The strain through which he had just passed was telling severely upon Ben. He mopped his face and forehead with his handkerchief. His sense of fear was passing and anger was taking its place. It annoyed him to think that he should be thus cornered and affected by Jake Jukes' hired man. Then his opponent's closing words roused the fire in his soul, and he turned angrily upon him.

"Ah, I see through your little game now," he cried. "You are jealous of me."

"Jealous of you! In what way?"

"You want Nell Strong, that's it. Ah, I understand it all. You want to take her away from me, don't you? I suppose you have told her this yarn about me, and that accounts for something that took place last night. You devil incarnate! I'll get even with you for what you have done!"

"If I were you I would be too ashamed to say anything more," Douglas calmly replied. "I have not told Miss Strong about your cowardly deed, though I think she should know of it. It would be an act of mercy if a word might save her from such a brute as you."

So intent were the two men upon what they were saying, that they did not notice Nell coming toward them down the road. She was only a few yards away as Douglas finished speaking. She heard the heated words, but could not understand their meaning. She was hoping that she might pass as quickly as possible, as she did not wish to have anything to say to Ben.

Douglas, standing facing the road, was the first to see her, and he at once lifted his hat. He thought she never looked so beautiful, clad as she was in a simple dress, and a plain sailor-hat on her head. She seemed like an angel of mercy sent to bring peace to their strife.

Ben, however, had no such thoughts. When he turned and saw who was approaching, he at once recalled the previous evening, and what Nell had said to him. He was glad, too, of any excuse to get away from his opponent who had given him such a galling time. And this was an opportunity, as well, to embarrass the woman who had repelled him. These thoughts flashed through his mind in the twinkling of an eye.

"Hello, Nell," he accosted. "Going down the road? Better get in and have a drive. I'm going that way myself."

"I prefer to walk, thank you," Nell quietly replied.

"Oh, nonsense. Get in and have a drive," Ben insisted.

Douglas noted that Nell's face became somewhat pale. Her clear eyes, filled with courage, never wavered. She had made up her mind and he knew that nothing could change her from her purpose. She did not at once reply to Ben's request.

"Get in," he ordered, "and don't be foolish."

"I tell you I prefer to walk," she repeated. "I am quite satisfied with my own company this afternoon."

With this parting thrust, Nell was about to resume her walk when Ben with a savage oath sprang toward her.

"No, you don't get away as easy as that," he roared. "I want to know the meaning of such actions."

Nell's anger was now aroused, and she turned swiftly upon the brute.

"You know very well why I will not ride with you. Have you forgotten last night? This is the King's highway, and I am at liberty to go as I please."

"To h—— with the King," Ben retorted, as he reached out and caught her fiercely by the arm.

At once a cry of pain broke from Nell's lips, and wildly she tore away the gripping fingers. Her face was distorted with pain, and her right hand pressed firmly her wounded arm.

Ben's oath concerning the King caused Douglas' face to darken and his eyes to blaze. He sprang quickly forward, and seized the wretch by the collar just as Nell forced his grip from her arm. He shook him as a terrier would shake a rat and left him at length sprawling in the middle of the road, his clothes all covered with dust.

"If you want some more, get up," Douglas remarked, as he stood viewing his prostrate victim. "How dare you insult the King, and lay your foul hands upon this woman? Get up, I tell you, and clear out of this at once."

As Ben made no effort to obey, but lay there with his face to the ground, Douglas reached down, caught him by the coat collar, and landed him on his feet.

"Take your car and get away from here," he ordered. "Don't open your mouth, or it won't be well for you."

With face livid with rage and with shaking limbs, Ben did as he was commanded. He was thoroughly cowed, and not once did he look back as he crawled into his car, started it, and sped down the road.

Douglas paid no more attention to Ben but turned immediately toward Nell.

"I am sorry for what has happened," he apologised. "I hope you——"

He stopped suddenly, for he noticed a deep crimson stain on the white dress where Ben had clutched her arm.

"Did he do that?" he exclaimed, stepping quickly forward. "Oh, if I had only known sooner the extent of your injury, he would not have escaped so easily."

"He did not do it all," Nell replied with a slight smile. "There is a wound on my arm, and unfortunately Ben's fingers gripped me there. It will be all right when it is re-dressed."

For a few seconds Douglas stood looking at her without speaking. Her courage appealed to him, and her beauty made her almost irresistible. His brain was in a tumultuous riot of conflicting emotions. How he longed to comfort her, to take her in his arms, and tell her all that was in his heart. He was almost jubilant, for he knew now that she had cast off Ben forever, and there was hope for him.

Nell noted his ardent gaze and her eyes dropped, while a deep flush replaced the pallor of her face.

"I must go now," she quietly remarked, though it was evident she was not anxious to leave. "I was on my way to see Jean. I understand the poor girl is quite ill."

"But you must not go with your arm bleeding that way," Douglas protested. "You must come into the house and have it dressed. I know that Mrs. Jukes will gladly do it, that is, if you prefer to have her."

"I prefer that you should dress it," Nell replied. "I do not wish any one else to see the wound in my arm, and I know you will say nothing about it to any one. I feel that I can trust you."



CHAPTER XX

CONFIDENCE

Mrs. Jukes was greatly puzzled over all that had taken place out upon the road. She had been watching from a front window, and at times had been tempted to go for Jake that he might witness the interesting scene. But she was afraid that she might miss something if she left even for a few minutes. When she saw Nell and Douglas coming to the house, she was at the door ready to receive them.

"Well, I declare," she exclaimed, "if you folks haven't been having a time out on the road this afternoon. It was mighty lucky that no teams passed, or the horses would have run away with fright at your actions."

"I am afraid you will discharge me for neglecting my work," Douglas laughingly replied.

"I guess you needn't worry about that. It all depends on what caused you to neglect your work, and it was a mighty good one, if I'm any judge. My, I was glad to see you roll Ben Stubbles in the dust. What's he been up to, now?"

"You saw him clutch Miss Strong by the arm, didn't you?" Douglas asked.

"Indeed I did."

"Well, then, see," and he pointed to the stain on Nell's dress. "We need a little warm water and soft bandages, or something that will do for the present."

"My lands! did that brute do that?" Mrs. Jukes exclaimed. "It's no wonder you rolled him in the dust. Just come inside and I'll get what you want in a jiffy."

Very gently and with considerable skill Douglas washed and dressed the injured arm. He made no comment about the nature of the wound, though it was not hard for him to surmise in what way it had been inflicted. He saw where the knife had pierced the soft flesh, and his hands trembled slightly as he thought how serious must have been the attack, and how great the strain upon Nell's nerves.

"You are as good as a doctor," she laughingly told him. "No one could do any better than that."

"Oh, I took a course in First Aid at one time, and the knowledge I gained has served me in good stead on many occasions." Douglas was just on the point of saying that it was at college where he had learned such things, and that then he had been seriously thinking of becoming a medical missionary. It was the nearest he had come to giving himself away since he had been at Rixton, and he determined to be more cautious in the future.

Mrs. Jukes insisted that Nell should remain for supper.

"I would have had it ready now," she told her, "if I hadn't spent so much time at the window. But I guess it was worth it. I won't be long, anyway, and Jake has not come from the field yet."

Douglas was greatly pleased when Nell at last consented to stay. He went out to bring in Jake, and when he returned, he found Nell playing with the Jukes' children. Her face was bright and animated, and she seemed to have forgotten all about her recent troubles. The little ones were delighted at the stories she told them, as well as the games she knew, and they would not leave her when supper was ready, but insisted on sitting next to her at the table. Douglas sat opposite, and he was perfectly content to let the others talk. Nell was near; he could look upon her face, and listen to what she said, and he was satisfied.

Jake was in great spirits when he learned what had happened.

"Great punkins!" he exclaimed. "I wish I'd been there to have seen it."

"But what about the corn?" Douglas asked. "It didn't get much hoeing to-day."

"Never mind about the corn, John. Ye kin hoe it agin, but ye might never git another chance to roll Ben Stubbles in the dust. Ho, ho, that was a good one!"

When Nell left to return home, it was but natural that Douglas should accompany her. He asked permission to do so, and her acceptance brought a great joy to his heart.

The Jukes watched them as they walked toward the road.

"That's settled, all right," was Mrs. Jukes' comment.

"What?" Jake asked.

"Why, can't you see for yourself? They're deep in love with each other, that's what it is."

"Umph!" Jake grunted. "I never thought of it before. It takes a woman to see sich things. My, John'll git a prize if he hooks Nell. Strange that she takes to him, an' him only a hired man. Why, she's fit fer a parson's wife."

"I don't believe he's only a hired man," his wife replied.

"Woman, what d'ye mean?" Jake demanded in surprise.

"Oh, I don't exactly know. But he's the queerest hired man I ever saw. He's got a good education, and just think how he plays the fiddle. Why, he is wasting his time working as a hired man for small wages, when he might be earning big money somewhere else. That's what's been puzzling me for days."

"Mebbe he's a dook or a prince, Susie, in disguise. I've heered of sich things. But he's a prince all right, fer I don't know when I met a man I think as much of as him. An' as fer farm work, why he can't be beat. He knows it from A to Z, an' that's sayin' a good deal."

"I wonder what Ben will do now?" Mrs. Jukes mused. "He must be about wild. I saw him go up the road in his car just before supper, and he was driving like mad."

"He'll do something, mark my word," Jake replied. "He'll try to git even with John somehow. I should have given him warnin'. He shouldn't be out at night. It isn't safe."

