He was rewarded by seeing a shock of surprise run through Martin's frame.

"I don't see how Miss Webster's will can be any concern of mine," Martin replied stiffly.

The attorney ignored the observation. Continuing with serenity, he observed:

"As I understand it, you and Miss Webster were not——" he coughed hesitatingly behind his hand.

"No, we weren't," cut in Martin. "She was a meddling, aggravating old harridan. I hated her, and I'm glad she's gone."

"That is an unfortunate sentiment," remarked Mr. Benton, "unfortunate and disconcerting, because, you see, Miss Ellen Webster has left you all her property."

"Me! Left me her property!"

The dynamic shock behind the words sent the man to his feet.

Mr. Benton nodded calmly.

"Yes," he reiterated, "Miss Webster has made you her sole legatee."

Martin regarded his visitor stupidly.

"I reckon there's some mistake, sir," he contrived to stammer.

"No, there isn't—there's no mistake. The will was legally drawn up only a few days before the death of the deceased. No possible question can be raised as to her sanity, or the clearness of her wishes concerning her property. She desired everything to come to you."

"Let me see the paper!" cried Martin.

"I should prefer to read it to you."

Slowly Mr. Benton took out his spectacles, polished, and adjusted them. Then with impressive deliberation he drew forth and unfolded with a mighty rustling the last will and testament of Ellen Webster, spinster. Many a time he had mentally rehearsed this scene, and now he presented it with a dignity that amazed and awed. Every whereas and aforesaid rolled out with due majesty, its resonance echoing to the ceiling of the chilly little parlor.

As Martin listened, curiosity gave place to wonder, wonder to indignation. But when at last the concluding condition of the bequest was reached, the rebuilding of the wall, an oath burst from his lips.

"The harpy!" he shouted. "The insolent hell hag!"

"Softly, my dear sir, softly!" pleaded Mr. Benton in soothing tones.

"I'll have nothin' to do with it—nothin'!" stormed Martin. "You can bundle your paper right out of here, Benton. Rebuild that wall! Good God! Why, I wouldn't do it if I was to be flayed alive. Ellen Webster knew that well enough. She was perfectly safe when she left me her property with that tag hitched to it. She did it as a joke—a cussed joke—out of pure deviltry. 'Twas like her, too. She couldn't resist giving me one last jab, even if she had to wait till she was dead and gone to do it."

Like an infuriated beast Martin tramped the floor. Mr. Benton did not speak for a few moments; then he observed mildly:

"You understand that if you refuse to accept the property it will be turned over to the county for a poor farm."

"I don't care who it's turned over to, or what becomes of it," blustered Martin.

The attorney rubbed his hands. Ah, it was a spirited drama,—quite as spirited as he had anticipated, and as interesting too.

"It's pretty rough on the girl," he at last remarked casually.

"The girl?"

"Miss Webster."

Violently Martin came to himself. The fury of his anger had until now swept every other consideration from his mind.

"It will mean turning Miss Webster out of doors, of course," continued Mr. Benton impassively. "Still she's a thoroughbred, and I fancy nothing her aunt could do would surprise her. In fact, she as good as told me that, when she was at my office this morning."

"She knows, then?"

"Yes, I had to tell her, poor thing. I imagine, too, it hit her pretty hard, for she had been given to understand that everything was to be hers. She hasn't much in her own right; her aunt told me that."

An icy hand suddenly gripped Martin's heart. He stood immovable, as if stunned. Lucy! Lucy penniless and homeless because of him!

Little by little Ellen's evil scheme unfolded itself before his consciousness. He saw the cunning of the intrigue which the initial outburst of his wrath had obscured. There was more involved in his decision than his own inclinations. He was not free simply to flout the legacy and toss it angrily aside. Ellen, a Richelieu to the last, had him in a trap that wrenched and wrecked every sensibility of his nature. The more he thought about the matter, the more chaotic his impulses became. Justice battled against will; pity against vengeance; love against hate; and as the warring factors strove and tore at one another, and grappled in an anguish of suffering, from out the turmoil two forces rose unconquerable and stubbornly confronted one another,—the opposing forces of Love and Pride. There they stood, neither of them willing to yield. While Love pleaded for mercy, Pride urged the destruction of every gentler emotion and clamored for revenge.

Mr. Benton was not a subtle interpreter of human nature, but in the face of the man before him he saw enough to realize the fierceness of the spiritual conflict that raged within Martin Howe's soul. It was like witnessing the writhings of a creature in torture.

