As she lingered in the darkness, her weary head heavy against the window frame, she wrestled with the future and conscientiously tried to reach some conclusion. She was eager to do what was right. Had Ellen been sick or feeble, as she had been led to suppose, she would not have questioned leaving her, querulous and tyrannical though she was. But this woman was all-sufficient and needed no one. Why should she bury her life in this cruel, rancorous atmosphere? Would her own sweetness survive the daily companionship of such a person; rather, dominated by Ellen's powerful character, might she not become inoculated by its poison and herself harden into a being as merciless and self-centered? So deep was her reverie that she did not hear the tap upon the door. A second afterward the knob turned softly and her aunt entered.

"You ain't in bed?" she inquired in a high-pitched whisper.

"No."

"That's lucky, I hoped you wouldn't be. Come in my room quick. I want you should see what the Howes are doin'. They're out fussin' again over that thing they buried this afternoon." Ellen was obviously excited.

Sure enough! From the window that looked toward the Howe farm, three figures could be seen in the silvery light, grouped together beneath the old linden. They were armed, as before, with shovels, and all of them were digging.

"It doesn't look as if they were filling in the hole," Lucy remarked, interested in spite of herself. "They seem to be digging up what they buried."

"That's just what I thought," responded Ellen.

"Yes, they are shoveling the dirt out again," declared the girl.

For quite a while the two stood watching the frenzied movements of their neighbors.

Then Ellen gave a cry.

"See! See!" she ejaculated. "They're histin' the bag out. Did you ever see such doin's? I'd give my soul to know what they're up to. Nothin' good, you may be sure of that—or they wouldn't take the dead of night to do it. There, they've got the thing out now, and two of 'em are tugging it off between 'em. The other one's fillin' in the hole and trampin' down the earth. Seem's if I'd simply have to go over there an' find out what it's all about!"

Lucy smiled at her aunt's exasperated tone.

"Why don't you?" she asked mischievously.

Ellen gave a short laugh.

"The only way the Howes will ever get me on their land will be to chloroform me," said she grimly. "But I should like to know before I go to bed what they've been doin'. I s'pose it's no use to set up any longer, though, tryin' to figure it out. We'd both better go to sleep. Good night."

"Good night," Lucy returned.

Only too glad to escape, she hurried back to her own room, slipped out of her clothes, and was soon lost in heavy, dreamless slumber.

The day had been a strenuous one, and she was very tired, so tired that she might not have been awakened promptly had she not stirred in her sleep and become dimly conscious of a flood of radiance upon her pillow. The morning sunshine was brilliant in the chamber, and standing in its circle of gold she beheld Ellen.

"It's six o'clock," she announced breathlessly, "an' I want you should get right up. Martin Howe's gone off to the village in his wagon, an' I can't help a-thinkin' that now he's out of the way them sisters of his will start doin' somethin' more with that bag."

"What bag?" yawned Lucy sleepily.

"Why, the bag they were buryin' last night."

"Oh, yes."

Slowly the girl's latent faculties aroused themselves.

"You hurry up and dress while I go and watch," panted Ellen. "Be quick's you can, or we may miss somethin'."

She went out, closing the door; but in a few moments her niece heard her shrill call:

"They're comin' out with it! What'd I tell you? Two of 'em have got it, carryin' it across the lawn. Ain't you 'most dressed?"

"Yes, I'm coming."

Fastening her belt as she went, Lucy hurried to her aunt's side.

Amid the sparkling, dew-kissed glory of early morning, she could plainly see the three Howes making their way through the wet grass in the direction of their pasture.

"Bless me! if they don't mean to sink it in the brook!" whispered Ellen. "Oh, I never can stand this. I've got to foller 'em an' find out what they're doin'."

"You wouldn't!" exclaimed Lucy in dismay.

"Indeed I would," her aunt retorted. "I'd go to any length to see what's in that bag. If they were younger——" she broke off abruptly. "Anyhow, it's somethin' they're ashamed of, I'm certain of that. They couldn't 'a' murdered anybody, I s'pose. Bad's I hate 'em, I'd hardly think they're that wicked. Still what can it be?"

"I can't imagine."

"Well, I'm goin' to track 'em down, anyhow," Ellen announced. "Ain't you comin'?"

"No."

To spy on the actions of others did not appeal to the younger woman's honest mind.

"You can get breakfast while I'm gone then," Ellen said, catching up her coat, "and if I don't come back pretty soon, you go ahead and eat yours. I'd a thousand times rather ferret out what those Howes are tryin' to bury than eat. I'd be willin' to starve to do it."



CHAPTER VII

THE UNRAVELING OF THE MYSTERY

LEFT to herself Lucy stood for an instant watching her aunt's resolute figure make its way under the fringe of lilacs that bordered the driveway. Then she turned her attention to preparing breakfast, and the Howes and their mysterious doings were forgotten.

In the meantime Ellen walked on, skirting the shelter of the hedge until she came into the lee of a clump of elder bushes growing along the margin of the brook at the juncture of the Howe and Webster land. Here she secreted herself and waited.

The brook was quite deep at this point and now, swollen by the snows that had recently melted on the hillsides, purled its path down to the valley in a series of cascades that rippled, foamed, and tinkled merrily.

As she stood concealed beside it, its laughter so outrivaled every other sound that she had difficulty in discerning the Howes' approaching tread, and it was not until the distinct crackle of underbrush reached her ear that she became aware they were approaching. She peered through the bushes.

Yes, there they were, all three of them; and there, firm in their grasp, was the mysterious bag.

It was not large, but apparently it was heavy, and they handled it with extreme care.

"Let's put it down," puffed Mary, who was flushed and heated, "an' look for a good deep place. Ain't you tired, 'Liza?"

"I ain't so tired as hot," Eliza answered. "Warn't it just providential Martin took it into his head to go to the village this mornin'? I can't but think of it."

"It was the luckiest thing I ever knew," assented Mary. "I don't know what we'd 'a' done with this thing round the house another day. I'd 'a' gone clean out of my mind."

"I still can't understand why we couldn't 'a' left it buried," Eliza fretted.

"I explained why to you last night," Jane answered, speaking for the first time. "There warn't a spot on the place that Martin might not go to diggin' or plowin' up sometime. He might even 'a' dug round the roots of the linden for somethin'. Ain't he always fertilizin' an' irrigatin'? I didn't dare leave the bag there. If he'd 'a' gone stickin' a pick or a shovel into it sudden——"

"I see," interrupted Eliza. "'Twas stupid of me not to understand before. 'Course that wouldn't do. Yes, I guess you were right. There ain't much to do but sink it in the brook. Would you 'a' dreamed there could be anything in the world so hard to get rid of? All I've got to say is I hope neither Martin nor old Miss Webster finds it. What do you s'pose they'd say?"

"I wouldn't want Martin to come on to it unexpected. 'Twould worry me to death." Eliza shuddered.

"But you don't care about old Miss Webster," Jane observed with a laugh.

"I never wished Miss Webster ill, goodness knows that," returned Eliza gravely. "None of us ever did 'cept Martin, an' he's got no business to. I s'pose he'd like nothin' better than to have her run across this thing. You don't s'pose there's any danger that she will, do you, Jane?"

"Danger of her findin' it?"

"No. I mean danger of her gettin' hurt with it," explained Eliza timidly.

"Mercy, no. How could it harm her if it was wet?"

"I dunno," whimpered Eliza. "I'm so scat of such things."

"Well, it's certainly made us trouble enough!" put in Mary, with a sigh. "I've felt like a criminal ever since the thing came to light. It's seemed as if we'd never get rid of it."

Jane smiled. "I know it," she said. "Who'd 'a' believed 'twould be so hard. When I think what we've been through tryin' to make way with it, I wonder folks ever are wicked. It's so much trouble. 'Tain't half as easy as it looks. You've got to have your wits about you every second. This affair's taught me that. Ain't I been all over the face of the earth tryin' to find a safe place to hide this pesky bag! First I tried the mountain. Then I was afraid the woodcutters might find it, so I had to cart it home again. Then it come to me to drive down to the river and dump it in. Anybody'd have said that was simple enough. But halfway there, I met Elias Barnes walkin' to the village, an' he asked for a ride. I s'pose he couldn't see why I couldn't take him in; I had an empty seat an' had often done it before, so I had to. But when he started lightin' up his pipe——"

"What did you do, Jane?" cried Mary.

"I guess I nearly screamed," answered Jane, laughing. "He looked some surprised; anyhow, I told him I just remembered somethin' I'd left behind, an' I drew up an' put him down quicker'n chain lightnin'. Then I turned round and drove off lickety-split for home, leaving him stock still in the middle of the road starin' after me."

"You showed good nerve, Jane, I'll say that," Mary declared with open admiration.

"Now if it had been me, I'd 'a' just given the whole thing away. I ain't no good at thinkin' quick."

"Well, we ain't got to think about it any more, thank goodness," Jane exclaimed, rising from the grass and laying a hand on the bag. "Let's put an end to the whole thing now and go home. Take a holt of the other end, and we'll flop it in."

"Wait!" Eliza protested, seized by a sudden idea.

"Well."

"You don't s'pose there'll be any danger 'bout the cows drinkin' here, do you?" Eliza inquired anxiously. "They do drink here, you know, and in the summer, when the water's low, they often wade right in. If they was to——"

She stopped.

"I never thought of that," Jane said in a discouraged tone. "Oh, my land, what are we going to do with it?"

She let the bag sink to the ground and, straightening herself up, confronted her sisters. "We've simply got to get it off our hands before Martin gets back."

"Oh, yes, yes!" pleaded Mary, affrighted. "Do something with it, Jane, no matter what. I never could stand it to have it carted back to the house and hidden there. 'Tain't safe. Besides, in these days of German spies, 'twould be an awful thing to be found on us. S'pose the house was to be searched. We never could make the police believe how we came to have it. They might take us and shut us all up in prison—Martin and all."

Her voice shook with terror.

"I guess they wouldn't go arrestin' us, Mary," declared Jane soothingly. "Still, I agree with you that it's just as well for us to be clear of such a thing; let me think."

While she stood meditating her two sisters watched her with perturbed faces.

"Ellen Webster's cows don't come up to this end of the pasture much, do they?" she remarked at last.

"No. Leastways I've never seen 'em here," replied Mary.

"Then why don't we sink the bag just across the wall?"

"On her land?" gasped Eliza.

"It wouldn't do any harm," argued Jane. "She never comes up here, nor her cows nor horses either. We'll climb right over and dump the thing in. That'll settle Martin's ever finding it, an' everythin'."

"But s'pose——" Eliza objected once more.