"Oh, he can take care of himself, all right. I'm not anxious about him, though I am quite nervous concerning Nell. Ben and the rest of the Stubbles will do their best to make it hard for her."

Nell and Douglas did not go up the road, but walked slowly down across the field toward the river. It was a roundabout way, but that suited them both, as they would have more time together, and this latter was far more private. For the time being, they were happy, talking and laughing like two joyous children. Their faces were radiant, and their eyes were filled with animation when at length they reached the river and stopped by the old tree where Douglas had first seen Nell.

"This has been a wonderful day to me," he remarked, as he stood looking out over the water. "I little realised this morning that we would be standing here now. It was here that I first saw you, and heard you playing over by that tree."

"Don't mention that night," Nell pleaded. "I want to forget it, and everything that is past."

"And this afternoon, too?"

"Everything except your great kindness to me. I shall never forget that, and I don't want to, either."

"I am so glad that I was able to rescue you from that brute. My only regret is that I was not near to save you from harm last night. If I had been there, that would not have happened," and he motioned to her wounded arm.

Nell turned her face quickly to his and her eyes expressed a great wonder.

"Why, how did you learn about that?" she enquired. "Who told you?"

"No one. I am an amateur Sherlock Holmes, and have drawn my own conclusions from what I have seen and surmised. Jean is jealous of you, and 'that way madness lies.' Am I not right?"

"You certainly are," and a tremour shook Nell's body as she recalled the incident of the previous evening. "Oh, it was terrible! Jean is so jealous of me. She thinks that I have taken Ben from her, and she would not believe a word I told her. She would listen to nothing, but said I was lying."

"And you were not?" Douglas eagerly asked.

"No. I simply told her the truth, and that Ben is nothing to me, and that I never tried to take him from her. But she would not believe me."

A feeling of wonderful rapture came into Douglas' soul as he listened to this candid confession. So Ben was nothing to Nell. It was almost too good to be true. There was hope for him.

"But you often met Ben by the tree over there, did you not?" he at length questioned. "It was there I first saw you when you played such sweet music. I remember he joined you that evening."

For a while Nell remained silent with her eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the ground. Douglas was afraid that he had said too much, and had offended her. But when she lifted her face and he saw the expression upon it, he knew that he was wrong. Her cheeks were aglow with animation and her eyes beamed with eagerness.

"Do you mind if I tell you something?" she asked. "Part of it is known only to Nan and me. I feel that I can trust you."

"I shall be delighted to hear," Douglas replied, "and I am most grateful for your confidence in me."

"I am very much worried about what will happen to us and our little home," she began. "You see, when father was a professor at Passdale he bought this place for a summer residence, and my dear mother always loved it so much. When he became blind, we moved here, and lived very comfortably because he had a private income. But in a fatal moment he was induced to invest all he had in the Big Chief gold mine out west. Every one was talking about it and what a splendid investment it was. We were sure that in a few months we would be very rich. But you know what happened to that. There was bad management somewhere, the works shut down, and so many people were ruined."

"Indeed I know," Douglas emphatically replied. "I was bitten, too, and lost my all. It wasn't much, to be sure, but it meant a great deal to me."

"It was ruin to us," Nell continued. "For a while I thought father would go out of his mind, he felt so badly. Then, to add to our trouble, Nan became ill, and it took our last dollar to pay the doctor and other expenses. At length, we were forced to mortgage the place to Mr. Stubbles to pay our grocery bill which had grown so large. It is that which has been hanging over our home like a terrible cloud for several years now."

Nell paused and looked out over the water. The glow of evening touched her face and soft hair, and made her seem to the young man watching her as if she were not of this earth, so beautiful did she appear. What right had such a woman to be troubled? he asked himself. How he longed to do something to help her.

"So you came to the rescue, and started farming."

"There was nothing else to do," she smilingly replied. "I felt the responsibility, and had to do something. I didn't know much about gardening at first, and made many mistakes. But we have managed to live, pay the interest on the mortgage and part of the principal. But we are in danger of losing everything now," she added with a note of sadness in her voice.

"In what way?"

"You see, the mortgage was due the first of July, and it should have been paid then. But we did not have the money, not even enough to pay the interest. Our garden did not do very well last year, and the winter was a hard one. After we had paid father's life insurance, there was very little left. We did not know what to do and were greatly depressed. It was then that father went with Nan to the city and played on the streets. I knew nothing about it until they came home with the money they received through your kindness. We were thus enabled to pay the interest on the mortgage, as well as our grocery bill at the store. You little realise how grateful we are to you for what you did for us."

"I have never been so thankful for anything I ever did," Douglas earnestly replied. "Little did I realise that night when I stopped to watch your father play, what the outcome of my act would be. But now that the interest is paid, how is it that you are in danger of losing your home?"

"Simply because Mr. Stubbles wants the money. It is only a small amount now, and by another summer we could have it all paid."

"But surely Stubbles doesn't need the money. I understand that he is very rich."

"I am not so certain about that. There have been rumours abroad for some time now that he is not as rich as people imagine, and that he is having some difficulty in carrying on his business. Anyway, when I went to see him about the mortgage, he told me in no gentle way that he must have the money and at once. If not, he said he would foreclose and sell the place. But he has not done so yet."

"Why?" Douglas asked the question eagerly. He believed that he knew the reason now, and if his surmise were true it would explain something which had puzzled and worried him for days past.

"He has been waiting, that is all," Nell's voice was low as she spoke. Her eyes were fixed upon the ground, and a deep, rich flush was mantling her cheeks and brow. Then she lifted her head and spoke with considerable embarrassment. "Yes, he has been waiting," she repeated, "waiting for something to happen. It all depended upon that."

"I know. He has been waiting to see what answer you would give to Ben. Is that it?"

"Yes, that's it."

"And you have refused him?"

"Couldn't you tell that by what happened this afternoon?"

"Certainly. But I wished to hear it from your own lips. And so you think Stubbles will be very angry and will foreclose at once?"

"There is no doubt about it. I am sure that he will. Ben will see to that. I am afraid you do not know the Stubbles yet. They will stop at nothing, especially the men."

"I think I know something, more perhaps than you realise," and a slight smile flitted across Douglas' face. "And I believe I know now," he added, "why you met Ben by the old tree. There was so much at stake that you did not wish to offend him."

"You have guessed right. Oh, it was terrible! I felt like a hypocrite all the time, and yet I had not the courage to refuse meeting him for fear of what would happen."

"But you had the courage at last, though?"

"It was only when I could stand him no longer. I knew for some time that he was not a good man, but his actions of late have so disgusted me beyond all bounds of endurance that I refused to have anything more to do with him. There, I have told you all, and I feel greatly relieved."

"I suppose you hardly know what you will do if you lose your place. Is there not some one from whom you could borrow enough money to pay off the mortgage?"

"I am afraid not. We have no security to give, and, besides, I dread the thought of asking for help. Father will be almost heartbroken, and it will make him more bitter than ever."

"At what?"

"The Church and all connected with it. Mr. Stubbles has been a warden here for years, and the way he has acted has been partly the cause of father's bitter feelings. Now he will be worse than ever. I wonder what the new clergyman will be like."

"Perhaps he may be able to settle matters."

"I am afraid not. He will have to do as the Stubbles say or leave, just as the others did. If he should happen to be a very strong-minded man and will stand up for justice and right, he will have a most difficult time of it. In that case, father would be his firm friend, though I fear he could do but little to help him."

"His moral assistance would mean much, though, would it not?"

"Perhaps so," and Nell sighed. "But I think I must go home now. Father and Nan will be wondering what has kept me. Won't you come and see father? I know he wants to talk to you about his book. I am thankful he has something to occupy his mind."



CHAPTER XXI

OUTDONE

When they reached the house, they found Nan up in arms. She scolded Nell for being away so long and leaving her to get supper and wash the dishes.

"I don't think it is fair," she pouted. "You go off and have a good time, while I must stay home and drudge like a slave."

"You do not look any the worse for it," Douglas laughingly told her. "It seems to agree with you. I never saw you look better."

"H'm," and Nan tossed her head. "It may agree with my complexion but not with my temper. The only way you can make me good natured is to have a game of checkers with me. I am just dying for a game. No one here will play with me. It's too giddy, I suppose. I'm sure it's much nicer than Shakespeare—he's too dry. Why, I've been reading to daddy for the last hour, and I can't remember one word."

The professor was most anxious to discuss his book, but Nan insisted on checkers first.

"I have a right to my own way for once," she insisted. "You promised me long ago that I could have Mr. Handyman to myself the next time he came. But, no, it was Shakespeare and Church matters, and so I was pushed aside."

They all laughed heartily at her words and gestures, and the professor at last agreed that they should play two games. Then he had something important to say.

With Nan's animated face beaming over the board, and Nell sitting quietly sewing by the table, it was a most enjoyable evening to Douglas. But the professor was not so happy. The minutes dragged heavily, so when the players had won a game each, he gave a sigh of relief and claimed Douglas' special attention.

"I wish to discuss several points in the tragedy of Hamlet," he began. "I am not altogether sure in my own mind, and would like to have your opinion."

Though Douglas had studied Hamlet at college, yet he felt very diffident about discussing the "several points," which he felt sure would be difficult ones. But as the professor began to talk, he knew that his opinion would not be necessary. Once launched upon his subject, the old man seemed to imagine that he was once more in the class room. Several times he asked Nell to read certain extracts from his notes, and upon these he always enlarged. It was pathetic to observe his intense eagerness, and he was certain that his visitor was keenly interested in his subject.

