"You have no objections to going, I suppose?" Ebenezer broke in on his harassing thoughts.

"No! If Madelene's satisfied, I am," replied Frederick, flipping the ash from his cigarette.

"Then be ready to get away by, let me see, early in March," his brother-in-law announced.

Early in March, and this was but December! He had that much grace then. He could do something for Tess if the family relaxed its vigilance upon him a little.

"And there's something else," proceeded Waldstricker. "It's—it's this!"

Then he deliberately made a statement that brought a red fire into Frederick's eyes. He staggered to his feet.

"You wouldn't, you couldn't do that, Ebenezer," he groaned.

"Oh, ho!... That gets you on the raw, does it, young man?" sneered the elder, one lip-corner rising to an unusual height. "So you do care that much, eh?... A while ago you made the statement she was nothing to you."

"I want to be human," Frederick managed to get out.

"Human, eh? No, that's not it! What you want is a few other women on your staff besides your wife. But you won't as long as you're married to my sister, and I'm running things. I'll see that none of the members of my family disobey my law or God's law either."

The big man got to his feet, slipped his hands into his pocket, and stared at his white-faced, young brother-in-law.

"How does my little scheme suit you?" he demanded grimly.

"I think it perfectly devilish, by God, I do," cried Frederick.

"Oh, you do, eh? So you swear with your other faults?... Does my sister approve of that?"

"I've never asked her," snapped Frederick, "and if you're through with me, I'd like to go."

"Have a little talk with Madelene before you go to bed—and, oh, Fred—" he called after the young man hurrying up the stairs.

Frederick paused, his hand on the banister.

"By the way, I shall want your assistance in the little matter I spoke of."



CHAPTER XXV

THE SUMMONS

Jake Brewer paused in the lane opposite Skinner's home. The shanty was almost snowed in. A thin curl of smoke trailed up from the chimney and drifted among the leafless branches of the willow trees.

Brewer dropped a pair of dead rabbits to the deep snow at his side, and shifted the gun he held in his right hand to his left. Then, he fumbled in his overcoat pockets. Discovering what he wanted, he picked up the rabbits and walked through the path to the hut.

Tess took down the bar at his rap.

"Lot o' snow, Tessie," smiled Brewer. "Here, I brought ye some letters."

Tessibel took the two letters the fisherman handed her.

"They got yer name writ on 'em, brat," said he, knocking the snow from his boots against the clap boards. "That's how I knowed they was your'n."

A shadowy smile flitted over the squatter girl's face.

"Sure, they be fer me," she replied. She turned the letters over in her hands. "Thank ye, Jake, fer bringin' 'em.... Come in a minute, won't ye?"

"Sure, an' I air always glad to do somethin' fer ye, kid.... How's yer pa this mornin'?"

Brewer stepped into the hut, placed his gun and the rabbits in the corner, and spread his hands over the stove.

"He ain't so well today, Jake! Poor Daddy, he suffers somethin' awful with his heart, Daddy does.... It air rheumatism."

"Ever try eel skins, brat?" asked Brewer, sitting down. "My grandma wore a eel skin for rheumatiz for twenty-five years, an' Holy Moses, the sufferin' that woman had durin' 'em times my tongue ain't able to tell!"

Tess glanced at the letters in her hand half-heartedly.

"We've tried 'em, too, Jake," she answered. "Daddy's been wrapped in 'em night after night. But they don't seem to do no good."

"D'ye ever have Ma Moll incant over him, Tessie?"

Tessibel nodded her head.

"Yep, I give 'er three dollars for ten incants an' they didn't do no good uther." She went a step nearer Brewer. "But I air prayin' hard, Jake, every day for 'im," she confided softly.

Brewer nodded his head.

"I guess that air better'n incants any time if ye can do it, kid," he smiled.

"I guess so, too," agreed the girl. "Tell Miss Brewer I'll be to see her soon as the weather gits better."

Jake got up, scratched his head, and thought a moment.

"I might leave ye a rabbit, seein' yer daddy ain't well 'nough to do no gunnin'," said he.

"Ye're awful good, Jake," murmured Tessibel, following the man to the door. "Stop in any day."

"All right," and Jake struck out toward the rock path.

Tess closed the door and put up the bar. Andy was eyeing her from the ceiling.

"What ye got, kid?" he whispered.

Tess held up the letters.

"Two of 'em, an' this one air from Mr. Young. Shall I read it to ye, Andy?" she asked, looking up.

The little man chuckled with joy.

"I'd like to hear it," said he.

Tess drew a chair under the boyish face peering upon her, and sat down.

"Dear Tessibel," she read.

"I hoped to be home this week, but find my work won't be finished. Please keep at your books and study hard. Get the doctor any time you need him for your father. I know you're trying to be a brave little girl, and may God bless you. Affectionately, Deforrest Young."

Tessibel choked on the last word.

"It air awful hard to be brave, Andy," she faltered, brushing away a tear.

The dwarf made a dash at his own eyes.

"Ye got another letter," he cut in irrelevantly.

"Yep," said Tess.

After pulling forth the second sheet, she spread it out and read it through without looking up.

"Miss Tessibel Skinner:

"It is necessary for you to attend a church meeting next Wednesday afternoon at three o'clock in the chapel. Please oblige,

"SILANDER GRIGGS, Pastor."

"Anything much?" demanded the dwarf, interestedly.

"Nope, Andy, only a note askin' me to come to church tomorrow afternoon, but I jest can't go, Andy!... I can't! I ain't been fer two Sundays, now, 'cause I been feelin' so bad."

She raised her eyes full of misery to meet Andy's sympathetic gaze. How could she go after that awful scene nearly three weeks before with Madelene and Frederick? She never could face the Waldstricker family again.

"I won't never go to church, ever any more," she mourned presently.

"Mebbe not, dear," returned the dwarf, smothered in his throat. "An' the church'll be worser off'n you!"

Troubled in spirit, Tess considered the letter a few minutes.

"I s'pose they be gittin' up somethin' fer Christmas, an' I ought to go an' tell 'em I can't sing. I said as how I would over three months ago if Miss Waldstricker'd help me; but I can't.... Will ye look after Daddy while I air gone, Andy?"

"Sure," agreed the dwarf. "I'll slide under his bed an' talk the pains right out o' 'im."

"I wish the meetin' was in the mornin'," Tess sighed. "It gits dark so early, an' Mr. Young ain't home! He'd come an' git me an' bring me back if he were. It air a long walk," and she sighed again.

"Mebbe 'twon't be so cold tomorrow as it air today," cheered Andy and they lapsed into silence.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE CHURCHING

The dawning of Wednesday brought one of those drab days so frequent in the lake-country. The daylight, dim even at high noon, hardly suggested a possible sun shining anywhere. Misty sheets of stinging ice-particles drove from the northern skyline to the hill south of Ithaca.

The snow crunched sharply under Tessibel's feet as she picked her way from the shanty to the lane. Kennedy's brindle bull, leaping and barking, invited her to a frolic. The girl called the dog to her, and petted him.

"No, no, Pete, Tess ain't able to run an' play with ye any more," she told him, sadly, "but ye can go with me to Hayt's."

Nuzzling her hand, the great dog walked soberly by her side, as though he understood. Tess shivered a little as the frost-laden air bit nippingly at her ears. The winter birds between her and the lake lifted their wings and mounted against the wind, some driving in flocks, others now and then by twos and threes. Tess followed their flight through the storm.... How strong and happy they seemed!

For an instant she paused at the gate in front of Deforrest Young's empty house. The snow had drifted until the path could no longer be discerned. A little twinge of loneliness touched Tessibel's heart. Her friend would not be at the church that day.

When she came within sight of the chapel, she bent and petted Pete. She took his head between her gloved hands and looked into the lovely eyes shining out of his ugly face.

"Go home, Petey dearie," she said. "Tessibel air goin' to church. They don't let dogs in God's house, honey."

Obediently the dog turned and trotted off.

Tess opened the chapel door and stepped in. Buffeted, as she had been by the storm, she met the warmth within with a grateful little sigh.

Half-way to the stove in the middle of the room, she stopped, arrested by the unusual group beyond. Ebenezer Waldstricker stood there, surrounded by the elders of the church. In all she counted five men: the minister, Silander Griggs, and three elders. At one side sat Frederick Graves.

Puzzled and embarrassed by Frederick's presence and appearance, half-conscious of something menacing in the stern faces turned toward her, she was tempted, weary as she was, to turn back into the blizzard raging without. As she awkwardly scraped the snow from her shoes, Pastor Griggs came to her and led her to a seat near the fire.

Waldstricker gazed at her critically, but didn't bow his head. Tessibel didn't mind if people failed to speak to her, and she didn't like Waldstricker anyway. She did not look at Frederick after that first fleeting glance, but bowed her head on the pew-back in front from sheer weariness. The memory of that scene in the cabin three weeks previous recurred with renewed clearness. Madelene's insulting words, re-echoing in her ears, made her grow faint from stinging humiliation. Oh, how sorry she was she'd come to church! She could have asked Jake Brewer to bring up a note explaining that she could not take part in the Christmas doings.

The sound of moving feet told her the time had arrived for opening the meeting. If she thought at all of the absence of the female members of the church, she sought for no other reason than the steadily increasing blizzard.

One by one she heard the men take their places. Then, the pastor cleared his throat loudly and began to pray. Perfect silence save for his droning voice filled the small chapel. Tess heard him praying for the members of the congregation, for the mothers at home with their children, and as usual for all earthly sinners.

"And particularly, dear Lord," continued the deep voice, "may thy tender mercy and loving kindness visit the heart of our sinning sister here present and soften it, making her obedient to these thy servants, to whom Thou hast committed the government of thy church."

Why! What had he said? "Sinning sister ... here present." Why, they were all men but her! The pastor finished his prayer with a resounding "Amen," in which the elders joined reverently. Confused, Tessibel sat back in the pew, puzzled and frightened.

"I have before me here on my desk," Griggs announced, "a letter from Deforrest Young. In answer to a letter from the church, asking him to be with us this afternoon, he has requested that Brother Ebenezer Waldstricker be instructed to vote in his name.... I do so instruct you, Brother Waldstricker."

Ebenezer moved in his seat as if in consent.

"It's a delicate matter which we have to consider," observed the minister, looking from pale face to pale face.

Tessibel glanced at the speaker. He, too, was ashen in the dim afternoon light.

