
* A Project Gutenberg Canada Ebook *

This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few
restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make
a change in the ebook (other than alteration for different
display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of
the ebook. If either of these conditions applies, please
check gutenberg.ca/links/licence.html before proceeding.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be
under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada,
check your country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER
COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD
OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

Title: Fighting Stars
Author: Cody, Hiram Alfred (1872-1948)
Date of first publication: 1937 [this edition];
   1927 [but the copyright date of 1937 suggests
   that there are differences between this edition
   and the original 1927 edition]
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1937 [copyright date]
Date first posted: 16 August 2012
Date last updated: 16 August 2012
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #978

This ebook was produced by
David T. Jones, Mary Meehan, Al Haines
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net






                           FIGHTING STARS

                           BY H. A. CODY


    MCCLELLAND AND STEWART
    PUBLISHERS     TORONTO

    Copyright, Canada, 1937
    by McClelland & Stewart Limited

    _Printed in Canada_
    PRESS OF THE HUNTER-ROSS COMPANY LIMITED

       *       *       *       *       *

                    To
            my son GEORGE this
          book is affectionately
                dedicated

       *       *       *       *       *

    "As good luck would have it."

                            SHAKESPEARE


    "When good luck knocks at the door,
    let him in and keep him there."

                            CERVANTES




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                             PAGE

        I His Plan                                      13

       II What He Discovered                            20

      III Fighting Stars                                27

       IV Medical Advice                                34

        V Henry's Views on Education                    42

       VI The Picnic                                    52

      VII The "Twins"                                   60

     VIII First Aid                                     66

       IX A Little Picture                              73

        X Checking the Agent                            81

       XI Another Blunder                               90

      XII Her Desperate Idea                            97

     XIII "The Stars are Comin'!"                      104

      XIV A Discovery                                  112

       XV Startling News                               121

      XVI Under Cover of Night                         129

     XVII A Worthy Champion                            137

    XVIII On Guard                                     145

      XIX Stanfield Makes a Call                       154

       XX The "Shooting" Begins                        163

      XXI Pressed into Service                         172

     XXII The Thrilling Stunt                          179

    XXIII A Morning Call                               186

     XXIV Revelation                                   193

      XXV At the Store                                 201

     XXVI The Night Visit                              208

    XXVII Trapped                                      217

   XXVIII For Her Sake                                 227

     XXIX Discovered                                   236

      XXX What the Picture Revealed                    244

     XXXI Henry's "Specimen"                           251

    XXXII The Final Test                               257

   XXXIII The Uncle                                    263




FIGHTING STARS




CHAPTER I

HIS PLAN


Although Charles Stanfield was a wealthy man he was far from happy.
Everything that money could buy was at his command. He had merely to
give the order and it would be fulfilled without delay. From a worldly
point of view he was an outstanding example of a prosperous man who had
fought his way to the top of the ladder of success. By many he was
admired for his keen business qualities; by others he was feared and
hated. He was considered a hard man, and merciless in any transaction
where money was the object of his pursuit.

But as he sat on the spacious veranda of his noble and luxurious
suburban house, thoughtfully smoking an after-dinner cigar, his life to
him seemed an utter failure. The evening was balmy and refreshing, a
pleasant contrast to the intense heat of the day. The air was redolent
with the scent of rare and old-fashioned flowers from the well-kept
gardens surrounding the house. Smooth velvet lawns sloped gently to the
street beyond, over which arched the outspreading branches of lordly
maple and elm trees. It was an entrancing spot, and the admiration of
all who looked upon it. But it was too trim and neat. Seldom did any
weary wayfarer rest beneath the shade of those old trees, and never did
little children wander along the gravelly walks nor tumble and play upon
the grassy lawns. It was a paradise sealed so far as any touch with the
outside world was concerned, and it had been so for years.

By Stanfield's side sat a man, somewhat younger, silently smoking. His
strong intellectual face betokened the deep student. And so he was, for
William Radcliffe, besides being the president of Strongbow University,
was an authority on botany, and his lectures were always an outstanding
feature of the college curriculum. Twenty years before when he had been
called to his present position, the university was weak and tottering to
its fall. But through his ability and the generous gifts of his friend,
Charles Stanfield, a marked improvement was soon effected, and the
institution ere long became one of the strongest in the entire country.
Stanfield had endowed several chairs, and also had given large sums
chiefly for the sake of his friend. Radcliffe was most grateful for such
assistance, and he hoped that Stanfield in his will would make further
liberal contributions. Of course, he had not even suggested this,
although it was often in his mind. So when he had been invited to take
dinner with his friend for the purpose of considering a very important
matter, he cherished the idea that his hopes were at last to be
realized. He confided this to his wife that afternoon.

"Charles is greatly changed of late," he remarked, "and since his
serious illness he does not seem to take much interest in financial
matters. Why, I was with him last week for over an hour and he never
once referred to money."

"It was his sickness, no doubt, which made the change," Mrs. Radcliffe
replied. "When he has regained his former strength he will be the same
as before. He needs cheering up a bit. Ask him over here for dinner
to-morrow."

"I am afraid he would not consent to come, dear. He seldom goes anywhere
now. I know that the sight of our happy family only intensifies his
loneliness. He told me so once, and said that he would gladly give all
he possesses to have such a family of his own."

"I wonder who will get his money, William? Perhaps he will leave
something to our children as he is so fond of them."

"No doubt he will remember them. But my opinion is that he will leave
most of his wealth to the university. He has taken a great interest in
it, and has received several honors in recognition of his gifts."

Radcliffe was thinking of this as he sat on the veranda by the side of
his companion. Stanfield was unusually silent this evening, and several
times he sighed. At length Radcliffe felt that he could endure the
silence no longer.

"What a beautiful place you have here, Charles," he began.

"Beautiful, do you say?" Stanfield asked, arousing himself and turning
his eyes upon his friend's face. "Yes, I suppose it is beautiful, but
what is the use of beauty if you cannot enjoy it?"

"But what is there to interfere with your enjoying it?"

"Many things, William, and it is to talk over this very matter that I
have asked you to spend a few hours with me this evening. I wish to
apologize for taking you away from your family."

"Oh, do not mind that, Charles. They can get along very well without me
for a while. We shall have the whole summer together, as this is just
the beginning of vacation."

"You are a fortunate fellow, William." Stanfield again sighed as he
knocked off the ash from his cigar into an ash-tray near by. "You can
enjoy life because you have others to enjoy it with you. But with me it
is different. What does all this beauty amount to?" He waved his hand
toward the flowers, lawns and trees. "I have been so engrossed for long
years in making money that I have lost all sense of the beautiful things
of nature."

"But why did you have all this done then? Why did you not let your
grounds grow up in weeds and bushes?"

"Partly for the sake of appearance, and partly in the hope that I might
learn to enjoy it. But it's no use. It means little or nothing to me. If
I had others to enjoy it with me, it might make a difference, but the
very sight of it is almost like gall and wormwood to me now."

"You surprise me, Charles."

"No doubt I do, and perhaps I am foolish to talk in this manner
to-night. But I am getting along in years, and since my serious illness
I look upon life from an altogether different point of view. Until I was
laid aside, I considered the making of money the only thing worth while.
Ever since I left home as a poor boy I gave my whole mind and soul to
that. And I have succeeded, but at what a cost! For the sake of money I
sacrificed all the finer instincts of my nature, and all my family ties
have been so severed for so many years that I do not know how many
relatives I have living. My two brothers died childless, and my only
sister left several children, so I heard at the time of her death. But
how many, and what they are like I have not the remotest idea. They know
nothing of me, I suppose, whether I am dead or alive, for my sister was
a proud, high-spirited woman, who naturally resented my neglect of her.
She married a worthless fellow, a drifter through life."

"Is he living?" Radcliffe asked.

"He died years before my sister."

"How did she manage to get along after his death?"

"I do not know, and that is one of the things which is causing me so
much trouble now."

Stanfield rose from his comfortable chair and walked slowly up and down
the veranda. Radcliffe noted the expression of agony upon his face as he
silently watched him.

"Yes, William," he continued, "if I had only gone to her when her
husband died and helped her, what a joy it would be to me now, and what
a comfort I might have been to her through her years of widowhood."

Wearily he resumed his seat, and leaned his head upon his right hand.
His cigar had gone out, but he still clutched it between the fingers of
his left hand.

"It all came to me while I was lying in the hospital. Marion seemed to
be very near me, and I saw her over and over again just as she looked
when we played together as children. Try as I might I could not get her
out of my mind, and gradually the longing came upon me to have her with
me once more. This increased in intensity as the days passed, and
although I knew that such a thing was impossible, I began to wonder if I
could not do something for her children, that they in return might prove
a comfort to me in my old age."

He paused and gazed out among the trees through the steadily-deepening
twilight. Radcliffe sat very still, although his mind was most active.
He was not at all satisfied at this unexpected turn in the conversation.
His bright vision of a big endowment to the university did not seem so
bright, for he saw instead Stanfield's money going to those shadowy and
far-off nieces and nephews. They might be a useless lot who would not
make good use of the money, but would squander it in a reckless manner.
Stanfield should be warned.

"Suppose your sister's children are unworthy of your assistance or are
incapable of looking after your money should you leave it to them?" he
suggested. "They may be very common and ignorant, and so your bequest
would do them more harm than good. Have you considered that?"

"Marion's children could never be ignorant or common, William. With her
blood in their veins, and with her teaching and influence they surely
must be above the ordinary. While she was alive and with them I am
certain that she kept them respectable. But what may have happened since
her death is what I fear. They may be married now and have families of
their own. They may have gone down in the scale of humanity. Oh, there
are many things that may have happened to them. But I am going to find
out, and I want you to help me."

"Why, what can I do?" Radcliffe asked in astonishment. "I know nothing
about your family."

"That doesn't matter, William. I want you to go with me to find out.
This must be kept a strict secret between us two. I have thought out the
details, and to tell you the truth, I feel strangely enthusiastic about
the adventure. I want to visit the place where my sister spent the last
years of her life, and learn all I can about her children. I shall go,
of course, under an assumed name, so no one will have any idea who I am.
If I should meet any of my nieces and nephews they will have no
suspicion that 'Daniel Doncaster' is their uncle, for that is the name I
intend to take."

"But what are you going to do with me?" Radcliffe demanded.

"Make use of you as a botanist, of course. If I should arrive in a
village alone with my chauffeur, what reason could I give for hanging
about the place for several days? But if we go as tourists, traveling
through the country for the purpose of studying the plants of the
different communities, it would help out a great deal. You will have to
do all the necessary talking about flowers, for to tell you the truth, I
hardly know one from another."

"And what will you do?"

"I? Oh, I shall keep still, smile, look wise, and pretend to know all
about your jargon. But if you will look after the flowers, I'll attend
to family affairs. I guess my business training ought to help when it
comes to ferreting out information. You can leave that to me. Now, are
you willing to undertake this adventure? I want your company as well as
your assistance."

"I see no reason why I should not go with you," Radcliffe replied. "I
shall enjoy the trip, I know, and may get some rare specimens as well.
I have never been to that part of Canada. Your sister lived in New
Brunswick, so I believe."

"Yes, on the Saint John River, a stream noted for its beauty, and well
named the 'Rhine of America.' We have no river in the United States like
it to my way of thinking. It is attracting many tourists from this
country every summer. They go not only for the scenic beauty, but for
the refreshing coolness of the climate. Just wait until you see and you
will then confess like the Queen of Sheba that the half has not been
told."

"You have been dinning this into my ears for a long time," Radcliffe
smilingly reminded. "I have seen much of Canada, your wonderful British
Columbia, the great prairie provinces, and your fine Ontario and Quebec,
but I have missed seeing your Bluenose land."

"You have something to look forward to, then, William, and I am going to
introduce you to the beauties of Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, and
New Brunswick. Just wait until you see the noble Saint John River and
its tributaries, the far-famed Annapolis Valley, and the Island, then I
am sure you will be as enthusiastic as I am."

Stanfield was almost like a boy now as he outlined the proposed tour.
Radcliffe listened in silence, wondering what would be the outcome of
the adventure. He knew from experience how useless it would be to oppose
his companion's plans. But the thought of those nieces and nephews, and
what the finding of them might mean to his beloved university was more
in his mind than the prospect of seeing new lands, no matter how
wonderful.




CHAPTER II

WHAT HE DISCOVERED


After several weeks of pleasant traveling Charles Stanfield and William
Radcliffe reached the little town of Radnor, and put up at the only
hotel the place contained. It was evening, and after supper the two men
sat and smoked under a big horse chestnut tree near the building. The
sun was still shining brightly, and not a breath of wind ruffled the
surface of the Saint John River but a short distance away.

"This is worth coming a long way to see," Radcliffe remarked, as his
eyes wandered out over the water. "This is the climax of all the
wonderful scenes we have beheld since we left home."

"I am glad that you have confessed at last," Stanfield replied. "You
know now that I was not exaggerating when I told you about the beauty of
these provinces down by the sea."

"The half was not told me, Charles. I shall never doubt your word after
this."

"My name is Daniel now, remember. I am entered in the hotel register as
'Daniel Doncaster,' so please bear that in mind. It is here where I am
to begin my inquiries about my nieces and nephews, so we must be
careful."

"So this is where your sister lived?"

"It is one of the places, and here she died, so I believe. I am anxious
to find out as much as possible, so I shall have an interview with the
hotel keeper. He seems like an agreeable man, and should be able to give
me some useful information."

"And I am anxious to get out into the fields, Charles. Oh, excuse me, I
mean Daniel. Confound it! I am going to find it hard to remember that
every time I speak to you."

Both men laughed heartily as they separated, one to his beloved flowers;
the other to begin his family search.

Stanfield found the hotel keeper in his office sorting out some mail
which had come for his guests.

"You have many visitors here during the summer, I see," Stanfield began
as he looked down upon the guest-book lying upon the desk.

"Yes, this is our busy time," was the reply. "I have no end of trouble
with letters, though. Now, here are three for a man who left town
yesterday, and I have no idea where to send them."

"You have lived here for some time, I suppose."

"Most of my life. I was born just a few miles away."

"It is certainly a beautiful spot."

"You were never here before?"

"No. But I have heard much about it. I knew a man many years ago who
lived somewhere near here. His name was Rivers. Perhaps you have heard
of him."

"Oh, John Rivers. Yes, knew him well, poor fellow. I helped to lay him
out after he was drowned. It is generally believed that he committed
suicide, although it could not be proved."

"What was the trouble?"

"Oh, he got mixed up in some affair in the city, lost what money he had
and his position as well. He became depressed when he failed to get
another job. He was a hard worker, and honest as the sun. I have the
opinion that he was made the scapegoat while others got off free. But
you can't make people around here believe that."

"Any of his family living here?" Stanfield asked as indifferently as
possible.

"None now. His wife died several years ago, and I hardly know where his
two daughters are. One is a school teacher somewhere, and the other is
in the States."

"Married?"

"Guess not. It might be better if she were."

"Why?"

"Oh, I can't very well explain. Those two sisters were not one bit
alike. Nita, the school teacher, was steady as clock-work, and stood by
her mother to the last. But Ruth was flighty, wanted to get away from
home and make a name for herself. She's been following the Stage, so I
understand, and that doesn't sound good to us here."

"There were no other children?"

"No, just the two girls. And, my! they were handsome, pretty as
pictures, and as independent as if they owned the world. People said
they were too independent. But I guess they came by it naturally, for
their mother was that kind. Why, when she was left with those two girls
on her hands she wouldn't take a cent in charity, but went right to
work."

"What did she do?"

"Anything that she could find that was honest. For some time she took in
washing, and did scrubbing and housecleaning as well. She did most of
the scrubbing here until her health failed. Then she did sewing until a
short time before her death. She was a remarkable woman and all
respected her very highly."

Stanfield hardly heard these last words, for he had turned away his face
lest he should betray his emotion. He looked absently through the office
window out upon the river. Something, almost like fire, was shooting
through his brain, causing the perspiration to stand out in beads upon
his forehead. He had been totally unprepared for such news as this. So
his only sister had been struggling for years like that--scrubbing and
taking in washing until her health had failed! And then sewing until a
short time before her death! And while she was doing all this he had
been piling up money just for his own selfish interest! He had been
traveling and living in luxury while she had been grubbing from day to
day in her effort to provide for herself and daughters! But what had the
girls been doing? Did the mother work herself to death for them? He
hesitated a little ere asking this question. What would the answer be?
Would it prove them to be unworthy of any effort on his part?

"And what were the daughters doing all this time?" he at length asked in
a low voice.

"Oh, Ruth worked in the city when she got old enough, trying to earn her
own living. But when she could do little there she became discouraged
and went to the States, as I told you. But Nita stayed at home, and did
all that she could, looking after the garden and the chickens, and
sewing her fingers off. She stuck right by her mother to the very last."

"And what then?" Stanfield almost whispered the words.

"Sold the house and put herself through Normal School. She had hard
scraping, though she managed to do it somehow. I bought the house,
thinking it might be a good bargain, but I have it still on my hands."

"How much do you want for it?" Stanfield asked.

"Anything that I can get for it now, although I was asking two
thousand."

"I'll take it."

The hotel keeper looked quickly up, startled and amazed.

"You want to buy that house, sir?"

"I do. Have the deed made out as soon as possible, not to that name,"
motioning to the register, "but to this," and he handed him his
business-card. "Please keep my name a secret for a time, at least.
Stanfield means nothing to you, nor to any one in Radnor. But for the
present I wish to be known only as 'Daniel Doncaster.'"

It was an unheard of thing for Stanfield to act in such an impulsive
manner. In every step of his business career he had thought out most
carefully the smallest detail. But now he was about to buy a house on
the spur of the moment, with not the slightest idea as to what the
building was like. What he would do with the property he did not know.
Neither did he care. He only knew that the house in which his sister had
died appealed to him most strongly. He could do nothing for her now, but
he could keep the house from going to strangers, and he would do what he
could for her children. In that way he might be able to make some
atonement for his neglect.

"Have you the key to the house?" he asked the hotel keeper. "I wish to
have a look at the building. Is it far from here?"

"Only a short distance," was the reply. "I will show you the way as I am
not very busy just now."

It took them but ten minutes to pass from the hotel to the end of the
narrow sidewalk, and a few minutes more brought them to a little cottage
standing a short distance from the street.

"This is the place," the hotel keeper explained, as he unlatched a small
gate and pushed it open. "It's been neglected so long that it's in a
pretty bad shape."

Stanfield made no reply but walked slowly up to the front door. A few
flowers were visible, struggling bravely up through a jungle of weeds.
Large shady trees surrounded the building, the only things of any
apparent value there. The house was dilapidated, gray and
weather-beaten, with many of the clapboards falling off. Panes of glass
had been broken out, and the porch was in ruins. The interior was in a
worse condition. The wall paper was hanging in strips, and in several
places large pieces of plaster had fallen from the ceiling. Stanfield
gazed ruefully around.

"So this is where the Rivers lived, eh?" he queried. "My! what a mess.
And this is what I am about to buy."

"Five years have made a great difference sir," his guide replied. "It
was quite neat at the time of Mrs. Rivers' death. That's the room right
in there where she breathed her last," and he pointed to a small bedroom
on the right.

A slight sigh escaped Stanfield's lips as he walked to the door and
looked in. He found it difficult to control his feelings.

"I wish to stay here a while and look around," he said. "Thank you for
showing me the way. You might as well leave me the key so I can lock
up."

The hotel keeper left, wondering what could be the stranger's special
interest in the old house. Perhaps the man wanted to repair it and use
it for a summer dwelling. Anyway, he was glad at the prospect of getting
the place off his hands, and making a good profit. He had paid only six
hundred dollars for it in the first place when it was in a fairly good
condition. He wished that he had asked three thousand instead of two,
for he believed he would have received it.

Stanfield waited until he was sure that the hotel keeper had left the
building. He then stepped into the little room where his sister had
died. It, too, was much dilapidated, and rat holes were to be seen under
the baseboards. The only window the room contained looked out upon the
back yard. Most of the panes were broken and the glass was lying upon
the floor. Stanfield removed his hat and stood with uncovered head in
that room which had become so sacred to him. His brain was very active,
and the expression in his eyes told something of the depth of his
emotion.

"And so this is where Marion died!" he exclaimed. "Oh, why didn't I come
sooner!"

The sound of his own voice startled him, so strangely hollow did it seem
in that silent house. He glanced around to be sure that no one was
listening. Then, under the impulse of his remorse, he sank to his knees
upon the dirty floor and buried his face in his hands.

"Forgive me, Marion," he moaned. "I can never forgive myself for my
neglect. I am not worthy to be called a man for leaving you to fight
your battle alone. How much I might have done to help you."

For several minutes he remained kneeling there, and when he at last rose
slowly to his feet, he stood in the middle of the room with bowed head
and tears streaming down his cheeks. The thoughts that passed through
his mind were known only to himself, but when he at length lifted his
head and wiped away his tears there was an expression of determination
in his eyes well known to men in the business world. But it was not of
money Charles Stanfield was thinking now, nor how he could get the best
deal in some big transaction.

Ten minutes later when he left the house and walked slowly along the
street in the direction of the hotel he was a man who had seen a vision,
and whose soul had been deeply stirred by a sense of higher things.




CHAPTER III

FIGHTING STARS


"An' there are others besides Sisera, let me tell ye that, Sarah."

"For land's sake! what are you talking about, Henry?"

"Old Sisera, of course. Didn't ye hear the parson read about him
to-day?"

"Certainly I did, and I am glad that for once you were awake to listen."

"Oh, my sleepin' time hadn't come when the parson read about the stars
fightin' ag'inst Sisera. It's the sermon I generally sleep through, fer
the parson is mighty long-winded, an' when he gits on to them patriarchs
an' prophets I jist can't keep me eyes open. It must be the dust he
shakes out of them old fellers that makes me so tarnation sleepy."

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Henry, for talking that way. But
what kept you awake to-day?"

"It was that story about Sisera an' them stars, as I have jist told ye."

"They must have made a deep impression upon you. They are old enough to
put you to sleep, if that was what you needed."

"I know that, Sarah. But fer all that, I was wide awake. I couldn't help
feelin' sorry fer Sisera. The stars fought ag'inst him jist as they have
allus fought ag'inst me. I've told ye over an' over ag'in that I was
born under an unlucky star. But since the parson read that story to-day
I've come to the conclusion that I was born under several unlucky stars,
an' they've been fightin' ag'inst me all me life."

"H'm, I don't believe the stars have anything to do with your luck,
Henry. It's your own fault, I guess."

Mr. and Mrs. Winters were on their way from church, walking slowly along
the road toward their own home, known far and wide as "Red Rose
Cottage," from the profusion of roses in the garden. Henry generally
complained about the length of the service, and how tired and sick he
was at being dragged out to church every Sunday. But on this bright
summer afternoon he was in excellent spirits, as he had come across
something at last which gave him great comfort. He had always known that
luck was against him, and now he could prove it from the Bible. There
was Sisera of ancient days against whom the stars fought. He was certain
that Sarah could not deny the fact, as she pinned her faith upon Holy
Scripture, and never doubted a single word in that sacred Volume.

"Ye believe the Bible, don't ye, Sarah?" he presently asked.

"Yes, every letter of it."

"Well, then, ye can't deny that the stars have a great deal to do with
human bein's. Why, it's all there in black an' white. Look what happened
to Sisera."

"But he was an old heathen, Henry, an' deserved to have the stars fight
against him. He was warring against God's people."

"Say, Sarah, judgin' by yer words, I'm glad ye don't consider me a
heathen. It's the first time in years that I've heard ye say anything in
me favor."

"No, I wouldn't like to catalogue you as a downright heathen, neither
would I care to call you a Christian. I don't just know where to place
you."

"Put me with old Sisera, Sarah. I've taken a sneakin' likin' to that
ancient feller. He was troubled like I am with the stars fightin'
ag'inst him."

"No, I can't do that. You are different from him. He was a king,
remember, while you are nothing but Henry Winters, of Willow Creek,
with not a cent to your name. The stars don't know anything about you."

"But I have the farm, Sarah, an' everybody fer miles around knows me."

"And how long will you have the farm? Haven't you already arranged to
have it mortgaged? People know you, oh, yes, as the laziest man in the
whole country."

"Say, what's comin' over ye, Sarah, that yer so cranky? The service must
have stirred ye up the wrong way. Surely yer not goin' to jine in with
them stars an' fight ag'inst me, too."

"Oh, the service was all right, Henry, and the parson preached a good
sermon. But I'm sick and tired of hearing you talk about your luck. You
seized upon those few words about the stars fighting against Sisera, but
didn't pay the least attention to anything else. You know as well as I
do that the stars have nothing at all to do with you. I remember
learning when I went to school that the fault is not in our stars but in
our own selves if we fail. I can't remember the exact words, but that is
the meaning. I have been patient with you for a long time, but now with
our farm a disgrace and about to be mortgaged, I can stand it no
longer."

"What d'ye intend to do, Sarah?"

"You'll find out to your sorrow unless you quit your nonsense and get to
work. But, there, I might as well talk to a stone as to you. Words of
mine don't seem to have any effect upon you at all."

When his wife was in such a mood as this Henry knew from experience that
silence was the wisest course. He did not go into the house upon
reaching home, but sat under the shade of an old apple tree and smoked
to his heart's content. Here the blissful minutes slipped by, broken at
last by his wife calling him to supper.

"I saw Ada at church to-day, Sarah," he remarked as he began his meal.
"Wonder where Lem was. He hasn't been much at church of late. It's
strange that she'd let him out of her sight so long."

"Lem's falling away, I'm afraid," Mrs. Winters replied. "His mind is so
much taken up with his specimens that he's in danger of losing his hold
on higher things. Anyway, Ada always feels safer when she knows where he
is and what he's doing!"

"I do pity that poor feller, Sarah. He hasn't the life of a dog when it
comes to freedom. Ada's 'most scared to death that he'll git tangled up
with some woman."

"It's the money that makes her so watchful, Henry. If either of them
marries they will both lose their father's legacy, and that's what
frightens her. She's told me so over and over again. It worries her a
great deal."

"It was strange fer old man Karsall to leave his money tied up that way,
Sarah. I allus knew he was a queer duck, but gave him credit fer some
sense until I heard about his will. Jist think of him blockin' his
children that way an' preventin' them from gittin' married if they want
to. Why, Lem doesn't dare to look at a woman."

"And I guess he doesn't want to, Henry. It's not his nature. He's too
much in love with his specimens that he's got stored away in 'The Loft,'
as he calls it. Ada showed me in one day when he was away. It was a
sight to behold, with the glass cases filled with all sorts of queer
things, and the tables covered with curious stones, and funny things
fastened to the walls. He won't let Ada touch or handle anything in that
room. He shows considerable spunk when it comes to that."

"An' he'll show more spunk when he runs across the right gal, mark my
word, Sarah. He's that kind. I know Lem Karsall well enough to believe
that when he gits in love he'll go in head an' shoulders, an' nuthin'll
be able to stop him."

"I guess his sister will soon settle any love-affair."

"Not a bit of it, Sarah, unless she gits in love herself first, which
isn't likely. She's too fond of money, an' she'd sacrifice her
heart-feelin's quick enough fer a dollar bill."

"You shouldn't say that, Henry. Ada Karsall is a good living woman, and
attends strictly to her household affairs."

"Yes, an' the affairs of everybody else in this place, Sarah. Not that I
have anything ag'inst her, remember, fer I like her a hull lot. If I was
a young man an' not married, I'd make a dead-set upon her. She is mighty
good lookin' an' has nice takin' ways, too."

"It's lucky for her, Henry, that you are married. I know all too well
what it means to be tied to a man like you."

"But the gals around here think I'm all right. They like to have me at
their parties. They tell me I'm a good sport an' as young as ever."

"They don't know you as well as I do, Henry Winters. If they had to live
with you and depend upon you for a living they'd soon change their
tune."

Henry said no more just then, permitting his wife as usual to have the
final word. He finished his supper, pushed back his chair, and groped in
his pocket for his pipe and tobacco. As he carved off several slices
from the small portion of the plug that remained, he glanced
occasionally at his wife's face. Then he began to sing, as if to
himself, the first line of the familiar hymn,

    "'O day of rest an' gladness,
    O day of joy an' light,
    O balm of care an' sadness,
    Most beautiful, most bright.'"

He ceased and looked again at his wife.

"We sang them words at the service this afternoon, Sarah, but somehow
they don't seem to fit in here. The Day's all right, as fer as the Lord
made it, but there's not much joy an' gladness in this house."

"And whose fault is it, Henry?" his wife sharply asked. "I have tried
for years to be a consistent Christian, but with all the trials I have
to face, it is almost impossible to be full of joy and gladness."

Mrs. Winters' lips quivered, and tears came into her eyes. These she
hurriedly brushed away with the corner of her apron, rose quickly from
the table and began to clear away the dishes.

"There, there, old gal, don't take on so hard. I know I'm an ugly cuss
to git along with, lazy an' all that. But I swear I'll do better from
now on, providin' them stars don't git too fractious. We'll go to town
t'morrow night an' take in a picture. There's a rattlin' good one on at
the Imp, so I hear. We haven't been there fer months, an' I'm jist dyin'
to see them actors doin' their stunts. I've a notion that way meself,
an' I believe I'd make a good movie actor."

"I believe you would, Henry. As far as acting is concerned you'd make a
grand success. That's all you've been doing since we were married. But
acting such as yours doesn't make much of a success on a farm. It's only
hard grinding work that will accomplish anything there."

Henry made no reply, but rising from his chair, picked up two pails and
sauntered out to the barn, expecting to find the cows in the yard
waiting to be milked. But they were nowhere to be seen. He searched the
pasture until he came to a gap in the fence through which the animals
had strayed. It was dark by the time the cows were found, brought home,
and milked.

"That's jist my luck," he growled, as he set the pails down upon the
milk-house floor. "To think that them brutes should wander off on the
Day of Rest! It's them fightin'-stars ag'in, Sarah."

"Did the stars tear down that fence, Henry?" his wife sternly asked.
"Didn't you do it yourself when you were hauling wood last winter, and
neglected to fix it properly? For goodness' sake, don't blame the stars
for your own laziness."

Henry beat a hasty retreat, and did not again refer to the stars the
rest of the evening. But next morning as he went out to draw a pail of
water, the bucket broke loose, and fell with a splash down into the deep
well. By the time it had been drawn up with a long pole with a spike
driven through one end, Henry was in a very bad frame of mind.

"There, now, Sarah," he roared, as he entered the kitchen, "kin ye deny
that my fightin'-stars are ag'inst me? The bucket broke, an' I've had a
dang hard time gittin' any water fer breakfast."

"And what caused the bucket to break, Henry Winters? You know as well as
I do. It's because you fastened it to the pole with a string when it
broke before, instead of fixing it right. Haven't I warned you time and
time again about it? I have also begged you to get a pump instead of
that ramshackle affair. Why, we are the only ones who use an
old-fashioned bucket and sweep. It almost kills me every time I have to
draw water. And, besides, it is the laughing-stock of the neighborhood.
Don't talk to me any more about your unlucky stars."

"That old well is mighty interestin', though, Sarah. Ye know how people
from the city, an' tourists, too, come all the way to have a look at it.
Artists have painted it no end of times, while one young feller wrote
some verses about it. They all say it's most pictureskew."

"Why don't you include the battered barn, the broken-down woodshed, as
well as the house, Henry? They are all certainly 'pictureskew' if that's
what you want. When will you ever learn to speak the English language?
You make as bad a mess of it as you do of everything else, farming
included."




CHAPTER IV

MEDICAL ADVICE


Henry was not anxious to hear any more solid truth, so instead of
attending to things around the place, he started for the store to
arrange about the mortgage, so he informed his wife. Mrs. Winters sighed
as she gazed after him from the kitchen window while she washed the
breakfast dishes. She knew that a visit to the store meant the rest of
the morning, and that she would not see him again until dinner time. She
was more discouraged than she had been at any time in her life. Henry
was hopeless, and the future looked very dark. She had schemed and
slaved to make an honest living, but with such a careless lazy husband
the task was impossible. But something had to be done or else both of
them would be in the Poor House. The mortgage was the last straw. Soon
their place would be gone, for she well knew that the interest would
never be paid, to say nothing of the principal. It would be only a short
time when the house would be sold over their heads.

When the dishes were at last washed and put away, she went out of doors
and busied herself in her flower garden in front of the house. This was
her sole relaxation. When among the roses, poppies, morning-glories,
gladioli, pansies, and other smiling flower-friends, she was content,
and her care gradually slipped from her mind. As she dug around the
roots, or tied up some weak stalks, she hummed softly to herself. She
was a woman of considerable ability, and naturally sweet-tempered. But
years of grinding toil and discouragement had left their marks upon her
face and form. Only when among her flowers was there a renewal of her
old-time enthusiasm and almost youthful buoyancy of spirit.

So engrossed was she with her work that she did not notice old Doctor
Benson approaching in his light buggy. His cheery voice rang out as
usual as he drew up his horse in front of the house.

"Your garden looks fine, Mrs. Winters," he complimented. "It's a pity I
can't say the same about the rest of the place."

"It is, Doctor," Mrs. Winters replied as she moved close to the fence.
"But Henry will not work, as you are well aware."

"Too bad, too bad, Mrs. Winters. Something will have to be done."

"But what can I do? I'm at my wit's end. I have talked and scolded until
I am tired. I don't know what will cure a lazy man."

"H'm," the doctor grunted, while a twinkle shone in his eyes. "Some
humorist has said that he didn't know of anything that would absolutely
cure a lazy man, but that sometimes a second wife would help a great
deal."

"But I'm not going to give Henry a chance to get a second wife," Mrs.
Winters stoutly declared. "I don't want to die just yet, and, besides, I
wouldn't like to see another woman afflicted as I have been. You will
have to suggest something else, Doctor."

"I don't blame you, Mrs. Winters. Live as long as you can. But is there
any way whereby we can give Henry a good downright scare? I have known
that to be beneficial in several cases. Of what is he most afraid?"

"Work, of course, and next to that, dying. The thought of death sends
shivers through his body. He hates to talk about it, and it is next to
impossible to get him to attend a funeral."

"Then that's the way to scare him, Mrs. Winters. Don't scold him, but
tell him that he isn't looking well, and that he needs a rest or he
won't last long. Seize upon the first opportunity. If his appetite is
not up to the mark, start in right there."

"I'd never begin, then, Doctor. Henry's appetite never fails. It has not
varied since we were married. He is always hungry, and eats everything
that is put before him. I am sure I wouldn't be able to make any effect
upon him through his appetite."

"Dear me! Now, what can I suggest? Suppose you tackle him on his
shortness of breath. If he should come into the house panting for
instance, you might----"

"Nonsense, Doctor, I thought you knew Henry well enough to know that he
never pants," Mrs. Winters interrupted. "He never does anything hard
enough to make him out of breath, so that scheme won't work."

"But he gets excited, doesn't he? I have seen him stirred up to a great
pitch of eloquence down at the store during an election. Anyway, wait
your opportunity, and give him a good scare. He's contrary by nature,
and if the fear of dying doesn't make him buck up just for spite then I
lose my guess. Start in as soon as possible, and I will help you all I
can. Well, I must be moving. Good day, and good luck to you. Get along,
Jerry."

During the rest of the morning Mrs. Winters thought over the doctor's
suggestion. She smiled grimly as she prepared dinner and awaited her
husband's arrival. When at last he ambled into the kitchen, and braced
himself just inside the door for the usual scolding, he was surprised at
his wife's quiet manner.

"You are late, Henry," she accosted. "But, wash yourself and sit right
down to the table. You will feel stronger after you get something to
eat."

Henry's eyes bulged in astonishment, and he sagged back heavily against
the wall.

"I don't feel sick, Sarah," he gasped. "What makes ye think I am?"

"From the way you walked up the road, dear. And now you are leaning
against the wall. I really believe you are not well. I scolded you
yesterday and also this morning, but I am sorry now. I blamed you for
letting the farm run down, and neglecting things in general. But I
should not have done so, for you are not strong. I am going to take
better care of you after this. I was talking to the doctor this morning,
and he is certain that you need special treatment. Get washed, now, and
sit right down before your dinner gets cold."

For once in his life Henry was at a loss for words. He did as his wife
ordered and took his seat at the table. But he did not feel hungry, a
most unusual thing for him.

"Can't you eat your pie, Henry?" Mrs. Winters asked.

"Naw, don't feel like eatin' any. I can't make out what's come over me."

"You need a rest, so the doctor said. Lie down a while and I will
prepare some medicine for you to take when you get up."

Henry pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.

"I don't want to lay down," he growled. "I don't feel sick. It's fresh
air I want. It's as hot as--as an oven here."

"You must have a fever if you feel so hot, Henry. This kitchen is quite
cool."

"It is! Jist look at my forehead; it's streamin' wet."

"That is a bad sign, dear. Oh, I am afraid you are going to be very
sick. Fever comes that way, and it should not be neglected. Do let me
send for the doctor. I don't want you to die and leave me alone in the
world."

This was more than Henry could stand. He seized his hat and made for the
door. On the way he glanced at his face in a little mirror hanging over
the wash-basin. Mrs. Winters smiled as she removed the dishes from the
table.

"I feel very guilty," she said to herself. "I am deceiving Henry and
acting a lie, which is the worst kind of a lie. And yet, what am I to
do? Anyway, it is started, so I must see it through. If this will not
stir him up, then nothing will."

As soon as Henry was out of the house, he sat down upon a block of wood
and fumbled in his pocket for his pipe. Once he glanced toward the
kitchen window, and seeing that his wife was not watching, he examined
his hands, doubled up his left arm and felt the muscles.

"There's nuthin' the matter with me," he muttered. "What's comin' over
Sarah, anyway? She thinks I'm sick, does she, an' need a rest an'
medicine? But I'll show her a thing or two. Sick! who ever heard of me
bein' sick? What stuff has old Doc. Benson been gittin' off? He wants to
put me to bed, treat me, an' send in a big bill. Oh, I know his game,
a'right. But it won't work on me, not by a long chalk. I'm on to his
tricks. He can't fool this old boy."

After he had filled and lighted his pipe, he picked up the bucksaw lying
near, and worked away steadily for over an hour. He cut enough wood to
last for a week, and split it, too. When he was through he went into the
milk-room for a drink of cool buttermilk, as he was hot and thirsty. And
while he was there, Mrs. Winters entered.

"I am afraid you are working too hard, Henry," she began. "Won't you
take a rest, as the doctor suggested?"

"The doctor kin go to blazes, Sarah," Henry retorted. "Do I look sick?
Do I act sick?"

"Well, no, not now, but the doctor----"

"The doctor be hanged! Don't I know how I feel better'n he does? He
wants to stuff me with medicine, an' run up a big bill. But I'll show
him, an' you, too, that there's nuthin' wrong with Henry Winters. He's
as sound as a nut, an' strong as a moose."

Henry flung himself out of the room, and made his way to the barn. Here
he found a piece of wire and went at once to the well where he securely
fastened the bucket to the pole.

"There, I guess Sarah won't be able to twit me any more about that," he
muttered. "I'll tend to the fence next."

With ax over his shoulder, he went to the pasture where he worked for
the remainder of the afternoon. He not only repaired the gap through
which the cows had escaped on Sunday, but several other defective spots.
It was supper time when he again reached home. His face and hands were
well covered with balsam and dirt, and he presented a woeful picture as
he entered the kitchen.

"Do I look sick now, Sarah?" he asked.

"I never saw you look worse," was the laughing reply. "What in the world
have you been doing to get in such a mess?"

"Workin', of course, to prove to you an' the doctor that there's some
life left in me yit. I'm goin' to fix up the hull pasture fence, an'
it'll take me several days to do it. I'm not goin' to have any more long
Sunday tramps after the cows. Git me some hot water, will ye? Ye kin
then pour a little paraffine oil on me hands. This balsam's hard to git
off."

Mrs. Winters was much encouraged at the outcome of her scheme, and she
believed that her husband had turned over a new leaf. She praised him as
he sat down to supper, and told him how glad she was that he was feeling
so much better. And Henry was quite pleased with himself, and for a
change spent the evening at home instead of going over to the store. All
the next day he worked hoeing out his weedy potatoes. Toward evening,
however, his enthusiasm began to wane, and he longed again for the
comfort of the store, and the gossip of his neighbors.

"Guess I've proved to Sarah's satisfaction that there's nuthin' wrong
with me," he mused as he leaned upon his hoe. "I've won out, a'right,
this time, so I might as well have a little let-up. Jist wait till I
see the doctor an' I'll give him a piece of me mind."

At supper he informed his wife that he was tired of farming, and longed
for a change.

"There's nuthin' wrong with me, Sarah, as ye kin see with yer own eyes.
But farmin' isn't in my line. It's too dang lonesome workin' all by
one's self. I need more excitement."

Mrs. Winters realized only too truly what his words meant, and her
bright hopes suddenly faded.

"Then, if you make a change, Henry, I shall do the same," she declared.
"I was hoping that you were going to do better and settle down to steady
work. You can do so if you only have the will, and it will not be
necessary for us to mortgage our place. The stars won't help you unless
you do your part, and neither will I. If you find it lonesome here, what
about me? I never get any change, and as for excitement, I do not know
what it means. Anyway, if you will not work, I shall make a change."

"What d'ye intend to do, Sarah?"

"I shall go to the city and get work there. It will be some change,
anyway, for I am sick and tired of this humdrum grubbing life. There is
nothing going on here from morning until night, and not the least bit of
excitement."

"Ye'll take in the movies, I s'pose, Sarah?"

"Most likely I shall once in a while. My sister has been urging me to
pay her a visit, and so I can stay with her until I find something to
do. If I am to be a slave, I might as well get a little for it, and some
amusement at the same time. I haven't had a new dress for years, and
never have a cent of my own to spend. I have some pride left, and every
woman likes to be dressed decently. I have made over my old dress so
often that I am ashamed of it."

"But what am I to do, Sarah, if ye go away? Who'll look after me?"

"You can look after yourself the best way you can. If you won't work,
you can starve. You might as well sleep at the store, for that is where
you spend most of your time. Perhaps you can get a bite to eat there now
and again."

"An' so ye want excitement, Sarah, eh?" Henry queried. "Well, there
isn't much around here, that's a fact. When that hawk came an' took one
of our chickens two months ago, it was the last thing of note that I kin
remember. Wonder if I could start anything."

"Yes, you can, Henry. You can keep to work and build up our run-down
farm. Why, I wouldn't ask for any more excitement than I have had these
last two days. But that is all over now, and you are going back to your
old ways."

"Yes, that was a bit excitin', Sarah, I admit. But ye see, I had to
furnish the hull show, like a dog chasin' its tail. The fun soon got
mighty stale. No, ye need others in the game to make it interestin' an'
real lively."

"I am glad that you agree with me, Henry," Mrs. Winters replied. "You
can get some change over at the store. But what about me? I never go
anywhere except to church once on Sunday, and but for the comfort I get
there I do not know what I should do."

"An' so ye really intend to go away, Sarah?" Henry anxiously asked.

"I not only intend but am going unless you make a very decided change."

"When, Sarah?"

"That all depends. I shall give you just another week to make up your
mind what you are going to do, Henry Winters. We shall leave it at that
for the present. It's all up to you now."




CHAPTER V

HENRY'S VIEWS ON EDUCATION


This declaration on his wife's part was the severest shock that Henry
had received for years. He was fully aware that what she said she meant,
and that she was determined to leave him if he did not mend his ways. He
knew now that her apparent concern about his health had been merely a
ruse. It made him mad to think how he had been fooled, and he vowed to
get even with Doctor Benson for aiding her in the scheme. But Sarah's
new plan was different, and he did not dare to treat it lightly. What in
the world would he do if she should leave him? The very idea sent cold
chills through his body. He had depended upon her so long to keep things
together, to cook his meals, look after the house, and also to help
around the place, that he could not bear the thought of her going away.
And she had given him just one week to make up his mind. He thought over
it until late that night, and the next morning instead of going over to
the store he worked at his potatoes. The hours dragged slowly by, and it
seemed a long time before his wife called him to dinner. As he entered
the house, Mrs. Winters handed him a slip of paper.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Your school-tax. Jed Peters left it this morning. It's higher than it
was last year, and I do not know where we are going to get the money to
pay it."

"Ten dollars!" Henry exclaimed, as his eyes rested upon the ominous
figures. "Ten dollars fer the up-keep of that school, an' we haven't a
child to send, an' never did. It's outrageous, an' I won't pay it."

"The place will have to, then, Henry," his wife reminded. "That bill's
got to be paid, or they will sell the farm for the amount."

"Let 'em try to sell it!" Henry savagely roared. "I'd jist like 'em to
try it."

"Oh, it's no use making a fuss about it, Henry. That won't do one bit of
good, and you know it. We shall have to sell one of our cows unless
something else turns up to save us."

Henry was too angry for more words. He thrust the offending paper into
his pocket, and ate his dinner in silence. When he was through, he
informed his wife that he was going out to the pasture to finish the
work on the fence.

"There are only a few more rods to be mended," he explained, "so I might
as well git that done now."

Henry's real object was to get away from the potato patch. He could not
loaf very well there. But out of sight of the house he could rest
whenever he felt like it, and that was quite often. It was necessary for
him to keep up the pretense of working, even though he did not
accomplish much. And out there he could nurse his wrath over that
school-tax. The line fence which Henry was repairing separated his farm
from the Karsalls'. The latter was cleared and well cultivated, while
his was nothing but pasture. Lemuel had always been very patient with
his careless neighbor, and had more than his share of the fence in good
condition. This Henry knew, and at times he felt ashamed of himself for
his neglect and the trouble he had given the Karsalls. But on this hot
afternoon his mind dwelt entirely upon that school-bill. He would not
pay it, so he declared aloud, and uttered some most uncomplimentary
words about those who were responsible for the burden. He swung his ax
with unusual energy, at the same time declaring that he would see who
was running the district.

"They're a hull bunch of idiots," he growled. "It's a downright
imposition, an' I won't stand it, by jingo! I'll show 'em a thing or
two."

"What's the matter, Henry?" a cheery voice asked. "You seem to be in a
fighting-mood to-day."

Henry dropped his ax to the ground, and turned quickly around.

"Oh, it's you, Lem, is it? Well, ye needn't scare a feller out of his
wits by comin' up so sly an' quiet like a cat after a mouse."

"Why, I made quite a noise, Henry," was the smiling reply. "I tried to
acquaint you of my presence, but you outdid me by the racket you were
making. From your words I judge that you are getting ready to run for a
councillor at the next election."

