"I want ye'r answer," he said.

"Tell your master that I shall answer him the first time I meet him," Douglas replied.

"But Si will give me hell if I don't take more than that," the man whined. "He told me to bring him a 'yes' or a 'no'."

"I can't help that. If you're willing to allow Si Stubbles to treat you like a dog, you must put up with the consequences."

Douglas stood and watched the messenger as he slowly ambled back across the field.

"Poor wretch," he remarked, "he is afraid to go back to his master. Who is he, anyway?"

"Oh, he's only Barney Tompkins," Jake replied. "He's a useless feller, with a big family. He does odd jobs fer Si, runnin' errands, sweepin' the store, an' sich like. He's got no spunk."

"Like many more in this parish, if I'm not mistaken. Si doesn't want any one here who shows the least sign of spunk. He's given me notice to quit already."

"Great punkins! ye don't say so!"

"Yes, listen to this," and Douglas drew forth the letter from his pocket and began to read:

"JOHN HANDYMAN,

"Sir:—You have made yourself very objectionable in this place, so your presence is not wanted here any longer. I, therefore, give you notice to quit at once. This is a fair warning, and, unless you are altogether a fool, you will heed it.

"SIMON STUBBLES."

It took Jake a few seconds to grasp the full purport of these words. When he did at last comprehend their meaning, his face darkened and he stepped over to where Douglas was standing.

"Did Si Stubbles write them words?" he demanded.

"Yes, look for yourself," and Douglas handed him the letter.

Slowly and with difficulty Jake read it through. Douglas watched him with considerable interest.

"Well, what do you think of it?" he asked. "Are you not afraid of losing your help?"

"Damn Si Stubbles!" Jake roared. It was only when wrought up to the highest pitch of fury that Jake swore, and then it was well for his enemies to beware of him. "No, I'm not afraid of losin' ye, an' Si Stubbles ain't the man wot kin drive ye away, either. You jist stay where ye are."

"I intend to," Douglas calmly replied. "But let us get on with our work."

Though outwardly calm, the letter he had received rankled in his heart. The idea that one man could rule a whole community was abhorrent and unnatural. He had no intention of leaving, and he was determined to meet Simon Stubbles and have it out with him face to face. Suppose he should be driven from the parish, how could he ever come back again? How could he return as rector to be the contempt and laughing-stock of all? No, he would oppose Stubbles to the bitter end. The worst they could do would be to kill him, and he was not afraid to die if necessary.

It was near evening and they were hauling in the last load of hay from the field near the road, when an auto, bearing several men, sped past.

"It's Ben bringin' the delegation from the station," Jake explained, as he watched the rapidly disappearing car.

"What delegation?" Douglas queried.

"Why, didn't I tell ye?" Jake asked in surprise. "Well, I clean fergot all about it. There's to be a big Church meetin' to-night in the hall. Si got word an' he sent notice all around."

"What is the meeting about?" Douglas enquired.

"It has something to do with the new parson who is comin', so I understand."

"So you are to get another clergyman, are you?" Douglas asked as indifferently as possible.

"Seems so. The Bishop has a man all ready, who will be here in a few weeks. I pity the poor feller, I really do, though I can't say I'm much set on parsons since our experience with the last ones."

"You think he will have a hard time of it, eh?"

"He's sure to, an' unless he's somethin' out of the ordinary, he'll be in the same fix as the others. He'll be bound to buck up agin Si sooner or later, an' then there'll be trouble."

Douglas was greatly interested in what he had just heard, and he made up his mind to attend the meeting, tired though he was. He wished to hear and see for himself and not depend upon second-hand information. The meeting was to be public, so he had a perfect right to go.

When the chores were finished, he picked up the paper which had arrived that day from the city. He knew that the meeting would not begin for some time, and the rest would do him good. He glanced first at the big headlines until he reached one which arrested his attention.

"A WELL MERITED HONOR; DR. RANNAGE, RECTOR OF ST. MARGARET'S CHURCH OF THIS CITY, APPOINTED ARCHDEACON BY HIS BISHOP."

Douglas studied these words very carefully, and then read the long account of the new archdeacon's life, and of the work he had accomplished at St. Margaret's! The article was most laudatory, and spoke of his ability as a preacher, an organiser, and a public-spirited citizen. It referred to Dr. Rannage as a hard worker, who visited his people, rich and poor, in season and out of season, doing all he could for their temporal and spiritual welfare.

With an exclamation of impatience and disgust, Douglas threw aside the paper and left the house. He knew that most of the statements contained in what he had just read were false. The honor was not "well-merited," but had been bestowed simply because Dr. Rannage was rector of St. Margaret's and a special friend of the Bishop. He smiled at the thought of his visiting "his people, rich and poor alike, in season and out of season." He knew for a certainty that Dr. Rannage called only upon a few of the influential members of his flock, and left his curate to look after the "temporal and spiritual welfare" of all the rest. He tried to picture Dr. Rannage in such a parish as Rixton, living on a small salary, and trying to keep the Church life strong and healthy, at the same time combating the opposing influence of the Stubbles. And suppose he succeeded, by doing an herculean work, would he be rewarded in the same manner as if he were rector of St. Margaret's? He smiled grimly at the mere suggestion of the idea. Whoever heard of a poor country parson being singled out for such an honor, no matter how much he might merit it?

Douglas was walking slowly down the road as he thought over these things. Several people drove past on their way to the hall, and he saw a number of men walking on ahead. The sun was just lingering on the far-off horizon, and he was quite sure the meeting would not begin for half an hour at least. The delegates had not gone by yet, and so it was not necessary for him to hurry.

Coming to the road leading to Mrs. Dempster's, he looked at the little house over in the field, and wondered if Jean had been found. His notice to quit, the news of the Church meeting, and the announcement of Dr. Rannage's elevation had so occupied his attention that he had little time to think over the events of the past night. But now he thought of the heart-broken shoemaker, and a desire came upon him to know if anything had been heard of the wayward daughter.



CHAPTER XIV

SETTLING THINGS

The hall at the Corner presented a far different appearance from the previous evening. There was a large attendance, for much interest was aroused over the announcement that a new clergyman was to come to the parish. As Douglas slipped into a back seat with several others who were somewhat late, he glanced toward the platform, and great was his astonishment to see Dr. Rannage, the new archdeacon, sitting there. A sudden fear seized him that he might be recognised, and his plans spoiled. He was glad that he was so far back where the light was dim, and that he would hardly be noticed from the platform.

Simon Stubbles was chairman, and he had called the meeting to order before Douglas arrived. He was making a few opening remarks, and was in an excellent frame of mind, and inclined to be somewhat jocular. He realised the importance of having an archdeacon present, and referred to it several times. To Douglas, he seemed most ridiculous as he stood there endeavouring to be as pompous as possible that all might be properly impressed.

"I have been greatly concerned about the spiritual welfare of this parish," he was saying. "It is really a disaster that we have had no rector for a long time. It is, therefore, with great satisfaction that news has reached us that the Bishop is to send us a clergyman in a few weeks. We all trust that he will be a suitable man and fall into the ways of the people here. So much depends upon that, and I feel sure that the Bishop has had an eye to our needs. He knows this parish, and in the goodness of his heart he has sent this notable delegation to meet us and discuss Church affairs. It is not the first time that I have had the pleasure of meeting Dr. Rannage, who has recently been honored, and rightly so, by the Bishop. I know you are eagerly waiting to hear what he has to say about the parson who is coming to us. I have much pleasure in introducing to you the first speaker of the evening, the Venerable Archdeacon Rannage of St. Margaret's Church."

Dr. Rannage rose slowly to his feet and stood before the assembled people. Physically, he was an impressive looking man, especially so with his long black clerical coat, and official gaiters. If only a different head adorned his well-built body, everything would have been in proportion. But as Douglas studied him, he noted what a weak chin he possessed, how the bump of conceit was largely developed, and how low and receding his forehead, over which a thin crop of hair was carefully parted in the middle. But he had the gift of speech, and if he merely said "Two and two are four" it was uttered in such a manner as to seem like a great piece of news, and made people wonder at the knowledge of the man.

"Dear friends," he began, looking impressively around the hall, "I feel that I am no stranger to most of you here. Some of you, no doubt, have been at St. Margaret's, and have seen or met me there. But if not, I feel that we are now well acquainted after your worthy chairman's introductory remarks. And let me say ere I go further, how gratified I am to have Mr. Stubbles here to-night, and to find him so interested in the affairs of the Church in this parish. It is so encouraging to meet a man of Mr. Stubbles' ability and influence ready and willing to abandon for a time his heavy business cares, and devote himself so heartily to the welfare of the community in which he is living. If all will follow his excellent example, I feel quite confident that the Church work in this parish will be greatly blest.