"Come to the point, please," commanded Waldstricker, curtly.

The minister bowed his head in silent prayer.

"Tessibel Skinner," he said, "I ask you to stand up."

The girl got up obediently, but sank down again, her trembling legs refused to support her. She did not, however, turn her startled brown eyes from her pastor's face.

"It is charged against you, Tessibel Skinner," he read from a paper before him, "that you have broken the laws of God and violated the discipline of this church; that you, an unmarried woman, are now pregnant. Are you guilty or not guilty?"

As the accusing voice ceased, the stern eyes of the dark-faced men, who had watched her closely during the reading, seemed to pierce her through and through, ... to lay bare her most intimate secrets.

What should she say? She wasn't unmarried, as the pastor had charged, but the rest was true. Without Frederick's consent, she couldn't explain; she couldn't deny the charge. Surely, Frederick would stand forth and defend her now. She listened intently for a sound from him. She dared not turn toward him, for fear she might break her promise by some look or word. But nothing except the storm-sounds disturbed the silence of the little church. Frederick had failed her again!

Unable alike to plead guilty or not guilty, she sat head bowed and eyes downcast before her judges.

Waldstricker broke the appalling hush.

"Speak up, girl," he ordered harshly. "You're guilty, aren't you?"

The forlorn child struggled to her feet and raised her eyes to the speaker's face.

"Oh, sirs, don't ask me 'bout it," she begged with outstretched hands. "I can't tell ye nothing 'bout it 'cept ... I air goin' to have a baby in the spring."

Waldstricker glanced significantly at the other elders who nodded in acquiescence. Then he turned to the minister, still in the pulpit.

"It is enough," he decided sternly. "She has confessed her sin."

Dropping again into the pew, Tessibel cast a quick glance toward Frederick, who stared set-faced out into the storm.

"We find, Tessibel Skinner," continued the minister, as though reciting a carefully rehearsed speech, "you have sinned grievously. Your silence convicts you. You are no longer worthy of membership in this church, of communion with Christian people. But it is not right that you should suffer alone. For your soul's welfare and in the interest of justice, I ask you the name of the man—"

Tess got up again and faced them ... disgraced and outcast might be, but she must be loyal to her promise.

"Don't ask me that, sir," she pleaded, bewildered, flinging a terrified glance toward the door. "I air goin' now, an'll never come no more, but don't ask me to say nothin', please."

She turned into the aisle as Griggs stepped from the platform. She directed an appealing glance toward him that cut the man's heart through like a knife.

"I want to go," she repeated. "Please!"

"Not yet," broke in Waldstricker, grim-jawed. "It's the duty of this church to teach you a lesson if it can."

Tess looked helplessly at the row of stern men. What did they intend to do to her? Oh, if they'd but let her go back to Daddy Skinner!

"Please let me go home to my daddy," she pleaded faintly. "I'll never come no more, but I can't—I can't talk."

Waldstricker walked toward her menacingly.

"You've got to talk," he gritted, grasping her arm. "You've simply got to answer what the pastor just asked you."

Tess flashed him a look of abhorrence. Oh, how she hated this man!... It seemed to her that he killed for the sake of killing ... tortured for the pure joy of it. She set her teeth hard on her under lip, shaking his hand from her arm.

"I won't talk!" she cried. "You let go of me! See? You touch me again an'—an'—I'll—I'll—"

She paused for some fitting threat. Would no one help her? No, not a friendly face met her searching gaze. If she could get to the door—out into the snow, under God's grey sky! But as if divining her intention, the elders gathered in an accusing squad in front of her. Frederick remained in his chair by the window, apparently oblivious to the tragedy being enacted in his presence.

"I wish ye'd let me go home to my Daddy Skinner," she prayed again.

Her curls fell in a cluster over either shoulder as she sank to her knees in the aisle.

Waldstricker whirled upon Griggs.

"Make her tell us what we must know," he insisted, "or by the God that rules this house, I'll have her sent to some place where incorrigible girls go!"

Incorrigible girls! He had said incorrigible girls of her, Tessibel Skinner, who obeyed even a glance from any one she loved. Desperately, she made a direct appeal to him.

"My daddy's near dead, Mr. Waldstricker. Please don't send me away from him, not yet—not just yet."

"Then answer what we ask of you, child," interjected the minister. "I think Brother Waldstricker has some questions to ask you."

Waldstricker drew a paper from his pocket.

"How old are you, Tessibel Skinner?" he demanded.

"Over half past sixteen," whispered the girl's white lips.

She was over half past sixteen. There was no harm in telling that. It wouldn't hurt Frederick for the church people to know her age.

"Are you a member of this church?"

Tessibel lifted her head. "Ye all know I air."

"Then answer this," shouted Eb. "Who is the man that made you unfit for decent people to speak to?"

The wobegone face hid its crimson tide in two quivering hands. The end of the shining red curls swept the floor. Frederick made no sound.

"Who is he?" insisted Waldstricker once more.

"I can't tell," moaned the girl.

"I'll make you tell," he threatened, infuriated.

"I won't!" reiterated Tess, raising her head. "I can't."

Madelene's sad, tearful face flashed through Waldstricker's mind with the suspicions she had aroused against Frederick. Like an angry horse, his nostrils lifted and sniffed the air. Fury against this girl rode in his heart.

"You needn't tell us the man's name," he taunted triumphantly. "We already know it."

Up struggled Tess to her feet and thrust back the tawny curls feverishly. If they knew, then Frederick had told them.

"And you've got to marry him," Waldstricker's hoarse voice came to her ears.

Why, she was married to him!... that long ago night. If he had told them anything, why had he not told them all? She dared not look around, but waited breathlessly.

"We've decided," Ebenezer proceeded, "that if you consent to our plans, you will suffer no further disgrace. You can go away with your husband and have your home—"

Tess grew dizzy ... this time with joy. She had been given back her husband, her Frederick! Waldstricker had used the word "home." A home with—with—His voice broke in upon her dreams brusquely, creating grotesque figures in her brain. What was he saying? She turned dilating eyes toward him.

"Lysander Letts! Lysander Letts!" Waldstricker shouted again.

The door at the side of the pulpit swung open and Sandy slouched in and came forward.

"Here's your woman," the elder continued, looking from Tess to the squatter. "Take her, and may God forgive you both for the sin you've committed."

Tess stood rigidly waiting. She didn't turn her head toward the oncoming man; rather she centered a prolonged gaze upon her persecutor. When she felt some one pause at her side, she moved away, still without speaking.

"Parson Griggs, marry the man and woman," roared Waldstricker.

Excitedly he tossed the damp hair from his forehead, his cheek muscles working involuntarily. His scheme was near its fruition. Tessibel Skinner was almost married. Already Ebenezer could see, in his mind's eye, how happy Madelene would be when he brought her the news.

The big, dark-faced squatter was standing beside the red-headed girl, and Silander Griggs was hurriedly hunting through a book for the marriage ceremony.

"Make it short," gritted Waldstricker to the minister.

Tess stood as if she had died standing, her face devoid of blood even to the lips. Misery, deep and unutterable, rested upon the white face. When she raised her eyes and saw Letts at her side, and Griggs with an open book in front of her, she wheeled away without a word.

"Marry him!" cried Waldstricker.

"No," said Tess.

"Letts, take hold of her hand," commanded the elder.

Sandy, rage working alive in his eyes, tried to obey the churchman. But the girl took another step away.

"Gimme yer hand," growled Sandy.

All he wanted was to get the squatter girl into his possession. He had not forgotten the threats he had made in other days, and in another hour, he would wring from her the name he wanted.

"No," said Tess again.

"You mean you're not going to marry Mr. Letts?" asked Griggs.

Tessibel caught her breath, swayed, but shook her head.

"No, I ain't goin' to marry 'im," she answered.

Marry Sandy Letts, a man she hated! Of course she couldn't!... She was already married. She couldn't commit such a sin as that, not even if—if—She turned a little and glanced in the direction of Frederick, but dropped her eyes before they found him.

Waldstricker grew intense with suspense, and a sudden determination to test his and Madelene's suspicions came over him.

"Frederick," he cried, "come here and help us force this huzzy to marry the man who betrayed her!"

Frederick rose from his chair as though to obey, and in turning, looked squarely into the girl's eyes.

"My God, Eb, I can't!" he protested, his voice thick with horror. "Let her go, Eb! For God's sake, man, you can't marry her against her will! Let her go!"

He sank down, and rested his head on his arms upon the chair back, his shoulders shaking violently.

The minister came to Tessibel's side. He placed a pitying hand on her head, facing his elders.

"Let her go home, brethren," he entreated. "You can't make her do this thing if she refuses, and the ... business can go on without her."

"She's a wicked girl," snorted Ebenezer, with a bitter twist of his lips.

"I say to let her go," repeated Griggs.

"And I say she shall be punished," Waldstricker glared from the minister to the elders and then rested his gaze on Frederick, who was by this time sobbing in great gulps.

Pastor Griggs considered his parishioner's angry face. Griggs was young and stood in awe of some members of his flock—Waldstricker most of all, but the sight of the girl in such anguish overcame his timidity, and he cried:

"Let him that is without sin among you first cast a stone at her."

Tessibel sank sobbing to the floor, and her pastor stood by her side, hand uplifted, waiting.

Then over Ebenezer's countenance flashed a look of self-righteous fanaticism, which made large the pupils of his dark eyes and inflamed his swarthy skin deepest crimson. He strode to the stove, picked from the scuttle a ragged chunk of coal, and when he turned again, he had changed from red to white. Crazed, he took two steps toward the kneeling girl.

"I can cast the first stone," he said swiftly.

He lifted his arm and before any man could stay his hand, something whirled through the intervening space and struck the kneeling squatter girl. High pandemonium broke loose. Voices, some censorious, some approving, contended.

"I have first cast a stone at her," cried Waldstricker, above the din. "Let others follow if they dare!"

Tessibel crouched lower to the floor, a bleeding wound in her neck. She had made no outcry when the missile met and lacerated her flesh. Dully, she wondered if they intended to kill her, and for a moment a sickening dread took possession of her when she thought of Daddy and Andy. She was growing faint and dizzy, but struggled to her feet as Griggs took her arm. He led her through the Chapel aisle, pushing aside the other men. At the door, Tess caught one glimpse of Sandy Letts' dark, passionate face.

"Go home," the minister said hoarsely; "and may God forgive us all."