"H'm, that wouldn't jar me one bit, Lem. It's this that's stirred me
up," and he handed forth the tax-bill which he had jerked from his
pocket. "That thing says I'm taxed ten dollars fer the school in this
deestrict. Jist think of that!"

"That shouldn't worry you, Henry. A public-spirited man such as you are
should be only too pleased to pay. It helps along the good of the cause.
Education is a most worthy thing."

"But look at what it costs, young man. Ten dollars. Gee whitaker! An' I
recollect when I didn't have to pay a quarter of that. Ah, them was the
good old days. Why, we could git a teacher then fer almost nuthin'. We
paid her sixty dollars a term, an' sometimes less. Now we have to fork
out sixty dollars a month. That's what riles me."

"But surely any reasonable man can't object to that, Henry. A teacher
must have a living wage. 'The laborer is worthy of his hire,' so the
Bible says."

"Oh, the Bible doesn't say anything about women. It only means men. No,
the Lord never intended women to have so much money; it makes 'em too
independent."

"In what way?"

"Well, ye see, when we paid a school marm jist sixty dollars a term, she
was quite willin' to look at the young fellers in this deestrict. She
was more'n ready to grab the fust chap who'd ask her to marry him. There
was Nancy Hoppins, Judy Perkins, an' Martha Sloan, fer instance, an'
others I could mention, who taught school here. Why, they was more'n
glad to git married. It was their only hope an' salvation in them good
old days. But now, land sakes! the school marm earns more'n the young
fellers 'emselves, an' it makes 'em mighty independent. No, 'taint
right. The Lord never meant young women to be so independent an' sot
up."

"You are unreasonable, Henry," Lemuel remonstrated. "I don't agree with
you."

"No one axed ye, young man. I'm a hold-backer, that's what I am, an'
that's what this deestrict needs more'n anything else. I'm goin' to hold
back ag'inst them new-fangled notions that are comin' in."

"But surely you don't object to that new school house. The old one was a
ramshackle affair, and the roof leaked like a sieve."

"I object when a thing like this is given me," and Henry tapped the
tax-bill with his forefinger. "Wouldn't ten dollars make any man
object?"

"But that old building wasn't fit for a school house, Henry. It was a
disgrace to this community."

"H'm, it was good enough fer me when I was a kid. I got my edication
there, an' who says I ain't got larnin'?"

"But it wasn't safe for the teachers and scholars to sit in such a
building."

"It made 'em tough, though. People are gittin' too tender now."

"It killed one teacher, didn't it? She caught a severe cold there, which
resulted in her death."

"Oh, she didn't know how to look after the fire. She couldn't build a
decent one to save her soul."

"What! did the teachers then have to light the fires?"

"Yes, most of the time. We hired a young feller fer a few cents to do
the work, but he was ginerally late, so the teacher had to do it
herself."

"And the people were willing for her to do it, Henry?"

"Oh, they didn't mind. It kept down expenses."

"Sixty dollars a term!" Lemuel softly remarked. "What generosity!"

"Yes, all that. An' it was real edication we got, too, an' none of yer
new-fangled notions."

"What new-fangled notions, Henry?"

"Oh, lots of 'em; manners, fer instance. What has a school to do with
manners, I'd like to know?"

"Very useful, I should say."

"H'm, ye think so, do ye? Look here, we had one school marm who was much
sot on teachin' manners. An' what came of it? Ax Joe Steffins, an' he'll
give ye an earful, a'right. He'll tell ye how his kids undertook to larn
him manners. They said he shouldn't eat with his knife, shouldn't drink
out of his sasser, he shouldn't say 'them merlasses,' 'I seen,' 'have
went,' an' sich stuff. Joe had a heart to heart talk with that teacher,
that's what he had. Now, what right has any young snip of a gal to come
here an' upset old established customs? What's a knife fer, anyway, if
ye can't eat with it? An' what's the use of a sasser if ye can't drink
out of it when yer tea's bilin' hot? An' isn't it right to say 'them
merlasses'? What yould ye put before the word, anyway, if ye don't put
'them'? Doesn't the word end with an 's,' like measles? We say 'them
measles,' so why shouldn't we say 'them merlasses'? It sounds a'right to
me, an' Joe says the same thing. He should know, fer he's got a
dictionary in his house. He bought it at an auction once. Yes, any man
with sich a book as that should know what's what."

Henry sighed and gazed thoughtfully at his tax-bill, while Lemuel gazed
thoughtfully at Henry.

"Ten dollars!" he murmured. "Ten dollars fer sich things as manners!
What's the world comin' to, anyway? But that isn't all, young man."

"No? Something worse?"

"Ye kin jedge fer yerself when I tell ye. Why, the school marm we've got
now is teachin' hijinne."

"What in the world is that, Henry?"

"Why, don't ye know what hijinne is? It's a new-fangled word fer, oh, ye
know, fer keepin' yer teeth clean, yer face an' hands washed, an' sich
like."

"Health, is that it, Henry?"

"Well, I s'pose 'tis, but they call it 'hijinne' now."

"Why should you object to that?"

"But what has it to do with edication, I'd like to know? I never used a
tooth-brush in me life, an' Joe Spiffins said he never heard of sich a
thing till his kids began to talk about it. But what d'ye s'pose they've
found out now?"

"I couldn't guess, Henry."

"Ho, ho, I bet ye couldn't. It's tonsils, that what it is, something way
down the throat which must be cut out. A doctor visited the school last
spring, looked down the throats of all the kids, an' found that more'n
half of 'em have tonsils. Whoever heard of sich things before? If the
Lord gave us tonsils, who has any right to cut 'em out? But that's what
comes from them new-fangled notions. Me an' Sarah never had tonsils. Oh,
no, things ain't what they used to be by a long chalk. Sixty dollars a
month! New school house, manners, tooth-brushes, tonsils, big tax-bills,
an' women runnin' things. Look here, young man, us men in this deestrict
must raise up in our might an' rath an' make the women know an' keep
their places. There must be no more sich nonsense. Men were made to rule
an' to be lords of creation. I'm goin' to start right in the fust time I
meet that teacher, an' tell her in mighty plain language what I think
about her new-fangled notions.

"You won't have long to wait, Henry, for here she is now," Lemuel
announced.

A startled expression came into Henry's eyes as he turned them in the
direction of the teacher, who was coming toward them, accompanied by
several children. His hands clutched hard upon his ax-handle, and he was
about to beat a hasty retreat when Lemuel stopped him.

"You've got to face her, Henry," he laughingly declared, "so you might
as well get through with it now."

"But I'm not ready, Lem," Henry gasped. "This is so sudden that me
underpinnin's are clean knocked out. I must go."

"Don't be a coward, man. Miss Rivers won't hurt you. I'm sure she'll
answer any of your questions about education, such as manners, health,
and tonsils."

There was no time for further conversation, for the teacher was but a
short distance away. Henry thrust the tax-bill into his pocket, stood on
the defensive, and waited somewhat anxiously for the attack. It came in
a most unexpected manner from Miss Rivers.

"Please stand just as you are, Mr. Winters," she ordered. "I want to get
your picture. Your attitude is perfect."

Henry gasped and the perspiration poured down his forehead as he saw her
seat herself upon a little knoll, place an open notebook upon her knee
and start to work. He was too much dumbfounded to say a word, but simply
stared at the young woman before him.

"You had better keep your face straight, Henry," Lemuel suggested,
greatly amused. "Look a little more pleasant, please, but don't move."

Henry was never in such a fix in his whole life. He wanted to swear and
throw his ax at that confounded self-possessed creature before him. He
did neither, however, but stood like a statue among the bushes.
Gradually his anger cooled, and a feeling of admiration stole into his
heart. Her graceful position, the beauty of her animated face, and an
indefinable charm that surrounded her, greatly impressed him. And the
thought that she wished to have his picture had an additional effect.
He could understand her sketching the trees, hills and flowers, but to
want to sketch an old rough bronzed and battered farmer was beyond his
comprehension. Nevertheless, it flattered his vanity, and he wondered
what Sarah would say if she knew about it. Would she be jealous? He
wished she would, for then she might not be so anxious to go away and
leave him alone. This new idea came as an illuminating ray of light in a
night of darkness. He had been vainly groping for some plan whereby he
might cause his wife to change her mind about leaving him. Steady work,
he knew, would solve the problem, but he needed something less strenuous
and more exciting. And now he had it. This young audacious and beautiful
teacher might prove his salvation. He was delighted, and so taken up was
he with his plan that he hardly noticed that Miss Rivers had finished
her sketch and was coming toward him.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Winters," she was saying. "I was anxious to
get a picture of you among the trees, and when it is completed I shall
show it to you."

"Yer very welcome, Miss," Henry replied. "It's too bad, though, ye
couldn't find a better subject. Now, here's Lem, fer instance, he's
young an' good-lookin', an' would make a much finer picter."

"Oh, I can get one of him any day," and Miss Rivers cast a quick glance
at the young man as she spoke. "But you are harder to catch."

"Not if ye use the right kind of bait, Miss. An old critter sich as me
kin be caught any time by a purty smilin' face an' charmin' ways. An'
you've got plenty of sich bait, a' right."

"What about your school-tax, Henry?" Lemuel mischievously asked. "You
have evidently forgotten all about that."

"I have, Lem, an' I don't want ye to mention it ag'in. I'll take care of
that."

"She came; he saw; she conquered," Lemuel quietly remarked.

"What's that yer sayin', young man?"

"Oh, nothing of importance. I was just misquoting an old saying for my
own pleasure. It's a habit of mine."

"Queer pleasure, I should say. But, then, you allus did odd things, so I
s'pose yer hardly responsible."

"I hope you men are not going to quarrel," Miss Rivers intervened. "It
would be a pity to spoil our pleasant time here."

"Oh, no, me an' Lem never quarrel," Henry assured. "We understand each
other, a'right. But, there, I must git on with me work an' finish this
fence. Time's mighty valuable these days with so much to do."

"I am sorry, then, that I interfered with your work, Mr. Winters," the
teacher apologized. "I was about to ask you a favor, but as you are so
busy I hardly like to."

"What is it, Miss? I'm never too busy to listen to any reasonable
request."

"I was going to ask you to go to the Falls with us. I have never been
there, so would like to go to-morrow and take the children with me.
Where are they, anyway?" she asked, while an expression of fear came
into her eyes. "I have forgotten all about them."

"They're jist over in that strawberry patch, Miss, so they're a'right.
But what d'ye want me to go along with ye t'morrow fer? Won't Lem do?
He'll go, of course."

"I suppose so, but I want to make a sketch of you sitting below the
Falls fishing. It should make a splendid picture. And perhaps Mrs.
Winters might like to come, too. We are going to have a regular picnic."

"I don't think Sarah could stand the trip, Miss," Henry explained.
"She's troubled with corns an' finds it hard to walk. Ye'd better take
Ada along, Lem. She kin stand the tramp, a'right."

"She wouldn't care to go," Lemuel quietly replied. "It would be no use
to ask her."

Henry's eyes twinkled with amusement, for he was well aware that Ada
would know nothing about the proposed picnic. He saw how matters stood,
so decided to help all he could.

"I'll go with ye, Miss," he declared. "Where'll we meet? At yer house,
Lem?"

"No, no. This is a good place. How will ten o'clock in the morning do?"

"It'll suit me a'right, I guess."

"And it won't take too much of your valuable time, Mr. Winters?" Miss
Rivers asked.

"Not at all. It'll be time well spent in sich pleasant company."

"Oh, thank you so much. But I must go now and look after those children.
Good-bye until to-morrow."

As she walked across the field, Lemuel took his place by her side. Henry
stood and watched them for a few minutes.

"It's gittin' mighty serious, by the look of things," he mused. "It's
the fust time I've ever known Lem to take a shine to any woman. My!
he'll have a hard row to hoe when Ada hears of it. Poor feller! I pity
him, so must help him all I kin. An' in helpin' him I may be able to
block Sarah in her notion of goin' away. Things are beginnin' to git
real excitin'. Mebbe the stars are goin' to fight fer me after all."




CHAPTER VI

THE PICNIC


All that evening Henry was very active about the place, and after he had
finished the chores he worked for a while at the potatoes. Mrs. Winters
was surprised and also pleased. She concluded that this was the result
of her announcement about leaving home. Perhaps her husband had decided
to turn over a new leaf, after all.

Henry was doing much thinking, and the excitement that he saw ahead
filled his soul with satisfaction. He knew that it would not take long
to excite Sarah's curiosity, and then when her jealousy had become
aroused, his object would be attained. But he had to be careful and be
able to prove, when the time came, that he was merely assisting Lem in
his love-affair. Ada would soon find out what was taking place, he was
certain, and then she would make her brother's life most miserable. She
would also call upon Sarah for assistance, and there was no knowing what
those two women might do when once started upon a rampage, one to save
her brother, and the other her husband, from the wiles of a beautiful
school teacher.

The next morning Henry asked his wife to put him up a lunch, as he did
not expect to come home for dinner.

"It's a long walk from the back pasture," he told her, "an' I want to
stick to the job until it is finished."

"Why, I thought you were nearly through, and had only a little more of
the fence to do," his wife replied.

"I thought so, too, Sarah, but there were spots I over-looked. I'm goin'
to do it well while I'm at it. Hayin' will soon be on now, so I don't
want to be chasin' cows all over creation then."

Thinking that her husband meant every word he said, Mrs. Winters
prepared his dinner and packed it in a small basket.

"You will need something to drink, Henry, so I have put in a bottle of
milk. Keep it in a cool place. You will miss your tea."

"Oh, I don't mind fer one meal, Sarah. There's a good spring of water on
the side of the hill, so I'll put the bottle in that to keep it cool."

Henry's conscience gave him an uneasy twinge as he left the house,
shouldered his ax and made his way across the clearing to the pasture
beyond. He was glad when the trees and bushes hid him from his wife's
view.

"I feel mean at deceivin' Sarah this way," he mused aloud. "But what am
I to do when she kicks over the traces? She sprung that trick on me
about my bein' sick, so I might as well have my turn now. I've got to do
something besides work to keep her from leavin' me, an' help Lem at the
same time."

When at last he reached the appointed place of meeting, any qualms of
conscience which had been troubling him vanished at the sight which met
his eyes. Lemuel and Miss Rivers were already there, and with them five
children, three girls and two boys, ranging from eight to ten years of
age. They were all seated upon the grass, listening to a story Lemuel
was telling. He had just finished as Henry arrived.

"Well, well!" the latter exclaimed. "You folks here ahead of me. I
thought ye said ten o'clock, an' it's only half past nine."

"It is always good to be ahead of time, especially on such a beautiful
morning as this," the teacher smilingly replied. "It is so nice in the
shade of these trees. Mr. Karsall has been entertaining us with such a
delightful story."

"H'm, I guess he's practising Miss."

"What for, Mr. Winters?"

"Ask Lem, an' mebbe he'll tell ye."

The young man, however, was not inclined to be questioned. He rose
quickly to his feet, and picked up the lunch basket.

"Suppose we move on," he suggested, "and get to the Falls before the sun
is too hot. It's going to be a scorching day."

The children were eager to be off, and ran excitedly forward, leading
the teacher and contending with one another for the privilege of holding
her hands. The two men brought up in the rear, walking side by side.
Lemuel's eyes were constantly fixed upon the pleasant scene ahead, and
unconsciously he sighed.

"Tired, Lem?" Henry asked.

"Not a bit. What makes you think I am?"

"By the way ye jist sighed."

"I was merely thinking; that's all."

"About the stories ye'll have to tell, eh?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, ye know as well as I do. Does Ada know yer on this trip t'day?"

"Certainly not. But what difference does that make?"

"A great deal, it seems to me. Ye won't be able to deceive her long, fer
she'll soon catch on to yer game. I'm in the same fix meself, Lem, so I
kin sympathize with ye."

"You are!"

"Yep, that's jist it. Sarah's vowed to leave me if I don't git to work.
An' she'll do it, too, unless I kin knock the underpinin's out of her
plan. She wants me to work harder than is good fer me. But that doesn't
appeal to me one bit, so I've sneaked off here t'day while she thinks
I'm fixin' up the fence. How did you git away, Lem?"

The young man laughed in spite of himself, causing Miss Rivers to look
back.

"We're comin', Miss," Henry quickly called out. "We'll soon ketch up to
ye, so don't worry." He then lowered his voice to a whisper. "Be
careful, Lem, and don't let the teacher know what villains we are. But,
tell me, how in time did you git away from Ada?"

"The same as you did, Henry. She put up my dinner, thinking that I am to
work all day in the back field."

"This is much nicer, eh, Lem?"

"It certainly is. Stolen pleasure is always the sweetest."

"But why should we consider it that, Lem?"

"Because you and I are cowards, Henry."

"Cowards!" Henry roared, and the sound of his voice caused both the
teacher and the children to stop and turn around.

"I thought you men were quarreling," Miss Rivers declared as the men
drew near.

"Naw, me an' Lem never quarrel," Henry replied. "We were jist havin' a
little argyment, that was all. We understand each other, a'right."

They continued on their way and by the time they reached the Falls the
men had forgotten all about their home worries. The glory of the day,
the cool shaded path through the woods, and the laughter of the children
banished all cares from their minds. Then came the beautiful water-fall,
leaping over the high rocks, and splashing softly and musically into the
foamy current below. On each side streams of water poured forth from
between huge boulders, and then parting, flowed like gleaming threads of
silver down over the surface of the great smooth stones. The scene was
entrancing, and Miss Rivers' eyes took in every detail.

"What a picture!" she exclaimed. "And I must have you right in the
foreground, Mr. Winters. You should be fishing."

"But I didn't bring me fishin'-outfit, Miss," Henry confessed. "I fergot
all about it."

"I knew you would, so I brought mine along," Lemuel laughingly replied.
"I shall cut a good rod and fit you out, all right."

"But the bait, Lem?"

"I have that, too, so don't worry. All you have to do is to sit where
Miss Rivers puts you and do as she orders."

Henry found his task most pleasant when seated upon a big rock below the
falls under the shadowing branches of a large tree, with the tumbling
water behind him. He did exactly as he was told, and although he caught
no fish, he did not mind. Life was sweet to him just then, and he
wondered what Sarah would say should she happen along. He smiled grimly
as he thought of the fence he was supposed to be mending. This was much
better than the burning heat of the pasture. Lemuel was amusing the
children along the stream a little farther down, and their shouts of
laughter mingled with the noise of falling water. Miss Rivers sat a
short distance away, her interest centered upon her work. Henry glanced
at her from time to time, and he thought that he had never beheld a more
beautiful woman in all his life. It was no wonder that Lem was about
daft over her. If he were only young again, he, too, would certainly
make a strong bid for her affection.

When at last the sketch was finished, luncheon was served, and there in
a cool mossy spot upon the bank they all gathered. What a happy time
they had, and Henry wished that he could always live in such a manner
with no farm work to do, and with no one nagging at him all the time.

During the afternoon Henry played with the children on the edge of the
stream. He made wonderful little boats for them which they sailed in
shallow pools. When tired of this, they built stone houses and played in
the sand and gravel that had been thrown up in heaps on bars along the
shore. Miss Rivers and Lemuel were thus left much together, and Henry
chuckled more than once as he watched them while they collected
specimens of flowers or curious stones, and then seated themselves upon
the bank to examine their treasures.

"It was more than to git my picter at the Falls that they wanted me
along," Henry mused. "But I'm mighty glad I'm here, fer if I kin help
them two young people with their love-affair it'll be a good work. Sarah
an' Ada wouldn't think so, though, an' they'd call me an old fool, as
mebbe I am. But I'd a durn sight rather be an old fool an' happy, than
be mighty smart an' unhappy."

The afternoon sped all too quickly, and when it was time to start for
home the children were loth to leave. They did not seem to be one bit
tired and scampered lively back through the woods. Henry walked behind
and watched with interest the merry group in front of him, Lemuel and
Miss Rivers walking side by side, and the little ones racing on ahead.

After a tramp of over half an hour they came close to Lemuel's back
field, and ere they emerged from the woods they could see the calm river
far off in the distance. Then the open fields on the right came to view,
sloping gently down to the house and the barn beyond. And as Henry
looked in that direction he stopped dead in his tracks, for he had
caught sight of two women picking berries, and he recognized them at
once. He spoke quickly to Lemuel, and as the latter turned back to where
he was standing, Henry pointed to the women.

"Sarah's there with Ada," he whispered. "I don't want to meet her jist
now, so I'm goin' to leave ye right here an' cut down through me own
pasture. You'll have to face the music, Lem."

"I'm afraid so," the young man ruefully replied, "But it might as well
be now as at any other time. It's got to come, anyway."

"I know it, Lem, an' I sympathize with ye. But don't tell Sarah that I
was at the picnic to-day."

"I won't give you away, Henry. She'll never hear it from me."

"That's good, Lem, an' I'll help ye all I kin, remember."

In another minute Henry was making his way through the bushes to where
he had left his ax that morning. Here he stopped, and, hidden from view,
he watched all that was taking place in the field beyond. He saw the
berry pickers standing very erect looking intently upon the picnickers
as they wended their way slowly along on the other side of the field
down toward the house. He smiled grimly as he imagined what his wife and
Ada were saying, and what was in store for Lem when his sister returned
home.

"My, I'm mighty glad Sarah didn't see me," he muttered. "But she's bound
to find out somehow, fer I've never been able to keep anything from her
yit. She's a wonderful woman, an' no mistake. But she's got to have some
suspicion before the week's up so she won't leave me. Now, how in time
kin I manage it!"

He made his way slowly homeward, and when he reached the house he
lighted the fire in the kitchen stove. By the time Mrs. Winters arrived
the water was boiling in the kettle. She carried a bowl full of wild
strawberries in her hand which she placed upon the table. When she had
laid aside her wide-rimmed straw hat, she turned toward Henry who was
fumbling in the wood-box for another stick to put on the fire.

"My! this has been a hot day," she declared. "It must have been terrible
for you over there in the pasture."

"It was purty hot, Sarah. But, then, I'm used to it by this time."

"Did you get all the fence mended?"

"Yes, all done. It's as good as new now. Say, I'm as hungry as a bear,
an' them berries look mighty temptin'. Where did ye git 'em?"

"I was out with Ada this afternoon. Poor girl, she is much worried."

"What's the matter with her now, Sarah?"

"It's about Lem. That school teacher has set her cap for him, and Ada's
sure he's head over heels in love with her."

"That's nuthin' to worry about, Sarah. Lem's of age an' should know his
own mind by this time."

"But it's the money question, Henry. If Lem marries, then he and Ada
will get no more of their father's money. That's one of the things she's
troubled about."

"What's the other?"

"The way Lem deceived her to-day. She put his dinner up for him this
morning, thinking that he was going to work all day in his back field.
But instead, he went off to the Falls with the teacher and some young
children. Just think of that! How could he deceive his only sister that
way?"

"Ye don't tell, Sarah! Well, I can't blame Lem. He's young an' the
teacher's mighty handsome, so what kin ye expect? Ada does nuthin' but
yang at him all the time about money, an' how he must never git married.
She pounces on him like a hawk upon a chicken if he looks at a gal. I'm
glad he's showed some spunk at last."

"But think of what's at stake, Henry. They'll lose all their money. And
wasn't it mean for him to deceive her the way he did to-day?"

"Yes, that was mean, Sarah. But let's have some supper now. I'm about
starved."




CHAPTER VII

THE "TWINS"


Supper was ready, and Ada Karsall had called her brother three times.
When at last he did appear, he apologized for his tardiness.

"But I called you three times, Lemuel," his sister reminded.

"Is that so? Why, I heard you only once. But I was so taken up with
several new specimens that I was completely lost. They are valuable, and
we found them right at the Falls. They will prove a valuable addition to
my collection of stones. I must go there again just as soon as I get
time."

"And Miss Rivers will go, too, I suppose? She seems to be interested in
such stupid things."

"Very much so, Ada. It was she who discovered a number of the finest.
Miss Rivers is a keen student and knows a great deal about rocks,
flowers, trees, and birds. She also paints and draws wonderfully well."

"She must certainly be a marvel, Lemuel. Have you just found out her
remarkable attainments?"

"Oh, no. I have known for some time that she is interested in such
things, but only lately have I learned how much she really knows. It was
a great pleasure to talk with her to-day, and I enjoyed myself
thoroughly."

"Did you intend to go to the Falls when you left home this morning,
Lemuel?"

"I did."

"And you deceived me by saying that you were going to work in the back
field. Why was that?"

Lemuel laid down the knife with which he had been buttering a piece of
bread, and looked intently at his sister.

"I acknowledge that I told you a lie, Ada," he confessed. "But I shall
never do such a thing again."

"H'm, do you think I shall ever believe you after this? I did give you
credit for some sense, but I have now come to the conclusion that you
have lost what little you had."

"Perhaps you are right, Ada. I may not have had much sense in the past,
but I have recently found some of a different nature."

"What do you mean?"

"In the way I have acted, especially this morning when I deceived you.
But I shall never do so again, as I told you. I am old enough to know my
own mind, so when I want to go to the Falls, or anywhere else for that
matter, I shall not lie about it."

Ada looked at her brother in astonishment. So long had she ruled him,
that she could only consider his words as signs of open rebellion. Never
before had he spoken in such a manner. Her face flushed, and the
expression in her eyes told of her anger. Her authority over Lemuel was
now at an end, and it was due to the influence of the school teacher.
She had a suspicion of this before, but believed that she had her
brother so much under her control that he would hardly dare to speak to
Miss Rivers, let alone go to the Falls with her. It was a terrible
dilemma in which she was placed.

Ada was two years older than her brother, and they had lived together on
the farm since their father's death. They were commonly known as "the
twins," being so much alike in manner. Some referred to them as "Lem an'
Ada," and this at last was changed to "lemonade" by a parish wit. So
"the lemonade twins" was at last generally used when reference was made
to them. Ada was a good housekeeper, and looked after her brother's
interest with a watchful eye. If the thought of marriage ever entered
her mind, she never mentioned it. She was good-looking, bright, capable
and intelligent. Several young men were more than anxious to win her,
especially Joe Rundell. People said she would never marry owing to the
peculiar clause in her father's will. She had no fear about herself, but
the idea that Lemuel might some day fall in love with a girl filled her
soul with a nameless dread. Hitherto he had given her no cause for
worry, but had appeared perfectly satisfied with his manner of living.
But now what she had feared had come to pass, for she was certain that
he was in love with the teacher.

Lemuel went on with his supper, and paid no heed to his sister. If he
noticed her agitation he gave no sign, so deeply engrossed was he with
his own thoughts. This added to Ada's annoyance. She longed to do
something desperate, to shake him in order to arouse him from his
indifference. When supper was over, she rose from the table and began to
clear away the dishes. Lemuel did not leave his seat, but sat gazing
steadily before him, lost in thought. This was more than Ada could
stand.

"Miss Rivers must have affected your mind to-day," she began. "Or is
that you are so lifted up to heaven that you cannot come down to earth?"

"It is neither," Lemuel laughingly replied. "I was thinking about those
specimens and longing to have an expert's opinion as to their value."

"Doesn't the teacher know, Lemuel? She's such a wonder in your eyes that
she should be able to tell you all about them."

"We both think the same about them, Ada. But we may be wrong."

"I don't care how wrong you are about those pieces of old stone. I
wouldn't worry one bit if you never found out. But what does worry me is
the way you and that teacher are acting."

"Why, for pity's sake, what have we been doing?"

"Acting like two fools. You know as well as I do what will be the
outcome of all this. That girl will get you so entrapped that you'll
have to marry her, and then what's to become of us? Have you thought of
that?"

"I haven't bothered my head one bit about it."

"I thought so. But you should think of me even if you don't think about
yourself. Isn't it stated in father's will that if either of us get
married the money will cease?"

"I know that, all right, Ada. You have drilled it into my head ever
since father died. I know it by heart."

"And what good has my teaching been when you begin now to flirt with a
designing girl?"

"That's enough, Ada. I don't want you to use the word 'flirt' again.
Miss Rivers is not that kind of a girl. And why do you call her
'designing'?"

"Because she knows you have money, and is anxious to marry you for that
very reason."

"I don't believe she knows anything about it. And nine hundred dollars,
which is my share, is not such an alluring sum, after all."

"But it is for a poor school teacher. It must seem a fortune to her."

"You are a good woman, Ada, but you look at things in a wrong light,"
Lemuel quietly replied. "Miss Rivers is no more to me than a friend
interested in my special studies. There is nothing, I assure you, that
should cause you any worry."

"I don't know about that. Judging from what has taken place to-day I
have much reason to worry. You have begun the road all lovers travel,
meeting each other through deception, and both interested in the same
things. I see the end of my money."

"You think more of money, Ada, than of anything else."

"And why shouldn't I when I have nothing else upon which to depend? If
that goes, I shall be destitute. Father never taught me to do anything
but housework, and I suppose I can fall back upon that if necessary. He
gave you an education, but he never thought about me."

"Yes, he sent me to college, Ada, if that is what you mean by an
education. But what good has it done me in the way of earning a living?
I learned nothing of any practical value."

"It spoiled you, that's what it did."

"I wouldn't like to say that. Although I studied many things which are
of no practical use to me now, yet they helped to develop my mind, and
for that I am thankful."

"It taught you to waste your time with a whole lot of nonsense. Look at
the trash you have gathered in The Loft. And think how much it cost you
to build that place. You might have used the money to a far better
advantage."

"Money is not everything, remember, Ada. I get a great deal of pleasure
out of my study of Nature. Men of great wealth are not always happy."

"But they have made a good living, Lemuel, and have everything they
need."

"So do we, Ada. We have what we need, although we may not have all we
want. We never will, I suppose, in this life. We have our comfortable
home, and you look well after the house as I do the farm. We are not in
debt, and we are able to pay for everything we buy, and put away a
little in the bank each year."

"But how long will we be able to do so if you marry that teacher? If you
bring her here, where am I to go? To the Poor House, for I won't have a
cent to my name."

"I don't know what father was thinking about to put that strange clause
in his will," Lemuel replied. "He was such a sensible man in other ways.
But why he should not wish us to marry is more than I can understand."

"And the Trust Company has full charge of the money. We have not a word
to say about it, and don't even know how much father was worth. He left
everything for the Company to manage."

"That is so, Ada. We were not of age when he died, and did not trouble
our heads about the will. We have always been satisfied to get our money
twice a year."

"But don't you think it is time we should know more? We are over age
now, so I think we should have a complete knowledge about father's
business and how much he was really worth."

"We have talked about this before, Ada, and have often wondered what we
could do about it."

"Have you ever tried?"

"No, I have not. I have often intended to go to the Trust Company when
in the city to make some inquiries, but so far I have put it off."

"Well, I think that would pay you better than spending so much of your
time upon useless stones, flowers, roots, and such things. If we don't
look after our own interests no one else will."

"Suppose you, go, Ada," Lemuel suggested. "You can talk much better than
I can. What a fine lawyer you would make. You have the spunk, all
right."

"If I didn't have more than some men I know, I'd be ashamed of myself,"
Ada retorted.

Lemuel made no reply, but rising from the table, left the room. His
sister continued her dish-washing and tidied up the kitchen. She was
annoyed at her brother, but more so at Miss Rivers, whom she blamed for
all the trouble. Until she came to the place, life had gone along very
smoothly. But now all was changed. Lemuel was slipping from her grasp,
and she would lose her father's money. What could she do to check her
brother and bring him to his senses? She needed advice, and her thoughts
naturally turned to Mrs. Winters. She was a woman to be trusted with her
secret, and she would sympathize with her, at any rate, even though she
might not be able to assist her in solving the problem. Yes, she would
go to her at once.




CHAPTER VIII

FIRST AID


When Lemuel left the kitchen he went at once up to The Loft where he
kept his specimens. He wished to be alone that he might think. And
certainly it was a desirable place for study and meditation. It had
formerly been a large store-room over the woodhouse, but Lemuel had
cleared out all the rubbish and converted it into a suitable abode for
his work. There were small windows under the eaves on the east and west
sides, while on the south a large dormer-window had been placed which
extended down two feet from the floor. This was Lemuel's favorite
corner, and as he sat near the table he could obtain a splendid view of
the main road, of undulating meadows, groves of trees, and a long
stretch of the noble river beyond. Here he would sometimes pause in his
work, gaze through the window, and dream great dreams, which he never
imparted to others, not even to his sister.

His life, however, was not spent in dreaming, for the fine condition of
his small farm, and the specimens he had collected were sufficient
proofs of his activity. The latter were to be seen everywhere in The
Loft. On the walls and shelves were samples of native woods, plants,
pressed ferns and flowers in abundance. On tables were to be found
glass-covered cases filled with insects, all neatly arranged and
classified, from the most common to the rarest. Here also were specimens
of rocks gathered from fields, brooks, and quarries for miles around.
Eggs and nests of wild birds had their allotted places, and the corners
of the room were filled with odds and ends of curiosities of nature he
had found in his various rambles.

On shelves near the large window he kept his favorite books, and these
worn and thumb-marked volumes told of constant use. A pile of note-books
adorned the table, all numbered in alphabetical order. In these were
recorded the lists of his treasures, together with any interesting facts
he had discovered. No eyes but his own had ever read the contents, for
no one in the parish was interested in such things, and there was none
of his neighbors to whom he could reveal the deep things of the heart.
Into these notes he had put the best that was in him, writing and
re-writing them, at times giving his imagination free play, and
breathing into them the spirit of romance that animated his own soul.
Sometimes he would embody into his work lines from the poets, thus
giving strength and beauty to the whole. Travelers passing along the
road late at night would frequently see the light shining from The Loft,
and wonder what Lem Karsall could be doing up there at such an hour.
They often discussed the matter with one another, and although they
acknowledged that he was a good farmer, yet they believed there was a
"queer streak" in his head.

Lemuel knew of their indifference to his studies, but it did not trouble
him. He often wished, though, that he could go out and talk with his
neighbors about his discoveries, and cause their hearts to be stirred
like his own. He had tried it several times, but all in vain, so at last
gave up the attempt as useless. They could talk only of farm affairs,
such as horses, pigs, cows, the crops, and when an election was pending
they were interested in that.

But as Lemuel sat in his corner after leaving Ada, his mind was not upon
his studies. Even his sister's harsh words did not disturb him, for his
soul was filled with a strange and wonderful feeling. He knew its
meaning, and was not ashamed to confess it to himself. It was his
intense love for Nita Rivers. Her face was constantly before him as he
sat there looking out of the window. He pictured her as he had seen her
that afternoon at the Falls, seated upon the rocks, or walking by his
side. He recalled the words she had uttered, and the varying expressions
upon her face. And she was interested in his studies, too. In her he had
at last found a kindred spirit, one to whom he could talk and who
understood what he was talking about.

He was interrupted in his meditation by the sound of a voice below, and
in another minute he heard the heavy thump of boots upon the stairs.
Then the door was thrust open, and Henry Winters entered.

"My! I'm all out of breath," he panted, as he clumped across the room.

"Anything wrong, Henry?" Lemuel inquired, somewhat annoyed at this
intrusion. "Have your cows broken out again, and you need another picnic
to get your fence mended?"

"No, no, not me cows this time, Lem, though I wouldn't mind another
racket sich as we had yesterday. But it's something serious now. Widder
Brown's boy, Sammy, has shot himself in the leg, an' he's bleedin' to
death."

"He is!" Lemuel exclaimed as he sprang to his feet. "Why didn't you go
for the doctor?"

"It would take too long to git him, so I hustled fer you. Come on,
quick."

Speedily they made their way down the stairs and out upon the road.

"What made you think of me, Henry?" Lemuel asked, as they hurried
forward.

"'Cause you have larnin', that's why. A feller who reads an' studies as
much as you do must know more'n the general run of folks."

"But the 'general run of folks,' as you call them, consider me daft, and
laugh at me."

"How d'ye know that, Lem?" Henry asked in surprise. It embarrassed him,
too, for he had often done the same thing himself.

"Oh, I know, all right, Henry. People think I am silly spending so much
of my time with books, and hunting around for the beautiful and
wonderful things in nature."

"I guess yer right, Lem. We all have made fun of ye, an' I don't deny
it. But there was no real harm in what we said. There wasn't any spite
to it. We talked jist to have a little fun, that was all."

"Because you didn't understand me, I suppose?"

"Ye've struck it right, Lem. We couldn't understand yer ways. But, say,
let up, will ye? I'm about winded at this clip yer goin'."

Lemuel laughed, and slowed down a little.

"We're almost there, Henry, so keep up your courage a little longer. You
understand now why I'm hurrying, don't you?"

"Indeed I do, me boy, an' it's well that we should hustle."

"That's just it, Henry. And so with other things. You all called me
silly because you didn't understand what I was doing. You passed
judgment upon me without trying to find out the meaning of my studies."

"Yer right ag'in, Lem," Henry panted, as he struggled to keep pace with
his companion. "Now, when I got me school-tax a few days ago I was as
mad as a dog with its nose full of porkypine quills. But when I met that
teacher, heard her talk, an' larned what she is doin' fer the children
of this deestrict, I cooled right down. Yes, I jedged her mighty hard
before I understood her. I'm goin' to pay that ten dollars without
another growl, even if I have to borrow the money to do it. I might have
to git you to lend it to me, Lem."

"All right, Henry, let me know when you want it, but don't mention it to
anyone. Ada might hear of it, and she has queer notions about lending
money."

"She'll never hear of it through me, Lem, let me tell ye that. I won't
say a word to Sarah, neither. Seems to me, what women don't know won't
do 'em any harm. We're purty much in the same box jist now, so we've got
to unite fer common defense."

They were now at Widow Brown's house, so further conversation was out of
the question. Lemuel found several women there, all greatly excited,
while Sammy was lying on the sofa very still and white.

"Oh, I'm so glad you have come!" Mrs. Brown cried, as Lemuel entered. "I
was so afraid my poor boy would bleed to death before you could get
here. Surely you can do something to save his life."

Lemuel at once set to work, applied first-aid remedy, and in a short
time had the bleeding completely stopped.

"There, I guess that will do until the doctor arrives," he announced.
"He can do the rest."

Henry had been watching with wide-eyed wonder and admiration as Lemuel
checked the flow of blood by a simple tourniquet made of a handkerchief
and a small stick. It was all new to him.

"Did ye larn to do that trick at college, Lem?" he asked when the job
was finished.

"Yes, I took a special course in First Aid. Anyone can do that."

"I s'pose so, Lem, but no one here knew about it. Now, that's what I
call edication. My! ye've riz a big jump in my estimation since ye done
that. I'd heard tell that ye knew a lot of stuff, but didn't put much
stock in it before."

Lemuel smiled at Henry's enthusiasm, although he was somewhat
embarrassed. The women were looking curiously at him, as if he had
performed some magical feat upon the wounded boy.

"Suppose you hurry away for the doctor, Henry?" he suggested. "Sammy
needs more assistance than I can give him."

"I'll go at once, Lem. You stay here till I come back an' comfort the
women folks. If ye need any special help, ye'd better run over fer
Sarah. She's quite a good nurse, an' kin mend 'most anything from a
chicken's broken leg to a cracked sasser."

"It's a wonder you didn't go for her, then, instead of hurrying for me,
Henry."

"She couldn't have done that job, Lem. Even Sarah has her limitations.
But, there, I must git along."

When once outside, he hurried on his way down the road. As he came to
the house where Nita Rivers boarded, a sudden idea came into his mind.
This caused him to stop in the middle of the road for fully a minute.

"I'll do it," he told himself with a chuckle. "I owe it to both of 'em.
It'll be another chance fer 'em to meet ag'in when Ada won't be pokin'
her nose around to spile the game. Ho! ho! I guess the Lord's on their
side, a'right. Or mebbe it's their fightin'-stars."

He hurried onward, and when he had knocked upon the door, it was opened
by the very person he wished to see. He thought she looked more
beautiful than ever standing there in the doorway.

"Evenin', Miss," he accosted. "I jist stopped in passin' to tell ye that
Sammy Brown's shot himself. He's one of yer pupils, so I thought ye'd
like to know."

"Is he dead?" the teacher anxiously asked.

"Not now, Miss. But he would be if Lem hadn't made that thing he calls a
'turn-key' an' stopped the bleedin'. Guess he'd like to see ye, that is,
Sammy, I mean. Great feller, that, I mean Lem this time."

"I shall go right over and see if there is anything I can do," Miss
Rivers replied. "Thank you, Mr. Winters, for letting me know."

"Oh, that's a'right, Miss. But I must git on me way now fer old Doc.
Benson."

Henry chuckled more than ever as he sped along the road.

"She thinks it's her duty to go to the widder's to look after Sammy,
ha, ha. Lucky notion of mine to tell her about the accident. But, then,
I'd do anything fer Lem after what he done to-night. I've got to see
this thing through with them young folks. Ho! ho!"




CHAPTER IX

A LITTLE PICTURE


To Nita Rivers the day spent at the Falls had been very enjoyable. The
children had been well behaved, and the presence of Henry Winters had
added much to the picnic. A large portion of the pleasure, however, had
been due to Lemuel Karsall. Nita had never met a more entertaining and
delightful companion. His knowledge of the beautiful things of nature
was wonderful, and she felt that her own knowledge was as nothing
compared to his. She had met him on several former occasions, but then
he had always seemed so quiet and reserved. She had often heard the
neighbors speak about him as an odd young man with peculiar notions, and
somewhat queer, who lived much in a world of his own. But now she
understood him as never before, and the thought of him brought a
pleasurable sensation to her heart as she slowly made her way homeward.
He had been very attentive to her all the afternoon, and appeared so
anxious to talk to her about his plants and mineral collection. His
enthusiasm had been remarkable, and she wondered if it were due to her
interest in such things. She had heard that his sister cared little or
nothing about his studies, so, perhaps, it was a great joy to him to
find someone who really did. Her heart was lighter than it had been for
a long time, and she hummed the air of a popular tune as she walked from
the road up to her boarding-house.

From this airy realm of fancy and romance she was suddenly brought to
earth when she found a letter for her lying on the hall table. She knew
the writing, and with fast-beating heart she hurried to her own room,
and tore open the envelope. It was from her only sister from whom she
had not heard for several weeks. She sank down into an easy chair, and
as she read, the color left her cheeks, and her eyes became misty.

    "_Dearest Nita_," so began the letter, "I am stranded here in New
    York, and am at my wits' end, having lost my position. Can you let
    me have $25 to pay for my room and keep life in my body a little
    longer? Dearest Nita, I have tried to do my best, but everything has
    been against me. Oh, how I long to see you. My heart aches all the
    time when I think how I hoped to succeed and have met with such
    dismal failure. Remember me, dear, in your prayers.

    "Your loving sister,

    "RUTH.

    "P. S. I have a faint hope of getting another position to-morrow,
    and expect to find out early in the morning.

    "RUTH."

Nita held the letter in her hand for some time, and gazed thoughtfully
out of the window. So this was the letter for which she had been so
anxiously waiting. She knew something of the struggle her sister was
making to earn a living in a strange city. Over and over again she had
urged her to come home and live with her for a while. But Ruth would not
listen to it. She was such a high-spirited girl that she was determined
to succeed or die in the attempt. Nita had sent her money before, and
once Ruth had returned it. Never before had her sister even suggested a
loan, so Nita knew that her position must be really desperate when she
asked for it now.

Rising to her feet, she crossed the room to her little writing-desk, one
of the few treasures she had brought with her from her old home.
Seating herself, she at once began to write to her sister a letter full
of courage and hope.

"You are bound to succeed," she said in part, "and I am going to help
you all I can. I am sending you to-day $50 instead of $25. I have saved
a little money, so am glad to share it with you." Then followed a bright
account of the picnic at the Falls that afternoon, interspersed with
bits of humor and the quaint sayings of Henry Winters.

"Ruth will like to hear about this," she said to herself, as she folded
the letter and addressed the envelope. "Poor dear, she needs all the
encouragement that I can give her. How I wish I had her near me now. She
is too young to be in such a great city, battling her way alone against
so many difficulties."

She was interrupted in her reverie by Henry's thump upon the front-door,
and as Mrs. Stevens was out, she hurried downstairs and received the
message about Sammy Brown's accident. This news came just at the right
minute, as it gave Nita something to do to relieve and calm her agitated
mind. She decided to go to Mrs. Brown's at once, and give all the help
that she possibly could.

The widow was most grateful for the teacher's visit, and Sammy's face
brightened as she entered the room where he was lying. Lemuel's heart
beat fast as he watched her talking to the boy, and almost wished that
he himself had met with the accident instead of Sammy. The color had
again returned to Nita's cheeks, and she showed no sign of the worry and
sadness her sister's letter had caused. Lemuel felt unusually
embarrassed, for he believed that the women in the room were watching
him. He longed to leave the house, and yet he did not want to go away
while Nita was there.

When the doctor at last arrived, Nita bade Sammy good-night and left the
house. Lemuel went with her, and together they walked along the road.
This was a novel experience for the young man and for a while he felt
very awkward and hardly knew what to say. He was not versed in
love-lore, and he considered himself a fool for his lack of something
appropriate to say. The evening was balmy, and the sky cloudless. A
sweet stillness lay around them, broken only by the cheep of some tired
bird, and the sound of their own feet upon the gravelly road. Lemuel was
sure that his companion could hear the thumping of his heart, and he was
glad that she could not see the flush upon his face. In all his life he
had never experienced anything like this before. He wondered why the
woman at his side should affect him in such a peculiar manner. The
influence of women had always been a deep mystery to him in the past,
and he had sometimes smiled with a sense of superiority at the devotion
of young lovers. He believed that he was beyond such foolishness, and
that no woman could ever make him lose his heart and head. But now he
knew for certain that he was as strongly enmeshed as the most ardent
lover he had ever met, and instead of being annoyed, he was much
pleased.

"What a beautiful star that is," Nita at length remarked, as she stopped
and looked over at the far-off eastern horizon. "It outshines all the
others."

"That is Jupiter," Lemuel explained, delighted that at last the silence
was broken, and he could talk about something with which he was
familiar. "If you watch it night after night, you will see how it
gradually moves southward. It is very brilliant and I enjoy looking at
it."

"And do you study the stars as much as you do other things of nature?"
Nita inquired.

"Not as much because I cannot capture the stars like I can plants and
stones. But they have a fascination for me, and I like to watch them and
read all I can about them."

"You study at night, so I understand. People see the light shining in
your window very late."

"That is the time I can do my best thinking, Miss Rivers. Everything is
so quiet then, and wonderful thoughts come to the mind. People think I
am crazy, I guess, because I do things they cannot understand."

"Oh, you should not worry about what people say, Mr. Karsall, so long as
your study and meditation make you happy. And I am sure you must be
happy up in your Loft."