He did not attempt to precipitate a decision by interfering. When, however, he had been a silent spectator of the struggle so long that he perceived Martin had forgotten his very existence, he ventured to speak.

"Maybe I'd better leave you to reconsider your resolution, Howe," he remarked.

"I—yes—it might be better."

"Perhaps after you've thought things out, you'll change your mind."

Martin did not reply. The lawyer rose and took up his hat.

"How long before you've got to know?" inquired Martin hoarsely.

"Oh, I can give you time," answered Mr. Benton easily. "A week, say—how will that do?"

"I shan't need as long as that," Martin replied, looking before him with set face. "I shall know by to-morrow what I am going to do."

"There's no such hurry as all that."

"I shall know by to-morrow," repeated the younger man in the same dull voice. "All the time in the universe won't change things after that."

Mr. Benton made no response. When in his imaginings he had pictured the scene, he had thought that after the first shock of surprise was over, he and Martin would sit down together sociably and discuss each petty detail of the remarkable comedy. But comedy had suddenly become tragedy—a tragedy very real and grim—and all desire to discuss it had ebbed away.

As he moved toward the door, he did not even put out his hand; on the contrary, whispering a hushed good night and receiving no reply to it, he softly let himself out and disappeared through the afternoon shadows.

If Martin were conscious of his departure, he at least gave no sign of being so, but continued to stand motionless in the same spot where Mr. Benton had left him, his hands gripped tightly behind his back, and his head thrust forward in thought.

Silently the hours passed. The sun sank behind the hills, tinting the ridge of pines to copper and leaving the sky a sweep of palest blue in which a single star trembled.

Still Martin did not move. Once he broke into a smothered cry:

"I cannot! My God! I cannot!"

The words brought Jane to the door.

"Martin!" she called.

There was no answer and, turning the knob timidly, she came in.

"Oh!" she ejaculated. "How you frightened me! I didn't know there was anybody here. Don't you want a light?"

"No."

"Has—has Mr. Benton gone?"

"Yes."

"That's good. Supper's ready."

"I don't want anything."

"Mercy, Martin! You ain't sick?"

"No."

"But you must be hungry."

"No. I'm not."

Still the woman lingered; then making a heroic plunge, she faltered:

"There—there ain't nothin' the matter, is there?"

So genuine was the sympathy beneath the quavering inquiry that it brought to Martin's troubled heart a gratifying sense of warmth and fellowship.

"No," he said, his impatience melting to gentleness. "Don't worry, Jane. I've just got to do a little thinking by myself, that's all."

"It ain't money you're fussin' over then," said his sister, with a sigh of relief.

"No—no, indeed. It's nothin' to do with money."

"I'm thankful for that."

Nevertheless as he mounted to his room, Martin reflected that after all it was money which was at the storm center of his difficulties. He had not thought at all of the matter from its financial aspect. Yet even if he had done so in the first place, it would have had no influence upon his decision. He didn't care a curse for the money. To carry his point, he would have tossed aside a fortune twice as large. The issue he confronted, stripped of all its distractions, was simply whether his love were potent enough to overmaster his pride and bring it to its knees.

Even for the sake of Lucy Webster, whom he now realized he loved with a passion more deep-rooted than he had dreamed, could he compel himself to do the thing he had staked his oath he would not do?

Until this moment he had never actually examined his affection for the girl. Events had shaped themselves so naturally that in cowardly fashion he had basked in the joy of the present and not troubled his mind to inquire whither the phantasies of this lotus-eater's existence were leading him. When a clamoring conscience had lifted up its voice, he had stilled it with platitudes. The impact of the crisis he now faced had, however, jarred him out of his tranquillity and brought him to an appreciation of his position.

He loved Lucy Webster with sincere devotion. All he had in the world he would gladly cast at her feet,—his name, his heart, his worldly possessions; only one reservation did he make to the completeness of his surrender. His pride he could not bend. It was not that he did not wish to bend it. The act was impossible. Keenly as he scorned himself, he could not concede a victory to Ellen Webster,—not for any one on earth.

The jests of the townsfolk were nothing. He did not lack courage to laugh back into the faces of the jeering multitude. But to own himself beaten by a mocking ghost, a specter from another sphere; to relinquish for her gratification the traditions of his race and the trust of his fathers; to leave her triumphant on the field,—this he could not do for any woman living—or dead.