"Oh, 'Liza, we can't stay here s'posin' all day!" Jane declared decisively. "We got to put this bag somewheres, an' there ain't any spot that ain't got some out about it. We must take a chance on the best one we can find."

"I'm frightened to death!" wailed Eliza.

"So'm I!" Mary echoed. "Oh, Jane!"

"No matter. Pull yourself together," ordered Jane sharply. "You two take a hold of the bag an' bring it along, while I climb the wall."

Ellen, stooping behind the elderberry bushes, held her breath. She saw Jane clamber over the barrier and help Mary and Eliza to mount it and lower the sack into her hands; then, just when the three invaders were all ready to drop their mysterious gray burden into the stream, she stepped noiselessly into the open and said loudly:

"What you doin' in my brook?"

A cry rose from the two more timorous Howes, and even Jane paled a little.

"What are you sinkin' in my brook?" repeated Ellen.

No answer came. Angered by their silence, the woman stepped nearer.

"What you got in that bag?" she demanded sternly.

Still there was no reply.

"You ain't got nothin' good in it, I'll be bound," went on the tormentor. "If you had, you wouldn't be so mighty anxious to get rid of it. Come now, long's you're intendin' to heave it into the water on my side of the wall, s'pose you let me have a peep inside it."

Striding forward, she seized a corner of the canvas roughly in her hand.

There was a scream from the three Howes.

"Don't touch it!"

"Keep away!"

"You'd better leave it be, Miss Webster," Jane said in a warning voice. "It's gunpowder."

"Gunpowder!" repeated Ellen.

"Yes."

"An' what, may I ask, are you doin' with a bag of gunpowder in my brook? Plannin' to blow up my cows, I reckon."

"No! No, indeed we're not!" protested Mary.

"We wouldn't hurt your cows for anything, Miss Webster," put in Eliza.

"Humph! You wouldn't? Still you don't hesitate to dam my brook up with enough gunpowder to blow all my cattle higher'n a kite."

"We were only tryin' to——" began Mary; but Jane swept her aside.

"Hush, Mary," she said. "You an' 'Liza keep still an' let me do the talkin'."

Drawing herself to her full height she faced Ellen's evil smile.

"The day before yesterday, when we were cleanin' the attic, we found a little door under the eaves that we'd never come across before," she began desperately. "We discovered it when we were movin' out a big chest that's always stood there. We were sweepin' behind all the trunks an' things, an' long's we were, we decided to sweep behind that. 'Twas then we spied the door. Of course we were curious to know where it went to, an' so we pried it open, an' inside we found this bag together with an old rusty rifle. It must 'a' been there years, judgin' from the dust an' cobwebs collected on it. We were pretty scared of the gun," declared Jane, smiling reminiscently, "but we were scared a good sight worse when after draggin' the bag out we saw 'twas marked Gunpowder."

She waited an instant.

"We didn't know what to do with it," she went on, speaking more hesitatingly, "because you see my brother doesn't like us to turn the house upside-down with cleanin'; he hates havin' things disturbed; an' we were afraid he would be put out to find what we'd done. So we decided to wait till some time when he wasn't round an' make way with it."

Jane caught her breath.

"We've tried lots of ways," she confessed wearily, "but none of 'em seemed to work. First I thought of hidin' it up near Pine Ridge, but I was afraid some woodsman might happen on it; then I started to take it down to the river in our wagon; but Elias Barnes would get in an' light his pipe, and I was so afraid a spark from it might——"

"I wish it had!" interpolated Ellen Webster with fervor.

"In order to get rid of him I had to turn round an' come back," narrated Jane, paying no heed to the interruption. "Then we tried to bury it, but afterward we dug it up for fear Martin might plow it up sometime an' get——"

"'Twould 'a' been an almighty good joke if he had!" again piped Ellen.

"So there didn't seem to be any other way," concluded Jane with dignity, "but to drop it in the brook; an', as you never seemed to use this end of your pasture, we decided to sink it here."

The narrative was true, every word of it. Ellen knew that. No one who looked into Jane Howe's frank face could have doubted the story.

But Ellen was an ungenerous enemy who saw in the present happening an opportunity to put a screw upon those who had been thus compelled to throw themselves upon her mercy.

"So! That's how you lie out of it, is it?" she cried scornfully. "An' you expect me to believe a yarn like that! Do you s'pose I don't know this country's at war, an' that the authorities are on the lookout for folks concealin' gunpowder in their houses? How do I know you weren't goin' to make the stuff into bombs, or carry it somewheres an' blow up somethin' or other with it?"

"Indeed, oh, indeed we weren't," Mary cried, thoroughly alarmed.

"Oh, what shall we do!" Eliza sobbed, wringing her hands.

"Nonsense," cut in Jane. "You know perfectly well, Miss Webster, we ain't no German plotters. I'm sorry——"

"You're sorry I caught you before you had a chance to drop that bag in my brook," said Ellen, a twinkle in her eye. "I'll bet you are. Have you thought that I can have you arrested for trespassing on my land?"

"Oh, Jane!"

The horrified voices of Mary and Jane greeted with concern this new danger. Ellen was exulting in her triumph.

"You can, of course, have us arrested if you wish to," said Jane.

"Well, I ain't a-goin' to—at least I ain't, on one condition. An' I'll promise not to give you over to the police as spies, neither, if you do as I say."

"What do you want us to do?" inquired Mary and Eliza breathlessly.

Jane was silent.

"Mebbe you'd like to know the condition," sneered the old woman, addressing Jane.

She waited for a reply, but none came. Ellen looked baffled.

"You'd better accept the chance I give you to buy yourself off," she said.

"That is my affair."

"Do, Jane! Do promise," begged Mary and Eliza. "Please do, for our sakes."

"Very well," Jane returned. "But I only do it to protect my sisters. What is the condition?"

With head thrown back she faced Ellen coldly.

"The condition is that you take that bag of gunpowder back home to your brother Martin an' tell him Ellen Webster sent it to him with her compliments. He can use it blastin' out stones to fix up his stone wall."

Then, with a taunting laugh, the woman turned and without more adieu disappeared in the direction of the Webster homestead, leaving a speechless trio of chagrined Howes behind her.



CHAPTER VIII

WHEN THE CAT'S AWAY

May came and went, and June, rich in days of splendor, made its advent, and still Lucy caught only fleeting glimpses of the Howes.

Martin, to be sure, was daily abroad, toiling with the zest of an Amazon in garden and hay-field. Against the homely background of stubble or brown earth, his sturdy form stood out with the beauty of a Millet painting. But his sisters held themselves aloof, avoiding all possibility of contact with their neighbors.

Doubtless the encounter with Ellen had left its scar; for against their will they had been compelled to take up the sack of powder and tug it homeward; and then, in compliance with their promise, deliver it over to Martin who had first ridiculed their adventure; then berated them; and in the end set the explosive off so near the Webster border line that its defiant boom had rattled every pane of glass in the old house.

Ellen had chuckled at this spirited climax to the episode. It was like Martin, she said. But Lucy regretted the whole affair and found difficulty in applauding her aunt's dramatic imitation of the affrighted Howes and their final ignominious retreat. Of course it was only to be expected that the women next door should resent the incident and that they should include her, innocent though she was, in this resentment. Nevertheless, it was a pity that the avenue to further friendly advances between herself and them should be so summarily closed.

Lucy was very lonely. Having been the center of a large and noisy household and received a disproportionate degree of homage from her father's employees, the transition from sovereign to slave was overwhelming. She did not, however, rebel at the labor her new environment entailed, but she did chafe beneath its slavery. Nevertheless, her captivity, much as it irked her, was of only trivial importance when compared with the greater evil of being completely isolated from all sympathetic companionship. Between herself and her aunt there existed such an utter lack of unity of principle that the chasm thereby created was one which she saw with despair it would never be possible to bridge. Had the gulf been merely one of tastes and inclinations, it would not have been so hopeless. But to realize they had no standards in common and that the only tie that bound them together was the frail thread of kinship was a disheartening outlook indeed.

It was true that as time went on this link strengthened, for Ellen developed a brusque liking for her niece, even a shamefaced and unacknowledged respect. Notwithstanding this, however, the fundamentals that guided the actions of the two remained as divergent as before, and beyond discussions concerning garden and home, a few anecdotes relating to the past, and a crisp and not too delicate jest when the elder woman was in the humor, their intercourse glanced merely along the shallows.

Over and over, when alone, Lucy asked herself why she stayed on at Sefton Falls to sacrifice her life on the altar of family loyalty. Was not her youth being spent to glorify an empty fetish which brought to no one any real good?

But the query always brought her back to the facts of her aunt's friendlessness and infirmity. For defy Time as she would, Ellen was old and was rapidly becoming older. Whether with the arrival of a younger and more energetic person she was voluntarily relinquishing her hold on her customary tasks, or whether a sudden collapse of her vitality forced her to do so, Lucy could not determine; nevertheless, it was perfectly apparent that she daily attacked her duties more laggingly and complained less loudly when things were left undone.

When, however, Lucy tried to supplement her diminishing strength by offers of aid, Ellen was quick to resent the imputation that she was any less robust than she had been in the past, and in consequence the girl confronted the delicate problem of trying to help without appearing to do so.

Parallel with this lessening of physical zeal ran an exaggerated nervous irritability very hard to bear. Beneath the lash of her aunt's cruel tongue Lucy often writhed, quivered, and sometimes wept; but she struggled to keep her hold on her patience. Ellen was old, she told herself, and the self-centered life she had led had embittered her. Moreover, she was approaching the termination of her days, and to a nature like hers the realization that there was no escape from her final surrender to Death filled her with impotent rage. She had always conquered; but now something loomed in her path which it was futile and childish to seek to defy.

Therefore, difficult as was Lucy's present existence, she put behind her all temptation to desert this solitary woman and leave her to die alone. Was not Ellen her father's sister, and would he not wish his daughter to be loyal to the trust it had fallen to her to fulfill? Was she not, as a Webster, in honor bound to do so?

In the meantime, as if to intensify this sense of family obligation, Lucy discovered that she was acquiring a growing affection for the home which for generations had been the property of her ancestors. The substantial mansion, with its colonial doorways surmounted by spreading fans of glass, its multi-paned windows and its great square chimney, must once have breathed the very essence of hospitality, and it did so still, even though closed blinds and barred entrances combined to repress its original spirit. Already the giant elm before the door had for her a significance quite different from that of any other tree; so, too, had the valley with its shifting lights. She loved the music of the brook, the rock-pierced pasture land, the minarets of the spruces that crowned the hills. The faintly definable mountains, blue against the far-off sky, endeared themselves to her heart, weakening her allegiance to the barren country of her birth and binding her to this other home by the magic of their enchantment.

