He felt the man relax and slip down into the dust and smoke, where he lay motionless.

Peter drew himself up to arm's length, wondering at the feebleness of his muscles and the trouble with his breathing.

"Beth!" he gasped, frantically, searching the smoking ground for her.

"Peter—thank God!" Her voice was just at his ear and an arm went around his neck.

"Beth! Beth! You've got to get out of this."

"Come, Peter—there's time——"

Just then a branch crashed down just beside them, showering them with sparks.

"Come, Peter—come!" she cried.

He struggled up with an effort, one hand clutching at his breast.

"Go, Beth!" he gasped. "For God's sake, go!"

Beth stared at him for one short terrible moment as she realized what had happened to him.

"Peter! You—you're——"

"I—I think I'm hurt—a little—it isn't much."

He swayed but she caught him and put an arm around one shoulder, clutching it with the other hand.

"Lean on me," she muttered. "I'm strong enough——"

"No—go, Beth——"

But she put her strength under him and began walking while he staggered on beside her. Sparks and fiery brands rained down upon them, blistering and burning, the hot breath of the furnace drove their breath poisoned back into their lungs and scorched their bodies, but still they remained upright—and by a miracle still moved on.

"To the left," Peter heard dimly, "the swamp is close by."

He obeyed her, more dead than alive, and by sheer effort of will kept his feet moving, paced to hers. He seemed to be walking as though in a red fever, on leaden feet, carrying a body that had no weight or substance.

But after a while his feet too seemed to grow lighter and he felt himself falling through space. But her arms were still about him.

"Peter," he heard her voice in agony, "only a few yards further——"

With a last remaining effort he struggled and then his feet stumbling, toppled forward and sank into something soft, something deliciously cool and soothing. He felt a hand tugging at him, but he had no pain now, no weakness—only the perfect happiness of a body that, seeking rest, has found it.

After a while he revived at the sound of a voice at his ear. Water was splashing over his face and he struggled up.

"No—keep down," he heard Beth's voice saying. "We're safe, Peter—the wind is changing——"

"And you, Beth——?"

"All right, dear. A little patience——"

The voice trembled, but there was a world of faith in it. After all that had happened, it was impossible that further disaster should follow now.

"Y-you're all right?" he gasped weakly.

"Yes. Yes. Lie still for a while."

And so they half lay, half crouched in the mud and water, while the inferno swept over them, passing to the south. His head was on her breast and against his ear he could feel her heart beating bravely, a message of strength and cheer. From time to time her wet fingers brushed his hair with water and then, as he seemed to be sinking into a dream again, he felt lips light as thistle-down upon his brows.

Death such as this, he thought, was very pleasant.

And then later he was aroused by a shrill clear call.... Then saw lights flashing.... Heard men's voices.... Felt himself carried in strong arms ... but all the while there were soft fingers in his own.



CHAPTER XXII

RETRIBUTION

When they lifted him into the automobile and Beth got in beside him, his fingers moved in her own.

"Beth," she heard him whisper.

"Peter—I'm here."

"Thank God. And—and Shad——? He—he was with me——"

"He's asking for Shad," she repeated to Brierly, unaware that her cousin, like his Biblical namesake, had come scatheless through the fiery furnace. But some one heard the question and replied:

"Shad's here, Miss. He's all right——"

"Oh," gasped Peter. "And there's something else——"

"No, no—we must go. Your wound——"

But he insisted. "I—I'm all—right. Something else,—Beth—some one must get—paper—blue envelope—Hawk Ken——"

His words ended in a gasp and he sank back in her arms.

Beth was frightened at the sudden collapse and the look in his face, but she knew that his injunction was important. And keeping her courage she called Shad Wells to the side of the car and gave quick directions. There was a note of appeal in her voice and Shad listened, his gaze over his shoulder in the direction she indicated.

"If he ain't burned to a crisp by now——"

"Go, Shad—please! And if you can get to him bring the papers in his pocket to me."

He met her gaze and smiled.

"I reckon I'll get to him if anybody can."

"Oh, thanks, Shad—thanks——" she muttered, as the lumberman turned, followed by one of the others, and silently moved toward the flames.

And in a moment the car was on its way to Black Rock, Brierly driving carefully over the rough road. That was a terrible ride for Beth. She supported the wounded man against her shoulder, her gaze on his pallid face. Her poor blistered arm was about his waist, but she had no thought for her own suffering. Every ounce of strength that remained to her was given to holding Peter close to her so that he would not slip down, every ounce of faith in her soul given to combat with the fears that assailed her. It seemed to Beth that if the Faith that had brought her through this day and out of that furnace were still strong enough she could combat even the Death that rode with them. And so she prayed again, holding him closely. But he was so cold and inert. She put her hand over his heart and a tiny pulsation answered as though to reassure her. Her hand came away dry, for the wound was not near his heart. She thanked God for that. She found it high up on the right side just below the collar bone and held her fingers there, pressing them tightly. If this blood were life and she could keep it within him she would do it. But he was so pale....

Brierly drove to Black Rock House instinctively. Here were beds, servants and the telephone. He sounded his horn as they came up the driveway and an excited group came out upon the porch. But Beth saw only McGuire.

"Mr. Nichols has been shot, Mr. McGuire—he's dangerously hurt," she appealed. "He's got to have a doctor—at once."

"Who—who shot him?"

"Hawk Kennedy."

"And he—Hawk——?"