"I always have been, and thought there was no other life worth living.
Lately, however, I have come to think differently, and have found out
that there was something lacking."

"What is that?"

"The companionship of someone to whom I can talk and discuss the
thoughts which come into my mind. My sister has never been in sympathy
with me, and she thinks my studies are all silly nonsense."

"You should be a professor in some college," Nita replied. "You need to
be in a big city where you could meet people who think as you do. Have
you ever thought of that?"

"Very often. But I should cut a poor figure among stately college
professors. I would not feel at home among them, and could not bear to
be forced to spend my days in a class room lecturing to a group of
restless students. Such a life would kill all initiative in me. I like
to be free, to go my own pace, and make my own discoveries. And,
besides, I feel my own ignorance. The more I study, the less I seem to
know. Something new is turning up every day, and there are hundreds of
things I want to search out when I get the time."

He ceased and stood for a few minutes gazing up silently into the
star-studded vault above him. He believed that the young woman by his
side understood him better than anyone else, and it brought a pleasant
thrill to his heart. It was so easy to talk with her, and he did not
feel in the least embarrassed. Their souls seemed to be mystically
united, as if they really belonged to each other. So strong was this
impression that an intense longing swept upon him to place his arms
around her and hold her close. He immediately banished this temptation,
startled, in fact, at the mysterious influence that had so subtly
possessed him.

"I must not detain you any longer with such talk," he quietly remarked.
"I am so accustomed to lose myself in meditation that I make a poor
companion for anyone."

"It is a great pleasure to me to listen," Nita replied, as they once
more moved slowly on their way. "My father used to talk to me when I was
a child about the wonderful things around us, but I was too young then
to comprehend much of what he said. He was misunderstood by people,
too."

"Is he living now?" Lemuel asked.

"No. He has been dead for many years. He was badly treated in business
by men he trusted, and lost all he had. It broke him down completely.
Just what happened we never knew, but he was brought home one day dead.
He had been drowned in the river. It was a terrible blow to us."

"Is your mother living, Miss Rivers?" Lemuel inquired.

"She has been dead for several years. I have only one sister, Ruth, who
is now in New York. I had a letter from her to-day."

Nita longed to tell Lemuel of her worry and to ask for his advice. She
did want to speak to someone she could trust. She resisted the desire,
however, and walked along in silence. She felt somewhat diffident about
admitting a stranger into her secret, as he might not understand.

"And so you lived for years at Radnor, did you, Miss Rivers?" Lemuel
asked.

"We did, and it is such a beautiful place. How often I long to see the
old home again. My heart aches when I think of mother fighting so hard
to make a living after father's death. But I have a picture I painted of
the house. In fact, I have several."

"Would you mind giving me one, Miss Rivers? I should like to have it so
much."

"Would you? What in the world would you do with it?"

"Place it among my specimens, of course."

"As another curiosity, I suppose."

"As a valuable treasure, Miss Rivers. If you favor me with a picture, I
shall place it right over my desk as a remembrance of this wonderful day
and evening, and also of the artist."

There was a deep intensity of feeling in these words which caused the
color to mount to Nita's cheeks, although Lemuel did not notice it owing
to the darkness. When at last they reached the little gate before the
house, the girl requested him to wait there and she would be back in a
minute. When she returned, she handed him the picture she had brought
with her.

"There it is," she said. "I could not find any paper to wrap it up. But
it is small, so you can carry it under your coat if you do not wish
anyone to see it."

Lemuel stammered his thanks, bade Nita good-night, and turned homeward.
As he walked along, he chided himself most severely for being such an
idiot. He thought of the things he might have said, and the greater use
he might have made of the blessed opportunity of being alone with such a
beautiful and wonderful young woman.

Reaching his own house, he slowly mounted the stairs leading to The
Loft. Here he lighted his lamp, looked for a long time at the little
unframed picture, and then pinned it on the wall just over his desk. He
then sat down, but he did not lose himself as formerly in his books. He
was living over again the scenes and incidents of that day and evening.
All the time his eyes were fixed intently upon the picture of the old
house among the trees. It was the work of the woman he loved. Her face
had bent over that picture, she had breathed upon it, and her hands had
handled it. Impulsively he reached up, lifted it from its position, and
pressed it fervently to his lips. He then gave a start and glanced
quickly around, fearful lest anyone should be watching. He smiled at the
foolish idea as he replaced the picture, blew out the light, and left
The Loft.




CHAPTER X

CHECKING THE AGENT


It was evening and Henry Winters was seated upon the veranda of Red Rose
Cottage enjoying a smoke. His wife was in the garden busy with her
precious flowers. The air was balmy with not a breath of wind astir. The
river, smooth as a mirror, shimmered beneath the glow of the westering
sun. A feeling of peace and contentment possessed Henry's heart. His
work for the day was ended, and after the heat of the afternoon it was
pleasant to enjoy a refreshing rest. He never thought of helping his
wife, for he had always left the garden to her. Flowers were merely so
many weeds to him, and he had often wondered why Sarah spent so much of
her time upon them.

"I can't understand what ye see in them things," he at length remarked.

"I know you can't," Mrs. Winters replied. "But I wish to goodness you
could."

"But ain't there plenty of wild flowers in the fields an' along the
roads? Why, they're jumpin' up everywhere, an' don't need to be 'tended,
either. An' yit ye bother an' work with these which ain't half as purty
as a hull lot of wild rascals I could show ye."

"That may be so, Henry. God has put His flowers everywhere and cares for
them. Maybe He doesn't need these here in my garden, but I do. This is
my one bit of Heaven on earth. I never had any children to love and care
for, so I need my flowers."

"But think of the work, Sarah. Don't ye git tired slavin' out there when
ye should be restin'?"

"This is where I rest," was the quiet reply.

"Ye do! Well, that's beyond me. Workin' to git rested! An' no pay in it,
either."

"This is the only pay I ever get," Mrs. Winters retorted. "But I'm
afraid it's the kind of pay you cannot understand, Henry. You only think
of pay in dollars and cents, something that will give you food and
clothes for your body and tobacco for your pipe. I receive soul-pay when
I work among my flowers. But as you haven't any soul, so far as I can
learn, such pay would be lost upon you."

Henry lapsed into silence for a few minutes, and puffed steadily at his
pipe. His wife was more than a match for him when it came to words, and
her reference to "soul-pay" was beyond his comprehension. He satisfied
himself by considering women "queer critters, anyway, an' not one bit
like men." He was not thinking of his wife as she moved about among the
dahlias, honeysuckles, morning-glories, tiger-lilies, pansies, and other
children of her care and fancy. He did not notice that homelike scene
right before his very eyes. He had been accustomed to it for so long
that it was too commonplace to excite his interest or admiration. He was
trying to puzzle out what Sarah meant by "soul-pay." He could not see
any sense in it at all. At last the meaning dawned upon him, and his
mouth broadened into a grin. "Soul-pay"! It might satisfy some, but he
wanted something far more substantial than that. He had often heard the
parson speak about people needing food for the soul as well as for the
body, but for the life of him he could make very little out of it. "It
must be the 'soul-pay,'" he mused, "an' that's where Sarah got the
idea." He emitted an audible chuckle, which arrested his wife's
attention.

"What is amusing you now?" she asked, pausing in her work.

"I was jist thinkin' about a funny story I once heard," Henry explained.
"Yer talk about 'soul-pay' brought it to me mind, though I never fully
saw the pint of the yarn before. I do now, an' by jingo! it's great."

"It must be to give you so much pleasure, Henry."

"It sartinly is, Sarah. It's about a feller who was starvin', an' seem'
some men diggin', he asked the man who looked like the boss to give him
a job. He got it, an' when he had worked fer the rest of the day, he
asked fer his pay. An' what d'ye think he was told, Sarah?"

"I have no idea."

"I guess ye haven't. Ye'd never guess it if ye tried the rest of yer
life. The man who looked like the boss, sez to him, sez he, 'There's no
money in this job, me friend. We're not workin' fer pay; we're jist
givin' a day's work to help build the new church.' Ho, ho! wasn't that a
good joke, Sarah?"

"It was hard on the poor starving man," Mrs. Winters replied. "I hope
someone took pity on him and gave him a good meal."

"Oh, I don't know nuthin' about that. But mebbe he got a supply of
soul-food while he dug. That's about the only thing the churches hand
out, anyway."

"I wish to goodness you'd get some of it, Henry," his wife retorted.
"You're always rapping at the churches. But, there, I want you to go and
get me a pail of water. This ground is terribly dry."

"As dry as the parson's sermons, why don't you say?" Henry growled as he
rose to his feet. "I thought I was all through work fer to-day, an' now
I've got to lug water fer flowers."

It took him about ten minutes to go to the well, draw a bucket of water
and return. When he reached the garden he was surprised to see a strange
man leaning over the fence and talking most volubly to Sarah. Henry
placed the pail upon the ground and then sat down upon the veranda
steps. He wondered who the man was, and what he was trying to say. After
a while he was able to learn that the stranger considered the river the
finest he had ever seen, and the scenery the most beautiful. As for
Mrs. Winters' garden, it was a wonder.

"I have traveled all over the province an' never sot me eyes on sights
so marvelous," he jabbered. "This valley is like the Garden of Eden,
sich as we read about in the Bible. An' your flowers, madame! Jist look
at them purty blossoms! An' what colors! Now, if ye had a few shrubs to
set 'em off, what a picter they'd make."

"I have enough to attend to as it is," Mrs. Winters replied.

"Ah, but you would not have to attend to the shrubs, madame. They'll
look after 'emselves, an' grow jist as the Lord made 'em. I specialize
in sich things, an' consider I'm doin' the Lord's work in introducin'
'em to people throughout the length an' breadth of this land. Souls must
be stimulated with beauty, an' to have the beautiful allus before us
inspires an' elevates in a wonderful manner. Shrubs do that, an' the
variety that I handle would stir the heart of the wildest savage. Jist
think of the glory of the bush-honeysuckle, the perfection of the
weigela, the grace of the pinies, the sweetness of the iris, the wonder
of the canterbury-bell, the pureness of the snowball, the clingin'
tenderness of the woodbine, an' the lurin' wistfulness of the japonica.
Why, I have known men to be stirred to their innermost depths by merely
gazin' upon sich an' array of beauty."

"I would buy your whole outfit if I thought it would stir my husband,"
Mrs. Winters declared.

"Ye'd better try it, Sarah," Henry replied with a grin. "After that
feller's parrot-like spiel, it'd be a pity not to buy something."

"Yer right, sir," the agent agreed, turning toward Henry. "You couldn't
make a better investment. Yer children in years to come will raise up
an' call ye blessed."

"Will they, Mister? Well, that's interestin', eh, Sarah? But they'll
have to git a hustle on, fer they ain't begun to raise yit, seein' we
ain't got any."

"But think what a joy they'll be to other children," the stranger
replied, not in the least embarrassed by his mistake. "I said the same
to Mrs. Stevens jist an hour ago when I tried to sell her some of my
shrubs. She hasn't any children, either. An' when she explained that she
had only boarders, I told her what a joy these plants would be to 'em.
She was so impressed by what I said that she gave me a fine order. An',
by the way, speakin' of Mrs. Stevens, reminds me of a friend I met at
her house. An', say, wasn't she surprised to see me! I knew her hull
family, an' what a terrible time they had."

"Who was it?" Mrs. Winters asked. She scented a bit of news, so was
anxious to hear more.

"Nita Rivers, daughter of John Rivers, who did away with himself, poor
feller. He got into some kind of trouble, forgery, or something like
that, I fergit now which. Anyway, it was a bad mess, an' he couldn't
face the music."

"And our teacher is the daughter of such a man!" Mrs. Winters exclaimed.

"Oh, Nita's all right, I guess. But she has a sister who's gone to the
bad, so I hear. Ran away to the States. There's a queer streak in that
family somewhere, jist like ye'll find in shrubs. Ye've got to know
their pedigree. Now, I know all there is to know about my shrubs, an'
kin give ye a history of each one. They're all good an' sound, with not
a bad streak in any of 'em."

Mrs. Winters, however, was not interested in the pedigree of shrubs. She
could think of nothing now but the important news she had just heard.

"It isn't right for us to have such a person teaching the children of
this district," she declared. "She might lead the little ones astray."

"Oh, I guess Nita's all right, Madame," the agent replied. "I've never
heard anything ag'inst her. But she's so mighty purty, an' has sich
independent ways that one kin never tell. Them's the ones that are most
dangerous."

Henry had now risen to his feet, his eyes blazing with anger, and his
whole body quivering with excitement. He controlled his feelings,
however, and sauntered leisurely over to where the stranger was
standing.

"Are ye fond of cattle?" he unexpectedly asked.

"Why, yes, I like to look at a good beast," was the amazed reply. "I
worked on a farm until I took up the agency fer shrubs. I like this work
better than----"

"Well, then, come out to the barn," Henry interrupted. "I want to show
ye something there. Ye kin come back an' talk all ye like about shrubs
afterwards if ye want to. Come on."

There was nothing else for the visitor to do, so reluctantly, and with
his mind filled with wonder, he followed Henry to the barn. Reaching the
building, Henry led the way inside. Here he stopped, and turning to the
agent looked at him intently for a few seconds.

"Have ye any family?" he abruptly asked.

"Y-yes, a wife an' five children," was the surprised reply.

"Ye love 'em, I s'pose?"

"Sure I do."

"Too bad."

By this time the stranger was glancing fearfully around, certain that he
was face to face with a madman. He moved back a few steps.

"Got yer life insured?" Henry next questioned.

"No."

"No? That's a pity. There's nuthin' like a good life insurance, fer a
man kin never tell what might happen."

"Look here, Mister, what's the meanin' of all this?" the agent demanded.
"I thought ye brought me here to show me something. But ye've been doin'
nuthin' but askin' me fool-questions."

"Well, don't ye see something now?" Henry roared, shoving the clenched
fist of his right hand suddenly up under the stranger's nose. "An' ye'll
feel something, too, mighty quick, if ye don't stop yer talkin' about
Miss Rivers. See?"

The agent staggered back, his face blanched with fear.

"I-I d-don't understand yer meanin'," he gasped.

"Ye mighty soon will if ye don't do as I say. Ye've been talkin' too
much about that teacher, an' ye've done a hull lot of mischief already
by yer confounded gab. She's a darn fine young woman, no matter what her
father an' sister have done. If ye've any sense at all in yer noodle,
don't ye know that the folks in this deestrict, or any other, fer that
matter, kin talk enough about a school teacher without a feller like you
helpin' 'em out?"

"But what harm have I done?" the agent demanded.

"What harm! Didn't ye jist tell my wife about Miss Rivers' father
committin' suicide, an' her sister goin' to the bad? What choicer bit of
news could ye have told her? That's the harm ye've done. It'll be all
over the place in a day or two."

"I'm very sorry," the agent apologized. "I had no intention of stirrin'
up trouble fer Nita. Poor girl, she's had enough already."

"Ye should have thought of that sooner, Mister. But as ye've let the cat
out of the bag, I want ye to put it back ag'in."

"Why, what kin I do now?"

Henry turned and pointed across the field.

"D'ye see that house?" he asked. "The one with the red roof."

"Yes."

"Well, Ada Karsall lives there, an' she doesn't like the teacher 'cause
her brother Lem's in love with her. Now, if Ada hears that yarn of yours
about the Rivers' family, it'll be jist to her likin', an' so she'll
make it mighty uncomfortable fer Miss Rivers. See?"

"Yes, but----"

"Jist a minute, Mister. I want ye to go to Ada's an' try to sell her
some of yer shrubs. Durin' the confab, mention that ye've seen the
teacher, an' that she's an extry fine gal, an' a friend of yours. Don't
say a word about her father an' sister, remember. An' look, if ye do as
I say, I'll make it worth while, an' give ye an order fer twelve of the
best shrubs ye've got. I was goin' to punch yer face, an' I'll do it yit
if ye dare breathe another word sich as ye did to Sarah. D'ye agree?"

"Sure, sure, I'm only too willin'," was the eager reply. "But what kind
of shrubs do ye want?" and the agent pulled a book out of his pocket.
"Ye kin have yer choice."

"Anything ye like, as I know nuthin' about sich things. But I want ye to
make a solemn promise that ye'll do as I say, an' wherever ye go in this
deestrict speak in the highest terms of Miss Rivers."

"I promise on my word of honor, an' the Bible, also, if ye want me to.
But what about the story I told yer wife? Won't she tell that?"

"Most likely she will, fer there are three mighty quick ways to spread
news, so I've heard, telephone, telegraph, an' tell a woman. But if ye
tell Ada an' others jist the opposite to what ye told Sarah, the women
won't know what to believe. They'll be all mixed up an' buzz like a lot
of hornets. There, now, I've told ye what to do, so go an' do it. But if
ye don't, I'll not take a single shrub, an' I'll punch yer face into
sich a shape that yer wife an' five kids won't know ye. Now, git."

Henry smiled grimly to himself as he watched the agent hurrying across
the field. He knew that the fellow was thoroughly frightened, and it
pleased him immensely.

"It was the only thing I could do," he muttered. "That feller deserves
to have a good lickin', an' I'd like to do it. But mebbe it's better to
give him a chance. I'm goin' to stick by that teacher. She'll need help
when the women git after her. An' by the jumpin' frog! I'm goin' to be
her champion, no matter what Sarah'll think an' say. I may not have any
soul accordin' to her way of thinkin', but I've got something, anyway,
that's goin' to make me stand up fer a helpless woman. An' I guess the
Lord'll understand, even if Sarah doesn't."




CHAPTER XI

ANOTHER BLUNDER


Ada Karsall was greatly worried over her wayward brother, for such she
now considered him. He had gone daft over the school teacher. No matter
how much she reasoned or scolded it made no difference. Lemuel had
passed beyond all bounds. No longer was he willing to be directed by
her. In her extremity she placed the entire blame upon Miss Rivers. She
was the cause of all the trouble, and was luring Lemuel on to certain
ruin. She took it for granted that the teacher knew about the money, and
was more than anxious to marry a man who had such an income. In vain she
racked her brains for some way whereby she might check Lemuel in his
wild headlong foolishness. She knew how he and Miss Rivers had been at
Mrs. Brown's, and afterwards had walked along the road together. It was
disgraceful, so she believed, that her brother should do such a thing
when he knew what the outcome would mean.

Miss Karsall did not take the heart into consideration in thinking about
her brother. She herself had never been troubled that way. Such a love
as Lemuel was undergoing was unknown to her. As for herself, she
believed that she was absolutely immune from such folly, as she deemed
it.

There were two main causes for this state of affairs. One was the fact
that Ada was afraid of losing her father's money. Nothing in the form of
a man could ever compensate for that. She was reluctant to think about
marriage, and whenever the subject was mentioned in her presence she
endeavored to pay little attention to what was being said. She called it
a delusion and a snare, for she knew of a number of girls who had made
sad mistakes in their matrimonial ventures.

The other reason was Ada herself. Although possessing more than an
ordinary charm of face and form, she was so matter of fact and
everlastingly industrious that any young man, except Joe Rundell, who
had turned his eyes to her as a possible wife, had been repelled. The
entire neighborhood was aware of her daily housecleaning, sweeping and
dusting in season and out, and her horror at the least bit of dirt or
dust upon tables and chairs. "As clean and busy as Ada Karsall," was a
common saying, and she gloried in the notoriety. She was proud of the
fact that she was able to keep men at a respectful distance. She felt
that Lemuel was all she could manage, and he was enough to occupy her
entire attention. But now he was getting beyond her, and the thought of
this caused the broom and the duster to move faster than ever the
morning after Lemuel walked home with the teacher. In work she found the
one great outlet to her feelings, and judging by her swift and decisive
strokes, her feelings were in a sadly disturbed condition.

When she had finished the lower rooms, she went upstairs, swept where
there was no dirt, and dusted where there was no dust. Several times she
glanced toward the door leading into The Loft. Only once a week did she
clean there, and then only when Lemuel was present lest she should
disturb or injure any of his precious specimens. Of course, she could
visit the place as often as she wished, so long as she left things
alone. Lemuel allowed his sister to run the house according to her fancy
providing that she left The Loft alone. There he was determined to be
master, and he was.

When Ada had ended her work upstairs, she opened the door to The Loft
and peered in. She knew that her brother was not there, but a guilty
feeling made her cautious. She had been thinking so much about Nita
Rivers that she wondered if Lemuel had left a letter, or some other
tell-tale evidence, upon his desk. She knew that it was wrong to pry
into his private affairs, and hitherto she would not have dreamed of
doing such a thing. But now it was different. There was so much at
stake, that for her own sake as well as his, she considered it her
bounden duty to do everything in her power to thwart the scheming school
teacher.

Thus justifying herself in her own eyes, she hurried across the room to
the desk and examined everything upon it. Seeing nothing there of a
suspicious nature, she felt greatly disappointed, and she was about to
leave the place when she caught sight of the picture above the desk. She
had never seen it before, and she at once suspected that Miss Rivers had
given it to Lemuel. She studied it most carefully, and in one corner she
saw the small letters "N. R." Her doubts were now all removed. Her
brother was so much in love with the teacher that he had hung one of the
pictures she had painted where he could look at it as he sat at his
desk. A strong feeling of jealousy welled up in her heart. Who was this
Nita Rivers who had come to separate a brother and sister, and who was
intent upon destroying their home? Who were her people, anyway? Perhaps
they were of no account at all. So blinded was Ada in her desire to save
her brother that she wished such might be the case. If she could prove
to Lemuel that the teacher was far beneath him, and what a disgrace it
would be for him to marry her, his eyes might be opened before it was
too late. And it was her duty to find out. Just how to go about it she
had not the least idea. But when a woman is aroused by fear and
jealousy, mingled with a growing hatred, she seldom stops to reason, but
allows her lurid imagination to supply whatever information is lacking.

That afternoon she visited Mrs. Winters and discussed the whole problem
with her.

"I feel that this is my mission in life," she declared. "I must save my
brother and keep him from that designing woman."

"But what can we do?" Mrs. Winters asked. "That teacher is a most
dangerous person. I am not surprised that she has bewitched Lemuel, for
he is young and easily carried away by a pretty face. But I believe she
has also cast some strange spell over Henry. If she can do that to such
a cranky useless mortal as he is, what are we to think?"

"I do not know just what to do at present," Ada replied. "But I know the
Lord will help me, anyway. I am going to put my trust in Him, and I am
sure He will find some way to help me out of my trouble."

And thus they talked during the afternoon. They decided that Nita Rivers
must leave the place that the men in the district might be kept safe
from her wiles. Such was the only remedy they could suggest. So
self-centered were these two women, and so certain were they of the
righteousness of their cause, that they did not take into consideration
the injury they might do to an innocent woman. The community had to be
protected, so they believed, and they were the ones chosen for the
purpose. Like so many so-called reformers, their views were bounded by
their own short and narrow vision. Justice and right in their eyes only
applied to their own interests. There were not two sides to the
question. They were right, and on behalf of right as they interpreted
it, all else must give way. These women, noted for their strict
religious duties, and regular in church attendance, were looked upon
with great respect by all in the community. And yet they were more than
willing to persecute a helpless woman and drive her ignominiously from
the place.

Thus with Mrs. Winters on her side, and inspired by the conversation
that had taken place, Ada returned home and prepared supper. She said
nothing to her brother about her talk with Mrs. Winters, and the
teacher's name was not mentioned. After the chores were done, Lemuel
did not go to The Loft as usual, but dressed himself in his best suit
and left the house. Ada watched him as he walked down the road. Tears
came into her eyes, and her heart beat fast. She was feeling more angry
than ever as she stood looking out of the window. Then she went out to
the veranda, sat down upon a rustic-chair, and gave herself up to deep
thought.

"He is off to see the teacher," she mused. "But he might have said
something to me. I am nothing more to him now than a slave to cook his
meals, wash and mend his clothes, and attend to the house. Some day
after he is harnessed to that doll-face teacher he may appreciate all
that I do for him."

The calmness and the glory of the evening meant nothing to her as she
thus sat brooding over her mountain of trouble. She paid no attention to
anything around her, and did not even see the shrub agent until he was
almost at the garden gate. She started at sight of the stranger, afraid
lest he might be a tramp, of whom she was always in great dread.

"Fine evenin', this, fer meditation, Miss," the visitor began, touching
his hat with his right hand. "A nicer view than this I never sot eyes
on."

"I don't seem to know you, sir," Ada severely replied. "Do you wish to
see my brother?"

"Oh, not at all, Miss. I kin allus do more with women than with men in
my line. They have a great appreciation of the beautiful. Beauty is of
the soul, Miss, an' that makes all the difference."

He paused and looked intently upon the garden.

"There's a proof of it," he continued. "A woman, an' not a man, planted
them flowers, an' cared fer 'em. She did it because the love of the
beautiful is in her soul. I'm sure that's your work, Miss."

Ada was becoming curious about this voluble man. Her vanity was also
touched.

"Yes, I attend to them," she acknowledged. "I am glad that you like
them."

"They are wonderful, Miss. But if ye had a hedge of shrubs around yer
garden people would come miles to look at it. Now, I have some of the
choicest shrubs that ever grew. They are the pick of all lands under the
sun, an' I consider I am doin' the Lord's work in introducin' 'em to
others."

"So you are an agent, then?"

"Some might call me that, Miss. But I consider myself a philanthropist,
a man who goes about doin' good. Whenever I sell a shrub, I give more
than a mere plant. An' I have sich a great variety fer my uplift work.
Souls are stimulated by the glory of the bush honeysuckle, the
perfection of the weigela, the grace of the piny, the sweetness of the
iris, the wonder of the canterbury-bell, the pureness of the snowball,
the clingin' tenderness of the woodbine, an' the lurin' wistfulness of
the japonica. Why, the mere mention of them names brought tears to the
eyes of Mrs. Stevens down the road an' that purty teacher who boards
with her."

"You mean Miss Rivers?" Ada asked, now all alert. "You met her, then?"

"Oh, I knew Nita Rivers when she was a baby. My! wasn't I surprised when
I saw her to-day. Hadn't the least idea what had become of her."

"You knew her when she was a baby, did you say?"

"Sure. Why, I often held her on me lap an' played with her. I knew the
hull family well. They were the finest people that ever drew breath. An'
Nita's jist like her ma. An' what shrubs they had about their house.
Rivers himself used to work every evenin' in his garden when he wasn't
busy at the bank."

"Did he work in a bank?"

"Did he! Why, he was manager until the bank bust up an' left the poor
feller without a cent. He felt so bad about it that he didn't live long
afterwards."

"Was it his fault that the bank failed?" Ada questioned, hoping to gain
some information against the family.

"Not on yer life, Miss. Rivers was as honest as the sun. The trouble was
elsewhere, so I understand."

"And you knew Mrs. Rivers well?"

"Should say I did. Knew her parents before her, too. She was certainly
one fine woman, of old Loyalist stock. An' what an interest she allus
took in them shrubs her husband planted. Why, she'd sit an' admire 'em
by the hour. Now, Miss, if you had some right around yer garden, what a
wonderful sight they'd make."

"I don't want to hear about shrubs," Ada snapped. "I'm more interested
in the Rivers family. My brother is head over heels in love with Miss
Rivers, the school teacher, and that doesn't satisfy me. I want to
separate them, so when you told me that you know her, I was hoping that
you could tell me something against her."

"But, Miss! how was I to know that?" exclaimed the astonished man.

"I don't know, and what is more, I don't care. If you had told me
something against that teacher I would have given you a big order."

Rising to her feet, Ada went into the house and closed the door with a
bang. The agent stood staring after her in a dumbfounded manner. He then
moved slowly on his way, more puzzled than he had ever been in his life.

"Well, if that isn't the limit!" he at length muttered. "When I told the
truth at one house, I got into trouble with a he-devil. An' when I tell
lies at another, I get in all wrong with a she-devil, fer that's all I
kin call a woman with sich spite in her heart. So she wanted to hear
something ag'inst Nita Rivers, did she? Afraid she'll marry her brother,
an' so she wants to separate 'em. Holy smoke! that makes me ragin' mad.
Poor Nita! I pity her. But I'll stand by her, as sure as my name's Ezry
Pond, no matter how many more lies I'll have to tell."




CHAPTER XII

HER DESPERATE IDEA


Dinner was over at Red Rose Cottage, and as Henry rose from the table he
pulled a paper-covered book from his pocket and began to read to
himself. This aroused his wife's curiosity, for reading was not one of
her husband's habits. She asked no questions, however, but went on with
her work. Henry sat for some time deeply intent upon one page. He then
thrust the book back into his pocket, took off his coat and hung it upon
a hook behind the door.

"Guess I'll git to work now," he announced. "That hay I cut yesterday
should be dry by this time. Mebbe ye'll give me a hand haulin' it in."

"Let me know when you are ready," his wife somewhat absent-mindedly
replied, for her thoughts were more upon the book than upon the hay.

When Henry had closed the door behind him, Mrs. Winters glanced at the
coat on the wall. When she was sure that her husband was far enough
away, she crossed the room and lifted the book from the pocket. And at
once her worst fears were confirmed, for she found it was a copy of "The
Manual of the School Law and Regulations of the Province." So that was
what Henry had been studying! It proved to her beyond all doubt that his
action had something to do with the teacher. He must be so much in love
with her that he wished to know all he could about the School Law. She
had heard and read about old men whose heads had been turned by
sparkling eyes, rosy cheeks, and a flutter of lace. But never in her
wildest imagination had she thought of Henry being one of them. She had
been young once herself, but now she felt very old and worn. Intuitively
she glanced into the small mirror by the side of the window, and what
she saw there brought her no comfort, for the white hair and faded face
belonged to her. She was Henry Winters' wife, and he had once loved her.
Never had he been untrue to her until Nita Rivers came to the place.
This thought made her angry, and she looked again at the open book she
was holding in her hands. A paragraph upon the page was marked with a
lead pencil, and she knew that it was this that Henry had been studying.
What did it mean, anyway? Slowly she read the words, which referred
solely to the question of the contract between a teacher and the
trustees in any district in reference to a notice of termination.

Mrs. Winters was puzzled. Was Henry helping the teacher in some
underhanded manner that he was so much interested in School Law? And
where had he gone, anyway? She now believed that he had been lying to
her, and instead of attending to his hay he was with the teacher.
Perhaps he had made an appointment with her. For a few minutes she stood
silently there, lost in thought. She then reached for her sun-bonnet,
determined to go and find out the truth for herself. But before opening
the door she glanced out of the window, and what she saw there caused
her to shrink back in amazement. By the old well stood her husband and
Nita Rivers. They were talking together, and seemed to be greatly amused
at something. Perhaps they were laughing at her. This thought caused her
heart to beat fast, and she longed to rush out and confront them both.
What impudence for them to come so near the house and carry on their
flirtation! They must surely know that she would see them. But, perhaps,
they had come there on purpose to annoy her.

Mrs. Winters was so deeply agitated that for a time her sense of reason
deserted her. Jealousy inflamed her heart, and her imagination ran wild.
With blazing eyes she watched the two, and presently she saw Henry
standing calmly by the well while the teacher seated herself a short
distance away and began to sketch him. This was the final drop in Mrs.
Winters' cup of mental agony. Had it come to that! Was the teacher so
infatuated with Henry that she wished to have a picture of him? Again
the strong impulse surged upon her to go out and denounce them. She
resisted this, however, and stood glaring forth upon the daring couple.

After a while she turned and went wearily upstairs. A desperate idea had
come into her mind. She would go away and leave Henry to his new love.
Her steps were unusually slow, and the stairs seemed exceptionally
steep. Reaching her bedroom, she sank down upon the nearest chair. She
did not weep, but sat motionless there, dry-eyed, thinking it all over.
Yes, she would go to the city, stay with her sister for a few days until
she found some work to keep life in her body. She would cook, scrub,
wash, anything, no matter what it might be. She would not need much, and
that only for a short time. When a woman's heart is broken what interest
can she have in life?

Ere long she rose slowly to her feet, mechanically opened her closet
door, brought forth her best Sunday dress, and laid it upon the bed. For
years she had worn it, and often she had made it over to appear as
decent as possible. How old-fashioned it would look in the city, and
perhaps her sister and her smartly-dressed family would be ashamed of
her. But she would buy a new gown when she had earned sufficient money.
She did not care for herself, as she had nothing to live for now. And
that young hussy of a teacher was the cause of her overwhelming trouble!

Again her anger flamed up fiercer than ever. Crossing the room, she
looked out of the little window facing the dooryard. Henry was now
standing near the teacher, looking with admiration upon the picture she
was sketching. Mrs. Winters' hands clenched hard and her lips pressed
firmly together. How she longed to teach them both a lesson they would
not soon forget. But by going away she would do that more effectively
than in any other manner. Henry would have no one to look after him, and
when Miss Rivers found that she had a useless man on her hands she would
then learn what misery her captivating wiles had brought upon her.

Dressing quickly, she packed a few extra articles in an old battered
grip, and then went downstairs. She looked into the dining-room, parlor,
and finally into the kitchen. This had been her home ever since her
marriage, and now she expected never to see the place again. In the
kitchen she saw Henry's long-legged boots at the back of the stove, and
nearby was his old boot-jack. A patched coat hung on a peg, and also his
faded felt hat. A sudden pang smote her heart as she gazed upon these
familiar things. She could not leave Henry without some advice and a
message of farewell. He must know the reason for her going away.

Bringing down several sheets of paper, pen and ink from the clock shelf,
she seated herself at the table. She was not much of a letter writer,
for she wrote only on rare occasions, and then to her sister.

    "Dear Henry," she began. As that looked too affectionate, she
    scratched out the word "dear." But that did not sound right, so
    after considerable thought, she began a new sheet with "Mr. Henry
    Winters," which looked much more dignified, so she thought. She also
    believed that it would cause Henry to wince when he read it. "I am
    sorry to inform you that I am going to leave you forever," she
    wrote. "I am certain that you do not love me any longer. You have
    taken up with the school teacher, so you will not need me after
    this. I shall not tell you where I am going because you will not
    care.

    "Sarah."

Carefully she read this over word by word, and then gazed straight
before her for a few minutes. She then picked up the pen again and
wrote:

    "P. S. You'll find your clean socks in the top drawer of the bureau,
    and your Sunday shirt on the shelf in the closet off our bedroom. I
    guess that's all.

    "Sarah."

Once more she laid down the pen and gave a deep sigh. She looked out of
the window upon her garden. She was sorry to leave her flowers upon
which she had expended so much attention. Henry would not look after
them, she was certain, and they would become choked with weeds. She
tried to picture him living alone in the house. But would he be alone?
Perhaps he would bring the teacher there, and she would do his cooking,
and sit at the table with him. And she would make use of her dishes, the
ones she had collected with so much care during her married life. No, it
must not be. She could not endure the thought of a usurper peering into
her closets and bureau drawers. What was she to do? The perspiration
stood out in beads upon her wrinkled forehead at this new aspect of the
situation. The mere idea of another woman, and a hated rival at that,
who had alienated her husband's affections, taking her place was
terrible to contemplate. And yet she must go. She would take her
belongings with her. She would pack up everything, and get a team to
take them to the station. That teacher should not handle an article that
belonged to her. She would go over to the store and get Tim Heaton to do
the hauling for her that very day. Tim would do it cheaper than anyone
else.

The next instant a frightened expression came into her eyes, and her
face turned paler than ever. She rose to her feet, walked swiftly across
the room, and lifted down a small box from a shelf on the wall. This she
opened and looked in. There was not a cent left! She had given the last
dollar to Henry to help pay the school-tax. No money! The helplessness
of her position overwhelmed her, causing her to stagger back to the
table and sink down limp and hopeless upon the chair she had recently
left. How could she buy the ticket to the city, let alone pay Tim? Henry
had no money, and there was not a person in the place she would ask for
any. With a groan of despair she buried her face in her hands. Her cup
of sorrow was now full to the brim and overflowing. She had slaved and
denied herself all her life, and now she was penniless! She did not have
enough money to take her to the city! And Henry was the cause of all
this. His laziness had brought them to such a depth of poverty, and
instead of being ashamed of himself, he was making love to a girl young
enough to be his granddaughter. The fool! Why should she not stop the
spooning out by the well? She had her rights to defend.

Rising again to her feet, she hurried to the door, opened it, and came
full-tilt against a boy just outside. With a yell of fright the visitor
started back, lost his balance and toppled over upon the ground.

"For land's sakes, Jed Dyer! what do you mean by scaring me like this?"
she demanded. "What do you want anyway?"

The boy rose slowly to his feet, brushed some dirt from his clothes, and
stood on guard lest the woman should attack him. Seeing that she was
waiting for him to speak, he mustered up his courage and advanced a
couple of steps.

"Hen's wanted at the phone," he explained. "Somebody's callin' him from
the city. Tell him to hustle."

"Wanted at the phone, is he?" Mrs. Winters asked, eyeing the boy keenly.
"Who is it?"

"Dunno. I was told to tell him to hustle. That's all I know."

Mrs. Winters' curiosity was now aroused, as it was a most unusual thing
for anyone to call Henry from the city. Several years ago he had
received a message informing him of the death of his cousin, Jemima
Juskins. But that had been the last. What did this one mean? She glanced
over at the well, but Henry and the teacher were not there. She stepped
out into the yard, and looked up and down the field where her husband
had been haying that morning. When she saw him alone, raking hay, she
breathed a sigh of relief.

"There he is," she said to the boy. "You go and give him the message
yourself. He'll hustle now, all right."




CHAPTER XIII

"THE STARS ARE COMIN'!"


Mrs. Winters' curiosity was greatly aroused over the call from the city.
She knew that Henry would waste no time in getting to the store, and
most likely he would stop at the house on his way. She did not wish him
to see her all dressed up in her Sunday clothes, as she might find it
hard to explain, and she would not lie. The best thing would be to
change her dress as speedily as possible.

Hurrying upstairs, she again entered her room, and had the last button
fastened when she heard her husband's voice calling to her.

"Hi, Sarah, where are ye?" he shouted.

"I'll be down in a minute, Henry." Mrs. Winters replied, taking a peek
into a little mirror to be sure that her dress was all right. She felt a
little embarrassed as she thought of her contemplated flight. She
wondered if she could keep calm in his presence.

Henry, however, was too much taken up with the telephone call to notice
anything else. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, anxiously
awaiting her appearance.

"It's a call from the city, Sarah," he announced. "Now, who in time kin
want me there! The last one I had was when me cousin, Jemima Juskins,
died, an' they wanted to make arrangements fer her burial here. I hope
t'goodness it's her husband this time, an' he's left us some of his
money. Anyway, I'll soon find out."

"Don't be long, Henry," his wife begged. "I am as anxious as you are to
know what the call means."

"Oh, I'll be back in a jiffy, 'specially if there's anything of
importance. Mebbe the stars are goin' to fight fer me, after all,
instead of ag'inst me. Won't it be great if old Juskins has left us all
he had. He was worth a lot of money, so I believe."

"Yes, yes, he was. But never mind that now. Get along, and hurry back."

It seemed like hours to Mrs. Winters as she awaited Henry's return.
Often she looked down the road, hoping to see him appear. She was well
aware that when once at the store he forgot all about the passage of
time. She thought, too, of her futile plans that afternoon. What had
become of the teacher, she wondered. Why did she want to get Henry's
picture at the well? And why had she not come into the house when so
near? Perhaps she was afraid to do so owing to her guilty conscience. As
she thought of this her anger once again returned. She could not go away
until she had some money. But she would get it, and unless Henry changed
for the better, she would leave him and let him get along the best he
could. She was not going to grub and slave as she had in the past, and
then not have enough money to buy a ticket to the city. It was
disgraceful, and she would not put up with it much longer. She would
wait, however, until she found out what the call from the city meant.

An hour passed, although it seemed like an age to the waiting woman,
before the door was flung open and Henry entered. He was greatly
excited, and puffing hard.

"Hooray, Sarah! The stars are comin'! The stars are comin'! Hooray!"

"Henry Winters, what is the matter with you? Are you crazy? What do you
mean about the stars coming?"

"'The stars in their course fought ag'inst Sisera,' but they're goin' to
fight fer Henry Winters after this. They're comin' in all their glory,
an' we must be ready to receive 'em."

Mrs. Winters was certain now that her husband had taken leave of his
senses. Her face turned pale, and her body trembled. She kept as calm as
possible, hoping to find out the cause of Henry's excitement.

"What do you mean by the stars? Who was calling you from the city?"

"Why, didn't I tell ye, Sarah?"

"Indeed you haven't. You have been yelping ever since you came home
about the stars."

"Is that so? Well, that's queer. I thought I told ye it was the manager
of a movin'-picter concern; that's who it was. Now are ye satisfied?"

"But why was he calling you?"

"To make a picter, of course. Can't ye understand what that means?"

"He wants you to make a picture. That's nonsense. A queer picture you'd
make."

"Huh, can't ye understand, Sarah? What more kin I explain? Didn't I tell
ye that he wants to use our place to make a picter of 'The Old Home.' He
said it is jist what he wants, an' he'll pay us well fer it, too. Now,
what d'ye think of that?"

"I begin to understand a little now, Henry. And did you tell him he
could have it?" Mrs. Winters was becoming quite excited, too.

"Sure I did. D'ye think I'm a fool? He's goin' t' bring his company here
in cars. They're all stars, so he told me, an' they're goin' to make a
great picter."

"My lands!" Mrs. Winters threw up her hands and sank down upon the
nearest chair. "What in the world are we going to do with them? They'll
expect us to feed them, I suppose. And where will they sleep? We haven't
room for so many people, especially stars."

"Oh, ye needn't worry about that, Sarah. They'll go back to the city
every night, an' come out early each mornin'. They'll bring their own
grub along, too. It's to be a kind of a picnic with 'em, so I gathered
from what that feller said over the phone. He has a mighty nice voice,
an' he talked as if I was doin' him a great favor by allowin' him to
come here."

"How did he happen to choose our place, Henry?"

"'Cause it jist suits him."

"What! this old unpainted house, the rickety barn, and the signs of ruin
everywhere. I cannot understand it."

"But it's jist what he wants, Sarah. He's seen it, an' that old well
took his eye at the first shot. It's the only one in the country, an'
it's to figger prominent in the picter. Mebbe ye won't growl so much at
me after this fer keepin' that old well as it is. It's comin' in very
handy now."

"But the buildings are in a disgraceful condition, Henry. I shall feel
ashamed to have strangers look at them."

"Oh, they're jist what he needs, so don't worry, me dear. The barn,
woodshed, an' house are all to appear. An' he wants us in the picter,
too."

"Wants us!" Mrs. Winters was aghast at the idea. "What do we know about
such things? I thought they used only stars. We'd make fine looking
stars, wouldn't we? Can you imagine us appearing upon the screen in the
city?"

"Sure I kin."

"I can't, then. It is almost too ridiculous to think about."

"But we're to be stars, Sarah. It's to be a picter accordin' to nature,
wild-like, with nuthin' artificial, but real as fleas on a dog's back."

"H'm, it certainly will be according to nature if you appear in it,
Henry. You're about as near to wild life as anything I ever saw. There's
nothing artificial about you, I must confess. With that old hat and
clothes you're wearing, and your hair which hasn't been cut for months,
you should satisfy them, all right, if they are looking for something
wild."

"I'll suit 'em fine, remember, Sarah. Ye've allus been growlin' about
the way I look, an' I never had any come-back. But can't ye now see fer
yourself that it's me appearance that's goin' to make me fortune? If I
was all dolled up like them city dudes, they wouldn't need me. But they
want me jist as I am. Say, Sarah, it reminds me of that hymn they sing
in church, 'Jist as I am without one plea.'"

"Don't talk that way, Henry. It's not right to use those words in such a
connection. They are too sacred. And that reminds me of something I had
forgotten all about. I wonder if it's proper for us to take part in the
making of that picture? The people are all stars, so the manager said,
and that means that they are actors and actresses. Now, we know what
they are like and what lives they lead."

"How d'ye know that, Sarah?"

"Oh, I have read about them in papers, and people have told me things
which are not to their credit."

"Whose credit, Sarah? The stars or the people who told ye? Ye words are
somewhat hazy."

"The stars, of course. Surely you have enough sense to know that. And
I'm thinking, too, about our position as church members. What will the
parson and the rest think if they see us acting like two fools with all
those strangers? We must consider our good names in the community."

"I'm not worryin' about that, Sarah. It doesn't trouble my religious
principles one bit."

"Simply because you haven't any to be troubled about, Henry. You'd do
almost anything for money, except good honest work. I know you well
enough by this time. But I have myself to think about, so I don't want
to do anything to disgrace my good name."

"Ah, don't let that bother ye, Sarah. Them stars are as respectable as
the folks in this settlement. They're not goin' to contaminate us by
their comin' here. An' let people talk if they want to. It's none of
their bizness what we do. An' by jingo! when they find out how much
money we're makin', they'll be as mad as hornets 'cause they didn't git
sich a chance. Money does a mighty lot these days to take the stingin'
edge off of religious principles."

"Henry! Do you realize what you are saying?"

"Should say I do, Sarah. Doesn't Sim Watters, a great churchman, allus
put the little apples in the bottom of the barrel an' the fine big rosy
ones on top?"

"But that is a different thing altogether, Henry."

"Not from my way of lookin' at it. Doesn't the extry price he gits fer
them apples take some of the sting out of his religious principles? An'
didn't Joe Parker patch up that old spavined an' heave-struck hoss of
his an' sell him fer a sound critter? Joe is great at attendin' church,
but--"

"That will do, Henry," Mrs. Winters interrupted. "I don't want to hear
any more of such talk. All you do is to pick out the weak members of the
church and hold them up to ridicule. That isn't fair. You might as well
take the lunatics in the Asylum an' judge all the sane people by them."

"But, Sarah, let me--"

"Just a minute. Please wait until I'm through. You might as well judge
all the people by the ones in jail, as to judge the church members by
the weak ones."

"I know that, but--"

"Didn't I tell you to wait until I have finished with what I have to
say? Or you might as well judge all the apples or potatoes in a barrel
by the rotten ones. Now, do you think that would be a fair thing to do?
And yet, that is just the way you judge and criticize the church
members."

"I guess yer right, Sarah," Henry acknowledged. "I see something new now
which I never saw before."

"I am glad that you have some sense left, anyway."

"I've enough sense left to ask ye one straight question, Sarah."

"And what is that?"

"It's about them stars. Ye've been judgin' 'em purty hard, it seems to
me. Ye've heard an' read that some of 'em are not jist altogether right.
But should ye judge all by a few that go crooked?"

"But they're all bad," Mrs. Winters snapped, realizing how she had
placed herself in an awkward position.

"How d'ye know that?"