Ah, it was a clever net the old woman had spun to ensnare him, more clever than she knew, unless by some occult power she was cognizant of his affection for Lucy. Could it be? The thought arrested him.

Had Ellen guessed his secret, and, armed with the knowledge, shaped her revenge accordingly? If so, she was a thousand times more cruel than he had imagined her capable of being, and it gave quite a different slant to her perfidy. Suppose she had suspected he loved Lucy and that Lucy loved him. Then her plot was one to separate them, and the very course he was following was the result she had striven to bring about. She had meant to wreck his happiness and that of the woman he loved; she had planned, schemed, worked to do so.

Martin threw back his head and laughed defiantly up at the ceiling. Well, she should not succeed. He would marry Lucy, and he would rebuild the wall: and with every stone he put in place he would shout to the confines of the universe, to the planets where Ellen Webster's spirit lurked, to the grave that harbored her bones:

Amor Vincit Omnia!

With jubilant step he crossed to the window and looked out. A slender arc of silver hung above the trees, bathing the fields in mystic splendor. It was not late. Only the maelstrom of torture through which he had passed had transformed the minutes to hours, and the hours to years. Why, the evening was still young, young enough for him to go to Lucy and speak into her ear all the love that surged in his heart. They had been made for one another from the beginning. He would wed her, and the old homestead she venerated should be hers indeed. It was all very simple, now.

With the abandon of a schoolboy he rushed downstairs, pausing only an instant to put his head in at the kitchen door and shout to Jane:

"I'm goin' over to the Websters'. I may be late. Don't sit up for me."

Then he was gone. Alone beneath the arching sky, his happiness mounted to the stars. How delicious was the freshness of the cool night air! How sweet the damp fragrance of the forest! The spires of the pines richly dark against the fading sky were already receding into the mists of twilight.

He went along down the road, his swinging step light as the shimmer of a moonbeam across a spangled pool.

The Webster house was in darkness. Nevertheless this discovery did not disconcert him, for frequently Lucy worked until dusk among her flowers, or lingered on the porch in the peace of the evening stillness.

To-night, however, he failed to find her in either of her favorite haunts and, guided by the wailing music of a harmonica, he came at last upon Tony seated on an upturned barrel at the barn threshold, striving to banish his loneliness by breathing into the serenity of the twilight the refrain of "Home, Sweet Home."

"Hi, Tony!" called Martin. "Do you know where Miss Lucy is?"

"I don't, sir," replied the boy, rising. "She didn't 'xactly say where she was goin'."

"I s'pose she's round the place somewhere."

"Land, no, sir! Didn't she tell you? Why, she went away on the train this afternoon."

"On the train?" Martin repeated automatically.

"Yes, sir."

"When is she comin' back?"

"She ain't comin' back," announced the Portuguese. "She's goin' out West or somewheres to live."

A quick shiver vibrated through Martin's body, arresting the beat of his pulse. Scarcely knowing what he did, he caught the lad roughly by the shoulder.

"When did she go?" he demanded. "What time? What did she say?"

Tony raised a frightened glance to his questioner's face.

"She went this afternoon," gasped he, "about five o'clock it was. She took the Boston train. She said she guessed she'd go back out West 'cause she didn't want to stay here any more. She was afraid of ghosts."

"Ghosts!"

Tony nodded.

"I'm to leave the key of the house at Mr. Benton's in the mornin' an' tell him everythin's cleaned up an' in order. An' Miss Lucy said I was to stay here an' go on with the work till you or somebody else told me to stop."

Without comment Martin listened. Slowly the truth made its impress on his mind. Lucy had gone! Gone!

With the knowledge, all the latent affection he felt for her crystallized into a mighty tide that rushed over and engulfed him in its current. Hatred, revenge, pride were no more; only love persisted,—love the all-powerful, the all-conquering, the all-transforming.

Lucy, dearer to him than his own soul, had gone. Either in anger, or driven forth by maiden shyness, she had fled from him; and until she was brought back and was safe within the shelter of his arms, nothing remained for him in life.

Tony saw him square his shoulders and turn away.

"Good night, Mr. Howe," he called.

"Good night, Tony."

"Any orders for to-morrow?"

"No. Go on with your work as usual. Just be sure to water Miss Lucy's flowers."

"I will, sir."

"An' by the way. You needn't drive into town with that key. I'm goin' to Mr. Benton's myself, an' I'll take it."