Here was the spot where her forefathers had lived and toiled. Here were the orchards they had planted, the fields they had tilled, the streams they had fished, the hills they had climbed; and here was the house built by their hands, the chairs in which they had rested, the beds in which they had slept. Her former life had contained none of these elements of permanence. On the contrary, much of the time she had been a nomad, the mining settlements that gave her shelter being frankly regarded as temporary halting places to be abandoned whenever their usefulness should become exhausted.

But here, with the everlasting hills as a foundation, was a home that had been and should be. Tradition breathed from the very soil, and Lucy's veneration for the past was deep-rooted. Therefore, despite her aunt's acrimonious disposition, the opposition of their ideals, despite drudgery and loneliness, she stayed on, praying each day for increased patience and struggling to magnify every trace of virtue she could discover in Ellen.

Now that the planting was done, the weeding well in hand, the house-cleaning finished, the girl contrived to so systematize her work that she should have intervals of leisure to escape into the sunshine and, beneath the vastness of the arching heaven, forget for the time being at least all that was rasping and petty.

It was absurd to be lonely when on every hand Nature's voices spoke with understanding. Was she joyous? The birds caroled, the leaves danced, the brook sang. Was she sad? The whisper of the great pines brought peace and balm to her spirit.

It was in search of this sympathy that she had set forth along the highway to-day. The late afternoon was a poem of mystic clouds and mysterious shadows. Far off against the distant horizon, mountains veiled in mists lifted majestic peaks into the air, their summits lost amid swiftly traveling masses of whiteness; rifts of purple haze lengthened over the valley; and the fields, dotted with haycocks, breathed forth the perfume of drying grass.

As Lucy walked along she began singing softly to herself. Her day's work was done; and her aunt, who had driven with Tony to bring home a load of lumber from the sawmill, would not return until late in the evening. Six delicious hours were her own to be spent in whatever manner her fancy pleased. It was an unheard-of freedom. Never since she had come to Sefton Falls had she known such a long stretch of liberty. What wonder that she swung along with feet scarce touching the earth!

A redwing called from the bracken bordering the brook, and the girl called back, trying to mimic its glad note. She snatched a flower from the roadside and tucked it in her hair; she laughed audaciously into the golden face of the sun. Her exuberance was mounting to ecstasy when she rounded a curve and suddenly, without warning, came face to face with Jane Howe.

The woman was proceeding with extreme care, carrying in either hand a large and well-heaped pail of berries.

Before Lucy thought, she stepped forward and exclaimed impulsively:

"Do let me help you! They must be dreadfully heavy."

"'Tain't so much that they're heavy," Jane answered, smiling, "as that they're full. I'm afraid I'll spill some."

"Give me one pail."

"Do you really mean it?"

"Of course. I'd be glad to take it."

"All right," replied Jane simply. "I'm sure I'd be only too thankful if you would. After trampin' miles to pick raspberries, you ain't so keen on losin' 'em when you're within sight of home."

"Indeed you're not," Lucy assented. "These are beauties. Where did you go for them?"

"Most up to the pine ridge you see yonder. I took my lunch an' have been gone since mornin'."

"How I wish I could have gone with you!"

"Would you have liked to?" queried Jane incredulously. "Then I wish you might have. It was just the sort of a day to walk. I don't s'pose, though, your aunt would have spared you for an all-day picnic."

There was a hint of scorn in the words.

"I don't often have time to go far from the house," replied Lucy gently, ignoring Miss Howe's challenge. "There is so much to do."

"So there is," agreed Jane hastily. "Certainly we manage to keep busy all the time. When it ain't one thing, it's another. There never seems to be any end to it. But I did steal off to-day. The berries were really an excuse. Of course we can make 'em into jam. Still, what I really wanted was to get out in the air."

"I've stolen off too," said Lucy, with a smile. "My aunt and Tony have gone over to the Crossing for lumber and won't be back until dark, so I am having a holiday."

Jane was silent a moment.

"Why shouldn't you come over and have tea with us then?" she asked abruptly. "We're all alone, too. My brother's gone to the County Fair an' ain't comin' back 'til to-morrow."

Lucy's eyes lighted with pleasure.

"You're very kind," she cried, a tremor of happiness in her tone. "I'd love to come."

They walked along, balancing their burden of berries and chatting of garden, weather, and housework.

As they turned in at the Howe gate, Jane motioned proudly toward three rows of flourishing vines that were clambering up a network of sustaining brush.

"Those are our sweet peas," she remarked. "The first row is Mary's; they're white. Then come Eliza's—pink ones. Mine are purple. Martin won't plant his over here. He has 'em longside of the barn, an' they're all colors mixed together. We don't like 'em that way, but he does. He's awful fond of flowers, an' he has great luck with 'em, too. He seems to have a great way with flowers. But he never cuts one blossom he raises. Ain't that queer? He says he likes to see 'em growin'."

They were nearing the house.

"I reckon Mary an' 'Liza will be surprised enough to have me come bringin' you home," observed Jane a trifle consciously. "We ain't done much neighboring, have we?"

"No," returned Lucy quickly, "and I've been sorry. It seems a pity we shouldn't be friends even if——" she stopped, embarrassed.

"Even if your aunt an' Martin do act like a pair of fools," interrupted Jane. "Senseless, ain't it! Besides, it ain't Christian livin' at odds with people. I never did approve of it."

"I'm sure I don't."

Jane nodded.

"We imagined you were like that," she said. "I told Mary an' 'Liza so the day you come for the eggs. 'She ain't like her aunt,' I says to Mary, 'not a mite; an' you can be pretty sure she won't be in sympathy with all this squabblin' an' back-bitin'.'"

"Indeed I'm not."

"We ain't either, not one of us. We'd like nothin' better'n to be neighborly an' run in. It's the only decent way of doin' when folks live side by side. But Martin wouldn't listen to our doin' it, even if your aunt would—which I know she wouldn't. He's awful set against the Websters."

"How silly it seems!"

"That's what I tell him," Jane declared. "Of course your aunt's an old woman, an' 'tain't surprisin' she should harbor a grudge against us. But Martin's younger, an' had oughter be more forgivin'. It's nonsensical feelin' you've got to be just as sour an' crabbed as your grandfather was. I don't humor him in it—at least not more'n I have to to keep the peace. But Mary an' 'Liza hang on to every word Martin utters. If he was to say blue was green, they'd say so too. They'd no more do a thing he wouldn't like 'em to than they'd cut off their heads. They wouldn't dare. I 'spect they'll have a spasm when they see you come walkin' in to-night."

"Maybe I ought not to come," Lucy murmured in a disappointed voice.

"Yes, you ought," Jane said with decision. "Why should we keep up a quarrel none of us approve of? Martin ain't home. It's nothin' to him."

"Well, if you're sure you want me," Lucy laughed and dimpled.

"If I hadn't wanted you, you may be pretty sure I shouldn't have asked you," retorted Jane bluntly. "Mary an' 'Liza will likely be scat to death at first, but they'll get over it an' thaw out. Don't pay no attention to 'em."

Jane had ascended the steps and her hand was on the latch.

"I feel like a child playing truant," said Lucy, a flush of excitement tinting her cheek. "You see, my aunt wouldn't like my being here any more than Mar—than your brother would."

"What they don't know won't hurt 'em," was Jane's brief answer.

"Oh, I shall tell Aunt Ellen."

"I shan't tell Martin. He'd rage somethin' awful."

She threw open the door. Lucy saw her stiffen with resolution.

"I picked up Miss Lucy Webster on the road an' brought her home to tea!" she called from the threshold.

Mary and Eliza were busy at the kitchen table. At the words they turned and automatically gasped the one phrase that always sprang to their lips in every emergency:

"Oh, Jane!"

"Martin's away an' so's Ellen Webster," went on Jane recklessly. "Why shouldn't we do a bit of neighborin' together, now we've got the chance?"

"But—but Martin!" Eliza managed to stammer.

"He'll never be the wiser—unless you tell him," replied Jane merrily. "Come, Miss Lucy, take off your hat an' make yourself at home. Supper'll soon be ready, I guess."

The phrase was a fortunate one, for it brought back to the disconcerted Howes the memory of their domestic prowess, a thing in which they took great pride. By nature they were hospitable, and here was a chance to exercise that long unexercised faculty.

Mary bustled to the stove.

"Yes," she answered, "the biscuits are in the oven, an' I was just makin' the tea." Then, as if emboldened by Jane's attitude, she added timidly: "We're real glad to see you, Miss Webster; don't think we ain't."

"Yes," Eliza echoed, "we really are."

The first shock of the adventure having passed, it was amazing to see with what rapidity the Howe sisters increased the warmth of their welcome. From the top shelf in the pantry they brought forth the company preserves; fruit cake was unearthed from the big stone crock in the dining-room closet; and, as a final touch to the feast, Jane beat up a foamy omelet and a prune whip. In their enjoyment they were like a group of children, an undercurrent of delight in the forbidden tinging their mirth.

Lucy told stories of her western life, and the three women listened as if to the tales of Sir John Mandeville. The hours passed, twilight deepened, night fell, but the revelers heeded it not. What a sweet, wholesome evening it was! And how kindly, Lucy thought, were these simple souls whose feeling toward every breathing creature was so benign and sympathetic. Contrasted with the antagonistic atmosphere of the Webster house, this home was like paradise. It restored her faith in human nature and in Sefton Falls. Every one in the place was not, then, bitter and suspicious. What a comfort to know it!

In the meantime Mary, having reached a pitch of hilarity almost unprecedented, was starting to tell a story when suddenly her face stiffened and, turning white, she half rose from her chair.

There was a scuffling of feet in the hall and in another instant Martin Howe entered.

"The fair wasn't worth my stayin' to," he explained from the doorsill, "so I came along home to-night instead of waitin' till to-morrow. Looks to me as if I was just in time for a snack of supper."

Standing in the lamplight, his stern face softened by a smile and a glow of good humor, he was attractive to look upon. The firm countenance was lined, it is true, but the lines gave it strength and brought into harmony the clear eyes, resolute mouth, and well-molded chin. He had a fine smooth forehead from which his black hair, lightly sprinkled with gray, was tossed aside in picturesque abandon. Health and power spoke in every curve of the lithe frame and in the boyish grace with which he moved.

With his coming a hush fell upon the room. Had a group of conspirators been unexpectedly confronted with their own crimes, they could not have been more abashed than were the four women seated at the table.

Jane was the first to recover herself. In a voice that trembled but did not falter she said courageously:

"Miss Lucy Webster's havin' tea with us, Martin."