"Before I give you my brief message to-night, permit me to say that I wish this meeting to be very informal. Do not mind stopping me to ask any question which may occur to you, for in that way we shall be able to understand one another better."

Here Dr. Rannage paused, and slowly lifted a glass of water to his lips, after which he produced a large silk handkerchief and deliberately wiped his mouth. When the handkerchief had been carefully stowed away in the tail of his long coat, he once more looked over the audience.

"We bear to-night a message from your Bishop," he continued. "'In the goodness of his heart,' as your chairman so neatly put it, he thought it good to send us here that we might meet with you, and discuss parochial affairs. He has already chosen a man well-fitted, we all believe, for the work here."

"When will he come?" some one asked.

"That I cannot definitely say. He has been working hard for the last two years, and is now taking his vacation. In a few weeks, I trust, he will be with you."

"Is he married?" came the question from the right.

"No. He has been so devoted to his work that he has not given much thought to matrimony, so far as I know. But if all the maidens in this parish are as captivating as the two I met this afternoon at The Castle" (here he turned and bowed to the chairman) "he will find it difficult to choose who is the fairest, if he should decide to take to himself a wife."

Douglas almost emitted an audible groan at the thought of the "two captivating maidens at The Castle." A mental picture rose before him of their thin faces, turned-up noses, and prominent teeth, with their sharp sarcastic tongues as an additional horror.

"It's lucky he's not married," the man who asked the last question remarked.

"Why?" Dr. Rannage quickly challenged. "Have you a daughter of your own to enter the contest?"

"No sir-ree," was the emphatic reply, when the laughter which followed the archdeacon's sally had subsided. "I've got all boys, thank goodness, an' am not interested that way. But as the new parson is not married, we won't have to bother fixin' up the rectory. It's in a bad shape now, an' it will take a lot to have it repaired."

"The rectory is certainly in a disgraceful condition," Dr. Rannage assented, "as I saw myself this afternoon. Now, I wish to appeal to all here to get it repaired as soon as possible. The longer it is neglected, the more expensive it will be, and your new rector may wish to live in it and have a suitable housekeeper to look after his welfare."

"Let him board," some one suggested. "That'll be the best way, an' we can fix up the rectory when he wants to get married. If he takes all right here, there'll be no trouble about raisin' the money."

"Now since you have mentioned money," Dr. Rannage smilingly replied, "it is just as well to consider that important matter first as last. You are all aware that this parish is asked to make up a certain amount toward your clergyman's salary, and the Board of Missions will pay the balance. Do you remember how much you raised in the past?" he asked, turning to the chairman.

"Four hundred dollars," Stubbles replied. "But it was too much. This is a poor parish, sir, and I told the Bishop so the last time I saw him."

"Well, he asked me to find out if you would endeavour to raise that amount, and perhaps a little more. It always pleases him so much when he finds that people are trying to take the burden off the city churches and becoming more and more self-supporting. Now, do you not think you could raise four hundred and fifty dollars for the first year?"

"A great deal depends upon the new parson," Stubbles emphatically replied. "If he takes well there will be little trouble, but if not, we might as well give up at once. We know that from bitter experience in the past."

"Hear, hear," several called out. "You're right, sir."

"Is the new man a good speaker?" came the query. "Much hangs on that."

Douglas leaned suddenly forward now, and awaited the answer with considerable interest. He noted that Dr. Rannage hesitated and seemed to be groping for a suitable reply. That in itself was ominous and affected the gathering.

"You see," he began, "I have had little opportunity of hearing this young man. Although he has been my curate for the past two years, he has spoken but a few times at St. Margaret's. The people there are extremely particular and decidedly intellectual, and so prefer to listen to their rector."

It was with considerable difficulty that Douglas repressed a chuckle at these words. He knew very well how jealous Dr. Rannage was of his own ability as a speaker, and he had always taken it for granted that the members of St. Margaret's would rather hear him than any one else, especially a curate. He knew something, too, about his views of country people, as he had heard him speak about them in no flattering manner on several occasions. To him they were a heavy, ignorant lot, unrefined, and only a step removed from the beasts of the field. He had expected at the outset of his address that he would say something which would arouse the anger of the people of Rixton, and so was not surprised at his tactless remarks. He noted the feeling of indignation which was pervading the room, and the whispered conversations which were going on.

"So the new parson was pitched out of St. Margaret's, was he?" a man questioned.

"Oh, no, not 'pitched out,'" Dr. Rannage explained. "He left of his own accord."

"Why?" the same voice asked. "Couldn't he stand up to the job?"

"Not exactly. He was a hard worker, but he found it almost impossible to understand the ways, ah, how shall I put it? of refined society. That is, he could not mingle freely with the social element which is so prominent at St. Margaret's. He preferred the lower life, such as is found along the water-front, and in the poorer sections of the city. He was more at home there."

"I am afraid, sir, that the new parson will not suit here," the chairman announced. "According to your words, he is not a gentleman, and does not understand the ways of polite society. Now, we want a man all can respect, who understands his people, and yet who has the true ring of a natural born gentleman."

"Who is he, anyway?" a man asked. "Where did he come from?"

"He was brought up on a farm, and worked his way through college," Dr. Rannage explained. "He understands country ways and should suit very nicely here."

"Why don't ye say 'the bush'?" Bill Simmonds shouted. "Anything will suit us here."

The laugh which followed this remark annoyed Dr. Rannage.

"I am almost inclined to believe you are right," he angrily retorted.

"Ye believe it already, an' we know it."

"Order!" the chairman sternly demanded. "Bill Simmonds, you had better leave the hall, if you can't behave yourself."

"All right, sir," Bill acquiesced, as he threw a wink to a man across the aisle and settled back in his seat. "I've got nuthin' more to say."

Dr. Rannage was evidently embarrassed. He mopped his face with his handkerchief, and took another drink of water.

"I think I have explained matters quite fully," he at last continued, "and perhaps my companions here would like to say something. I trust, however, that you will give your new clergyman a fair trial, and do everything in your power to help him."

"What's his name?" Tom Stephens asked. "You have never mentioned that."

"It is Douglas Stanton. He comes from a good old family, so I understand, and his grandfather held an important government position in this province."

Dr. Rannage's companions had very little to say. They were business men, so they said, and unaccustomed to public speaking. Each made an appeal to the people to support the new clergyman, to repair the rectory, and to give more liberally toward the support of the Church in their parish. They were given an attentive hearing, and when they were through, the chairman brought the meeting to a sudden close. Just why he did so Douglas could not understand. Stubbles' manner had greatly changed since his opening remarks and he seemed to be annoyed and irritable.

Douglas was the first to leave the building, and he stood outside in the shadow of the hall hoping to get a word with Stubbles. As the people passed him, he overheard some of their remarks which were by no means complimentary.

"He made a mess of it, he surely did," a man was saying. "What does he know about the country?"

"Nuthin'," his companion replied. "What were them funny things he wore on his legs? I would like to see him out in the——"

Douglas could not hear his closing words. But the comments of others were of a similar nature, and he realised that Dr. Rannage had not smoothed the way for his coming to the parish as rector.

Last of all came the delegates, talking earnestly with one another. He could not hear what they were saying, but judging from the tone of their voices, they were not at all satisfied at the outcome of the meeting. Simon Stubbles walked behind. He was limping and carried a cane in his hand. His head was bent, and his face was turned to the ground as if in deep thought. Douglas at once stepped forward and touched him on the arm. Stubbles gave a sudden start and looked quickly around.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" he gasped. He did not altogether relish the idea of meeting the man he had ordered from the parish.

"Yes, that's who it is," Douglas replied. "I want to have a word with you."

"Didn't you receive my message?" Stubbles asked.

"I did, and I want an explanation."

"There's nothing to explain. You have made yourself very obnoxious here, and you must get out."

"And suppose I do not obey?"

"Then you will have to put up with the consequences."

"That is a pretty serious threat. This is a free country, and if anything should happen to me, what then? You might find yourself in an awkward position."

"Oh, I'm not worrying about that. All I ask you to do is to leave this place at once. You've had fair warning, and I haven't time to argue with you any longer."

Stubbles was about to move forward, when Douglas blocked his way.