"He's dead, I think."

She heard McGuire's sudden gasp and saw Aunt Tillie come running.

"He's got to be put to bed—Aunt Tillie," she pleaded.

"Of course," said McGuire, finding his voice suddenly, "Of course—at once. The blue room, Mrs. Bergen. We'll carry him up. Send Stryker."

And Aunt Tillie ran indoors.

Peter was still quite unconscious, but between them they managed to get him upstairs.

McGuire seemed now galvanized into activity and while the others cut Peter's coat away and found the wound he got Hammonton and a doctor on the 'phone. It was twelve miles away but he promised to be at Black Rock House inside half an hour.

"Twenty minutes and you won't regret it. Drive like Hell. It's a matter of life or death."

Meanwhile, Aunt Tillie, with anxious glances at Beth, had brought absorbent cotton, clean linen, a basin of water and a sponge, and Stryker and Brierly washed the wound, while McGuire rushed for his bottle and managed to force some whisky and water between Peter's teeth. The bullet they found had gone through the body and had come out at the back, shattering the shoulder-blade. But the hemorrhage had almost ceased and the wounded man's heart was still beating faintly.

"It's the blood he's lost," muttered Brierly sagely.

"He'll come around all right. You can't kill a man as game as that."

Beth clung to the arms of the chair in which they had placed her. "You think—he—he'll live?"

"Sure he will. I've seen 'em worse'n that——"

She sank back into her chair, exhausted. She had never fainted in her life and she wasn't going to begin. But now that all that they could do had been done for Peter, they turned their attention to Beth. She had not known how much she needed it. Her hair was singed, her wrists were raw and bleeding, and her arms, half naked, were red and blistered. Her dress, soaked with mud and water, was partly torn or burned away.

"She must be put to bed here, Mrs. Bergen," said McGuire. "She'll need the doctor too."

Beth protested and would not leave the room until the doctor came. But McGuire, who seemed—and somewhat justly—to have complete faith in the efficacy of his own remedy, gave her some of the whisky and water to drink, while Aunt Tillie washed her face and rubbed vaseline upon her arms, crooning over her all the while in the comforting way of women of her kind, to the end that Beth felt the pain of her body lessen.

It was not until the doctor arrived with a businesslike air and made his examination, pronouncing Peter's condition serious but not necessarily fatal, that the tension at Beth's heart relaxed.

"He—he'll get well, Doctor?" she asked timidly.

"I think so," he said with a smile, "but we've got to have absolute quiet now. I'd like some one here to help me——"

"If you'd only let me——"

But she read refusal in his eyes as he looked at her critically, and saw him choose Stryker.

"You're to be put to bed at once," he said dryly. "You'll need attention too, I'm thinking."

And so Beth, with McGuire's arm supporting and Aunt Tillie's arm around her, was led to the room adjoining,—the pink room of Miss Peggy McGuire. McGuire closed the door and questioned her eagerly.

"You say Hawk Kennedy was killed——?"

"I think so—or—or burned," said Beth, now quivering in the reaction of all that she had experienced. "I—I sent Shad Wells to see. We left him lying there. We just had time to get away. The fire was all around. We got to the swamp—into the water—but he——" She put her face into her hands, trembling with the recollection. "It was horrible. I can't talk about it."

Aunt Tillie glared at McGuire, but he still questioned uneasily.

"You—you saw nothing of a blue envelope, a paper——"

With an effort Beth lowered her hands and replied:

"No—Peter—Mr. Nichols thought of it. Shad Wells will bring it—if it isn't burned."

"Oh, I see——"

"But what you can't see," broke in Aunt Tillie with spirit, "is that the poor child ain't fit to answer any more questions to-night. And she shan't."

"Er—no—of course," said McGuire, and went out.

If it had been an eventful day for Peter and Beth, the night was to prove eventful for McGuire, for not content to wait the arrival of Shad Wells, he took his courage in his hands and with Brierly drove at once to the scene of the disaster. The wind had died and a gentle rain began to fall, but the fire was burning fiercely.

The other matter in McGuire's thoughts was so much the more important to him that he had given little thought to the damage to his property. His forests might all be burned down for all that he cared.

At the spot to which Beth and Peter had been carried he met Shad and the party of men that had been looking for Hawk Kennedy, but the place where the fight had taken place was still a mass of fallen trees and branches all flaming hotly and it was impossible for any one to get within several hundred yards of it.

There seemed little doubt as to the fate of his enemy. Jonathan K. McGuire stood at the edge of the burned area, peering into the glowing embers. His look was grim but there was no smile of triumph at his lips. In his moments of madness he had often wished Hawk Kennedy dead, but never had he wished him such a death as this. He questioned Shad sharply as to his share in the adventure, satisfying himself at last that the man had told a true story, and then, noting his wounded arm, sent him back with Brierly in the car to Black Rock House for medical treatment with orders to send the chauffeur with the limousine.

The rain was now falling fast, but Jonathan K. McGuire did not seem to be aware of it. His gaze was on the forest, on that of the burning area nearest him where the fire still flamed the hottest, beneath the embers of which lay the one dreadful secret of his life. Even where he stood the heat was intense, but he did not seem to be aware of it, nor did he follow the others when they retreated to a more comfortable spot. No one knew why he waited or of what he was thinking, unless of the damage to the Reserve and what the loss in money meant to him. They could not guess that pity and fear waged their war in his heart—pity that any man should die such a death—fear that the man he thought of should not die it.