"All right."

The boy watched Martin go down the driveway; but at the gate the man wheeled about and shouted back:

"You'll be sure not to forget Miss Lucy's flowers, Tony."

"I'll remember 'em."

"An' if I should have to be away for a while—a week, or a month, or even longer—you'll do the best you can while I'm gone."

"I will, sir."

"That's all. Good night."

With a farewell gesture of his hand Martin passed out of the gate. To have witnessed the buoyancy of his stride, one would have thought him victorious rather than defeated. The truth was, the scent of battle was in his nostrils. For a lifetime he had been the champion of Hate. Now, all the energies of his manhood suddenly awakened, he was going forth to fight in the cause of Love.



CHAPTER XVIII

LOVE TRIUMPHANT

Serene in spirit, Martin turned into the road, his future plain before him. He would search Lucy out, marry her, and bring her back to her own home. How blind he had been that he should not have seen his path from the beginning! Why, it was the only thing to do, the only possible thing!

There might be, there undoubtedly would be difficulties in tracing his sweetheart's whereabouts, but he did not anticipate encountering any insurmountable obstacle to the undertaking: and should he be balked by circumstance it was always possible to seek assistance from those whose business it was to untangle just such puzzles. Therefore, with head held high, he hastened toward home, formulating his plans as he went along.

With the dawning of to-morrow's sun he must set forth for the western town which, if Tony's testimony was to be trusted, was Lucy's ultimate destination. It was a pity his fugitive lady had twelve hours' start of him. However, he must overtake her as best he might.

It was unquestionably unfortunate too, that it was such a bad season of the year for him to be absent from home. Harvest time was fast approaching, and he could ill be spared. But of what consequence were crops and the garnering of them when weighed against an issue of such life import as this? To plant and gather was a matter of a year, while all eternity was bound up in his and Lucy's future together.

In consequence, although he realized the probable financial loss that would result from his going on this amorous pilgrimage, the measure of his love was so great that everything else, even the patient toil of months, was as nothing beside it.

It came to him that perhaps, if he confided his present dilemma to his sisters, they might come to his rescue, and in the exigency of sudden frosts save at least a portion of his crops from loss. They were fond of Lucy. Sometimes he had even thought they guessed his secret and were desirous of helping on the romance. At least, he felt sure they would not oppose it, for they had always been eager that he should marry and leave an heir to inherit the Howe acreage; they had even gone so far as to urge it upon him as his patriotic duty. Moreover, they were very desirous of demolishing the barrier that for so many years had estranged Howe and Webster.

The more he reflected on taking them into his confidence, the more desirable became the idea, and at length he decided that before he went to bed he would have a frank talk with the three women of his household and lay before them all his troubles. If he were to do this he must hasten, for Sefton Falls kept early hours.

When, however, he reached his own land, he found the lights in the house still burning, and he was surprised to see Jane, a shawl thrown over her head, coming to meet him.

"Martin!" she called, "is that you?"

The words contained a disquieting echo of anxiety.

"Yes, what's the matter?"

"Oh, I'm so glad you've got back!" she exclaimed. "I was just goin' over to the Websters' to find you. A telephone message has just come while you've been gone. Lucy——"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Martin breathlessly.

"There's been an accident to the Boston train, an' they telephoned from the hospital at Ashbury that she'd been hurt. They wanted I should come down there!"

She saw Martin reel and put out his hand.

"Martin!" she cried, rushing to his side.

"Is she much hurt? When did the message come?" panted the man.

"Just now," Jane answered. "The doctor said her arm was broken an' that she was pretty well shaken up an' bruised. He didn't send for me so much because she was in a serious condition as because her bag with all her money an' papers was lost, an' she was worryin' herself sick over being without a cent, poor child. He didn't tell her he'd sent for me. He just did it on his own responsibility. Oh, Martin, you will let me go an' bring her back here, won't you? Mary an' 'Liza an' I want to nurse her, ourselves. We can't bear to think of her bein' a charity patient in a hospital."

Jane's voice trembled with earnestness.

"Yes, you shall go, Jane," Martin answered quickly. "We'll both go. I'll see right away if we can get Watford to take us in his touring car. We ought to make the distance in four hours in a high-power machine."

"Mercy, you're not goin' to-night?"

"I certainly am."

"But there's no need of that," protested Jane. "The doctor said Lucy was gettin' on finely, an' he hoped she'd quiet down an' get some sleep, which was what she needed most."