* * * * *

How Tessibel found her way home, she could never afterwards tell. Spent by the struggle with the storm, she staggered into the shanty. It took almost the last atom of her strength to close the door against the howling blizzard. Leaning against the wall, she looked up and saw Andy staring at her from the hole in ceiling, his fingers on his lips.

"It were awful cold under the bed," he told her. "Yer Daddy air asleep, so I came up here to keep warm!"

When he noticed the girl's unusual appearance, he scurried down the ladder, waddled across the kitchen, and stood in front of his friend.

"What air the matter, brat?" he quivered.

Solicitous, he helped her into a chair near the fire and took off her hat and coat. The blood from the neck wound had made crimson blotches on her white waist.

"Ye're hurt, honey," he cried, alarmed. "How'd it happen?"

"I air hurt a little," said she, faintly. "Fetch me some water, dear, an' don't—don't tell Daddy!"

"Get on the cot, kid," said he, "an' I'll put up the bar."

In another moment he was leaning over her. He brushed back the tousled hair from the girl's forehead, and pulled away the long curls seeped with blood.

"I air yer friend, brat," he whispered. "Tell me 'bout it."

Tessibel had to confide in somebody.

"I'll get a rag first an' wipe ye off," said the dwarf. "My, but ye did get a cut, didn't ye?... What did it?"

Gently he began to wash away the crimson stain from her face and neck.

"Somebody hit ye?" he demanded presently.

"Yep."

"Who?... Who dared do it?" The dwarf's face darkened with rage. "Where were the brute that done it?"

"Andy," sobbed Tess, "I air goin' to tell ye somethin'; ye may think I air awful wicked, but—but—Andy, don't tell Daddy, but in the spring I air goin' to—"

"Yep, I know, Tess," he murmured. "I heard the woman yellin' at ye the uther day way through my blankets. But 'tain't nothin' to cry over. God'll bless ye, brat, and God'll bless—it!"

Her sobbing slowly subsided, and in halting words Tess told the dwarf the story of the afternoon's dreadful experience.

"And, Andy, it were awful. Mr. Griggs wanted to let me go home, but the uther men wouldn't, an' then the minister says like Jesus did to the men who were goin' to stone the poor woman, 'Let him that ain't a sinner throw the first stone,' an' Waldstricker picked up a great hunk o' coal and hit me with it. Do ye suppose he air so awful good an' I air so awful wicked he had a right to strike me?"

"Sure he didn't, Tess," Andy comforted. "Course not!"

The willows moaned their weird song to the night, the wind shrieked in battling anger over the tin on the roof, while the snowflakes came against the window like pale eyes looking in upon the squatter girl and the dwarf on his knees beside the cot bed.



CHAPTER XXVII

DADDY SKINNER'S DEATH

It was Saturday evening, three days after Tessibel Skinner had been churched from Hayt's Chapel. The night wind called forth moaning complaints from the willow trees. The rasping of their bare limbs against the tin roof of the cottage did not disturb Daddy Skinner struggling for breath in the room below. All the familiar night-noises kept a death vigil with the squatter girl.

A sound outside made her lift her head. Kennedy's brindle bull was scratching to come in. She rose, went to the door and opened it. Pete ambled over the threshold and curled down by the stove.

"Anythin' the matter, brat?" whispered Andy.

"No, I were lettin' in the dog," explained Tess, resuming her seat beside Daddy Skinner who was stretched, dying, on her cot. She had moved him from the back room into the warm kitchen, and at that moment he was sleeping restlessly. The sight of his working face brought a quick hand to Tessibel's lips, and her white teeth set deeply into the upraised knuckles to help stifle the groans. Every trouble of her own sank into insignificance before the calamity facing her. Many times Tess had viewed death afar off, but not until the past three days had it threatened her own loved ones. In that hour she was experiencing the extremity of sorrow, and each aching nerve in her body seemed to possess a stabbing volition of its own, for again and again the torturing points stung her flesh like whips.

For three long days she had managed somehow to uphold the dear, dying father. No word had come from Deforrest Young, and Tess felt sure he had returned twenty-four hours before. Perhaps Waldstricker had robbed her of her dearest friend. Bitterly pained, the girl realized what the loss would mean to her. Yet she had no censure in her heart for Deforrest Young; indeed no bitterness for Frederick Graves; only a deep, deep gratitude to the one, and a great, overwhelming love for the other. And while thinking of what an empty void her life was becoming, Tess saw her father's head turn and his lids lift heavily.

"Daddy!" she murmured, but if he heard, he did not heed. He was gazing steadily at something over and beyond her head, and then he smiled at it. In superstitious dread, the squatter girl glanced where the faded eyes were directed. What had he seen? A face, perhaps, or the passing shade that always haunted a squatter shanty when some one was dying, but then, many times she, too, had seen faces in the rafters up there among the dry nets.

"My pretty brat," were the words that brought her startled eyes back to her father. Her throat filling with heavy sobs, she went over and kissed him stormily. The horny, stiff fingers gathered a few of her red curls and drew them slowly upward until parched lips touched them, while tears stole from under withered lids, and Tess cried out in sharp anguish.

"Daddy Skinner, I can't live without ye!" she moaned, cupping his face with her hands. "Take Tessibel with ye; take 'er, please!"

She cuddled at his side, lifted one of his heavy arms and put it around her in pleading anguish. Just then it seemed as if it would put off the approach of death if she insisted on staying within the broad grasp of Daddy Skinner's arms.

She was wiping away his tears, tenderly touching the dying face with faltering fingers.

"I saw yer ma," choked Skinner thickly, and he smiled again.

Tess turned her head, a dreadful sinking in her soul. Her mother's face, then, was what Daddy had seen away off up there among the rafters. The mother who had died so long ago had come after her dear one. Drawing one tense set of fingers backward across her cheek, Tess stood up quickly. Perhaps—perhaps—

She threw a glance at the ceiling. Daddy Skinner had seen her mother. They were going away together. If they would but take her with them! She turned unsteadily to go she knew not where, but the sound of her father's voice brought her quickly back.

"Brat," he faltered, "lean down—I want to tell ye somethin'."

Tess bent her ear close to the thick blue lips.

"I air here, Daddy! Tess air here," she mourned.

Long, laboring breaths moved the red curls hanging about the girl's rigid face.

"I said as how I air here, Daddy," she murmured again, touching him.

But Daddy Skinner was once more gazing into the dark rafters, his jaws apart, the greyness of death settling about his mouth.

"Daddy! Daddy!" screamed Tess. "Don't look like that! Don't go away—oh, Daddy, please!... Andy! Andy!"

The dwarf slipped down the ladder, and dropped at the side of the bed. The dog roused from his nap by the stove was already there, nuzzling his tawny head against his distressed friend, while he made inarticulate sounds of sympathy in his deep throat.

"Pal Skinner!" Andy cried, white with apprehension. "Give us a word, old horse."

Placing his hand upon Pete's collar, the dwarf drew him, with a word of command, to the floor beside him.

The dying fisherman looked from his prison friend to his daughter. He lifted a limp hand, and it rested upon the girl's bowed head. The other he dropped heavily on Andy Bishop's shoulder. It was as if he were giving to them both his parting benediction. In mechanical sequence the dwarf counted the dying man's mouth open and shut five times before the struggling voice came forth.

"I were goin' to say somethin' to ye, Tess," he then gasped, moistening his lips. "Gimme a—drink—of water."

Andy held the cup while Orn drank. He struggled to swallow, belching forth hot breath.

"When I air gone, brat dear," he articulated huskily, "stay in the shanty an' take care of Andy till there ain't no more danger fer 'im. Ye'll promise me, Tess?"

She enclosed his hand in hers and held it to her lips.

"I were a wantin' to go with you and Mummy, Daddy," she sobbed. "I air always lonely in the shanty without ye—but if ye say, 'Stay with Andy,' then I stays."

"That air what I says, brat, darlin'," panted Skinner.

Then for many minutes he was lost in the terrible struggle of strong life against the grip of death. Tess wound her arms about his neck and lifted the great head to her breast. She stared at his changing face as at an advancing ghost.

He seemed to be slipping slowly into the great beyond, and she was powerless to hold him back.

How many times had Daddy Skinner spoken of dying! How many times had she heard him agree with Andy that death was better than life any day! But at those times she had beaten back the muttered words of her father and the dwarf. Ah, in those days, death had been far away, kept off by happiness unsurpassed!

"It air hard fer some folks to die," wailed the fisherman. "An' so easy fer uthers. Me—now me—Oh, God, oh, brat-love, let me go! I hurt so! I hurt awful—let me go!"

The heart of the tortured, sobbing girl seemed to be bursting from its pain and suspense. Her beloved father wanted to go away—to follow the wraith mother beckoning from the rafters. How could she open her arms and allow him to leave her alone in the shanty!

"Help me, brat-love," sighed Daddy Skinner once more. "Help yer old sick daddy!"

Help him! How could she? Hitherto Tessibel's faith had loyally responded to every demand upon her. But she couldn't help her daddy die! She knew not how! Then, as if drawn by some invisible power, her eyes lifted, piercing the shadows among the time-dried nets. And there, for one small moment, she saw—she saw a face, a young, girlish face, infinitely sweet, smiling down upon her.

"It air the Mummy!" she cried, her voice vibrant with love. "I air goin' to help 'im, darlin'."

Buoyantly her mind gripped the old-time faith, the redoubtable faith that had opened wide Auburn Prison, that had restored to her arms this same adored father. She had helped him then—and oh, to help him now! His great cry, "God, Tessibel, let me be goin'!" rang in her ears. Her gaze was glued to his face. Terror and pain were strangling his throat until his eyes grew death-dark in the struggle. Tessibel lifted her ashen face, wildly working in entreaty. Oh, for a little faith! Faith the size of a grain of mustard seed! And Daddy Skinner would be gone to that place beyond the clouds and the blue, where suffering is not. Did he, could he, believe? Did she, could she, believe, too? Then in a blinding flash, she remembered the mysterious dawning of her own faith. Enduring sublime suffering, she bent once more and drew her father's heavy head to her breast.

"Daddy! Darlin' old, good Daddy, look at yer dear brat, an' listen to 'er."

"I air a listenin', my girl," he said between set teeth. She put her head directly in line with her father's vision.

"Look at me, Daddy," she craved tremulously, "an' listen to me. Can't ye remember how ye came back from Auburn like the innercent man ye were?"

"Yep," whispered Skinner.