But as the hours lengthened and there was no report brought to him of any injured man, being found in the forest near by, he seemed to know that Peter Nichols had not struck for Beth in vain.

When the limousine came, he sent the other watchers home, and got into it, sitting in solitary grandeur in his wet clothing, peering out of the window. The glow of the flames grew dimmer and died at last with the first pale light to the eastward which announced the coming of the dawn. A light drizzle was still falling when it grew light enough to see. McGuire got down and without awakening the sleeping chauffeur went forth into the spectral woods. He knew where the old tool cabin had stood and, from the description Wells had given him, had gained a general idea of where the fight had taken place—two hundred yards from the edge of the swamp where Nichols and the Cameron girl had been found, and nearly in a line with the biggest of the swamp-maples, the trunk of which still stood, a melancholy skeleton of its former grandeur.

The ground was still hot under the mud and cinders, but not painfully so, and he was not aware of any discomfort. Clouds of steam rose and among them he moved like the ghost of a sin, bent, eager, searching with heavy eyes for what he hoped and what he feared to find. The old tool house had disappeared, but he saw a heap of ashes and among them the shapes of saws and iron picks and shovels. But he passed them by, making a straight line to the eastward and keeping his gaze upon the charred and blackened earth, missing nothing to right and left, fallen branches, heaps of rubbish, mounds of earth.

Suddenly startled, McGuire halted and stood for a long moment.... Then, his hand before his eyes he turned away and slowly made his way back to his automobile. But there was no triumph in his eyes. A power greater than his own had avenged Ben Cameron.

His vigil was over—his nightly vigil—the vigil of years. He made his way to his car and, awakening his chauffeur, told him to drive to Black Rock House. But when he reached home, the set look that his face had worn for so many weeks had disappeared. And in its place among the relaxed muscles which showed his years, sat the benignity of a new resolution.

It was broad daylight when he quietly knocked at the door of the room in which the injured man lay. The doctor came to the door. It seemed that all immediate danger of a further collapse had passed for the heart was stronger and unless there was a setback Peter Nichols had an excellent chance of recovery. McGuire himself offered to watch beside the bed; but the doctor explained that a trained nurse was already on the way from Philadelphia and would arrive at any moment. So McGuire went to his own room and, sinking into his armchair, slept for the first time in many weeks at peace, smiling his benignant smile.

* * * * *

Beth awoke in the pink room of Miss Peggy McGuire in which she had been put to bed. She lay for a moment still stupefied, her brain struggling against the effects of the sleeping potion that the doctor had given her and then slowly straightened to a sitting posture, regarding in bewilderment the embroidered night-robe which she wore and the flowered pink hangings at the windows. She couldn't at first understand the pain at her head and other aches and pains which seemed to come mysteriously into being. But she heard a familiar voice at her ear and saw the anxious face of Aunt Tillie, who rose from the chair at her bedside.

"Aunt Tillie!" she whispered.

"It's all right, dearie," said the old woman. "You're to lie quite still until the doctor sees you——"

"The doctor——? Oh, I—I remember——" And then with a sudden awakening to full consciousness—"Peter!" she gasped.

"He's better, dearie."

"But what does the doctor say?"

"He's doin' as well as possible——"

"Will he get well?"

"Yes, yes. The doctor is very hopeful."

"You're sure?"

"Yes. He's sleepin' now—quiet—ye'd better just lie back again."

"But I want to go to him, Aunt Tillie. I want to."

"No. Ye can't, dearie—not now."

And so by dint of reassurance and persuasion, Aunt Tillie prevailed upon the girl to lie back upon her pillows and after a while she slept again.

But Beth was no weakling and when the doctor came into her room some time later, the effects of her potion wearing away, she awoke to full consciousness. He saw the imploring question in her eyes, before he took her pulse and answered it with a quick smile.

"He's all right. Heart coming on nicely——"

"Will h-he live?" she gasped.

"He'll be a fool if he doesn't."

"What——?"

"I'd be, if I knew there was a girl like you in the next room with that kind of look in her eyes asking for me."

But his remark went over Beth's head.

"He's better?"

"Yes. Conscious too. But he'll have to be kept quiet."

"D-did he speak of me?"

The doctor was taking her pulse and put on a professional air which hid his inward smiles and provoked a repetition of her question.

"D-did he?" she repeated softly.

"Oh, yes," he said with a laugh. "He won't talk of anything else. I had to give him a hypodermic to make him stop."

Beth was silent for a moment. And then timidly——

"What did he say?"

"Oh, just that you saved his life, that's all."

"Nothing else?"

"Oh, yes. Now that I come to think of it, he did."

"What?"

"That he wanted to see you."

"Oh! And can I——?"

The doctor snapped his watch and relinquished her wrist with a smile.

"If everything goes well—to-morrow—for two minutes—just two minutes, you understand."

"Not until to-morrow?" she asked ruefully.

"You ought to be glad to see him alive at all. He had a narrow shave of it. An inch or two lower——" And then with a smile, "But he's going to get well, I promise you that."

"Oh, thanks," said Beth gratefully.

"Don't worry. And if you behave yourself I'll let you get up after lunch." He gave some directions to Mrs. Bergen as to the treatment of Beth's blistered arms, and went out.

So in spite of the pain that she still suffered, Beth was content. At least she was content until Aunt Tillie brought her Miss Peggy McGuire's silver hand-mirror and she saw the reflection of her once beautiful self.