There was an awkward pause.

Lucy, whose glance had dropped to the floor, raised her eyes appealingly to the man's face; but she found in it no answering sympathy. In the short interval it had changed from geniality to a sternness almost incredible of belief. It was hard now—merciless.

Perhaps, to do Martin justice, he could not have spoken at that moment had he tried. This creature, with her wealth of golden hair, her radiant eyes, flashed upon his vision with the glory of a new star. She was a phenomenon hitherto unknown. No matter what her name, the simple fact of her presence would have put to flight every other thought and left him dumb. The proudly poised head, the rounded white throat, the flushed cheek with its elusive dimples, the tiny hands were all marvels unfamiliar to Martin Howe.

Could this nymph, this dryad be a product of the same planet that had given birth to Mary, Eliza, and Jane?

With no attempt to conceal his artless scrutiny, he looked, and before his ingenuous wonder Lucy felt her pulse bound.

"I must go home," she said, struggling to appear composed and ignoring the speechless Martin as if he were in reality as many miles away as she had supposed him. "I had no idea it was so late. Good night and thank you for my pleasant evening."

None of the Howes attempted to stay her departure, although Jane followed her with feigned imperturbability to the door, remarking by way of conversation:

"It's dretful dark outside, ain't it?"

Lucy smiled.

"Yes, but I don't mind."

To have escaped Martin Howe's eyes, which continued to rest upon her, she would have plunged into a den of lions. The beating of her heart, the burning of her cheek angered and disconcerted her.

Jane unfastened the door. Then she started back in consternation.

"Mercy!" she cried. "It's rainin'!"

"Rainin'?" Eliza exclaimed.

"Yes, pourin'. It's an awful shower."

"Oh, it doesn't matter," asserted Lucy, impatient to be gone. "I never mind the rain."

"But this is a regular downpour. You'll get wet to your skin," Jane objected. "I ain't a-goin' to let you go out in it in that thin dress. Ain't we got an umbrella somewheres, 'Liza?"

"I dunno," Eliza answered vaguely.

The sudden shower and the furious tossing of the trees did not impress themselves on her dull mind. Only one thought possessed her brain,—the sinking dread of the moment when Lucy should be gone and Martin would empty the vials of his waiting wrath on all their heads.

"Indeed I don't in the least need an umbrella," Lucy protested. "I'll run right along. Please do not bother."

"You'll get wet an' be sick," Mary declared, launching into the conversation at the mention of possible chills and fevers.

Lucy laughed unsteadily.

"Oh, no, I shan't. Good night."

She had crossed the veranda and was at the brink of the flight of steps when heavy feet came striding after her.

"Wait! I'm goin' with you," said a tense voice. It was Martin.

"Thank you very much, but I really don't need anybody."

"I'm goin'," repeated the man doggedly.

"I don't want you to," Lucy returned curtly, nettled into irritability.

"Likely not," observed Martin with stolid determination.

"I wish you wouldn't," fretted Lucy angrily. "I'd much rather——"

It was like a child helplessly dashing itself against a wall. Martin paid no attention to her protests. With a lighted lantern in one hand and an umbrella in his other, he set forth with Lucy down the driveway.

Overhead the trees wrenched and creaked, and above the lashings of their branches the rain could be heard beating with fury upon the tossing foliage. Once in the blackness Lucy stumbled and, following the instinct for self-preservation, put out her hand and caught Martin's arm; then she drew her hand quickly away. They proceeded in silence until they reached the gate at the foot of the long Webster driveway; then the man spoke:

"'Tain't fur now," he said, halting short. "I'll give you the umbrella." He held it out to her.

"But you'll get drenched."

"No, indeed!"

"But you will," insisted Lucy with spirit.

"No matter."

"It is matter. Besides, I can't see my way to the house without the lantern. It's dark as pitch."

"Take 'em both, then."

"Of course I shan't," replied the girl indignantly. "And anyway, if I did, I couldn't carry the two in this wind. If I can't have but one, I'd rather have the lantern."

"That's nonsense!" Martin returned.

"What use was there in my bringin' you home if you get soaked now?"

"But I can't see an inch before my face without a light."

"Just as you say, then. Here it is." Holding out the lantern, he took back the umbrella.

"But you certainly are not going to leave me to go up that long avenue in the rain," burst out Lucy.

"You said you didn't mind rain," retorted the man ironically.

He stood immovable in the torrent, but the lantern glow showed his face to be working convulsively.

Lucy, who could not believe that in the present emergency his stubbornness would persist, waited.

"I ain't comin'," he remarked half to himself with dogged determination, as if he were bolstering up some inward wavering of principle. "I ain't comin'."

The touch of her hand still vibrated upon his arm, and he could feel the flutter of her dress against his body.

"I ain't comin'," he repeated between his closed teeth.

"Very well."

With dignity, Lucy picked up her limp skirts, preparatory to breasting the storm. "I can't go with you," he suddenly burst out. "Don't you see I can't?"

A wailing cry from the wind seemed to echo the pain in his voice. The girl did not answer. Refusing both the light and shelter he offered her, she stepped resolutely forth into the blackness of the night. Helplessly he watched her go, the lantern's rays reflecting her white gown.

"I shan't bother you again, Mr. Howe," she called bitterly.

Martin made no reply but raised the lantern higher that it might brighten the rough path. Unheeding him, the girl stumbled through the darkness, the rain beating down upon her.

As she neared the house a faint glow flickered through the shrubbery, making it evident that her aunt had already arrived home. Nervously she mounted the porch and turned to look behind her. At the foot of the drive stood Martin, the lantern high in his hands.

Now that Lucy was safely within the shelter of her own domain, her sense of humor overcame her, and with an irresistible desire to torment him, she called mischievously from her vantage ground on the veranda:

"Thank you so much for bringing me home, Mr. Howe. Can't I persuade you to come in?"

There was a smothered exclamation of wrath in the distance, and she saw a gleam of light precipitate itself hastily into the road, where, for a moment, it flashed along the tree trunks, then disappeared.

Lucy laughed.

Ellen was in the kitchen when she entered.

"Where on earth have you been?" she demanded. "I should 'a' thought you might 'a' come back in time to start the fire up an' get supper. It's awful late. Was it Tony you was talkin' to outside?"

"No."

"It warn't?" she turned a hawklike glance on her niece. "Who was it?" she asked inquisitively.

"Mr. Howe."

"Mr. Ho—— Not Martin Howe!"

Lucy nodded.

"Yes."

"Martin Howe here—on my land! What was he doin'?"

"He wasn't on your land," Lucy said. "He left me at the gate. He was seeing me home. I've been there to supper."

"What!"

Never had the girl heard so many sensations crowded into one word. There was surprise, unbelief, scorn, anger. But anger predominated.

"An' how long, pray tell me, have you been goin' backwards an' forrads to the Howes, an' consortin' with their brother?"

"Only to-night."

Ellen looked at her niece as if, had she dared, she would have torn her in pieces. "I s'pose it never entered your head it was a mean advantage for you to take when I was gone," she said shrilly. "You wouldn't 'a' dared do it if I'd been here."

"I'm not so sure."

The fearless response was infuriating to Ellen.

"Well, I'll tell you one thing," she shouted, bringing her clenched hand down on the table with such force that every dish rattled. "You ain't to repeat this night's performance! If you ain't got pride enough not to go hob-nobbin' with my enemies, I'll forbid it for good an' all—forbid it, do you hear? I ain't a-goin'——"

Something in the quiet dignity of the girl before her arrested her tongue. Her eye traveled over the white, rain-drenched figure. Then the corners of her mouth twitched and curved upward.

"So Martin Howe saw you home, did he?" she observed sarcastically. "Much good his comin' did! Had you tramped ten miles you couldn't 'a' got much wetter. I guess he needs some lessons in totin' ladies round same's he does in most everything else. I always said he didn't have no manners—the puppy!"



CHAPTER IX

JANE MAKES A DISCOVERY

Martin Howe moved home as if in a trance, the voice of Lucy Webster ringing in his ears. He recalled every glance, every smile, every gesture of this enslaving creature, who, like a meteorite, had shot across his firmament, rocking its serenity with the shock of her presence. How exquisite she was! How wonderful! He had never realized there were women like that. Was it to be marveled at that men pursued such enchantresses to the borderland of eternity? That they were spurred to deeds of courage; abandoned home, friends, their sacred honor; even tossed their lives away for such?

Lucy's advent seemed to mark a new era in existence. All that went before was not; and all that came after, apart from her, mattered not. Only the vivid, throbbing present was of consequence, and the intensity of it swept him out of his balance with a force that was appalling.

He was not the Martin Howe of yesterday, nor could he ever again be that happy, emotionless being. Within him warred a tumult of new sensations that seethed, flamed, maddened, consumed. The fact that they were the fires of a volcano that must forever smolder its passion out did not at first impress his consciousness. All that he knew was that Lucy Webster was to him what no other woman had ever been or could be; she was his ideal, his mate, his other soul; the completing element of his incomplete nature. The emptiness of his life, of which he had hitherto been only vaguely aware, now translated itself into the concrete terms of heart, mind, and sex. He had been struggling to make of himself a whole when in truth he was but a half; to construct from imperfect parts a unit; and not sensing the hopelessness of the attempt, he had reaped only failure and disappointment.

How blind he had been not to understand that alone he could never hope to still loneliness, heartache, and the stirrings of his physical nature. He had lived a life in which no one shared and with which no one sympathized. His fostering instincts had lain dormant until they had reverted to the receptivity of the protected rather than serving their natural functions and making of him a protector. All the masculinity of his being had been dwarfed, stifled. Now it awakened, clamoring to possess, guard, cherish, worship.

What an amazing miracle it was—what a glad, transforming touch of magic! He laughed in delight! Years slipped from him, and his youth surged up in all its warmth and eagerness. Why, he was a boy again! A boy at the threshold of life's wonderland. He was looking open-eyed into a garden of beauty where his foot had never trod. Mystic realms were there, mazes of fairy dreams, lights and colors he had never seen. At last the place of his desire was before him.

This other self, this woman, Lucy Webster,—the name brought with it an arresting chill that fell upon the fever of his passion with the breath of a glacier. The girl was a Webster! She was of the blood of those he scorned and hated; of a kin with an ancestry he had been brought up to loathe with all his soul. Had he not been taught that it was his mission to thwart and humble them? Had he not continually striven to do so? He must have been bewitched to have forgotten the fact for an instant. No doubt this creature with her rare beauty was a decoy brought hither to tempt him to betray his heritage.