"'Twere the Christ on the cross helped ye, Daddy. Ye air wishin' to go away now with my mummy, huh?"

"Yep," groaned Skinner. "God, aw kind, merciful God, let me go!"

Tess laid him gently back on the pillow. A bright light flashed into her soul. The red in her eyes turning almost to black.

"Then go, my darlin'! Go, Daddy," she moaned, rising and looking upward. "Take 'im, Mummy, little love-mummy, take 'im back to Heaven with ye."

Inspired by that smiling face in the rafters, Tessibel opened her lips and began to sing,

"Rescue the Perishin'; Care for the Dyin'."

It was a glorious strain that echoed and reechoed around and around the shanty kitchen. It gathered within its heavenly power the moaning of the wind and the haunting noises of the tin-rusted roof. Even the weeping willows, bowing their mournful heads in sympathy, could no longer be heard in their endless chant.

Strangely stirred, Pete struggled up, disregarding the dwarf's desire to detain him. He placed his forefeet on the edge of the bed, lifting his head to the girl's shoulder. Responsive to the pressure of his body, she threw her arm around him. Gravely the golden eyes of the great dog regarded his suffering master on the cot as the tender melody of the song continued to fill the shanty.

Tessibel ever afterwards remembered Daddy Skinner's eyes as for those last few moments he lay looking at her. They were kindly, tender, smiling, as he watched her lips moving in the song he'd always loved to hear her sing.

He seemed to realize that she was singing him into the very presence of the Savior of the world—into the presence of Him who was leading Tessibel Skinner and her squatter father through their garden of Gethsemane.

"Rescue the Perishin'; Care for the Dyin'."

On and on she sang, and on and on the dying man gropingly felt his way to Eternity. Sometimes he smiled at her; sometimes at the wraith in the rafters. But not for one moment did the voice of the little singer cease its insistent cry for a complete rescue.

The dwarf was silent, his shining face reflecting the peace and security of which the squatter girl sang.

"Rescue the Perishin'; Care for the Dyin'."

The beautiful voice did not falter. Suddenly the powerful lungs of the fisherman gathered in one long, last breath, and when it came forth to meet Tessibel's song, the broad shoulders dropped back, the chest receded, the smile faded from the gray eyes—and Daddy Skinner was dead.

He had died listening to those appealing, melodious words, "Rescue the Perishin'; Care for the Dyin'." That sudden collapsing change in the gaunt figure seemed to freeze the very song on Tessibel's lips. Her voice trailed to a limp wail, as if an icy hand had caught her throat. Silence succeeded silence. Even the storm seemed for an instant to still its raging roar, then Pete threw back his head and howled his grief. As his resonant cries filled the shack and mingled with the turmoil of the elements, Tess clung to the dog, staring with horrified eyes at the huge beloved form crushed and crumpled upon the cot. Death had come and gone. The mystery in the shadowy rafters had taken Daddy Skinner away.

The dwarf raised his head and looked at Tess. Slowly he leaned over and pressed his lips to Orn Skinner's brow, and as he rose, he lifted the girl's rigid arm from the tawny back and seized the dog by the collar to quiet him.

Then came one of those unthinkable, weird cries, a nightmarish cry from the girl's throat, and—as God tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb, so in Divine pity he covered Tess of the Storm Country with mental oblivion.



CHAPTER XXVIII

YOUNG DISCOVERS ANDY

During the minutes Daddy Skinner lay grappling with death, Ebenezer Waldstricker sat in his handsome drawing room with an open Bible on his knee, talking to his wife.

"I've explained to you time and time again, Helen," said he impatiently, "why I struck her and I'm not sorry I did it."

"It seems awful, though," replied his wife, reflectively.

Waldstricker frowned into the wistful face.

"Why awful when the Bible ordered me to do it? I've given you the Master's own words to verify it. Didn't he say, 'Let the man without sin first cast a stone?'"

Mrs. Waldstricker raised her eyes to her husband's face.

"But Ebenezer—"

"There's no argument, my dear," the man interrupted. "I tell you I know whereof I speak. It came to me like a flash on Wednesday in the church ... I had to show the world a man—a man without sin."

Helen stared back at him in amazement. Her husband had never before expressed himself in quite such bombastic terms, and, oh, dear, she knew he was good; but for any human being to claim to be without sin! She'd never heard of such a thing.

"But, dearest," she argued pleadingly and partly rising, "are you sure?"

"I have no doubt about it," interpolated Ebenezer, striking his chest emphatically. "As I said, I know whereof I speak."

Helen sank down again.

"I'm glad you can explain it, dear," she murmured dubiously. "It'll be easier for you to make Deforrest understand about it when he comes. He's so wrapped up in that girl.... He'll be here in a few minutes, I think, if the train's on time."

"I'll make him understand all right," answered Ebenezer.

The words had scarcely left his lips before both husband and wife heard the approach of sleigh-bells.

"He's coming now," said Mrs. Waldstricker, and she rose and started to the window.

"Sit down and don't look as if you were going to die," her husband commanded. "But perhaps you'd better go to your room while I'm explaining the thing to him."

When Deforrest Young opened the door and walked in, his face was wreathed in smiles.

"Well, hello, everybody," he cried heartily. "It's an awful night."

Ebenezer rose and extended his hand.

"So 'tis," he agreed.

Helen went forward quickly and helped slip the snow-covered coat from Deforrest's shoulders. At the same time she lifted her lips for a kiss. How she adored this brother of hers, and how anxiously she desired he should be satisfied with Ebenezer's account of the church proceedings.

"I'm lucky to be home for Sunday," remarked Deforrest. "I was afraid the case wouldn't close before day after tomorrow. But the jury came in last night, and everything was quickly closed up."

"We read about it in the paper," said his sister sympathetically. "It must have been a harrowing thing to go through."

"It certainly was! But the acquittal helped. The woman is very young and without friends, and I was glad to get it for her."

"But she's bad!" cut in Waldstricker. "Every paper said she was guilty."

"But the jury pronounced her innocent," exclaimed the lawyer, "so that puts an end to the argument!"

Ebenezer fingered the leaves of the book he held.

"I've the happenings of a week to tell you, Deforrest," he stated deliberately, as if dismissing the former subject.

Professor Young bent down and slipped off his overshoes.

"I'm awfully tired, old chap," said he. "Won't they keep till morning? I'd like a bite to eat, and then—then bed." He smiled at his sister. "How about something to eat, sis, dear?"

"Helen, go see about supper for your brother," ordered Ebenezer.

Mrs. Waldstricker, seemingly glad to escape, left the room quickly.

"Fire ahead, Eb," said Young. "I suppose I might as well hear it now as any time."

"You sent Parson Griggs a letter for me to vote in your name?"

"Of course," responded Young. "I knew Helen was interested in the Christmas festival, and I thought you'd do as well as I."

"And so I did, brother," replied Ebenezer, pompously, "and your vote turned the tide into the channel God wanted it. Some members allowed their human feelings to run away with 'em."

Ebenezer's mysterious words suddenly awakened Deforrest's interest.

"Has something out of the ordinary occurred?" he queried.

"Yes," assured Eb, "but I've attended to it all right!"

Professor Young sighed.

"That's good! There, now, I'll sit by the grate and warm up while you tell me about it."

He dropped into a large chair, and extended his feet to the cheerful blaze. Waldstricker paused before making his explanation. At length:

"We put a member out of the church last Wednesday," said he, steadily.

Deforrest Young turned completely around and stared at his brother-in-law.

"Put a member out of the church!" he repeated, thunder-struck. "Why church a member?... That is out of the ordinary, I should say. What'd he do?"

"It wasn't a man, 'twas a woman."

"Well, for God's sake!" Deforrest's voice was low, deep, and filled with disgust. "I hope you men didn't make a mess of yourselves.... What happened?... Some girl kissed her sweetheart under the pine trees?"

The elder glanced over the top of his brother-in-law's head.

"Worse than that!" said he. "Much worse than that!... We churched a Magdalene!"

It took an appreciable length of time for Young's tall figure to rise from the chair. He turned around and stood with his back to the fire.

"I didn't know we had a Magdalene in the church," he commented drily, and then more impetuously, "Oh, Lord, why don't you spit it out and not beat all around the bush telling me?"

There was something about Ebenezer's slow manner of approaching the point that made Young impatient. In the meantime his mind was rapidly running over the women in the Hayt's congregation.

Waldstricker got up, too, drawing his big frame to its full height.

"We churched—Well, the fact is,—We churched Tessibel Skinner."

When the name fell upon Deforrest Young's ears, every muscle in his body became rigid, making him taller by inches.

"Tessibel Skinner?" he repeated mechanically, as if he'd heard awry. "Did you say Tessibel Skinner?"

Waldstricker took a long breath. Deforrest was receiving the action of the church with better grace than he had anticipated.

"Yes, Tessibel Skinner!" he repeated. "She's with child."

In the awful minute after the torturing words had fallen from the other man's lips, Deforrest Young felt as if he must tear the lie from the speaker's throat. For it was a lie! God! What a lie! A lie told against Heaven's best—the best girl in all the world. Without a word, he reached for his overcoat.

"What're you going to do?" demanded Ebenezer, a little perturbed. "You needn't see her.... She's been justly dealt with."

There was no answer from the tall lawyer. Only one thing was in Deforrest Young's mind—to go to Tessibel Skinner. He gave no thought to the wild night, no care for his own fatigue and hunger. Disdaining another glance at Ebenezer, he whirled to go. Helen's pale face appearing in the doorway made him pause.

"Deforrest," she quivered. "Deforrest, dear, oh, don't go out tonight! Stay and let Ebenezer tell you about it, do please! The church has done all it could—it must be all right if the church did it, Forrie."

Then Young's wrath broke loose....

"All right? All right?" he thundered. "The church has done all it can, eh? Well, by God!" He turned a livid face from one to the other. "What a cursed outrage!"

Waldstricker cried out, horrified.

"Man, man, what are you saying!... How dare you provoke the wrath of God!... How dare you question the decision of the church! Besides, I tell you she's a Magdalene. She's been justly punished. I attended to it myself."

Then Young saw clearly that the church action had but expressed his brother-in-law's will. He knew his implacable hatred of the squatters and particularly of Tessibel. He recognized that revenge had prompted him. Pushing the protesting elder aside, he ejaculated:

"You pious hypocrite! Get out of my way," and was gone.