"Aunt Tillie!" she gasped. "I'm a sight."

"Maybe—but that's a sight better than bein' burned to death," said the old lady, soberly.

"My hair——!"

"It's only frizzled. They say that's good for the hair," she said cheerfully.

"Oh, well," sighed Beth as she laid the mirror down beside her. "I guess I ought to be glad I'm alive after——"

And then with an uncontrollable shudder, she asked, "And—and—him?"

"Dead," said Aunt Tillie with unction. "Burned to a crisp."

Beth gasped but said nothing more. She didn't want to think of yesterday, but she couldn't help it—the horrors that she had passed through—the fate that might have been in store for her, if—Peter hadn't found her in time!

Beth relaxed in comfort while Aunt Tillie bathed and anointed her, brushed out the hair that was "frizzled," refreshing and restoring her patient, so that after lunch she got up and put on the clothing that had been brought from her home. Her arms were swathed in bandages from wrists to shoulders but the pain was much less, so, when McGuire knocked at the door and asked if he might see her, she was sitting in a chair by the window and greeted him with a smile.

He entered timidly and awkwardly, rubbing his fingers uncomfortably against the palms of his hands.

"They tell me you're feelin' better, Miss Cameron," he said soberly. "I—I'd like to talk to you for a moment," and with a glance at Aunt Tillie, "alone if you don't mind."

Aunt Tillie gathered up some bandages and grudgingly departed.

McGuire came forward slowly and sank into a chair beside Beth's, laying his hand timidly on hers.

"I thank God nothing happened to you, child, and I hope you believe me when I say it," he began in an uncertain voice.

"Oh, yes, sir, I do."

"Because the only thing that matters to me now is setting myself straight with you and Mr. Nichols."

He paused in a difficulty of speech and then went on.

"He—Mr. Nichols has told you everything——?"

Beth wagged her head like a solemn child and then laid her other hand on his.

"Oh, I'm so sorry for you," she said.

"You mustn't say that," he muttered. "I—I've done you a great wrong—not trying to find out about Ben Cameron—not trying to find you. But I've suffered for it, Miss——" And then eagerly——"You don't mind my calling you Beth, do you?"

"No, Mr. McGuire."

"I ought to have told what happened. I ought to have tried to find out if Ben Cameron had any kin. I did wrong. But I've paid for it. I've never had a happy hour since I claimed that mine that didn't belong to me. I've made a lot of money but what I did has been hanging over me for years making an old man of me before my time——"

"Oh, please don't be unhappy any more——"

"Let me talk Miss—Beth. I've got to tell you. It'll make me feel a lot easier." Beth smoothed his hand reassuringly and he clasped hers eagerly as though in gratitude. "I never was much good when I was a lad, Beth, and I never could get along even after I got married. It wasn't in me somehow. I was pretty straight as young fellows go but nothing went right for me. I was a failure. And then——"

He paused a moment with bent head but Beth didn't speak. It was all very painful to her.

"Hawk Kennedy killed your father. But I was a crook too. I left Hawk there without water to die. It was a horrible thing to do—even after what he'd done to me. My God! Maybe I didn't suffer for that! I was glad when I learned Hawk didn't die, even though I knew from that time that he'd be hanging over me like a curse. He did for years and years. I knew he'd turn up some day, I tried to forget, but I couldn't. The sight of him was always with me."

"How terrible!" whispered Beth.

"But from that moment everything I did went well. Money came fast. I wasn't a bad business man, but even a bad business man could have put that deal through. I sold out the mine. I've got the figures and I'm going to show them to you, because they're yours to see. With the money I made some good investments. That money made more money and more besides. Making money got to be my passion. It was the only thing I cared for—except my girls—and it was the only thing that made me forget."

"Please don't think you've got to tell me any more."

"Yes, I want to. I don't know how much I'm worth to-day." And then in a confidential whisper—"I couldn't tell within half a million or so, but I guess it ain't far short of ten millions, Beth. You're the only person in the world outside the Treasury Department that knows how much I'm worth. I'm telling you. I've never told anybody—not even Peggy. And the reason I'm telling you is because, you've got to know, because I can't sleep sound yet, until I straighten this thing out with you. It didn't take much persuading for Mr. Nichols to show me what I had to do when he'd found out, because everything I've got comes from money I took from you. And I'm going to give you what belongs to you, the full amount I got for that mine with interest to date. It's not mine. It's yours and you're a rich girl, Beth——"

"I won't know what to do with all that money, Mr. McGuire," said Beth in an awed voice.

"Oh, yes, you will. I've been thinking it all out. It's a deed by gift. We'll have to have a consideration to make it binding. We may have to put in the facts that I've been—er—only a sort of trustee of the proceeds of the 'Tarantula' mine. I've got a good lawyer. He'll know what to do—how to fix it."

"I—I'm sure I'm very grateful."

"You needn't be." He paused and laid his hand over hers again. "But if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not have much talk about it—just what's said in the deed—to explain."

"I'll say nothin' you don't want said."

"I knew you wouldn't. Until the papers are drawn I'd rather you wouldn't speak of it."

"I won't."

"You're a good girl. I—I'd like to see you happy. If money will make you happy, I'm glad I can help."

"You've been very kind, Mr. McGuire—and generous. I can't seem to think about all that money. It's just like a fairy tale."