Ellen Webster was quite capable of formulating such a scheme and setting it in motion, if only for the cruel pleasure of seeing him ensnared in its toils. Perhaps even Lucy herself was an accomplice in the plot. Who could tell? To be sure she appeared artless enough; but what Webster was to be trusted? And were she only the innocent tool of a more designing hand it redeemed her but little for, blameless or guilty, she was nevertheless a Webster. No power under heaven could wipe out her inheritance; for the penalty of her blood she must pay the price.

Ah, how near he had come to playing the fool! Was it not Delilah who had shorn Samson of his might? He, Martin Howe, to be false to his traditions, forfeit his pride, and become a spiritless weakling, forgetting his manhood in the smile of a woman!

"Bah!" He cried the word aloud into the teeth of the gale. To think he had almost walked blindfolded into the trap Ellen Webster had baited for him! Ah, she should see he was not to be enticed away from the stronghold of his principles by any such alluring snare.

What a sly old schemer Ellen was! She would have liked nothing better than to behold him on his knees at the feet of this niece of hers and then wreck his hopes by snatching away every possibility of their fulfillment. Perhaps she expected that with the girl's beauty as a bribe she could make him forget his dignity to the extent of rebuilding the wall.

She was mistaken! He was not to be thus cajoled. He had already, to some extent, betrayed his vows that night by befriending Lucy. Bitterly he repented of his weakness. Doubtless at this very moment Ellen Webster was exulting that he had so easily been duped and hoodwinked.

Hot anger sent the blood to his cheek. He had been blind to be thus caught off his guard. Into what madness had this woman beguiled him! Well, in the future the siren should chant her Lorelei songs to deaf ears. Her spell would be in vain.

He had found himself now. His wayward feet had recovered their stand upon the solid rock of principle, from which for the moment they had been tempted into straying. He would demonstrate to this Lucy Webster that any friendliness between them was done and over.

What an ass a clever woman could make of a man! That any one could so circumvent him was unbelievable. Shaking the rain viciously from his umbrella, he mounted the steps, blew out the lantern, and stalked into the house.

Mary, Eliza, and Jane looked up expectantly as he entered. It was evident that a multitude of questions trembled on their lips.

He hoped they would offer an apology or explanation for their conduct and thereby furnish him with the opportunity for berating them and relieving his soul of the bitterness that rankled there. To lash somebody, anybody, with his tongue would have been a solace.

But although Jane faced him defiantly, and Mary and Eliza with anticipatory timidity, no one of the three spoke. They seemed to be waiting for him to strike the first blow. Twice he attempted it, assuming first an injured then an outraged attitude. But on second thought, he abandoned the attack. After all, what was there to say? Should he rail at them for asking Lucy to the house?

The fair face with its uplifted eyes came before his vision. No, he was not sorry the girl had come. Though he must never see her again, must never speak to her or touch her hand, he was glad he had been vouchsafed this one glimpse into Paradise.

He might forbid his sisters ever to have anything more to do with her. But he could not bring himself to do that either. And even suppose he were to make the demand. Jane might refuse to comply with it. There was mutiny in her eyes, a mutiny he might not be able to suppress unless he resorted to drastic measures; and, smarting as he was from the scorn and humiliation of his recent defeat, he was in no mood to cut himself off from the only sympathy within his reach by creating a breach between himself and his sisters.

Therefore he loitered self-consciously before the stove as if to dry his wet clothing and then ambled across the room, remarking in offhand fashion:

"It's settin' in for quite a rain."

"Yes, it's a hard shower," Mary ventured, turning a puzzled glance upon her brother. "We need it though."

"Yes, the ground was like chalk," agreed Martin.

Thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets, he took a few nervous strides around the room and, prompted by an impulse he could not have explained, he stopped and absently drew down the window shade on the side of the kitchen toward the Webster homestead.

"You didn't get any supper after all, did you, Martin?" Jane remarked presently. "Why don't you let me bring you a piece of fruit cake an' a glass of milk?"

"It would taste kinder good."

Although he had no wish for the food, the solicitude that accompanied the suggestion was just then very soothing.

"We could cook you somethin'," Jane said, rising.

"No, no," broke out the man impatiently. "Don't go fussin'. I don't want much. Just get me anything you have handy."

Jane went to the pantry and returned with two thick slices of "war cake" and a tumbler of creamy milk.

"This is the sort of cake you liked so much the other day," she said, putting it upon the table. "It's somethin' amazin' how it keeps moist. I s'pose it's the apple sauce in it."

She watched him while he broke it listlessly into fragments. It was obvious that he was not hungry.

"You're tired, Martin," she murmured at last, in a gentle tone.

"I guess I am a little."

"The trip to the fair was a hard one, I'm afraid."

Again the man found comfort in her voice.

"Oh, no; not particularly hard," he answered with gruff kindness, "but the train was close an' dusty."

There was a quality in the tone that caused Jane to ponder. Furtively she studied the bowed head, the twitching fingers, the contracted brow; nor did the jaded, disheartened droop of the mouth escape her. She could not recall ever having seen Martin like this before.

Something must be weighing on his mind, something that had not been there when he had left home in the morning and had not been there when he returned. The shadow, whatever it was, had fallen since, and she felt it had some connection with the happenings of the evening. This unprecedented forbearance of his was a part of it. Of that she was sure. What did it portend? Was he angry? Or had Lucy Webster dropped some remark that had shown him the folly and uselessness of his resentment? Jane would have given a great deal to know just what had occurred on that walk in the rain. Perhaps Lucy had openly attacked Martin's codes and forced a quarrel. She was fearless enough to do so; or perhaps she had simply reproached him and set him thinking.

Well, it was useless to ask questions. Jane knew her brother too well to presume to do this. If he had come to his senses, so much the better. It was not to be expected that he would admit it. That was not his way. Any change in his mental attitude would be quickly apparent, however, in his actions, his deeds confessing the faults his lips were too proud to utter. She must await developments.

Hence when he rose, she offered him her customary casual good night and listened to his slow tread upon the stairs. That unelastic step only served to further convince her that something recent and deep-acting had taken hold on the man and was tormenting him.

She was roused from her musings by Eliza's voice:

"What can be the matter with Martin?" she said in a tense whisper. "He never said a word. Here I was shakin' in my shoes, dreadin' every minute to have him launch out in one of his tirades. You could 'a' knocked me over when he didn't do it."

"Maybe he's goin' to wait until to-morrow," Mary replied.

"No. He never waits," Eliza declared. "When he's mad he lets fly while his temper is up. You know that as well as I do. There's no coolin' off with him an' then warmin' up the leavin's of his rage the next mornin'. He believes in servin' things hot an' fresh."

"I never knew him to be so sort of cowed down," reflected Mary. "You don't s'pose he's sick, do you, Jane?"

Mary turned anxious eyes toward her sister.

"Of course not," Jane retorted promptly. "Don't go worryin', Mary, an' start to brew him some thoroughwort in the hope of havin' him down with a fever."

"I don't hope he'll have a fever," objected Mary in an injured tone.

Jane laughed.

"Now you know you'd love to have Martin sick so you could take care of him," said Jane provokingly. "Don't deny it."

"Jane Howe!"

"Well, you would. But he isn't sick, Mary. He's just tired. I wouldn't bother him about it if I was you. He hates bein' fussed over."

A sudden light of understanding had broken in on Jane's soul.

It came like a revelation, in an intuitive flash, backed neither by evidence nor by logic. Had she tried to give a reason for the astonishing conviction that overwhelmed her, she could not have done so. Nevertheless she was as certain of it as she was that the night would follow the day. Martin was neither hungry, angry, tired, worried, nor ill.

He was in love!



CHAPTER X

A TEMPTATION

Martin was indeed in love! Before a week had passed no one knew it better than he.

During the solitary hours when his hands were busy thinning lettuce or weeding young corn, his mind had abundant leisure for reflection, and the theme on which his thoughts turned with increasing activity was always the same. Defy Fate as he would, he faced the realization that he loved Lucy Webster with every fiber of his being.

It was a mad and hopeless affection,—one which, for the sake of his own peace of mind if for no other reason, it would be wiser to strangle at its birth. Nevertheless, he did not strangle it; on the contrary, he hugged the romance to his breast and fed it upon all the tender imaginings of a man's first dream of love, conjuring before his vision one empty fantasy after another.

It was evening, and under the silver light of a thin crescent hanging low in the heaven he paced beneath the trees, Lucy upon his arm. Or lovely with the freshness of early morning, she stood with him in the field, the brightness of her eyes as sparkling as the flash of the dew-drops on the grass. Again she came before him, gliding quietly amid a maze of humble domestic tasks, transforming each with the grace of her presence. Or perhaps she sat quietly watching the embers of a winter's fire that touched her hair to a glory of glinting copper.

But wherever she moved, the land upon which she trod was his land; the home where she toiled his home; the hearth that warmed her his hearth.

There were long hours when he was alone in the twilight with only his pipe for company, when through the smoke he seemed to see her close beside him. Sometimes she smiled down into his eyes; sometimes she raised her sweet lips to his; and once she came to him with madonna-like holiness, a sleeping child in her arms,—her child—and his.

Then Martin would rouse himself to find his pipe smoldering, the lamp dim, and the chill of the night upon him. With an impatient shrug he would spring to his feet and tramp upstairs, hoping to find in slumber an escape from these fair but tormenting reveries. Sleep, however, came but fitfully, and even from the sacred confines of its privacy it was impossible to banish subconscious mirages of the day. There was no place to which he could flee where thoughts of Lucy Webster did not pursue him.

He saw her often now, very often, tripping buoyantly from house to barn, from barn to garden and back again, her round young arms bearing baskets of vegetables, or laden with shining milk pails.

How proud her head! How light her step!

One morning she skirted the wall so close that his whisper might have reached her had he chosen to speak. He could see the fringe of dark lashes against her skin, the rise and fall of her round bosom, the lilacs that filled her hands. But he did not speak and neither did she. In fact, she seemed not to see him, so busy was she toying with her flowers. She must be fond of flowers, for she was seldom without one tucked in her gown.

These glimpses, however, were fleeting, and after he had yielded to the temptation of indulging in them he was wont to tax himself severely for his folly. Was he not already tortured with pain too poignant to be endured? Why rivet more tightly the fetters that goaded him?

He had fled once and for all from Circe's magic, vowing that never again should the sorceress work her charm upon him; and that vow he intended to keep. Nevertheless, it did not prevent him from stealing an occasional peep at the enchantress, if only to assure himself that her spell was as potent and deadly as he had supposed it. Surely, if he did not consort with her, looking could do no harm. Therefore he indulged his fancy, watching Lucy whenever she was within sight and each time becoming more helplessly entangled in her fascinations, until any escape from the thralldom of her beauty became impossible. His days were a cycle of tantalizing visions which ceased only with the coming of darkness; and when with the night he would have found release from their misery, it was only to discover that night an endless stretch of hours that intervened betwixt him and the moment when the visions might return again.