The bitter winter wind nipped at Young as he strode down the steps and battled his way to the stables. Waldstricker's words were pounding at his brain like a hammer. What had they done to Tess? He remembered Ebenezer had said that his vote—his own delegated vote—had turned the tide against his pretty child!

He had no mercy for the stumbling horse as he spurred down the long drive, into the public thoroughfare, and thence to the shore road. When he came opposite to his own closed, uninhabited house, he could see by straining his eyes the dusky shadow of the willow trees shrouding the Skinner home.

A glimmer of light struggled from the curtained window of the hut. With desperate haste he tied his horse to the fence post. He could scarcely stop to spread over the animal the blanket he'd brought for the purpose.

Then as he waded through the snow and rounded the mud cellar a dog's mournful howling, pierced and punctuated by a girl's shrill, heart-broken cry, fell upon his startled ears. In another minute he had flung himself against the shanty door and forced it open. Kennedy's bulldog greeted him, growling, and beyond him, stretched out upon the body of her dead father, lay Tess. Hovering over her, chattering, was Andy Bishop, the dwarf, the condemned murderer of Ebenezer Waldstricker, Sr.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE VIGIL

During Professor Young's instant of hesitation on the threshold, the wind gusted sheets of snow into the Skinner shanty. Quieting the dog by a low-spoken word, Deforrest stepped in and closed the door against the storm. The acrid smoke drawn from the stove by the back-draft, filled the room,—a choking cloud.

Andy stared at the intruder for an instant, and then turned again to the girl lying unconscious upon the body of her father.

Young's vision comprehended the whole tragedy. He pulled off his cap and gloves and shook the snow from his shoulders. Advanced to the bedside, a glance satisfied him that the squatter was dead and that Tess had fainted. He had recognized the dwarf the minute he saw him, and heartsick with apprehension, he wondered what he was doing there.

"Get up," said he. "Let me look at her."

The dwarf moved aside hesitatingly.

"Air she dead, too?" he whimpered.

"Bring me some water," commanded Young.

Andy went to the pail, dipped a portion of water into a small basin, and waddled back with it.

"Her daddy air dead," he offered. "Ye can see he air dead."

"Yes!" nodded Young, taking the dish.

He did not speak again until Tess groaned, and opened her eyes. She made a half struggle to sit up, and Young lifted her to her feet.

"Lean on me," he said gently.

Tess stared at him, incredulously. He had come after all! Relief crumpled her up in his arms.

"Daddy air dead," she whispered.

"Yes, dear," soothed Young. "There, lean your head on my shoulder, poor little broken baby."

His tones were so tender, so soft! They went to the heart of the stricken dwarf, and like a hurt child he burst into tears. Professor Young turned and looked at him.

"Don't do that," he said huskily. "Sit down—don't cry!"

Without moving from her position, Tess said, "Andy, Andy, dear, git on up in the garret a few minutes, will ye?"

The dwarf crept to the ladder, and Deforrest let him go. A dozen questions leapt to the lawyer's lips at the same time, but the girl against his breast looked so desperately ill he had no heart to ply them. Tess lifted her lids heavily.

"Ye won't tell nobody he air here?" she gulped.

"How long has he been here?" asked Young, instead of answering her question.

"Ever since spring," sighed Tessibel.

"Was he here that day when Mr. Waldstricker and my sister—"

"Yep." The girl's whisper was very low.

"And when Burnett came too, I suppose?"

"Yep, I hid 'im ... Daddy loved 'im, Daddy did."

She began to cry softly. Her confession had taken her mind back to the huge figure on the bed.

"I wanted to go with Daddy," she sobbed. "I didn't know—I thought I couldn't live without 'im."

Stooping, Deforrest gathered the mourning little one into his arms, and seating himself in the big rocker, pressed his cheek against her hair in sympathy. Patiently he waited, holding her thus while the mercy of her flowing tears dulled the first sharp edge of her grief.

Bye and bye the sobs ceased, and a faint, catchy little voice struggled up through the red curls to the man's ears.

"Ye air awful good to me, you air. Oh, I needed ye so, and I feared—I feared mebbe ye wasn't never comin' again!"

"My dear, my dear," Young soothed, much moved. Then he rose and placed her in the chair. "You sit here and tell me about it."

Bravely she looked into the friendly face, a doleful smile quivering on her lips.

"The first thing I want to know," she asked, "what air ye goin' to do 'bout Andy?"

Professor Young had anticipated this question.

"Until I've had more time to think about it, and until after the funeral anyway, I'll keep your secret," he reassured her kindly.

"An' ye won't say anythin' to nobody 'bout 'im till ye talk with me again?" she queried, fearfully.

"That's what I mean, Tess," Young answered.

"Ye air so good to me, ye air," sighed Tess, satisfied.

"Child," began Young a moment later, "can you bear to tell me about it, now?"

"About Daddy?" asked Tess, "or about the other—"

The lawyer's nod, responsive to the latter half of her question, reawakened the suffering girl's memory of the horror of the church meeting.

"It were so awful," she said after a pregnant pause. "I mean—Mr. Waldstricker—"

"What about it? Tell me," Young interrupted, as the gentle voice hesitated.

"See ... this!" she murmured, turning her head.

Young's eyes caught the red of the wound on her neck.

"He did that!... How?" he ejaculated fiercely.

"He hit me with a piece of—coal!" answered Tess, sinking back, very white.

"No, no; God, no!" he cried desperately. "He couldn't have done that!"

"He said I were ... bad," interrupted Tess, very low. She bowed her head, and the man, stunned, made no move toward her. His muscles seemed powerless, and he had no volition to comfort her. He could not erase from his mind that horrid picture her few direct words had brought before him. "But ... you air trustin' me!" was the way Tess brought him back to himself.

"Then it's true what—what—"

His tongue grew parched.

"Yep, but trust me, please!" cried Tess.

Trust her! Believe in her with her confession ringing in his ears. God, if he did not love her, it wouldn't be so hard to believe, to trust, to help. But with this fierce jealousy stabbing at his heart, he felt he must know more—all. His mind went back to that time when she had come to him with a child in a basket, and her plea had been the same, "Oh, trust me! Please trust me!"

"If you could only ... tell me ... something," he groaned.

"It air true what Mr. Waldstricker hit me fer," bowed Tess, swallowing hard, "but I can't say nothin' 'bout it, I can't! I ain't able to tell nothin' more'n that!"

Young still stood several feet from her.

"I must do something to help you," he implored. "Won't you even tell me when it—it will be, Tessibel?"

Through her tense fingers the girl murmured a stifled "March."

March—scarce three months away! He would have given five years of his life to have had her tell him the truth about this thing that had crushed her. He made a nervous movement with his fingers to his hair.

"You are bound by a promise?" he demanded sharply.

A white, uplifted, pained face was his answer.

"You'll tell me some day, if you can," he said, going swiftly to her.

"Yes," whispered Tess.

And then for a long time nothing was heard in the hut but the winter without, the growls and mutterings of the bulldog in his sleep by the stove, and a sob now and then from the dwarf in the garret.

The healing silence of a common love in the presence of a common grief settled upon the strangely matched couple. The little squatter girl, with her shameful secret, and the great lawyer and teacher, kept solemn vigil over the body of Daddy Skinner.

* * * * *

Daddy Skinner was buried. All the arrangement in connection with the obsequies devolved upon Professor Young. It was he who brought the girl back to the shanty in her simple, clinging, black gown, and after the carriage had delivered them at the hut door, carried her, almost unconscious, into the house and laid her gently upon her bed. Then he closed the door and sat down beside her. It was perhaps an hour later when she lifted her eyes appealingly.

"I air awful glad ye stayed with me," she choked.

"Tess,"—Young's voice shook.... "Will you let me talk to you a little and not feel I'm intruding upon your sorrows or your secrets?"

"Ye wouldn't do anythin' what wasn't right," murmured the girl, under her breath.

For some moments he smoothed her burning forehead. Then he lifted her hand and held it in his.

"Tessibel," he began.

"What?"

"First, tell me about the little man in the garret."

"There ain't nothin' much to tell," she responded, shaking her head. "When he got out of Auburn, he come here and asked me an' Daddy to take care of 'im, an' we done it, that air all."

"I see, dear—and—and you didn't think the law required you to give him up?"

Tess moved her head negatively on the pillow.

"Sure not, or I'd a done it long ago. The law—what do I care 'bout the law?... It air always puttin' innercent men in jail. That air all the law air fer."

"But this man is a murderer," Young tried to explain to her.

But Tessibel's gesture, both hands raised, palms outward, expressed her dissent.

"They said as how Daddy were a murderer, too," she retorted, "but you found out he weren't, didn't ye?"

Young, not able to gainsay this, nodded his head.

"How long are you going to keep him here?" he asked presently.

Tess sent him a glance pathetically sad and discouraged.

"I don't know. The poor little duffer hain't no friends. He ain't no other place to go where old Eb won't git 'im."

Young thought of his brother-in-law. He realized immediately with what joy that stern disciplinarian would snatch the little man back into Auburn prison. Doubtless, too, he would visit his rage on the girl who'd shielded him.

"Ye helped Daddy git out o' jail," Tess whispered. "Couldn't ye keep Andy out?"

Deforrest Young turned his face to the ceiling. A pair of gleaming eyes were staring down upon him from the square hole.

"Come down here, you," he said peremptorily.

Andy slid down the ladder and squatted himself beside the cot. Young considered the boyish face some time in silence.

"What made you kill Waldstricker?" he demanded.

Andy shook his head.

"I never done it, mister," he denied positively.

"Tell me how it happened! If I'm going to help you, you must tell me the truth."

This wasn't what Young had intended to say at all.

"Andy ain't a liar," came from Tess.

"Tell me every word," urged Young.

The dwarf curled himself into a little ball and began.

"Well, us was all in a saloon at the Inlet, an' old Waldstricker, he come in with a nuther man, an' they both got a drink an' t'uther man went out. Me an' Owen Bennet were settin' at the table, ... Waldstricker he says somethin' nasty 'bout squatters an' ... Owen went fer 'im. Waldstricker pulled 'is gun. I knocked it out o' his hand an' Owen grabbed it up offen the floor an' sent a bullet right through Waldstricker's heart. Then us uns beat it, I mean me an' Owen, an' when they caught us ... he put the shootin' on me. I didn't do it, an' Owen knows I didn't."

Young was very quiet during this recital. He was considering the eager, boyish, upraised face.