"And you forgive me—for what I did——? You forgive me, Beth?"

"Yes, I do, Mr. McGuire. Don't say anythin' more about it—please!"

The old man bent his head and kissed her hand and then with a great sigh of relief straightened and rose.

"Thank God!" he said quietly. And bidding her good-by he walked from the room.



CHAPTER XXIII

A VISITOR

The two minutes permitted by the doctor had come and gone. There had been much to say with too little time to say it in. For Beth, admonished that the patient must be kept quiet, and torn between joy at Peter's promised recovery and pity for his pale face, could only look at him and murmur soothing phrases, while Peter merely smiled and held her hand. But that, it seemed, was enough, for Beth read in his eyes that what had happened had merely set an enduring seal upon the affection of both of them.

With the promise that she could see him again on the morrow, Beth went back to her room. She had wanted to return to the village, but McGuire had insisted upon her staying where she was under the care of the doctor until what they were pleased to call the shock to her system had yielded to medical treatment. Beth said nothing. She was already herself and quite able to take up her life just where she had left it, but she agreed to stay in McGuire's house. It seemed to make him happier when she acquiesced in his wishes. Besides, it was nice to be waited on and to be next to the room where the convalescent was.

But the revelation as to Peter's identity could not be long delayed. Brierly had brought the tale back from the lumber camp, and the village was all agog with excitement. But Beth had seen no one but Mr. McGuire and Aunt Tillie, and Peter had requested that no one should tell her but himself. And so in a day or so when Beth went into Peter's room she found him with a color in his cheeks, and wearing a quizzical smile.

"I thought you were never coming, Beth," he said.

"I came as soon as they'd let me, Peter. Do you feel stronger?"

"Every hour. Better when you're here. And you?"

"Oh, I'm all right."

He looked at her with his head on one side.

"Do you think you could stand hearing something very terrible about me, Beth?"

She glanced at him anxiously and then a smile of perfect faith responded to his. She knew that he was getting well now, because this was a touch of his old humor.

"H-m. I guess so. I don't believe it can be so very terrible, Peter."

"It is—very terrible, Beth."

But the pressure of his fingers was reassuring.

"I'm listenin'," she said.

"Well, you know, you told me once that you'd marry me no matter what I'd been——"

"Yes. I meant that, Peter. I mean it now. It's what you are——"

Peter Nichols chuckled. It was his last chuckle as Peter Nichols.

"Well, I'm not what you thought I was. I've been acting under false colors—under false pretenses. My name isn't Peter Nichols. It's Peter Nicholaevitch——"

"Then you are all Russian!" she said.

Peter shook his head.

"No. Only half of me. But I used to live in Russia—at a place called Zukovo. The thing I wanted to tell you was that they fired me out because they didn't want me there."

"You! How dared they! I'd like to give them a piece of my mind," said Beth indignantly.

"It wouldn't have done any good. I tried to do that."

"And wouldn't they listen?"

"No. They burned my—my house and tried to shoot me."

"Oh! How could they!" And then, gently, "Oh, Peter. You have had troubles, haven't you?"

"I don't mind. If I hadn't had them, I wouldn't have come here and I wouldn't have found you."

"So after all, I ought to be glad they did fire you out," she said gently.

"But aren't you curious to know why they did?"

"I am, if you want to tell me, but even if it was bad, I don't care what you did, Peter."

He took her fingers to his lips.

"It wasn't so very bad after all, Beth. It wasn't so much what I did as what my—er—my family had done that made them angry."

"Well, you weren't responsible for what your kin-folks did."

Peter laughed softly.

"They seemed to think so. My—er—my kin-folks were mixed up in politics in Russia and one of my cousins had a pretty big job—too big a job for him and that's the truth." A cloud passed for a moment over Peter's face and he looked away.

"But what did his job have to do with you?" she asked.

"Well, you see, we were all mixed up with him, just by being related—at least that's what the people thought. And so when my cousin did a lot of things the people thought he oughtn't to do and didn't do a lot of other things that they thought he ought to have done, they believed that I was just the same sort of man that he was."

"How unjust, Peter!"

He smiled at the ceiling.

"I thought so. I told them what I thought. I did what I could to straighten things out and to help them, but they wouldn't listen. Instead they burned my—my house down and I had to run away."

"How terrible for you!" And then, after a pause, "Was it a pretty house, Peter?"

"Yes," he replied slowly, "it was. A very pretty house—in the midst of a forest, with great pines all about it. I wish they hadn't burned that house, Beth, because I loved it."

"Poor dear! I'm so sorry."

"I thought you would be, because it was a big house, with pictures, books, music——"

"All burned! Land's sakes alive!"

"And a wonderful grand piano."

"Oh, Peter!" And then with a flash of joy, "But you're goin' to have another grand piano just like it soon."

"Am I? Who's going to give it to me?"

"I am," said Beth quietly. "And another house and pictures and books and music."

He read her expression eagerly.

"Mr. McGuire has told you?" he asked.

She nodded. "You knew?"

"Yes," he replied. "He told me yesterday."

"Isn't it wonderful?" she whispered. And then went on rapidly, "So you see, Peter, maybe I can be some good to you after all."

He pressed her fingers, enjoying her happiness.