"Just stay where you are," the latter ordered. "If you make any outcry, you'll regret it. But I won't hurt you if you keep quiet. Now listen to me, Simon Stubbles. You have lorded it over the people in this parish too long for their welfare. It is through you that the Church life is dormant here, and no clergyman can stay for any length of time. You know this to be true, notwithstanding your canting words in the hall to-night. I am not afraid of you, and I shall remain in this parish as long as I please. If you interfere with me in any way it will be at your own peril. I have given you timely warning, and you may go."

Simon Stubbles listened to these plain words in amazement. He had never been thus spoken to before, and his anger was intense. He began to stamp, rage and denounce the man who dared to speak to him in such an audacious manner. He attracted the attention of those waiting for him in the car some distance off. Seeing that two men were approaching to learn what was the matter, Douglas leaped aside and disappeared among the trees surrounding the hall.



CHAPTER XV

A WET DAY

Douglas was very tired and slept soundly that night. When he awoke next morning the rain was beating down upon the roof over his head. It sounded like music to his ears, for it would mean rest that day from the toil of the field. There were several things he wished to do, and the rain was just what he needed. There would be no work in the field, so he would be free to go where he wished.

Jake had been at the meeting the night before and was very talkative.

"What happened to ye when the meetin' was over?" he enquired, as they sat down to breakfast.

"Oh, I waited around a while to watch the speakers and the chairman," Douglas replied.

"Did ye ever see a real live archdeacon before?"

"Yes, I have seen several."

"Ye don't tell! Well, that was the first one I ever sot me eyes on one. But, say, what was them things he had on his legs?"

"Gaiters, I think they are called."

"H'm, the same as the Bishop wears, eh? But what are they good fer?"

"They are a sign of his position, I suppose. I really know nothing more about the matter than you do."

"But what's the good of archdeacons, anyway? If they're all like the one we saw last night, I wouldn't give much fer the hull bunch."

"They are supposed to help the Bishop, so I understand."

"Help him, eh? Well, I guess that feller didn't help much in settlin' matters in this parish. Why, he made a mess of the hull affair."

"In what way?"

"Why, don't ye remember how riled he got when he was asked questions? He put his foot in it, too, when he said that a parson would do fer Rixton who had been kicked out of St. Margaret's in the city."

"He didn't really say that."

"No, not exactly in them words, but that was what he meant, an' we all took it that way."

"So you think that the archdeacon made it all the harder for the new clergyman by what he said last night, do you?" Douglas asked.

"Sure," Jake replied, as he helped himself to another pancake. "Didn't ye notice the feelin' in the meetin', an' how Si changed? Why, he looked jist like a thunder cloud about to bust. I sartinly do pity the new parson. He's goin' to have a hard time of it, mark my word."

"I had a little talk with Stubbles after the meeting," Douglas quietly remarked.

"Ye did, eh?" and Jake's eyes glowed with interest. "Was he surprised to see ye?"

"I believe so. He thought I was going to knock him down, and he raved like a madman. But I told him a few straight facts which he is not likely to forget."

"Ye did, eh? Bully fer you! But be careful, John. Si won't fergit anything, an' he'll come back at ye when ye'r least expectin' him."

"I told him that I am going to stay right in the parish, and that he couldn't drive me out."

"Good for you!" Mrs. Jukes exclaimed. "I like to hear a man talk that way. If the rest in Rixton would do the same Si would be taught a lesson in a short time. But they all lie down and let him walk over them."

"Ye'r always sayin' that, Susie," Jake chided. "Ye ought to know by this time what a grip Si has on everything in this parish."

"Well, it's about time, then, that he lost his grip. If there was only some one with any backbone who would go ahead, the rest would follow all right. People are getting sick and tired of the Stubbles' rule."

"Maybe the new parson'll be that kind of a man," Jake suggested. "'Spose we wait till he comes."

"H'm," and Mrs. Jukes tossed her head, "a great chance he'll have to go ahead with everybody willing to crawl before Si Stubbles and lick his boots. Why, just as soon as Si snaps his finger all the men dance attendance, and you know it, Jake Jukes. You do the same yourself."

"But maybe the new parson might be able to do something," Jake replied, as he mopped his forehead with a big red handkerchief. He was feeling very hot and uncomfortable before his wife's attack.

"He'll be very different, then, from the last two we had," Mrs. Jukes retorted. "I'm not expecting much from him, judging from the past."

Douglas was considerably amused at this conversation. He wondered what Jake and his wife would say if they were suddenly told that the "new parson" was before them. He was finding the part he was playing more interesting every day. How it would end, and how he would explain matters, he had not the least idea. He did not worry, however, leaving the future to take care of itself.

That afternoon Douglas paid a visit to Mrs. Dempster. He wished to find out for himself how Jean was getting along, and also to listen to the widow, for he enjoyed hearing her talk, and her comments upon parish affairs.

Mrs. Dempster was cooking in the kitchen, and Jean was lying on a sofa near the stove, to all appearance asleep.

"It's right glad I am to see ye," and Mrs. Dempster placed a chair for her visitor as she spoke. "It's a dull day and not many people stirrin'. Empty's gone to his nets, so me an' Jean have been havin' a quiet time all by ourselves."

"A busy time for you, I see," Douglas replied, glancing toward the table. "Those pies look very tempting."

"Oh, yes, it makes me hustle all right to fill Empty. I often tell him he's well named, fer I never saw any one who eats as much as he does."

"All mothers say the same thing, don't they? Growing lads need plenty of food. It's better to pay the grocer than the doctor, isn't it?"'

Mrs. Dempster paused in her work and glanced toward the still form on the sofa.

"I guess she'll need the doctor before long, if I'm not much mistaken," she remarked in a low voice. "Poor child, she's had a hard time of it since she went to the city. Who'd a thought that bright an' happy Jean Benton would have come to this?"

"Is she very sick, do you think?" Douglas asked as he looked toward the sleeping woman.

Mrs. Dempster did not at once reply. She placed a pie in the oven, and then turned to her visitor.

"Guess we'd better step outside fer a minute," she suggested. "We kin talk freer in the open air."

"There, that's better," Mrs. Dempster panted as she closed the door behind her. "Ye kin never tell when sleeping people will wake an' make matters uncomfortable. Now, look here, sir, I want ye to do me a favour."

"All right," Douglas assented. "What is it?"

"I want ye to ask Nell to come here as soon as she kin. There's somethin' I want to speak to her about. She's the only woman in the place I care to ask. She's got more sense than all the rest put together, which is sayin' a good deal."

"When do you want her to come?"

"Oh, to-morrow will do. I don't want her to come over to-night, as it's wet an' the roads are so muddy. Jist tell her to come when she gits time."

"So you think Jean is sick?"

"Yes, very. But she'll be sicker before she gits better, poor dear. But there, I must git back to my work. It was good of ye to come over."

Douglas was only too glad of an excuse to visit the Strongs. It was dark by the time he reached the house, as he had been delayed owing to the cattle going astray from the pasture. The door was opened by Nan, who gave a cry of delight when she saw Douglas standing before her.

"My, you have been a long time coming to see us again," she chided. "I have been watching for you every day."

It was a pleasant home-like scene which met Douglas' eyes as he entered the little sitting-room. The professor was seated in his big chair by the side of the table. Nell was sitting opposite, peeling and coring apples. Nan had been reading to her father, and the book was lying open on the table where she had hurriedly left it upon the arrival of the visitor. Douglas received a cordial welcome from Nell and the professor.

"I hope I am not interrupting your quietness," he apologised, as he sat down near the old man.

"I'm very glad you have interrupted the quietness," Nan quickly replied. "I'm sick and tired of Shakespeare. He's getting on my nerves."

"Nan, Nan, you must not talk of the master in that way," her father chided.

"I thought that you did the reading," Douglas remarked, turning to Nell.

"So I do, as a rule," was the smiling reply. "But Nan doesn't like peeling apples, and so she preferred to read."

"Ugh! apples stain my fingers and make them feel horrid," Nan exclaimed in disgust. "I would rather read anything—even Shakespeare."

"How is your work getting on, sir?" Douglas enquired, turning toward the professor.

"Slowly, very slowly, these days," was the reply. "There are several points I wish to think out carefully before I put them in writing. But we can talk about such matters again. I am eager now to hear about the Church meeting which was held last night. I suppose you were there?"

"Oh, yes, I wished to see and hear the new archdeacon, Dr. Rannage."

"What, was he there?"

"Yes, and two other delegates with him."

"Tell me about the meeting, please," and the professor leaned back comfortably in his chair.

As briefly as possible Douglas narrated the events of the meeting. He glanced occasionally at Nell, and noticed that at times she ceased her work to listen.