"Well, I was just judging by the ones I heard and read about."

"So ye judge all the rest that way, eh? Didn't ye jist pitch into me fer
doin' the same about church members? Didn't the Lord Himself say there'd
be tares among the wheat? An' it seems to me that it doesn't matter
whether the wheat is the church or a movin'-picter consarn. S'pose we
jist wait an' judge them stars ourselves."

"When are they coming, Henry?" Mrs. Winters asked, now quite willing to
end the argument.

"Oh, in about a week's time. The manager is to let me know the exact
day."

"Dear me, I can't for the life of me imagine why they want to come to
such a wretched place as this."

"Ah, but it'll all be fixed up later, Sarah, so that feller told me.
Everything is to be changed like magic, an' we won't know the place when
they git through with it. I've given 'em permission to do as they like,
fer no matter what they do they can't make it look any worse than it is.
I guess ye needn't worry any more about yer religious principles. The
money we'll make will act like a soothin'-syrup to any troublesome
qualms of conscience. It will to me, anyway."

Mrs. Winters sighed as she thought the matter over. She was pleased at
the idea of the strangers coming, and yet she was afraid. Money and
excitement were coming to her in a way she had never imagined. But was
it right?

"And they'll be here in about a week's time, Henry?"

"Yes, an' they want to begin shootin' right away."

"Shooting! Why, what are they going to shoot? I thought they were going
to make a picture."

"So they are, Sarah. Don't ye understand? They call it 'shootin',' an'
the first thing they're goin' to shoot is you an' me settin' at the
front door."

"My lands! Are we to be in it, Henry?"

"Sure. I thought I told ye that. You an' me are to be 'pa' an' 'ma.' I'm
to do a hull lot of stunts, while you are to take the weepin' gal, who
is the hero-ine, in yer arms at the right minute. Oh, it'll be all
explained to us when they git here."

"But we'll have to be all dressed up, Henry, and I've got nothing but
that old dress of mine."

"Not a bit of it, Sarah. That feller said he wants to shoot us jist as
we are, showin' us a hard-workin' couple, almost down an' out an' mighty
discouraged at our hard luck. It's to show us ready to be turned out of
our old home. Gee! it's goin' to be great. I guess there'll be more
truth in that scene than them actors'll ever imagine. Anyway, the stars
are comin', Sarah, an' are goin' to fight fer us. Hooray!"




CHAPTER XIV

A DISCOVERY


Lemuel Karsall was busy at his hay. He had been at it since early
morning, trimming the corners of the field with his scythe where the
mowing-machine could not cut, and shaking out the heavy swathes. The day
was warm and bright, and peace reigned over river and land. There was
also a great peace in the young man's heart. This was due to his
thoughts about Nita Rivers. She had brought a new meaning into his life.
To him she was the very embodiment of all that is true, beautiful, and
noble. On all sides he seemed to feel her presence. Everything reminded
him of her. The smiling flowers visioned her beauty, and the songs of
birds the music of her voice. Nature was transfigured by the mystic
influence of his first great love. A new world was opened up, and he
wondered how he had found any joy in life before his meeting with her.
He was no less interested in his daily tasks, but now they were lifted
to a higher plane, and he associated everything with her. It was for her
sake he was working--the benediction of her smile, and the inspiration
of her words of encouragement.

He thought of all this as he worked, and that afternoon as he sat down
under the shade of a big tree by the side of the road to rest she was
still in his mind, a glowing reality. Formerly he had kept all his hopes
and plans to himself, for his sister cared for none of these things. But
now it was different. In Nita Rivers he had found a kindred soul, and he
longed for the day's work to be done that he might meet her again and
talk about the things that interested them both.

And as he sat there a vision rose before him of the house in the valley
below with Nita in charge, awaiting his coming in from the fields. He
pictured her standing at the door watching for him, and the smile of
welcome upon her face as he approached. And what evenings they would
have together in The Loft, arranging and labeling their specimens. And
what rambles they would have through fields and woods, searching for new
wonders of tree, flower and stone to add to their collection.
Occasionally his sister appeared in this vision, and then the dreamer
came down suddenly from the realms of fancy to stern reality. How could
Ada and Nita live together in the same house? he asked himself. He knew
that it would be impossible. Anyway, he was not going to worry about
that now. Ada was old enough to look after herself, and with the money
coming from their father's bequest she could live comfortably. He would
let her have the house, if she demanded it, and build another little one
just for himself and Nita.

But if he married, their father's money would cease, and Ada would be
penniless. This thought startled and aroused him from his dream. What
was he to do? He could make a living, all right, but what about his
sister? He could not leave her destitute. Neither could he give up the
woman he loved. It was a difficult situation in which he was placed.
Then a feeling of indignation came into his heart. What right had his
father to leave his money in such a manner? Until Nita came into his
life Lemuel had given it little thought. But now it made all the
difference in the world to him. The money was there in charge of the
Trust Company. It was the money his father had left for him and Ada
providing that neither married. And if they did marry, what would become
of the money? Who would get it? This idea aroused him, and he rose
quickly to his feet. He had never thought of this before, so contented
had he been with receiving the allowance that had come so regularly
twice a year. But he must find out more about his father's will. He
would go to the city and have a talk with the manager of the Trust
Company. He was not going to give up Nita, neither would he lose that
money without a struggle.

So intent was he with his own reflections that he did not notice an auto
glide silently up the road and stop near the big tree. The sound of
voices, however, arrested his attention, and as he glanced quickly
around, he saw two men alighting from the car. They at once came toward
him, and Lemuel noticed that they both were evidently well past middle
age. Their faces were pleasant, but they showed by their manner that
they were men well to do and accustomed to command. He looked again at
the car and saw that it was a fine large Sedan with a chauffeur at the
wheel. He knew that they must be men of considerable importance, and he
wondered what they wanted.

"Excuse me," he heard one of them, the stouter of the two, say, "please
tell me if we are on the right road to Crestville?"

"You are," Lemuel replied. "It is a little over fifteen miles away."

"Dear me! I didn't think it was so far, did you, William?"

Receiving no response from his companion, he glanced around and saw him
off to the right examining something upon the ground.

"Isn't he the limit!" he exclaimed, while his eyes twinkled with
amusement. "He's always on the lookout for some new discovery. I do not
know how many times we had to stop this afternoon while he examined
rocks, stones and flowers along the way. Why, he forgets all about time,
and his meals, too, for that matter. But this is a most pleasant place,
and if we are not intruding, I should like to rest a while under this
fine tree."

"You are perfectly welcome, so make yourself at home," Lemuel assured
him. "Your friend is a student of nature, I see."

"Indeed he is," the stranger replied as he stretched himself full length
upon the grass. He then drew a silver cigar-box out of his pocket,
opened it and held it forth to the young man. "You smoke, of course?
You'll find these extra good."

Lemuel took one and put it into his pocket. The reclining man watched
him curiously.

"Why not smoke it?"

"It will keep. I cannot smoke and work at the same time very well."

"Is this your place?"

"Yes. I live just down yonder," and Lemuel motioned to the house below.

"How I envy you, young man. What a glorious life you must lead. Married,
eh?"

"No. Just my sister and myself."

Lemuel's eyes were fixed upon the other man as he spoke. He wanted to
speak to him and find out what he was examining. So he was a student of
nature like himself. It had been a long time since he had met such a
person. Perhaps he might be a professor of some college. How he should
like to show him his specimens in The Loft. But a natural diffidence
restrained him.

And as he watched, the man rose from his knees, and clutching something
in his hands, came toward them.

"I have found some sweet-hay," he announced. "Just smell that,
Char-Daniel," and he thrust a portion of the hay close to his
companion's nose. "Doesn't the scent of that thrill your very soul?"

"It certainly does, William. It takes me back to my childhood days, to
my old home during the haying season. What would I not give to be as
happy and free from care as I was then. And how strong and well I was,
with an appetite always ready for my meals."

"If you lived here for a while, Char-Daniel, I mean, you would soon be
your former self again," Radcliffe replied, taking his seat upon the
ground by his side. "Suppose we spend a week or two in this place. I
should like to study the plants around here. This is a new country to
me, and I am most anxious to do some exploring."

"I am afraid I cannot stay, William. I also have considerable exploring
to do, although of a different nature to yours. I am eager to end my
quest and to learn the truth, no matter what that may be."

He rose to his feet, and turned to Lemuel.

"Do not be surprised if you see my friend prowling around here some day.
He is perfectly harmless when chasing bugs and searching among the
flowers and rocks. You might keep an eye over him, though, for he is
subject to strange freaks when lost in thought. Just leave him alone and
he will do no harm."

"I understand what you mean," Lemuel smilingly replied. "'There is no
solitude like nature,' as an old writer said. It would be a great
pleasure to have a kindred spirit tramping over my place and studying
the many things that have so greatly interested me."

Both men looked curiously at Lemuel. Radcliffe was the first to speak.

"Are you, too, a student of nature? As you work your farm, do you keep
your eyes open to the wonderful things around you? Have you been
studying the plant life in this community? If so, I am much pleased, and
shall consider you the best discovery I have made in years."

Lemuel colored a little, and shifted uneasily from one foot to the
other. He wanted to talk to this man about the things which were so near
his heart. And yet he felt a diffidence in doing so. This man was a
stranger to him, and he did not feel altogether at ease. If it had been
Nita it would have been different, and his tongue would have been loosed
at once. But he had to say something, and not act like a fool.

"Suppose you come with me to my house down yonder," he suggested. "I
have a collection there which might interest you. Would you care to look
at it?"

"With pleasure. Come, Char-Daniel, I mean, confound it! Let us go."

Charles Stanfield had heard hardly a word of this conversation. He was
not at all interested in plants, but was gazing thoughtfully down over
the fields and out upon the river. But at Radcliffe's closing words, he
moved slowly toward the road, and took his seat by the chauffeur's side,
while Lemuel and Radcliffe sat behind. It did not take them long to
reach the house and to climb the stairs leading to The Loft. Lemuel led
the way, and as he reached the floor above, he stood back and motioned
to his collection.

"There are some of the fruits of my labors," he quietly informed them.
"They mean a great deal to me."

With an exclamation of surprise and delight Radcliffe darted forward,
and was soon examining the specimens in the cases, on the shelves and
walls. Lemuel watched him with fast-beating heart. Here was a man who
understood and appreciated such things. He paid no attention to
Stanfield, who was wandering about the room, peering indifferently at
the things which were of so much concern to the others.

"What a discovery!" Lemuel heard Radcliffe say, as he moved from case to
case, and from shelf to shelf. He followed him and observed the keenly
interested man. This to him was worth a lifetime of toil and neglect.
His heart thrilled, and he longed for Nita to be present. What a story
he would have to tell when he saw her again.

An exclamation of surprise from the other side of the room attracted his
attention. Looking quickly in that direction, he saw Stanfield in the
"corner" gazing intently upon the picture over the table.

"Where did you get this?" Stanfield abruptly inquired.

Lemuel crossed the room, and stood looking at the painting.

"It's pretty, isn't it?"

"It is. But where did you get it?"

"From a friend of mine." Lemuel colored a little, but the other did not
notice his embarrassment. "Miss Rivers, the school teacher here, did
that. It is a picture of her old home, and it is a fine piece of work."

Stanfield, however, made no reply, but stood staring at the scene before
him. He then stepped up closer and fixed his eyes upon the two letters
"N.R." in the lower right hand corner.

"Her initials, I suppose," he remarked.

"Yes. Nita Rivers is her name."

"Ah! And you say she teaches here?"

"She does during school term."

"So she is not here now?"

"Oh, yes. She is boarding at Mrs. Stevens' near the station."

Charles Stanfield was more excited than he had been for years, although
outwardly he was very calm. He knew that one of his sister's daughters
was near, but decided not to make himself known to her for a while that
he might learn more about her. This young man knew her, and, perhaps,
was in love with her. Matters were getting very interesting.

"Excuse me, but would you mind telling me your name? Mine is--is Daniel
Doncaster, and my friend's is William Radcliffe, president of a college
in the United States. We are touring this province, and like to know the
names of people from whom we receive favors."

"I am Lemuel Karsall," was the reply, "and I have lived here most of my
life. I am always pleased to have visitors come to this part of the
country. I hope that we shall see you again."

"Indeed you shall. You have won the heart of my friend by your fine
collection, while I am greatly interested in this picture. The work is
well done, and there is a strong appeal in that old house among those
noble trees. I should like to meet the artist sometime. When I come
back, you must be sure to introduce us. Have you any more of her
pictures?"

"That is all I have. But I am sure that Miss Rivers will be pleased to
show you others which she considers superior to this. Painting is one of
her hobbies."

"She has others, then?"

"Yes, indeed she has. She is very fond of nature study, and has been of
much assistance to me."

"I am sure she has," Stanfield replied, more to himself than to Lemuel.
"She certainly must be a remarkable young woman. But, there, we must be
on our way. Good-bye for the present. Come, William," he called, "it's
time for us to be off."

"Dear me! What are you in such a hurry about?" Radcliffe growled. "You
are always dragging me away just when I am enjoying myself."

"But you can come again," Stanfield smilingly replied. "We must not
detain Mr. Karsall any longer to-day. It has been good of him to give us
so much of his time."

"Indeed it has, Char-Daniel, and with you I wish to thank him for the
pleasure he has given me this afternoon. How did you happen to take up
this study?" he asked, turning to Lemuel.

"I was led to it when a mere boy by an Englishman who lived with us for
a while. Then at college I continued the study. My best discoveries are
recorded there," and he laid his right hand upon the pile of note-books
upon his desk.

Radcliffe stepped forward, and was about to examine the books when
Stanfield restrained him.

"Not now, William," he ordered. "They are private property, remember.
And, besides, you have not the time at present. I know what it will
mean if you get your eyes upon those pages. Come along."

Very reluctantly Radcliffe turned away from the desk and walked to the
head of the stairs. Here he stopped and looked up into Lemuel's face.

"You are doing a fine work here, young man. I am astonished and
delighted at what I have discovered. Alone, and with little
encouragement, you have made a collection of which any man might well be
proud. But for this tyrant who insists upon dragging me away, I would
stay and have a long talk with you. I also long to examine your books.
But you shall see me again some day. In the meantime, I shall write to
you, and I trust that our correspondence will be of much benefit to both
of us. Oh, if I could only instil into the hearts and minds of my
students something of your wonderful spirit. But they shall hear of your
work and the collection you have made. Yes, yes, I am coming," he called
out to Stanfield. "Confound that impatient man! Good-bye, Mr. Karsall,
and good luck to you."

Lemuel watched the car as it sped away. He then returned to The Loft,
and walked slowly across the room with his eyes fixed upon his
specimens. Going over to his corner, he sat down and looked upon the
picture over his desk. He was very happy. The president of a college had
congratulated him upon his work. How pleased Nita would be. He longed to
see her as soon as possible and tell her the good news.




CHAPTER XV

STARTLING NEWS


For only a short time did Lemuel remain alone in The Loft. He then went
back to his work in the field. The afternoon was drawing to a close, and
he had lost over an hour and a half already. He felt no regret, however,
for the visitors had given a new zest to his life. The professor's
interest in his collection thrilled his soul, and as he continued his
raking he would sometimes pause and gaze dreamily out over the river.
Wonderful thoughts were passing through his mind, and often his lips
moved as he repeated some favorite quotation. Choice words of great
masters had always cheered and inspired him in the past. He had learned
many lines by heart, and at times he would repeat these aloud as he
worked. Neighbors passing along the road had stopped to listen, and had
told others of Lemuel's strange mutterings out in the field. Such things
were more than they could understand, so decided that the lone worker
was "queer." They did not know that their judgment was the same as had
been pronounced upon all thinkers through the ages. Neither did they
realize, and, in truth, they would not have listened had anyone tried to
enlighten them, that the men who were considered "queer" were the very
ones who had done most for the welfare of mankind.

Lemuel was well aware how the people laughed at him and talked about his
strange doings. It only tended to increase his self-dependence, and to
make him more reserved in speaking about his discoveries. It caused him
to devote himself more than ever to his beloved work, and in the joy of
study to forget what others said and thought.

But at times there had come to him an intense longing for some kindred
spirit to whom he could speak. He had found such a person in Nita
Rivers, who had come into his life bringing love and inspiration. And
now those two strangers had visited him, and one was a professor who had
been greatly pleased with the collection in The Loft. And he had
promised to write and pay him another visit. Lemuel's heart beat fast
and a vision rose before him of the wonderful conversation they would
have together. There were many questions he longed to ask which he felt
sure the professor would be able to answer. And he was the president of
a university! It seemed almost too good to be true that such a man had
been under his humble roof and had examined his treasures.

A shrill blast of a horn fell upon his ears, telling him that supper was
ready. It was later than usual, but he had forgotten all about eating.
He knew that Ada had been away that afternoon, but she had not told him
at noon where she was going. The gulf which separated the two had
widened of late so they had not much to say to each other. Lemuel was
quite willing now that Ada should go her own way, so long as she left
him alone.

Little was said during supper. Lemuel did not notice that his sister
looked at him somewhat curiously, and that her step was unusually light.
There was also a peculiar expression of triumph in her eyes, which was
not caused entirely by her walk that afternoon. A stranger observing her
would have been much attracted by her appearance, for Ada was possessed
of more than ordinary beauty of face and form. But she never looked
better than she did this evening, although her brother did not notice
it, being too much absorbed with his own affairs. Considerable blame
rested upon him, no doubt, for his indifference to his sister. Had he
considered her more, and taken her somewhat into his confidence it
might have meant a great deal, especially so now.

After supper Lemuel attended to the chores, and when he had finished, he
went to his own room. When he reappeared he was dressed in his best
suit. Without a word he left the house and walked quickly to the main
road. Ada watched him until he was out of sight. She then went back to
the table, cleared away the dishes, washed them and put them upon the
pantry shelf. She worked rapidly, in keeping with the agitated state of
her mind. Her heart was filled with anger against her brother and the
teacher. In this she felt perfectly justified, for she believed that she
was doing her duty in trying to save Lemuel from a designing woman. In
all ages people had done the same, hauling men and women to prison,
torturing them on the rack, or burning them at the stake. All had felt
justified in doing such diabolical things. In a lesser degree Ada
Karsall thus became one of the innumerable throng. She, too, justified
the fire of anger and revenge raging in her heart. It was righteous
indignation, so she believed, and that could not be wrong. She, like so
many others, never stopped to consider whether the ones she was willing
to persecute had as much right to their opinions as she had to hers.

Lemuel made his way to Widow Brown's, expecting to find Nita there.
Although he waited for some time, she did not appear, and he wondered
what had detained her. He was disappointed, so when he at length left
the house he walked slowly along the road leading to the station. He
called at Mrs. Stevens' and inquired for the teacher. To his dismay he
was told that she had gone never to return. Mrs. Stevens noted the
expression of concern upon his face, and asked him to sit down. She was
a motherly woman, and fond of Lemuel whom she had known since he was a
child.

"Miss Rivers has gone because she is not wanted here as a teacher any
longer," she explained.

Lemuel could hardly believe that he had heard aright. He stared
wide-eyed at the woman before him.

"Not wanted," he gasped. His throat was dry and a great weight was
pressing upon his heart. "What is the meaning of all this?"

Mrs. Stevens plucked at the corner of her apron as if unwilling to
explain. Her face bore a worried look which did not escape Lemuel's
eyes.

"Is there anything the matter?" he asked. "Don't be afraid to tell me,
for I want to know the truth. Why is she not wanted here?"

"Because of her family record. It is reported that her father was a bad
man. He broke his wife's heart and then committed suicide, leaving her
to provide for her family by taking in washing and going out to work by
the day."

"Oh, is that all?" Lemuel was much relieved, and his face brightened.
"It is sad, I acknowledge, but why should that affect Miss Rivers as a
teacher? She cannot help what her father did. There is no stain of
dishonor upon her, is there?"

"No, no, there is not a word against her. But she has an only sister who
has gone astray, so it is reported."

Into Lemuel's eyes came an expression of anger, and his hands clenched
hard together. He was a peace-loving man, and had never been known to
quarrel with anyone. But this was more than human endurance could stand.
The injustice of it all overwhelmed him. He could hardly believe it
possible that people would turn against Nita because of what her father
had done. He took a quick step toward Mrs. Stevens.

"Where did this information come from?" he demanded. "Who are the ones
who have spread this report?"

He stood very erect and tense in his agitation, ready to go forth at
once to confront and denounce Nita's enemies.

"Your own sister has been the chief one," Mrs. Stevens replied.

At these words Lemuel's face went white as death, and his body trembled.

"Ada!" he gasped. "Ada started that report! It can't be true. There must
be some mistake."

"There is no mistake, Lemuel. Ada has taken a great dislike to Miss
Rivers, as you, no doubt, know, so she wants to get her away from this
place. She is afraid that you will marry her, and that she will lose
your father's money. There, now, I have told you the plain truth, hard
though it is."

With a moan Lemuel slumped down upon a chair and stared straight before
him. His own sister his greatest enemy! The perspiration came out upon
his forehead as he thought of this. What was he to do? What could he say
to her? Had it been anyone else, it would have been different. But his
own sister!

"Have you any idea how Ada learned about Miss Rivers' family?" he
presently asked.

"Mrs. Winters told her, so I believe. And she had her information from
an agent who was here a day or two ago selling shrubs. He saw Miss
Rivers and recognized her at once. That was how the story first started.
I am so sorry, for I think a great deal of Miss Rivers."

"But who gave her notice to quit?" Lemuel asked. "Who has the authority
to do that?"

"Oh, no one has done that yet, although I understand that the trustees
are about ready to do so. As soon as Miss Rivers heard about it she
turned very pale. I was sure she was going to faint. She never uttered
one word but went quietly to her room, packed up her few belongings,
except her writing-desk, which she wishes me to keep for a while. She
then came downstairs and bade me good-bye. I tried to reason with her,
but it was no use. She said that she was not going to stay where she
was not wanted, even though she had right on her side. Poor girl! my
heart aches for her."

"When did this take place?" Lemuel asked in a husky voice.

"Only this evening, and she got away on the seven train. I had her trunk
sent to the station. She would not ride, preferring to walk, so she told
me. She seemed bewildered when she left the house, just like a person in
a dream. Her eyes were so big and bright, and she looked at me like a
hunted creature. It gave me a queer feeling which I can't get over."

"Where did she go, Mrs. Stevens?"

"To the city, of course."

"But her address there?"

"She didn't leave any. She said that she didn't want anyone to know what
had become of her."

At that instant a loud knock sounded upon the door, and as Mrs. Stevens
opened it, Henry Winters entered. His eyes were blazing with anger, and
he glared at Lemuel as if he were his mortal enemy. He was carrying a
paper-covered book in his hand, which he flourished with much vigor.

"Where is the teacher?" he demanded. "I want to see her at once."

"She's gone," Mrs. Stevens replied. "She went on the seven train."

"Gone! gone! Then, I'm too late."

"What is the matter, Henry?" Lemuel asked. "You look at me as if I were
to blame. I had nothing to do with her going."

"H'm, is that what ye think about it? I'll jist open yer eyes, then. If
it hadn't been fer you, Miss Rivers would not be in this mess of
trouble."

"But, Henry--"

"There, now, keep cool, Lem, an' don't git excited at what I say. Ye
know as well as I do that it's fer yer sake she's gone. She doesn't want
ye to lose yer dad's money on her account. She's one gal in a million,
that's what she is. She's not willin' to separate you an' Ada an' break
up yer home. I'm not cross at you, remember, fer it's only nat'ral that
ye should think a heap of her. But I'm mad, ragin' mad, at the ones who
spread them yarns which that agent started. But they can't drive her
out. She has the school law on her side, an' she kin stay, no matter
what the trustees do. Read that," and he thrust the book he was holding
into Lemuel's hand. "That's the School Law of this Province, an' there
on that page which I have marked ye'll find that she can't be fired from
this deestrict without due notice. Why, we are now well on into July,
an' that book says in plain language that notice to quit must be given
to a teacher at least one month before June the 30th. Miss Rivers got no
sich notice, an' she has the right to stay here fer the hull of the next
term. That's what I wanted to see her about, an' advise her not to
leave."

"It would have made no difference, Henry," Lemuel replied. "Miss Rivers
must know that she has the school law on her side. But she would not
stay with so many against her. She does not want to make trouble between
Ada and me."

"An' are ye willin' to let it rest at that, Lem? By the jumpin'
crickets! If I loved a gal as you seem to love her, I'd raise sich
ructions that people 'ud think the Day of Judgment had come."

A semblance of a smile flitted over the young man's face and his eyes
brightened a little. He held out his hand to his worthy neighbor.

"Thank you, Henry, for the interest you have taken in this affair. I
must go home now and think this all out, that I might do nothing
rashly."

Henry grasped the outstretched hand in a firm grip of understanding and
sympathy.

"That's right, Lem, think it out. But in all yer thinkin', stand by the
gal ye love, an' I'll stand by yez both to the last ditch. When ye want
any help, jist call upon yer old friend, Hen Winters of Red Rose
Cottage, an' he'll be with ye quicker'n greased lightnin'."




CHAPTER XVI

UNDER COVER OF NIGHT


Lemuel left the house and walked slowly back along the road. He felt
grateful to Henry for his words of encouragement. He knew that he had a
true friend in the old man. Just now he did not want to meet anyone. His
only desire was to get away by himself that he might think. So Nita had
gone! And she had not even bidden him good-bye! And it was on account of
that money. Ada had accomplished her purpose, he was well aware. She had
used the agent's story to serve her purpose. A feeling of anger came
into his heart. His sister was willing to sacrifice his happiness and
injure the girl he loved so dearly. And it was all for the sake of
money. If he married, the bequest would cease. How often Ada had dinned
that into his ears. It had mattered little to him in the past, and he
had been quite willing to let her talk as much as she wished. But now
that such an overwhelming love had come into his life it made a great
difference. What was money, an ocean of it, compared with his love for
Nita Rivers? But to Ada it meant everything, and he knew that she felt
justified in the course she had taken. He was sure that she had made it
a matter of religion and had prayed over it most earnestly. That was her
nature. He knew how she would consider it from one point of view only,
that which affected her own interests. She would not think of the ones
she was seeking to injure, he was certain. She was right, and that was
the end of it.

Reaching his own place, Lemuel did not go into the house. It would be
too close there, and should Ada be awake, he did not want to answer any
questions she might ask. In fact, he was in no mood for any conversation
with her after the way she had treated the girl he loved. He preferred
to remain outside where he could breathe more freely. He walked slowly
to the barn, for it looked companionable standing silhouetted in the
moonlight. The big doors were open, and the sweet scent of new-mown hay
drifted softly out from the partly-filled bays. The air was balmy, and
peace reigned upon river and land. But no peace came to Lemuel's
tortured brain as he sat down upon a pile of hay that he had left upon
the floor. He thought of Ada and her contemptuous scheme to interfere
with his love for Nita. Again he thought of the money. How he hated that
word. She had made a god of it, and it was dominating her entire being.
Through it he had lost Nita. Where had she gone? he asked himself. Was
she thinking of him? Did she love him as he loved her? This idea was
startling. Perhaps she had only looked upon him as a friend. Was that
the reason why she had gone away without one word of farewell? The
perspiration came out upon his forehead at the thought. So intense was
his love, that never for an instant had he considered whether she loved
him. Was it only a one-sided affair, after all?

And as he sat there, half reclining upon the hay, his eyes turned to the
big field beyond. The barn cast its shadow obliquely upon the ground,
fantastic in shape, like some huge structure half up-reared. Elsewhere
all was bright. To his heated brain it assumed the appearance of a black
monster coming forth to blot out the glory around. Was it an omen of
what was coming to him? Did it mean that the shadow which had swept so
suddenly upon him was to darken and take all joy out of his life? He had
always scoffed at such superstitious notions in the past. But now it was
different. That splotch of shadow fascinated him, and riveted his
attention. In fact, he preferred to watch it rather than the bright
spaces beyond, as it was more in harmony with his sad and gloomy state
of mind.

And as he looked, he became aware of a form moving slowly through the
blackness. He sat bolt upright, and strained his eyes in an effort to
see more clearly. It was a human being, he was certain, and who could it
be prowling around the place at such a time of night? Perhaps it was a
thief. His heart beat fast, and cautiously he drew himself to his knees
ready to spring forth and confront the intruder. The next instant,
however, he was on his feet, for in the dim form he recognized Nita
Rivers. At first he could hardly believe his eyes, but imagined that it
was only a vision he saw. But as she came nearer and stopped not far
from where he was standing, he knew that it was no dream but the girl
herself.

Lemuel was now in a quandary and much puzzled. Where had she come from?
Mrs. Stevens had told him that she had gone on the seven train. But here
she was only a few steps away. He longed to speak to her, to call her by
name and ask her what she wanted. But he hesitated, his mind filled with
wonder. He would wait and find out what she intended to do. It was a
trying situation, but he was not kept long in suspense, for presently
Nita stretched out her hands in a mute appeal toward the house but a
short distance away. At once Lemuel surmised her meaning, and with a
great throb of joy in his heart, he leaped forward and stood by her
side. With a half-suppressed cry of fright, Nita turned, and the next
instant she found herself caught in a pair of strong arms. For a few
seconds she struggled in an effort to free herself, and then gave up the
attempt, permitting her lover to hold her fast. She knew who it was, and
an overwhelming sense of happiness came into her heart. She was content
to remain there forever and enjoy the rapture of her first great love.
It was heaven to know that some one loved her like that. In a few
minutes, however, she again endeavored to free herself from those
encircling arms.

"This is not right," she gasped. "Let me go."

At once Lemuel bent his head and kissed her again and again upon the
lips.

"I love you," he whispered, "and now I know that you love me. Let me
hear you say it yourself."

Nita's only reply was to entwine her arms around the young man's neck
and cling to him like a tender vine to some sturdy tree. Then tears came
into her eyes, and she sobbed as if her heart would break. Lemuel was
greatly disturbed.

"What is the matter?" he asked, loosening somewhat his hold. "Surely you
are not unhappy."

"It is not that," the girl sobbed. "Forgive me, but I cannot help it.
This is all so unexpected. I hope you do not mind my foolishness. Let me
get my handkerchief."

Lemuel stood and watched her as she wiped the tears from her eyes,
although he could not see her face very well owing to the darkness. His
heart beat wildly from the intensity of his emotion. This was a new and
wonderful experience to him. It was his first great love, and it had
overwhelmed him like a mighty flood. Nothing else mattered to him now.
Ada and the money were forgotten. He would gladly have stood forth upon
the highest hill and proclaimed his joy to the world. He led Nita out of
the shadow into the brightness beyond. He did not consider that Ada
might be watching, and he would not have cared, anyway. Eagerly he
looked into the girl's eyes.

"Are the tears all gone now?" he asked.

"Yes, all gone." Nita was smiling, although her face was flushed. Then
with a sigh, like a tired child, she rested herself against him,
supported by his encircling arm.

"I must hurry back to the station," she presently declared. "The train
will soon be here, and I must not miss it this time."

"I am glad you missed the other one."

"So am I now. I missed it on purpose, too."

"You did! Why, I thought you were anxious to get away from here."

"So I was, but I could not go without saying good-bye to you."

"Why didn't you let me know that you were going?"

"I couldn't bear the thought of bidding you good-bye forever. But I did
want to look at your house once more, and so--"

"You missed the train on purpose that you might come here to-night?"

"Yes, that was it. But I never expected to meet you this way. I am
afraid I have done wrong in coming."

"No you haven't, darling," and Lemuel again drew her close. "If you had
not come, I should not have known of your love. My heart was breaking as
I sat there in the barn thinking about you, and the cruel way you have
been treated. And you must stay."

"No, I cannot. I could not bear to remain here with the people, and your
sister especially, against me. And it is not right that I should be the
means of separating you and Ada and causing you to lose your father's
money. I am determined to go, and nothing can stop me."

"But we love each other so much, Nita. I don't believe anyone ever loved
another so much as I love you. It doesn't seem possible sometimes, but I
worship the very ground on which you walk. How could I get along without
you? Without you life would be unbearable."

"We shall have the remembrance of our love, Lemuel, and that will mean a
great deal. But, there, I must go to the station, as I do not intend to
miss the train this time."

Lemuel was in despair, and reasoned with all eloquence at his command.
He pleaded and begged for her to stay. The money did not matter. He
could earn a living and make enough for themselves, and Ada, too, for
that matter. With Nita by his side he could accomplish anything. His was
the rapture that would overcome all obstacles. He would go to the city
and win his way there. He would become a professor in some college and
gain money and fame. Nita smiled somewhat sadly as she listened to his
glowing words. She understood more about the world than he did, and what
it meant to struggle against mountains of difficulties. She thought of
her mother's fierce fight as well as her own. Lemuel did not know what
it meant, she was well aware. He had never as yet come face to face with
the cold and cruel facts of life. Although he had worked hard, he had
always been sure of a living. Starvation had never menaced him, and he
did not know what it was to strive against debt and grinding poverty.
But she knew only too well, and for that reason she was in a better
position to judge the value of what he said.

They were walking slowly along the road toward the station as Lemuel
pleaded his cause. To Nita, young and alone as she was in the world, it
was a strong temptation to remain with the man she loved. But her stern
sense of duty warned her that it would not be right.

"I must go away--now," she at length replied. "For your sake as well as
my own it would not be well for me to remain here."

"But you will come back, Nita."

"I cannot."

"Oh, don't say that. Anyway, you will send for me if you want me."

"Perhaps so."

"Why do you speak that way, Nita? Won't you tell me for sure that you
will come or send for me some day?"

"How can I, Lemuel? I shall never do anything that will cause you the
least regret. I must not come between you and your sister, and ruin you
both financially."

"Oh, that is all nonsense."

"No, it is not. I can see things which are hidden from you now, so I do
not wish to do anything that would make you unhappy in the future."

"But how could I be unhappy having you always with me, Nita? Life would
be like one grand sweet song."

"Oh, I wish I could agree with you," and the girl gave a deep sigh.
"Perhaps I am thinking too much about the discords that would mar the
harmony of the music."

"Discords! Why, there wouldn't be any. Our love is so great and true
that nothing could ever disturb the harmony. Promise, oh, promise me,
that you will come back and be my wife."

"I cannot promise, Lemuel."

"You won't promise!"

"I promise you nothing now. It would not be right. We must wait."

"But why did you say that you love me? Didn't you miss the train on
purpose that you might come here?"

"I have told you already, Lemuel. But had I known all, it is not likely
I should have done such a foolish thing. I have only made you more
unhappy, and that was farthest from my heart."

They were at the station now, and in a few minutes the train would be
due. Only two or three people were there, for the hour was late. Slowly
they walked up and down the platform, their hearts filled with sadness
at the thought of parting.

"Where are you going, Nita?" Lemuel asked.

"To the city, of course."

"I am glad of that, as I was afraid you were going farther away. I shall
see you there soon. You must give me your address."

"No, you must not know where I am."

"What! You surely don't mean that, Nita! I must know where you are
staying. How can I live without seeing you again, and soon?"

"I do mean it," was the low reply, and there was a tremor in the girl's
voice as she spoke "Oh, I cannot explain what I mean, and you would not
understand if I did. I am doing it all for the best."

"Nita!"

Lemuel caught her in his arms and drew her to him. No one was watching,
and neither did he care, so overcome was he with his deep emotion.

"You must not go like this," he declared. "You must tell me."

Before Nita could reply the train blew for the station, and the blazing
headlight shot its fiery gleam along the track.

"Good-bye, dear," Nita whispered. "I must go."

The young man bent his head, his lips met hers, and the next minute she
was gone. But the impression of that kiss remained to him through weary
days like a sacred benediction.




CHAPTER XVII

A WORTHY CHAMPION


Henry Winters came home from the store in a fighting mood. His wife had
never seen him so angry. In fact, he was so excited that he had very
little appetite, and hardly touched a thing upon the table. Mrs. Winters
was quite certain what was the trouble. She had heard about the
teacher's departure that day, and had secretly rejoiced. Her husband's
worry did not bother her in the least. It was for the good of the
community that the teacher should go, so she reasoned, and it was better
for Henry to suffer than for the entire settlement to become
contaminated. Why should a happy home be wrecked through a silly
flirtation? Lem and Miss Rivers would soon get over their infatuation
for each other when they were separated for a time, and thus everything
would turn out well in the end.

When Henry rose from the table, he lighted his pipe and picked up his
hat. He glanced at his wife as if about to say something, and saw that
she was watching him calmly, almost with triumph. He knew very well what
she was thinking about, and it made him more incensed than ever. Without
a word, he hurried to the door and passed out. Going to the barn, he
attended to the chores, and when these were finished he sat down upon
the doorsill of the horse stable. He was in an ugly frame of mind and
would gladly have welcomed an encounter with almost anyone except a
woman, especially his wife.

"I'd jist like to git me hands on them trustees," he growled. "I know
the women folks are back of all this. But one can't hit them except with
the tongue, an' that ain't much satisfaction when they git the better
of ye every time. Now, with a man it's different. Ye kin stand right up
to him an' have it out with the fists. An' to think that them women have
made a dead-set ag'inst that poor little innocent teacher! It makes me
blood bile to think of it. I'm sorry Sarah's mixed up with the racket."

He sighed as he rose to his feet, and picked up the milk-pails.

"Guess I'd better git through with the milkin', an' then stroll over to
see Lem. Poor feller! I pity him. He must be purty well down in the
dumps, an' I don't blame him if he is."

When he had finished milking, he returned to the house and set the pails
down upon the milk-house floor.

"There, I guess that'll do fer to-day, Sarah," he declared. "I'm goin'
over to see Lem fer a few minutes. I want to borrow a fork, as I broke
mine yesterday pitchin' hay."

"I didn't know you ever worked hard enough to break anything," his wife
retorted. "The fork was all right this afternoon when I was at the barn.
I saw it stuck into the hay which you were too lazy to pitch up into the
loft. If you broke it yesterday, as you say you did, it must have mended
itself. It had plenty of time, anyway, for you haven't touched it
since."

Henry waited to hear no more, but beat a hasty retreat. Mrs. Winters
smiled sadly as she turned her attention to the straining of the milk
and placing the pans upon the shelves.

"He's hopeless," she mused. "I wonder what he wants to see Lem about,
anyway. More mischief, no doubt."

Henry seated himself upon the wood pile and gazed off thoughtfully
toward the barn.

"What's the use of lyin' to a woman like Sarah?" he muttered. "She
catches me every time. Now, if I had said something else instead of that
fork, sich as the rake-handle, the whiffle-tree, or some other dang
thing, she might not have caught on. But to think that she was snookin'
around the barn an' saw that fork! Guess I'll have to give up lyin',
'specially to Sarah."

While he was thus meditating, Ada Karsall came into view, walking
rapidly across the field straight toward him. Henry's face grew stern,
and his eyes shone with anger. He felt in his bones that something out
of the ordinary had taken place to cause her to walk so fast.

"I don't want to see her," he growled. "After the mischief she's done I
might not be able to control me temper. Sarah says a man should allus be
perlite to a lady. I ginerally am, the Lord knows, but me patience is
sometimes strained to the bustin-pint at some of the so-called ladies I
run up ag'inst."

Ada saw Henry, and made at once for him. She was greatly agitated, and
her face was very white. She was breathing hard from her fast walk.

"What's wrong now, Ada?" Henry inquired. "Ye look 'most scared outer yer
life. Lem's not hurt or dead, I hope?"

"Oh, it's worse than that," Ada replied. "I'm afraid he's gone out of
his mind, and he may be dead now, for all I know."

"Ye don't say!" Henry rose to his feet, his eyes filled with concern.
"Crazy, is he? When did it come upon him? Set down, gal, yer all wrought
up."

"I can't sit down, Henry. I can't rest a minute. Oh! what am I to do?"

"Where is Lem now?"

"I don't know."

"H'm, is that so? What happened, anyway?"

"He left me without a word, and it's all due to that teacher."

Henry's face cleared, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He was about to
ask another question when Mrs. Winters came out of the milk-room. She
had heard the sound of voices, and was curious to know what was going
on. Seeing the two at the barn, she came at once to where they were
standing.

"My dear, what's all the trouble about?" she asked Ada. "You look
completely fagged out. Come into the house and rest yourself."

"Oh, Ada can't rest," Henry explained. "She told me so herself, an' it
proves what the Bible says that there's no rest fer the wicked."

"Henry Winters! how dare you insult a poor troubled girl like that?" his
wife demanded. "I am thoroughly ashamed of you."

"Mebbe ye are, Sarah, an' it's no news to me. But I was jist havin' me
little joke, that's all. Don't mind what I say, Ada. I'm so chock-full
of Scripter texts that they jist gush out like sweat on a bilin' day in
summer. The parson would be pleased to know how well I remember that
favorite text of his."

"He'd be very much annoyed if he knew how you are applying it now to
such a noble woman as Ada. And how do you know it is his favorite text?"

"'Cause he uses it so often, Sarah. Why, I've heard it at least once a
year as long as I kin remember."

"H'm, I guess that is about all you do remember, then."

"Not a bit of it, Sarah. I know that sermon all by heart, an' how the
parson has it divided into the firstly, secondly, thirdly, and so on, to
the tenthly. An', my, what a grand closin' he has where he picters the
misery an' unrest that comes upon the wicked who injure their neighbors
an' the innocent ones."

"Henry! Will you stop talking so much? I want to hear what's troubling
Ada. Your tongue is like a mill-clapper, and--"

"An' a'most like the tongues of the wicked when they git lashin' some
poor unfortunate woman who can't help herself. The parson says that is
the most contemptible thing on earth, an' I agree with him fer once."

"Henry!"

"It's true, Sarah, no matter what ye think. There's no rest fer the
wicked, an' that's one of the ways the Lord punishes 'em."

"You are quite right, Henry," Ada agreed. "The Lord will surely punish
Miss Rivers for luring Lemuel away from me and breaking up our home.
He's gone! he's gone!" she wailed, "and it's all the fault of that
wicked teacher. She wants to get his money."

Henry stared in amazement at the distressed woman. She had not taken his
pointed words to heart at all, but had applied them to her enemy.

"Well, I'll be--be jiggered!" he exclaimed. "I can't understand some
people nohow."

"I can't understand Lemuel, anyway, Henry. He was always a good brother
to me until that--that woman crossed his path. She's turned his head
completely, and now he's gone!"

"When did he go?" Mrs. Winters asked.

"This evening. I suspected something, and watched him closely all day."

"Poor feller!" Henry murmured. "He's got my sympathy, all right."

"But he hasn't mine," Ada emphatically declared. "He doesn't deserve any
for acting like a fool. Why, he didn't sleep at all last night. In fact,
he never went to bed, but was prowling around out of doors."

"What was he doin'?"

"Doing! I don't like to tell you the terrible thoughts which are in my
mind."

"It's jist as well, Ada. Ye'd better keep them there, fer me an' Sarah
might be shocked. We're too religious to know what yer thinkin' about.
If ye want to cuss an' swear, go ahead. I kin stand that, a'right,
though mebbe Sarah can't."

"Well, you can judge for yourselves what I think. Look at that."

She had pulled a small handkerchief out of her dress pocket, and held it
up for inspection.

"There it is. I found it right by the barn, and whose do you suppose it
is? It's hers, of course, for you can see the letter 'R' there in the
corner. That is all the evidence I need, and it makes me so weak I can
hardly stand."

"I can't see what's wrong about that," Henry defended. "S'pose she did
drop that little thing, what of it? It doesn't prove anything ag'inst
her."

"But it proves that she was around the barn last night. And what would
she be doing there if Lemuel wasn't with her?"

"Sure, sure, that's only nat'ral. I wouldn't blame him one bit. I'd do
the same meself if I was young ag'in."

"And you'd do it now if you had the chance, Henry," his wife retorted.
"You are just as rattle-brained and giddy as ever when it comes to a
pretty face and a flutter of skirts. There's no fool like an old fool."

"And there are young fools, too, Mrs. Winters," Ada reminded. "And
Lemuel is the most hopeless I ever saw. To think that he was with that
woman out there by the barn last night! They were up to no good, I am
sure of that. She must be bad through and through."

"She goes to church, though, doesn't she?" Henry queried.

"Oh, yes, I know she does. But no doubt she does that as a cloak to her
wickedness, and to impress people, especially Lemuel."

"Then, all people who go to church are not saints, eh?"

"You go, Henry, and you are far from being a saint," Mrs. Winters
replied. "I don't believe you get one bit of good by going."

"Oh, I go 'cause you drag me there, Sarah. Now, that teacher goes 'cause
she likes to go, an' it's her nat'ral element."

"H'm," Ada contemptuously sniffed. "She's a hypocrite, that's what she
is. I can't understand why Lemuel doesn't see through her wiles. She's
set her cap for him just to get his money. And now he's gone and left
me."

"An' Lem didn't tell ye where he was goin'?"

"No. He didn't eat a mouthful of food all day, and whenever I spoke to
him he stared at me in such a way that I was really frightened. Then
this evening he put on his best suit and left the house. Oh, I don't
know what I am going to do! I do not dare to stay in the house alone
to-night."

"Ah, ye needn't worry about that, Ada. You jist camp here with Sarah,
an' I'll go over an' sleep at your place. I kin have Lem's bed, I
s'pose?"

"Oh, will you do that for me, Henry? It will be such a relief. Lemuel's
bed is all made up, and you can make yourself at home. Be sure to put
the cat out and fasten the back door. Here is the key."

"I'll look after everything, a'right, Ada. Mebbe Lem 'll come home in
the night. But tell me, why has the teacher left, anyway? I thought she
was hired fer the next term."

"Because of her guilty conscience; that's why. It's always the way with
such people, and it's a terrible punishment. There is certainly no rest
for the wicked, as you just said."

"But are ye sure that's the reason, Ada? If she's after Lem's money, as
ye say she is, why, then, has she gone away. It seems to me she'd hang
on like a bull-dog to a rat if that was her purpose."

"There is another reason," Ada slowly replied. "It has to do with her
family. Her father was a bad man, and her only sister has gone astray.
The evil streak must be in that teacher, so we don't want the children
of this place to be contaminated by such a person. Think of the untold
harm she might do to little innocent minds."

"An' so the good people of this place set upon that young woman 'cause
of what her father an' sister have done? An' it was all fer the sake of
the souls of little ones. Did they ever think of her soul? Did they stop
to consider what a contemptible thing it is to persecute a woman fer the
sins of her family?"

"Henry!" Mrs. Winters cried.