"I can hardly believe it's true," she gasped, "but it must be, because Mr. McGuire had his lawyer here yesterday talkin' about it——"

"Yes. It's true. I think he's pretty happy to get all that off his conscience. You're a rich girl, Beth." And then, with a slow smile, "That was one of the reasons why I wanted to talk with you about who I was. You see, I thought that now that you're going to have all this money, you might want to change your mind about marrying a forester chap who—who just wants to try to show the trees how to grow."

"Peter! Don't make fun of me. Please. And you hurt me so!" she reproached him. "You know I'll never want to change my mind ever, ever—even if I had all the money in the world."

He laughed, drew her face down to his and whispered, "Beth, dear. I knew you wouldn't want to—but I just wanted to hear you say it."

"Well, I have said it. And I don't want you ever to say such a thing again. As if I cared for anythin'—anythin' but you."

He kissed her on the lips and she straightened.

"I wanted to hear you say that too," he said with a laugh.

And then, after a silence which they both improved by gazing at each other mutely, "But you don't seem very curious about who I am."

Beth pressed his fingers confidently. What he was to her mattered a great deal—and she realized that nothing else did. But she knew that something was required of her. And so, "Oh, yes. Indeed I am, Peter,—awfully curious," she said politely.

"Well, you know, Beth, I'm not really so poor as I seem to be. I've got a lot of securities in a bank in Russia, because nobody knew where they were and so they couldn't take them."

"And they would have taken your money too?"

"Yes. When this cousin of mine—his name was Nicholas—when Nicholas was killed——"

"They killed him! Who?"

"The Bolsheviki—they killed Nicholas and his whole family—his wife, son and four daughters——"

"Peter!" Beth started up and stared at him in startled bewilderment, as she remembered the talks she had had with him about the Russian Revolution. "Nicholas——!" she gasped. "His wife—son—daughters. He had the same name as—as the Czar—!" And as her gaze met his again she seemed to guess.... "Peter!" she gasped. "What—what do you mean?"

"I mean that it was the Little Father—the Czar—who was my cousin, Beth."

She stared at Peter in awe and a kind of fear of this new element in their relations.

"And—and you——? You're——?"

"I'm just Peter Nichols——," he said with a laugh.

"But over there——"

"I'm nothing. They chucked us all out, the Bolsheviki—every last one of us that had a handle to his name."

"A handle——?"

"Yes. I used to be Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch of Zukovo and Galitzin——"

"G-Grand Duke Peter!" she whispered in a daze. And then, "Oh—how—how could you?" she gasped.

Peter laughed.

"I couldn't help it, Beth. I was born that—way. But you will forgive me, won't you?"

"Forgive——? Oh—it—it makes such a difference to find—you're not you—but somebody else——"

"No. I am—me. I'm not anybody else. But I had to tell you—sometime. You don't think any the less of me, do you, Beth?"

"I—I don't know what to think. I'm so—you're so——"

"What?"

"Grand—and I'm——"

Peter caught her hands and made her look at him.

"You're the only woman in the world I've ever wanted—the only one—and you've promised me you'd marry me—you've promised, Beth."

Her fingers moved gently in his and her gaze, wide-eyed, sought his.

"And it won't make any difference——?"

"No, Beth. Why should you think that?"

"I—I was afraid—it might," she gasped. And then for a while Peter held her hands, whispering, while Beth, still abashed, answered in monosyllables, nodding from time to time.

Later the nurse entered, her glance on her wrist-watch.

"Time's up," she said. And Beth rose as one in a dream and moved slowly around the foot of the bed to the door.

* * * * *

Jonathan K. McGuire had been as much astonished as Beth at the revelation of Peter's identity, and the service that Peter had rendered him made him more than anxious to show his appreciation by doing everything he could for the wounded man's comfort and happiness. He visited the bedside daily and told Peter of his conversation with Beth, and of the plans that he was making for her future—which now, it seemed, was Peter's future also. Peter told him something of his own history and how he had met Jim Coast on the Bermudian. Then McGuire related the story of the suppression of the outbreak at the lumber camp by the Sheriff and men from May's Landing, and the arrest of Flynn and Jacobi on charges of assault and incendiarism. Some of the men were to be deported as dangerous "Reds." Brierly had been temporarily put in charge at the Mills and Jesse Brown, now much chastened, was helping McGuire to restore order. Shad Wells was technically under arrest, for the coroner had "viewed" the body of the Russian Committeeman before it had been removed by his friends and buried, and taken the testimony. But McGuire had given bail and arranged for a hearing both as to the shooting of and the death of Hawk Kennedy, when Peter was well enough to go to May's Landing.

The death of Hawk had produced a remarkable change in the character and personality of the owner of the Black Rock Reserve. His back was straighter, his look more direct, and he entered with avidity into the business of bringing order out of the chaos that had resulted from the riot. His word carried some weight, his money more, and with the completion of his arrangements with Beth Cameron, he drew again the breath of a free man.

But of all this he had said nothing to Peggy, his daughter. He had neither written to her nor telephoned, for he had no desire that she should know more than the obvious facts as to the death of Hawk Kennedy, for conflicting reports would lead to questions. Since she had suspected nothing, it was needless to bring that horror to her notice, now that the threat had passed. McGuire was a little afraid of his colorful daughter. She talked too much and it had been decided that nobody, except the lawyer, Peter, Beth and Mrs. Bergen should know the source of Beth's sudden and unexpected inheritance. The girl had merely fallen heir to the estate of her father, who had died many years before, not leaving any record of this daughter, who had at last been found. All of which was the truth, so far as it went, and was enough of a story to tell Peggy when he should see her.