"So nothing was accomplished, then?" the professor queried when Douglas finished.

"Nothing that I could see, except to make it all the harder for the new clergyman who is coming here."

"Oh, he'll find it hard enough, all right, trust Si Stubbles for that. If he's anything like the last clergyman we had, he'll soon give in. I'm afraid that he will be a man of straw when it is a man of iron we need."

Douglas smiled to himself. He was enjoying the various comments he was hearing about himself, and he wondered what the professor and others would think if they knew who he really was.

"A clergyman is supposed to be a 'steward of the mysteries,'" the old man continued. "Now, when I think of those words, I always picture to myself a mother standing before a cupboard with a bunch of keys in her hand. By her side are several children watching her with intense interest, waiting for her to open the door and bring forth things which are old, such as nicely-frosted doughnuts, and things which are new, such as jelly and pie. That cupboard is a place of mystery to the children, and the mother has the key to the treasure: Do you follow me?"

"Certainly," Douglas replied.

"Well, then, that cupboard is the Bible; the clergyman is the steward who is supposed to have the key, and his people are the children. They are looking to him to bring forth the things new and old for their good. But as far as I can find, he generally brings forth the same old things Sunday after Sunday which have become so stale that people do not care for them."

"Do all do that?" Douglas asked, mentally going over several of his sermons.

"Oh, no, not all. But the sermons I have heard since coming to this parish, and others which have been reported to me, have been of that kind. There was no life, nothing personal, and not one new and striking thought upon any great subject. They were just the same old platitudes about the Fathers, the doctrine of the Church, the duty of people to attend the services, and to give. There has been no food for longing, hungry souls."

"Such teaching is necessary, is it not?" Douglas queried.

"I do not deny that at all. But it is poor food to satisfy the soul, especially when it is served at every meal. The trouble is that so many young men leave college with stereotyped ideas. They are parrots and repeat what they have been taught, and nothing else."

Douglas winced a little at these words, for he knew how well they applied to himself. But he was beginning to see life in a new light since he had become plain John Handyman.

"We need a man who has seen and experienced life," the professor continued, "and can convert the great thoughts of the Bible into living food for hungry, troubled and tempted souls. I wish every clergyman would take a page from the life of the little bee. People as a rule think that it gets the honey right from the flower. They are mistaken. All it gets is a little sweet water. But it takes that water, retires, adds something to it from itself, and by a process of its own makes it into honey."

"Isn't that funny!" Nan exclaimed. "Why I always thought the bees carried the honey on their legs and scraped it off when they got home. Didn't you think so, Nell?"

"I confess I did," was the laughing reply. "It shows us that we have much to learn about the common things around us."

"Well, what the bee does, so should the teacher of the Word," the professor resumed. "He should go to the Bible as the bee to the flower, and 'read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest.' Thus, through a process of his own, he is to bring forth the real spiritual honey for the benefit of hungry souls."

"Daddy, let's talk about something else," Nan suggested. "I am tired of such deep subjects. I was promised that I could talk to Mr. Handyman the next time he came, and there are so many things I want to ask him."

Douglas glanced at the clock and was surprised to find that it was nearly nine. He rose at once to his feet.

"I must go now," he remarked. "It would not do for me to keep you up late."

"That's always the way," Nan pouted.

"Next time I come we shall have a long talk," Douglas promised.

Nell showed Douglas to the door. He was glad of this, as it gave him an opportunity to deliver Mrs. Dempster's message.

"Is Jean very ill?" Nell asked.

"I am afraid so."

"Well, I shall go over to-morrow. Poor girl, she has had a hard time of it. Her face was so white at the hall door. She startled me. And, oh, Mr. Handyman, I want to thank you for the stand you took that night."

"You don't blame me, then?"

"Blame you! Why, no."

"I am thankful for that. It shows that all are not against me."

"Only the Stubbles condemn you. They are very angry."

Nell paused suddenly, as if in deep thought.

"Are you going right home?" she presently asked.

"Yes."

"Would you mind taking something for Jake? It is a pick-handle which we brought from the wharf last night in our boat. We often bring things for him and he does the same for us. It is a new one, and he may need it. It is right there on the verandah."

Douglas found the stick and placed it over his shoulder, bade Nell good-night, and plunged forth into the darkness.



CHAPTER XVI

TWIN FIRES

Douglas walked slowly toward the main highway, lost in thought. He was much interested in the professor's comments about clergymen. He knew it was a good tonic to hear such plain statements. But he thought mostly about Nell. He had watched her during the time he had been at the house and was more deeply impressed than ever. She was so quiet and reserved. She had never seemed so beautiful as she sat by the table with the light from the shaded lamp falling upon her face. He thought about Ben, and a feeling of anger smote his heart. What right had such a cad to have any claim over such a woman as that? he asked himself. And how could she see anything in Ben to admire? Had they met near the old tree since the night of the dance? he wondered.

Douglas was startled from his musings by a sudden noise to his left. Then, in an instant, the forms of two men hurled themselves upon him. A blow from a stick grazed his head and made him dizzy for a second. In the twinkling of an eye he realised that this was some of Ben Stubbles' mean, dirty work, and the thought maddened him. With the pick-handle he struck vigorously out, and soon had the satisfaction of knowing that he had settled one of his assailants, by the mournful groans he heard. Only one man was now left to deal with, and it did not take long to disarm him. Seeing that he was alone, with his cudgel knocked spinning from his grasp, he started to run away. Douglas, however, sprang after him and managed to seize him by the tail of his coat. To this he held with a bulldog grip while the other struggled frantically to get away. Finding that his efforts were in vain, and that he was in danger of being caught, he slipped out of his coat, leaving it in the hands of his conqueror, and disappeared in the darkness.

"Come back and get your coat," Douglas shouted. "You might need it before morning."

Receiving no answer, he began to grope around for the other assailant. But no sign of him could he find. He had evidently been able to get away, and Douglas was thankful that he had not killed him, no matter how much he deserved it.

"Well, that was a surprise party," he muttered. "Luckily for me that Nell gave me that pick-handle." Then a sudden thought struck him. Did she suspect anything? Had she heard rumours as to what Ben might do, and so had given him a weapon of defence? He wondered about this the rest of the way home. In fact, it pleased him to feel that Nell was interested in his welfare.

Having reached his own room, he examined his trophy of victory. It was an old coat, partly covered with mud. He went through the pockets, and what he found in one gave him much satisfaction. It was a piece of paper with a few brief instructions scrawled upon it, as follows:

"Get Keezer and be on hand to-night. Bring your sticks with you. Meet me at the bridge at eight sharp. Ben."

Douglas smiled grimly to himself as he read this brief note. He knew now that Ben had been somewhere around. No doubt he had been peering through the window and watching him talking to the professor and his daughters. How he longed to get a rap at the cowardly cur. The pick-handle would not be necessary; oh, no, his fists would be sufficient. But Ben knew enough to keep out of the way and let others do his dirty work.

Douglas said nothing about the night affair to the Jukes, as he was not in a talkative mood. His head was quite sore where he had been struck, and he wondered about the man who had received the force of the pick-handle. But he could not remain silent long, for Jake was bubbling over with excitement when he returned from the store whither he had gone for a barrel of flour. Dinner was waiting him, and he had no time to speak until he had stabled the horses and washed himself.

"Say, John," he began as soon as he had taken his seat at the table, "what were ye up to last night?"

"So you have been hearing something, have you?" Douglas enquired.

"Sure I have. Why, the hull place is buzzin' with the news, an' Si's as mad as blazes. Guess he's goin' to have ye arrested right off."

"Have me arrested!" Douglas exclaimed in surprise. "Why, what for?"

"Fer waylayin' Billy Keezer an' Tom Oakes last night, an' breakin' their heads with a stick. They're all used up, an' Tom swears that you stole his coat."

Douglas leaned back in his chair and laughed so heartily that Jake and his wife looked at him in astonishment.

"So Billy and Tom are sick, are they?" he chuckled. "Well, I hope they have learned a lesson and will mind their own affairs after this."

He then told the story of the fight the night before, and when he had finished he went to his room and brought down the captured coat, and read the note he had found in the pocket.

"Great punkins!" Jake exclaimed, as he hit the table with his fist and made the dishes rattle. "I'm mighty glad ye've got that letter. It's sure proof that Ben was back of the hull affair. And so ye knocked 'em both out with the pick-handle, did ye? Bully fer you! I wish ye'd got a tap at Ben while ye was about it."

"Did you see Billy and Tom?" Douglas asked.