"But I'd rather go now—right away," Martin asserted.

"'Twould do no good," explained the practical Jane. "We wouldn't get to Ashbury until the middle of the night, an' we couldn't see Lucy. You wouldn't want 'em to wake her up."

"N—o."

"It'll be much wiser to wait till mornin', Martin."

"Perhaps it will."

The brother and sister walked silently across the turf.

"I'm—I'm glad you're willin' we should take care of Lucy," murmured Jane, after an awkward pause. "Mary, 'Liza, an' I love her dearly."

"An' I too, Jane."

The confession came in a whisper. If Martin expected it to be greeted with surprise, he was disappointed.

Jane did not at first reply; then she said in a soft, happy tone:

"I guessed as much."

"You did."

The man laughed in shamefaced fashion.

"I ain't a bat, Martin."

Again her brother laughed, this time with less embarrassment. It had suddenly become very easy to talk with Jane.

Welcoming her companionship and sympathy, he found himself pouring into her listening ear all his difficulties. He told her of Ellen's will; of the wall; of Lucy's flight; of his love for the girl. How good it was to speak and share his troubles with another!

"How like Lucy to go away!" mused Jane, when the recital was done. "Any self-respectin' woman would have done the same, too. She warn't goin' to hang round here an' make you marry her out of pity."

"But I love her."

"Yes, but how was she to know that?"

"She must have known it."

"You never had told her so."

"N—o, not in so many words."

"Then what right, pray, had she to think so?" argued Jane with warmth. "She warn't the sort of girl to chance it."

"I wish I'd told her before."

"I wish you had," was Jane's brief retort. "You may have trouble now makin' her see you ain't marryin' her 'cause you're sorry for her."

"Sorry for her!"

Jane could not but laugh at the fervor of the exclamation.

"My land! Martin," she said, "I never expected to live to see you so head over ears in love."

"I am."

"I ain't questionin' it," was Jane's dry comment.

When, however, he set foot on the porch, his lover's confidence suddenly deserted him, and he was overwhelmed with shyness.

"You tell Mary an' 'Liza," he pleaded. "Somehow, I can't. Tell 'em about the will an' all. You'll do that much for me, won't you?"

"You know I will."

The words spoke volumes.

"That's right. An' be ready to start for Ashbury on the mornin' train. We'd better leave here by six, sharp."

"I'll be on hand. Don't worry."

"Good night, Jane."

"Good night."

Still Jane lingered. Then drawing very close to her brother's side, she added bashfully:

"I can't but think, Martin, that instead of puttin' up walls, Ellen Webster's will has broken some of 'em down."

For answer Martin did something he had never done before within the span of his memory; he bent impulsively and kissed his sister's cheek.

Then as if embarrassed by the spontaneity of the deed, he sped upstairs.

* * * * *

In the morning he and Jane started for Ashbury. The day was just waking as they drove along the glittering highway. Heavy dew silvered field and meadow, and the sun, flashing bars of light across the valley, transformed every growing thing into jeweled splendor.

Martin was in high spirits and so was Jane. While the man counted the hours before he would be once more at the side of his beloved, the woman was thinking that whatever changes the future held in store, she would always have it to remember that in this supreme moment of his life it had been to her that Martin had turned. She had been his confidant and helper. It was worth all that had gone before and all that might come after. There was no need for conversation between them. The reveries of each were satisfying and pregnant with happiness.

Even after they had boarded the train, Jane was quite content to lapse into meditation and enjoy the novelty of the journey. Traveling was not such a commonplace event that it had ceased to be entertaining. She studied her fellow passengers with keenest interest, watched the pictures that framed themselves in the car window, and delighted in a locomotion that proceeded from no effort of her own. It was not often that she was granted the luxury of sitting still.

They reached Ashbury amid a clamor of noontide whistles, and took a cab to the hospital. Here the nurse met them.

"Miss Webster has had her arm set and is resting comfortably," announced the woman. "There is not the slightest cause for alarm. We telephoned merely because she was fretting and becoming feverish, and the doctor feared she would not sleep. The loss of her purse and bank books worried her. We found your address in her coat pocket. She was too dazed and confused to tell who her friends were."

"Is she expectin' us?" inquired Jane.

"No," the nurse answered. "The doctor decided not to tell her, after all, that we had telephoned. For some reason she seemed unwilling for people to know where she was. To be frank, we rather regretted calling you up, when we discovered how she felt about it. But the mischief was done then——"

"It warn't no mischief," Jane put in with a smile. "It was the best thing that could 'a' happened."