"Jist a minute, Sarah. I'm only moralizin' a bit. It's good fer me own
soul. Now, when I find a couple of rotten pertaters in a row, I don't
throw all the rest away 'cause of them bad ones. I'd be a dang fool to
do a thing like that. An' yit, that's jist what Christian people are
doin' too often to-day. They have societies fer convertin' the heathen
an' bringin' 'em inter the fold. But it seems to me there should be some
darn good housecleanin' right at home."

"Henry! do you realize what you are saying?"

"Never more than now, Sarah. Me mental machinery is in fust-class
workin' order, so don't worry. When that sinnin' woman was brought
before Christ, He didn't set all the women upon her. Not a bit of it. He
wanted to help that poor unfortunate critter to lead a better life, an'
He went about it in the right way. An' it'd be a mighty good thing if
the ones who call 'emselves His followers would take a leaf out of His
book. Now that I've had me say, I'll git along an' look after yer house,
Ada. Hope ye'll sleep well to-night an' yer conscience won't trouble ye
too much."

Henry scratched a match, lighted his pipe, and sauntered off across the
field, leaving the two women staring after him.

"Well!" Mrs. Winters exclaimed.

"Well!" echoed Miss Ada. "What did he mean by such an harangue, anyway?
I hope to goodness he doesn't forget to put the cat out and lock the
back door."




CHAPTER XVIII

ON GUARD


With his old pipe going to his satisfaction, Henry leaned back
comfortably in a big chair, and gave himself up to the enjoyment of the
evening. His feet rested upon the low veranda rail as he looked out upon
the mirror-like river.

"My! this is great!" he mused. "Not a thing to do, an' no one to disturb
me thoughts. I wish Ada would hire me as watchman. She could stay with
Sarah as long as she wants to. An' mebbe she'll have to if Lem doesn't
show up. I wonder where the poor feller has gone to, anyway? After the
teacher, no doubt, an' I can't blame him. S'pose they should git married
in the city an' come back here to live! What would Ada do? She couldn't
stand it fer one day. There'd be trouble, an' I pity the woman that'd
come here. No, I guess Lem has enough sense not to do sich a foolish
thing as that. An' so has Miss Rivers. But, hello! who's this?"

The exclamation was caused by a big auto which had pulled up in front of
the house. At once a man alighted and walked slowly up to the veranda
steps. He stopped and looked up at Henry.

"Is Mr. Karsall at home?" he inquired.

"Naw, Lem's not in. I'm keepin' house t'night. Anything I kin do fer
ye?"

Charles Stanfield was disappointed. He had been looking forward to this
visit ever since he had been at the house with the professor on that
memorable afternoon. He longed for a talk with the young collector that
he might learn more about Nita Rivers.

"When do you think Mr. Karsall will be home?" he asked.

"That's hard to tell, Mister. His movements are somewhat unsartin these
days."

"Would it be any use for me to wait?"

"It'd do no harm. But ye might have to hang around fer quite a while, a
week or a month, mebbe. Anyway, come up an' take a seat. It's mighty
comfortable here, an' the view can't be beat."

Speaking to his chauffeur, and telling him to return in an hour's time,
Stanfield stepped upon the veranda and sat down in a splint-bottom chair
which Henry had pulled forward.

"You are certainly right about the view," he remarked, as his eyes roved
over the fields and out upon the river. "I suppose Mr. Karsall sits here
quite often."

"D'ye mean Lem, Mister? We don't know him by any other name, so 'Mr.
Karsall' sounds strange. He's been 'Lem' to me ever since he was a baby,
an' allus will be, I guess."

"So you've known him all that time, have you? Well, that's interesting."

Stanfield pulled a well-filled cigar case from his pocket, opened it,
and held it out to Henry.

"Try these, my friend. I think you will find them extra good. You enjoy
cigars, I hope."

"I sartinly do," Henry assured him, as he lifted a big fat one from
among its fellows. "But I don't often run across sich beauties as these.
Once in a dog's age I git treated, or treat meself to a five-center.
Most of the time I have to be satisfied with me old pipe."

"Take more than one," Stanfield insisted. "Here, don't be afraid of
them."

He lifted several from the box and handed them to Henry.

"If you like this brand, I'll send you a whole box. Light up, and we'll
enjoy a smoke together. Let me give you a light. There, that's better."

Henry was deeply impressed by the stranger's friendly off-hand manner
and generosity. He thought of the big car, the chauffeur, the silver
cigar case, and the well-to-do appearance of the man. As he took a long
luxurious pull at the weed, he tried to make out something about the
visitor. He might be an agent. No, that could not be, for no agent who
came that way ever traveled in such style. If an election were pending,
he might consider him a politician. And what in time did he want to see
Lem for? His curiosity was becoming greatly aroused. He watched the man
out of the corner of his right eye and decided that he was someone of
real importance.

"Yer not an agent, are ye?" he at length asked, hoping to gain some
information.

"Oh, no," Stanfield smilingly replied. "I have not the honor to belong
to the Knights of the Road. I am merely--ah--Daniel Doncaster. I
happened to see Mr. Karsall's fine collection of flowers and minerals
and am anxious to meet that remarkable young man again."

"Oh, so yer that perfessor chap Lem was tellin' me about! Well, I'm
mighty glad to meet ye. I'm Hen Winters, his neighbor, an' live jist
over there down by the shore."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Winters," and Stanfield held out his hand.
"Have you any family?"

"Jist me an' me wife Sarah. We've lived there fer about forty years all
by our lonesome at Red Rose Cottage jist over yonder. Say, perfessor,
that's a great cigar. Best I ever tasted."

"I am glad you like it, Mr. Winters. It's my special brand."

"It must be great, perfessor, to smoke nuthin' but cigars like this.
Cost something, too, eh? Ye git quite a sal'ry, I s'pose?"

"Yes, I get enough to live upon."

"What d'ye perfess, anyway? I mean, what d'ye teach? Belong to some
college, I reckon."

"Oh, I'm only an honorary professor, and am connected with Strongbow
University. You have heard of it, no doubt."

"Naw, never did. I'm not much on edication. In fact, never took no
interest in the school in this deestrict, even, until lately. Me
school-tax allus made me hoppin' mad, an' I looked on teachers as
useless critters, gittin' money fer doin' nuthin'."

"Have you changed your mind?"

"I have as fer as this deestrict is consarned. Why, I've gone as fer as
to read the School Law an' found it a mighty interestin' book."

"What brought about the remarkable change?"

Henry blew forth a cloud of smoke, and gazed thoughtfully out over the
fields.

"Well, as ye've asked me pint-blank, I don't mind tellin' ye. It was due
to our teacher, Miss Rivers. She's opened me eyes to see things in a new
light."

"How did she come to do that? She must be a good talker. What special
argument did she use?"

"She didn't use no words, perfessor. We never argied one bit. She
herself was all the argyment I needed."

"Oh, I understand now. It was her personality that won you. She must be
a remarkable young woman to make such a conquest."

"She is, perfessor, an' no mistake. Now, if she had come along with any
high-falutin' ways, an' big words, I'd gone dead ag'inst her. I can't
stand sich women. But when she doesn't do nuthin' like that but is
quiet, purty, an' modest as a flower, well, that's the argyment that
gits me every time. She reminds me of them flowers Sarah's allus fussin'
with in front of our house. They don't make a noise or shout about their
beauty. An' yit ye allus feel better when ye look at 'em. Sarah'd laff
at me fer sayin' this an' call me sentimental. But it's the Gospel
truth, fer all that."

"I think I understand what you mean," Stanfield quietly replied. "It is
silent goodness, after all, which counts most in life, and not the noisy
advertising kind."

He remained for a few minutes lost in thought. His eyes had an
expression of pleasure, and his heart was full of satisfaction. He was
learning much about his niece, and from a most unexpected source. If
Nita were all that this rough old farmer said she was, then he need have
no doubt about her worthiness. His dream was coming true, after all, and
he was greatly elated.

"Yes, perfessor, that's the kind of a woman that gits me every time."
Henry's words roused Stanfield from his reverie. "It's a dang pity,
though, that she has to be tramped upon an' persecuted fer what's not
her own fault."

"What do you mean, Mr. Winters?"

"Haven't ye heard what they've done to Miss Rivers? No? Well, that's
queer. Guess ye've not been here long or ye'd soon found out. It makes
me ragin' mad when I think of it. Lem's gone about daft, an' that's why
he's not home t'night, so I'm lookin' after the place. Ada's too scared
to stay here alone. Mebbe I'm a fool, but if the Lord made me that way,
it can't be helped."

"Why, what's the matter, anyway?" Stanfield asked. "What has happened to
Miss Rivers?"

"Blamed if I know. She left yesterday an' hasn't been heard of since.
But I know only too well what some of the folks in this deestrict did to
her before she cleared out. Why, the women got started after her with
Ada in the lead, an' Sarah, I guess, not fer behind. An agent was around
here sellin' shrubs, an' he did some yangin' about the teacher's family.
He told Sarah that Miss Rivers' dad was a bad egg, who broke his wife's
heart, an' then took his own life. He also said that the teacher's only
sister had gone to the devil, or somethin' like that, an' is follerin'
the foot-lights somewhere in the States. I happened to hear him an'
stopped his blattin', but not soon enough. He didn't say nuthin' more,
though, ag'inst the teacher while he was in this parish."

"So that report got around, did it?" Stanfield queried. He was becoming
aroused now and anxious to hear more.

"Should say it did, perfessor. Sarah told Ada what she'd heard, so the
fat was in the fire in no time. The women in this deestrict got excited
an' said it wasn't safe to have a woman with sich a family record to
teach their kids. They stirred up the trustees to dismiss the teacher.
But she took matters into her own hands an' lit out. She was too
sensitive to stay when she knew she wasn't wanted. But she could have
held on, fer she has the School Law on her side. It's all there in black
an' white that a teacher's got to have notice in plenty of time to
quit."

"This is certainly strange, Mr. Winters," Stanfield remarked. "I never
imagined that women acted so uncharitably these days. Was there any
other cause back of this?"

"Ye bet yer life there was. It was Ada, Lem's sister, who stirred up the
rumpus. Ye see, her an' Lem have lived together most of their lives, an'
when their dad died, he left his money to them in charge of some Trust
Company in the city. But they only git the interest pervidin' they don't
marry. If they do, it stops. I guess old Karsall must have been daft to
fix his will that way. But that's the cause of the trouble, an' the
storm's fallen upon the head of that poor innocent teacher. If Ada
hadn't found out about the gal's family, she'd hunted up some other
excuse. That's the way with women when they git started, so I've
learned."

"But what had Miss Rivers to do about the money?" Stanfield asked.

"Can't ye understand, perfessor? Lem's tumbled head-over-heels in love
with her, an' I don't blame him one bit. Guess I'm in the same fix
meself. Anyway, Ada's nigh crazy, an' is goin' about like a ragin' an
roarin' lion, as the Bible says. Wonnerful, isn't it, how that Good Book
knows folks, 'specially women?"

Stanfield hardly heard the question, so wrapped up was he in his own
thoughts. He felt certain now that Nita Rivers was a most worthy young
woman, and a sense of pleasure thrilled his soul. She needed his help,
so it seemed, and he had arrived at the opportune time. So Lemuel
Karsall was in love with her. Did she return his love? he wondered. And
what about her sister? People believed that she had gone to the bad.
This was a disturbing thought, and his brows knit in perplexity. But the
gossip might be entirely wrong. He could not believe that his own
sister's daughter could ever go astray. It was not reasonable, knowing
Marion as he did. And yet it did sometimes happen. Anyway, he must find
out. But where could he go for the necessary information? He did not
even know where she was living. Nita might have her address, and,
perhaps, he could learn something from her. But how could he do this
without telling Nita who he really was. He longed now more than ever to
see Lemuel, as he might be able to tell him something.

"Did Miss Rivers leave any address?" he at length asked.

"Not as fer as I know, perfessor. Lem may have an inklin', as the two
were together last night, so Ada said. But he's gone, an' there's no
knowin' when he'll be home. What a funny thing love is, anyway. Now,
who'd a thought six months ago that sich a quiet, steady-goin' feller as
Lem would ever lose his heart an' head over a woman. He seemed to be so
taken up with his studies that he could think of nuthin' but the trash
he's gathered up there in The Loft. But one never knows what young
people'll do. I guess, though, the new specimen he's after now is of
more interest to him than anything else."

When Stanfield at last rose to go, he thanked Henry for the pleasant
evening.

"Although I am sorry, Mr. Winters, that I have not met Mr. Karsall, I
have thoroughly enjoyed my conversation with you. As I am staying for
several days at the Riverview Hotel, I hope to see you again."

"Sure, sure, perfessor, I want to have another chat with ye. Come over
an' see us as soon as ye kin. I want Sarah to meet ye. She's better with
the tongue than I am."

"She must be a wonder, then," Stanfield smilingly replied.

"She sartinly is, though she ginerally talks sense, while I rattle off
the fust thing that comes into me head. Yes, come an' see us, perfessor,
an' make yourself to hum. We'll be on the lookout fer ye."

As Stanfield sank down in the seat of his car on his way back to the
hotel, he did considerable thinking. He had much work ahead of him, and
a great deal of extra information to be obtained. But he had made a good
start, anyway, and that was something. He smiled at the new title which
Henry had given him. What a choice bit of news that would be for
Radcliffe, and he knew how heartily he would enjoy the joke. But
Stanfield was quite pleased, as he felt sure the name would assist him
in his undertaking. He wished to keep his identity a complete secret,
and how could he accomplish this better than by posing as a professor of
Strongbow University and interested in Lemuel's specimens? For his
sister's sake he was going to carry this thing through. His thoughts
turned to that old dilapidated house he had visited several weeks
before, and the room where Marion had died. A mistiness came into his
eyes as he pictured her brave desperate struggle to support herself and
her two daughters. He could do nothing for her now. The time of
opportunity had passed. He might be able, though, to do something for
her children, but he wished to do it in a way that would prove best for
all concerned. The undertaking was becoming more interesting than he had
anticipated. There were difficulties confronting him which he had not
foreseen. But Charles Stanfield was a man accustomed to perplexing
situations, and his old feeling of exhilaration returned to him this
night, the first time since his serious illness.




CHAPTER XIX

STANFIELD MAKES A CALL


Early the next morning Mrs. Winters set earnestly to work housecleaning,
that she might be ready for the movie people. She had been worrying
about it ever since Henry had told her of their coming. With the time
now drawing near, she became more anxious than ever and confided her
troubles to Ada.

"I do hope it will rain in torrents to-morrow," she said. "I somehow
can't bear the thought of those people sweeping down upon us, taking
possession of this place, and tramping through the house. I know that I
shall be so flustered and upset that I shall make a fool of myself."

Ada was assisting her neighbor with the work of preparation. She had
been over to her own house early that morning and had attended to the
chickens, while Henry milked and did other chores around the barn. In
return for his help, she wished to do what she could for Mrs. Winters.
And, besides, she was unusually lonely with Lemuel absent. She missed
his presence, and there seemed to be nothing for her to work for now
with him away. She had carried the mats out of doors for Henry to shake
and had just returned to the room when Mrs. Winters gave vent to her
feelings.

"Why, I thought you were delighted at the idea of having those people
here," Ada replied. "You told me it would make some excitement, and also
bring in a little extra money."

"I know I did, my dear. But that was when I first heard of their coming.
But as the time is almost here I feel terribly nervous. You see, Henry
and I have lived so long together in our own quiet way, that to have a
commotion around us, and with strangers in charge of the house, makes me
tremble from head to foot. Perhaps they will make fun of us and our
old-fashioned ways."

"I can understand just how you feel about it, Mrs. Winters," Ada
replied, seating herself upon the horse-hair sofa to rest, "but it is
not nearly so bad in your case as in mine."

"Yours!" Mrs. Winters looked up in astonishment. "They're not going to
your place, are they? Why, you never told me a word about it, and
neither did Henry."

"Oh, no, the movie people are not coming to my house, Mrs. Winters. But
I could put up with them far better than the one who is coming. I would
be clear of them in a few days, but she will stay forever."

"And who in the world is that?"

"The teacher, of course. Lemuel will marry her and bring her home. And
what will become of me? I shall have to leave, for I could never live in
the same house with that woman. And I shall be penniless, for father's
money will cease. Oh, what am I to do! I am almost crazy!"

She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Mrs. Winters stood watching
her for a few seconds, and then crossed to where she was sitting.

"There, there, don't take on so hard, Ada. So long as I have a home, you
shall share it with me. I know as well as you do, and, perhaps, better,
what queer creatures men are. I speak from an experience of forty years
with one man. And I think it was ridiculous of your father to leave his
money in such a foolish manner. I can't imagine what possessed him to do
it unless his mind was affected when he made his will. Have you ever
thought of that?"

"I never have," Ada sobbed. "I never gave a thought to it until this
trouble came upon me, for I was sure that Lemuel would never get
married. But my father always seemed clear-minded, and a good business
man. I cannot understand it at all."

Mrs. Winters returned to her work, as she had little time to waste. As
she bustled in and out of the room, sweeping, dusting, moving chairs and
tables, Ada sat gloomily upon the sofa. Presently Henry's heavy tread
sounded in the kitchen, and as he thrust his head in at the parlor door
he gave a gasp of surprise.

"Holy Moses!" he exclaimed. "What a mess! An' what's wrong with Ada?
Hasn't fainted, has she?"

"She's just resting," his wife explained. "But I'm glad you've come, for
I want you to shake those mats out at the back door. We're getting ready
for the picture people. The house is filthy."

"But ye cleaned the hull place last spring, Sarah. An' as fer the
parlor, nobody ever comes here. The blinds are allus down, an' the
chairs kivered with them cotton things to keep 'em from fadin'. I don't
see any use of all this extry work."

"No, I suppose not, Henry. You are a man, so can't understand such
things. But you understand how to shake mats, and that's what I want you
to do right away."

"But, Sarah----"

"I haven't time to argue, Henry. If you don't want to do it, don't, and
I'll do it myself."

Henry gazed at his wife, and also glanced over at Ada. He then backed
slowly from the door and clumped out of the kitchen.

"Well, I'll be darned!" he growled, staring savagely at the mats lying
in a confused heap before him. "Women are queer. Cleanin' all the time,
an' never satisfied. Sarah is sartinly a hustler at it, an' no mistake.
Wonder what's wrong with Ada now." He sat down upon the doorstep, pulled
his pipe from his pocket, filled and lighted it. "Mebbe she's mournin'
over Lem. Hope t'goodness she is. It serves her blamed well right. Well,
I s'pose I must git at them mats. Wonder what mats were made fer,
anyway? They're only a nuisance. But, hello! what's this? A car. It must
be that perfesser bringin' them cigars. Guess I'll let the women
entertain him. Ada kin do it fine. Mebbe she'll git him fer a beau. I'll
slip into the woodshed an' peek through the winder."

Within the parlor Mrs. Winters continued her work with great energy. She
was about to call Henry to bring in the mats, when happening to glance
out of the window, she saw a big car stop in front of the house. A man
alighted, opened the little gate, and walked slowly up the path, looking
from side to side at the flowers.

"Here's a visitor!" Mrs. Winters exclaimed in alarm. "And he's right at
the door. Who can it be! And he's carrying something in his hand, too."

Ada rose quickly from the sofa and stood by Mrs. Winters' side.

"It's only an agent," she disgustedly declared.

"But I never saw an agent traveling around in such a fine car as that."

"Oh, almost anybody can have a fine car these days. But, there, he's
knocking. You'd better go to the door."

"You go," Mrs. Winters pleaded. "I'm not fit to be seen, but you're
clean and neat. Hurry!" she whispered. "He's knocking again. Tell him we
don't want anything."

Reluctantly Ada did as she was ordered. She opened the door, and was
just on the point of repeating Mrs. Winters' words when she hesitated
and became somewhat embarrassed. Something about the man, she could not
tell what, brought a peculiar quickening to her heart and shattered her
ordinary self-confidence. She drew a step back and remained silent.

And Charles Stanfield, too, was unusually impressed. He expected to meet
Mrs. Winters, and he felt certain that this young woman could not be
Henry's wife. And Ada did certainly present a pleasing picture as she
stood in the doorway. No matter what people might say about her sharp
tongue and the way she ruled her brother, they all had to acknowledge
that she was possessed of more than ordinary beauty of face and form. So
she seemed to Stanfield as she confronted him this morning. He noted her
flushed cheeks, the graceful poise of her head, crowned with such a
wealth of dark hair, neatly arranged. Her light calico dress fitted her
to perfection, and the apron she was wearing was spotless. All this he
beheld at a glance, and wondered who she could be.

"Excuse me," he began, "but I was expecting to meet Mrs. Winters. Is she
in?"

"Mrs. Winters is very busy just now," Ada explained. "Is there any
message I can give her for you?"

"Oh, no, never mind troubling her. Her husband will do just as well. I
saw him at the back door as I drove up."

"Wait a minute while I call him," Ada ordered.

She then stepped upon the veranda, walked to the left and looked for
Henry. But he was nowhere to be seen. She called, but received no reply.

"It is strange what has become of him," she said, turning to the
visitor. "I know he was there just a minute ago shaking the mats. Sit
down here while I look for him," and she motioned to a rustic chair.

"No, no, do not go to all that trouble," Stanfield protested. "My
mission is not so important as all that. I met Mr. Winters at Mr.
Karsall's house last night, and had a pleasant chat. He enjoyed the
cigar I gave him, so I have brought him a box of the same brand. Perhaps
you will give it to him, and also this for Mrs. Winters, with my
compliments," he added placing the two boxes on the chair.

"So you were at my house?" Ada asked in surprise. "Henry never said a
word about your being there."

Stanfield started and looked keenly into the eyes of the woman before
him. Surely there must be some mistake, he thought. This cannot be
Lemuel Karsall's sister who is making life so miserable for him and
Nita Rivers! But what else was he to infer from her words?

"Are you indeed Miss Karsall?" he at length asked. "I am so pleased to
meet you. I am Daniel Doncaster, and called last night to see your
brother. I represent Strongbow University, so am very much interested in
his fine collection of native stones and flowers."

"So you are a professor, then!" Ada was now more deeply impressed than
ever. "We thought at first that you were a book agent."

Stanfield laughed outright, and even Ada could not help smiling.

"Excuse me," he apologized, "but this is the second time I have been
mistaken for an agent. Last evening Mr. Winters thought I had something
to sell, shrubs or machinery, I forget now which."

"Suppose you sit down," Ada suggested, motioning to the rustic seat,
while she herself occupied a splint-bottom chair close by. "Now, this is
better," she added.

"It certainly is," Stanfield agreed, pleased to have her near him. "I
trust I am not intruding upon your morning's work, Miss Karsall."

"Not at all. I have very little to do since Lemuel left, so I spend much
of my time here with Mrs. Winters. She is very busy getting ready for
the picture people."

"And who are they?"

"A moving-picture company who wish to use this place. Mrs. Winters is
naturally much flustered over the thought of their coming."

Stanfield was now keenly interested, and asked several questions to
which Ada readily replied. They talked about this for a while, and then
the conversation turned upon Lemuel. Stanfield brought it shrewdly
about, and it was not long before Ada was telling him of the trouble
that was pressing so heavily upon her heart and mind. She found it easy
to talk to this man, who was so sympathetic and seemed to understand her
point of view perfectly.

And as Stanfield listened, he learned the cause of her antagonism to
Nita Rivers. It was the loss of her father's money that she feared, and
she considered herself thoroughly justified in her opposition to the
teacher. He saw what a serious matter it really was to her, and he did
not treat it lightly as did Henry. He compared her words and the
farmer's, and although they both told the same story, the manner of
telling made a decided difference. He saw that Miss Karsall had good
reason for her worry, although he believed that she had been unwise in
what she had done. Her strong feelings of resentment had carried her
beyond all bounds. When at last he rose to go, he held out his hand.

"Thank you very much for telling me all this," he said. "But you must
not get too down-hearted. Perhaps everything will turn out better than
you expect. But about those picture people. Did I understand you to say
that they are coming here to-morrow?"

"Yes, in the morning, providing the day is fine."

"May I come around and watch them? Do you think I would be in the way? I
have a few days to spend here, and there is not much going on in this
settlement."

"I am sure that Mr. and Mrs. Winters will be pleased to have you come,
Mr. Doncaster. But, you see, this place will not be theirs to-morrow. It
will belong to the picture people until they are through with their
work."

"Oh, I guess that won't make any difference," and Stanfield smiled "I
shall watch from a safe distance, so as not to be in the way."

Ada stood upon the veranda until the car had disappeared from view down
the road. She was much excited, and this Mrs. Winters noticed when at
last she went into the house.

"My lands! what a time you've had with that man out there," she
exclaimed. "He must be a friend of yours by the way you two talked and
laughed."

"He is," Ada evaded, although she knew that her cheeks were crimson.

"And maybe he'll be more than a friend by all appearance. Isn't that so,
my dear?"

"Why, w-what do you mean?" Ada stammered.

"I was just thinking, that's all. It's better to be an old man's darling
than a young man's slave. I was Henry's slave when I was young, and I've
been the same ever since."

Before Ada could further reply, Henry stood in the doorway. He was
holding in his hands the two boxes Stanfield had left outside on the
chair.

"Ye fergot these, Ada," he announced. "Seems to me that feller of yours
is startin' in strong when he gives ye two presents at the fust slap."

"They are not mine," Ada indignantly retorted. "One is for you, and the
other is for Mrs. Winters, so there."

"For me!" Mrs. Winters exclaimed. "Why, what can it be?"

She quickly unwrapped the box, and then stood gazing at the contents in
amazement.

"Chocolates, eh, Sarah?" Henry queried. "An' mine's cigars, an' mighty
good ones they are, too. He said he was goin' to give me a box of 'em,
but I fergot all about it."

"When did you meet that man?" his wife sharply inquired. "And who is he,
anyway?"

"Oh, I met him last night when he called to see Lem's specimens. He's a
perfessor, so he said, of Strongbow College, wherever that is, an' his
name is, let me see. By jingo! I've fergot it. Now, isn't that
annoyin'?"

"Doncaster," Ada assisted.

"Ah, that's it; Dan'l Doncaster. An' a mighty fine chap he is, too. I
took quite a shine to him last night. We had a great chat."

"Why didn't you come to speak to him, then?" Mrs. Winters demanded.
"You knew he was here, didn't you?"

"Sure I knew. But I wanted him to meet you women, 'specially Ada.
Thought it might be her last chance, so I made meself scarce, an' hid in
the woodshed. I saw all that was goin' on, though, fer I was peekin'
through the winder. An' say, Ada, ye did fine. I admire ye fer the purty
airs ye put on an' the way ye talked to him. From all appearance, he was
quite taken with ye."

"Stop your nonsense," Mrs. Winters ordered. "You've got the poor girl
all flustered and excited. Get on out of the house, for I must finish
this room."

"A'right, me dear, I'm quite willin', as I want to sample these cigars
while you women 'tend to the chocolates. Sweets fer the saints an'
smokes fer the sinners. Hurray! Cigars t'day an' the movie folks
t'morrer. Guess the stars, are fightin' fer old Hen Winters, after all.
Hurray!"




CHAPTER XX

THE "SHOOTING" BEGINS


The morning of the memorable day dawned fair and warm. The Winterses
were astir unusually early, for there was much to be done ere the
arrival of the motion-picture people. While Mrs. Winters prepared a
hurried breakfast, Henry sauntered toward the barn with milk-pails in
his hands. He stopped half way and looked out upon the river. The water
was like glass, and above the surface great massy banks of fog were
hanging and gleaming beneath the rays of the sun riding low over the
far-off eastern horizon. Peace reigned on all sides and myriads of
dew-laden leaves, grasses and flowers sparkled their welcome. The chirps
and twitters of birds sounded from tree and bush, and as Henry watched
and listened a sense of exhilaration filled his soul.

"Guess them picter folks'll like that," he mused aloud. "The day's jist
made on purpose fer 'em, it seems to me. A mornin' like this should
knock the kinks out of any soul, no matter how much it's tangled. Why,
it makes me feel like a frisky colt."

When the chores had been finished at the barn, he went back to the
house. Mrs. Winters was in the kitchen frying pancakes over a hot stove.
She was greatly flustered, and Henry could see that she was in no
pleasant frame of mind. She ordered him to carry some water from the
well and to fill the wood-box.

"Ye seem to be upset this mornin', Sarah," he remarked, as he threw down
the last armful of wood. "Why not step outside fer a few minutes. The
air is great, an' it'll do ye a world of good."

"What time have I for any airing, I'd like to know?" was the sharp
retort. "Those people may be upon us at any minute, and I have no end of
things to do. Hurry up, now, and eat your breakfast, so I can get the
dishes washed and the house tidied up before they come. Dear me! I
hardly know what I am doing. I'm so upset at the thought of those
strangers landing upon us."

"Don't worry, me dear," Henry replied, as he took his seat at the table
and helped himself to a pancake. "Jist think of the fun we're goin' to
have. The older I git, the more I like to keep me wonder-box in good
repair. I've never fergot a sermon the parson once preached about that
very thing. It set me thinkin', an' I haven't stopped yit."

"For pity's sake, Henry Winters! what are you talking about?" his wife
exclaimed. "I hope all this excitement hasn't affected your brain. What
do you mean by the wonder-box'?"

"Me brain, of course. The parson said that too many people close up
their wonder-boxes, or let 'em git out of repair. I fergit which it was,
though it don't make no difference. My! that was a great sermon. He said
we must allus be filled with the spirit of wonder, like children, fer
instance, an' be allus on the lookout fer new things which the Lord has
in store to s'prise us. An' it's true. If ye jist step outside fer a few
minutes, Sarah, an' look around, I guess ye wonder-box'll begin to work.
If it doesn't, then there's something wrong with it."

"You must have been dreaming, Henry. I never heard the parson say
anything like that. Anyway, what has it to do with the people who are
coming here this morning, I'd like to know?"

"A great deal, me dear, from my way of thinkin'. Me wonder-box is so
busy that it's runnin' at high speed. I'm wonderin' what them folks'll
be like, how they'll act, what we'll have to do, what the place'll be
like when they're done, an' what kind of a picter it will be when it's
finished. An' them's only some of the things I'm wonderin' about. I'm
expectin' a hull lot of fun an' excitement, as well. Gee! I wouldn't
miss it fer anything. It'll be better'n a circus any time. It'll be a
change from listenin' to Ada's troubles, anyway. D'ye think she'll show
up to see the fun?"

"She said she'd drop over to help if I need her," Mrs. Winters
explained. "Poor girl! she hasn't much to look forward to now."

"Oh, yes, she has, Sarah. She's set her cap fer that man who was here
yesterday. If she don't git him, it won't be her fault."

"Henry! I'm surprised to hear you say such a thing. Ada will never
marry, especially a man so much older than herself. She has always
spoken against marriage, considering it a snare and a delusion."

"It may be all that, Sarah, an' no mistake. But it's wonderful how many
people are willin' to take the chance. An' I guess Ada wouldn't mind
runnin' into the snare if it meant a rich feller as that Doncaster seems
to be. Jist think of that fine car with the chaffer at the wheel.
Why,--But say, here comes the picter folks!"

Hurrying to the door, they saw the strangers alighting from the cars.
They were all so pleasant and full of enthusiasm that Henry and his wife
liked them at once. There was no unnecessary delay, for the manager
wished to take advantage of every minute of the beautiful morning. Henry
waited upon him, showing him about the place, and answering all sorts of
questions.

One young woman, who seemed little more than a girl, appealed strongly
to Mrs. Winters. In fact, she became flustered when she presently called
her "ma" to the amusement of her companions. But the sight of the
elderly woman standing amidst the flowers in the garden brought to Cora
Davidson a vision of other days, and she hurriedly brushed away a tear
that was stealing down her cheek. Otherwise, she was happy, for she was
among scenes which were most familiar to her, and she believed that
here she could perform her part to perfection.

To Mrs. Winters this was the most wonderful day she had ever
experienced. She and Henry were in great demand, and in the rush and
excitement she became much bewildered. She watched as in a dream the
actors performing their various parts. It was a stirring picture that
was being made, and the manager worked his company hard. The neighbors,
too, were called upon to assist, and all day long great wagon loads of
boards and deals were hauled from the saw-mill some distance up the
road. What all the lumber was intended for Mrs. Winters had no idea, and
her husband was too busy to explain.

The next day more excitement prevailed. For a while it centered around
the old well. Henry was pressed into service, and according to
instructions he had received, furiously chased a young man who had come
to see his daughter Cora. The lover, Tom Gaskin by name, leaped into the
well as the nearest place of refuge in order to escape being blown to
pieces by an old shot-gun which the angry father discharged at him. Then
there was the tear-dimmed damsel clinging frantically to her father,
begging him not to kill her lover. Henry was hard to appease. He
performed his part so well that Sarah, watching his antics, was quite
proud of him. When Tom was at last rescued from his perilous position,
he presented a woeful appearance, with his wet clothes and terrified
face. The lovers separated in deep dejection, with Henry shaking his
fist at the defeated young man in the most menacing manner.

"You did fine, Henry," his wife complimented when they were together for
a few minutes. "I believe you were cut out for such work."

"I know I was, Sarah. But, say, don't call it work, or I'll pitch the
job. It's been the greatest fun of me hull life so fer, so I hope ye
won't spile it by suggestin' that it's work. We've only got nicely
started, an' there's heaps of more fun ahead. Ye'll fairly split yer
sides laffin' the next time I chase them lovers. That Cora is a mighty
fine gal, an' knows her work to perfection."

Cora Davidson had taken a great fancy to Mrs. Winters, and asked if she
might stay with her that night. To this the manager readily consented,
telling her to coach Henry for his part on the morrow. The Winterses
were delighted to have the girl to themselves, and that evening as they
sat at the table after supper was ended, the girl told them something
about her life. It was a tale which appealed to the hearts of the two
sympathetic listeners. She told of leaving home with the vision of fame
and wealth before her. She believed that with her beauty and natural
talent she would at once leap into the lime-light of success. But her
fond hopes were soon dashed to the ground, and she was doomed to drink
of the bitter dregs of discouragement and want. It was just when she was
at the lowest ebb that John Joyce, the manager, who had known her for
years, obtained for her the present position. The fact that she had come
from a very poor home and was well acquainted with country ways, at last
opened the door of opportunity to her.

"Why, I thought yez were all stars!" Henry exclaimed when the girl had
finished her story.

"Indeed we are not, Mr. Winters. You might as well know now as later
that this is merely a venture on the part of Mr. Joyce. He is a good man
and understands his business. But he has had some trouble, so he has
started out to make pictures on his own account. For this undertaking he
gathered around him people like myself, although he has several who know
the work thoroughly. He believes that if he can get the right kind of a
picture, it will take with the public, whether there are great stars in
it or not. I believe he will succeed, for we are all putting our hearts
into the work. If we do, then I shall have no more trouble. It will be
great!"

And thus they talked, Cora giving the Winters a new insight into the
struggles and temptations of city life, as well as her own plans for the
future.

"I know that I shall succeed," she declared. "And now that I have made
such friends in you two good people, I am happier than I have been for
years--since I lost my dear father and mother," she added in a low
voice.

"An' ye'll marry that young feller, Tom, I s'pose?" Henry queried.

"Why, what makes you think so?" the girl asked, while a bright color
flushed her cheeks.

"'Cause I've got eyes an' ears, Miss. Mebbe I'm not as stupid as I look,
though Sarah thinks I am."

"But we were merely acting, you see," Cora defended. "We were only
pretending to be lovers."

"Well, keep on actin', then, fer yer doin' fine, jist like I'd do if I
was in Tom's place. There's to be lots more t'morrow, I s'pose?"

"Oh, yes, it will be great. You chased Tom away, but he will return, and
we are about to run away when you appear on the scene. We take refuge in
the barn and climb up into the loft. You order us to come down, and when
we refuse, you set fire to the building."

"What! burn me barn down!" Henry exclaimed, aghast at the idea.

"Certainly. It is ours, anyway, and you have not much hay in it yet. But
you will get a new barn in place of the old one. That's what all that
lumber is for."

"Well, I s'pose it will be better in the long run, Miss," Henry replied
as he ran his fingers through his thin hair. "But I do hate to see that
old barn go up in smoke."

"And what will happen to you and Tom?" Mrs. Winters anxiously inquired.
"Isn't it a pretty risky thing to do? You might be burnt to death."

"Actors have to do that, you know, Mrs. Winters. It's to be one of the
big thrills, and that is what the public likes. The more we have of them
the better. We know what to do, so shall make out all right."

"An' what's to happen after that?" Henry asked. "Some more good stuff, I
s'pose?"

"Oh, yes, there will be the grand final wind-up. You will chase Tom
away, and rescue me. But he will come back as the representative of a
company that believes there's oil on your place. You are to be paid a
liberal sum to allow them to make investigations. They will strike oil,
you will make a fortune, and then you will be glad to let me marry Tom.
Thus everything will be changed as if by magic, and the closing scenes
will show the new barn, the house made over and painted. You will not
know the place when we get through with it."

"Well, well!" Henry exclaimed, "D'ye hear that, Sarah? I guess them
stars in their courses are with me at last."

While Mrs. Winters washed the supper dishes, Cora instructed Henry in
the parts he was to take the next day. He was an apt pupil, and easily
comprehended each situation.

"Why, it's easy as rollin' off a log," he declared. "I don't need to
study them instructions ye've written down there. I'll fit in a'right,
when the time comes. I'll make me actions as I go along. The manager
said I done fine to-day."

"You certainly did," Cora agreed. "He believes that your acting will do
much to make this picture a success, as it is so natural. Oh, I hope it
will take with the public, for, then, both of us will be famous."

"We're famous now as fer as this settlement goes, Miss. Why, all the
people are so excited that they kin talk of nuthin' else. They're
swarmin' around here from all over the country watchin' our actions. An'
that feller, Doncaster, was here all day. He said it was the best fun he
ever had, an' told me I did great. He said nice things about you, too."

"About me! Why did he single me out from the rest?"

"I don't know. But he had his eyes on ye, an' seemed to be much
impressed by yer actin'."

"Who is he, anyway?"

"A perfessor chap, who landed here lately. He's waitin' fer Lem Karsall
to come home, as he wants to see his specimens. Lem's great on flowers,
stones, flies, bugs, an' sich things, so the perfessor has taken a
notion to him."

"Where is Mr. Karsall now, Mr. Winters?"

"Blamed if I know. He's gone somewhere after his sweetheart, who was
chased from this place by his sister, Ada, 'cause her brother has fallen
in love with her. Ye might have noticed Ada t'day here with Sarah. She's
all wrought up over her brother. I've been stayin' at her place at night
since Lem lit out. But Betsy Stebbin's there t'night, though, as I'm too
busy to go. When a man comes to be a famous actor, he hasn't any time to
act as a watch-dog."

Cora was much interested about Lemuel and his sister, and Henry told her
the whole story. Mrs. Winters said nothing, and her husband was wise
enough not to mention her name in connection with the matter, for which
she was most thankful.

"I do pity the lovers," Cora remarked, when Henry had at length ended
his tale. "But you haven't told me her name. You have merely referred to
her as 'the teacher.'"

"So I have, Miss. Well, that was stupid of me. An', besides, it's jist
as easy to say 'Miss Rivers' as 'the teacher.' Yes, her name's Nita
Rivers, an' it's a mighty purty one to my way of thinkin'."

At these words a startled look came into Cora's eyes, and her face
turned very pale. Her hands trembled, and so great was her agitation
that Mrs. Winters became quite alarmed.

"Are you sick, dear?" she asked. "Perhaps you have been working too hard
to-day, and need a rest."

"I think you are right," the girl replied, making an attempt to smile.
"I have these spells at times, and they come very suddenly."

"You must go to bed at once, then. A good sleep will be the best thing
for you. We have been talking you to death."

Cora was only too glad to get away by herself that she might think. Her
brain was in a whirl as she accompanied Mrs. Winters upstairs. She
thought at times that what she had just heard must be a dream from which
she would soon awaken.

Downstairs, Henry sat alone. His eyes were unusually bright, and as he
filled and lighted his pipe, he chuckled more than once.

"I see it now as clear as through a knot-hole," he mused. "I knew she
reminded me of someone I had seen before. But when she went to pieces at
the teacher's name, the hull thing cleared like a mornin' fog. Gee whiz!
things are gittin' more interestin' every day, an' the end's not yit in
sight."




CHAPTER XXI

PRESSED INTO SERVICE


Charles Stanfield enjoyed watching the motion-picture people at work.
With his car parked some distance away, he mingled with the crowd of
onlookers, and keenly observed all that took place. Henry's natural
acting amused him greatly, and at times he laughed outright at his
quaint words and antics. Forgotten was everything else, and not once did
his mind dwell upon himself. He was plunged into a new world of interest
and excitement which the day before he would have considered impossible.
In spirit he was a youth again, and as much enraptured in all that was
going on as when a boy he had lost his senses to some traveling circus.
Although he did not realize it, this was just what he needed, and it did
him more good than a trip abroad or the most careful treatment at an
expensive sanatorium.

He was much impressed with Cora Davidson, and considered her a
remarkable young woman. He was not only attracted by her face, which was
of more than ordinary beauty, but by her manner as well. He liked her
acting, which was superior to the others. She seemed to throw herself
entirely into her work and for the time being she was really the
character she was impersonating. Henry amused him, but Cora stirred in
him an altogether different feeling. Gradually his interest in her
became personal, and he longed to know more about her. Who was she,
anyway? What was she like in actual life? He made no effort to suppress
this feeling, but allowed his imagination to wander at will. Just why he
should choose her from the other young women present he did not know.
In truth, the question never entered his mind. How wonderful it must be
to have such a daughter, he mused. Suppose she were his own child. The
idea flashed suddenly into his mind, causing his blood to quicken and
his heart to beat fast. Imagine such a radiant being calling him
"father" and looking to him for assistance, and loving him as he
believed such a girl must be capable of loving. And if he had a
daughter, he would want her to be just like Cora Davidson, as beautiful,
graceful, and overflowing with such health and abounding animation. What
a joy she would be to him in his loneliness.

He liked the manager, too, especially the way in which he kept everybody
busy, and did it all in such a pleasant manner. It seemed almost like a
picnic instead of a very serious piece of business for those who were
taking part. Stanfield was surprised when the manager came to him ere
closing for the day, and requested a favor.

"I hope you won't think it impudent of me," he apologized, "but I am
short of help for a part that has been suggested to me by Mr. Winters."

"So you want to get me into trouble, eh?" Stanfield smilingly queried.
"Well, nothing would suit me better than to be mixed up with your fun.
So, go ahead, and tell me what you want me to do."

"Simply to act the part of a returned son," the manager explained. "You
will need a woman with you, and Mr. Winters is sure that he can induce
Miss Karsall to be your wife."

"My! this is getting interesting, Mr. Joyce. What a marvel! To have a
wife after so many years of single misery. Little did I suspect what
would be the outcome of my visit here. A wife! and I know nothing about
her. Why didn't you suggest Miss Davidson? She's great."

"I know she is, sir. But she will have to continue her part as the
farmer's daughter. You see, the farm is to be sold, and Henry, his wife
and daughter are to be turned out of house and home. The hour has
arrived, the neighbors have gathered from far and near, and the auction
has begun. At the critical time, you, the son, who have been absent for
many years, arrive in a fine car with your wife, mingle with the crowd,
and, of course, bid in the place. I shall explain all the details to
you, if you wish. But your part will be so simple that very little
coaching will be necessary."

"It seems so," Stanfield replied. "You attend to the rest, and I shall
have no difficulty with my part, providing my wife is willing. This is
really funny, as it is the first time I have ever taken a wife into
consideration in any of my plans. What time shall I be here in the
morning?"

"I cannot tell definitely, sir. But if you do not mind hanging around so
as to be ready when you are needed, you will do me a great favor."

"Oh, I shall be here, all right," Stanfield assured. "I wouldn't miss
the fun for anything. But be sure that my wife is ready, too. I hope
that there will be no kissing for me to do. That is the only thing which
would cause me to back down. I'm not used to that."

"Oh, don't let that worry you," the manager laughingly replied. "The
young woman who will act as your wife is not the kissing kind. She would
permit no man to take any liberties with her, so Henry informed me."

"Does Miss Karsall agree to act as my wife, Mr. Joyce?"

"Henry thinks he can arrange it, all right. He has promised to see her,
anyway. That fellow can do almost anything. It's wonderful how well he
took the part of the old farmer to-day."

"I have been watching him with interest and amusement. If I can do half
as well to-morrow I shall be satisfied."

"You won't have much to do, Mr. Doncaster. Be ready at the right
moment; drive up, stop your car, mingle with the crowd, start bidding,
and when the place is knocked down to you, go forward and tell Henry and
his wife who you are. Be as natural as possible, and you should have no
trouble."

Stanfield thought it all over that night, and the idea of taking part in
the performance pleased him. It was a new experience, and drew away his
thoughts from himself. He had the idea, too, that the whole affair was a
daring venture by the manager. The pressing of Henry and his wife into
the work, and then the request for his own service, as well as Miss
Karsall's, lent color to his suspicion. He recalled the time years ago
when he himself, with very limited means, had staked his all on a single
throw. He had won against great odds, but he had never forgotten the
thrill of the fight and how much it had meant to him. He had entered
upon many an undertaking since then, and had made much money, but never
again had he experienced the wonderful sensation of that first venture.
He had been young then, and with the audacity of youth he had considered
himself another Columbus risking his all in one great enterprise. So
some of this sensation returned to him now as he imagined Joyce, the
manager, doing a similar thing. It stirred his spirit within him, gave
him a new zest to life, and brought to his heart a longing to be mixed
up in the struggle. He smiled as he pictured the surprise of this
friend, the president of Strongbow University, if he were aware of the
role he was about to play.

Stanfield was an hour ahead of time the next morning when he arrived at
Red Rose Cottage. He had given his chauffeur a day off, and drove the
car himself. He found the liveliest excitement all over the place, with
everybody busy. Henry saw him as he drew up in front of the house, and
hastened to meet him.

"I've roped ye a wife, a'right," he announced. "Ada's willin' to act.
She's in the house gittin' her hair fixed up, an' she'll be out in a
minute."

"Are you ready for us to take our part?" Stanfield inquired.

"Not fer some time yit. They're doin' some stunts over behind the barn
now. That'll take about an hour, so the manager said. We'll then be
ready fer you an' Ada. But here's yer new wife now, as purty as a
picter, an' all togged up in her finest."

Ada never appeared to better advantage than she did on this occasion.
Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks flushed with excitement. It was all
a new and wonderful experience to her, and it seemed as if her dreams
were coming true after all. Ere stepping into the car, she stopped to
speak to Henry.

"Lemuel came home last night," she informed him.

"Did he!" Henry exclaimed. "An' how's he lookin'?"