It was well for him that he could not see into the hearts and minds of the others in the room. Nan was lost in a story book she had borrowed from a girl friend that very afternoon; while Nell's thoughts were not upon the wonders of Shakespeare, but upon the events of the day. Douglas tried to pay strict attention to what was being said, though his eyes would often wander to the young woman sewing just in front of him. He noted the varying expressions upon her face, and he intuitively surmised something of what she was thinking. How he longed to be talking with her and listening to her as it had been his privilege that afternoon. Could she ever care for him? he asked himself just at the very instant when the professor was waxing eloquent about Shakespeare as an artist. He tried to listen, but the force of the words of wisdom were lost upon him. The professor, however, was pleased, and as Douglas rose to go he told him how delightful had been their conversation, and that the several points which had been troubling him were quite clear.

Douglas' heart was happy and his step light and elastic as he left the house. He thought over what Nell had told him, and her confidence in him gave him great joy. He valued this far more than the explanation she had volunteered about her family affairs. She trusted him and turned to him for sympathy. Little wonder, then, that his face glowed and his eyes shone with rapture. It was all a new experience to him, and life seemed very pleasant.

He was roused from this reverie by the sound of angry voices. He stopped and listened intently. They were evidently men, quarrelling on the road ahead of him, though he could not distinguish what they were saying. The fact that they were talking so loudly made him feel that they were not there with any evil designs. Nevertheless, he felt that it was just as well to find out what was the trouble, and at the same time remain out of sight.

Along the road ran a hedge of thick bushes, and, keeping well within the dark fringe of these, Douglas slowly advanced. He could hear the talking more plainly now, and ere long he was able to tell that the men were under the influence of liquor. Their voices were maudlin, and they were wrangling with one another in a somewhat petulant and childish manner.

"I tell ye he is," he heard one say.

"He ain't," another retorted.

"Yes, he is, ye blame fool."

"He ain't."

"Shet up ye'r jawin'," a third ordered. "Ye'r both drunk. Sure he's there. Wasn't he seen goin' into the house?"

"Well, I'll be darned if I'm goin' to wait any longer," the first speaker whined. "I'm tired an' sleepy, an' want to go home. I wish to G— that Ben would do his own dirty work."

"Ye liked his whiskey well enough, didn't ye?" his companion asked.

"Oh, yes, that's all right, but there wasn't enough of it."

"Too much fer you, though. Why, it's gone to ye'r head, an' has made yer tongue like a mill-clapper. Ye'd better shet ye'r mouth or the guy'll hear ye an' take to his heels before we kin lay hands on him."

"I ain't talkin' any, am I? Watcher growlin' 'bout? I'm goin' home."

"No, ye ain't."

"Yes, I am."

A scuffle followed these words, and Douglas could dimly see the forms of the two men as they rolled and tumbled about on the ground. Then some one pulled them apart and administered a resounding cuff upon their ears.

"Stop fightin', ye fools," was the peremptory order. "De'ye want to spoil the whole show to-night?"

"Who's spoilin' the show?"

"You are."

"I ain't. I want to go home. I'm sick of this business."

"Ye'r not goin' till the guy comes, I tell ye."

"When's he comin'?"

"I don't know."

"He'll stay there till midnight. They always do. I never got home till mornin' when I was courtin', an' Sal wasn't half as sweet as the 'fessor's daughter. Gad, she's a peach!"

"Ye'r no judge of beauty, Tom Fleet," was the retort. "You'd kiss a cow when ye'r drunk, thinkin' she's beautiful."

"I ain't drunk, I tell ye."

"Ye are."

"I ain't; I'm only sleepy an' want to go home."

"Well, ye ain't goin' till the guy comes."

"Then I'm goin' to fetch him."

"Now, ye'r talkin'. That's the stuff, Tom. We'll take him from his lady love. Come on."

"Wait a minute," one of the bunch ordered. "How'll we do it?"

What their plan was Douglas could not tell, for their voices suddenly became low as they made their plans. But it did not matter. He knew that they were after him, and most likely would go to the house and do considerable harm. He must have assistance, and he at once thought of Jake. With him at his side, he felt that the men before him could be mastered, especially in their present condition.

Creeping through the bushes as quietly as possible, he reached the open field and across this he bounded like a greyhound. He knew that every minute was precious, and the thought of Nell facing those drunken men caused his feet fairly to spurn the grass. Reaching the main road, he tore through the dust, sprang over a ditch, leaped a fence, raced through the orchard and ran plumb into Jake and Empty standing at the back door.

"Great punkins!" Jake exclaimed, recovering from the impact. "What's wrong?"

"Quick, quick!" Douglas panted. "Come at once. Ben's men are after me. They think I'm at the professor's, and they are going to break into the house. Hurry."

"G-g-good Lord," Jake stuttered in amazement. "Let me git me gun!"

"No, no, never mind that; your fists will do. Come."

Without waiting for further parley, Douglas darted away, with Jake and Empty close at his heels. He did not go to the spot where he had left the men but kept off into the middle of the field, and ran down opposite the professor's house. Then turning sharply to the left, he hurried across to the garden and stopped before the row of bushes which ran almost to the shore.

The rescuers were not a moment too soon, for the attackers had already reached the house and were pounding loudly upon the back door. When it presently slowly opened, Douglas could hear Nell's voice anxiously enquiring what was the matter.

"Give us the guy who's here," one of the men demanded.

"Who?" Nell asked in surprise.

"Oh, you know, all right. The feller that's courtin' ye; Jake's man."

Douglas' hands clenched hard together as he listened to these words, and it was with difficulty that he restrained himself. It would not do to rush forth just then. He must wait for the men's next move. He could not see the features of Nell's face very plainly, but the words she uttered in reply to the impudent order told of her indignation.

"How dare you come here with such a request?" she demanded. "Leave this place at once or I shall have you all arrested. I am surprised at you, Tom Totten. What will your wife say? Go home at once, and leave me alone."

"No, we don't," was the surly reply. "We're under orders, an' we won't leave until we git our man. Ye've got him in the house, so hustle him out an' be quick about it."

"He is not here," Nell replied. "And even if he were, I wouldn't let you touch him. You have all been drinking, that is what's the matter with you. I am ashamed of you all. Go away at once before you make fools of yourselves."

"We won't go, I tell ye, before we git our man. We know he's in the house, an' we're goin' to git him."

Nell's only reply was to turn quickly and shut the door in their faces. Then a hubbub arose.

"Smash in the door," cried one.

"Break in the winder," ordered another.

Then a rush was made against the door, which gave way with a crash, and the men stumbled into the kitchen where Nell was standing.

As the door went through, Douglas and his companions sprang from their hiding place, bounded toward the house and fell upon the attackers like a whirlwind. Douglas' blood was up, and he delivered telling blows to right and left.

"Here I am," he cried, as he gave Tom Totten a punch under the ear, which sent him reeling across the room. "Why don't you take me? I am the man you want. Now is your chance."

Jake and Empty nobly supported him, and in a few minutes the room was cleared of all the attackers except two who were sprawling upon the floor. Their noses were bleeding and they were groaning most dolefully. The others had made good their escape, though not without serious injury, for their faces were cut and bleeding, and they limped as they hurried away from the scene of their defeat.

"Great punkins!" Jake exclaimed. "Is it all over? I was jist beginnin' when everything stopped. Hi, there, Tom Totten," he cried, as he tickled the defeated man's ribs with the toe of his boot, "so this is the way ye spend ye'r evenin's, eh? Why don't ye git up an' let us see what a purty face ye have? It never was much to look at, though I guess it's a sight fer sore eyes now. Ho, ho, this is the best lark I've had in years, hey, Empty?"

"Ye bet," and the lad smacked his lips. "Did ye see the way I landed one on Jim Parks' nose? It was a bruiser. I bet he's rubbin' it yit an' roarin' like a bull. My, it was great! I'm sorry it was over so soon."

But Nell had no such feelings of regret. She was standing in the door leading into the hallway. Her face was very white, and her body was trembling. By her side stood Nan, her face beaming and her eyes sparkling with animation.

"It's just like a story," she exclaimed, clasping her hands before her. "It's far better than a picture show, for this is real, isn't it, Nell?"

So unexpected was this view of the situation, that they all laughed except the two men on the floor.

"Ye'r a brick, all right, Nell," Jake remarked. "I like ye'r pluck. Now, some gals would have yelled an' hollered an' tumbled down in a faint. But that's not the way with the gals of this house," and he cast a glance of admiration at Nell.

Douglas had now stepped to Tom's side and was bending over him.

"Get up," he ordered, "and explain the meaning of all this."

Tom slowly obeyed, crawled to his knees and then to his feet. His companion, Pete Rollins, did the same. They presented a sorry spectacle, and Douglas could scarcely repress a smile. But Nan laughed outright when she saw them.

"My, what beauties!" she exclaimed. "This isn't Hallowe'en, Tom. Did you think it was? You'll know better next time, won't you?"

"'Deed I will, miss," was the emphatic reply. "No more sich doin's fer me, I tell ye that."

Nell in the meantime had procured a basin of water, a wash-cloth and a towel. She now stood before the battered men.

"Sit down, both of you," she quietly ordered. "It won't do for you to go home looking that way."

Meekly they obeyed and sat very still while she washed the blood from their faces.

"It's good of ye, miss," Tom told her. "We don't deserve sich kindness after what we said an' done to you to-night. Some would have kicked us out of the house an' left us there half dead."

"You, fer instance, Nan, eh?" Empty grinned, as he looked toward the girl.

"No, I wouldn't," Nan stoutly protested. "That would have been too good for them. I would like to keep them and start a travelling show throughout the country. I would make my fortune in a short time. They deserve to be treated like that for disturbing my peaceful slumbers. And just look at that door, all broken down. Who's going to fix it, I'd like to know?"