"I'm glad of that."

"Could I see her, do you think?" demanded the visitor presently.

"Yes, indeed. She is much better this morning. Perhaps, however, one caller at a time will be enough; she still has some fever."

"Of course."

Jane turned to Martin; but he shook his head.

"You go," he said.

"I'll do whatever you want me to."

"I'd rather you went first."

"Just as you say. I won't stay long though."

After watching the two women disappear down the long, rubber-carpeted corridor, he began to pace the small, spotlessly neat office in which he had been asked to wait. It was a prim, barren room, heavy with the fumes of iodoform and ether. At intervals, the muffled tread of a doctor or nurse passing through the hall broke its stillness, but otherwise there was not a sound within its walls.

Martin walked back and forth until his solitude became intolerable. There were magazines on the table but he could not read. Would Jane never return? The moments seemed hours.

In his suspense he fell to every sort of pessimistic imagining. Suppose Lucy were worse? Suppose she declined to see him? Suppose she did not love him?

So sanguine had been his hopes, he had not seriously considered the latter possibility. The more he meditated on the thought of failing in his suit, the more wretched became his condition of mind. The torrent of words that he had come to speak slowly deserted his tongue until when Jane entered, a quarter of an hour later, wreathed in smiles, he was dumb with terror.

"She's ever so much better than I expected to find her," began his sister without preamble. "An' she was so glad to see me, poor soul! You can go up now with the nurse; only don't stay too long."

"Did you tell her——" began the discomfited Martin.

"I didn't tell her anything," Jane replied, "except that I was going to take her home with me in a day or two."

"Doesn't she know I'm here?"

"No."

"You don't know, then, whether she——"

"I don't know anything, Martin," Jane replied, nevertheless beaming on him with a radiant smile. "An' if I did I certainly shouldn't tell you. You an' Lucy must settle your affairs yourselves."

With this dubious encouragement and palpitating with uneasiness, Martin was forced to tiptoe out of the room in the wake of his white-robed conductor. As he walked down the long, quiet hall, he said to himself that every step was bringing him nearer to the crisis when he must speak, and still no words came to his lips. When, however, he turned from the dinginess of the passageway into the sunny little room where Lucy lay, he forgot everything but Lucy herself.

She was resting against the pillows, her hair unbound, and her cheeks flushed to crimson. Never had she looked so beautiful. He stopped on the threshold, awed by the wonder of her maidenhood. Then he heard her voice.

"Martin!"

It was only a single word, but the yearning in it told him all he sought to know. In an instant he was on his knees beside her, kissing the brown hand that rested on the coverlid, touching his lips to the glory of her hair.

Jane, waiting in the meantime alone in the dull, whitewashed office, had ample opportunity to study every nail in its floor, count the slats in the slippery, varnished chairs, and speculate as to the identity of the spectacled dignitaries whose portraits adorned the walls.

She planned her winter's wardrobe, decided what Mary, Eliza and herself should wear at the wedding, and mentally arranged every detail of the coming domestic upheaval. Having exhausted all these subjects, she began in quite indecent fashion to select names for her future nieces and nephews. The first boy should be Webster Howe. What a grand old name it would be! She prayed he would be tall like Martin, and have Lucy's eyes and hair. Ah, what a delight she and Mary and Eliza would have bringing up Martin's son and baking cookies for him!

It was just when she was mapping out the educational career of this same Webster Howe and was struggling to decide what college should be honored by his presence that Martin burst into the room. A guilty blush dyed Jane's virgin cheek.

Martin, however, took no notice of her abstraction. In fact he could scarcely speak coherently.

"It's all right, Jane," he cried. "I'm the happiest man on earth. Lucy loves me. Isn't it wonderful, unbelievable? We are goin' to be married right away, an' I'm to start buildin' the wall, so'st it will be done before the cold weather comes. We're goin' to leave a little gate in it for you an' Mary an' 'Liza to come through. An' we're goin' to put up a stone in the cemetery to Lucy's aunt with: In grateful remembrance of Ellen Webster on it."

Jane sniffed.

"I can think of a better inscription than that," she remarked with unwonted tartness, lapsing into Scripture. "Carve on it:

"He that soweth iniquity shall reap vanity; and the rod of his anger shall fail."

THE END