"I hope ye believe me, mister—sir—please do," Andy pleaded.

Deforrest Young crossed his legs, smoothed his hair with one hand, and sat back in his chair.

"I think I do," he nodded presently. "Only I am placed in a very peculiar position. By rights I ought to send you back—then help you afterward if I can."

Tessibel sat up, her eyes wildly frightened.

"Ye couldn't do that!" she cried. "Ye couldn't do that! Don't ye remember a day on the rocks, when I was awful sad, an' you said, 'Tess, if ye ever want me to do anything for ye, come and tell me.' Didn't ye say it?"

Young bowed his head.

"I air askin' it now," said Tess, throwing out her hand. "I air beggin' ye not to send Andy back. Let 'im stay with me. I promised Daddy I'd take care of 'im."

"Lie down again and be quiet, child," urged Deforrest, sadly. "You don't want to make yourself sick.... Hush, you mustn't cry!... Oh, child dear, will you please stop shaking that way?"

He had forgotten that when Tess loved any one, she would battle until her death before she gave him up.

"Then don't send little Andy back, an' I'll be awful good," she pleaded.

Young sat for some time, one hand on Tessibel's, the other beating a tatoo on the arm of Daddy's wooden rocker.

"I suppose," he said at length, as if speaking to himself, "I'll be highly criticized if any one finds out about this irregular proceeding. Nevertheless—" He turned to Tess. "I'll go quietly to work and see what I can do. In the meantime, dear child, you can't stay here in this house."

"But I promised Daddy I'd take care of Andy here, an' I air goin' to. Him and me can live here all right."

Young sighed. There was the same stubborn tone in her voice she had used in those days when her father was away in prison, and he had argued with her to leave the settlement.

"Well, at any rate," he said after a while, "I'll take time to consider it, and then we'll decide something."

Ten minutes later he was riding slowly up the hill, and as the past panoramied across his mind ... and evolved itself into the present, he shook his head. Tessibel had separated him from his family, had made him a stranger to his best friends. Would she now, by holding to Waldstricker's convicted murderer, deprive him of his honor?



CHAPTER XXX

SANDY COMES TO GRIEF

The Skinner home was resting in its winter calm. Daddy Skinner was gone. Andy still crept about the dark garret, and Tessibel passed her days in study, performing the few duties the small shack required.

When Deforrest Young had gone away a few days after Daddy's funeral, he'd smiled into her eyes and had bidden her to be of good courage. Henceforth, he said, she was to be his charge. She felt a little lighter hearted. It made her happier, too, to think he knew about Andy Bishop and was going to help him.

The only person she feared was Sandy Letts. She'd not seen him since that day in the church when he had tried to draw her nearer the minister. Bitterly angry, she knew he must be. That he had delayed his revenge so long seemed to her rather menacing than comforting.

Her mind was drifting back over all the events of the past few months, when a shadow passed over the curtain at the window. She stole to the door and placed her ear to the latch. From that position she could plainly hear creeping footsteps crawling closer.

With her ear glued to the crack, she listened. There was no sound now of walking. The outsider was listening, too. Suddenly, he knocked heavily. Tess glanced to the garret. The dwarf's face was not in sight. Then the knock came again.

"Who air there?" Tess called, her breath catching.

There was no answer, save another knock.

Tessibel spoke once more. After a pause, Sandy Letts' voice came gruffly to her.

"Open the door, Tess. It air me, Sandy."

"What do ye want?" demanded Tess.

Sandy growled inarticulately, gave a kick to the floor, and rattled the latch.

"I want to come in, I said. I air goin' to talk to ye!"

Tessibel thought of Ben Letts and of how he, too, had demanded entrance to her home in just such a manner as his cousin was doing now. She glanced about for something with which to protect herself if needed. She wished with all her soul the brindle bull were with her then in the shanty.

Sandy gave another rough pull at the latch-string.

"Open the door, Tess," he growled again, "or I'll bust it down."

Tess knew Sandy would carry out his threat, and, if he broke down the door, his temper would be worse than now. She muttered a prayer to quiet the terror in her heart, and slipped up the bar. Sandy, gun in hand, stepped into the kitchen, and Tess closed the door.

"What do ye want, Sandy?" she questioned.

"I want to talk to ye, what do ye 'spose I want?" he flung out, swaggering his shoulders.

"Well, sit down," invited Tess, seeking to propitiate. "Ye knowed Daddy was dead, didn't ye, Sandy?"

"I can set down without bein' asked," grunted the squatter, dropping into a chair. "Sure I knowed yer pa's flew the coop."

"What'd ye want?" Tess asked again after a moment.

"I've come to settle with ye for somethin'," said Letts.

"I ain't done nothin'," replied Tess.

Sandy threw out an angry hand.

"Ye have, too, ye have, too! Didn't I want ye for my woman, and didn't ye go an'—"

"I said ye couldn't have me," interrupted the girl. "Folks ain't havin' everythin' they want in this world, Sandy."

"Then ye turned me down in the church afore Waldstricker," went on Sandy. "Ye might've been glad to marry a decent man after what ye'd done. But ye ups and says, 'I won't!' An' I've come to ask the reason why."

Tess walked across the shanty kitchen and sat on the edge of the cot. Sandy followed her with his eyes, his face growing crimson as he gazed at her.

"I air here for two things," he continued. "To find out the name of that man Waldstricker asked ye 'bout—"

Tessibel's low voice stopped his impudent speech.

"I couldn't tell ye that, Sandy, not even if ye killed me," she murmured. "What was t'uther thing?"

"I air goin' to take ye away with me fer my woman. But ye needn't think I air goin' to marry ye decent like I would in the church t'uther day, fer I won't."

Tessibel, weary and aching, grew cold with fear. She knew the squatter would keep his word, if he could. He would abuse her as Ben had tried to when her father was in Auburn unless help came. Then remembering all the days she had lived and suffered and still'd been saved from Sandy and his like, she breathed a deep sigh.

"I couldn't go with ye, Sandy," she explained.

A cruel expression set Sandy's large, sensuous mouth.

"Ye'll be glad to go with me when I git done with ye." He placed his gun against the chair and stood up. "First, I want to know what made ye act like that in the church fer. Don't ye know me well 'nough to think I'd get ye sooner or later. Ye knowed yer Daddy couldn't always live in the shack. Ye might better took me while ye could. I would jest have beat ye a bit fer yer cussedness, then mebbe after a while I'd fergive ye. But now—"

Tessibel's struggling to her feet broke off the man's volubility. She was so frightened that almost without thought she circled toward the door. Sandy got up and placed himself directly in front of her.

"No, ye don't git out o' here," he sneered, "not till I git through with ye. Jest make up yer mind to that."

Sandy was moving toward her, his eyes gleaming with rage. What could she do? She threw a hasty glance about the shanty. She knew Andy was under the straw tick in the garret and could not hear the low conversation going on in the kitchen.

As if in answer to her agonized prayer, another shadow passed the curtained window. Sandy had not seen it or he would not have thrust forth his great arms and snatched her to him. Tess uttered a scream. In another moment Jake Brewer sprang into the kitchen and was looking from Tessibel to the angry squatter.

Sandy pushed the girl roughly on to the cot—took two steps toward Brewer, his manner threatening.

"What ye sneakin' 'bout here fer?" he growled out.

Jake grinned slowly.

"I allers come in to see Tess," he replied. "What were ye doin', Sandy?"

"I air goin' to take Tessibel to be my woman," muttered Letts.

Jake glanced at the pallid girl.

"Oh, well, I swan! So that air it, eh?"

"Nope," Tess got out through her chattering teeth. Then all the pent-up rage in her body broke loose. "I ain't wantin' to be his woman. I want to be let alone in my shack! Oh, Jake, won't ye make Sandy go away and let me be?"

Sandy laughed evilly.

"It'd take a bigger man'n Jake," he remarked.

Brewer, unruffled, seated himself with the slow manner of a squatter.

"I don't say as how I air very big," replied Jake, crossing his legs, "but I guess no man'll take Tess long's she don't want to go, when I air here, Sandy."

Letts shook a threatening fist.

"Get out o' here, Jake," he growled, going toward the other man. "If ye don't, I'll make it worse fer ye! Git out, I say!"

"Shan't do it. Now, Sandy, I ain't no woman to be 'fraid of you, so just hold yer horses till us uns talk this out. Ye say ye want Tess fer your'n, an' Tess, she don't want ye, now what ye goin' to do?"

"I air a goin' to take her jest the same," snarled Letts.

But thinking better of placing his hands on the other man, he went to his chair and sat down. Tess, too, drew a little sigh of relief. Then the three sat for several quiet seconds looking from one to the other. At length, Tess broke out.

"Sandy said he'd keep away an' wait till he caught Andy Bishop afore he come to git me."

Sandy glared at her.

"But I told ye if ye had a nuther man hangin' round I'd fix both of ye, an' I'm goin' to keep my word," he snapped back.

"Ye can't fix any one but me, Sandy, 'cause ye don't know nobody else to hurt, do ye," she interrupted him.

"It air easy fer a man like me to choke the name out of ye, brat," replied Letts, blinking his eyes at her. "I'd be likin' nothin' better."

Jake moved his big boots back and forth several times.

"I wouldn't try it if I was you, Sandy," he cautioned, "'cause ye know uther folks might be interferin' with ye."

Sandy's throat emitted a deep, doglike growl as he clambered to his feet.

"I'll do it now, dam ye both," he barked back in ugly defiance.

Jake was on his feet before Letts could take a forward step and had placed himself between the big squatter and the girl.

* * * * *

That afternoon when Jake came back to see Tessibel, she threw a quick question at him.

"Air he dead, Jake?"

"Lordy, no, Tess, 'course not! He's tougher'n cow's tripe.... Sit down, brat, an' I'll tell ye about it.... Don't be shakin' so. It were like this! I was stoppin' Sandy from tryin' to git ye an' when I pushed 'im back, he kicked his own gun an' got a bullet in his big, fat leg, that air all."

"It was awful," cried Tess, wiping away her tears.

A slight smile played around Jake's lips, and showed a few of his dark teeth.

"Brat," he chuckled, "Sandy ain't done to his death by no means, an' you didn't have nothin' to do with it, nuther did I. 'Twere his own cussedness that put that bullet in his leg. There air one blessed thing, he won't be comin' round here for a long time yet botherin' you; so cheer up, an' be glad ye air a livin'."