"I'll fix it, miss," Pete eagerly replied. "I'll come to-morrow an' make it as good as new."

"No, you won't. You'll be in jail; that's where you'll be."

"Hush, hush, Nan," Nell ordered, though she found it hard not to smile at the frightened look which came into Pete's eyes. "Don't mind Nan, Pete. She isn't as terrible as she sounds."

"Yes, she is," Empty insisted. "She kin use her hands as well as her tongue. I know it, fer she's often boxed my ears."

"H'm!" and Nan tossed her head disdainfully. "If you'd been a man I would have done more than that; I would have blackened your eyes, and——"

"There, there, Nan, that will do," Nell interrupted, and from the tone of her voice Nan knew that she must obey. With a sigh of resignation she stood with her eyes fixed upon the floor and her hands clasped before her, unheeding Empty, who was grinning at her on the other side of the room.

"Guess we'd better go now," Tom remarked when Nell had finished her ablutions. "It must be purty late. But afore I go I wish to ask ye'r pardon, miss," and he turned to Nell as he spoke. "I wasn't jist meself to-night, an' I guess the rest were in the same fix."

"A moment, Tom," and Douglas laid his hand upon his shoulder. "I want you to tell us why you and your companions made this attack to-night."

"To git you, of course. Didn't ye know that?"

"Yes, indeed I did, but I wanted to hear you say so. Now, what did you want to get me for? What harm have I done to you or to the men who were with you?"

"None, none at all. But, ye see, we were under orders. We were told to come."

"Who told you?"

"Ben Stubbles."

"What did he tell you to do?"

"Lay fer ye by the road, an' give ye a thorough hidin'."

"Didn't you feel ashamed to undertake such a cowardly thing as that?"

"We did, an' we refused at first, an' told him that we didn't want to git into any trouble. But he promised that he would stand by an' take the hull blame. When we still refused, he threatened us, an' when that wouldn't work he produced the whiskey."

"Now, will you swear to all this?" Douglas asked.

"Swear! sure I will. I'll swear to them very words anywhere an' at any time. Won't ye, Pete?"

"Ay, ay," was the reply. "I'll swear any old time, an' I feel mighty like swearin' jist now, 'deed I do."

"But what will Ben say?" Douglas asked. "Won't he make it hot for you?"

"Let him make it hot, then," Pete declared. "I don't have to stay here an' work fer old Stubbles. I kin go somewhere else, an' mebbe it will be jist as well if I do."

"Who were the other men with you to-night besides Pete? It is important that we should have their names."

"D'ye mind if I don't tell ye now, sir?" and Tom lifted his eyes to Douglas' face. "They're all friends of mine, an' I'd hate to squeal on 'em."

"But you didn't mind telling on Ben, did you?"

"Oh, that's different. He ain't a friend of mine, an' never was. He's big feelin' an' mighty, an' has no use fer the likes of me, unless he's got some axe to grind. Oh, no, I don't mind squealin' on the likes of him."

"But we must have the names of the men who were with you to-night," Douglas insisted. "I cannot help whether you like it or not."

"Look, sir, I'll tell ye this: Whenever ye want me an' Pete, we'll be there, an' we'll have the rest with us."

"But perhaps they won't come, what then?"

"Don't ye worry a mite about that. They'll come all right. But supposin' they buck an' won't come, then I'll tell ye their names. I'll give 'em fair warnin', an' if they don't come I'll squeal on 'em then, but not before. Will that do, sir?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Douglas assented. "But don't you fail to come when you're called. We have all these witnesses to what you have said to-night. You may go now."



CHAPTER XXII

COMPELLED TO SERVE

Douglas and his companions stayed for some time after Tom and Pete left. There was much to talk about, and Nell had to go upstairs to explain everything to her father who was greatly agitated over the unusual disturbance. Then, there was the door to be fixed, and it took Jake a full half hour to get it mended.

"There, I guess that will stand for a while," he commented, as he stood back and viewed his work.

"I thought Pete was going to do it," Douglas remarked.

"Mebbe he would an' mebbe he wouldn't. But most likely he wouldn't. Pete would have promised almost anything jist then. Anyway, the door's fixed, an' I guess it's about time we were gittin' home."

Nell looked tired as they bade her good-night. Douglas knew what a trying day it had been for her, and he admired her courage as she smilingly held out her hand to each one of them.

"I can never thank you for your kindness," she told them. "It is hard to tell what might have happened if you had not arrived when you did."

Douglas cherished the idea that Nell looked at him differently than she did at his companions, and that the clasp of her hand was firmer, and that she let it rest in his a second longer. He felt sure that he was not mistaken, and it brought a thrill to his heart.

As the three men made their way through the night, Jake kept emitting occasional exclamations, while Empty gurgled forth chuckles of delight. Each was giving vent in his own way to his feelings over the events of the night. Douglas said nothing, but walked silently by their side. He was thinking over more serious matters in which Ben Stubbles loomed large and ominous. He believed that the struggle between himself and the Stubbles had now reached a crisis, and that he was in a fair way of winning a victory over Ben, at least, if he advanced carefully.

It was past midnight by the time they reached home. Jake made Empty come into the house.

"We're goin' to have something to eat," he told him, "an' I know you always shine when there's any grub around."

Mrs. Jukes was in bed, but it did not take Jake long to light the kitchen fire, boil some water, and prepare a pot of tea. This, with bread and jam from the pantry, formed their midnight repast, and when they were through Jake pushed back his chair and lighted his pipe.

"Great punkins!" he exclaimed, bringing his big fist down upon the table with a bang. "I wouldn't a' missed that racket to-night fer anything. I wonder what Ben'll think about it all now."

"Do you suppose the men will tell him?" Douglas asked.

"Sure. He knows all about it by now, I bet ye'r life. Most likely he was not fer off, the skunk, watchin' the hull racket. I wish to goodness I'd got the punch on his nose instead of Tom's. How I'd like to have heard him squeal, ho, ho."

"What will Ben do next, do you think?"

"It's hard to tell. But he'll do something, mark my word."

"Yes, if we don't do something first."

"What d'ye mean?"

"Simply this, that he has been attacking long enough, and it is our turn now. From what I can learn, Ben and his father have been riding over people in this parish rough-shod for years, and no one has had the courage to oppose them. It might do them a great deal of good and teach them a useful lesson if they didn't have everything their own way."

"D'ye mean to buck 'em?" Jake enquired.

"I am going to do more than buck, Jake; I am going to charge. The time for defensive warfare is over; it must be an offensive one now, and we are in a good position after this night's racket."

"What are ye goin' to do, John? How are ye goin' to charge 'em?"

"I shall tell you about that later. I am too tired and sleepy now, so I am off to bed."

As Douglas rose to leave the room, Empty stepped forward. He had been listening with eyes and ears to all that had been said, and he grinned with delight as the meaning of the offensive warfare dawned slowly upon his mind. What a choice bit of news he would have to tell his mother. She would forgive him for being out so late when he told her all that had taken place during the night.

"Ma sent me over with a message fer you," he began.

"She did, eh?" and Douglas turned and looked upon the lad. "You are somewhat late in delivering it. Is it very important?"

"She wants to know if ye'll be good enough to come an' see her as soon as ye kin, an' bring yer fiddle with ye."

"How is Jean?" Douglas asked. Owing to the excitement of the afternoon and night he had forgotten all about the sick woman.

"Oh, I guess she's jist the same," Empty replied as he scratched the back of his head. "But ma'll tell ye 'bout her better'n I kin. Will ye come?"

"Yes, I suppose I can if she does not want me too soon. Tell your mother that I shall try to get over on Sunday. I am afraid I cannot get there before."

Douglas woke about daylight and heard the rain beating upon the roof. How good it sounded, and he turned over and went to sleep again. It was late when he once more opened his eyes, and sprang out of bed. It was ten o'clock, and he felt ashamed of himself for having slept so long. He apologised to Mrs. Jukes when he entered the kitchen, and told her that she had better send him about his business at once, as he was a most unprofitable servant. But Mrs. Jukes only laughed, and ordered him to sit down to the table and eat his breakfast, which she had kept waiting for him.

"You deserve to sleep all day," she said, "after what you did last night. I have cooked the biggest fresh egg I could find for your breakfast as your reward."

"So Jake has told you all about it, has he?"

"Oh, yes, he told me everything this morning, and he's gone to the store to get me some starch. But he went really to hear the news. He's anxious to know if the word has got abroad, and what people are saying about it. They generally meet at the store when anything of importance is to be talked about. I guess all the men go to get starch," she added with a twinkle in her eyes.

Jake returned from the store before Douglas had finished his breakfast, and laid the package of starch upon the table.

"What's the news this morning?" his wife asked, noting the disappointed look upon his face.

"Nuthin'," was the disgusted reply. "Not a soul in the store but the clerk."

"Isn't that strange?" his wife questioned.

"Naw, not strange when ye come to think it over. Them night prowlers wouldn't say a word; they're too dam scairt an' ashamed of themselves. An' as fer Ben, why he'll be as close as a clam."

"What happened to the daily paper, or the special news agent, I should say?" Douglas asked.

"Who's that?"

"Empty, of course."

"Oh, I fergot him," and Jake laughed. "I guess he overslept himself this mornin'. But he'll be on his job before night, though, never fear."

"Who is the Justice of the Peace in this place?" Douglas asked, as he pushed back his chair from the table.

"Justice of the Peace!" Jake vaguely repeated. "I don't know of any sich person in this parish."