But Jonathan McGuire found himself somewhat disturbed when he learned one morning over the telephone that Peggy McGuire and a guest were on their way to Black Rock House for the week-end. The message came from the clerk of the hotel, and since Peggy and her friend had already started from New York, he knew of no way to intercept them. There was nothing to do but make the best of the situation. Peter had the best guest room, but Beth had decided the day before to return to the cottage, which was greatly in need of her attention. And so McGuire informed Mrs. Bergen of the impending visit and gave orders that Miss Peggy's room and a room in the wing should be prepared for the newcomers.

Beth had no wish to meet Peggy McGuire in this house after the scene with Peter in the Cabin, when the young lady had last visited Black Rock, for that encounter had given Beth glimpses of the kind of thoughts beneath the pretty toques and cerise veils that had once been the apple of her admiring eyes. But as luck would have it, as Beth finished her afternoon's visit to Peter's bedside and hurried down to get away to the village before the visitors arrived, Miss Peggy's low runabout roared up to the portico. Beth's first impulse was to draw back and go out through the kitchen, but the glances of the two girls met, Peggy's in instant recognition. And so Beth tilted her chin and walked down the steps just beside the machine, aware of an elegantly attired lady with a doll-like prettiness who sat beside Peggy, oblivious of the sharp invisible daggers which shot from eye to eye.

"You here!" said Peggy, with an insulting shrug.

Beth merely went her way. But no feminine adept of the art of give and take could have showed a more perfect example of studied indifference than Beth did. It was quite true that her cheeks burned as she went down the drive and that she wished that Peter were well out of the house so long as Peggy was in it.

But Peggy McGuire could know nothing of Beth's feelings and cared not at all what she thought or felt. Peggy McGuire was too much concerned with the importance of the visitor that she had brought with her, the first live princess that she had succeeded in bringing into captivity. But Anastasie Galitzin had not missed the little by-play and inquired with some amusement as to the very pretty girl who had come out of the house.

"Oh—the housekeeper's niece," replied Peggy, in her boarding school French. "I don't like her. I thought she'd gone. She's been having a petite affaire with our new forester and superintendent."

Anastasie Galitzin, who was in the act of descending from the machine, remained poised for a moment, as it were, in midair, staring at her hostess.

"Ah!" she said. "Vraiment!"

By this time the noise of the motor had brought Stryker and the downstairs maid from the house, and in the confusion of carrying the luggage indoors, the conversation terminated. It was not until Peggy's noisy greetings to her father in the hallway were concluded and the introduction of her new guest accomplished that Jonathan McGuire was permitted to tell her in a few words the history of the past week, and of the injury to the superintendent, who lay upstairs in the room of the guest of honor.

"H-m," sniffed Peggy, "I don't see why you had to bring him here!"

"It's a long story, Peg," said McGuire calmly. "I'll tell you presently. Of course the Princess is very welcome, but I couldn't let him be taken anywhere but here, after he'd behaved so fine all through the rioting."

"Well, it seems to me," Peggy began, when the voice of her guest cut in rather sharply.

"Pierre!" gasped Anastasie sharply, and then, in her pretty broken English, "You say, Monsieur, it is he—Pe-ter Nichols—who 'as been badly 'urt?"

"Yes, ma'am, pretty bad—shot through the breast——"

"Sainte Vierge!"

"But he's getting on all right now. He'll be sitting up in a day or so, the doctor says. Did you know him, ma'am?"

Anastasie Galitzin made no reply, and only stared at her host, breathing with some difficulty. Peggy, who had been watching her startled face, found herself intensely curious. But as she would have questioned, the Princess recovered herself with an effort.

"No—yes, Monsieur. It—it is nothing. But if you please—I should like to go at once to my room."

And Peggy and her father, both of them much mystified, led the way up the stairs and to the room that had been prepared in the wing of the house, Stryker following with the bag and dressing case.

At the door of the room the Princess begged Peggy to excuse her, pleading weariness, and so the astonished and curious hostess was forced to relinquish her latest social conquest and seek her own room, there to meditate upon the extraordinary thing that had happened. Why was Anastasie Galitzin so perturbed at learning of the wounds of Peter Nichols? What did it all mean? Had she known him somewhere in the past—in England—in Russia? What was he to her?

But in a moment Jonathan McGuire joined her and revealed the identity of his mysterious forester and superintendent. At first Peggy was incredulous, then listened while her father told a story, half true, half fictitious, which had been carefully planned to answer all the requirements of the situation. And unaware of the cyclonic disturbances he was causing in the breast of his only child, he told her of Beth and Peter, and of the evidences of their devotion each to the other in spite of their difference in station. Peggy's small soul squirmed during the recital, but she only listened and said nothing. She realized that in a situation such as this mere words on her part would be superfluous. The Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch! Here at Black Rock! Her pop's superintendent! And she had not known. She had even insulted him. It was hideous!

And the Princess? The deep emotion that she had shown on hearing of the dangerous wound of the convalescent was now explained. But only partly so. The look that Peggy had surprised in Anastasie Galitzin's face meant something more than mere solicitude for the safety of one of Russia's banished Grand Dukes. It was the Princess who had been shocked at the information, but it was the woman who had showed pain. Was there—had there ever been—anything between Anastasie Galitzin and this—this Peter Nichols?