Poor Martin! He endured a hell of suffering during those radiant summer days. He was melancholy, ecstatic, irritable by turns, ascending to the heights and plunging into the depths with an abruptness and unaccountability that was not only enigmatic to himself but to every one else with whom he came in contact. He kept Mary in a ferment of excitement trying to devise remedies for his successive ills. One day she would be sure he needed a tonic to dispel his listlessness and with infinite pains would brew the necessary ingredients together; but before the draught could be cooled and administered, Martin had rebounded to an unheard-of vitality. Ah, she would reason, it must be his appetite that was at the bottom of the trouble. She must stimulate his desire for food. No sooner, however, was her concoction of herbs simmering on the stove than her erratic patient was devouring everything within sight with the zest of a cannibal. So it went, the affliction which oppressed him one day giving place to a new collection of symptoms on the morrow.

"I'd have Doctor Marsh to him if I had any opinion of the man," remarked Mary one night. "But I ain't ever been able to muster up my respect for that critter's principles since he left that medicine for 'Liza marked 'Keep in a Dark Place.' That was enough to shake my confidence in him forever. It was so under-handed. I'd rather had 'Liza sick for the rest of her life than that she should 'a' been dosed up on some stuff we had to keep hidden away lest somebody see it. If he was ashamed of the medicine, or it was anything we'd hadn't ought to had, he shouldn't 'a' given it to us. I never said nothin' to nobody 'bout it, but I poured the whole bottleful down the sink, and told Doctor Marsh that he needn't come again. He pretended he couldn't see why, but I guess he understood, an' I hope the lesson did him good," concluded Mary with righteous zeal.

"So that was the reason Doctor Marsh stopped comin'!" Jane exclaimed. "I always wondered. You never told me that before."

"No," said Mary with dignity, "I never did."

"But, Mary,"—Jane broke into a laugh.

"You needn't laugh, Jane. It was a very serious matter."

"If you'd only explained it, Mary, I could have told you——"

"That is precisely why I didn't explain it, Jane," Mary answered. "I knew you would interfere, an' I felt it was somethin' that laid between me an' my conscience. No matter what you'd 'a' said, I should 'a' felt the same way about it. Matters of right an' wrong are the affairs of me an' my Maker. Nobody else on earth can settle 'em."

There were instances when it was useless to argue with Mary, and Jane saw that this was one of them.

Had she so willed she could not only have cleared up the mystery about Doctor Marsh's medicine, but she could have furnished her sister with the key to Martin's caprices, and thereby saved the metaphysician not only much worry but also much physical labor.

Mary and Eliza, however, lived in such a miniature world that Jane knew if Martin's secret were divulged it would become the unending topic of conversation from that moment on. Moreover, so intense would be his sisters' excitement concerning the affair, and so keen their interest and curiosity that they might blunder into destroying the delicate fabric of the romance altogether. Hence Jane kept her own council, speculating with amusement as to how long it would be before his two solicitous but blinded relatives should stumble upon the truth.

In the meantime the neighboring between the two families, so bravely begun, was not continued. Mary and Eliza Howe had not the courage or the initiative to attempt a second clandestine tea-party, much as they would have enjoyed it; and Jane saw no use in urging Lucy to the house. If Martin decreed to further the affair, he was quite capable of doing so without any aid of hers; and if he ordained to abandon it, as he evidently did, wild horses could not turn him from his purpose. Therefore Jane gave up all her aggressive attempts to heal the breach between Howe and Webster, and contented herself with waving to Lucy over the wall and calling a cheery greeting to the girl whenever she came within hailing distance.

Lucy was disappointed by this retreat of her neighbors into their former aloofness. Of course their action was traceable to Martin. It was his fault. No doubt he had gone home and berated his sisters for their friendliness and had so intimidated them that they had no choice but to bow to his will. Jane was the only one of them anyway who had the spirit to defy her brother, and presumably she had decided that the game was not worth the candle. Perhaps, too, she was right. To live in a daily purgatory made of life a sorry existence. She herself had found that out.

Her aunt was continually becoming more irritable and less sound of judgment, and there were times when Lucy feared that the warped mind would give way under the strain of repeated paroxysms of anger. Could Ellen have been persuaded to surrender the management of her affairs entirely into her niece's hands, she might have been spared much annoyance; but frail as she was, she persisted in retaining to the last her scepter of supremacy.

She went each day into the garden and put Tony out of humor by finding fault with everything he did; having demoralized his temper, she would return to the house to rasp Lucy's patience by heaping upon the girl's blameless head such remnants of wrath as she still cherished toward the long-suffering Portugese.

For sometime she had contented herself with this daily programme, not varying it by venturing away from the place, even to carry her garden truck to market. Therefore Lucy was astounded when one morning her aunt appeared at breakfast, dressed in her shabby black cashmere and wearing her cameo pin, and announced she was going to drive to town.

"I've an errand to do," she said without preamble, "an' I shan't be home till noon. You needn't go falutin' over to the Howes', neither, the minute my back is turned, as you did the last time I went off."

Lucy smiled good-humoredly.

"I'm goin' to see a lawyer," her aunt went on. "Lawyer Benton."

No reply appearing necessary, Lucy did not speak.

"Well!" piped Ellen, after waiting a moment.

"Well, what?" Lucy asked.

"Ain't you got no interest in what I'm goin' for?" the woman demanded querulously.

"I'm always interested in anything you wish to tell me," answered the girl, "but I thought it was not my place to inquire into your business."

"It is my business, an' I can keep it to myself," said Ellen tartly. "But I'll tell you this much—I'm goin' to get my will made."

The hard blue eyes fixed themselves on Lucy's face narrowly.

"My will!" repeated Ellen, a challenge in her tone. "I s'pose you thought it was all made long ago; but it warn't. I'm goin' to make it to-day."

At a loss how to reply, Lucy nodded.

"You don't seem much concerned 'bout it," observed her aunt peevishly. "Ain't you curious to know who I'm goin' to leave my property to?"

"No."

"You ain't!"

"No."

"S'pose I was to give it all to you."

"That would be very kind."

"Yes, it would be—it would be kind," agreed Ellen. "But mebbe I ain't a-goin' to. Mebbe I'm goin' to will it to somebody else."

"That's your affair."

"I'll bet, for all your indifference, you'd be mad as a wet hen if I was to leave it to somebody else," went on the woman provokingly.

"No, I shouldn't. Why should I?"

"'Cause you're my next of kin. By rights it had oughter come to you, hadn't it?"

"I don't know the New Hampshire laws."

With an admiring glance at her niece, Ellen broke into an unpleasant laugh.

"There's no trappin' you, Miss Lucy Webster, is there?" she exclaimed, rising from her chair and clapping on her hat. "You're a cute one, an awful cute one!"

"Why?"

"Oh, you don't need to be told," chuckled Ellen. "Anybody as cute as you are, knows."

With that she was gone.

All the morning the girl busied herself within doors, exchanging one duty for another. Toward noon, however, she made an excursion to the garden for lettuce and radishes. Her pathway lay close to the wall, and on her return to the house she was amazed to see lying on the topmost stone of the ruined heap a mammoth bunch of sweet peas. There was no mistaking the fact that the flowers were intended for her, for her name had been hastily scrawled on a bit of crumpled paper and placed beside them. Nothing could have surprised her more than to stumble upon this offering.

Evidently the blossoms had just been gathered, for the raindrops of the previous night still sparkled among their petals, jeweling with brilliancy their kaleidoscopic riot of color.

She caught them up with delight, burying her face in their cool fragrance. Where had they come from? She knew no one who raised sweet peas,—no one except the Howes, and of course——she halted and blushed. Could it have been the Howes?

"Mary's are white" she heard herself automatically repeating in Jane's phrases. "'Liza's pink, an' mine are purple. Martin has his in another place, 'cause he likes all the colors mixed together. But he never picks his nor lets us. He says he likes to see 'em growin'."

And now, by some miracle, here were the blossoms of Martin's raising, their prismatic tints exquisite as a sunset. It was like holding the rainbow in one's hands. She knew the Howes too well to cherish for an instant the illusion that any of the three sisters had cut the flowers from the vines. They would not have dared. No. No hand but Martin's had plucked them.

With a strange fluttering of her heart, Lucy carried the bouquet to her own room, a corner of the house where Ellen seldom intruded. There she bent over it with a happy, triumphant little smile. Then, from behind the shelter of the muslin curtain, she blew a kiss from her finger tips to Mr. Martin Howe, who was hoeing potatoes on the hill, with his back set squarely toward the Webster mansion.

When Ellen returned at noon, there was still a shell-like flush of pink on the girl's cheek and on her lips a smile for which her aunt could not account.

"Where you been?" inquired the woman suspiciously.

"Nowhere. Why?"

"You look as if somebody'd sent you a Christmas tree full of presents."

Lucy laughed softly.

"You ain't been to the Howes'?"

"I haven't been anywhere," repeated Lucy, throwing up her chin. "I'm telling the truth."

Ellen eyed her shrewdly.

"Yes, I reckon you are," she observed slowly. "I ain't never caught you lyin' yet." Then as if an afterthought had occurred to her, she added: "Likely you've been thinkin' 'bout the will I've been makin'."

She saw Lucy open her lips, then close them.

"I've got it all done," went on Ellen audaciously. "It's drawn up, signed, an' sealed. In fact, I brought it home with me. Here it is."

Tossing a large white envelope fastened with a splash of red wax upon the table, she peered at her niece.

"I'm goin' to give it to you to keep," continued she in a hectoring tone. "It'll be like havin' Pandora's box around. You can't open it, an' you'll have the continual fun of wonderin' what's inside."

"I'd rather not take it."

"But I want you to," asserted Ellen. "I'm givin' it to you to take care of. It'll help to make life interestin'. Besides, who knows but you may be tempted to break it open some night an' have a peep inside."

Craftily the old woman watched the girl.

"Or mebbe you'll tear it up," she mused. "Who knows? Then if I was to die, you could pretend I hadn't made no will."

"Take it back. I shan't keep it," Lucy cried, moving toward the door.

"Afraid of yourself, eh?"

"No."

The monosyllable rang with scorn.

"Then prove it," sneered Ellen.

"Give it to me."

Smiling evilly, her aunt pushed the packet across the table. There was a leer of triumph in the sharp-featured face.