"Yes, you do," his wife replied. "It's Squire Hawkins."

"The storekeeper?" Douglas queried.

"The very same."

"Does he ever try cases?"

"Try cases!" and Jake rubbed his unshaven chin, while a smile lurked about the corners of his mouth. "I guess the only cases he tries are the boxes which come into his store."

"But isn't he called upon to decide questions, such as disputes, and other matters which arise in almost every parish?"

"Never heard of him doin' sich things. Si Stubbles does all that."

"Is he a Justice of the Peace?"

"Oh, no, but he looks after sich affairs fer all that, an' settles 'em in his own way."

"And Squire Hawkins is only a J.P. in name, then?"

"That's about it."

"Well, then, it is about time he was getting to work. I shall give him a case this very afternoon. I am going to lay a complaint before him about last night's affair."

"Ye are?" Jake asked in surprise. "I wish ye luck, but I'm afraid ye won't accomplish much."

"Why?"

"H'm, that's easy to explain. Hen Hawkins is under Si Stubbles' thumb. He won't tech the case 'cause he's afraid of Si."

"What has Si to do with it?"

"A great deal, if I'm not mistaken. Him an' Ben are both at the bottom of last night's racket, mark my word. Hen would be scairt most to death to do anything that would uncover their doin's. He'll be afraid of losing' Si's trade. Oh, no, I guess ye won't git very fer with Hen Hawkins, even though he is a J.P."

Douglas said nothing more about the affair just then, though what he had heard made him more determined than ever. He was learning more and more what a grip Simon Stubbles had over Rixton, and this added to the spirit of adventure which thrilled his soul. Even the Justice of the Peace was forced to bow to Si's authority.

Early that afternoon Douglas went to the store and enquired for Squire Hawkins.

"You will find him at his house," the clerk informed him. "He has not returned from his dinner yet."

Douglas noticed several men in the store who ceased their earnest conversation as he entered. He surmised what they were talking about, as no doubt the news was already abroad. The men listened very attentively as Douglas questioned the clerk, and they watched him curiously.

Douglas had seen the storekeeper on several occasions but had never met him personally. A common farmhand was beneath the notice of such a man as Squire Hawkins, who prided himself upon his acquaintance with men of money and position. He was a small-sized man, fussy, and pompous to those he considered his inferiors. He did not even show common courtesy as Douglas was shown into the room where he was seated in an easy chair reading the daily paper. He did not even rise to receive his visitor, but in a gruff voice asked him what he wanted.

"You are a Justice of the Peace, so I understand," Douglas began.

"Yes, and what of it?"

As briefly and concisely as possible Douglas stated his case. He told about the two attacks which had been made upon his person, and of the breaking into Professor Strong's house.

"Well, what do you want me to do about it?" Squire Hawkins curtly asked.

"You should know without my telling you," Douglas replied. He was becoming nettled at this man's insolence.

"What, what's that you say?"

"As a Justice of the Peace you must surely know your business. I have told you what has happened, and now I lay a complaint before you against three men, though others are implicated in the matter."

"Why don't you go to Mr. Stubbles? He always settles such matters."

"Mr. Stubbles has nothing to do with this affair. He is not a Justice of the Peace. You are, though, and it is to you I look for justice."

"But I have never handled a case in my life. I don't know what to do."

"Then it is time you began. Why did you accept the office if you know nothing about it?"

"Look here," and the Squire's face became red with anger. "I don't wish for you to dictate to me in that manner. Who are you, anyway?"

"I am John Handyman, working for Jake Jukes at present."

"H'm. And so you expect me to bother my head about you?"

"I certainly do, and what is more, I shall see that you do it, even though I am only a hired man."

Something in Douglas' voice and bearing made an impression upon Squire Hawkins. He squirmed uneasily in his chair and his face grew redder than ever.

"Confound it all!" he growled. "Why do you bother me with this matter? What reason had the men to attack you? They were only sky-larking, no doubt. Having a bit of fun, most likely."

"Mighty poor fun for me, though, especially when the cudgels fell upon my head. I don't like such fun, and I want you to take steps to stop it in the future."

"Who are the men?" the Squire asked.

"I only know the names of three at present. They are Tom Totten, Pete Rollins and Ben Stubbles."

"Ben Stubbles!" Squire Hawkins exclaimed in surprise. "Surely you don't expect me to take action against him?"

"I certainly do."

"But did he attack you last night?"

"No, not in person, but he was the one who supplied the liquor to the men, and ordered them to waylay and beat me."

Squire Hawkins did not at once reply to these words. He was lost in thought and seemed somewhat worried. His brow knitted, and his small crafty eyes became like two narrow slits.

"I am afraid I can't do anything for you," he at length replied. "It's utterly impossible for me to undertake your case."

"And why not?"

"Oh, there are personal reasons which I do not care to explain."

"Fear of the Stubbles, eh?"

"They are good customers of mine. I would not like to offend them."

"And you are a Justice of the Peace, a man appointed in the King's name to preserve law and order, and yet unwilling to see that justice is done for fear of having your trade injured." Douglas spoke emphatically, and his words caused Squire Hawkins to wince.

"You have no business to talk to me that way," he roared. "If you are not satisfied with me get somebody else to attend to your affairs."

"Do you mean it?" Douglas asked. "Do I understand you to say that you will have nothing to do with this case, and that I must get some one else?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I mean."

"Very well, then, I shall take you at your word. But remember, I have appealed to you who have been legally appointed by the Crown. You have refused to act in this case. You have refused to see justice done to an innocent man. Do you know what that means? If not, then it is your duty to know. I shall not ask you again to assist me. I am going to the city, and one of the ablest lawyers there is a special friend of mine. I shall place the matter in his hands, and you will be forced to abide by the consequences."

Douglas turned and had almost reached the door when Squire Hawkins leaped suddenly from his chair.

"Wait a minute," he ordered. "I want to have a few more words with you."

"What is the sense of our talking any more?" Douglas asked in reply. "You refuse to conduct this case and what is the use of wasting my time?"

"But perhaps something might be done yet. I feel that I might comply with your request and see this affair through."

"And you will summon those men and try the case yourself?"

"Yes, to the best of my ability."

"Where?"

"In the hall at the Corner, of course."

"When?"

"Will Monday at three o'clock do? That will give me time to serve the summons for the men to appear."

"Yes, that will suit me as well as any time. You must summon the witnesses as well. I shall give you their names. It will be just as well to write them down so as to make no mistake."

Douglas was somewhat surprised at the readiness of Squire Hawkins to comply with his suggestions. He did not know the man or he would not have felt so satisfied. Had he really known what was in his mind, he would have had nothing more to do with him after his first refusal. He was to learn, however, of his mistake later.



CHAPTER XXIII

DISPELLING THE CLOUDS

During the night the clouds rolled away, and Sunday morning dawned warm and clear. It was good to be abroad, so Douglas thought, as he walked along the road with his violin under his arm. It would soon be time for the shoe-maker to begin his morning service, and he knew how Joe and his wife would enjoy a little music. He had not seen the former since Friday afternoon, and he was most anxious to learn the outcome of his struggle between right and wrong.

He found Mrs. Benton in the sitting-room, rocking herself to and fro in a splint-bottom chair. Her face was thin and care-worn, and her hair seemed whiter than the last time he had seen her, and he truthfully divined the cause.

Mrs. Benton's face brightened as her visitor entered the room, and she at once offered him a chair.

"It is good of you to come this morning, sir," she told him.

"I did not wish to miss the service," Douglas replied. "I thought you might like me to play a little," and he pointed to the violin which he had placed upon the table.

"I fear there will be no service this morning," and a troubled expression came into Mrs. Benton's eyes as she spoke. "Joe's been very strange of late, and has not been able to settle down to his work. He can't eat nor sleep, and I am greatly worried about him."

"He is grieving, I suppose."

"Yes, about poor Jean."

"Has he seen her lately?"

"Not since Friday. He may have gone to see her this morning, though, for he left here about half an hour ago, but he didn't tell me where he was going. He seems like a man in a dream."

"He didn't go down the road, Mrs. Benton, or I should have seen him. I was sitting in front of Jake's house reading for some time before I left to come here."

"Oh, he didn't go that way, sir. There is a shortcut across the hills, though it has not been used much of late. The path goes up just in front of our house to the top of the hill, and then turns to the left. Joe took that this morning, though I do not know why, as he has not travelled that way for years. Perhaps he wishes to be alone. I hope he is not going to do anything desperate. He is so down-hearted and strange that I feel terribly worried about him."

"I am going over to Mrs. Dempster's to-day," Douglas replied, "as she sent word for me to come and see her as soon as possible. I might as well go across the hills if you think I can find my way. Perhaps I shall meet your husband."

"That will be very good of you," and Mrs. Benton's face somewhat brightened. "You should have no trouble about finding the way, for as soon as you reach the top of the hill you will obtain a splendid view of the river and the surrounding country. Even if you cannot find any path up there, you ought to be able to see Mrs. Dempster's house off in the distance."

"I shall make out all right, I am sure," Douglas replied, as he rose to go. "I have never been out on the hills, so it will be nice to get the view from the top."

He found the climb a long and tiresome one. The hot sun seemed to strike the hillside with extra intensity, and there was not a breath of wind abroad. Once he sat down under the shade of an old fir tree and mopped his hot face with his handkerchief. Even from here the view of the river was magnificent, and what must it be from the summit?