"Oh, about the same; as dumb and gloomy as ever."

Henry asked no more questions just then, but stood for a while lost in
thought as the car sped away up the road.

"Ada doesn't seem to be so much worried over Lem as she did," he mused.
"Mebbe she's hopin' to git hitched up to Doncaster. It'd be the best
thing that could happen to her. An' she'd make him a good wife, too.
She's got brains, if she'd only use 'em in the right way. It sartinly
would be a joke if they did hitch up. My! my! it's wonderful what
unexpected things are takin' place these days. Them stars must be
fightin' fer Ada as well as fer me, from all appearance. But there, I
must git back an' see how me earthly stars are makin' out."

That was the most glorious morning Ada had ever known. Hitherto her life
had been of a quiet humdrum nature, with really nothing of much
importance to break the monotony. She had often dreamed of just such an
experience as this, bowling along in a fine car, the companion of a
fine-looking wealthy man. Of course, the hero of her dreams had always
been young. But this did not affect her now. She was quite happy, and
it was pleasant to lean comfortably back upon the soft cushion as the
car purred onward. She gave a slight sigh, which Stanfield at once
noticed.

"Are you getting tired, Miss Karsall?" he asked. "I thought you would
enjoy a spin on such a beautiful morning as this."

"I am not tired, Mr. Doncaster. This is delightful, and I am enjoying
every minute of this ride. It is a great change for me."

With the conversation thus begun, Stanfield ere long induced his
companion to talk about her own interests, which were of more importance
to her than anything else in the world. Thus by the time they at last
came back to their starting-point, he was fairly well acquainted with
many of the concerns of the Karsall household; of Lemuel and his strange
ways, and the subtle influence that Nita Rivers was exerting over him.
He asked several guarded questions about the teacher, and from Ada's
answers he wisely drew his own conclusions. It was nothing more than
jealousy and the fear of losing her father's money, he was aware. He
kept his thoughts to himself, however, trusting that when he came to
know Miss Karsall and her brother better he might be able to do
something to arrange matters in a satisfactory manner.

There was already a crowd in front of the Winters' house, and it was
quite evident that the time had come for the wandering son and his wife
to arrive. The manager was waiting for them, and seemed greatly relieved
as Stanfield brought his car to a standstill just outside the gate.

"I am glad you've come," Mr. Joyce declared. "Everything is ready, so if
you will run your car up to the edge of the crowd and then get out and
perform your part, it will be just the thing. The auction will begin
right away."

Stanfield did as he was told, and ran the car through the gate up to
where the people were standing. He and Ada at once alighted, and mingled
with the crowd. At the front door stood Henry and his wife, with Cora
Davidson by Mrs. Winters' side. The girl was trying to soothe her
mother, who was weeping bitterly. Henry was defiant, and with clenched
hands and blazing eyes was facing the crowd as the auction proceeded.
Then when the place was knocked down to the highest bidder, Stanfield
stepped forward with Ada by his side and announced himself as the
long-lost son who had just returned in the nick of time to save his
parents from ruin. The crowd cheered wildly as Mrs. Winters rushed
forward and threw her arms around her son's neck and kissed him on the
cheek. She then turned her attention to Ada, and clasped her to her
breast. Henry shook hands with his son and daughter-in-law, and there
was great ado, in which laughter mingled with tears of joy. Cora did her
part to perfection and welcomed her brother with a sisterly kiss, which
Ada thought was overdone.

The manager was delighted. He thanked Stanfield and Ada, and
congratulated them upon performing their parts so well.

"You could not have done better if you had practised for a week," he
told them. "Everything was so natural, absolutely real, in fact."

"Too natural and real," Stanfield pantingly replied, as he struggled to
arrange his twisted collar. "My! I wouldn't go through such an ordeal
again for anything. My cheeks are burning yet from those kisses. You
should have been in my place, Mr. Joyce."

"I wish I had," was the quiet reply. "I wouldn't have minded how much
one of those women kissed me."

An amused twinkle shone in Stanfield's eyes, for he believed that he
understood the meaning of the manager's words, and scented a romance.




CHAPTER XXII

THE THRILLING STUNT


Excellent progress was made during the afternoon, and the manager was
delighted.

"I never saw things work so smoothly," he confided to Henry. "The
weather holds good, and there has not been a hitch of any kind so far. I
believe that we shall have a great picture. If the next big stunt comes
off all right, success will be assured."

"I'm somewhat anxious about that stunt," Henry replied "It's goin' to be
a costly affair, to say nuthin' of the risk."

"I know it, Henry. But we must have hair-raising thrills. People demand
them these days, and I am determined to give them full satisfaction in
this picture. As for the cost, you need not worry about that. You will
get a new barn for the old one, which is on its last legs, anyway."

"I'm not worryin' so much about the barn, Mr. Joyce, as I am about that
gal, Cora. Me an' Sarah have taken a great notion to her, an' I wouldn't
like any accident to happen."

"Neither would I, Henry. But Tom understands his business thoroughly,
and I have complete confidence in his judgment. He has performed many
feats far more risky, and has always come through without a scratch."

"Well, I hope t'goodness he'll do the same this time. I'm not thinkin'
so much about him as I am of that fine gal who's to do the stunt with
him. Ye kin git a man like Tom a'most any time, but ye don't run across
a woman like Cora Davidson every day, let me tell ye that."

Henry sauntered off to the house, and the manager stood gazing
thoughtfully after him.

"I wonder what's come over the old fellow," he mused. "He seems to be
down in the dumps and very anxious about Cora. If I thought there's
anything in the presentiment he seems to have I wouldn't let her run the
risk." He glanced over at the barn for a few seconds. "That stunt can't
be called off now. Why, it would upset everything, and the picture would
be too flat with it left out. It's to be the big thrill, and I feel that
I can trust Tom. He's made all the arrangements. He has the board loose,
just ready to push off, and the rope in the loft is firmly fastened. He
told me so himself. We must run the risk or give up and have the picture
spoiled."

A larger crowd than formerly had gathered that afternoon, for word had
spread that something of a most unusual nature was to take place. The
road was blocked with autos, and people stood in a long line patiently
waiting for the big event to be staged. And among them was Charles
Stanfield. He had arrived early upon the scene, and as the day was fine
and warm, he did not mind waiting. He sat in his car, smoking and
watching all that was going on.

The afternoon was well advanced when at last everything was in readiness
for the big event. After some preliminaries, Henry, the angry father,
came across his daughter, Cora, and Tom making love to each other
beneath the shade of an old apple tree. Armed with a shot-gun, he
presented a formidable appearance. Greatly frightened, the young couple
sped for the barn as their only haven of refuge. As Henry followed, they
climbed a ladder to the high loft, which had been specially prepared.
And there they clung to each other, watching fearfully the enraged man
below.

"Come down out of that," Henry roared, brandishing his gun. "I'll teach
you two a lesson fer sich actions."

As the couple made no move to comply with this request, Henry pulled a
match from his pocket, scratched it, and touched it to a small pile of
dry hay lying upon the floor. In a short time the barn was on fire, with
Henry outside yelling at the top of his voice.

In the meantime Tom and Cora were making a spectacular escape on the
opposite side of the building. They had torn away the wide loose board,
squeezed themselves through the opening, and in another minute both were
dangling in the air high above the ground. It was a thrilling sight, and
the crowd of onlookers almost held their breath in the intense
excitement. Smoke and flames poured from the barn, and the situation of
the escaping lovers looked most perilous. With his left arm firmly
holding the girl, and with his right hand clutching the rope, Tom began
the descent, and when over half way down the anxious watchers gave vent
to an involuntary cheer. But just then the rope gave way from its
fastening at the top, and the next instant the young couple dropped like
stones upon the ground below.

The spectators believed that this was a part of the regular program, and
some again cheered. But Stanfield thought differently. He surmised that
such a fall had not been planned, but that it was really an accident,
how serious he could not tell. He saw Tom rise slowly to his feet and
bend over the prostrate girl. Certain now was he that Cora had been
injured, and a great fear came into his heart. Perhaps she was dead!

Leaving the car, he hurried through the crowd and made his way as fast
as possible to the scene of the disaster. By this time the barn was a
seething mass of flames, and Tom had the girl in his arms and was
bearing her away to a place of safety. The manager and others had rushed
to his assistance, and as Tom staggered beneath his burden, willing
hands reached out, caught the girl and carried her over to the old apple
tree, where they laid her tenderly down upon the shaded grass beneath.

Intense excitement now prevailed, and all forgot the spectacular sight
of the burning barn in their thought of the injured girl. How badly she
was hurt they did not know, and they crowded around eager to learn what
they could. Stanfield saw that Cora still breathed, although she was
unconscious. He knew that assistance was urgently needed. Seeing Henry
standing near, he turned to him.

"Carry her into the house," he ordered, "while I go for the doctor. Get
her away from this crowd at once, and I shall be back as soon as I can."

In a few minutes Stanfield was speeding along the road, straight for the
station where the doctor lived. He found him at home, and in a few words
explained the situation.

"Is there a good nurse anywhere near?" he asked.

"Not nearer than the city," was the reply.

"Then send for one, doctor. You can do that better than I can, for you
know about such matters. Never mind the cost."

Crossing to the station, the doctor sent an urgent message to the city
for a nurse, and received the reply that one would leave on the next
train.

"There will be a nurse on the 6.30 train," he explained to Stanfield,
who was waiting for him outside.

"That's fine, doctor. I shall meet her. We must do all in our power for
that unfortunate girl."

Stanfield was deeply interested in Cora Davidson. Just why he did not
altogether know. But he had taken a liking to the girl from the moment
he first saw her. He would have chosen her from a thousand, so he
believed. He was attracted by her bright and buoyant manner, her sunny
smile, and the heartiness with which she performed her various parts.
She did not seem to be acting as did the others, but threw herself
unreservedly into her work.

There was another reason as well for her influence over him. In all of
his wanderings and experiences among people he had never before seen any
woman who reminded him of his only sister. But as he watched Cora moving
about, he had more than once imagined himself back in his old home
playing with his sister. At times the resemblance was so real as to be
startling. It was Marion he beheld, and not the actress. It was her
voice, her face and form such as he knew long ago. Try as he might, he
could not account for this strange impression. It brought a deep sadness
into his heart by the vivid remembrance of other days. He thought of the
old orchard, the games, and the happy times they always had together. He
had made money, and he was looked upon as a successful business man. But
what did it all amount to? Willingly would he have exchanged it all for
the old-time comradeship of his sister, and the abounding health that
had then been his. This feeling had returned to him that day he stood in
the wretched room in which Marion had breathed her last, and it returned
whenever he looked upon Cora Davidson. And the girl who had so deeply
affected him was now lying seriously injured! This was the thought that
surged through his mind ever since the accident. It now caused him to
drive the car at a furious speed along the road, giving the doctor
considerable anxiety by its reckless onward rush.

"My! that was a close shave," he gasped, as they almost grazed another
car in passing. "Better be careful, sir, or it will be necessary to send
to the city for a special doctor."

Stanfield, however, made no reply until he had reached his destination
and brought the car to a standstill.

"It's up to you now, doctor," he quietly remarked. "I have brought you
here in double-quick time, and if you do your part as well and speedily
as I have done mine, I shall be satisfied. And, listen," he added in a
low voice, "send your bill to me, and don't breathe a word to anyone
about it."

The doctor merely nodded his assent as he alighted from the car. He
wondered, nevertheless, what should cause Stanfield to take such a
special interest in a movie-actress.

"He seems to have gone daft over the girl," he mused as he made his way
toward the house. "Maybe it's another cause of an old fool with too much
money dazzled silly by a snip of a girl. I've seen it before."

Nearly all of the spectators had left the place, and the actors were
standing over by the apple tree, engaged in earnest conversation.
Stanfield truly surmised what they were talking about. He longed to know
about Cora, and was on the point of going over to the group to make some
inquiry, when Henry came out of the house. There was a worried
expression in his eyes as he approached the car.

"I'm mighty glad the doctor's come," he began. "The sight of that poor
gal layin' there is more'n I kin stand."

"How does she seem to be?" Stanfield asked.

"Jist like she was when she was carried into the house, 'cept that she's
come to, an' moans at times as if in much pain."

"Too bad, too bad," Stanfield mused, gazing straight before him.

"It is, sir, an' I warned Tom that it was too risky a stunt fer sich a
gal as Cora. Why, if she was me own daughter I couldn't take any more
interest in her. She's gripped me an' Sarah as no one ever did before."

Stanfield looked straight into Henry's eyes, and the expression he saw
there stirred his heart in sympathy for the rough old man. He noted,
too, his gnarled hands, and thread-bare clothes. He then glanced around
at his run-down place, and at the gray and weather-beaten house, with
its poorly-patched roof. What kind of future was there for such a man?
he asked himself. No doubt he had brought much of it upon himself, yet
he was an old man now, with a big heart and a deep love for an
unfortunate girl, who was almost a complete stranger to him. Impulsively
he leaned over and touched Henry upon the shoulder.

"Your wife will need special help, Henry, so I want you to get the best
you can find. Never mind the expense, for I shall attend to that."

"But, Mr. Doncaster----"

"Just a minute, Henry. If you need two women, or half a dozen, get them,
it won't make any difference to me. I am not used to household affairs,
so you and your wife can attend to them. And don't you worry about the
food. All you need do is to find a place to store it when it arrives."

Stanfield smiled at Henry's profound amazement. For once the old man was
at a loss for words.

"I hope you don't mind my doing this, Henry. This place is mine,
remember. I bid it in for five thousand dollars, so I have a right to
some say around here."

Henry was about to reply, when Joyce came out of the house, and hurried
at once to the car.

"Her leg is broken!" he gasped. "The doctor wants these things from the
store," he added, handing Stanfield a piece of paper. "Can you go, Mr.
Doncaster?"

"Yes, anywhere, and for anything," was the decisive reply. "Come, Henry,
jump in. A drive will do you good."




CHAPTER XXIII

A MORNING CALL


Cora Davidson was lying very still, staring straight before her. The
room was quiet, and the only sound heard was the twitter of birds
outside the open window. Her eyes were dim with tears, the first she had
shed since the accident. Through all the suffering she had endured no
cry had escaped her lips. But now alone in the room, and with a slight
lessening of the pain, her thoughts turned to the future. The prospect
looked dark and discouraging. She had expected so much from the picture
of which she was such a vital part. It had meant the fulfillment of her
most cherished hopes. In vision she had seen it upon the screen, and her
own name being read by thousands. And with this picture a success, she
would be in great demand, and the door of a famous career would be open
to her. But the accident had put an end to it all. It would be months
before she could do anything again. The tears flowed down her cheeks as
she mused upon all this. She was glad that the nurse had left her for a
while, as she did not wish any one to witness her misery.

Ere long she wiped away the tears with her handkerchief. In fact, she
felt somewhat better for her quiet cry. It had relieved her pent-up
feelings, anyway, so that was something. She looked toward the window
where a soft breath of air was gently stirring the curtains. It brought
to her the perfume of flowers from the garden in front of the house, and
the scent of sweet clover from the meadow beyond. Memories of other days
came to her mind, which seemed now so far off. She thought, too, of the
great kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Winters. She knew that they were very
poor, and she had wondered at times during the last two days how they
could afford to surround her with such luxuries. She believed that they
loved her, and for her sake they had sacrificed so much. She had been
provided with such a capable nurse, and, in addition, there was a bright
young woman helping Mrs. Winters with the housework. The parlor had been
given up to the invalid, and it had been transformed as if by magic from
a closed-up dingy room to a bright pleasant place. Fresh flowers were
always on a table by her bedside, and there were books and the latest
magazines in case she wished to read. Oranges and grapes were within
hand's reach, and a large box of choice chocolates was close by. She had
been somewhat surprised at such dainties, and had asked the nurse where
they had come from, but had gained no information. But she had been
suffering greatly then, and could hardly think of anything else. Now,
however, it was different, and as she lay quietly there she began to
puzzle her brain about such matters. Surely the Winters had not done all
this for her! They could never have bought the luxurious cot on the
other side of the room for the nurse's special benefit. She thought of
John Joyce, and a slight flush came into her cheeks. Poor John! He would
gladly have given his last cent for her, she was well aware. But he was
having his own worry now in financing his picture. He had told her of
his difficulties, and she was certain that he could not afford to spend
so much upon her, no matter how willing and anxious he might be to do
so. At last she was forced to give up the problem. She would question
the nurse again about it when she returned.

A light tap upon the partly-opened door arrested her attention.

"Come in," she invited, wondering who it could be, for the nurse, Mrs.
Winters, and the doctor never knocked.

Slowly the door was pushed wide open and Henry entered. He looked over
at the invalid, and then around the room in a half-frightened manner.

"Good morning, Mr. Winters," Cora accosted, pleased to see him.

"Mornin', Miss. All alone, eh?"

"Alone with my thoughts. Sit down, won't you? I am so glad to see you."

"Are ye, now?" Henry queried, seating himself upon the edge of a chair.
"I was afraid I might be intrudin', an' Sarah allus says that's bad
manners. I ain't used to payin' sich calls. But I couldn't resist the
temptation this mornin', so I've jist slipped in while the women are
busy in the kitchen. An' how are ye feelin', anyway?"

"Somewhat better this morning, thank you. The pain is not so severe
now."

"That's good, Miss. We'll have ye around in a few weeks, pervidin' yer
not in too much of a hurry to git out. Ye want to take care of yerself."

"Others are doing that for me, Mr. Winters. Who is responsible for all
this kindness?"

"Jist yerself, an' nobody else."

The look of surprise in Cora's face caused Henry to smile.

"Ye don't understand, eh? Well, that's queer. Now, s'pose ye should ask
who's responsible fer all the attention them flowers out there in the
garden git? Everybody passin' along the road stops to admire 'em, an'
the bees fairly love 'em to death. Who's responsible fer all that? The
flowers 'emselves, of course, fer bein' so sweet an' beautiful. That's
why they git so much attention. No one in his right senses would think
of goin' in raptures over them burdocks an' thistles along the road.
Now, I'm like the thistles an' burdocks, Miss, while you're like the
flowers. That's the reason ye git so much attention."

"I am afraid you have greatly overestimated me, Mr. Winters," Cora
smilingly replied. "I am not one bit like a flower, and I do not feel
like one. Flowers are sweet, fresh, and bright, while I am sour, faded,
and gloomy. I feel that way this morning, and have just had a good cry
to myself. Everybody is so kind to me, and I feel so unworthy of it
all."

"Oh, you'll be chipper in a day or two, Miss. It's no wonder yer down in
the dumps after what ye've gone through. The purtiest an' sweetest
flowers droop a little at times. But they soon freshen up ag'in."

"I didn't know you were so poetical, Mr. Winters."

"Poetical! Me poetical!"

"Certainly. You speak so much about flowers. It shows what beautiful
thoughts you must have. You are always so bright and cheerful, too."

"Fer pity's sake, Miss, don't tell Sarah that. She thinks I'm the most
cantankerous an' lazy critter that ever breathed the breath of life. An'
as fer poetry, she says I don't know the difference between a poem an' a
grind-stone. She says there's nuthin' beautiful in my soul, an' mebbe
she's right."

"But I am sure there is, Mr. Winters," Cora declared. "You have been so
good to me, both you and your wife. I think you are two of the dearest
people I have ever known. Why, if I were your own daughter you could not
treat me better. I hope I shall be able to repay you a little some day."

"Tut, tut, Miss, don't talk that way," Henry chided, suddenly lifting
his right hand and brushing his eyes which were unusually misty. "I'm
not used to sentiment. All we ask is fer ye to git well as quick as ye
kin. When ye git word of that picter, it'll work wonders, an' all yer
blue-devils'll skedaddle in no time."

"So you think the picture will be a success?" Cora anxiously inquired.

"Sure it will, Miss. If that picter don't make a hit, then I miss my
guess. It's all done now as fer as we're consarned. My! it's been lively
around here since yer accident. I've been hustlin', an' no mistake."

"I hope they got along all right, Mr. Winters. I heard the hammering and
the sound of voices, but my suffering was so great that I didn't pay
much attention to anything else. It all seems like a dream to me now."

"An' it seems like a dream to me, too, Miss. If ye could see the change
that has been made ye wouldn't know the place. There's a new barn
instead of the old one, an' the house has been painted to look like one
of 'em cute things ye see advertised fer sale in the magazines. It was
all done up quick, too. That Mr. Joyce is sartinly some hustler when it
comes to gittin' work done."

"Who took my place in the final scenes of the happy family, Mr.
Winters?"

"Ada took yer place, an' she looked mighty sweet settin' by me an' Sarah
as our daughter in front of the house after the clouds of trouble had
all rolled away."

"I am glad that she did so well."

"She sartinly done fine, considerin' she had to jump right in at sich a
short notice. She hung back fer a time, like a balky horse, but
consented at last after Mr. Doncaster had a talk with her. He's a great
man, that, an' I believe Ada's struck on him. Say, I never fer a minute
expected to see Ada Karsall fall in love with a man old enough to be her
father, an' mebbe her grandfather, fer all I know. It's a great joke,
an' no mistake."

Henry brought the palm of his right hand down upon his knee with a
vigorous slap, and the funny expression upon his face caused Cora to
laugh outright.

"Why, I thought Miss Karsall was very much opposed to matrimony. You
told me so yourself the first night I spent in this house."

"She allus has been dead-set ag'inst it, judgin' by her words an'
actions. But the way Lem has acted has, no doubt, made her see things in
a different light. Most likely she thinks that matrimony is her only
salvation, an' now that Mr. Doncaster has arrived on the scene, she
looks upon it as an act of Providence. Ada was allus great that way,
an' could see the Lord's hand in things which nobody else could."

"Will she lose her money, Mr. Winters, if her brother marries Miss
Rivers?"

"Not a bit of it. I saw Lem last night fer the first time since he came
home. He wasn't very talkative, but from what I could gather, he had
seen the Trust Company when he was in the city, an' everything is all
right."

"So Mr. Karsall and Miss Karsall won't lose their money, then, if they
marry? Is that what you mean?"

"That's about it, as near as I kin fathom. Lem didn't say much, but I
found out enough to make me sartin there was a misunderstandin' of some
kind. Old Karsall didn't want Lem an' Ada to enter the matrimonial state
too young, so he had a clause put in his will that if they did marry
before they were twenty-one they wouldn't git another cent of his money.
Anyway, they're both old enough now, so they shouldn't worry no more."

"Isn't it strange that they didn't know about that before?" Cora asked.
"Didn't they read and understand their father's will?"

"Oh, I s'pose they did at one time. But they were quite young, ye see,
when their dad died, an' the Trust Company managed everything fer 'em.
They didn't bother their heads, bein' content to go on in their quiet
way without askin' any questions. But when Miss Rivers landed upon the
scene, an' Lem fell head over heels in love with her, it made a great
difference."

"Where is Miss Rivers now?" Cora inquired.

"No one seems to know. I asked Lem, but he only shook his head an'
looked sad. Poor feller! I feel sorry fer him, a'right. Miss Rivers is
sartinly a fine gal, an' I do hope that her an' Lem'll git married."

Cora made no reply, but gazed straight before her. Henry, watching her,
smiled to himself. He believed that he knew more than she imagined.

"Well, I must be goin' now," he presently announced.

"Hope I haven't stayed too long, an' worn out me welcome."

"No, no, Mr. Winters, you have not. Come as often as you can, for you
cheer me up."

"Do I, now! I'm mighty glad to hear that. But ye must be careful, Miss,
an' not try to git well in too big a hurry. We want ye to be in good
shape when we go to see that picter in the city. So, good-bye fer the
present, an' do yer best."




CHAPTER XXIV

REVELATION


Shortly after dinner Henry went for the mail. Cora eagerly awaited his
return, hoping for a letter from Joyce telling her how he was getting
along with the picture. A whole day had elapsed since he had written,
and it seemed to her a long time. She knew how greatly he was worried
over financial matters, and that everything depended upon this venture.
How they had talked and planned what they would do when success had
crowned their efforts. They had known and loved each other for years,
but hitherto the tide of fortune had flowed against them. Now it would
turn, so they fondly believed, and their oppressive worry would be
ended. Joyce had written regularly since the accident, and several times
had phoned for information as to Cora's condition. What was the matter?
she anxiously asked herself as she lay there listening for the sound of
Henry's footsteps. But, perhaps, he was so busy getting everything
arranged that he had for once omitted his letter to her. But that was
not like John. No matter how busy he might be he had never neglected her
before. It was only natural that she should be much concerned, and that
her heart should beat rapidly when Henry at last appeared in the
doorway.

"I've got a letter fer ye to-day, Miss," he announced, flourishing it in
his right hand. "Guess it's from him, too. How are ye feelin' now?"

"Better since you have arrived, Mr. Winters," Cora smilingly replied.

"An' this letter'll make ye feel better still. I'll light out at once,
so ye kin read it."

With trembling hands Cora opened the envelope. She hoped that it would
make her feel better, although she had her doubts. And at once her fears
were confirmed in the all too-brief letter. In it John told a tale of
hopeless defeat. The picture had been seized by his creditors, and he
was in despair.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I pleaded with them to give me a little more time," he wrote, "but they
have refused. I have done everything in my power, but fate is against
me. But for one man, I am sure that I would be allowed time to get the
picture on the market. But he is dead-set against me, and refuses to
listen to anything. He has no mercy, and will not give me even one day.
Anyway, it would be no use, as I know of no one to whom I can turn for
help. And to think that I must tell you all this, darling, when you are
suffering so much, and this will only add to your trouble."

       *       *       *       *       *

Cora finished the letter, with the final words of endearment, and then
let the paper drop upon the quilt by her side. Her face was very white,
and her eyes filled with tears. Her last hope was now gone. The picture
upon which so much depended was about to be seized, and John would be
ruined. What could she do?

For some time she lay there and with closed eyes tried to think of some
way whereby she might avert the disaster. But the more she thought, the
more hopeless she became. And had she not done the same a thousand times
in the past? Had she not lain awake night after night in her lonely
destitute pen of a room thinking, always thinking, until she believed
she would go mad? And daylight had never brought relief. Oh, she knew it
all, and what defeat and despair meant. So it had come again when the
dawn seemed about to break upon a new day of success and happiness.

With a sigh she turned her face to the wall just as the door was pushed
gently open and the nurse ushered Charles Stanfield into the room. Cora
turned to look, not caring much who the visitor might be. But when she
saw Stanfield beaming upon her from his splendid height, a new and
strange glow stole into her chilled heart. He looked so strong and noble
that she could not help feeling better.

"I hope I am not intruding, Miss Davidson," he apologized. "But I have
been anxious to see you since my return, so hastened here at once. I
hope you are improving."

"It is good of you to come, sir," Cora replied, reaching out her hand.
"I have been wondering what had become of you. Won't you sit down?"

Stanfield drew a chair up close to her side, sat down, and looked upon
the girl's white face. In another minute the nurse had left the room, so
the two were alone together.

"What's the meaning of all this?" Stanfield asked.

"Why, what do you mean, Mr. Doncaster?"

"The troubled expression in your eyes, of course, and the tear stains
upon your cheeks?"

He glanced at the letter lying on the bed.

"Pardon me, but have you had bad news?"

"How do you know that?" Cora asked in surprise. "Did anyone tell you?"

"No one but yourself. It's from Mr. Joyce, is it not? Is he having
trouble with the picture?"

Cora was now so much overcome that for a minute she could not trust
herself to speak. It seemed to her as if this man was reading her very
soul. How did he surmise so truly what the letter contained? And she did
need some one to talk to more than anything else. That Stanfield was a
stranger to her did not matter. He had been kind to her, and she had the
feeling that he was responsible for the comforts she was enjoying. Just
why he should do so much for her she could not understand, although she
had thought much about it since the accident. But so hard had been her
life that she accepted willingly such attentions as a blessed relief.
She would find out later, and when she became rich she would repay
everything. Such had been her fond imaginings, but now they seemed all
in vain.

"Forgive me, Miss Davidson, if I have been intruding into private
affairs," Stanfield continued after a somewhat awkward silence. "You
need not tell me anything unless you wish."

"But I do wish to tell you, Mr. Doncaster," Cora declared, turning her
tear-stained face to his. "Your kindness has so overcome me that I feel
unable to express all that is in my heart. I am certain now that you are
the one who has been so good to me in giving me all these comforts, the
nurse, the flowers, books, chocolates, and oh, so many things. How can I
ever repay you?"

"You can best repay me by forgetting all about it," Stanfield quietly
replied. "I was hoping that you would never suspect me. I only wanted to
be of some assistance to you in your trouble. And that is why I asked
you about the picture. I have no personal interest, remember. It is
merely a notion of mine. I admired the way you took your various parts,
and as I was included in the making of the picture, I am naturally
anxious to know how it is getting along."

"It is about to be seized for debt," Cora confessed. "There is John's
letter. You might like to read it. I do not mind if you see every word
in it. John and I have loved each other for years, and when we believed
that our troubles were all at an end, we now find they have really just
begun. I am afraid this will go hard with both of us. I cannot see how
we shall ever recover from this disaster."

Stanfield picked up the letter, and as he read an expression of deep
interest appeared in his eyes. It took him but a minute to realize the
tragedy back of those words, and how much it meant to the young lovers.

"Who is the man who refuses to give Mr. Joyce more time?" he asked.

"I do not know, as John has not mentioned his name. It doesn't make any
difference, I suppose. Poor John is ruined, and I am so helpless lying
here that I cannot do a thing, and not even comfort him by my presence."

Stanfield made no immediate reply, but sat very still staring at the
letter. He was thinking deeply, and once he pulled out his watch and
glanced at the time. Cora was too much concerned with her own troubles
to notice his absent-mindedness. She was thinking of John, and longing
to see him, even for a few minutes. The room seemed to her like a
prison, and the bed a rack upon which she was bound.

In a few minutes Stanfield rose to his feet, and held out his hand.

"I must go now, Miss Davidson," he said. "I hope I have not tired you."

"Must you go so soon, Mr. Doncaster? You have not tired me in the least.
In fact, it is a great comfort to have you here. It seems as if I had
known you all my life. Please stay a while longer, that is, if you don't
mind."

"Not at all," Stanfield assured her, resuming his seat. "I haven't much
to do these days, except ride around in my car. I was merely going for
another spin."

"Don't let me detain you, then."

"Oh, that's all right. I have plenty of time yet. A few minutes won't
make any difference."

"I am so glad, Mr. Doncaster, for there is something I want to tell you,
and I hope you won't think it childish or foolish. But when you are near
me I have the strange feeling that my mother is right by my side,
looking upon me and talking to me. I cannot understand it at all."

"That is remarkable, Miss Davidson. Is your mother living?"

"Oh, no. She died several years ago."

"Ah, perhaps that accounts for it, then. Your mother may be nearer than
you imagine. Some people have the idea that our departed loved ones come
very close to us at times, although we cannot see them."

"I know it, Mr. Doncaster. Several times I have felt sure of my mother's
presence, but never so much as this afternoon. When you look at me I can
see her in your eyes."

"You must miss her so much," Stanfield replied, not knowing what else to
say.

"Miss her! I cannot begin to tell you how I miss her. I did not think so
much about it when I first left home, for I was going to be rich and
successful. But, oh, how can I describe what I long to say? I wish I
could, for it would relieve my feelings."

"Tell me anything you like, Miss Davidson, and I shall consider your
confidence as a sacred trust."

"Please don't call me 'Miss Davidson' any longer," the girl cried. "That
is not my real name. It is Ruth Rivers."

At this confession Stanfield started and then leaned slightly forward.
His heart was beating fast, and only with extreme difficulty could he
control himself. He felt that he had not heard aright, or that he must
be dreaming. But it was no dream, for there before him was his niece
waiting for him to speak. What should he say? He understood now why the
girl had thought of her mother when he was by her side. There had been a
remarkable resemblance between him and Marion, especially in their eyes.
And so he had found his sister's wandering child at last! A great joy
came suddenly into his heart at the thought that she was worthy of his
care and love. In his visions he had never imagined his niece would be
so beautiful. And for Marion's sake, at least, he must do everything in
his power for her daughter. His eyes grew misty and he turned away his
face to hide his emotion which he was no longer able fully to control.
The girl mistook this for annoyance, and she laid her right hand gently
upon his arm.

"I hope you are not angry with me, Mr. Doncaster," she began. "I did it
all for the best. I wanted to hide myself until I had become successful,
and then I would take my right name. But, oh, it has been so hard, and I
did want to tell some one. Nobody knows it but you and John."

"I am not angry with you," Stanfield quietly replied, thinking of his
own deception. "I am most grateful indeed for your confidence. There is
no reason why you should be ashamed for assuming another name. Many have
done it."

"I know they have, and thought little about it. But I always seemed to
be acting a lie. I wonder what Mr. and Mrs. Winters will think of me
when they know what I have done."

"It will make no difference with them, I am certain. They love you too
much to take any offense. The name Rivers is a beautiful one. And, by
the way, there is a Miss Rivers who taught school here last----"

"She is my only sister," the girl interrupted in a low voice. "Oh, how I
long to see her. She was always so good and kind, and helped me so much
whenever I asked her. I know she sacrificed a great deal for my sake,
sending me money when she could not afford to do so. But I planned to
pay her back when I became rich. But now I know that I can never do
that."

"Where is your sister?" Stanfield inquired.

"I do not know. She left here, so I believe, but gave no one any
address."

"And you receive no letters from her?"

"Not now, as she does not know where I am. I have kept this visit here a
secret from her."

"But you knew she had been teaching here, didn't you?"

"I never for a moment thought that this was the same place. You see, I
only remembered the name of the post office, and if Nita ever told me
the name of the parish I forgot all about it. Not until after my arrival
did I find out the truth from Mr. and Mrs. Winters. They were talking
about Nita the first night I spent with them, and when I heard her name
mentioned, and learned how badly she had been treated, I could hardly
control myself. They, dear souls, imagined that I was over-tired after
the exertions of the day. But, there, I must not weary you with my sad
and miserable story."

"You do not weary me at all, Miss, ah, Miss Rivers. I am keenly
interested in all that you have told me. Your father is dead, I
suppose?"

"Yes, he died years before my mother. It was then that she fought such a
hard battle for Nita and me. That was the reason why I left home. I had
great ideas about making money, and then going back to do so much for
mother. How little I knew then what was ahead of me."

"Tell me all about it," Stanfield urged. "I want to hear about your
mother and father, as well as your own experience."

For a few minutes Ruth remained thoughtfully silent. She then began and
told him the whole tale of her troubles, her poverty and
discouragements. When she was at last through, Stanfield rose to his
feet and grasped her hand in his.

"I must go now," he said in a choking voice. "Thank you for what you
have told me. But keep up courage. The darkest cloud has a silver
lining, remember. I am going away for a day or two, and when I return I
shall come to see you again. Good-bye, and do not worry. We want you to
get well as soon as possible."




CHAPTER XXV

AT THE STORE


It was evening and several men were gathered at the store. Most of them
had come to do a little shopping, but the main object was to hear the
latest news. They formed the usual group, men like Henry Winters, who
spent too much of their time at this place. For days the motion-picture
performance had been the main topic of conversation. It had been
discussed so much that it was now becoming thread-bare. Still all
eagerly awaited for something new to happen, and they were naturally
curious to know how the beautiful young woman at the Winters' house was
getting along. The women folks would be sure to inquire about her, so
they longed to find out anything that would be of interest.

Henry had been seldom at the store of late, so the chief source of
information was lacking. He had been too much occupied about other
matters to spend his time in idle gossip. He knew that he was missed, as
several of his neighbors had chided him for his absence from their
nightly gatherings. This pleased Henry, and he chuckled to himself as he
thought of his old comrades waiting on the rack of suspense.

"It won't hurt 'em," he mused. "They'll be all the more delighted to see
me when I do go. There's nuthin' like absence to make the heart grow
fonder, so I've heard Sarah say. But if I thought it would make her
fonder of me, I'd stay away a long time, blamed if I wouldn't."

At last the men in the store decided to go home. They were disappointed,
as they had heard nothing new to carry back to their wives. They were
about to leave the place, when the door was suddenly opened and Henry
entered. He was warmly greeted, and all breathed a sigh of contentment.

"Where have ye been this long time, Hen?" Sim Rodgers asked. "We've
missed your company. You surely haven't been working."

Henry made no reply, but stepping to the counter ordered a fig of
tobacco.

"You surely haven't come down to that after all the fine cigars you've
been smoking of late," Seth Denham bantered. "I thought you had enough
Havanas to do you the rest of your life. Has your rich friend gone back
on you? You've been living high these days."

Henry leaned against the counter, drew out a jack-knife from his pocket
and began to whittle off several slices from the plug the storekeeper
had handed to him. Presently he looked over at Seth.

"I have been livin' high lately, an' no mistake," he began. "But no
matter how many cigars I smoke, I allus come back to me old pipe. It's
hard to break away from a friend of long years."

"I'm glad to hear ye say that, Hen," Jerry Slocum replied. "We thought
maybe ye'd forsaken your old friends down here at the store for your new
ones. I hope you feel the same about us as you do about your pipe."

"I sure do, Jerry. But me new friends are a'right, let me tell ye that,
'specially that gal up at the house, an' that Doncaster feller. They're
worth knowin', an' I wish there was more like 'em."

"How is Miss Davidson getting along?" Sim Rodgers inquired.

"As well as kin be expected with so many women flutterin' around her. I
had a chat with her lately, an' she was mighty glad to see me fer a
change."

"You always took well with women, Hen," Seth again bantered. "At picnics
you're always the center of attraction."

"It's me good looks an' takin' ways, Seth," Henry replied, winking at
the other men. "Don't ye wish you had sich gifts? But I ain't a match to
that Doncaster chap. Why, he's the limit. The women folks are jist crazy
over him. An' so is Ada Karsall. If that isn't proof enough, then I give
up."

"So I've heard," Tom Logan, a big strapping farmer, replied. "She's set
her cap fer him, hasn't she?"

"Seems so, Tom. She's mighty jealous of his attention to Miss Davidson.
She's sartin that he's the one who's doin' so much fer that poor
unfortunate gal, an' she's jist eatin' her heart out with envy. I was up
to her place this afternoon, an' ye should have heard the way she
talked."

"What did she say?" Sim asked.

"Oh, I can't remember all. But she doesn't believe it's right fer a
complete stranger to do sich things fer a young gal. But if she was in
Miss Davidson's place she wouldn't talk that way, not on yer life. It's
wonderful what jealousy'll do, 'specially among women. Now, I was never
troubled with that bug."

"How is Lem getting along these days?" Tom asked. "I haven't seen him
since he came home. Did he find his sweetheart when in the city?"

Henry looked at Tom for a few minutes in silence. His pipe had gone out,
but he was pulling at it as vigorously as ever. He then struck a match
and applied it to the partly-burned tobacco.

"I can't very well answer all of them questions, Tom," he at last
replied. "I saw Lem to-day, but he wasn't in a talkin' mood. He was
workin' in the field tryin' to git in some hay. But, poor feller, his
heart was not in what he was doin'. I could see that in a minute. He's
failed, too, since I saw him last, an' he seems mighty peeked like."

"Oh, when a man's in love he's generally that way," Bill Hoskin
declared. "Lem'll come around, all right, when he gets married. I know I
did, anyway."

"Ye sartinly did, Bill," Henry agreed. "Yer wife knocked all foolish
sentimental nonsense out of yer head. An' I guess that's true of the
rest of us here. Sarah cured me, a'right."

"But maybe Lem'll never get married," Sim suggested. "He doesn't seem to
know where the girl is. She cleared out of her own free will, didn't
she? Perhaps she did it on purpose to be free of Lem."

"I've thought of that, Sim, but I kin hardly believe it. Her an' Lem
were mighty fond of each other. No, it's somethin' else, an' we all know
what that is. It's the women's tongues that drove Miss Rivers out of
this place. An' we let 'em do it without liftin' a voice on her behalf.
It jist shows how our wives have us under their thumbs. I suggest that
we start a society an' stand up fer our rights ag'inst the female
element that's runnin' this deestrict."

"Will you head the movement?" Tom asked.

"Sure I'll head it, an' tail it, too, fer I don't believe one of you
fellers'll jine me. The hull bunch of yez haven't got enough spunk an'
backbone to say yer souls are yer own when yer wives are around."

"Don't be too hard on us, Hen," Jerry pleaded. "We're men of peace."

"Yes, peace at any cost. Peace! H'm! An' yit ye call yerselves men, an'
let an innocent gal like Miss Rivers be treated worse than we treat a
dog. Bah! I'm sick of sich actions."

"What can we do about it?" Tom inquired. "We're not the ones really to
blame. Didn't your own wife and Ada start the trouble? Didn't they make
all the mischief in the first place? And yet you blame us."

"I know they did, Tom, an' the other women backed 'em up. I'm not
clearin' Sarah an' Ada of what they done, not a bit of it. But what I
want to do is to bring that teacher back an' make up fer the way she's
been treated."

"Oh, that's easier said than done, Hen. She'll never come back after the
way she's been treated here. She's got too much spunk fer that."

"Mebbe Lem kin work it, pervidin' he's able to find her. But, there, I
must git along."

"What's yer hurry, Hen?" Jerry asked. "It's early yet, and as you
haven't been with us much of late you might stay a while."

"Oh, I'm too busy these days to hang around here. Time's mighty precious
to me now."

"Why, I should think you could afford to lay back a little after the way
yer place has been fixed up. I wish t' goodness a movin'-picture consarn
would come to my farm. It needs a dang lot of repairin'."

"Yes, I sartinly am proud of the way me old house looks, to say nuthin'
of the new barn. But it was a mighty close shave. If them folks hadn't
come jist when they did, it would have been the Poor House fer me an'
Sarah. I was jist on the verge of takin' out a mortgage on the place
when Mr. Doncaster came to the rescue. He's a great man, that, an' no
mistake."

This was something new to the listeners, and they were naturally very
curious to know what Henry meant. He read their minds and it pleased
him. He always enjoyed startling his neighbors, and when it was anything
of real importance the joy was greatly enhanced.

"Yes," he continued in a drawling voice, "when that man bid in me place
fer five thousand dollars at the auction, it put me right on me feet."

"But that was only a make-believe, wasn't it, Hen?" Sim queried. "It
surely wasn't the real thing!"

"It wasn't, eh? Then, that's all you know about it. Ye've got to larn
something more about me worthy friend. An' look what he's done fer Miss
Davidson. He's been supplyin' grub by the wagon-load fer the hull
house, besides hirin' a nurse fer the invalid an' a woman to help
Sarah. He pays 'em, too, an' the doctor, as well, an' he's done a hull
lot of other things, sich as fittin' up the room with fine furniture,
and sendin' her flowers an' choc'lates. That's the kind of man he is."

"He must be a millionaire," Seth suggested. "D'ye know anything about
him?"

"Nuthin' 'cept what he's been doin' since he came to this place. I fust
thought he was a perfessor. But I've come to the conclusion now that
he's a wealthy magnet, who's got heaps of money, an' has taken a notion
to that poor unfortunate gal. Them rich magnets take queer notions
sometimes, so I've read in the papers."

"So have I," Jerry agreed, nodding significantly, "'specially when a
pretty girl appears."

"He's not that kind," Henry sharply retorted. "He's a real man, an' none
of yer hunker-bunkers."

"Who is he, anyway, Hen? D'ye know where he came from, or who he really
is?"

"I only know that he's treated me white. He's stood by that poor
unfortunate gal, too, an' is doin' what he kin fer her welfare. An'
that's a darn sight more than any of the neighbors have done. Why, not
one of yer wives has ever come to see how Miss Davidson is gittin'
along. If it hadn't been fer Mr. Doncaster's help I don't know how in
the world we'd got along."

"Our wives have all they can attend to now," Seth defended. "They can't
get through with half the work they have to do."

"I 'spose that's true, Seth, owin' to you fellers spendin' so much of
yer time hangin' around this store. I used to do it meself, but me eyes
have been opened of late, an' I've turned over a new leaf an' intend to
pay more attention to me farm. I've been yangin' about the stars
fightin' ag'inst me. But now that they're fightin' fer me, I'm goin' to
do my part. I've acted like a fool in the past, but don't intend to do
so no more."

"Oh, yer gettin' mighty high-falutin' since ye've come into sich good
luck," Sim growled. "I s'pose ye'll have no more use fer yer neighbors
after this. It's the old story, I guess, of a beggar ridin' on
horseback."

"I was never a beggar, Sim," Henry replied with some heat. "I never
begged a cent from any man. An' the only back I'm goin' to depend upon
is me own backbone. If after what's come my way doesn't make a new man
of me, then I'm a miserable cuss an' don't desarve to be called a man."

Henry rose slowly from the box upon which he had been sitting, and
knocked the ashes out of his pipe.

"I must be goin' now," he explained. "But I don't want yez to git
offended at anything I've said. I didn't mean to hurt yer feelin's.
We've been good friends too long to quarrel at our age of life. But I
advise yez all to take my words to heart an' git a hustle on. We've been
all purty much alike, allus growlin' an' knockin' things in general. But
that won't git us anywhere unless we pitch in ourselves an' do our part.
Yez kin chew over that, so good-night."




CHAPTER XXVI

THE NIGHT VISIT


Lemuel Karsall sat in his corner in The Loft lost in deep thought. He
leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. He
gazed straight before him at the picture above his desk which Nita had
painted of her old home. But he saw little of the house and the trees
surrounding it, for another picture was in his mind. He was thinking of
that day at the Falls, and he saw again the woman he loved with animated
face playing with the children. That was one of the happiest days of his
life, and it all came back to him now. And since then she had gone from
him, and he did not know what had become of her. He thought, too, of
that last night they had been together out by the barn. The words she
had uttered then had thrilled his soul, and the meeting of their lips in
that brief kiss had been to him like a sweet benediction. He knew that
she loved him as he loved her. And it was for his sake she had gone
away, perhaps never to return. He had searched frantically for her in
the city, but his efforts had been all in vain. Now he was at his wit's
end, not knowing what to do next. He could not settle down to work upon
the farm, and he knew that he could not go on day after day, week in and
week out as he had been doing since his return home.

At length his eyes dropped from the picture to some papers lying upon
his desk. Leaning forward, he picked up the largest, and by the light of
the lamp he read again his father's will, a copy of which he had
obtained from the Trust Company when in the city. Everything was now
clear, and he had explained it all to Ada. Their father had only guarded
them against marrying too young, that was all. He and his sister could
obtain the entire bequest, if they so desired, and use it as they
wished. It was not a large amount, but the interest if wisely used would
make a good living for one of them. Ada should have it all, so Lemuel
decided, providing he had Nita. He believed that he could make his own
living somehow. Anyway, the question of money would not stand any longer
between him and the woman he loved.

