl. But she had no choice in the matter.

Frightened, too, she wondered what Ebenezer's plans were. He was so relentless in his desire to punish sinners. Bye and bye, when she was less nervous, she'd ask him to wait until Deforrest returned before doing anything.

Her head was throbbing with excitement. Her heart, too, ached for Tessibel. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. Presently, she heard Ebenezer's slow tread coming upstairs. When he entered the room, she raised her lids and smiled.

"Come here, dear," she murmured.

He came directly to her side.

"What is it, my darling?" he asked tenderly.

"I feel so unhappy about the little Skinner girl," sobbed Helen.

"I'm sorry, dear, but you must not go against my wishes. As a good and obedient wife, you should realize I know best. I can't allow you to go down into that cabin."

"I won't go, dearest, but will you please promise me one thing—"

Ebenezer bent upon her a look so stern she dared not finish. "Oh, I do wish Deforrest were here!" she ended irrelevantly.

"I do, too; but as long as he is not, you must trust me to do what I think best."

He went out abruptly, and Helen Waldstricker cried herself to sleep.



CHAPTER XXIV

WALDSTRICKER INTERFERES

That evening Frederick Graves shook in his shoes when he returned home and received Waldstricker's message to meet him in the library at nine o'clock. If there was one person in the world he didn't want to see just then, it was his dictatorial brother-in-law. He stood in his room considering the situation, when he heard the grandfather's clock on the stairs slowly strike the hour of nine.

"Well, it won't help any to keep him waiting," he muttered.

Unwillingly, he walked down the stairs to the library door. Pausing, he saw Ebenezer seated at the table reading the Bible.

"Come in and sit down," greeted the latter, curtly.

"Thanks," said Frederick, taking a chair. "Mind if I smoke?"

The man thus addressed made no answer. He read a verse or two partly aloud as if to himself, then closed the book and laid it on the table.

"What's the matter between you and Madelene?" he inquired presently, fixing Frederick with a steady gaze.

"Nothing.... Nothing, that I'm to blame for. Madelene followed me to the lake and found me in Skinner's shack. That's all the row was about."

"Why were you there?" Waldstricker did not change his tone.

Frederick threw his cigarette into the smoldering grate and shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"Can't a fellow stop in a shanty without the whole town gossiping about it?" he demanded peevishly.

"That's just it, Frederick. I don't want people talking about my sister's husband and a squatter girl," the older man explained. "I must know why you were there."

"Look at here, Eb," exclaimed the boy, "why don't you let Madelene and me fight out our own quarrels? I don't interfere with you and Helen."

"Huh! I should hope not!" growled Waldstricker. "But quarrels are not what we're talking about.... Why were you in the Skinner hut?... Are you in love with that girl?"

"God! No! Are you mad? What's the matter with everybody?"

"There's nothing the matter, my boy, only I want to warn you I won't have my sister unhappy."

"She makes herself unhappy," growled Frederick, selecting another cigarette from his case.

"I can't see any use of your going down there at all," Ebenezer went on, turning to poke the fire. "It doesn't look well after the things that happened in your family."

"That's just it," said Frederick, using the elder's words as an excuse; "our trouble makes it quite proper some one of my family should go there. The girl did enough for us, God knows."

Waldstricker gave a decided negative shake of his head.

"It's your mother's place to go, not yours. You don't want a scandal, do you?... Let her go there if any one does."

Again Frederick found an excuse.

"She can't go when she's out of Ithaca, and I took Miss Skinner a message from my mother today. If Madelene hadn't acted so abominably, I'd have told her about it."

Waldstricker looked keenly at the other man.

"I didn't notice you tried very hard to explain matters this afternoon! Now, did you?"

"I was mad," retorted Frederick, sulkily.

"May I see the message your mother sent?" came quickly from Waldstricker.

Frederick started. Evidently his brother-in-law didn't believe his story.

"If Miss Skinner'll give it to you, you can!" said he. "... I say, Eb, let Madelene and me get out of this the best way we can, won't you? Tell Maddie to behave herself and leave the Skinner girl's name out of her rages at me.... That's all I ask."

"No," thundered Ebenezer, wrathfully. "I won't have my sister in tears all the time over a squatter girl. Madelene says you received letters from her abroad."

"Well, I didn't," snapped back Frederick.

"That's past, anyhow! Now, then, I'm going to tell you something. I need a man to go to San Francisco to our office there, and as Madelene wants a change, I'm going to send you."

Frederick shuddered. Had he dared, he would have rebelled at this wholesale delivering him over, tied hand and foot, to his tempestuous young wife. If he were sent away, what would become of Tessibel? His heart turned sick with apprehension. He had had no time to explain his plans to her.