When at length he gained the top, he stopped and looked around. Then an exclamation of surprise and awe burst from his lips at the entrancing panorama which was thus suddenly presented to his view. Miles and miles of the river, unruffled by a breath of wind, lay glittering in the sunshine. Acres of meadow land, dotted with houses, and broken by tracts of forest, stretched out before him. Peace was upon land and river. It was a magic world upon which he gazed with the ardent soul of a lover of things beautiful and grand.

Having thus rested and revelled in Nature's marvellous handiwork, he turned and looked across the hills toward Mrs. Dempster's house. As he did so his eyes caught sight of a lone figure sitting upon a rock some distance away. Peeling sure that it was the shoemaker, he hurried forward and in a few minutes was by his side. Joe did not seem at all surprised at the young man's presence, although his weary face brightened a little.

"It is a great view from here," Douglas began. "I have never seen anything like it."

"What do you see?" the old man asked.

"Why, the river, and that fine stretch of country to the right and left."

"Yes, I suppose you're right, though I have not noticed them this morning. I have been seeing other things."

"What things?" Douglas enquired, as he sat down upon the rock by Joe's side.

"Jean, of course. My Jean and all her troubles are ever before me. I can see nothing else. How can I?"

"But you should, Mr. Benton. Surely you have not forgotten?"

"Forgotten what?"

"The strength which has been your stay for long years. You remember how sad and dreary was the world yesterday. How dismal everything appeared, with not a glimpse of the blue sky. But look now at all this," and Douglas threw out his hand in an eloquent gesture. "See what a change has taken place in a short time. The greyness is gone, and look how blue is the sky, and how bright and warm the sun. Surely He who is able to effect such a marvellous change in Nature in such a few hours, will not forsake His servant in the hour of need. Cheer up, sir, and do not be so down-hearted. Though things seem dark now, yet hope for the best, and trust that the clouds will scatter and the shadows will flee away."

"Your words are full of wisdom," Joe slowly replied, "and you speak like a man who has known trouble. But have you ever experienced a father's sorrow at the loss of a darling child? Can you look back through the years and see that child pure and beautiful, loving and true, making the home ring with her happy laughter and joyous ways? Then at last to see her degraded, half-demented, a total wreck, with all parental love crushed out of her heart like my Jean over there? Have you known any sorrow like that, young man?"

"No, indeed I have not," Douglas emphatically replied. "Your trouble is truly great. But why give up in despair? Jean is still alive, and she may yet return to her former ways. She is in the depths now, but this Valley of Achor may be to her a door of hope, as it was to the woman we read of in the Bible. Suppose we visit her now, and learn how she is getting along? She may have changed as much since you saw her last as Nature has changed since yesterday."

Douglas rose to his feet and picked up his violin.

"Come," and he laid his hand affectionately upon the old man's shoulder, "let us go together. We may be able to cheer her up a bit."

Without a word Joe rose slowly to his feet and walked along by Douglas' side. Over the hill they moved and then down into the valley below. The path, now worn deep by the feet of cows, for this region was pasture land, wound through a swamp where they had to pick their way owing to the water which settled here. Up a steep bank they scrambled, and when they at last gained the top they came in sight of Mrs. Dempster's house but fifty yards beyond.

The widow was sitting under the shade of an apple tree near the front door, with Empty lying full length upon the ground by her side. They were both somewhat startled and surprised at the sudden appearance of the two men from such an unexpected quarter.

"Well, bless my stars!" Mrs. Dempster exclaimed, rising quickly and giving the shoe-maker her chair. "Ye look fagged out, poor man, an' no wonder fer comin' over the hills. It's not often any one travels that way now, though John always took that short-cut to the store when he was alive. He was a great man fer short-cuts, was John. I wish Empty here was more like his pa."

"I don't like short-cuts," her son replied. "Ye don't see nuthin', an' ye don't hear nuthin'."

"An' ye can't tell nuthin'," his mother retorted. "That's why ye don't like short-cuts."

"I believe you sent for me, Mrs. Dempster," Douglas remarked. "I was sorry I could not come sooner."

"Oh, there was no special hurry. A day or two doesn't make much difference. But I thought if ye brought ye'r fiddle an' played a little it might cheer the poor lassie up a bit."

"How is she?" Joe eagerly asked, leaning forward so as not to miss a word.

"Doin' as well as kin be expected. She's alone now," and the widow's voice became low. "But I guess it's all fer the best. I wasn't in the least surprised, considerin' what she's gone through. It'll be as much as she kin do to make her own way in life, an' I told her so jist as soon as she was willin' to listen to reason."

"Is she much depressed?" Douglas asked.

"All the time, sir, an' that's what worries me. She broods an' broods, an' sighs an' sighs, poor thing, till my heart aches fer her."

"And nothing will cheer her up?"

"Nuthin' that me an' Empty kin do an' say, so that's the reason why I sent fer you. I thought mebbe a little music might have some effect. I've heard read from the Bible in church that when old King Saul was down in the dumps, an' dear knows he deserved to be, the cloud passed from his mind when David, the shepherd lad, brought his harp an' played before him. Now, 'sez I to meself, sez I, 'if that old feller with all his cussedness could be cured in that way, why can't a poor, dear, troubled lassie like Jean Benton?' An' so sez I to Empty, 'Go an' see if that wrestler won't come,' sez I. We've always called ye 'the wrestler,' sir, since ye put Jake Jukes on his back. 'Mebbe he'll bring his fiddle an' play a few old-fashioned tunes to chase the shadder from the poor thing's brain. I hope ye won't mind."

"Not at all," Douglas replied. "I shall be only too pleased to do anything I can. Shall I go into the house?"

"I've been thinkin' that mebbe it would be better to play out of doors. Her winder is open, so if ye'd jist go under the shade of that tree there, she'd hear ye quite plain, but won't be able to see ye. I don't want her to think that the music is fer her special benefit."

Following Mrs. Dempster's directions, Douglas went to the tree and leaning his back against the bole began to play a number of old familiar hymns. It was a peculiar situation in which he thus found himself, and he wondered what the result would be. He had entered enthusiastically into the widow's little plan, and he never played so effectively as he did this morning. He felt that a great deal was at stake, and he must do his best. He recalled how a certain woman had taken him to task when she learned that he played the violin, which she called the "devil's snare" for luring people to destruction. He had tried to reason with the woman, but to no avail. He believed if she knew what a blessing his playing had been to so many people she would really change her mind.

Douglas had been playing for some time when his attention was attracted by the shoe-maker, who had risen from the chair and was walking toward the house. No sooner had he entered by the back door than Mrs. Dempster followed. Douglas went on with his music, at the same time wondering what was in their minds.

He had not long to wait, however, for presently the widow came to the door and beckoned him to come. He at once obeyed, and crossed over to where she was standing.

"Don't make any noise," she warned, "but foller me. I want to show ye something."

Tiptoeing across the floor, Mrs. Dempster led him to the door of the little room where the invalid was lying. Pausing just at the entrance and looking in, the sight which met his eyes was most impressive. Bending over the bed was Joe with his face close to Jean's, whose arms were clasped about her father's neck. They were both sobbing, though neither uttered a word. Douglas grasped the whole situation in an instant, and turning, he quietly retreated through the kitchen and out of doors. He was at once joined by Mrs. Dempster. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and Douglas' own eyes were moist.

"What d'ye think of that, now?" the good woman questioned.

"We have no business to be there," was the solemn reply. "That is too sacred a scene for inquisitive eyes. We must leave them alone."

"It was the music which done it, sir; I knew it would."

"Not altogether, Mrs. Dempster. Not altogether."

"Ye think the Good Lord had a hand in it, too?"

"Yes, I have no doubt about it."



CHAPTER XXIV

EMPTY HEARS SOMETHING

It was past mid-day, and Douglas was about to leave for home when Mrs. Dempster detained him.

"Don't go yit, sir," she told him. "Stop an' have a bite with us. Empty'll feel mighty pleased if ye will. We haven't much for dinner, but ye'r welcome to what we have, an' we'll eat it right under the shade of that big apple tree. We ginerally do that on bright Sundays, fer dear knows we eat often enough in the house."

The widow was greatly pleased when Douglas consented to stay, and at once roused her son to action.

"Hi, thar, Empty," she called, "wake up an' git a hustle on. I want a pail of water, an' then ye kin carry out the dishes. I do believe that boy'd sleep all the time," she grumbled. Nevertheless, she watched him with motherly pride as he slowly rose from the ground, stretched himself and looked around.

"Ain't dinner ready yit, ma?" he asked. "I'm most starved t' death."

"No, it ain't, an' it won't be to-day if ye don't hurry. We've special company fer dinner an' I want ye to behave yerself. If ye do, I'll give ye an extry piece of strawberry shortcake."

Douglas was greatly amused at the conversation and candour of the mother and son. They understood each other perfectly, and were not the least bit abashed at the presence of strangers. There was no polished veneer about the widow's hospitality. She did not pretend to be what she was not. She knew that she was poor and was not ashamed of it. She was perfectly natural, and indulged in no high-flown airs.

But Mrs. Dempster was a good manager, a capable housekeeper and an excellent cook. The table-cloth she spread upon the grass under the tree was spotless.

"We used this on our weddin' day," she informed Douglas who was watching her. "Dear old Parson Winstead married us in the church, an' then he came over an' had dinner with us. Me an' John had the house all fixed up, an' some of the neighbours helped with the dinner. My, them was great days," and she gave a deep sigh as she stood for a moment looking off across the field. "We was all equal then, jist like one big, happy family, an' good Parson Winstead was to us like a father. But, goodness me! if I keep gassin' this way, dinner'll never be ready," and she hurried off to the kitchen.