Then Jake went away, leaving the girl and the little man in the garret, comforted and happier than they had been in many a day.



CHAPTER XXXI

WALDSTRICKER'S THREAT

Something had happened in the house of Waldstricker. Since the churching of Tessibel Skinner, everything had been topsy turvy. The criticism heaped on Ebenezer for his part in it had only served to make him more arrogant at home and abroad.

One morning at breakfast, Frederick being absent, Madelene was alone with Ebenezer and his wife.

"Put down your paper a minute, Eb," said Madelene, "will you?"

Scowling, Waldstricker let the paper rattle to the floor.

"What do you want now?... I can't have a minute's peace. What is it?... More money?"

"No, nor nothing to do with it, Ebenezer. I want to ask you something, and do be quite frank with me. Does Fred ever go to see that Skinner girl?"

The man's heavy brows drew into a straight dark line above his eyes.

"He'd better not," he gritted between his teeth.

"That isn't the point," answered Madelene. "Does he?"

"I don't believe I'd give myself much concern about that if I were you," he said presently. "I understand that man Letts, Sandy Letts, who is working for me on the Bishop matter, still wants to marry her."

"Of course she won't as long as Frederick—"

Waldstricker interrupted her.

"If Frederick does go there, he won't long when Letts finds it out."

Madelene's eager glance brought the unmatched lips aslant of each other.

"I don't think he'll go often," he repeated. "I'll see to it myself. She can marry Lysander Letts or—"

"Or what?" Madelene's elbows came to the table, a hand on each cheek. "Oh, Ebbie, do tell me! I'm so miserable about her. I wish she was dead!"

"But, Ebenezer," said Helen, "it seems awful for such a refined girl to marry such a man!"

The elder's uplifted hand came down on the table with a bang, and higher mounted his proud lip. He ignored his wife's pleading speech, but answered his sister's.

"So will Miss Skinner wish she were dead before I'm done with her," said he.

"Why?"

Waldstricker leaned over the table, looking first at his wife, then at Madelene. Helen shuddered. How relentless he looked when his mouth turned down at both corners! She had grown so afraid of him of late.

"I've an effective way to keep him from her," said he.

"Goody!" exclaimed Madelene, and "How, dear?" asked Helen.

The man spoke only two words in a low, husky voice, but each woman heard them.

"Good!" gasped Madelene, standing quickly. "How perfectly glorious!"

"How perfectly awful!" groaned Helen. "Ebenezer, don't do anything so dreadful."

Waldstricker looked across the table with that strange glitter in his eyes.

"Helen, must we go over again the same painful ground that women should not interfere!"

Mrs. Waldstricker rose to her feet.

"No, Ebenezer, no, no! Only I was thinking of Deforrest!"

"Deforrest will not know of it until it's too late," said Waldstricker, rising too.

"Does he know of Letts' trying to force her to marry him?" asked Helen.

"I've never told him. Possibly the girl has."

"I think not," answered Helen, gravely. "He'd have mentioned it to me, I think!"

As her brother passed Madelene, he tweaked her ear.

"Just clear your pretty head of further worry, little kitten ... See?"

Madelene caught his hand affectionately in hers.

"Kiss me, best of good brothers," she smiled. "You've made me perfectly happy! Isn't it dreadful to have to keep tabs on one's husband?"

"You won't have to long," Waldstricker assured her.

Then he kissed her and followed his wife into the library. Mrs. Waldstricker walked to the window and looked out, her eyes full of tears.

"Helen," said Ebenezer, gravely, taking her by the shoulders and turning her face toward him. "You displease me very much."

The drops hanging on the long lashes fell suddenly.

"I'm sorry, dear, but I can't see why you always antagonize Deforrest. You remember how angry he was after that church affair."

"Your brother's anger doesn't affect me in the slightest," returned Ebenezer coldly. "When I see my duty to God, I do it, that's all."

"And you're really determined—Oh, Eb dear, for my sake, please—"

The husband made an impatient movement.

"Helen, how many times have I got to forbid your crying this way. You're always in tears. You'll make yourself sick."

"Lately you've been so cross to me," sobbed Helen, burying her face in her handkerchief.

Waldstricker put his arm about her.

"I don't want to be cross.... There!... Now lie down here on the divan.... I'm going out for an hour or two."

Then he put on his cap, took up his riding whip, and went away to the stables.

A few minutes later Helen Waldstricker sat up straight, and rang the bell. To the servant who appeared, she said,

"Find Mr. Graves and send him to me immediately."

When Frederick received the message, cold chills chased each other up and down his back. Dismayed, he desired to disobey but dared not, besides Helen was the least dangerous of the three. What could she want, he considered queruously. He hadn't had a minute's peace since he came home. Madelene was in a state of tears nearly all the time; his brother-in-law, dictatorial, difficult even in his milder moods, seemed secretive and suspicious. As far as he was concerned, he kept from the house as much as possible, but this only provoked to a greater degree his young wife's tears and complaints. Only this morning, he had been treated to a spell of hysterics the like of which Madelene had never before equalled.

His wife would not believe his oft-repeated assertions that he had not been to the Skinner cabin since the day she had surprised him there. Frederick had spoken truly. His fear of his powerful brother-in-law and his own lack of moral courage allowed the days to drift along until now he felt he could not go into the presence of the girl he had thus neglected.

He watched until his brother-in-law drove from the stables and disappeared. Then he turned and went into the library. Helen beckoned to him to come near her.

"I must tell you something," she breathed.

She pointed to a chair near the divan. For a time she talked in an undertone, telling him something which sent the blood flying from the young man's face, and left him faint and sick at heart.

And later by an hour, Frederick Graves was walking the railroad tracks toward the Skinner shanty.



CHAPTER XXXII

HELEN'S MESSAGE

Tessibel Skinner was sitting in the shanty kitchen. She had a book in her lap but her mind was far from her surroundings. Andy had been quiet so long she'd almost forgotten him. Suddenly, his slight cough brought her back to the present.

"Ye look awful peeked, brat, dear," he said. "I think ye'd ought to see Young's doctor, hadn't ye?"

A vague smile crossed the girl's face, and she shook her head.

"No, Andy," she answered, "I don't need no doctor, yet."

"I wish ye felt better," sighed the dwarf. "An' the days is gettin' awful blizzardy for ye to go outdoors."

"But I got to go out, dear, fer wood an' other things. Hark!" She got up swiftly. "There air some one comin'."

In another instant the little man had crawled away from the ceiling hole and was under the tick. The garret was as silent as the frozen lake and the kitchen below, where Tess stood in anxious expectation. Tessibel, knowing it couldn't be Sandy, put aside her first impulse not to heed the rap. An instant later, she opened the door. That it might be Frederick was farthest from her mind, until she saw him standing there so thin and tired. Surprised and shocked at seeing him, the stress of her feeling found her faint. She would have fallen if he had not suddenly seized her.

"Tessibel!... Tess, darling!" he cried, sharply. Lifting her up, he carried her into the room. She clung to him, crying, her confusion calmed by his caresses. He placed her in a chair and sat down beside her. Suddenly, she sat back in her seat, roused from her revery by mocking memories of her wrongs.

"Couldn't ye let me alone?" she breathed hoarsely, covering her face with her hands. "Ye might a let me be."

"I had to come, dear," Frederick told her. "I want you to do something for both our sakes.... Oh, Tess, what terrible days have passed since I saw you last!"

After a short pause, she dropped both hands and glanced up at him. Then knitting her fingers together, she pressed them hard until they looked like the veined stems of a pale flower. He had come to make another demand of her—and she was so tired—so sick!

"I want you to make me a promise, Tessibel," urged Frederick.

"I said as how I'd help ye all I could," murmured Tess. "Ye're wantin' me to do somethin' awful hard, huh?"

Her soul in her eyes, she looked at him, but his gaze was on the gloves he was twisting back and forth between his fingers.

"Ain't ye goin' to tell me?" groaned Tess.

She dropped her chin into her hands with a touching gesture of pathos. Frederick bent nearer.

"Tess, Mrs. Waldstricker sent me with a message—and you've got to do what I want you to."

His strangely persistent reiteration that she should do his will served only to produce another, "Why don't ye tell me, then?" from Tess.

"You must do something to save yourself!" he cried.

To save herself? What did he mean by saving herself? What did any one intend to do? She'd stayed so alone no one could intrude upon her now. And then, there was Andy, poor forlorn little man!

"Is anyone goin' to hurt me?" she faltered, faint and frightened.

"Yes, dearest, yes, and you must—"

He was on his feet and Tess struggled up, too.

"What've I got to do?" she breathed miserably.

"Tess," he groaned, "can't you understand how much I love you; that I would save you if I could?"

With uplifted hand, he tried to raise her face to his.

"Don't!" she cried, pushing him away. "Tell me what Mrs. Waldstricker said!"

"You've got to do it, dear," urged Frederick, "or they'll take you away."

"What do ye mean by takin' me away?" she implored, moving a frightened step backward. "Who's goin' to try to take me any place?"

"Why—why—Mrs. Waldstricker says—"

He paused so long Tess could not bear the suspense.

"Oh, tell me!" she gasped. "Can't ye see ye air killin' me?"

Frederick began again.

"Mr. Ebenezer Waldstricker—"

Tess swayed on her feet.

"What air he goin' to do?" she panted.

Had her enemy discovered she was protecting Andy?

"He's going to take you to a—a—" stammered Frederick.

Tessibel grew faint and dizzy. She uttered a sharp scream.

"A reform school!" she cried.

"Yes."

The blow had fallen at last! She would be dragged from her home, up before the eyes of the world in all her illness and shame. Then she sank to the floor in abandoned misery.

"Oh, Frederick, save me!" she wailed. "Don't let him take me away, and I'll promise never to go outside the shanty. Oh, make him let me stay! Why can't I stay, oh, why can't I?"

"Waldstricker says you've got to go," said Frederick, sadly.

Tess sat up and flung back her curls.

"Well, he don't own the hull world, does he.... Couldn't you, well couldn't you say somethin' to make him let me be?"

"I don't know what to say," the boy mumbled.

"Couldn't ye tell 'em?" entreated Tess. "Please listen. Couldn't ye—couldn't ye tell Mr. Waldstricker 'bout our little baby—our baby, Frederick?"

He refused by a negative gesture of head and hand.

"Oh, don't shake your head, Frederick!" cried Tess, frantically. "Please!... Please!... Me an' the baby won't be any bother to you!... We'll jest love ye always an' forever, me an' the baby will....