Lemuel had made this resolve several days before, and a letter lying on
his desk strengthened him all the more in his decision. It was the only
ray of light in his darkness, and it brought a sense of satisfaction to
his heart. The secret desire of his soul was about to be fulfilled, and
in a manner he had never imagined. He wondered what Ada would say about
it when he told her the news. And what would his neighbors think? He
knew pretty well what they thought of him. To them he was an enigma, and
as they could not understand his strange ways and intense interest in
the study of nature, they considered him quite odd. They had made light
of the collection he had gathered with such painstaking care, and The
Loft from which the midnight light burned so regularly was the object of
much amusement and not a little ridicule. Lemuel had paid no attention
to what his neighbors said and thought, being so much in love with his
studies. But Ada, who was determined to keep him informed of what the
neighbors said, was of a different nature and took the remarks very much
to heart. More than once she had rebuked him for his dreamy manner and
lack of sociability.

"I wish you were like other men, Lemuel," she had declared one morning
at breakfast.

"In what way, Ada?" he had asked, glancing up from the cup of coffee he
was thoughtfully stirring. "What men do you want me to be like?"

"Oh, I don't know exactly. But I wish you were different from what you
are. You need more go and snap, instead of wandering around through the
fields and woods, and moping so much up in The Loft."

"You would prefer that I spend my time at the store like Sim, Seth,
Jerry, and others, I suppose? Perhaps you would hear more gossip if I
did."

"No, I don't want you to be like them, Lemuel. But I want you to be a
man so the neighbors won't make fun of you. It is very humiliating to me
to hear what they say."

"I suppose it is," Lemuel had quietly replied, and said no more.

This conversation came to him now as he sat in his corner musing upon
the letter he was holding in his hand. The faint semblance of a smile
appeared upon his face as he thought of the news he would have to impart
to Ada in the morning. And the neighbors would soon hear of it, too, for
his sister would be swift to attend to that.

The sound of someone thumping up the stairs startled him. He wondered
who it could be, as it was most unusual for any one to disturb him in
his nightly vigil. He was not left long in doubt, however, for the next
minute the door was pushed open and Henry entered. He was puffing as he
paused at the top of the stairs and looked over at Lemuel.

"My! them steps are gittin' steeper every time I come up 'em," he
growled. "Ye should git an elevator, Lem, like they have in them big
stores in the city fer sich an old man as me."

"You and I would be the only ones to use it, Henry," Lemuel replied.
"It's not your age that makes the steps seem so steep, but the weight of
your boots, judging by the noise they make. But I'm pleased to see you,
no matter what racket you make. Come over here and sit down."

"Mebbe yer right, Lem," Henry agreed as he clumped across the room and
sat down upon a chair near the desk. "I'm glad I'm not disturbin' ye in
yer great thoughts. I saw the light shinin' from yer winder, so thought
I'd jist come up an' have a little chat. I was down to the store an' got
disgusted with the bunch there. Somehow they don't interest me no more
with their yangin' an' silly gossip."

"You have found something more important in life, eh?" the young man
queried.

"I sartinly have, 'specially since that poor unfortunate gal down at the
house came our way, to say nuthin' of Mr. Doncaster. Ye haven't seen
Miss Davidson, have ye, Lem?"

"Not yet, although I have heard about her from Ada. She must be a very
fine young woman. I hope to meet her some day."

"She sartinly is, but I'm s'prised that Ada thinks so."

"She doesn't, Henry. She hasn't a good word to say about her."

"Well, then, what makes ye think she's a fine young woman?"

"Because Ada doesn't like her. I need no better reason."

Henry stared hard at Lemuel for a few seconds. Then a smile appeared
upon his wrinkled face and he chuckled.

"Oh, I see. Yer thinkin' of another gal, I s'pose?"

"I am, Henry, and the best and noblest girl that ever lived. Ada has
misjudged her, and no doubt she has done the same about Miss Davidson."

"She has, Lem, if she told ye anything ag'inst her. But tell me, have ye
heard anything about Miss Rivers since she left?"

"Not a word."

"An' ye don't know where she is?"

"No. I have tried in every way to find where she is, but all in vain."

"D'ye s'pose she's in the city?"

"That I cannot tell. I am afraid I have lost her forever."

"It's funny fer her to act that way, isn't it, Lem? She might have
dropped ye a line to tell ye what's happened to her."

"It's just like her, though, Henry. She is so noble-minded that she is
willing to sacrifice herself rather than cause trouble between Ada and
me. And she is so proud and sensitive that the lies about her trying to
marry me for my money have about broken her heart. Oh, if I could only
punish the ones who started those false reports. But what can I do when
the chief offender is my own sister?"

"An' Sarah, too," Henry added in a low voice. "I understand, Lem, I
sartinly do. It's a ticklish problem."

"We are comrades in distress, Henry. And what is worse, we cannot undo
the mischief that has been done. Nita will not come back."

"But she might if she knew about the will, Lem. From what ye've told me,
I gather that yer marryin' won't affect the money yer father left."

"That is quite true, Henry. But there is another obstacle. As I just
said, Nita won't return after what people have been saying about her
wanting to marry me for my money."

"Would she come fer any other reason, Lem?"

"H'm, what other reason would cause her to come to this place where she
has received such unjust treatment? I know of nothing."

"But s'pose there was some one else she's very fond of here. An' s'pose
that some one has met with an accident an' is feelin' purty lonely at
times?"

"What do you mean, Henry? To whom are you referring? Oh, now I
understand. It is Widow Brown's little boy. But he's almost as well as
ever. Anyway, I don't think she would come back just to see him."

"No, it's not him I'm meanin', Lem. Ye've got another think comin'.
Isn't there some one else who met with an accident in this place?"

"Yes, Miss Davidson, to be sure. But why would Nita be anxious to come
to see her?"

"But s'pose Miss Davidson is her only sister?"

At these words Lemuel started, leaned forward and laid a firm hand upon
Henry's shoulder. He was greatly excited.

"What are you saying?" he demanded. "What reason have you for such a
question as that?"

"Keep cool, Lem, an' don't git too much upsot. I have a reason fer
askin' that question, fer I believe my suspicion is about kerrect."

"That Miss Davidson is Nita's sister?"

"That's jist it."

"But what reason have you for such an idea?"

"Me own nat'ral horse-sense, of course. Then, what I found out later. Ye
see, the fust night Miss Davidson stayed at our house the conversation
drifted around to the way the school teacher had been treated. An' ye
should have seen Miss Davidson when she learned the teacher's name. She
turned as white as a ghost, an' then took a faint spell. Sarah thought
she was weak from her exertions through the day, an' hustled her off to
bed. But I kinder suspected somethin'. I knew that Miss Rivers has a
sister on the stage, an' sizin' things up, I decided that Miss Davidson
is that sister."

"But have you asked her?" Lemuel inquired.

"Not yit. I'm jist waitin' to see how the fun'll turn out. I don't want
to spile her little game until she is ready to tell."

"But it is only a surmise, after all, Henry. You don't know for sure."

"It was until t'day, Lem. But now I'm sartin. Only this mornin' the
nurse at our house handed me Miss Davidson's grip an' asked me if I
could mend the handle which was a'most ripped off. I took it out into me
work-shop an' saw there was one of 'em leather tags fastened to the
handle in which a piece of card was stuck fer the owner's name. I
noticed that the little strap on this was ripped, too, so decided to
mend that while I was about it. The name 'Cora Davidson' was written on
the outside of the card, but when I took it out so as not to spile it
while I worked, I happened to turn it over. An' there on the other side
I saw the name 'Ruth Rivers' as plain as could be. Now, if that isn't
evidence enough, I'd like to know what ye want."

Lemuel had now risen to his feet and was standing by Henry's side.

"I guess you are right," he declared. "Miss Davidson must be Nita's
sister, and she has assumed that name as a disguise. Now I understand
what you mean. Nita might be induced to return for her sister's sake, if
for nothing else. My! this is all very wonderful."

"It sartinly is, Lem. An' the sooner we fetch her back the better it
will be fer all consarned."

"But how are we to do that when we do not know where Nita is? I have
searched for her in vain."

"Jist let me have a try at it, Lem. Mebbe I know the city better'n you
do. Now, where did ye look fer her, anyway?"

"At the hotels and on the streets, of course. I tramped around for
several days until I was completely tired out."

"H'm, I imagined as much. An' then ye ended up at the Nat'ral History
Society, I s'spose?"

"Why, how do you know that?"

"Oh, I don't know, Lem," and Henry laughed. "But I know you, so thought
likely that's where ye'd land among them flowers, stones an' stuffed
critters. You couldn't find that gal, fer ye didn't go about it in the
right way."

"Do you think you can, then, Henry?"

"Can't say fer sure. But I'm goin' to have a try, anyway. If I don't
succeed, it'll be no use fer anyone else to undertake the job."

"When will you go, Henry?" Lemuel eagerly asked.

"Oh, in a day or two. I've got to do some bankin', open up an account
fer the fust time in me life."

"You did well, then, with the moving-picture people?"

"Should say I did. Sold me place to Mr. Doncaster, an' got a check fer
five thousand dollars."

"You did!"

"Bet yer life I did. There it is," and Henry pulled out the check from
his pocket and held it up to view.

"I am glad for your sake, Henry," Lemuel quietly replied. "Let me
congratulate you. Your stars are fighting for you, after all, are they
not?"

"They sure are, Lem, an' they'll fight fer you, too, if ye jist have
patience an' keep a stiff upper lip. Don't git too much down-hearted.
Things'll turn out a'right."

"I am coming to believe so now, Henry. I have a strong hope that Nita
will return when she learns that her sister is here. And I believe that
you will find her. Then, there is something else. Here is a letter which
I received to-day which gives me much encouragement. It is from
President Radcliffe, of Strongbow University, and he makes me a
wonderful offer."

"That doesn't s'prise me, Lem. He wants ye to become a perfessor, eh?"

"No, not exactly that, Henry. But he wants me to go and give several
talks this coming fall on my studies and the discoveries I have made. It
is called the 'Stanfield Course,' in honor of a wealthy man who gave the
money for this purpose. The idea is to enlist the services of men who
have made independent studies in various fields that they may give the
benefit of their knowledge to the students of the University. In his
letter the President says that Mr. Stanfield, the donor, is anxious to
have a man from his native country to tell something about this
province, so I have been chosen. The offer has come to me as a great
surprise, although it has been an ideal I have had in my mind for years.
It seems almost too good to be true."

"How in the world did he hear about you, Lem?" Henry asked.

"I met him this summer. He and your Mr. Doncaster stopped to inquire the
way to Crestville. They saw my collection here, and Mr. Radcliffe,
although I didn't know who he was then, was very much interested. He has
written to me several times since about my studies."

"So Mr. Doncaster was with him, eh?" Henry queried.

"He was, and although he paid no attention to my collection, he was
greatly interested in that painting. In fact, he was quite excited."

Lemuel motioned to the picture over the desk, and Henry rose to his feet
and peered keenly upon it.

"Miss Rivers painted it, and gave it to me," Lemuel explained. "It is a
picture of her old home."

"So Mr. Doncaster was interested in it, Lem?"

"Very much so, and he asked a number of questions about Nita."

Henry picked up his hat and turned slowly away from the corner.

"Guess I'll go now, Lem. It's gittin' late, an' Sarah'll be wonderin'
what's happened to me. So good-night, Lem. We've both got enough to
think about fer a while. Don't ye worry, me boy, the stars'll stand by
us, a'right."




CHAPTER XXVII

TRAPPED


Seated at his desk in his small downtown office, John Joyce was staring
through the dust-covered window on his right at a marine junk-yard
below. It was not an inspiring sight upon which his eyes rested. It was
nothing but a mass of odds and ends collected there in confused heaps.
Twisted rods of iron, old boilers, anchors with broken flukes, frayed
wire ropes, rusted cables, and other relics of sea-faring ways were all
jumbled together in that yard. They were all the wrecks and ruins of
bright hopes of former days. Now they were cast aside as of little
value.

To Joyce they were just like his own life. He had tried hard to succeed,
but everything had been against him. And now his last effort was nothing
but a dismal failure, a wreck more pathetic than that he beheld through
the window. He had built so much upon the picture of "The Old Home," and
he felt certain that it would prove a winner if he had only a little
more time. But that was denied him, for the man upon whom he depended
had now failed him at the critical moment. He saw the meaning behind
Bartley Ripton's refusal to allow him more time in which to get the
picture on the market. It was greed and nothing more. Ripton realized
the value of the picture and wished to obtain possession of it at
Joyce's expense. He had advanced him the money to carry on the work and
now he demanded payment. This was the last day of grace, and as the
afternoon was now well advanced and he had failed in his frantic effort
to obtain any money in the city, Joyce felt that he was doomed. It was
already four o'clock, and at five Ripton would arrive. That would be the
end so far as Joyce was concerned, for he knew that his hard-hearted
creditor would have no mercy, but would demand the last poor scruple.

A moan as of a creature wounded to death escaped Joyce's parched lips.
He thought of the ones who had stood by him so bravely in his last
desperate throw. They had not been paid for their services, and they
were greatly in need of their money. How could he meet them and explain
the hopelessness of the situation? Of course, they could hold the
picture for payment. But that would mean delay, and in the meantime they
needed what was due them. And besides, it would be difficult for them to
deal with such an unscrupulous man as Ripton. Joyce knew of the Law's
delays, and what several weeks would mean to the needy ones.

His crowning agony, however, was in thinking of Ruth Rivers. She had
been almost constantly in his mind since the day he had left her lying
so white upon her bed of suffering to hurry away to the city. She had
been very brave then, though racked with pain. He had spoken hopefully
of success, and had cheered her in every way possible. His letters, too,
had been encouraging until that last one when he had been forced to tell
her the bitter truth. He knew how it would add to her sorrow, but he
felt it was not right to keep the information from her. He pictured her
lying there in the room in the old farm-house with the birds singing
outside, and the scent of flowers drifting in through the open window
from the garden and the fields beyond. How he longed to be by her side
and away from the city. If he and Ruth could live always in the country
what happiness it would be. And they had planned to spend their summers
there, at any rate, just as soon as success had crowned their efforts.
They had a snug cottage in view, close to the river, like the one in
which Ruth had spent so many years of her young life. She and John had
even talked of buying the old house at Radnor, repairing it, and making
it their summer home. But now all that could never be. Their bright
visions could never be fulfilled. And it was all due to the overwhelming
greed of one man! Little wonder, therefore, that there was almost murder
in Joyce's heart as he sprang to his feet and paced rapidly up and down
the small room. Why should such things be allowed? he asked himself.
Where was the justice in life, anyway? He had struggled honestly to make
a living, and had failed. He had won the love of a true pure woman, and
yet there was little or no hope that they could ever be united. While on
the other hand, Ripton seemed to prosper. He had money in abundance, and
from what Joyce heard, he had obtained his wealth in very questionable
ways. And even his character was far from blameless, according to rumors
which were afloat. He was morally bad, and the world knew it. Yet he
succeeded.

"Bah!" The word broke from Joyce's lips and he stamped in impotent rage
upon the floor. Such anger was most unusual to him, but there was good
reason for it now. He was at bay, with his back against the wall, and
with no hope of escape. Only a god could be calm in such a situation.

A knock upon the door startled him. It was Ripton, no doubt,
over-anxious and ahead of time for his prize. Angrily Joyce strode to
the door and flung it open. Instead of beholding the oily and fat-faced
Ripton, great was his surprise to see Charles Stanfield standing before
him.

"Excuse me," the visitor apologized. "I hope I am not intruding."

"Not at all, sir," Joyce assured. "Come right in. I thought you were
some one else, my nemesis, in fact. But I am delighted to see you. Sit
down here and tell me the news. How is--is Cora?"

"I thought that would be your first question," Stanfield smilingly
replied as he sat down and drew forth his cigar-case. "Have a smoke.
It's good for the nerves. I find it so, at any rate."

"Do you think I am in special need of something stimulating now?" Joyce
queried, as he touched a match to his cigar.

"I believe so, judging by the expression in your eyes when you opened
the door."

"And there is good reason for my anger, Mr. Doncaster. I am in the
clutches of a devil, and see no way of escape."

"So I surmised from your letter to Miss Davidson."

"She told you about it, sir?" Joyce eagerly asked. "How did she take the
news?"

"She let me read the letter. The news of your trouble was a great blow
to her, but she was as brave as could be expected. She seemed to think
only of you."

"Poor girl!" Joyce murmured. "It is hard to bear up after what we have
both done and endured. And to think that all this trouble is due to one
man."

"Who is he, Mr. Joyce? He wishes to get control of your picture, so I
understand."

"He certainly does, and it seems that he has about succeeded. I never
imagined that Ripton would do such a contemptible thing as that."

At these words Stanfield gave a slight start, took the cigar from his
mouth, and looked keenly at the young man.

"So Ripton is his name, eh?" he queried.

"Yes, Bartley Ripton. He promised to be my friend and help me with my
undertaking. He had the money, so I went ahead. But now he has turned
traitor. This is the last day of grace. He will be here at five o'clock,
and I am helpless. The picture will have to go. I am finished."

Stanfield pulled out his watch and glanced at it. He then sat very still
with his eyes fixed pensively upon the window opposite. Joyce was too
much taken up with his own thoughts to pay any attention to the sudden
silence of his visitor. He drummed absent-mindedly upon the desk with
the fingers of his right hand.

"Where did this man Ripton come from?" Stanfield at length asked.

"From somewhere in the States, so I believe."

"What is his business?"

"He is a promoter, so he informed me."

"H'm, a promoter of his own interests, so it seems."

"Yes, at the expense and ruin of others."

"And you say he will be here at five?"

"So he told me. But he may come sooner, for he is a hot-footed scoundrel
and is keen to get control of my picture."

Again Stanfield pulled out his watch.

"He should be here, then, in about twenty minutes, if not before."

He then leaned over toward Joyce. "Look, I want to be near when Ripton
arrives, but he must not see me or know that I am anywhere around. Your
story has given me much food for thought. I once knew a man by that
name, and am anxious to find out if he is the same person. How can we
manage it?"

"Suppose you hide yourself in that little room there," Joyce suggested,
somewhat surprised at Stanfield's request. "You can hear every word that
is said here without any trouble. You can see, too, through that hole in
the plaster. The wall is full of holes, too many, in fact. I guess it
must have been used as a Star Chamber at one time. Anyway, it will be
that when Ripton arrives. It will be torture, all right."

"For you or for Ripton?" Stanfield quickly asked.

"For me, of course, and that villain will do the torturing."

"Don't be too sure of that," Stanfield quietly replied, and Joyce
wondered what he meant. He had no time to say more, for a loud knock
sounded suddenly upon the door. Stanfield leaped to his feet, and had
just disappeared into the little room adjoining as Ripton entered.

"Ah, waiting for me, eh?" he began, as he crossed the room to where his
victim was sitting. "I'm a little ahead of time, I admit. But it's a
habit of mine."

Joyce made no reply. He found it difficult to control himself in the
presence of this rascal. He longed to spring upon him, clutch him by the
throat, and change that bland triumphant expression in his eyes to
terror. He would like to see him gasping and begging for mercy. The wild
beast nature was tugging at Joyce's heart as he watched Ripton standing
there rubbing his fat hands together and gazing so complacently upon
him. But for the thought of that silent man in the next room Joyce might
have done something of a desperate nature just then. Stanfield's
presence gave him much needed assurance, just why he could not tell.
Neither did he attempt to analyze his feelings. He merely knew, and that
was sufficient to restrain his rage of passion.

"You have everything ready, I suppose?" Ripton queried. "I'm in a hurry
to-day, so wish to get this little matter settled as soon as possible."

"Little matter!" Joyce cried. "Do you call this a little matter? It may
be so to you, but to me it means my life-blood. You are about to ruin
me."

"That's too bad, Mr. Joyce. But it's all in the business game, my dear
fellow. It's heads I win; tails you lose."

"And you won't give me a little more time, Mr. Ripton? Won't you permit
me to get the picture finished and placed on the market?"

"I can't do it. There is too much at stake. It's a risky affair which
you have undertaken, and I cannot afford to take any chance."

"But you will get your money all back with big interest. Are you afraid
of losing what you loaned to me?"

"I want the picture, and unless you have the money right now, it's no
use for us to talk any longer."

Ripton's bland manner had suddenly vanished and he was the stern
gloating tyrant. He had his victim in his grasp, so there was no use for
more diplomacy. The blood beat through Joyce's veins, and his hands
clenched hard together.

"Ah, I see your game, Mr. Ripton. You know that my picture is a good one
and that it will be a success. You want to get control of it and handle
it yourself, and thus rob me of all profits. I understand your scheme,
all right.

"It is merely self-protection, Joyce. You can call it what you like, for
it makes no difference to me. But let us get down to business and have
the papers signed. If you are ready, I shall call in my lawyer to
witness our signatures."

"It makes no difference to me what happens," Joyce gloomily replied.
"Everything is ready, so we might as well get the matter settled at
once. But I did hope that you might have mercy."

"I know nothing about mercy, Mr. Joyce, when it comes to business. We do
not consider mercy in the business world."

"But the Great Master said 'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall
obtain mercy.' Have you ever thought over those words?"

"Bah! they're all rot. How could we carry on business to-day if we
stopped to think of such twaddle as that? Why, the wolves would fleece
the lambs every time. It may be all right in theory, but not in
practice. Those words are nothing but empty bombast. Christ was nothing
but an idealist. His principles are not practicable to-day. But, come, I
can't afford to waste any more time talking such nonsense."

"Just a minute, sir."

These words coming so unexpectedly from the right, startled Ripton,
causing him to turn quickly around. He then staggered to his feet, his
face as white as death and his eyes bulging with fear. He tried to gasp
out Stanfield's name, but only succeeded in uttering a few
unintelligible gurgles.

"You recognize me, I see," Stanfield quietly remarked.

"Y-y-yes," stammered the confounded man.

"I thought you would. You should remember me, all right, for there is a
good reason. And I have a better one."

Stanfield ceased and stood watching with contempt the creature now
cowering before him. His face was very severe and his eyes shone with
the light of anger. Joyce, watching, was astonished at Stanfield's
wonderful transformation. Instead of the quiet, mild-mannered and
leisurely gentleman such as he knew, he saw him as a stern judge about
to pronounce sentence of doom. His calm dignified manner fascinated him.
At the same time a sense of hope, mingled with exultation, thrilled his
soul. In Stanfield he saw his deliverer in time of need, and the
downfall of Ripton, for what cause he did not know.

"And so you have been carrying on your diabolical tricks here, have
you?" Stanfield at length asked the unfortunate wretch. "You escaped me
five years ago, and I had little hope of ever seeing you again. But we
shall let that past transaction rest for the present. You were engaged
with Mr. Joyce when I rudely interrupted your conversation. So go ahead
and settle up your business. I can wait until you are through."

Ripton, however, was not at all anxious to continue. His former bland
and domineering manner was gone. His eyes roved furtively around toward
the door. Stanfield, noting this, smiled.

"It's no use trying any nonsense upon me. I have you just where I want
you, so you shall not escape this time. Mr. Joyce, will you please call
up the Police Station and ask that an officer be sent here at once."

At this Ripton uttered a yell of terror, fell upon his knees and
abjectedly pleaded for mercy.

"For God's sake, don't have me arrested!" he shrieked. "Let me go."

"What! you plead for mercy when you denied it to Mr. Joyce only a few
minutes ago. You said that you know nothing about mercy. And I guess it
is true, for it's not in your make-up. When as my agent you robbed
widows and little children and then fled from the country was there any
mercy in your heart? If I had not paid every dollar, the ones you so
basely treated would be destitute to-day. And now I find you here on the
verge of ruining Mr. Joyce. I am thankful that I happened along to-day
to balk you in your game. You have a score or more of things to settle
in your own country, and back you shall go to settle with the ones who
have been searching for you. Mr. Joyce," and he turned to the young man,
"please send in an urgent call to the Police at once. I don't want any
more delay."

Joyce did as he was ordered, and as he was phoning, Ripton sprang to his
feet and looked wildly around. He then made a mad rush for the door, but
Stanfield followed and hurled him aside ere he could lay a hand upon the
knob. The baffled man, greatly enraged, would have hurled himself upon
his accuser had not Joyce, leaving the phone hurried across the room.

"Leave him to me, sir," he said to Stanfield. "I am just aching to get
my hands upon him."

He then gripped Ripton firmly by the arm, led him over to the chair near
the desk and flung him down.

"Sit there," he ordered, "and don't you dare to move until I tell you."

Ripton was now thoroughly cowed. The perspiration was pouring down his
fat face and he was trembling violently. His dilated eyes roved wildly
around the room as if seeking some avenue of escape.

"While we are waiting for the Police we shall attend to that 'little
matter,'" Joyce continued. "Are you willing to give me more time to
finish the picture?"

"H---- with the picture," Ripton growled. "Ask him," and he motioned to
Stanfield. "It's up to him now."

"Oh, I guess you can have all the time you need," Stanfield replied.
"Ripton, I call him that, although it is not his real name, is in no
special hurry for the money just now. He has other things to attend to
first. And, by the way, how much did he let you have, Mr. Joyce?"

"Five thousand dollars, sir."

"Only five thousand dollars!" Stanfield exclaimed in astonishment. "And
for that amount you were willing to ruin an honest man," he continued,
turning to Ripton. "For three thousand dollars you wished to steal that
picture, which at a low estimate should be worth fifty thousand! It
seems incredible."

Ripton made no reply, and in a few minutes the door was opened and an
officer entered.

"What's the trouble?" he asked.

"Take charge of this man," Stanfield ordered, pointing to Ripton. "I
shall go along to explain matters."

Ripton staggered to his feet and sagged across the room by the officer's
side. He said nothing and made no effort to escape. Ere leaving the
room, Stanfield turned to Joyce.

"Go right ahead with the picture," he told him. "You can depend upon me
to back you to the limit, for I have a special interest in your
undertaking. I shall return shortly and we shall go into the whole
matter."

Joyce's only reply was to reach out impetuously and seize his rescuer's
hand in his. There were tears in his eyes when a few minutes later he
looked once more through the dust-covered window. But it was not the
junk he saw there now, but a vision of a girl far away, and the light of
joy that would illumine her eyes when she received the good news.




CHAPTER XXVIII

FOR HER SAKE


It was early morning and Henry Winters was milking. When he was through
with the last cow, and had emptied the milk into a larger pail, he
started to do the job all over again. He was brought to his senses,
however, when the cow objected and moved off toward the bars as if
anxious to get out into the pasture. This action puzzled Henry.

"What's come over that cow, anyway?" he growled. "I never saw her so
restless."

Then light dawned upon his mind, and he laughed aloud.

"Well, bless my stars!" he exclaimed. "I've milked her a'ready! That cow
has more sense than I have. Me head's off me shoulders this mornin', I
guess, an' I hardly know what I'm doin'. But is it any wonder?"

When he had let down the bars, and the cows had trooped gladly out of
the yard, Henry opened the gate leading to the house, lifted the pails
and set them down outside. He closed the gate, and securely fastened it
with a wooden pin. He stood there for a few minutes very still gazing
after the cows wending their way slowly along the lane to the pasture
beyond. But it was not of the animals he was thinking. Something of far
more importance occupied his mind.

"I can't see any other way out of it," he muttered. "I've thought about
it all through the night an' yit I can't decide. I wonder what Sarah
would say to sich a thing."

Fumbling in a back pocket of his duck overalls, he brought forth a
small black pocket-book. This he opened and drew out a piece of soiled
paper. This he unfolded and holding it in both hands studied it
carefully.

"Five thousand dollars!" he whispered. "An' that's all that stands
between us an' poverty! It's a heap of money to throw away at one slap.
But what else kin I do? I can't see that gal die of a broken heart.
Confound it all! I wish I didn't have a heart sich as I've got. It's
been me ruin all through life. A funny thing the heart is. I kin stand
'most anything, sich as a tongue-lashin' an' argyments. But let anything
touch me heart an' I'm as weak as a baby."

An impatient voice from the house startled him.

"What's keeping you with that milk?"

"I'm comin', Sarah," Henry replied. "I'll be there in a jiffy."

When he reached the house, he clumped into the milk-room and set the
pails upon a bench.

"Ye seem to be in a hurry this mornin', Sarah," he remarked.

"I am," was the snapping reply. "But what's the use of being in a hurry
when waiting for you? What were you doing out there, anyway?"

"Jist thinkin', Sarah, that was all. Me mind seems to be all afloat this
mornin', an' I find it hard to keep it fixed upon me work."

"That explains, then, what you did when you made the fire in the stove.
After you had lighted the kindling, you put the wood in the oven and
shut the door. I had to build the fire again, for it was all out when I
got up. After a while I smelt wood burning, and opening the oven door,
found out what you had done. I hope to goodness you won't do anything
like that again."

"Well, well! did I really do that, Sarah?" Henry asked in surprise. "Put
the wood in the oven! Bless my soul! An' when I got through milkin' I
started to do the job all over ag'in. But that cow, Bess, knew more'n I
did, an' objected. Wonder what's comin' over me? I never did sich odd
things before."

Henry clumped out of the milk-room, leaving his wife staring after him.
A peculiar expression shone in her eyes as she at length turned her
attention to her work.

"I can read that man like a book," she mused. "I know what he's thinking
about as surely as if he told me with his own lips. He can't deceive
me."

Henry made his way to the kitchen, sat down heavily upon a chair and
took off his boots. He washed himself carefully in the basin at the
sink, then combed and brushed his thin white hair.

"Guess I look better now," he commented, surveying himself in a small
mirror hanging on the wall. "I'm mighty glad none of the women folks are
here. It's lucky Sarah's 'tendin' to the milk, the nurse is in with
Cora, an' that gal, Rosy, is out feedin' the chickens. It's the fust
time the coast's been clear fer days. It must be the Lord's doin's, as
Sarah would say."

He then went softly upstairs, entered his bedroom, and dressed himself
in his Sunday suit. This did not take him long, and when he had finished
he went back to the kitchen. He was tempted to knock at the closed door
of the front room and ask how the invalid was feeling this morning. But
he knew that would not be the proper thing to do, as no doubt the nurse
was attending to her just then. He glanced up at the clock and went out
of doors. His wife was still in the milk-room and as he peered somewhat
guiltily in, she saw him and turned quickly around. Instead of greeting
him with words of surprise and disapproval, Henry was astonished at her
calmness and matter-of-fact manner.

"You will have a long wait for the train, Henry," she quietly remarked.

"How in the world d'ye know I'm goin' to the train, Sarah?"

"You don't have to tell me about your movements. Your actions speak
louder than words. You are going to the city with that check."

"Well, I'll be blowed! I allus knew you were a wonderful woman, Sarah,
but I never imagined ye could read my mind so well."

"I can see through you as if you were a pane of glass."

"Ye kin!"

"I certainly can. I knew from your absent-minded manner that you were
planning to go to the city this morning. But you do not intend to get
that check cashed."

"Sarah!"

"Just a minute, Henry, until I'm through. You intend giving it to Mr.
Joyce for Cora's sake."

A frightened look came into Henry's eyes and his body sagged against the
right side of the door frame.

"H-how d'ye know that?" he gasped.

"Because I have been thinking of the same thing. When you tossed about
so much last night I knew that you were worrying over that dear girl the
same I was. She didn't sleep a wink all night, so the nurse told me this
morning, and she just lies there now with her face to the wall and takes
no interest in anything. She is heart-broken over the news she received
yesterday about that picture. Something has got to be done to save her,
and it seems that we are the only ones who can help her now."

"By handin' over that check, eh, Sarah?" Henry queried, much relieved.

"That's just it. I don't believe I would do it for any other living
soul. But that girl has so twined herself around my heart that I love
her as much as if she were my own daughter. I would be willing to do
almost anything for her sake."

"So would I, Sarah. An' I'd like to git me hands on that critter who's
made all the trouble by goin' back on Mr. Joyce. Say, I've had murder
in me heart ever since I heard about his villainy."

"I know it, Henry. And when you said your head was all afloat I knew
what you were thinking about."

"It's mighty hard, Sarah, to give up all that money fer what that cur's
done. But if I kin block him an' save Cora, it will be a good job. I've
got me two hands, so I guess we kin manage to pull along somehow. But
five thousand dollars is a big sum of money to us."

"I know it is, Henry. But what is money when a life is at stake? Why, if
anything happened to Cora and we didn't do what we could to help her,
that money would only bring a curse upon us. Anyway, I couldn't sleep at
night, for her pathetic face and sad eyes would be always before me."

"Yer quite right, Sarah, ye sartinly are. If I had to go through ag'in
what I did last night I'd be crazy in a day or two. No, I couldn't stand
it, so as we're agreed fer once, it must be the right thing to do."

"And it's our duty as Christians, Henry," his wife reminded. "Doesn't
the Bible say that it's more blessed to give than to receive?"

"I thought ye'd come around to somethin' like that, Sarah, before we got
through, an' so I haven't been mistaken. But to tell ye the truth, I
wasn't thinkin' anything about me duty as a Christian, nor what the Good
Book says. I only want to help that poor gal layin' in there. If I git
credit or not doesn't matter much. I only know what ought to be done,
an' I'm goin' to do it, like Joe Simkins said when he married a widow
with ten children. Guess I'd better git off to the station now. I've got
me ticket to buy an' don't want to be late."

"When will you be home, Henry?"

"Can't tell fer sure. T'morrow, mebbe. It all depends upon how the cat
jumps."

"Have you a clean handkerchief, Henry?"

"Yep, got two. Found 'em in the bedroom. Well, s'long, Sarah, an' keep
an eye over things. I'll be back as soon as I kin."

When about half way to the station Henry heard the yell of the early
morning up train off in the distance.

"It'll be half an hour yit before the down train comes," he thought.
"There's no need of hurryin'. But, dang it all! I wish I'd told Sarah
who Cora really is. She'd be mighty interested in knowin' that she an'
Nita Rivers are sisters. When she does find out I wonder if it'll make
her treat the teacher a little more like a Christian should. Sarah's a
great woman an' she has the Bible at her finger tips. But sometimes her
perfession an' actions don't altogether jibe. I wonder why some church
people are that way."

He thought over this as he moved slowly forward. Coming at length in
sight of the station, he stopped at a wayside watering tub for a drink.

"I might as well rest here a bit an' git composed, as Sarah says, before
I make me appearance in public. But, hello! who is this? Why, it's Mr.
Joyce, as sure as I'm alive. Where in the world did you drop from?" he
accosted. "I was jist on me way to see ye."

"Were you?" Joyce asked in reply. "I am glad that I came part way, for
it's very nice here under the shade of these trees and near this fine
tub of water. Can't we transact any business you have with me right
here? But first of all, tell me about Cora. How is she getting along?"

"None too well, I'm afraid. She's worryin' herself t'death over the
trouble with that picter. An' it's about that I was on me way to see ye.
Yer in need of money, so I understand, an' me an' Sarah have decided to
let ye have this to help along."

As he spoke, he pulled out his pocket-book, took from it the check and
handed it to the young man. The latter unfolded the paper, and when he
saw what it was his eyes grew big with amazement and understanding.

"And you are really on your way to let me have this?" he asked.

"I sartinly am, an' I hope t'goodness it ain't too late."

"But this is the check Mr. Doncaster gave you for your place, Henry!"

"Well, s'pose it is? Can't I do what I like with me own money?"

"Sure, sure. I wasn't disputing your right. I was merely thinking,
that's all."

Joyce stood very still, looking straight before him off into the
distance. But he saw nothing of the trees, spacious sloping meadows, nor
the river beyond. His eyes were too misty for that. Henry noticed that
something was affecting the man, and it worried him.

"Not offended, are ye?" he queried. "Me an' Sarah are mighty anxious to
do what we kin fer Cora, so if ye don't like to take that check fer yer
own sake, take it fer hers."

A smile at once overspread Joyce's face as he reached out and grasped
Henry's right hand.

"God bless you!" he fervently declared. "Your act of kindness and
self-sacrifice so unnerved me that I could hardly speak for a minute. I
cannot find words to express how deeply I appreciate your
thoughtfulness. But I am thankful to be able to tell you that I do not
need this now. Mr. Doncaster has come to my assistance and is backing me
to the limit."

"He is!"

It was all that Henry could say just then. So he would not have to part
with his money, after all. It seemed too good to be true, and he longed
to hurry back home to tell Sarah.

"Yes, Mr. Doncaster has proven a wonderful friend," Joyce explained. "He
caught the villain just in the nick of time to save me from ruin. The
man goes by the name of Ripton, and he stole money, or something like
that, from Mr. Doncaster several years ago, and then ran away. You
should have seen the rascal's face when Mr. Doncaster suddenly appeared.
It was better than any play I have ever beheld. He's safe now in prison,
so he is not likely to trouble us any more."

"I'm mighty glad of that," Henry declared, seating himself upon the
mossy bank and pulling out his pipe. "So Mr. Doncaster came to yer
rescue, eh? Who in time is he, anyway? It isn't often a rich man takes
sich an interest in poor people. Now, jist think what he's done fer
Cora. My! won't she be glad to hear the good news. Ye'd better git
along, Mr. Joyce, an' brighten up her purty face. Yer a lucky man to
have the love of sich a gal as that."

"I know I am, Henry. She's as true as steel, and has stood by me through
thick and thin. She has had a terrible struggle, but a change for the
better has now come. You'll go back with me, won't you, Henry?"

"I'd like to, sir, jist to see the joy in Cora's eyes. But I've special
bizness in the city which must be attended to."

Away at the right came the shrill shriek of the down train. Henry leaped
to his feet and started to run toward the station.

"You can't do it," Joyce laughingly called after him. "Better give it
up."

"Confound it all!" Henry growled as he walked slowly back. "I did want
to git to the city t'day."

"Oh, you can go with me on the afternoon train, Henry. I expect to have
a private showing of my picture to-morrow night, and I would like to
have you there to see it. Your advice will be most valuable. Let us get
on our way. We have wasted too much time here already."

"Is the picter as near finished as that?" Henry asked as he walked along
by Joyce's side. He was somewhat mollified now at missing the train.

"Yes, it needs only a few more touches and then all will be ready. Mr.
Doncaster has promised to be with us."

"Gee whiz! won't Cora be glad when she hears about this. Things are
turnin' out right, after all, I guess. The stars are fightin' on our
side now fer sure. Hurray!"




CHAPTER XXIX

DISCOVERED


It had been a busy afternoon at the ribbon-counter, but as closing time
drew near the customers became few. Nita Rivers was very glad of this
respite for her head was aching and she was unusually tired. The store
was exceptionally hot and often as she ran the long ribbon streamers
through her fingers she thought of that happy day she had spent at the
Falls with Henry, Lemuel and the children. The different colored ribbons
brought sweet memories to her mind; the long white silken bands
resembling the gleaming water-fall; the blue of the almost cloudless sky
overhead; the pink of the dresses of the children; and the various
shades of green of the restful foliage of the noble trees surrounding
the place. She longed to be back there again instead of in that stuffy
store. She had been here just one week, and each day it was the same
monotonous work. Never before had she realized what it meant to stand
upon her feet from morning until evening in a close body-heated
atmosphere in mid-summer waiting upon fussy and at times unreasonable
people. How difficult it was to maintain a calm unruffled temper and to
be courteous to some women who acted and spoke more like savages than
civilized beings. The majority, of course, were gentle and lady-like,
but several that day had brought her almost to the verge of her
endurance. One of these overbearing creatures had just left, and Nita
gave a sigh of relief as she put the ribbons back into their respective
places. How much longer could she stand this? she asked herself. She
glanced around upon her companions in distress, and knew that they were
chained to such an existence. But with her it was different. In two or
three weeks she would be free and teaching again.

Nita had imagined that she was through with teaching. No school could
ever be like the last one to her. The children had all become so dear to
her heart that she believed she could not bestow her affections upon
others. And there she had found the man she loved, although he could
never be hers. No, another school in different surroundings could not be
thought of for a moment. But as the days passed she became restless. She
had to do something for a living, for she could not afford to be idle.
But one week in a large store at a ribbon-counter had opened her eyes.
She was a teacher and not a mere machine. What inspiration was there in
handling endless yards of ribbon and waiting upon impatient people? Her
duty was elsewhere, among children of whom she was so fond. She would
get another school, so she decided. Accordingly, she answered an
advertisement in the paper and eagerly awaited a reply. There were
several schools seeking for teachers, so she felt quite hopeful of
getting one of them.

Nita had thought much about Lemuel. In fact, he was seldom out of her
mind. She longed to write to him to learn how he was getting along. But
she had set her face strongly to what she believed was right, so she
must not falter in her resolve. She would not stand between Lemuel and
Ada and thus be the means of depriving them of their father's money. Of
that she was determined. But her heart did go out to the one man in the
whole world she loved and who loved her. They understood each other and
had so much in common. She thought of that last night they had been
together near the barn. It thrilled her soul, and at times her face
flushed and her hands trembled as she measured out the ribbon. The
thought of him was the only thing that gave her any real joy. It was a
comfort for her to feel that he was thinking of her, and her heart was
full of pity as she pictured him sitting night after night in his corner
in the lonely Loft.

The last roll of ribbon had been put back into its place and the store
was almost empty. There was no one at her counter, so for the first time
that afternoon Nita had nothing to do. In a few minutes she would be
free, and with the rest of the girls would leave the building. Most of
her fellow-workers had their homes in the city with the evening ahead
with various pleasant engagements. But with her it was different. She
would go back to her little room in the boarding-house with no one to
welcome her and none to take any interest in her welfare. She had joined
no young people's society and had made no friends with whom she wished
to associate. It was a dreary prospect and a slight sigh escaped her
lips.

Just then she had the idea that some one was watching her. She could not
account for the feeling, but it caused her to give a slight start and
glance quickly around the store. At once her eyes rested upon a man
standing but a short distance away. In an instant she recognized Henry
Winters and her face grew somewhat pale and her body trembled. This was
followed by an indefinable joy and a smile overspread her face. Henry
replied with a broad grin as he stepped up to the counter.

"Evenin', Miss," he accosted. "I want ye to pick out a nice ribbon fer
me wife. I haven't given her one since our courtin'-days, so it's purty
well faded by now. I guess it's time she had a new one."

"Mr. Winters!" Nita gasped in a low voice. "How did you happen to come
here?"

"I'll tell ye later, Miss. But git me the ribbon fust. A nice pink
one'll do. I don't know whether Sarah'll wear it or not. Anyway, it'll
show her that I haven't fergot her while in town."

Nita looked keenly into the honest humorous eyes of the old man, and
then turned toward the shelves on her right. She wanted to ask him so
many questions, but all he could think about was the ribbon for his
wife.

"How will this do?" she inquired, showing him a pink roll.

"Fine, Miss. Give me a yard or two of that."

While Nita was measuring the ribbon, Henry pulled some money from his
pocket and laid it upon the counter.

"Take the price out of that, Miss." He then leaned toward her. "I'll
wait fer ye outside, Miss," he whispered. "Ye won't be long, I s'pose?"

"Just a few minutes more, Mr. Winters. Here is your change."

"Thank ye kindly. But don't keep me waitin' too long."

The next minute Henry was gone and Nita stared after him until he had
left the store. Several of the girls nearby had been curiously watching
the whole proceedings.

"What a funny man to be buying ribbon," one of them remarked. "What do
you suppose he is going to do with it?"

Nita made no reply, for her mind was too much occupied with other
things. She was glad that Henry had found her out, for she was sure now
that his presence there was but an excuse to speak to her. And yet
mingled with this joy was a feeling of regret. Henry would be sure to go
back home and tell everybody about her. Lemuel would know, too, and he
would come to her post-haste. She must get Henry to promise not to tell
of her whereabouts. She wondered what he wanted to see her outside for,
anyway. She was thinking of this when she at length left the counter and
made her way to the door. Henry was awaiting her coming, and he smiled
pleasantly as she appeared.

"Yer the fust woman that never kept me waitin' long," he complimented.
"Sarah is allus behind time. Which way d'ye want to go, Miss?"

"Anywhere, Mr. Winters," Nita replied as she walked along by his side.
"It doesn't make any difference to me."

"Is that so? Well, s'pose we git somethin' to eat. I'm 'most starved,
an' there's a good eatin'-place jist up the street. Ye don't mind goin'
with a rough old feller like me, do ye?"

"Not at all. It will be a great pleasure, and a pleasant change from the
boarding-house fare."

"So yer boardin', eh? Where?"

"It would be giving myself away if I tell you," Nita smilingly replied.
"I don't want anyone to know where I am living."

"H'm, ye'll have to git out of this city, then, Miss. I found ye in that
store, so I guess it'd be no trouble to do the same with yer
boardin'-house if I tried."

"So you have been searching for me, have you, Mr. Winters?"

"Oh, yes, I've been cruisin' round a bit, an' thought most likely I'd
run across ye in one of the big stores. It was lucky I went in after
that ribbon fer Sarah."

"I don't believe you ever thought of the ribbon until you saw me at that
counter," Nita charged. "You can't deceive me."

"No, mebbe I didn't. But here we are at the eatin'-place. We'll have a
good meal, an' then both of us'll feel better. Ye can't do much when yer
hungry, so I've found out."

They took their places at a little side-table, and Henry ordered the
best the place contained.

"Give us chicken, an' lots of it," he told the waitress. "An' don't keep
us waitin' long, fer we're 'most starved."

Nita leaned back in her chair and looked around the room at the men and
women seated at the tables. Then she gave a slight sigh.

"What's wrong, Miss?" Henry inquired, looking keenly into her face. "Not
sorry to be seen with an old codger like me, I hope?"

"Not at all, Mr. Winters. It was just a sigh of contentment. It feels so
good to sit here and rest. And, besides, it is such a pleasant change
for me."

"Glad ye like it, Miss. Now, it seems to me ye should have some one to
look after ye all the time. An' there is one willin' to do it if ye'll
only give him the chance. Ye know as well as I do who that some one is."

"Don't, please," and Nita laid her right hand lightly upon Henry's arm.
"I can't stand to hear you speak about him just now. Tell me how things
are getting on at--at home. I haven't heard a word since I left."

"Ye haven't! An' no one has told ye about the movie stars who came to
our place an' cut up sich wonderful shindies?"

"How could I hear when I haven't heard a word from home?"

"Sure, sure, Miss. But I'm mighty glad to hear ye say that word 'home.'"

"It is really the only home I know," was Nita's low confession. "Tell me
everything, please."

Before Henry could begin, however, the waitress arrived. But after she
had gone, he told Nita in a low voice all about the moving-picture
company, and the accident which had happened to Cora.