Facts about the early stages of her acquaintanceship with Anastasie Galitzin now loomed up with an unpleasant definiteness. She had been much flattered that so important a personage had shown her such distinguished marks of favor and had rejoiced in the celerity with which the intimacy had been established. The thought that the Princess Galitzin had known all the while that the Grand Duke was living incognito at Black Rock and had merely used Peggy as a means to bring about this visit was not a pleasant one to Peggy. But the fact was now quite obvious. She had been making a convenience of her. And what was now to be the result of this visit? The Princess did not yet know of the engagement of His Highness to the scullery maid. Who was to tell her?

The snobbish little heart of Peggy McGuire later gained some consolation, for Anastasie Galitzin emerged from her room refreshed and invigorated, and lent much grace to the dinner table, telling father and daughter something of the early life of the convalescent, exhibiting a warm friendship which could be satisfied with nothing less than a visit on the morrow to the sick-room. And His Highness now very much on the mend, sent word, with the doctor's permission, that he would be charmed to receive the Princess Galitzin at ten in the morning.

What happened in the room of the convalescent was never related to Peggy McGuire. But Anastasie emerged with her head erect, her pretty face wearing the fixed smile of the eternally bored. And then she told Peggy that she had decided to return to New York. So after packing her belongings, she got into Peggy's car and was driven much against the will of her hostess to the Bergen cottage. Peggy wouldn't get out of the car but Anastasie went to the door and knocked. Beth came out with her sleeves rolled above her elbows, her fingers covered with flour. The Princess Galitzin vanished inside and the door was closed. Her call lasted ten minutes while Peggy cooled her heels. But whether the visit had been prompted by goodness of heart or whether by a curiosity to study the lady of Peter's choice at close range, no one will ever know. Beth was very polite to her and though she identified her without difficulty as the heliotrope-envelope lady, she offered her some of the "cookies" that she had made for Peter, and expressed the warmest thanks for her kind wishes. She saw Anastasie Galitzin to the door, marking her heightened color and wondering what her fur coat had cost. Beth couldn't help thinking, whatever her motive in coming, that the Princess Galitzin was a very beautiful lady and that her manners had been lovely. But it was with a sigh of relief that she saw the red car vanish down the road in a cloud of dust.

* * * * *

His convalescence begun, Peter recovered rapidly and in three weeks more he was himself again. In those three weeks many interesting things had happened.

Jonathan K. McGuire had held a series of important conferences with Peter and Mrs. Bergen who seemed to have grown ten years younger. And one fine day after a protracted visit to New York with Mrs. Bergen, he returned laden with mysterious packages and boxes, and stopped at the door of the cottage, where Peter was taking a lunch of Beth's cooking.

It was a beautiful surprise. Mrs. Bergen whispered in Beth's ear and Beth followed her into the kitchen, where the contents of one or two of the boxes were exposed to Beth's astonished gaze. Peter, of course, being in the secret, kept aloof, awaiting the result of Mrs. Bergen's disclosures. But when Beth came back into the plush-covered parlor, he revealed his share in the conspiracy by producing, with the skill of a conjurer taking a rabbit from a silk hat, a minister and a marriage license, the former having been hidden in the house of a neighbor. And Jonathan K. McGuire, with something of an air, fully justified by the difficulties he had been at to secure it, produced a pasteboard box, which contained another box of beautiful white velvet, which he opened with pride, exhibiting its contents. On the soft satin lining was a brooch, containing a ruby as large as Beth's thumbnail.

With a gasp of joy, she gazed at it, for she knew just what it was, the family jewel that had been sold to the purser of the Bermudian. And then she threw her arms around McGuire's neck and kissed him.

* * * * *

Some weeks later Beth and Peter sat at dusk in the drawing-room of Black Rock House, for McGuire had turned the whole place over to them for the honeymoon. The night was chilly, a few flakes of snow had fallen during the afternoon, so a log fire burned in the fireplace. Peter sat at the piano playing the "Romance" of Sibelius, for which Beth had asked, but when it was finished, his fingers, impelled by a thought beyond his own control, began the opening rumble of the "Revolutionary Etude." The music was familiar to Beth and it stirred her always because it was this gorgeous plaint of hope and despair that had at the very first sounded depths in her own self the existence of which she had never even dreamed. But to-night Peter played it as she had never heard him play it before, with all his soul at his finger tips. And she watched his downcast profile as he stared at vacancy while he played. It was in moments like these that Beth felt herself groping in the dark after him, he was so far away. And yet she was not afraid, for she knew that out of the dreams and mysticism of the half of him that was Russian he would come back to her,—just Peter Nichols.

He did presently, when his hands fell upon the last chords and he sat with head still bowed until the last tremor had died. Then he rose and turned to her. She smiled at him and he joined her on the divan. Their fingers intertwined and they sat for a long moment looking into the fire. But Beth knew of what he was thinking and Peter knew that she knew. Their honeymoon was over. There was work to do in the world.



- Transcriber's Note: Typographical errors corrected in the text: Page 9 Nicolaevitch changed to Nicholaevitch Page 12 Vasil changed to Vasili Page 39 reassuring changed to reassuring Page 90 rigidily changaed to rigidly Page 94 seee changed to see Page 158 Andy should read Jesse Page 164 the changed to he Page 188 Well's changed to Wells's Page 353 musn't changed to mustn't Page 355 Its changed to It's Page 362 Lukovo changed to Zukovo -

THE END