"Ye could save us that way! Ye needn't tell 'em anythin' but that!"

Suddenly another thought took possession of her.

"What else did Mrs. Waldstricker say?" she demanded. "What were ye both wantin' me to do?"

"Mr. Waldstricker told his wife and my—I mean Madelene—that you'll either be sent away or must marry—marry Lysander Letts."

Tess stared at him wildly as though he were going mad. Or was she losing her reason! What awful thing had he said. Lysander Letts—surely she had not heard straight.

"Ye weren't tellin' me what were true, Frederick," she whimpered overwhelmed. "Oh, ye scared me so!"

"But I am telling you the truth!" he exclaimed miserably. His voice broke. "I can't save you, Tessibel. Waldstricker can do anything he wants. Why—why—Waldstricker's hands're stronger—are stronger than God's."

She heard his words as if in a dream. "Stronger'n God's," echoed through the recesses of her brain in fearful mockery. She was lost, engulfed in the hatred of Waldstricker. She saw through the mist over her eyes, Lysander Letts leering menacingly at her. She sat very still and held her breath. If she let it go, her heart would break.

"Stronger'n God's," were the only words she remembered. Then, if that were true, and Frederick had said it—then—then, nothing—nobody—could take from her this brimming cup of disgrace and destruction. She struggled to her feet, walked to the door and opened it. Her eyes sought the dejected looking man.

"I air askin' ye to go now, please, right now," she said quietly. "Tell Mrs. Waldstricker, I air much obliged."

"And haven't you something to say to me, Tess?... Oh, God, don't send me away like this!"

She laid one hand on her heart. "Only go," she whispered, "an' never, never come again!"

Frederick stepped over the threshold, and Tess shut the door behind him.



CHAPTER XXXIII

HANDS STRONGER THAN WALDSTRICKER'S

Tess stood with swift-coming breath, her back to the door, waiting. Frederick must leave before she dared speak to Andy. It seemed an eternity ere the sound of the retreating footsteps died away, and she knew he was gone.

Then she started across the room, haltingly. Strange, how difficult it was to walk, and how giddy her head felt! What was it that had happened? What was going to happen a thousand times worse? Frederick's brutality left her bruised and broken. His threats twisted themselves through the tangled tumult of her thoughts and his sinister suggestions stunned and stupefied her.

Frederick had come and gone! She remembered that. Her skin still burned where his hot lips had touched her. He had told her he loved her, had begged her to say she loved him! Love? Yes, she had loved him—she did love him, but her love lay low, its structure, like a squatter's hut, she had seen, shattered on the sand by a storm.

Tess put a stick of wood in the stove, and a second later forgot she'd done it.

Ebenezer Waldstricker came into her mind vaguely ... vindictive and violent. Her hand went suddenly to her face. He was going to send her to a reform school, going to take her from the shanty for years! How powerful he was! Frederick had said Waldstricker's hands were stronger than God's. What strong hands he must have—those hands descending upon her defenseless, desolate life.

Andy was peering through the hole. Tessibel collapsed into Daddy Skinner's chair.

"Brat," he said in a whisper, "I'm comin' down!"

Tess mechanically got up and barred the door.... Then she returned to her seat. The dwarf was already squatted beside it, his eyes fastened on the girl in eloquent silence. His chin sank between his knees. Then the two of them sat.... The crackling of the freshly burning wood and the ticking of the clock were the only sounds in the room.

"I heard what the man said 'bout Waldstricker's hands bein' stronger'n God's," reflected Andy, aloud, presently. Then he raised his body a little from the floor that he might look into the girl's face. "Say, brat, has old Eb got any marks on his hands?"

Tess shook her head, brown eyes sombrous with suffering.

"No," she denied. "His hands are big an' white an' long an' soft."

Andy pondered a minute.

"They ain't no marks of nails on 'em, air there, kid?" he demanded, solemnly.

The pursed, hurt lines around Tessibel's mouth softened a little.

"No," she murmured wearily, again. "No, Andy."

The dwarf reached and took one of the girl's hands. It lay on his own quite limply.

"Look at me, brat, dear."

The red-brown eyes moved toward the upturned face.

"Tessibel, will ye think of this one little thing?

"The Christ's holdin' his hands over the hull world, givin' everybody peace; you an' me, too, brat-kid. Waldstricker's hands ain't dragged me back to Auburn, an' God's hands has kept me here.... You showed me that from the beginnin', eh, brat?... It's sure, ain't it?"

He hunched himself nearer her, his face beautiful with faith.

"Ain't it true, kid?"

"Sure! Sure, it air true!" faltered Tessibel.

"Then if God's hands kept me here in the shanty 'gainst all Waldstricker could do, can't they keep you here, huh?"

Tessibel's head lifted suddenly. What was Andy saying about hands—Waldstricker's and—and—With her free fingers she brushed the dampened curls from her forehead. Waldstricker's hands! Oh, incomparable memory! How could she have forgotten the hands of the Christ! They had brought Daddy Skinner from the shadow of the rope. She had forgotten the power of those hands.... Hands of peace—hands of love! As shadows fade before the majestic advance of the sun, so under the inrush of divine light did the agonized expression fade from Tessibel's eyes. The menacing figure of Waldstricker slipped away like a gliding night-serpent, and Tess got to her feet.

"Andy," she breathed, bending over him. "Oh, Andy, darling! Ye're telling me Jesus can keep me from bein' sent to that awful place? Ain't that what ye're tryin' to show me?"

The dwarf scrambled up, reaching forth his hands.

"And he sure can, brat," he made answer. "Waldstricker can't pull ye out of this hut when God's holdin' ye in."

Andy was smiling his rare, boyish smile. A large lump rose in Tessibel's throat.

"I air goin' to ask God to hold me here, Andy," she choked brokenly.

So when night closed the grey eyes of the winter day, and darkness descended on the Skinner shanty, a red-haired squatter girl and a wee dwarf knelt in the glow of the hut lamp and petitioning lips framed in whispers a simple prayer for their protection.

* * * * *

The next day passed, quiet in the shanty and over the shining span of frozen water. Waldstricker had not come. Tess crept into bed sighing with relief. Andy rolled himself in his blankets and slept.

The morning arrived crisply cold, bleakly grey. Tess shivered as she broke the ice for water. Would this day bring Waldstricker? Then, as that harrowing thought flitted through her mind, another exultant, smiling flash took its place. Tessibel's head reared with a proud uplift. No human power could set aside the majestic promise of Heaven that she might stay in the hut. Smilingly, she opened the shanty door and cheerfully answered the dwarf's, "How d'y' do, brat dear?"

But the next few hours were laden with a sense of approaching calamity, that sense which ties the tongue in apprehension. Andy was perched on the ladder while Tess sat just below in the wooden rocker.

Suddenly, from far up the lane, the sound of wheels grating on the snow, could be heard plainly. Both man and girl stared white-faced at each other for perhaps thirty seconds.

"They're comin', but they can't take ye, Brat," muttered Andy. "You'll stay in this shanty the same 's if you was nailed to the floor."

Then, he sought his place under the straw tick, and as nearer and louder came the clatter of the horses hoofs, the more quiet grew the Skinner hut.

Tessibel stood in the middle of the kitchen, her hand pressing down the beatings of her heart. Somebody was approaching! There were footsteps on the dry snow!

Directly the crunching sound ceased, a loud knock fell on the door. Tessibel lifted the bar, and at her faint, "Come in," the door flung back on its hinges and Ebenezer Waldstricker stepped over the threshold. Another man, seemingly by common consent, waited outside. Waldstricker came to a halt at the sight of the squatter girl. Even in her mourning, and ashen pale, she looked glorious. Her burnished, unmanageable hair clung like a golden mantle about her. She had lifted heavy lashes and was looking him straight in the face.

Ebenezer, suddenly, felt a wild desire to strike, but he dared not touch her, nor dared he go forward one step. Her advancing motherhood crowned her with unapproachable dignity, and the man muttered an imprecation under his breath. To have her appear in court so austerely lovely would be to lose his case. He had expected she would plead, cry, perhaps scream. What should he say to break that steady calm? He did not know what a day and night of communion with the Infinite had done for the squatter girl. He did not understand that beneath her were everlasting arms, that her life was held in the hollow of a hand more powerful than his own.

"I believe, my girl," said he, without preliminaries, "I told you when the church took action against you, you'd be sent to some place where girls of your class go, didn't I?"

Tess didn't move by so much as a wink. She seemed simply to have grown deaf and dumb. How could she answer when she had not heard? She was staring back into the man's bold, dark eyes. Her silence was like a spark to his inflammatory temper.

"Aren't you going to answer me, Miss?" His rasping voice aroused Tess from her trance.

"I didn't hear what you said," she told him, still very calm.

"I said," replied Ebenezer, arrogantly, "you're going to be sent to a reform school."

"Today?" asked Tess, breathing deeply, now fully possessed of her senses.

"Yes, today." Then he remembered Madelene.... he had made her a promise. "But I'll help you to get out after a while, if you tell me who—who brought you to this condition." He threw out both hands disdainfully toward her. Waldstricker's white hands, hands stronger than God's! Who had dared say it?

The girl cast her eyes to the rafters. There, the nets hung in strings and mingled their tassled ends with the dry herbs. There, somewhere, were that other pair of hands upholding her. She lowered her eyes again to the man.

"Don't you hear me talkin' to you?" he grated. "I said you were going today—but if you tell me—"

He bit off his words, her apparent helplessness shaming him to silence. Then the import of what he had said flashed over Tessibel and she swayed backward. This small break in that superb calm brought Waldstricker forward the step the girl had yielded.

"Are you going to tell me?" he demanded again.

"Nope," said Tess rigidly, "Air I to go with ye now, this minute?"

He inclined his head with a bitter nod. "Yes," he snarled. He strode to the door, and addressed the officer. "Come in! Come in! She's a hardened huzzy.... Serve the warrant on her."

Tessibel took the paper but dropped it to the floor without glancing at it. She didn't care what it contained, for minute by minute came the sweet assurance from up there among the nets that God had heard and would answer.

The officer was staring at her, askance. He remembered distinctly when she had climbed up the ivy on the county jail to see her father. Then she had been a child. Now she was a woman. Being a good-hearted man, he hated his task, and a moment later hated it worse than ever. She sent him one pleading, heart-rending glance, then dropped her lids.