"My! I wish ye could see her, Miss. She's a wonder, an' no mistake.
She's at our place now an' has a special nurse lookin' after her. Sarah
has a woman helpin' her, too, an' Mr. Doncaster pays fer everything."

"Who is Mr. Doncaster?" Nita asked.

"The finest feller on earth. I really don't know who he is, but he's got
plenty of money, an' what's more, he's not afraid to spend it in a good
cause. Jist see what he's done fer Cora an' me. An' that isn't all. He
came to Mr. Joyce's rescue an' settled the hash of that rascal Ripton
an' saved the life, I believe, of that poor unfortunate gal at my
house."

"In what way, Mr. Winters?"

"Didn't I tell ye? No? Well, that's queer. I thought I told ye how Mr.
Joyce an' Cora are engaged, an' when she heard that Ripton was goin' to
seize the picter fer debt, I was sure she'd die, fer she wouldn't eat
nuthin', but jist lay there on her bed starin' straight before her. But
when Mr. Doncaster had Ripton put in jail an' then backed Mr. Joyce to
the limit, ye should have seen the change it made in Cora. We call her
that now, ye see, fer she is jist like one of the family. Mr. Joyce came
all the way to our house to tell her, an' after they'd been together fer
a while they called me an' Sarah into the room. An' there was Cora with
tears in her eyes, but smilin' an' so happy. Mr. Joyce was settin' by
her side as proud as a peacock as he watched her."

"I should like to meet Miss Davidson and Mr. Doncaster," Nita declared.
"They must be very nice, and Mr. Joyce, too."

"Indeed they are, Miss. An' ye kin see 'em this very night, if ye want
to."

"How?"

"By goin' with me to see that picter which was made on my place. It's a
dandy, so Mr. Joyce says, an' he's goin' to try it out t'night. He's
invited a few special friends to see it, an' asked me to come along. I'm
to meet Mr. Doncaster at the hotel where he's stayin', an' we're goin'
together. He'll be delighted to meet ye, I know."

"But how shall I see Miss Davidson?"

"In the picter, of course. Ye'll see her actin' her parts like the rest
of us. Me an' Sarah, an' Mr. Joyce, an' Mr. Doncaster are all in it. An'
so is Ada Karsall. I fergot to tell ye 'bout her. Ho, ho! it's a great
joke. After the accident, she took Cora's place as our daughter, an' she
done fine, too. But fer a time she fell head over heels in love with Mr.
Doncaster, an' sot her cap fer him. She's given him up, though, so I
hear, since Lem got his dad's money matter cleared up, an' has taken up
with a young feller who wanted to marry her some time ago."

"Has she?" Nita asked, glancing up quickly into her companion's face.
This news was of the greatest importance to her.

"Yep, that's the truth, an' I wouldn't be s'prised if the
weddin'-bells'll be ringin' before many months. It's often the way with
gals who yang so much ag'inst marriage. To hear 'em talk ye'd think
they'd never put their necks under the yoke of matermony. But, gee whiz!
fust thing ye know, off they go an' git hitched up like all the rest."

"And who is the--the fortunate young man, Mr. Winters?"

"It's young Joe Rundell. But whether he's fortunate I wouldn't like to
say. He's got a good farm, an' Ada'll make him a fine housekeeper. But
it takes more'n that to make a home. Oh, well, it's their own outlook,
so I'm not goin' to worry. But ye'll come to see the picter, won't ye,
Miss?"

"Yes, I shall be pleased to go, Mr. Winters. But I must go to my
boarding-place first and get fixed up a little. There will be time, I
suppose?"

"Oh, sartinly. The show doesn't begin till eight o'clock. S'pose we meet
in the Square near the fountain at seven-thirty. I have some bizness to
'tend to in the meantime. But I'll be there on the dot. Say, Miss, I
wonder what Sarah would think if she knew I am makin' sich an engagement
with a fine-lookin' young woman?"

"I am sure she wouldn't mind, Mr. Winters. I don't, anyway."

"H'm, perhaps yer right. But I guess ye don't know Sarah as well as I do
or ye wouldn't feel so sure. However, I'm glad ye take sich a sensible
view of the matter an' speak as ye do. But, there, I guess we'd better
be movin' as soon as I pay the bill fer this tuck-out. Now, don't
fergit, Miss. Seven-thirty in the Square, near the fountain."




CHAPTER XXX

WHAT THE PICTURE REVEALED


The day had been a trying one for Charles Stanfield, so after dinner he
sought a much-needed rest upon the comfortable sofa in his room. He had
felt so well the last few days that he had neglected his doctor's orders
to be careful lest his old trouble should return. Added to the
excitement at the farm in the making of the picture, and his discovery
that the beautiful young actress was his niece, was his trouble with
Ripton. That day he had been at the Court room, and had given his
evidence against the rascal, with the result that Ripton was to be
deported. And Stanfield would have to return to New York to have the
fellow convicted. He did not like the idea of going away when everything
that now interested him in life was centered in his native province down
by the sea. His former life with all its worries he had cast off
forever, so he had fondly believed. But this matter concerning Ripton
had to be attended to. After that he would come back and spend the rest
of the summer and the fall among his own people and the scenes of
childhood days. In Henry Winters and his wife he had found true friends.
He liked them both, and he turned over in his mind the best way in which
he could assist them.

He thought, too, a great deal about Ruth Rivers, and as he lay there
with closed eyes, he pictured her as he had last seen her when she had
confessed to him who she really was, and the story of her desperate
struggle to earn a living and become successful in her chosen career. A
slight smile flitted across his face as he planned what he would do for
her, and how surprised she would be when she learned that he was her
uncle. But how should he tell her? In what way should he impart to her
the startling information? Perhaps she would reject his help, if not
resent it for his neglect of her mother, his only sister.

He shifted uneasily and his face became very serious as he thought of
this. Again there came to his mind that little house among the trees
where Marion had fought the terrible battle for herself and children,
and where she had at length died. The thought of that neglected house,
and the little room with the rat-holes on all sides caused a shiver to
pass through his body. He knew that the building was now repaired and
put into good condition. But what could ever repair his neglect of his
sister? And all this his nieces must surely know. How could he stand
before them, and tell them who he was in the face of such condemning
evidence?

Stanfield now was anxious to become better acquainted with his nieces.
He had met one and he had found her so charming that he longed to meet
the other of whom he had heard so much. If Nita were anything like Ruth
he would be more than satisfied. He wondered what he could do to find
her. When he returned from New York he would see what could be done. A
vision rose before him of the two sisters, Marion's daughters. Ruth
resembled her mother, and Nita, no doubt, did, too. How he should like
to have them near him, to be as his own daughters, in fact. But this he
knew could never be. Ere long they would be married and have homes of
their own. He sighed as he thought of this. He was learning like too
many others that the real things cannot be put on like a cloak in a
brief space of time; that a man cannot spend his entire life in the
pursuit of money and then when it has been acquired expect at the last
to have the enjoyment of love and true home-affection, which he had
sacrificed for material gain. To Stanfield all his wealth seemed of
little value now. He was alone in the world. His means could provide him
with certain comforts and fawning attention. But what he wanted more
than anything else was sincere heart-love, and that he had bartered for
what was after all nothing but a mere mess of pottage. His nieces were
the only ones to whom he might naturally turn for what he craved. But
how could they give what they did not possess? The tender plant of love
must be nourished and tended, and what had he done to sow even the least
seed of love in their hearts for him? He groaned inwardly as he thought
of this. He had neglected their mother, so his name, no doubt, was
almost unknown to them.

The buzz of the telephone aroused him from his reverie, and brought him
to his feet. It was a call from the office, telling him that a "lady and
a gentleman" wished to see him downstairs. This reminded Stanfield that
he was to meet Henry Winters at seven-thirty, but who the "lady" could
be he had no idea. Replying that he would be right down, Stanfield hung
up the receiver and a few minutes later left his room. Descending by the
elevator, he saw Henry standing near the office watching the people
moving to and fro. There was no woman with him, and Stanfield wondered
what had become of her. He stepped forward and laid his right hand upon
Henry's shoulder.

"Hello," he accosted. "Have you been waiting for me long?"

Henry wheeled around, and when he saw who it was, a smile of relief
overspread his face.

"Oh, it's you, eh?" he queried. "Glad to see ye. Thought mebbe ye'd
fergotten."

"I really did. But there is plenty of time for us to see the picture.
Where have you been all day, anyway?"

"On the tramp. But I found her at last. It was sartinly some hunt."

"What do you mean, Henry? Who is this 'her' you're talking about?"

"Why, don't ye know, sir? There's only one woman besides Sarah an' Ruth
that I'd waste me time in lookin' fer, an' that's Miss Rivers, the
school marm. It's her I've found."

"You have!" Stanfield was all alert now with eagerness. "Where is she?"

"Jist in the room over yon, waitin' fer us. Come on, an' I'll introduce
yez."

Nita was seated in a big comfortable chair near a window as they entered
the room. She was watching the people passing along the street, so did
not notice the men until they stood before her.

"Dreamin', eh?" Henry queried. "This is Mr. Doncaster, the man I was
tellin' ye about."

Nita rose at once to her feet and silently held out her hand. Stanfield
took it in his and held it in a firm pressure as he looked upon her
face. He was almost on the point of murmuring "Marion" for such a
striking resemblance did he observe between this girl and her mother.
There were Marion's lustrous brown eyes, the same cast of countenance,
the wealth of wavy dark hair, the broad, though not high forehead, the
lips so ready to part in a smile, and the dignified poise of her shapely
head. Yes, she was his sister over again, and in spirit he was carried
away to those far-off days when they had played so much together. His
silence was embarrassing to Nita, and a deep flush mantled her cheeks at
his close scrutiny. This he noted, and it brought him to himself with a
start.

"Excuse me," he apologized, "but you remind me so much of one I knew
years ago that I imagined she was standing before me. I am very glad to
meet you, Miss Rivers. My good friend, Henry here, has been telling me
about you."

"And he has been telling me about you," Nita smilingly replied. "I hope
his report of me was as favorable. If so, I am quite satisfied."

"He told me the truth, Miss Rivers, which I fear is more than he has
done about me. He knows you better, and how you tried to hide yourself
from your friends."

"Oh, is that all, Mr. Doncaster? I feel quite relieved now. But has Mr.
Winters told you how he spied upon me to-day and then dragged me here
to-night to face the wonderful Mr. Doncaster?"

"I haven't had time yit," Henry hastened to explain. "But I guess ye was
mighty glad to see the face of yer old friend, Hen Winters, as ye
measured out ribbon behind that counter. Ye was gittin' purty sick of
yer job, if I'm any jedge of women folks. An' I didn't have to do any
draggin', either, fer ye come along as meek as a lamb. But, there, I
guess we'd better be gittin' a move on if we're goin' to see that
picter. I wouldn't miss it fer anything. You two go on ahead, an' I'll
tag along behind as a body-guard."

Stanfield looked at his watch and found that they had but ten minutes to
reach the place.

"Shall we walk?" he asked, "or do you prefer to ride?"

"I would rather walk," Nita replied. "It is so nice to be in the fresh
evening air after having been cooped up all day in that hot stuffy
store."

They left the hotel and walked slowly along the street, Stanfield and
Nita in the lead with Henry a few steps behind. Nita liked her new
acquaintance far better than she had imagined. There was something about
his face and manner which appealed to her and inspired her with
confidence. She found it easy to talk to him, and before long she was
telling him about her old home, her mother, and her own life as a school
teacher. It did not seem at all out of place that she should thus talk
about the things which were so important to her. She could not explain
this feeling, neither did she try. She was pleased that her companion
seemed so much interested in her story, and he asked her questions now
and then, showing that he was following every word she uttered.

Stanfield was indeed greatly impressed by his niece, and also much
interested in what she told him. Occasionally he glanced upon her
animated face and his heart thrilled at the thought that he was her
uncle. How he longed to tell her who he really was, and to ask her to
forgive him for his past neglect. He resisted the temptation, however,
deciding to wait a more favorable opportunity when she and Ruth were
together. It would be far better, so he believed, for them both to hear
his story at the same time.

He was thinking of this as they entered the building where the picture
was to be shown. There were not more than a dozen persons present among
whom was Mr. Joyce, alert, and eager to view the picture which meant so
much to him. Stanfield sat next to Nita with Joyce on his right. In a
few minutes the room was darkened and the light turned on the small
curtain on the wall. Then scene after scene appeared in rapid
succession. Henry was quivering with excitement, and several times he
gave expression to his excited comments.

"There's Sarah, a'right," he explained. "My! wouldn't she like to see
this."

He was enjoying himself immensely. But with Nita it was different. From
the first her interest had been centered upon Cora Davidson, and her
heart beat fast whenever she appeared. She thought that she must be
dreaming, so much did the actress resemble her own sister Ruth. As the
pictures continued to appear, she became convinced that she was not
mistaken. Then when the accident scene was shown, she gave a cry of
fright and rose to her feet.

"It is Ruth!" she exclaimed. "Now I understand. Oh, my poor sister!"

She sank back into her seat and covered her face with her hands.
Stanfield tried to comfort her, as also did Henry.

"She's gittin' along fine now," the latter explained. "She's at my house
an' well looked after."

"What happened to her?" Nita asked.

"Had her leg broken, Miss. But she's well on the mend."

"I must go to her at once," Nita declared, again rising to her feet.

"Wait till the picter's done, Miss."

"I can't wait, and I don't want to see any more. Ruth needs me, so I
must go."

"Suppose you wait until the morning, Miss Rivers," Stanfield suggested.
"You can't go very well to-night, as there is no train. But I shall run
you up early in the morning in my car. You might as well see the rest of
the picture while you are here. Your sister is in good hands."

Nita was calmer now, and realized the reason of these words. Murmuring
her thanks, she resumed her seat and fixed her eyes upon the scenes
before her. But her brain was in a whirl, and only with great difficulty
could she control herself. She longed to be away in her own room that
she might think it all over. Glad, indeed, was she when at last the
final scene was shown and they rose to leave the building. She hardly
heard the words of congratulation which were bestowed upon the happy
Joyce. She could think only of Ruth in that farm house in the country.




CHAPTER XXXI

HENRY'S "SPECIMEN"


Dinner was almost over when Ada Karsall announced that she was going to
marry Joe Rundell. Lemuel looked quickly up with a startled expression
in his eyes. He noticed the flush upon his sister's face, and knew that
it had taken much courage for her to tell him the news.

"W-why, Ada, I thought you were never going to marry," he stammered.

"Oh, I've changed my mind, and that's a woman's privilege. I have to
look out for the future, as no one else will do it for me."

"Do you love Joe?"

"I have not thought about that. But I like him as well as I could ever
like any man. He is a quiet, steady-going fellow, and his farm is in
good condition. Since his mother died he has had a hard time of it. The
housekeepers he has had have not been satisfactory, and I am just
longing to get my hands on that house and give it a thorough cleaning.
It needs it, dear knows, from what Joe has told me."

Mentally Lemuel pitied Joe, for he knew what housecleaning meant when
Ada was around. Heaven, he believed, would be a dreary place to her if
there was no cleaning to be done, no floors to scrub, no chairs or
tables to dust, and no pots, pans and silver to scour and polish.

"When do you expect the important event to take place?" he asked.

"Sometime in September. We have not set the exact date yet. I have
considerable sewing to do, and will have to get a wedding-dress made."

"This is certainly startling news to me," Lemuel replied, as he pushed
back his chair from the table. "I never expected you to leave this
place, and I shall feel lonely here without you. We have been together
most of our lives, and I shall miss you so much."

The note of sadness in her brother's voice checked several sarcastic
words Ada was about to utter. She was thinking of Nita Rivers.

"Oh, you'll get married yourself, Lemuel, before long. I don't mind now
how soon it is. Since we know about father's money it won't make any
difference."

"I wish to goodness your eyes had been opened sooner, Ada," Lemuel
declared as he rose slowly from the table. "It would have made a great
difference to me. However, the past cannot very well be remedied now.
You know what I mean, so it is no use for me to explain. Anyway, I wish
you every happiness, Ada, even though I can expect none for myself."

"But she will come back, will she not?"

"How can I tell that when I do not know where she is?"

Lemuel's steps were slower and heavier than usual as he made his way up
to The Loft, where he sat down in his corner and gave himself up to
serious thought. So Ada was going to marry Joe! Wonderful what a change
had taken place in such a short time. He picked up a letter he had
received that morning from the President of Strongbow University and
read it again. It brought a glow of pleasure into his eyes, for it told
how everything had been arranged for his lectures during the next term.
As he laid it down, he thought of Nita. How he longed to tell her of the
honor that had come to him. He wanted to talk it all over with her, for
she was the only one he knew who could understand what it really meant.
He wished for her more than ever just then, and for some time he sat
gazing thoughtfully out of the window at the river beyond.

He was at last aroused by the arrival of Henry Winters, who clumped up
the stairs, crossed the room, and sat down by his side.

"Moonin' same as ever, eh, Lem?" he queried. "It's too nice a day to be
settin' here. A little fresh air'll do ye a world of good."

"I have been in the field all the morning," Lemuel replied, "so I enjoy
it here for a change. The view is so nice from this window."

"It sure is, Lem. An' I'm mighty glad to be back ag'in an' away from the
dust an' the smell of the city. There's no place like the country to my
way of thinkin'."

"You made quite a visit, Henry. When did you get home?"

"This mornin' with Mr. Doncaster in his car. Mr. Joyce came, too. I saw
his picter last night, an' say, it's great. I wish t'goodness Sarah had
been there."

"So everything is arranged all right at last?"

"Should say it is, an' that Ripton feller'll git his dose fer sure. An'
ye should have seen Cora's face when Mr. Joyce went into her room. Poor
gal, she was so upsot at the bad news that I thought fer sure she'd die.
Then to see her so bright an' happy this mornin' was a wonnerful change.
I'm not sentimental as a rule, but I couldn't keep the tears out of me
eyes an' they ran down me cheeks. An' Sarah was mighty worked up, too.
She jist put up her apron an' sniffed fer all she was worth. I never
knew what good an apron was before. But it's the handiest thing on earth
when ye begin to blubber. I haven't been meself since, so lit out an'
spent the rest of the mornin' in the woods along the brook. My! it's
great to be out there where ye kin breathe in the fresh air instead of
bein' shet up in them narrow streets with their noise an' bad smells.
An' say, Lem, I've found a specimen down there I want ye to see. It's
the finest I ever sot eyes on. It'll do ye more good than all the
things ye've got in this Loft. I want ye to come an' see it."

"What is it like, Henry?" Lemuel asked, now quite interested. "I thought
I had found everything of any importance in this neighborhood."

"I can't tell ye exactly, Lem, what it's like. Some might call it an
animal, though you wouldn't."

"Why?"

"'Cause of the nature of the specimen. Now, Sarah or Ada might call it
that, but you'll consider it a pearl of great price, like that Bible
story the parson read in church last Sunday."

"Look here, Henry, what is the meaning of such talk? Don't you really
know what it is? There must be some joke about this."

"Ye think so, eh? Now, s'pose I ask ye a question. Who is the one ye
want to see more'n anybody else on earth?"

At these words Lemuel started, looked keenly at his visitor, and then
rose to his feet. His eyes were bright with eagerness.

"Is it Nita?"

"Ho, ho, Lem. I thought ye'd guess it," and Henry slapped his knee with
the palm of his right hand. "She's the specimen I've been tellin' ye
about. It's a wonder ye didn't ketch on sooner."

"But when did Nita come here, Henry? Who found her? How do you know she
is up the brook? Did she send you to tell me? Does she want to see me?"

"Hold on, Lem, ye're runnin' away. D'ye expect me to answer sich a
shower of questions all at once? Me brain won't stand sich a drive as
that. Set down an' I'll tell ye all about it."

"I can't sit down," Lemuel declared. "I must go to her this minute. This
is wonderful news to me."

"Jist a second, Lem. It won't take long to explain, so flop down into
yer chair. Ye can't go to her all excited like that. There, that's
better. I know how ye feel, fer I was young once meself. It's strange
what love'll do to a man, upsettin' him completely. Now, I remember when
I was courtin' Sarah. I didn't know----"

"Oh, never mind about that now, Henry," Lemuel impatiently interrupted.
"I want to hear about Nita. The story of your courting days will keep
until another time."

"Sure, sure. It sartinly will keep, fer it's purty well cured an' dried
after forty years. Now, as I was goin' to tell ye, I found Nita in the
city, workin' in a store at a ribbon counter."

"You did!"

"Yep, that's where she was. My! it was hot, an' she was mighty glad to
go with me to git something to eat. We then went to the Admiral Beatty,
that big new hotel, where we met Mr. Doncaster. After that we all went
to see that picter of 'The Old Farm.' Mr. Joyce was there, too, an' some
other people. Bimeby the picter got goin', an' a fine one it is, too.
Purty soon Nita cried right out. It kinder sent the chills up an' down
me spine."

"What did she cry out for?" Lemuel asked as Henry paused.

"Why, can't ye guess, Lem? Where are ye brains, anyway? Can't ye
understand it was her sister she saw in that picter?"

"Oh, certainly. I am stupid, Henry. And so there is no doubt at all that
Miss Davidson is really Nita's sister?"

"There wasn't any doubt in my mind after I saw that tag on her grip
about which I told ye."

"This is all very wonderful, Henry. I can hardly believe it is true. And
you are sure that Nita is up the brook now?"

"I saw her go there meself, Lem. She started jist afore I lit out fer
here. She said she wanted to be among the trees an' listen to the
ripplin' of the water. She's got poetry in her make-up, that gal has,
an' I wouldn't be a bit 'sprised if she'll write it all out some day."

"Does she know that you came here to tell me?"

"Not on yer life, Lem."

"Did she speak about me when you talked with her in the city? Perhaps
she has forgotten all about me."

"Now, don't git any sich nonsense as that inter yer head. She hasn't
fergotten ye, an' never will. She's as true as steel. Yep, she asked me
how ye was gittin' along, an' I told her the truth. What else could I
do? I'm not in the habit of lyin' when it comes to sich a serious matter
twixt a man an' a maid."

"Thank you, Henry. You have been a good friend to both of us, and we
shall never forget it. But I must hurry away now. Oh, this is a great
day to me!"

"Yep, ye'd better git along to that specimen, Lem. Ye can't afford to
waste any more time gassin' to an old codger like me. Gee, I'd like to
be in yer shoes."

Together they left the building, and when out upon the road they parted.
Lemuel made his way rapidly down across the field to the brook beyond,
while Henry walked slowly homeward.

"Guess I've done a bit of good work t'day," he mused. "I'd like to take
a peek at 'em when they meet. My, my, it's great to be young an' have
the sap of love flowin' through one's bein'. I wish t'goodness us old
folks could allus feel that way. I wonder what hinders us. It's nice,
though, to have young people around to liven things up a bit."




CHAPTER XXXII

THE FINAL TEST


The day had been a most wonderful one at Red Rose Cottage, and the
hearts of all were light and happy. Charles Stanfield felt almost like a
boy again, and he was never tired of watching his nieces and talking
with them. Nita had returned from her visit to the brook with a new
light in her eyes and a flush upon her cheeks. Henry chuckled to himself
as he looked at her, although he made no comment. He wished that Lemuel
had come back with her, and he made up his mind to give him a good sound
piece of advice the next time he saw him.

"Lem's too everlastin'ly shy," he mused. "He doesn't deserve to have the
love of sich a gal as Nita if he skedaddles off like that an' lets her
come home alone. Why, if I was in his shoes I'd be hangin' around this
place every blessed minute of the day."

Supper ended, they were all gathered in Ruth's room. Stanfield was ready
to go back to the city, and Joyce was going with him. He seemed,
however, to be in no special hurry. He listened to the animated
conversation, but said little. At times he turned and glanced out of the
window near which he was seated. He might have been merely viewing the
smiling fields and the garden for all his companions knew had they given
it a moment's thought. But they noticed nothing out of the ordinary, so
taken up were they with their conversation about the new picture.

At length Stanfield gave a slight start, and moved as if to rise from
his chair. He resisted this temptation, however, and sat very still. In
another minute a step sounded upon the veranda, and presently Mrs.
Winters entered bearing a letter in her hand.

"It's a telegram for you, Miss," she explained, handing it to Nita.
"Jimmy Davis brought it from the station."

Much surprised that anyone should send a telegram to her, Nita tore open
the envelope, and as she read her eyes grew big with surprise, and her
face became somewhat pale.

"Bad news, eh?" Henry queried.

"I am afraid it is," was the quiet reply. "Listen, and I shall read
this."

     "'Your uncle Charles Stanfield is in dire need. Can you do anything
     for him?

     "'Samuel Goodgrace.'"

A deep silence now ensued, while the man at the window sat very erect,
every muscle in his body rigid and tense. He knew that the real
testing-time had now arrived, and that everything depended upon how this
startling news would be received. He felt nervous and guilty.

"Where's that thing from?" Henry inquired, pointing to the paper.

"New York," Nita replied. "I know nothing about the writer, Samuel
Goodgrace."

"H'm, it's a fraud, no doubt, Miss. It's a scheme to git money out of
ye. They do sich things in them big cities, so I understand."

"But we have an Uncle Charles," Ruth explained, lifting herself slightly
on her pillow. "Mother often told us about him. He is her only brother."

"But no credit to yer family, judgin' from that telegram. The idea of
any man havin' a thing like that sent to his nieces. What's the matter
with him, anyway? Can't he work fer a livin'?"

"We know absolutely nothing about him, Mr. Winters," Nita replied.
"Mother never heard from him during our lifetime, and she was so much
worried over her own troubles that she made no inquiries. But she often
spoke about him, for I knew she loved him. She told us what happy times
they had together when they were children."

"Yes, Nita, and mother taught us to pray for him every night," Ruth
quietly remarked. "And I have never left him out of my prayers."

"Neither have I, dear. I did it because I knew mother would like it."

"Little good yer prayers have done," Henry growled.

"We cannot tell," and Nita gave a deep sigh. "But I wonder how he knew
where to have that telegram sent. He must have found out through some
one."

"H'm, trust a beggar to know, Miss. Mebbe it was through yer prayers.
It's wonnerful what they'll do, so Sarah says, 'cept on me. Guess I'm
too hardened an old sinner."

"I don't believe a word of what you say, Mr. Winters," Nita laughingly
replied. "If my uncle is half as good as you are I shall be satisfied.
Now, I wonder what I can do to learn the truth about him?"

"What! are ye goin' to help him, Miss?"

"I am going to do all I can. He is mother's brother, and our uncle."

Stanfield's heart beat fast at these words, and in his eyes was a
far-away look. He had not been mistaken, after all.

"But how d'ye know this hull thing isn't a put-up job?" Henry asked.
"Mebbe it's a trick to git money out of ye. Surely ye won't be in a
hurry to let yer heart run away with yer brains."

"I shall write to Mr. Goodgrace for more information. I would go myself
to find out the truth if I could afford it."

"Suppose you let me do that for you, Miss Rivers," Stanfield suggested.
"I expect to leave for New York in the morning. I am well acquainted
with the city and know the street mentioned in that telegram."

"Oh, will you?" Nita asked, greatly relieved. "How can I ever repay you
for your kindness? I have never been there, so dread the idea of going."

"Good fer you, Mr. Doncaster!" Henry exclaimed. "Yer a man after me own
heart, a'right. Ye came here as a stranger an' now yer one of us. An' ye
took part in the makin' of that picter, too, an' ye done fine. Ye'r a
tip-top movie actor."

"My part has been very easy and pleasant, Henry. I have enjoyed my visit
here more than I can express. It's the best holiday I have had for
years. But I must leave this happy gathering now and get on my way."

He rose slowly and somewhat wearily to his feet, and held out his hand.

"I must bid you good-bye now, Miss Rivers. But I hope to see you up out
of this when I return. I am thankful you are getting on so well."

"What can I ever do in return for all your goodness to me?" Ruth asked
in reply, while tears came into her eyes. "But for you I do not know
what would have happened, for you have saved us from ruin and despair."

"Please do not say anything about that, Miss Rivers. It was very little,
I assure you. The pleasure has been mine, and in making so many friends
I have been amply repaid. When I come back we must have a picnic out in
the woods. I long for a whole day along that brook."

He then turned to Nita who was standing a little apart.

"Look well after your sister," he told her. "And do not worry about your
uncle. I shall do all I can for him."

Nita was holding a pocket-book in her hand, and from this she drew a
ten-dollar bill and offered it to Stanfield.

"Please take this, Mr. Doncaster. It is all I have at present, but I
shall send more as soon as possible, and after I hear from you."

These words spoken so simply, and the offering of all that she had,
almost unnerved Stanfield, and a mistiness came into his eyes. With an
effort he controlled himself, lest his emotion should betray him.

"Keep your money, Miss Rivers," he said in a husky voice. "If I need it
I shall let you know."

"Guess ye'd better keep it, Miss," Henry remarked. "Not likely that old
uncle is worthy of it. The idea of him sendin' to you fer help! If he'd
sent word that he was leavin' ye a fortune, it'd be somethin' like."

"It wouldn't make any difference, Mr. Winters. If to be poor were a
crime, then most people in the world would be criminals. We would be so,
anyway, and also my dear mother. But she was the best woman I ever knew.
The same may be true of my uncle. How can we tell what misfortunes may
have come upon him through no fault of his."

"My! I admire ye fer them words, Miss. Me an' Sarah have been poor as
Job's turkey all our lives until the stars took fightin' fer us. But we
didn't feel very wicked, or at least, I didn't, though Sarah sometimes
said I was the most ungodly man on earth. But s'pose yer uncle had left
ye a fortune, what would ye do with it?"

"I never thought about that, Mr. Winters," Nita smilingly replied. "I
never even dreamed about having money left to me."

"But I have," Ruth emphatically declared. "I know the first thing I
would do, and that is to place a nice tomb-stone at my dear mother's
grave."

So unexpected was this announcement that an intense silence reigned in
the room for a few seconds. Then Nita stepped over to the bed, bent down
and gave her sister a loving kiss.

"You dear girl," she said, "so that has been troubling you, has it? But
you must not worry any more, for that has been attended to already."

"A stone over mother's grave, Nita?"

"Yes, dear. I had one placed there some time ago."

Tears were in their eyes as memories of the past came upon them.
Stanfield, watching, was strongly tempted to make a full confession. But
how could he do it? he asked himself. Shame for his neglect restrained
him. He wanted to get away lest he should make a fool of himself. So
bidding them all good-bye, he left the house, boarded his car, and sped
on his way.

"A great man, that," Henry declared when he had gone. "I wonder if he'll
find that uncle. Guess ye'd better git a room fixed up fer him, Sarah.
Hope t'goodness he's able to work, fer I need extry help about this
place."




CHAPTER XXXIII

THE UNCLE


It was a beautiful afternoon as Nita and Lemuel walked side by side
across the meadow toward Red Rose Cottage. A thunder storm with a heavy
rain during the night before had made the air fresh and sweet, and all
the bright things of nature were rejoicing beneath the warm sun. It was
good to be alive on such a day, so the young lovers thought as they
strolled slowly along, care-free and happy.

Two weeks had passed since Lemuel had found Nita seated by the brook
under the shade of a big maple tree. But it had seemed much shorter to
both so filled were their hearts with a deep and overwhelming love. They
had spent as much time as possible together in the open, searching for
new specimens and talking over their plans for the future. Forgotten
were their cares of the past, for the kingdom in which they now lived
was the enchanted realm of romance.

Coming at length to a fine view of the valley below and the river off to
the left, they stopped to rest at the edge of a small grove of white
birch trees and to gaze upon the magnificent scene beyond.

"What a wonderful day this has been," Nita murmured. "How all nature is
responding to our happiness."

"Every day is wonderful to me now," Lemuel replied, as he took both of
her hands in his and looked into her eyes. "Life means so much to me
now. Ada says I have lost my senses completely since your return. She
had the laugh on me this morning."

"Why, what foolish thing did you do?"

"Oh, I was merely giving expression to my happiness. It was such a
glorious morning that when I went out of doors I took off my hat in
reverence to Him who made everything so beautiful. Ada happened to see
me, and she was much amused."

"I am glad your sister is so friendly to me now, Lemuel. She has changed
greatly, and seems quite contented."

"Yes, Ada is almost like a new person. She was always good, but hard to
live with at times. Since she has decided to marry, she does not mind if
I do the same. She is so much taken up with her own affairs that she
does not worry about me any longer. She has learned, too, that is it is
a difficult matter to run other people's business, and finds it better
to let them manage their own concerns."

"She nearly ruined our lives," and Nita sighed as she thought of her
past experience. "But everything has turned out all right.

"I don't want to think about those days, Nita. Let us forget the past
and look forward only to the future. There is so much in store for us."

"I hope that I may be worthy of you, Lemuel, and also some help to you
in your work. Wasn't that a splendid letter you received yesterday from
President Radcliffe? Just think, you are to be a special lecturer at
Strongbow University on the subject so dear to you. And you will not be
tied down to regular class work like the other professors. It seems
almost too good to be true."

"It is a very happy arrangement, Nita," the young man replied as he
turned his face from hers and gazed thoughtfully out upon the river. "It
is so wonderful that at times I feel it must be nothing more than a
fleeting dream. I cannot understand why such a favor should come to me,
of all men."

"Because you are so worthy; that is the reason."

"In your eyes I am, darling," Lemuel replied as he stooped and kissed
the fair face upturned to his. "But I seem so unworthy to myself. But
you will make me more worthy, I am sure. With your help I know I shall
do much."

They wished to stay longer here, but the position of the sun warned them
that they must leave this quiet retreat. They had noticed the gleam of
something white under a big apple tree near Red Rose Cottage, and
understood its meaning.

"We must not be late for supper," Nita remarked. "Ruth will be so
disappointed if we are not there on time. This is her birthday, and Mrs.
Winters has made all arrangements to have supper in the orchard. Dear
good woman, she has been cooking all day while I have been spending my
time in idleness. But it wasn't my fault, as she would not let me help
her. She said I was only in the way. Perhaps she will let me do
something when I get back."

"Oh, Henry will be on hand to assist, so you need not worry, Nita. And
John will be there, too. He intended to come this afternoon, did he
not?"

"He will not fail to be on hand. And how happy Ruth will be. And now
that she is getting along so well, we should have a most pleasant time."

"I wish Mr. Doncaster were here, too," Lemuel said as they moved on
their way. "No one has had any word from him since he left two weeks
ago. It would be just like him, though, to show up now and surprise us
all."

Supper was all ready by the time they arrived at the house, and they
received a hearty welcome.

"It's a wonder to me that you young gad-a-bouts ever think of eatin' at
all," Henry declared. "Now, when I was courtin' Sarah I lost me appetite
fer a hull week, an' dwindled a'most to a shadder."

"You've been making up for it ever since," his wife retorted. "I have
never seen you satisfied yet."

"It's yer cookin', me dear. Jist look what ye've given us fer this
birthday-party. Come now, one an' all, an' git busy."

Everybody was in the best of spirits. Ruth was very happy. She was
seated in a big invalid's chair, which had been wheeled from the house.
The old apple tree shaded them all with its great spreading branches.
Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves. The air was musical with the
twitter of birds and the hum of insects. And added to all these was the
presence of the ones she loved and the new friends she had gained during
the last few weeks. What a joy to have John close by her side, with Nita
and Lemuel just opposite where she could watch them to her heart's
content and rejoice with them in their happiness. And there was Henry,
always ready with his quaint remarks and good cheer, and Mrs. Winters so
much interested in seeing that everybody was waited upon. It was an
ideal birthday-party, and all cares, if they really had any now, were
for the time forgotten.

When supper was at length over, Henry groped into his pocket for his
pipe and tobacco. Joyce, noticing this, produced a box of cigars which
he had concealed by his side.

"Never mind your pipe now, Henry," he told him. "Help yourself to these.
Pass them to the ladies, please, and also to Lemuel."

"Cigars! Well, bless my stars! I haven't had a good one since Mr.
Doncaster went away." He helped himself, and then passed the box along
to Lemuel. "Now, I wonder what kin be keepin' Mr. Doncaster," he
continued, as he bit off the end of his cigar and lighted it. "We
haven't heard a word from him since he went away. Hope t'goodness
nuthin' has happened to him. He should be here fer yer birthday-party,
Ruthie."

"He made preparation for it, though, before he left," the girl replied.
"He's not like most men who think only of their cigars and forget that
women like a treat, too. Look at this."

Removing a rug by her side, she produced a box which caused all to gasp
in amazement.

"Choc'lates!" Henry exclaimed. "What a box! Why, it must weigh five
pounds, or more! Did Mr. Doncaster send that?"

"He made arrangement with John before he left."

"He did! So he knew the date, eh?"

"He found it out from me," Joyce explained.

"Well! well! Asked her age, too, I s'pose? Now, that was mighty nice of
Mr. Doncaster. I wish he'd show up now an' give us another s'prise. It
would jist round off this pleasant gatherin' in a right good manner."

Scarcely had Henry finished speaking, when a boy was seen coming swiftly
toward them from the road.

"It's Jimmy Dale," Mrs. Winters declared, pausing in her work of piling
up the dishes. "And he's carrying a letter, I believe, in his hand."

"Mebbe it's a message from Mr. Doncaster," Henry suggested. "Hello,
Jimmy, what's up?" he demanded as the boy drew near.

"A telegram for Miss Ruth Rivers," the boy explained. "It's from Noo
York, so the station agent said, an' it's important. Here 'tis, Miss,"
and he handed the message to Ruth.

"Ah, it's from Mr. Doncaster," Henry exclaimed. "He's in New York. It's
about yer uncle, no doubt. Hope ye haven't spent that ten dollars, as I
guess ye'll need it now, a'right."

With trembling hands Ruth tore open the envelope. She was thinking of a
big motion-picture concern from which she had been anxiously waiting
word for several months. Was this a message telling her that she was
needed? Was she to succeed, after all? But when her eyes rested upon the
words of the telegram, her hopes vanished. The others, eagerly watching,
saw the changed expression upon her face, and wondered. Mechanically
she handed the paper over to her sister.

"Uncle Charles is dead," she said. "He died three days ago. Mr.
Goodgrace says he has sent a letter which should reach me about the same
time as the telegram, explaining everything. Perhaps it's at the office
now."

The messenger boy who had been staring hard at the box of chocolates,
gave a sudden start and thrust his right hand into an inside pocket of
his jacket.

"Gee! I nearly fergot this," he exclaimed, pulling forth a letter and
handing it to Ruth. "The postmaster gave it to me as I was comin' by.
He's says there's another one there which ye've got to git yerself, as
it's registered."

"Do you like chocolates?" Ruth asked as she took the letter.

"Do I! Well, I guess! Ain't they beauts?"

"Help yourself, then."

Reaching out a brown hand the boy was about to do as he was bidden when
Ruth checked him.

"Let me help you, my lad. Hold out both your hands. There, that's
better," she added as she picked out several of the choicest chocolates
and filled the grimy palms.

"Gee!" the boy again exclaimed. "I hope ye'll git another telegram soon,
Miss, an' I'll be sent with it."

All laughed heartily at this remark, while Mrs. Winters gave the boy two
large pieces of cake.

"You're a good boy, Jimmy," she told him. "You didn't ask for anything
like some boys would."

"But ye asked with yer eyes an' mouth, eh, Jimmy?" Henry bantered. "Ye
know how to work upon women's feelin's, a'right. I could do the same
when I was a kid like you."

In the meantime Ruth had opened the letter, and as she glanced over the
contents, her eyes grew big and she became greatly agitated.

"What is the matter, dear?" Nita asked, stepping around to her side and
looking over her sister's shoulder.

"It's from Uncle Charles," Ruth explained. "And, oh, Nita! he was our
Mr. Doncaster!"

So astounding was this news that a dead silence ensued for a few
seconds. A peculiar feeling swept upon the little group and no one knew
what to say. It seemed all too wonderful to be true. It was Henry who
broke the tension.

"But Mr. Doncaster was rich," he reminded, "while yer uncle was as poor
as Job's turkey."

"This letter explains everything," Ruth replied, lifting her eyes from
the page. "I can hardly believe my senses. Listen."

     "'My dear nieces, Ruth and Nita Rivers:

     "'I know you will be surprised at receiving this letter from me.
     But I have a confession to make, and I am doing it while lying here
     in this hospital in New York. This is intended for you only in case
     I do not recover. If I get better, I shall tell you this with my
     own lips.

     "'I am your Uncle Charles Stanfield, your mother's only brother. No
     doubt she has told you something about me, how we played together
     as children and loved each other. I cannot write this without
     tears. But let that pass. I went away from home and made money, a
     fortune to be more exact. For many years I thought only of money
     and how to make more money. All my home ties and heart affections I
     sacrificed to that god. I thought it would make me happy, and some
     day I would retire and enjoy life to the full. But in that I was
     doomed to a bitter disappointment. I became very ill, and over two
     years ago while lying in a hospital I reviewed my whole life, and
     realized what a mistake I had made and what a miserable man I
     really was. Although my money gave me certain bodily comforts, and
     many attendants to wait upon me, it could not give me the
     heart-love I craved. I wanted some one of my own kin, which I knew
     I could never have. For that I alone am to blame. In the course of
     time I regained something of my former health, and was able to
     resume my work. But I was a changed man, and took little interest
     in business matters. I no longer thought about making money, but
     what I should do with what I had already made. I knew of my
     sister's death, but of her family I had not the least idea. If she
     left any children I was anxious to know all I could about them. To
     make a long story short, for I am feeling too weak to write at
     great length, I visited the place where my sister died. I shall not
     attempt to describe my emotion when I entered the old battered
     house. That is known to me alone. Anyway, after a while I found one
     of my nieces, and later, the other. Under the assumed name of
     "Daniel Doncaster" I was known to you both, so I need not burden
     you longer with details. On several occasions I was on the point of
     confessing all, but cowardice restrained me. I was ashamed of my
     neglect of your mother, so put off the telling from day to day. I
     found you both to be what my dear sister ever was, true and noble.
     But before leaving you on my last return to New York I gave you the
     great and final test. I had my lawyer, Mr. Goodgrace, send you that
     telegram saying that I was in dire need. It was only partly
     deceptive, for I was in need in a way you never imagined. It was
     not money I needed, but the love and companionship for which my
     heart now craves. When you received that message and acted so
     nobly, I was more than satisfied, and really a happy man. Upon my
     return to New York, I was anxious to get through with my business
     as soon as possible and hurry back to you to tell you all, and to
     unfold my plans for the future, which to me were very golden. But
     my old trouble coming upon me again, makes my return very
     uncertain. I can write but little more at present, so shall now
     come to business matters.

     "'You will find that my will, which Mr. Goodgrace will forward to
     you in case of my death, leaves everything I possess to you two,
     with the exception of a bequest to my dear good friends, Mr. and
     Mrs. Winters, and another to Strongbow University for the purpose
     of lectures similar to that which will be given by Mr. Karsall
     during the coming fall. I believe it will be of great benefit to
     the students to have such talks from men who have made careful and
     independent studies in subjects which have interested them for
     years. All the rest of my money I leave to you, my nieces. I have
     not the slightest doubt now in my mind about your use of it. As it
     is all well invested, I would advise you to permit my trustworthy
     friend of long years, Mr. Samuel Goodgrace, manager of the Golden
     Trust Company, to handle my estate for you. He understands all the
     details, and his services should be of great value.

     "'There is really but little more for me to add. I hope your lives
     will be happy, and I am sure they will with such men as Mr. Joyce
     and Mr. Karsall for your husbands. Money, remember, will not give
     the real pleasure in life. Only in homes where love reigns and the
     peace of God abounds is found the fullest and truest joy. May God's
     richest blessings rest upon you both.

     "'Your affectionate uncle,

     "'"Charles Stanfield."'"

Ruth could hardly finish the reading so overcome was she with emotion.
Her eyes filled with tears, while Nita was silently weeping by her side.
She laid down the letter and no one spoke. With a corner of her apron
Mrs. Winters wiped her misty eyes, and then began to clear up the
dishes. She had to do something to relieve her feelings. Henry searched
in his pocket for his pipe and tobacco, unheeding the cigars in the box
before him. Lemuel and John wisely remained silent. But their hearts
were beating fast at the wonderful news they had just heard.

"Poor Uncle Charles!" Ruth at length murmured between her sobs. "Oh, if
we had only known sooner!"

Impulsively Nita twined her arms around her sister.

"It all seems like some strange dream, doesn't it, dear? To think that
Mr. Doncaster was really our Uncle Charles, and that he has left us his
money!"

Henry took his pipe from between his teeth, scratched his head, and
looked over at the sisters.

"It's no dream, me dears," he reminded. "It's the solid truth, so
instead of weepin', yez should be singin' with joy at yer good fortune.
I know yer sorry to lose yer uncle; that's only nat'ral. But he's gone
now, an' yez have done all ye could."

"You are right, Mr. Winters," Nita replied. "I feel better now after my
crying spell, although completely bewildered."

"Sure, sure, Miss, an' so am I. An' I guess Sarah is, too. Jist look
what she's done, poured the cream into that box of cigars."

"My lands!" Mrs. Winters exclaimed. "Did I do that? Why, I thought I was
pouring it into that empty pitcher."

They all laughed and felt greatly relieved. Henry scrambled to his feet,
picked up his old hat and waved it in the air.

"Hurray fer Uncle Charles an' Mr. Doncaster!" he shouted. "An' hurray
fer them fightin'-stars! They're all luck-bringers. An' hurray fer the
happy couples! I kin a'most hear the weddin' bells ringin'. Hurray fer
everybody!"


THE END

       *       *       *       *       *

    By H. A. Cody

    FIGHTING STARS
    THE FIGHTING-SLOGAN
    THE MASTER REVENGE
    THE TRAIL OF THE GOLDEN HORN
    THE KING'S ARROW
    JESS OF THE REBEL TRAIL
    GLEN OF THE HIGH NORTH
    THE TOUCH OF ABNER
    THE UNKNOWN WRESTLER
    UNDER SEALED ORDERS
    IF ANY MAN SIN
    THE CHIEF OF THE RANGES
    THE FOURTH WATCH
    THE LONG PATROL
    ROD OF THE LONE PATROL
    THE FRONTIERSMAN


  =Transcriber's Notes:=
  hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in the original
  line 1369 (page 47) "No? Something worse?' ==> "No? Something worse?"
  line 1380 (page 47) it, Henry?' ==> it, Henry?"
  line 1641 (page 54) it too hot. ==> is too hot.
  line 4067 (page 123) haling men ==> hauling men
  line 5207 (page 155) money is such ==> money in such




[End of Fighting Stars, by H. A. Cody]