When Mrs. Dempster brought Joe from the house he was a greatly changed man. His step was elastic, his head erect and his eyes shone with a new hope. He ate well, too, almost the first he had eaten in several days, so he informed his companions.

It was a pleasant company which gathered under the shade of the old apple tree. Empty had received his second piece of strawberry shortcake, and was satisfied. When dinner was over, he once more stretched himself out upon the ground and resumed the sleep which his mother had disturbed.

During the meal Mrs. Dempster had been flitting to and fro between the house and the apple tree. There was always something she had to attend to, so she explained when Douglas remonstrated, telling her that she should eat something herself, and never mind the rest. But she would not listen, as she had to look after the fire, get a plateful of doughnuts, and most important of all, to see how the invalid was making out with her dinner.

"The poor dear has eaten more than she has any time since she's been sick," she told them with pride, after one of her visits to the house. "An' there's a little tinge of colour, too, in her white cheeks, an' she really smiled an' thanked me when I took her in her dinner."

"That is encouraging, isn't it?" Douglas asked. Joe said nothing though his eyes never left the widow's face, and he listened almost breathlessly to her slightest word about Jean.

"It is a good sign," Mrs. Dempster replied, as she sat upon the ground and poured for herself a cup of tea. "An' it's another good sign that she wants to see you, sir."

"See me!" Douglas exclaimed in surprise. "Why is that a good sign?"

"'Cause she hasn't wanted to see any one since she's been sick."

"What does she want to see me for?"

"To thank ye for playin', most likely. She made me tell her who it was, as she was most curious to know. She's takin' an interest in things now, an' that's encouragin'."

When Mrs. Dempster had finished her dinner, she rose to her feet and informed Douglas that she was ready to take him to see Jean.

"You jist make yerself comfortable, Joe, an' I'll be back in a jiffy. Lean aginst that tree an' rest ye'r poor old back. It's always good to have something to lean aginst. Since John died Empty's the only thing I've got to lean aginst, though I must say he's mighty wobbly at times."

Douglas followed Mrs. Dempster into the little bedroom off the kitchen where the invalid girl was lying. He was somewhat startled by the marked contrast between Jean's white face and her jet-black hair which was flowing over the pillow in rich confusion. She smiled as she reached out her thin hand and welcomed the visitor.

"Ye'd better set right down here, sir," Mrs. Dempster advised, as she drew up a chair. "I'm goin' to leave yez to have a nice little chat while I clear up the dinner dishes. It'll do ye a heap of good, won't it, dear?" and she stroked Jean's head. "But ye mustn't talk too much."

Douglas glanced around the little room. It was a cosy place, and the partly-opened window let in the fresh air from the surrounding fields, together with the sound of the twitter of birds and the hum of bees.

"This was my room," the widow explained, "until Jean took possession of it. She wanted to stay right close to me an' wouldn't go to the spare-room off the parlour. I haven't had time to fix it up, an' I've asked Empty time an' time agin to git somethin' to put over that stove-pipe hole in the wall, an' that one in the ceilin'. But my land! ye might as well save ye'r breath as to ask that boy to do anything. But, there now, I must be off."

The good woman's face was beaming as she left the house and went back to the apple tree.

"Where's Empty?" she demanded of Joe, when she discovered that the lad was nowhere to be seen.

"I don't know," was the reply. "He got up just after you left, but I didn't notice where he went."

"That's jist like the boy. He's never around when he's wanted. He does try my patience at times," and the widow gave a deep sigh as she began to gather up the dishes.

In the meantime, Jean and Douglas were engaged in an earnest conversation. It was somewhat constrained at first, but this feeling shortly vanished.

"It was so good of you to play for me," Jean remarked. "I feel better than I have for days. I guess the music has chased the clouds away."

"I am so thankful that I have been able to help you," Douglas replied. "You have had a hard time of late."

"Indeed I have. It seems to me that I have had a terrible dream. Oh, it was horrible."

"You must forget all about that now, and get well as soon as possible."

"Why should I get better? What have I to live for?"

"You must live for your parents' sake, if for nothing else. They have been heart-broken over you."

"I know it, I know it," and Jean placed her hands to her face as if to hide a vision which rose suddenly before her. "But you do not know my past life. You have little idea how I have suffered, both mentally and bodily."

"Perhaps I understand more than you imagine. Anyway, I know how you looked the night I dragged you out of the water at Long Wharf."

Douglas never forgot the expression which, overspread Jean's face as he uttered these words. Her large dark eyes grew wide with amazement and a nameless terror. She clutched the bed-clothes with her tense hands, and made a motion as if to rise.

"Please do not get excited, Miss Benton," he urged. "I would not mention this now, only there is much at stake, and I want your assistance."

"And it was you who saved me?" she gasped.

"Yes, with the help of an old tug-boatman. I saw Ben Stubbles push you off the wharf into the harbour and then leave you to your fate."

"Oh!" It was all that Jean could say, as the terrible memory of that night swept over her.

"Have you seen Ben lately?" Douglas asked.

"Not since the night of the dance at the hall."

"There is good reason why he doesn't come to see you, is there not?"

"Indeed there is," and Jean's eyes flashed with a sudden light of anger. "Nell Strong has taken him from me; that's what she has done. Oh, I'll get even with her yet."

"You are altogether mistaken. Ben is the one to blame. Miss Strong has not wronged you. She dislikes the man, and has refused to have anything more to do with him."

"But why did she meet him night after night by that old tree in front of her home, tell me that?"

"She was afraid of the Stubbles, both father and son. Simon Stubbles has a mortgage on the Strong place, and if she turned Ben away and would not meet him, the little home would have been taken. Miss Strong has done it now, however, and so I suppose the home will go."

"Are you sure of what you say?" Jean asked in a low voice.

"Yes, I am certain. Ben has been using every effort to win Miss Strong, and he is very angry at me because he imagines that I have turned her against him. The professor and his daughters have been very kind to me, and on several occasions I have been at their house. Once, on my way home, Ben had two men lying in wait for me with clubs. Fortunately, I was able to defend myself, and so escaped serious injury."

"Are you positive it was Ben who set them on!" Jean asked.

"Oh, yes, there is no doubt about it. I found a letter from him in the pocket of the coat of one of the men who attacked me. I have the coat now in my possession as well as the letter. The latter speaks for itself."

"And so Ben did that!" Jean murmured to herself.

"But that is not all, Miss Benton. You have heard, I suppose, what he did Friday night?"

"Yes, Mrs. Dempster has told me all about it. And you think Ben was back of that, too?"

"Indeed he was. The two men we caught said so, and they are to swear to it at the trial, and bring the other men who were with them."

"Will there be a trial?"

"It will be held to-morrow in the hall at the Corner. I am going to put a stop to such attacks and bring the guilty ones to task, if it is at all possible. It is a very strange thing for one family to rule a community like this, persecute innocent men, and drive them from the parish. It is a mystery to me that the people have permitted it for so long."

"Who will conduct the trial?" Jean enquired.

"Squire Hawkins. He is the only Justice of the Peace here."

"But he won't dare do anything to Ben. He is frightened almost to death of the Stubbles."

"I know he is, and for that reason I want your assistance."

"What can I do?" Jean asked in surprise.

"You can tell what Ben did to you at Long Wharf. That will prove what a villain he really is. Why, he intended to drown you that night, and he would have succeeded if I had not happened to be present. You can make your sworn statement to Squire Hawkins who can come here, so it will not be necessary for you to go to the trial."

Jean buried her face in her hands at these words and remained very silent. Douglas watched her for a few minutes, and a deep pity for this unfortunate woman came into his heart.

"Come," he urged, "won't you back me up? I have entered into this fight and need all the assistance I can get. If I am defeated, no one will dare to undertake such a thing again."

"I can't do it," Jean moaned. "Oh, I can't tell on Ben."

"Why not? He tried to drown you, and he cares for you no longer. He is a menace to the whole community."

"I know it, I know it," the girl sobbed. "But I shall never tell on Ben, no, never."

"But he has ruined your whole life, remember, and he may ruin others as innocent as you were, if he is not stopped. Think of that."

"Haven't I thought of it day and night, until I have been about crazy? But it is no use, I cannot tell on him."

"And are you willing to let him go free that he may do the same villainous things in the future that he has done in the past? A word from you will stir the parish to its very depths. If the people only knew what Ben did to you at Long Wharf that night, they would rise and drive him from the place. If I told what I know they would not believe me. But if you confirm what I say, that will make all the difference."

"Please do not urge me," Jean pleaded. "I cannot do it."

"You must love him still."

"No, I do not love him now," and the girl's voice was low.

"What hinders you, then, from telling?"

"It is the love I had for him in the past. That is one of the sweet memories of my life. Nothing can ever take it from me. No matter what he has done, and no matter what may happen to me, it is something to look back upon those days which are almost sacred to me now. But there, it is no use for me to say anything more. It is difficult for me to explain, and harder, perhaps, for you to understand."

With a deep sigh of weariness, Jean closed her eyes and turned her face on the pillow. Knowing that nothing more could be accomplished, and chiding himself that he had tired her, Douglas rose to go.

"Just a moment, please," Jean said, as she again opened her eyes. "Are you sure that Nell does not care for Ben? Tell me once more."

"Miss Strong told me so herself," Douglas replied. Then in a few words he related the scene that had taken place in front of the Jukes' house on Friday afternoon. "Doesn't that prove the truth of what I have said?" he asked in conclusion.

"Thank you very much," was the only reply that Jean made, as she again closed her eyes and turned her face toward the wall.

It was about the middle of the afternoon when Empty came out of the house and strolled over to where his mother was sitting alone under the apple tree.