"No. They're in bed. The doctor's been to see 'em, so I learned."

"And Si is going to have me arrested, eh?"

"So I heard. He was rampin' around like a lion."

"I wish he would," Douglas quietly remarked. "It would clear the air somewhat, and give me a chance to say something. But Si will never come out in the open like that, mark my word. He and Ben are back of that attack last night, if I'm not greatly mistaken, and they would not dare to face an investigation."

"You're right there," Mrs. Jukes replied. "They'll do nothing now but just wait for another chance. You had better be careful how you wander around alone at night, especially near the professor's place."

"Why?" Douglas asked, noting the twinkle in her eyes.

"Ben'll be getting jealous, that's all. He'll have another grudge against you, if you're not careful."

Douglas realised that what Mrs. Jukes said was quite true. Ben must have been watching through the window the night he was at the professor's house, and no doubt jealousy had been added to his hatred. But he did not care, for a new feeling had now taken possession of him. His heart burned within him when he thought of Ben meeting Nell and making love to her. He brooded over this all the afternoon as he worked in the field. Nell, with her simplicity and charm of manner, was ever before him. He could not get her out of his mind, and at times he found himself looking across the field in the direction of her home.

Suddenly there came to him the realisation that Nell Strong was the one woman in the whole world he wanted. His heart cried out for her, and the idea of her becoming the wife of Ben Stubbles was almost more than he could endure. For the first time in his life he was in love, and with a beautiful woman, who in some unaccountable manner was bound to a man who was his most bitter enemy. Ben must not have her, he told himself over and over again that afternoon. But what was he to do? He himself was merely a farmhand in Nell's eyes, and he had not the least reason to believe that she cared anything for him. Ben, on the other hand, was the son of the most influential man in the parish, and had been making love to her for come time.

Had any one told Douglas a month ago that he would be deep in love after he had been in Rixton a couple of weeks, he would have laughed him to scorn. His idea of wandering from place to place and living just for self had suddenly taken flight. To him life seemed desolate apart from Nell Strong. He could not understand the feeling, and he did not try to analyse it. It was something he had never before experienced. He knew that it had come mysteriously and subtly, and was now possessing his entire being.

Jake noted how absent minded his assistant was that afternoon, and jokingly told him to look out for the constable.

"He may be along any minute now," he bantered.

Douglas laughed and went on with his work. He was glad that Jake imagined it was the thought of arrest which was occupying his mind. He did not wish any one to have the least idea of the secret thoughts which were agitating his heart.

After the chores had been done, Douglas strolled down to the shore. He wished to be alone that he might think. It was a beautiful evening, and the river stretched out before him like a great mirror, with not a ripple disturbing its surface. It was a scene of peace, and it brought a quietness to his soul. A swim in a secluded place had refreshed him, and after he had dressed, he sat for a time upon the sandy beach. He looked up and down the shore, but no sign of life could he behold. The only familiar thing he saw was the old tree where he had sat that evening when he had first seen Nell. He wondered if she would be at the same place again this evening, and if Ben would meet her there. He did not relish the idea of spying, but so much was at stake now, and he must find out if they kept their tryst as formerly. If so, then it would be no use for him to cherish any hope. He might as well banish Nell from his mind first as last.

Walking slowly along the shore, he at length reached the old tree and sat down upon the ground by its side with his eyes turned upstream. From here he could see all that might take place before him, while he himself would remain unobserved.

The sun had now gone down beyond the tree tops, and the shades of night were stealing slowly over land and river. The air was clear, and objects were easily discerned some distance away. Douglas had not sat there more than a quarter of an hour when Nell appeared and stopped close to the big tree. She stood quietly there, with her right arm resting upon the bent and twisted trunk. Her eyes were fixed upon the ground, and she seemed to be in deep thought. Douglas shrank back lest he might be observed. A feeling of compunction smote his heart, and he was tempted to slip away among the bushes. What would Nell think if she knew that he was spying upon her? he asked himself. Would it not be more manly for him to go forward and speak to her?

As he was thinking of these things, a man suddenly appeared from the thick bushes and advanced toward the waiting woman. That it was Ben, Douglas had not the least doubt, and his heart beat fast as he watched the two standing together. His hands clenched and the blood coursed madly through his veins. So she was expecting Ben, then, he told himself, and no doubt was pleased at his arrival. What use for him to consider her any longer? She had given her heart and hand to that rascal, so that ended it. Surely she must know that he was a downright villain. Was she playing a double game? Why had she told him only last night, standing at the door of her house, that she was glad of the part he had taken at the hall? And yet here she was talking to the very man he had opposed, and perhaps enjoying a lovers' chat.

Douglas was sorely puzzled. He knew that he should go home, and yet the two standing near the tree fascinated him. The man seemed to be doing most of the talking, and Nell was plucking at the bark on the tree with nervous fingers, so Douglas thought. He tried to picture the expression on her face and the look in her eyes. He could not associate Nell with anything that was mean and unwomanly. There must be some reason for her presence there with Ben. The thought gave him some comfort, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He must not judge her too harshly until he knew more. Perhaps she was suffering keenly, and would need his assistance. He felt that she was a woman who would greatly endure and remain silent, even though her heart were breaking. He must stand by and do what he could to help her. Even though she might never be his, yet he would be her friend to the last if she would only give him the opportunity.

A slight noise to the left caused Douglas to turn his head, and as he did so he caught a fleeting glimpse of some one moving swiftly yet cautiously among the bushes. It was a woman, and he recognised her at once as Jean Benton. She looked neither to the right nor to the left, but kept her eyes fixed upon the couple standing by the old tree. She leaned forward as she walked and seemed to Douglas like a panther stealing upon its prey. He could not see her face, but from her intensity of action he could easily imagine the passion depicted there, and the fiery gleam in her eyes. A sudden thrill shot through his body as he realised the purpose of her presence. It was mad jealousy, there could be no doubt of it, and the object was Nell. She had alienated her lover's affections, and Jean's passionate nature had been aroused. What would she do? he asked himself. What could not a woman do when crazed with intense fury?

Douglas expected that Jean would spring suddenly from among the bushes and confront Ben and Nell face to face. She did nothing of the kind, however, but, stopped when a short distance away, crouched low to the ground, and watched. Douglas remained where he was, spell-bound. There was nothing he could do, and it was not his business to interfere. If he went forward now, it would show that he had been spying. No, he would wait and see what the outcome of it all would be.

He did not have to wait long, for in a few minutes Ben and Nell left the tree and walked slowly along the path leading to the house. And after them crept Jean, keeping well within the deep shadows of the thick bushes. Soon all had disappeared and Douglas was left alone with his thoughts. He did not at once leave the shore, but sat there thinking over what he had just witnessed. Jean was jealous of Nell, and blamed her for stealing her lover. And what of himself? Was he not jealous of Ben? Did he not want that beautiful woman for himself? Yes, there were twin fires burning in their breasts. But, oh, how different were their natures. Jean's was like a fiery volcano, ready to burst forth in fury and destruction. His was more moderate, he reasoned, righteous, temperate, and he must see to it that it should be kept under control.



CHAPTER XVII

CRUEL AS THE GRAVE

Nan had gone to the store that morning for a few groceries, and when she returned she was greatly excited.

"Nell, Nell," she called, as she laid her parcels on the kitchen table, "where are you?"

"Here I am," Nell replied, coming from the next room. "What is the matter? You are all hot and excited."

"They are going to arrest my musician, just think of that!"

"Arrest your musician! Mr. Handyman! Why, what for?"

"Because he hit Billy Keezer and Tom Oakes last night on the road. He cut them up pretty badly, so I heard."

Nell looked at her sister for a few seconds in an effort to comprehend the meaning of it all. Then the truth flashed upon her mind. "I am so glad I gave him that pick-handle," she said to herself. "I felt that an attack would be made upon him." To her sister, however, she merely said,

"Sit down, Nan, and tell me what you have heard."

In a few words Nan told her the story that was in circulation around the village. It was the same that Jake had related to Douglas.

"And is every one blaming Mr. Handyman?" Nell asked when Nan had finished.

"Oh, yes. And they are saying what a dangerous man he is, and should be driven out of the place. I heard the storekeeper tell another man that he stole Tom Oakes' coat last night, and that he believed that Mr. Handyman is a noted thief."

"Why, how did he get Tom's coat?" Nell asked in surprise.

"No one seemed to know for sure. But people think that he knocked Tom down and took his coat, thinking there might be money in it."

"Where did this happen, Nan?"