"I 'magine that 'twas gettin' as mad as you are now that kep' the Websters from ever buildin' up that wall," she called after her niece, as Lucy with crimson cheeks fled up the stairs, the long white envelope in her hand.



CHAPTER XI

THE CROSSING OF THE RUBICON

"I want you should go to the village to-day," announced Ellen, making her appearance in Lucy's room on a hot August morning a few weeks later. "Tony's got to get the scythe mended an' have Dolly shod. Don't it beat all how somethin's always wearin' out? Long's he's goin', you might's well drive along with him an' take the eggs an' corn I promised Elias Barnes. There's some more errands at the store I want done, too."

"All right, Aunt Ellen."

But the woman loitered.

"If you don't want to hang 'round town till Tony gets ready to come back, mebbe you could find somebody comin' this way who would give you a lift home. It seems sort of a shame to stay there wastin' the time you could be usin' here."

Lucy smiled at the characteristic remark.

"An' if you didn't happen on any one," went on Ellen, "likely you wouldn't mind walkin'; 'twould get you home quicker."

"No, indeed. I always like a walk."

"I reckon 'twill be warm."

"I don't mind."

"That's good."

Ellen was always gracious when her plans went to her satisfaction.

"I want you to be ready to start right after breakfast," she added, as she went out the door. "The earlier you get off the earlier you'll be back again. I wish I could go myself an' dicker with Elias. I would if it warn't that I have to tinker with that pesky cream separator."

"Is the cream separator out of order?"

"Yes," said Ellen wearily. "Trust that Tony to bust everythin' he touches."

She closed Lucy's door with a spirited bang.

The girl listened to her retreating footsteps and smiled softly. It was nothing new for Ellen to be sending her to the village to transact the business she no longer felt able to attend to herself, but the subterfuges to which she resorted to conceal her real motive were amusing. Lucy knew well that to-day, if it had not been the cream separator, something else equally important would have furnished the excuse for keeping her aunt at home. It seemed so foolish not to be honest about the matter. To pursue any other method, however, would have been quite foreign to Ellen's policy, and therefore Lucy, although not blinded by these devices to hide the truth, always pretended she was, and earnestly condoned with the old woman about the rebellious potato sprayer, the obstinate pump, or whatever other offending object chanced to be selected as the plea for casting her cares on younger shoulders.

The trip to the village was tiresome; of that there was no doubt,—especially on a day that promised to be as hot as this one. Already tremors of heat vibrated upward in waves from the piazza roof, and the sun's scorching rays pierced between the closed blinds. Nevertheless, Lucy did not regret the prospect of the morning's excursion. She so seldom had an opportunity to leave the house that any break in the monotony of her days, uncomfortable though it might be, was a welcome diversion.

Therefore she hurried her dressing and breakfast, and while dawn was still on the threshold, set off with Tony in the dust-covered surrey that creaked its way along behind the stumbling gray mare.

The coolness of night was over the awakening earth, although the mounting sun was speedily drinking up the dew and rousing the locusts into droning song. Not a leaf stirred. Through the shimmering atmosphere the valley, with its river yellow as a band of molten gold, lay listless in drowsy haze; but the birds, butterflies, and bees flitted among the flowers that bordered the roadside with an alertness which proved that they, at least, felt no lessening of zest for their honey gathering.

"It's goin' to be an almighty hot day," observed Tony who, after slapping Dolly's broad back several times with the reins, had decided that further attempts to accelerate the mare's pace was useless.

"Yes, very hot."

"I hope your aunt won't go pullin' that separator all to pieces while we're gone," the boy grumbled. "In the first place she ain't got a notion of how to put it together again; an' in the next place she ain't fit to go liftin' an' haulin' things about the way she does. She's gettin' to be an old woman. Ain't she most eighty?"

"She's not far from it," answered Lucy.

"Well, if I was her age an' had her money, you wouldn't see me workin' as if a slave driver was standin' over me," the Portuguese lad declared. "What good is it doin' her bein' rich, I'd like to know."

"Oh, I don't think she is rich," said Lucy quickly.

"Folks say she is; that's all I know 'bout it," replied Tony. "Elias Barnes was calculatin' one day down to the store that she must be worth thousands. I can believe it, too," added the boy significantly. "Everything we've got on the farm is tied up with string, or hitched together with a scrap of wire. Your aunt ain't fur gettin' a thing mended long's it can be made to hold together. 'Bout everything on the farm wants overhaulin'. I'd give a fortune to see a smart man come in here an' set the place to rights. There's a lot of truck in the barn oughter be heaved out an' burned. 'Tain't fit for nothin'. But Miss Webster would no more hear to partin' with one stick nor stone she owned than she'd cut off her head. She'd keep everything that belonged to her if it was dropping to bits."

The boy paused.

"Well, there's one good thing," he added, smiling, "she can't take the stuff she's hoarded with her into the next world, an' when it falls to you you can do as you like with it."

"Falls to me?"

"Why, yes. 'Course all your aunt's property'll be yours some day."

"What makes you think so?" Lucy asked, a suggestion of reserve in her tone.

"Who else is there to have it?" inquired Tony, opening his eyes very wide. "Ain't she already left it to you in her will?"

"I don't know."

"You don't!"

Lucy laughed at his incredulousness.

"No."

"Well, they say down to the town that your aunt made her will 'bout three weeks ago. Even Lawyer Benton himself admitted that much. Folks saw Miss Webster goin' into his office an' questioned him. He warn't for tellin' anything 'til they nagged at him; then he did own that the farm an' everything else was left to relatives. Elias Barnes an' some of the others were mighty quick to hunt up who the Webster relatives were. They were pretty sure you were the only one, an' it 'pears you are. So it's you will get the place an' the money, an' goodness knows, Miss Lucy, you've earnt it. The men all agreed to that."

"You know, Tony, Miss Webster is my aunt," began Lucy in a warning voice, loyalty resenting this criticism.

"Yes, but there's aunts—an' aunts," interrupted the lad with a grin. "It's no use pretendin' you ain't drawn the devil of a one, 'cause I know. Don't I live close at hand, an' ain't I got eyes?"

Lucy did not answer. They were nearing the village and to put an end to the conversation, she took out her list of errands and began to read it absently. But in the back of her mind she was turning over Tony's remarks. She had never allowed herself to dwell on the time when the Webster homestead would actually be her own. It seemed unfitting to plan on acquiring property that could only come to her through the death of another person. Now, however, she suddenly gave her imagination rein and began to consider what changes she would make when the farm was really in her hands.

The barn must be cleared out the first thing and be re-shingled. Then she would strip the farm of its litter of rubbish and repair some of the tools and household furniture. What a delight it would be to renovate the old home with chintz hangings and fresh paint and paper! There were great possibilities for making the interior of the house attractive on a small expenditure of money. The time-worn mahogany was good, the proportions of the rooms pleasing, and the great fireplaces, several of which were now boarded up, were a distinct asset.

Of course she would have to have help with the work. It would be well to get a capable man to manage the garden for her—some strong, intelligent person, familiar with the problems of soil, fertilizer, and horticulture; a person, for example, like, well—like Martin Howe. A flood of color crept into her cheek.

Although she had never addressed a remark to Martin since the night when he had abandoned her at the foot of the Howe driveway to face the onslaughts of that drenching storm, she was perfectly aware that her goings and comings had become a matter of no little concern to the austere gentleman who dwelt on the other side of the wall. That he watched her she knew, for she had been feminine enough to trap him into changing his position that he might keep her in view.

Besides, was there not the miraculous bunch of flowers? She had, to be sure, never acknowledged them even by the lifting of an eyelash, nor had she proof that Martin's hand had really put them within her reach; nevertheless, she could have staked her oath upon it.

Once she had almost defied his silence by thanking him; in fact, she had actually ventured to the confines of the Webster land with this intention; but on arriving within range of his presence, her courage had deserted her. He looked so forbidding that a foolish agitation had swept over her, and compelled her to drop her eyes, and walk away in silence.

She had never known herself to be so nervous before. One would almost think she was afraid of Martin Howe. How absurd! He was nothing to her, less than nothing.

If she liked to study his fine, athletic figure and the free swing of his magnificent body as he worked, it was solely from an aesthetic standpoint. One seldom had an opportunity to see a man as perfectly molded as he. His face was interesting, too; not handsome, perhaps, but attractive. It was a pity it was so stern and set, for she was sure he could smile if he chose; indeed he had smiled that night when he had come home and been unconscious of her presence in the house. It had been a compelling smile, charming for its very rareness. She had often thought of it since and wished she might behold it again. Of course she never would. Yet it would be pleasant to do so. Probably he smiled often at home,—even laughed sometimes. How she would like to hear him laugh,—just once.

He was a very fascinating person,—purely as a character study, of course, nothing more. Since, however, she was indulging in speculations concerning him, it would be amusing to know what he thought of her; for he did think of her, that was obvious. What motive prompted him to do it? Perhaps he admired her, thought her pretty. If he did, why didn't he make some further effort to talk with her? Usually men were only too eager to improve the acquaintance of girls they liked. It surely could do Mr. Martin Howe no harm to call a good morning to her over the wall, as his sisters did, even if he did deplore the existence of the Websters.

Then the tenor of Lucy's arguments shifted. Probably Martin neither admired nor liked her. Doubtless, along with her aunt and all that pertained to the hated blood, he despised her and simply watched her in disgust. But if so, why did he bother to send flowers to her?

Lucy shook her head. She was back at the point from which she had started and was no nearer a solution of Martin Howe and his baffling mental outlook. What did it matter anyway? What he thought or felt was no concern of hers, and she was silly to burden her mind with speculations that really interested her so little.

By this time Tony, who had lapsed into a silence as unbroken as her own, drew up at the smooth stone flagging before Elias Barnes's store and, leaping out over the wheel, helped his companion to dismount from the wagon and unload the farm produce they had brought with them for sale.

"I'll get home somehow, Tony," the girl said to him, as he prepared to drive off. "You needn't come for me."

"All right, Miss Lucy, only I do hope you won't have to foot it back in this heat."

"I shan't mind."

"It's going to be a terrible day," insisted the lad. "Them buzzin' locusts is enough to prove that. They're good as a thermometer."

Lucy laughed.

"Don't worry about me," she remarked kindly. "Just as soon as I finish my errands I shall start home."

"You'd be wise to."

As the mare scuffed off down the road, amid a cloud of dust, Lucy entered the store.

A stuffy odor of coffee, molasses, and calico greeted her; so, too, did Elias Barnes, who came forward from behind the counter, extending his damp and sticky palm and showing every tooth that an expansive smile permitted.