"Where in the world have you been?" she demanded as he approached.

"Asleep," and the boy gave a great yawn and stretched himself.

"Well, I declare! When will ye ever git enough sleep? Ye'll have nuthin' but a sheep's head if ye keep on this way."

Empty made no reply as he sat down upon the ground by his mother's side. He was too happy to take offence at anything she might say. He had heard a great piece of news through the stove-pipe hole in the ceiling of the little bedroom. Empty had a reputation to sustain, and his conscience never troubled him as to how his news was obtained.



CHAPTER XXV

PERVERTING JUSTICE

Douglas did not remain long at Mrs. Dempster's after his conversation with Jean. Bidding the widow and Joe good-bye, he made his way swiftly across the fields by a well-worn path to the main highway. He was anxious to see Nell as she had been much in his mind since the night of the attack. To his joy, he found her sitting alone by the big tree on the shore with a book lying open in her lap. An expression of pleasure overspread her face as she welcomed her visitor, and offered him a chair by her side.

"Father was sitting here," she explained, "but he became unusually sleepy this afternoon, so he is now lying down in the house. Nan is out in the boat with Sadie Parks, a girl friend, gathering water-lilies, so I have been having a quiet time all by myself."

"A most remarkable thing for you, is it not?" Douglas asked, mentally blessing the professor for becoming sleepy, and Nan for going for the lilies.

"It certainly is. It has been a long time since I have not read to father every Sunday afternoon."

It seemed to Douglas as if heaven had suddenly opened to him as he sat there by Nell's side. She looked more beautiful than ever, so he thought, clad in a simple dress of snowy whiteness, open at the throat, exposing a little gold cross, pendant from a delicate chain fastened around her neck. Her dark, luxuriant hair was brushed carefully back, though a few wayward tresses drifted temptingly over cheek and brow. Her dark sympathetic eyes beamed with interest as Douglas related his experiences of the day, and his conversation with the invalid girl.

"I am so thankful that Jean knows the truth," she quietly remarked when Douglas had finished. "But isn't it terrible what Ben did to her at Long Wharf! I knew he was bad, but I had no idea he would do such a thing as that."

Further private conversation was now out of the question on account of Nan's arrival with her girl friend. She was carrying a large bunch of dripping white water-lilies, which she flung down upon the ground.

"My, what a nice little cosy time you two are having," she exclaimed. "It is too bad that you have to be disturbed."

"It certainly is," Douglas laughingly replied. "We were quite happy here by ourselves. Why didn't you stay longer out on the river?"

"Because I don't like to see people too happy, that is the reason," and Nan flopped herself down upon the ground, and began to weave a wreath of lilies with her deft fingers. "Come, Sadie," she ordered, "you make one, too. My, it's hot! Nell's always cool and never flustered," she continued, as she snapped off a stem and tucked a lily into its proper place.

"It's necessary for some one to be cool," her sister replied. "I do not know what would happen if I didn't try to keep my senses."

Nan merely tossed her head and went on with her work. She was certainly a remarkable specimen of healthy, buoyant girlhood, with face aglow and eyes sparkling with animation. What a subject she would make for an artist, Douglas mused as he watched her as she worked and talked.

"There," Nan at length cried, as she held up her finished wreath for inspection. "Give it to the fairest, sir," she dramatically demanded.

"The Judgment of Paris, eh?" Douglas smiled.

"No; your judgment."

"That would be rather embarrassing, would it not?"

"I dare you to do it," and she dangled the wreath before him.

"Come, come, Nan," Nell chided. "Don't be foolish. You make Mr. Handyman feel badly."

"That's just what I want to do. He has neglected me, and I want to punish him."

"Give me the wreath," and Douglas stretched out his hand.

Rising to his feet, he placed the beautiful lilies upon Nell's head, and then stepped back to view the effect.

"There," and he turned to Nan, "I have accepted your dare, so I hope you are satisfied."

"You mean thing!" the girl pouted. "I don't want anything more to do with you. Come, Sadie, let's go for a walk. We're not wanted here."

"You must not go now, Nan," her sister ordered. "It will soon be tea time, and I want you to help me. Father will be awake soon."

The time sped all too quickly for Douglas, and he wondered what would happen before he should spend another such pleasant afternoon with Nell. She did not remove the wreath he had placed upon her head until that evening after he had left her at the cottage door. Then she placed it in a dish of water to keep the lilies fresh as long as possible in memory of that happy day. A strange happiness possessed her, and her heart was full of peace such as she had never before experienced.

Douglas had the feeling that he was now nearing a crisis in his sojourn at Rixton, and the next morning he told Jake that he had better get another man to help him.

"What! Surely ye'r not goin' to leave us, are ye?" Jake exclaimed.

"Not just yet," Douglas informed him. "But I may not be able to give you full service for a while. And, besides, if this trial should go against me, I may be forced to leave the place after all. If Squire Hawkins fails to give justice and allows Ben to go free, what am I to do?" Douglas merely asked this to see what Jake would say.

"So ye think that Hen Hawkins might not give ye justice, eh? Is that what's botherin' ye?"

"Oh, it's not bothering me very much, only it might shorten my stay here, that's all. It will be no use for me to remain in this place with all the people against me. I can go elsewhere."

"The hull people'll not be aginst ye," and Jake brought his big fist down upon the kitchen table with a bang. "Mebbe they'll have a few things to say if Hen Hawkins isn't on the square. I know that him an' the Stubbles eat out of the same trough. But great punkins! they'll dance on the same griddle if they're not keerful."

Douglas was surprised at the number of men gathered at the hall when he and Jake arrived that afternoon. Most of them were sitting or standing in little groups outside, discussing the one important question of the day. Just what they were saying he could not tell, as the time had come for the trial to begin and the men flocked into the building. Squire Hawkins was sitting on the platform, and by his side was his clerk with pen and paper before him, ready to take down the evidence.

"Guess the Squire has closed his store this afternoon," Jake whispered to his companion. "He's got his clerk with him to do the writin'."

Douglas noticed that Ben Stubbles was not in the hall, but he saw Tom and Pete with the other men who had taken part in the attack, sitting in the front seat. Had Ben been summoned? he wondered. He wanted the rascal to be present to hear all that would be said.

The trial was the most peculiar and interesting one Douglas had ever witnessed. Squire Hawkins did not know how to conduct the case, but what he lacked in knowledge he made up in words and a pompous manner. He was feeling his importance on this occasion, and was determined to make the most of it. Rising to his feet, he stated the charges that had been made against Tom Totten and Pete Rollins. Then he ordered the offenders to come forward.

"You have heard the charges made against you, have you not?" he asked.

"We have," was the reply.

"Are you guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty, sir."

This candid admission was a surprise to the Squire, as he had expected that the men would emphatically deny the charges. He was not prepared for this, and hardly knew how to proceed. He frowned, twisted in his chair, and felt most uncomfortable. The staring and gaping audience greatly embarrassed him.

"S-so you confess your guilt, eh?" he at length stammered.

"Yes, sir; we do."

"Are you not afraid of the consequences!"

"What are they?"

"W-well, I h-have to see about that. I'm not just sure yet. But why did you make the attack upon Mr. Handyman?"

"We were ordered to do so, sir," Tom replied.

"H'm, I see," and the Squire rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his right hand. He was thinking clearly now, and realised how necessary it was for him to be most discreet with his questions. "Were there just two of you?" he presently asked.

"No, sir."

"Who were the others?"

"They can speak for themselves, sir."

No sooner had the words left Tom's mouth than four men stepped forward.

"And were you in the trouble, too?" the Squire questioned.

"Yes, sir," the spokesman replied. "We was with Tom an' Pete. We're guilty, too."

"Well, I must say you are a fine bunch of nighthawks," and the Squire gave a slight, sarcastic laugh. "You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves."

"We're more'n ashamed, sir," Tom replied; "we're disgusted."

"Disgusted at what?"

"At makin' sich fools of ourselves, an' bein' the tools of another."

"But you are responsible men, and why do you try to shift the blame to other shoulders?" the Squire sternly demanded.

"Because we'd been drinkin', sir. We really didn't know what we was doin' that night. The whiskey was given us an' we was ready for any divilment. That's the long and short of it."

Squire Hawkins now rose slowly to his feet and looked upon the audience before him.

"Gentlemen," he began, "I do not see any reason why I should prolong this enquiry. These men have confessed everything, and there is nothing more for me to do except to impose the penalties. I shall be very lenient as this is the first time they have been brought before me. But I wish to warn you all that if I am called upon to deal with such a case again, I shall be very severe."

No sooner had the Squire sat down, than Douglas was on his feet. He had listened with almost incredulous amazement to the way in which the enquiry had been conducted, and he knew that if some one did not interfere, the one who was really guilty would escape.

"May I be allowed to speak?" he asked.

"Yes, I suppose so, providing you are brief and to the point," was the somewhat reluctant assent.

"I have been very much surprised at this enquiry," Douglas began, "and I wish to call attention to certain matters which have been passed over without any consideration at all. These men before you, sir, have pleaded guilty to the charges which I made against them. They have confessed that they were given liquor and ordered to attack me last Friday night. But you have not asked them who the person is who ordered the attack and gave them the whiskey. Is it not right that you should do so, sir, that we may know who was really at the bottom of that cowardly affair?"

"Hear, hear," came from several in the audience. "You are right. Let us know the person's name."

"Your question has no bearing upon this case," Squire Hawkins angrily replied. "These offenders have acknowledged their guilt, and they alone are the responsible ones and must bear the whole blame."