"On the main road, according to Billy and Tom. They said that they were walking quietly along when they were set upon by Mr. Handyman, and knocked down with a big stick. I don't believe it, do you?"

But Nell did not answer. She stood in the middle of the room gazing thoughtfully out of the window which faced the main highway.

"Come with me, Nan," she at length ordered. "Let us go for a short walk."

Somewhat surprised, but asking no questions, Nan accompanied her sister out of the house, through the garden and along the road leading to the highway. Nell kept a careful watch on both sides of the road, and when they at last came to the spot where the fight had taken place, she espied two hats lying in the ditch. Near by were two stout cudgels.

"This is where the fight took place," Nell quietly remarked, as she pointed to the hats and the sticks. "They belong to Tom and Billy, if I am not much mistaken."

"But they said it was on the main road where they were attacked," Nan replied.

"Then they must be lying. There is the proof where the fight took place. And why was it here?" she asked.

"I don't know, do you?"

"I think I do. Billy and Tom were lying in wait for Mr. Handyman last night, and attacked him as he was coming from our house."

"Oh, do you think so? What would they do that for?"

"Perhaps they were obeying orders. But we shall find out later. Let us take those hats and sticks and keep them; they may be needed later."

"Oh, I believe I know," Nan exclaimed, now much excited. "They are Si Stubbles' men, and he got them to attack my musician. Wasn't it mean of him! And then to think that Billy and Tom would lie and throw the blame on an innocent man."

Nell was very quiet during the rest of the day. She went about her work as usual, but her mind was upon other things. At times she found herself standing and looking absently out of the window. She felt quite sure who was the man responsible for the trouble the previous night. Her face was paler than it had been for some time and an occasional nervous tremor shook her body. She found herself mentally comparing two men, one, mean and contemptible, with no apparent aim in life but the satisfaction of self; the other, self-reliant, noble, and working for an honest wage. She knew that one was a miserable cad, while the other was a true gentleman.

As evening drew near, she became restless and worked with a feverish haste about the house and at times in the garden. When supper was over, she drew Nan out upon the verandah.

"Something is going to happen to-night," she told her, "and I wish you would take father to his room and read him to sleep."

"Is it that old tree affair again to-night?" Nan impatiently asked.

"Yes."

"And Ben will be there, I suppose."

"I expect he will."

"Nell, I wish you would tell him once and for all that you will not have anything more to do with him. I hate him, and so do you, and you know it."

"Hush, hush, Nan. Do not talk that way. Do as I ask you now, and perhaps I shall have something to tell you in the morning. You had better go to bed early, too."

Nell seemed to be very calm as she walked slowly to the shore and took up her position by the side of the tree. But her heart was beating rapidly, and her courage almost forsook her. When, however, she saw Ben appear from the bushes, and thought of his contemptible work of the previous evening, she became strengthened by the spirit of anger which suddenly possessed her. He seemed to her more like a serpent than a man, and she drew back a step as he approached too near.

"Surely you're not afraid of me, Nell," he chided, noting her action.

"I am not afraid," she calmly replied, "but I do not wish you to come too close, that's all."

"When are you going to stop this fooling, Nell?" he impetuously asked.

"I am going to stop it to-night, and at once," and she looked him squarely in the eyes as she spoke. "You have your answer."

He mistook her meaning, however, and reached out impulsively to put his arms around her.

"Keep away," she ordered. "Don't touch me."

"Why, what do you mean?" Ben demanded, shrinking back before her steadfast look.

"I mean that I am not going to have anything more to do with you. You can go your way, and I will go mine."

"But I thought you cared for me," the man replied in surprise.

"Haven't I told you over and over again that I did not? But you would persist in coming here, nevertheless."

"Do you mean what you say?" Ben asked, while a surly expression leaped into his eyes.

"Yes, I mean every word. You had better go now, as it will be no use for you to say anything more."

"Why didn't you tell me this before, Nell?"

"I did, plainer than any words."

"Yes, perhaps you did. But why didn't you speak, and tell me so?"

"There was a reason which it is not necessary for me to explain."

"Ah, I know the reason. I see through your little game now. You were using me as a tool, that was all. But, damn you, I'll get even with you. That little matter can soon be attended to, and then you'll find out your mistake."

Nell's face was very white and strained, and with difficulty she kept her outward calmness. Had she but realised that eyes glowing with hatred and jealousy were watching her from the bushes a short distance away, she would have broken down completely.

"I believe you are capable of doing almost anything, Ben," she replied, "and accordingly any injury you might do to us and our little home will be no surprise. I am going back to the house now. It is no use for us to talk any longer."

Nell moved away from the trees, hoping that Ben would go back the way he had come. But she was not to get clear of him so easily. He stepped quickly to her side, and demanded what she meant by the words she had just uttered.

"Surely you must know," she told him. "If I had the least spark of affection for you, which I did not have, it would have been quenched by your action at the dance in the hall, and what you did last night."

"Last night! What did I do last night?"

"You know as well as I do, and I think a great deal better. One who will hound on others to attack a lone man on a dark night is not worthy to be called a man, but should be listed with the brutes of the jungle."

An oath leaped from Ben's lips and he gripped Nell by the arm.

"Who told you that?" he growled. "How dare you make such a charge?"

"I dare make it because I know it is true. How I know it is my own affair. Let go my arm at once, and don't you touch me again."

Nell's eyes were blazing with anger now, and Ben shrank back cowed. The serpent within him could not endure the righteous indignation of the pure and noble woman before him. He knew that what she said was true, and it roused him to an uncontrollable pitch of fury.

"Ah, I know where you got your information," he twitted. "I understand why you won't have anything more to do with me. It's Jake Jukes' hired man who is at the bottom of all this. Ah, I know. He's been around here with his damn oily ways. That's the secret of the whole thing. Oh, I understand it all now."

"You think you know more than you do," Nell quietly replied. "Mr. Handyman has told me nothing. I have not seen him since the fight."

"But you saw him last night. He was at your house."

"How do you know that?"

"Oh, I know very well."

"You were spying upon us, I suppose, sneaking around and looking in at the window. Do you call that a manly thing to do?"

Ben was getting the worst of the conversation, and he knew it.

"I'll get even with that cur," he declared. "I'll show him a thing or two."

"There, I wish to hear no more of such talk," Nell replied. "I am going into the house." She started to leave, but Ben stopped her.

"Just a minute before you go," he growled. "You have thrown me over, and you think you are done with me. But, remember, Nell Strong, I'm not a man to be fooled with. You'll regret this sooner than you imagine."

"Is that a threat?" she asked. "You are careless of your words."

"You can call it what you like, I don't care. You may scorn me now, but my turn will come."

Waiting to hear no more, Nell left him, hurried into the house and closed the door. She partly expected him to follow her, so she stood for a while in the middle of the kitchen listening with fast-beating heart. After she had waited for several minutes and no sound was heard outside, she lighted the lamp and drew down the blinds. Then she sat down upon a chair by the side of the table and buried her face in her hands. She was very tired and almost heartbroken over what had just taken place. She knew how vindictive Ben would be, and when she thought of her helpless father and sister and what her decision might mean to them, she almost repented of her action. But when she thought of Ben and what a creature he really was, she felt that anything was better than to be in the least manner connected with him. Let him do his utmost, there would still be some way, surely, whereby they could make a living.

She sat thus for some time, and it seemed to her as if her brain must burst from the confusion of thought. She must do something to relieve her strained feelings. There was plenty to be done, and she at once began to fold some clothes which had been left over from the previous day's washing, and which she had not had time to iron. Her fingers moved rapidly, keeping pace with her thoughts.

She had been engaged at this work but a short time when she heard a step at the door. Then there was the sound of some one lifting the latch. Could it be Ben coming? she asked herself. What would she do? What could she say to him? As she stood there hesitating, the door slowly opened, and instead of Ben, Jean Benton stood before her. Nell breathed a sigh of relief when she saw her, though the expression upon the girl's face startled her.

"Oh, Jean!" she exclaimed, "how you did frighten me! Come and sit down, for you look tired."

Jean made no reply but stood there with her eyes fixed upon Nell's face. They were wild eyes, and they caused Nell to tremble. Was Jean mad? she wondered, and what would she do with her? What did she want, anyway?

"Won't you sit down?" she asked, not knowing what else to say.

Jean took a step or two forward, and so fierce was her look that Nell shrank back.

"Jean, Jean, what's the matter?" she demanded. "Why do you look at me that way?"

Jean suddenly lifted her right hand, and pointed her forefinger at the trembling woman before her.