"So it's you, Miss Lucy," he observed with pleasure. "I was expecting to see your aunt. She was here the other day."

"Yes, she drove to town last Friday."

"Came on an interestin' errand, too," chirped Elias. "Leastwise, I 'magine 'twas interestin' to you." He grinned slyly.

"Why?"

"Why?" repeated the man, taken aback. "Because—well, ain't such things always interestin'?"

"What things?"

Elias stared, uncertain as to how to proceed.

Was it possible the girl was ignorant of her aunt's mission?

"Mebbe you didn't know Miss Webster's errand in town," he began eagerly.

"I know she went to see Mr. Benton and get her will made, if that is what you mean."

"An' don't you call that interestin'?" demanded the discomfited Elias.

"Not particularly."

The storekeeper gasped.

"Likely the matter was all cut an' dried an' nothin' new to you," persisted he, with a wan, disappointed smile. "There warn't much choice left your aunt, fur as relatives went, was there? Still, I reckon she couldn't 'a' found a better one to pass her property on to than you," concluded the man with a leer.

"What makes you so sure she has passed it on to me?" inquired Lucy, annoyed.

"Well, ain't she?"

"I don't know."

"You don't—by thunder! She ain't told you nothin'?"

"Certainly not."

Elias looked puzzled.

"Why," he said, "most folks thought that was the condition that brought you to Sefton Falls. Surely nothin' but some sort of a reward, an' a big one, too, would coax a body to come an' live with such a——"

"You forget you are speaking of my aunt, Mr. Barnes."

"I guess I did forget it a mite, Miss Lucy," mumbled Elias awkwardly. "I beg your pardon."

The girl inclined her head.

"Suppose we leave personal matters now and settle our business," she answered, motioning toward the boxes, baskets, and egg cases Tony had set inside the shop door. "Here is the corn and the butter my aunt promised you, and here are twelve dozen eggs. If you will pay me for them, I will start back home before it grows any warmer."

"Lemme see," ruminated Elias, "eggs is bringing——"

"Seventy cents."

"Ain't it sixty-nine?"

"No."

"I seem to have sixty-nine fixed awful firm in my head," protested Elias tenaciously.

Lucy laughed.

"You'll have to get it out then," she retorted good-humoredly, "for seventy cents is the market price."

The firm answer told the shopkeeper that further bickering would be useless.

"Seventy cents then," he said reluctantly, opening his cash drawer. "It's robbery, though."

"You're not often robbed, Mr. Barnes."

"Ain't I? Well, if I ain't, it's 'cause folks know better than to try to do me. 'Tain't often I'm beat in a bargain—only when I'm dealin' with a pretty woman an' give her the advantage." Again he displayed his rows of teeth. "Ladies first is my motto; an' heiresses——"

"You haven't paid me for the corn or butter yet," cut in Lucy impatiently. "Five dozen ears of early corn and ten pounds of print butter."

For a second time Elias took from an infinitesimal crack in his money drawer another handful of change which he grudgingly counted into the girl's extended hand.

"There you are!" he asserted, as if wiping some disagreeable thought triumphantly from his memory. "Now we're square an' can talk of somethin' else."

"I'm afraid I can't stop to talk to-day, Mr. Barnes, for I've got to get home. Good-by and thank you," and with a smile that dazzled the confounded storekeeper, Lucy sped out the door.

Elias, who was a widower and "well-to-do," was considered the catch of the town and was therefore unaccustomed to receiving such scant appreciation of his advances.

"I'll be buttered!" he declared, chagrined. "If she ain't gone!"

Lucy was indeed far down the level road, laughing to herself as she thought of the discomfited Elias. This was not the first time he had shown an inclination to force his oily pleasantries upon her; but it was the first time she had so pointedly snubbed him.

"I hope it will do him good," she murmured half aloud. "I'd like to convince him that every woman in Sefton Falls isn't his for the asking."

As she went on her way between the bordering tangle of goldenrod and scarlet-tinted sumach, she was still smiling quietly. The sun had risen higher, and a dry heat rose in waves from the earth. Already her shoes were white, and moist tendrils of hair curled about her brow. Before her loomed three miles of parching highway as barren of shade as the woodsman's axe could make it. The picture of Ellen's cool kitchen and breezy porch made the distance at that moment seem interminable. There was not a wagon in sight, and unless one came along, she would have to trudge every step of the way home.

Well, there was no use in becoming discouraged at the outset of her journey, and she was not, although she did halt a moment to draw a crisp, white handkerchief from her pocket and fan her burning cheeks. She had no idea the walk was going to be so hot a one. Despite her aunt's objections, she almost wished she had waited for Tony. If only she could have the good luck to be overtaken by somebody! Hark, did she hear wheels?

Yes, as good fortune would have it, from around the curve in the road behind her a wagon was coming into sight, the measured clop, clop of the horse's feet reaching her distinctly. The cloud of dust that enveloped the approaching Jehu made it impossible for her to see who he was; nevertheless, it did not much matter, for country etiquette stipulated that those traveling on foot were always welcome to the hospitality of a passing vehicle.

Therefore Lucy sat down on the wall to await her oncoming rescuer.

Meanwhile the wagon came nearer.

It contained a single occupant who was perched with careless grace astride a barrel of flour and appeared to be very much hedged in by a multifarious assortment of small packages and sacks of grain. It did not look as if there were room in the carriage for an additional ounce, and when the girl saw how crowded it was, her heart sank; then as she looked again, it bounded with sudden emotion, for the man who so jauntily urged forward his steed from his pinnacle on the barrel was none other than Martin Howe.

Resolutely Lucy rose from the wall and, without a glance in the traveler's direction, set out at a sharp pace along the highway.

She would not ask a favor of Martin Howe if she had to plod every step of the three scorching miles; and if he were brute enough to let her toil along in the heat—to walk while he rode—well, that was all she ever wanted to know about him. Her heart beat tumultuously as she heard the wheels coming closer.

The horse was beside her now, and the whirl-wind of dust his hoofs raised made her choke. Would the wagon stop or go on? The horse's head passed abreast of her, then his white, lathered body. Next the wagon came into sight, with Martin sitting proudly and stiffly on his perch. Afterward horse, wagon, and man rolled past, and the girl was left alone.

Her lip trembled. Would he really leave her like this in the dust and heat? Would he leave even his worst enemy? It was incredible a human being could be so heartless. And the humiliation of it! To tag along behind him on foot, smothering in his dust!

Rage possessed her. That should be the end of Mr. Martin Howe! He was no gentleman. He was not even human.

She sat down on the stone wall once more, waiting for him to disappear and the dust from his wheels settle.

But to her surprise she saw him come to a stop in the road and, pivoting around on his perch, face her.

Lucy did not move. She watched him hesitate, waver, then dismount and come back through the dust.

"If you're on your way home——" he began with clumsy gravity.

The girl smiled up into his face.

"If you're goin' back——" he repeated, and again got no further.

She came to his rescue.

"Have you room to take me in?"

"There ain't much room." She saw the flicker of a smile shadow his face. "Still, if you don't mind bein' a mite cramped——"

"I don't mind it at all unless it crowds you too much," answered Lucy. "It is very kind of you." Then she heard herself add without forethought: "I was afraid you were goin' by."

"I ain't that much of a heathen, I hope," Martin returned gruffly.

Although it was plain he was ill at ease, he helped her into the wagon, arranging the bags of meal solicitously that she might be as comfortable as possible. Then he touched the horse with his whip, and they started off.

"I'm so thankful to have a ride home," sighed Lucy, after waiting a second or two and finding he had no intention of speaking. "It is very hot to-day."

"So 'tis. But it is great weather for corn."

"I suppose so," assented the girl. "How is yours coming on?"

"Pretty well. Some blasted crow got a little of it at the beginnin'; but the rest of it is all right."

"It was a shame you lost any of it."

"I was a good deal put out myself. Still, 'twarn't much, considerin' the size of the field."

Lucy dimpled.

"Your field is a wonderful sight from our house," she answered, "especially when the wind blows. You have a fine lot of oats, too. I love to watch the breeze sweep across it."

"I do myself," agreed Martin with increasing cordiality. "It's a pretty picture. There's lots of pretty pictures on a farm if you're lookin' for 'em," he added, stealing a glance at her.

"Your sweet peas were a pretty picture," ventured Lucy mischievously.

Martin colored with confusion. He seemed at a loss how to reply. Then, gathering courage, he remarked shyly:

"You like flowers?"

"I love them!"

"Some folks do," said he hurriedly. "I prefer to see 'em growin'."

"Yet you do cut them sometimes," persisted Lucy playfully.

"Mighty seldom. Only when it's good for the vines."

Again the glint of a smile brightened his countenance, and she saw him blush sheepishly.

"I wish it would be good for them again sometime," said she, peeping up into his eyes. "Don't you think there's danger of their goin' to seed?"

She heard a short laugh, but he did not answer. Instead, as if to change a dangerous topic, he asked:

"How are you likin' Sefton Falls?"

"Oh, I think the place is beautiful. Already I have become very fond of it. You must love every stick and stone within sight."

"There was one while I didn't," Martin drawled slowly. "But afterward, when I saw 'twas my duty to stay here, I got to feelin' different. I'd 'a' liked to have gone to the war. I was too old, though; besides, I had my sisters."

"I know," murmured Lucy with quiet sympathy. "You see, I had to make my choice, too. My aunt wrote that she needed me. It wouldn't have been right for me to desert her and go to France to nurse other people."

"So it's because of her you're stayin' here?"

"Yes."

Martin did not speak again for some time; then he said in a tense, uneven voice that struggled to be casual:

"If she was to die then, I s'pose you'd start back West where you came from."

"I'm—not—sure."

He waited as if expecting her to explain herself, and presently she did so.

"I might decide to make my home here," she went on. "That is, if I could get some one to help me with the farm."

There was no intimation of coquetry in the remark; merely simple fact. But the words wrought a miracle in the face of the man beside her.

"Do you like it that much?" he demanded eagerly.

"I love it!"

"Miss Webster has a fine place," ventured Martin at length.

"Both of them are fine old places."

He nodded.

"But yours has been kept up better than ours," continued Lucy. "You see, Aunt Ellen isn't strong like a man; and besides, she hasn't studied into new ways of doing things as you have. That's the interesting part of farming, I think, to use your brains and make two things grow where only one grew before. If I were a man——"

She broke off, embarrassed by her own girlish enthusiasm.

"What would you do?" inquired Martin eagerly.

"I'd do with our farm what you've done with yours. I'd get new tools, and I'd find out how to use them. It would be fascinating. But a woman can't——"