"You stole him from me," she hissed. "You took him away when I needed him most. Ah, that is what you have done, and you needn't try to deny it."

For an instant Nell was unable to comprehend the meaning of Jean's words. Then the truth flashed upon her mind. The girl was mad with jealousy. She imagined that she had stolen Ben from her.

"Jean, Jean, listen to me," she pleaded. "I haven't taken Ben from you, if that is what you mean. He came to me of his own accord, and I have refused to have anything more to do with him."

"You lie!" the half-crazed woman cried. "I saw you together to-night, talking by the tree and by the house. His arm was around you. I saw it all, and you needn't deny it."

"Listen to me," Nell ordered, now much annoyed. "Won't you believe me? I tell you I have not taken him from you. He was with me to-night for the last time. I told him to go and never to come back again. Why do you blame me? Ben is the one to blame. If he has deserted you, why don't you go to him?"

"He isn't to blame," Jean cried. "Don't try to clear yourself, Nell Strong. You have stolen him, and you know it. But you won't have him. He shall never be yours."

Quick as a flash, Jean thrust her right hand into the bosom of her dress, and ripped forth a sharp knife. Like a tiger she sprang upon Nell. Instinctively the latter stepped back and raised her left arm to ward off the blow, which thus received the knife meant for her heart. With almost superhuman effort Nell hurled her assailant from her, drew forth the knife from the quivering flesh, and threw it behind her. The blood was streaming from her arm, but she kept her eyes fixed upon the baffled girl before her, not knowing what she might do next. But the sight of blood seemed to satisfy Jean. She gloated over her deed, and with a wild mocking laugh, she opened the door and sped out into the night.

With a great effort Nell overcame the deathly feeling of faintness which came upon her. Quickly she locked the door, and then turned her attention to her injured arm. The wound was still bleeding profusely, and it was with considerable difficulty that she was at length able to stop the flow of blood. The gash was not as deep as she had first expected. The knife in falling had struck a glancing blow just below the shoulder on the outer part of the arm. For this Nell was thankful, but she shuddered as she thought of what her assailant really intended to do.

When the wound had been carefully bound up, Nell sat down by the side of the table and thought over what had just taken place. But for the pain in her arm she might have considered it nothing more than a terrible dream. She had never imagined that Jean, who in the past had been so gentle, good, and loving, could be so changed. But she knew that jealousy was the cause, and jealousy could be as cruel as the grave.

After she had burnt up the clothes with which she had staunched the wound, and wiped up the stains on the floor, Nell went slowly up to her own room. But she could not sleep, for the excitement through which she had recently passed caused her brain to throb and her head to ache. She tossed restlessly upon her bed, and finding that she could get no rest she got up and paced rapidly up and down the room. At times she thought she would go mad like Jean, as she recalled all that had taken place. She glanced into the mirror, and was astonished at the haggard face which confronted her there. What was she to do?

Presently her eyes rested upon her mother's picture hanging on the wall. She studied it lovingly and longingly, and then, "Mother! Mother!" burst from her lips. "Oh, I want you, I want you! Come to me to-night, and comfort me as of old."

And as she stood there her mother's parting words came to her mind. "Nellie," she had said, "you are young and a great responsibility rests upon you. You will fail if you try to bear it alone. There is One to Whom you can always go, and He will help you in all your troubles."

At once a new light came into her eyes. There was One who had promised to help. Why had she forgotten Him? Kneeling down by the side of her bed, she prayed as she had never prayed before. And as she thus knelt, a new peace stole into her heart, and it seemed to her as if a divine presence pervaded the room, bringing a restful balm to her weary body and mind.



CHAPTER XVIII

SILENT STRIFE

Douglas was hoeing corn on a patch of ground near the road. It was a beautiful day, and the air was filled with teeming life of bird and insect. But the silent worker was in no mood to enjoy the fair morning. He was thinking deeply of what he had witnessed down by the river the evening before. As far as he could tell, Nell and Ben were on most friendly terms, for he knew nothing of the stormy scene which had taken place between them.

Across the road was the rectory, seeming more dilapidated than ever, so he thought. Only yesterday he had looked at it, and a picture had come into his mind of the building renewed, the house set to rights, and Nell crowning it all by her grace and beauty. He had imagined her in the garden, among the roses, sweet-peas and morning-glories, the fairest flower of them all. He knew just how she would look, and what a joy it would be to her to tend the various plants. And then what a welcome she would give him upon his return from some parish work. He had dreamed of it all out in the field, and it had made him very happy. What a success he would make of life with Nell's inspiration and helpfulness. But now his vision was shattered, and the future looked dark and lonely. Nell could never be his, and why should he think of her any more? She had given herself, no doubt, to Ben Stubbles, so that ended it.

It seemed to Douglas as if everything he undertook was a failure. He had not succeeded with his work at St. Margaret's, and he had become entangled in a quarrel in the very parish where he was shortly expected to come as rector, the solution of which he could not see. Instead of bringing peace to troubled Church waters, and harmony out of chaos, he had apparently made matters worse by his interference. Added to this, he was deeply in love with the one woman he could not hope to win.

As he moved slowly up and down the rows thinking of these things, Empty appeared suddenly before him. The lad was breathing hard and seemed greatly agitated.

"Hello, Empty! what's wrong?" Douglas enquired, pausing in his work.

"Go fer the doctor, quick," Empty panted. "Jean's sick, very sick, an' ma sent me fer you. She can't spare me a minute, so I must hustle back. Will ye go?"

"Certainly," Douglas replied. "But when did Jean become ill? She seemed all right last night."

"She took sick jist a little while ago. Oh, hurry! Don't waste time talkin'. An', say, ye might drop in an' tell her dad. Joe's very uneasy 'bout Jean."

Douglas wished to ask Empty a number of questions, but having delivered his message, the lad left him and sped like a deer by a short-cut across the field. The telephone was at the store and Douglas lost no time in getting there. Several people were standing before the counter as he entered the building, who listened with great interest as he asked the store-keeper for the use of the telephone. Then as he spoke to the doctor, requesting him to hurry at once to Mrs. Dempster's, the curiosity of the bystanders became intense. They would have something to discuss among themselves, and a choice bit of gossip would soon be in circulation throughout the parish.

When Douglas left the store, he made his way to the shoemaker's. He found Joe at his bench, half-soling a pair of shoes. He greeted his visitor cordially, and offered him a seat upon the only chair the room contained.

"I haven't time to sit down this morning," Douglas told him. "I have just called up the doctor, and dropped in to see you for a minute."

"Called up the doctor!" Joe repeated, while an anxious look came into his eyes. "Who's sick?"

"It is Jean. She is not very well."

"Ah, I was afraid of it," and the old man laid aside the shoe, and looked intently into his visitor's face. "Poor lassie, she must have caught cold out on the hills that night. Is she at Mrs. Dempster's yet?"

"Yes. Empty came for me this morning, and he had to go right back."

"I must go at once." Joe rose from the bench as he spoke and untied his leather apron. "Jean may need me now."

"Would it not be better for your wife to go?" Douglas asked. "A woman can generally do more in a sick room than a man."

Joe shook his head as he carefully folded the apron and laid it on the bench.

"No, she couldn't very well go. She hasn't been that far in a long time. It's her foot, you see. It's been troubling her for years. Jean'll have to come home, and then she can look after her. Just wait, I'll be with you in a minute."

As the two walked along the road there was little said for a time. Joe seemed to be lost in thought, and occasionally he gave a deep sigh.

"I am thinking," he at length remarked, "that this sickness will be for Jean's good. It may be that the Lord has a hand in it, and He will lead her home through the valley of trouble. He did it in olden days, and I believe He does the same now."

"Have you any idea what is the matter with your daughter?" Douglas enquired. "What do you suppose has caused such a great change in her from what she was before she left home?"

"I have never heard," Joe slowly replied. "Jean would not tell me."

"But there must have been something, Mr. Benton. It is not natural for a girl who was brought up so carefully to change in such a short time."

Douglas knew the nature of Jean's illness, and he was anxious that Joe's mind might be somewhat prepared for the shock. He felt that he could do no more than give a hint.

"Jean has been working too hard," the old man replied. "She was always a great worker, and I think she is run down and her mind is somewhat affected. She will be all right as soon as she gets over this sickness."

"But what about the letter you received from the city?" Douglas persisted. "Didn't it show that there must have been something wrong there? She was sent home for repairs, was she not?"

"I have thought it all over, sir, night and day, and we have talked about it a great deal. Jean has done nothing wrong, mark my word. I thought at first that perhaps she had, but I know better now. Why, it's not in that child to do anything wrong. She's always been as innocent as a baby. She was led astray for a time, that's all."

Douglas had not the heart to say anything more.

He left Joe when they came to the corn patch, and picked up his hoe. He stood and watched the old man ambling along the road, and a feeling of deep pity came into his heart. Why should such a worthy man have to endure so much? he asked himself. He knew the cause of the trouble, and his thoughts turned to the cowardly cur who had brought such misery upon the humble home. It was not right that Ben should escape, and he felt that something should be done to expose the villain. But if he told what he knew, who would believe him? Ben would defy him to produce evidence of his dastardly deed, and most of the people in the place would side with him. They would say that Jake's hired man had trumped up a lie about Ben Stubbles out of mere spite.

Douglas brooded over this during the rest of the morning, and as he continued his work after dinner he was still thinking about it and wondering what he could do to bring about Ben's deserved punishment and humiliation. It was galling to him to see the fellow strutting about and lording it over everybody.

About the middle of the afternoon, happening to glance down the road, he was astonished to see Joe walking slowly along, swaying from side to side, as if he were dizzy or had been drinking. Douglas believed that something more than usual was the matter, and by the time the old man had reached the corn patch he was standing by the side of the road.

"What is wrong?" he asked. "Is Jean dead?"

"Worse than dead," was the low reply. "Oh, if she were only dead! God help my Jean, my darling Jean!"

Joe's face was drawn and haggard. His eyes were red as if they had been rubbed hard and long. His body trembled so violently that Douglas feared that he might collapse where he stood.

"Won't you sit down?" he asked. "You must be tired. Rest awhile."

"Sit down! Rest!" Joe slowly repeated, as if he did not fully comprehend the words. "How dare I think of rest with my poor child's troubles on my mind?"

He ceased and let his eyes roam across the fields toward the Dempster home. Then he straightened himself up and turning to his companion clutched him fiercely by the arm. His lips moved, though no word was uttered. But his eyes and face said all that was necessary. A heartbroken father was being torn by a wild passion, and what anger is more terrible than that caused by an injury to an offspring, whether of man or beast? Douglas made no effort to soothe the grief-stricken man. He realised that the storm must beat itself out, and that words of comfort or sympathy would be empty sounds falling on unheeding ears. He knew that silence is never more golden than in the presence of overmastering grief.

At first he thought that Joe's passion was that of anger alone for the one who had outraged his daughter. But presently, he intuitively divined that the struggle was deeper than that. He felt that it was a conflict between right and wrong; the desire of the savage beast thirsting for revenge, contending with the Christ-like spirit of forgiveness. Now he longed to speak, to utter some word that would decide the battle for the right. But never did he feel so helpless. He recalled several appropriate texts of Scripture, but he did not quote them. Why he did not do so he could not tell. He realised the importance of the moment, and felt like a coward for his helplessness. If the beast nature should win, no end of harm might be done. What should he do?

Presently an idea flashed into his mind. Why had he not thought of it before? he asked himself.

Taking Joe by the arm, he led him from the road to a large maple tree standing near the edge of the field.

"Sit down under the shade," he ordered, "and wait until I come back."

Joe at first refused, and declared that he did not want to rest. But under his companion's gentle yet firm urging he sank upon the grass and buried his face in his hands.

Leaving him there, Douglas hastened to the house. In a few minutes he returned, carrying his violin. Joe never looked up as he approached, but remained, huddled upon the ground, the very epitome of abject despair.

At once Douglas began to play strong, violent music, in keeping with Joe's feelings. Each note suggested a tempest, and as the playing continued, the old man lifted his head and Douglas noted the gleam in his eyes and the angry expression upon his face. At that moment he was ready for action, for revenge dire and swift.

But gradually the music changed. It became soft and low. It appealed to the better and higher nature. It was like the revivifying breath of spring after winter's sternness, and the sun's radiant smile following the raging tempest. It affected Joe. The light in his eyes changed, and his face softened. His body relaxed. Then the player knew that the victory was won. Gently he drifted off to the old, familiar hymns of "Nearer My God to Thee," and "Abide with Me."

As the last note died upon the air, Joe rose slowly from the ground. He said nothing, but reaching out he clasped Douglas by the hand. Then with head erect and a new light in his eyes, he turned and made his way slowly toward the road.



CHAPTER XIX

WARMER THAN HE EXPECTED

Joe had gone but a short distance up the road when Ben Stubbles met him in his car, and enveloped him in a cloud of dust. Ben was alone and he scowled as the old man stepped aside to let him pass. Douglas, who was watching, felt thankful that Joe was ignorant of the driver's part in Jean's ruin.

Seeing Douglas standing under the tree, Ben drew up his car and asked him what he was doing there.

"Attending to my own affairs," was the cool reply.

"Amusing the old man, eh? You must have a damn lot of work to do if you can afford to waste your time that way."

"That, too, is my own affair, and not yours. Have you anything more to say?"

"Sure I have. I want to know what you are doing here."

"Why shouldn't I be here?"

"But you received orders to leave."

"Who gave them?"

"Dad, of course."

"What right had he to order me away?"

"Oh, he rules here."

"Well, he doesn't rule me, and I shall leave when I get ready, and not before."

"You'll change your tune before long, though."

"I will, eh?"

"Sure. You'll find this place so damn hot for you that you'll be glad to get out."

"H'm," and Douglas gave a sarcastic laugh. "You have tried to make it hot for me already, so I believe. How did you succeed?"

"What do you mean?" Ben demanded.

"You know as well as I do. You set two men upon me the other night, as you were too much of a coward to face me yourself. Now you understand my meaning. If you want to make things hot for me, step right out here. Now is your chance."

"I wouldn't foul my hands fighting a thing like you," Ben snarled.

"No, simply because you know what would happen to you. You are too cowardly to face a man, but you have no hesitation about ruining an innocent girl, and leaving her to a miserable fate."

At these words Ben clutched the door of his car, threw it open and stepped quickly out upon the road. His face was livid with rage, and his body was trembling.

"Explain yourself!" he shouted. "How dare you make such a charge?"

Douglas at once stepped across to where Ben was standing, and looked him full in the eyes.

"Is it necessary for me to explain?" he asked. "Surely you have not forgotten what you did at Long Wharf in the city?"

"Do! What did I do?" Ben gasped, while his face turned a sickly hue.

"You pushed Jean Benton over the wharf into the harbour and left her to drown; that is what you did."

Douglas spoke slowly and impressively, and each word fell like a deadly blow upon the man before him. His face, pale a minute before, was now like death. He tried to speak but the words rattled in his throat. He grasped the side of the car for support, and then made an effort to recover his composure. The perspiration stood in great beads on his forehead, and his staring eyes never left the face of his accuser.

"I wish you could see yourself," the latter quietly remarked. "You'd certainly make a great picture. When you threatened to make this place too hot for me, you didn't expect to feel very uncomfortable that way yourself in such a short time, did you?"

"W-who in the devil's name are you?" Ben gasped.

"Oh, I don't pretend to be as intimate with the devil as you are, and appealing to me in his name doesn't do any good. It makes no difference who I am. You know that what I just said is true, and you can't deny it."

"But suppose I do deny it, what then?"

"H'm, you are talking nonsense now. It's no use for you to do any bluffing. The victim of your deviltry is lying sick unto death at Mrs. Dempster's. You had better go to her at once and make what amends you can before it is too late."

"Ah, I know," Ben replied, regaining somewhat his former composure. "Jean has been stuffing you with lies. She's a little vixen, and wants to get me into trouble."

"Look here," and Douglas' voice was stern as he spoke. "Don't you begin anything like that. I have never spoken a word to Jean Benton, and as far as I know she has never said anything about your cowardly deed to her. She is as true as steel in her love for you, and my advice is for you to act like a man, go to her, be true to her, and marry her as you promised you would that night you hurled her into the harbour."

"You are lying," Ben blustered. "If Jean didn't tell you this cock-and-bull yarn, how would you know anything about it?"

"I am not lying, Ben Stubbles. There were eyes watching your every action that night on Long Wharf; there were ears listening to what you said, and but for these hands of mine Jean Benton would be dead, and you would now be arrested for murdering her."

"You! You heard, and saw, and saved her!" Ben gasped, shrinking back from before the steady gaze of his pitiless accuser.

"I did," was the quiet reply.

"Were you alone?"

"Do you think I could have lifted her wet body from the water myself? No, I had help. But never mind that now. You go to Jean and make love to no one else."