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[Illustration: "I CAST THE FIRST STONE," HE SAID SWIFTLY]

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THE SECRET OF THE STORM COUNTRY

BY
GRACE MILLER WHITE

AUTHOR OF
TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY,
ROSE O' PARADISE, ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY
LUCIUS W. HITCHCOCK

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

Made in the United States of America

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Copyright, 1916, by
Woman's World.

Copyright, 1917, by
Woman's World.

Copyright, 1917, by
The H. K. Fly Company.

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I Lovingly Dedicate this Book to
Lil And Arthur Miller

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CONTENTS

 Chapter                                      Page

       I. The Squatter Folk                      9
      II. The Coming of Andy Bishop             16
     III. Tessibel Meets Waldstricker           25
      IV. Tess and Frederick                    33
       V. A Gossip With "Satisfied"             38
      VI. Waldstricker Makes a Proposal         44
     VII. Waldstricker and Mother Moll          53
    VIII. Tessibel's Marriage                   58
      IX. The Musicale                          64
       X. A Victim of Circumstances             72
      XI. Frederick Intimidated                 80
     XII. Making Ready for the Warden           86
    XIII. Sandy Proposes to Tess                94
     XIV. The Warden's Coming                   99
      XV. The Search                           105
     XVI. Tessibel's Secret                    112
    XVII. Tessibel's Prayer                    124
   XVIII. A Letter                             131
     XIX. Its Answer                           137
      XX. Madelene Complains to Ebenezer       144
     XXI. The End of the Honeymoon             149
    XXII. The Repudiation                      152
   XXIII. The Quarrel                          159
    XXIV. Waldstricker Interferes              164
     XXV. The Summons                          168
    XXVI. The Churching                        171
   XXVII. Daddy Skinner's Death                182
  XXVIII. Young Discovers Andy                 189
    XXIX. The Vigil                            195
     XXX. Sandy Comes to Grief                 202
    XXXI. Waldstricker's Threat                207
   XXXII. Helen's Message                      211
  XXXIII. Hands Stronger Than Waldstricker's   215
   XXXIV. Love Air Everywhere the Hull Time    222
    XXXV. Boy Skinner                          227
   XXXVI. Deforrest Decides                    232
  XXXVII. The New Home                         238
 XXXVIII. Dinner at Waldstricker's             244
   XXXIX. Father and Son                       250
      XL. Husband and Wife                     256
     XLI. Tessibel's Discovery                 261
    XLII. A Man's Arm at the Window            266
   XLIII. Sandy's Job                          271
    XLIV. Sandy's Visit                        276
     XLV. Andy Vindicated                      279
    XLVI. Sandy's Courting                     286
   XLVII. Waldstricker's Anger                 294
  XLVIII. The Sins of the Parents              302
    XLIX. Tessibel and Elsie                   311
       L. Tessibel's Vision                    321
      LI. The Christmas Guest                  328
     LII. The Storm                            334
    LIII. The Happy Day                        339

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ILLUSTRATIONS.

                                                                Page.

"I cast the first stone," he said swiftly                Frontispiece

"I will," gritted Waldstricker, in spite of himself interested
 in the old woman's revelations                                    30

"I was wonderin' little one, when you say your prayers,
 if you'd pipe one for me?"                                       111

"Hush!" he cried, "Haven't you any heart?"                        157

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CHAPTER I

THE SQUATTER FOLK


The lazy warmth of a May afternoon, the spring following Orn Skinner's
release from Auburn Prison, was reflected in the attitudes of three men
lounging on the shore in front of "Satisfied" Longman's shack. At their
feet, the waters of Cayuga Lake dimpled under the rays of the western
sun. Like a strip of burnished silver, the inlet wound its way through
the swamp from the elevators and railroad stations near the foot of
south hill. Across the lake rose the precipitous slopes of East Hill,
tapestried in green, etched here and there by stretches of winding white
road, and crowned by the buildings on the campus of Cornell University.
Stretched from the foot of State Street on either side of the Lehigh
Valley track lay the Silent City, its northern end spreading several
miles up the west shore of the Lake. Its inhabitants were canalers,
fishermen and hunters, uneducated, rough and superstitious. They built
their little huts in the simplest manner out of packing boxes and rough
lumber and roofed them with pieces of tin and sheet iron. Squatters they
were appropriately named, because they paid no attention to land titles,
but stuck their shacks wherever fancy indicated or convenience dictated.
The people of the Silent City slept by day and went very quietly about
their work under the cover of darkness, for the game laws compelled the
fishermen to pull their nets at night, and the farmers' chickens were
more easily caught, his fruit more easily picked when the sun was
warming China.

Summers, their lives were comparatively free from hardships. Fish were
plentiful and easy to take; the squatter women picked flowers and
berries in the woods and sold them in the city and the men worked
occasionally, as the fit struck them. But the winters were bitter and
cruel. The countryside, buried deep in snow, made travel difficult.
When the mercury shrank timidly into the bulb and fierce winds howled
down the lake, the Silent City seemed, indeed, the Storm Country.

"I were up to the Graves' place yesterday, helpin' Professor Young,"
said Jake Brewer, the youngest and most active of the three men.

"Never had no use fer that duffer, Dominie Graves, myself," answered
Longman. The speaker turned a serious face to the third member of the
party. "Ner you nuther, eh, Orn?"

Orn Skinner was an enormous man, some six and a half feet tall. Two
great humps on his shoulders accentuated the breadth and thickness of
his chest while they tended to conceal the length of his arms. A few
months before he'd been in the death house at Auburn. Through the
efforts of Deforrest Young, the dean of the Law College at Cornell, he'd
been pardoned and sent home.

The gigantic squatter removed his pipe from his mouth and smoothed the
thready white beard, straggling over his chin.

"Nope, I hated 'im," he muttered. "He done me dirt 'nough. If it hadn't
been fer Tess an' Lawyer Young, he'd a hung me sure."

"Ye didn't git the deed to yer shack land afore he died, did ye, Orn?"
interrupted "Satisfied" Longman. "Tessibel told ma the preacher promised
it to ye."

A moody expression settled in Skinner's eyes. "So he did promise it," he
explained. "He writ Tess a letter. He said as how he were sorry for his
meanness an' would give me the deed. But he didn't!"

A shrill voice calling his name brought "Satisfied" Longman to his feet,
and he hobbled away toward the shack.

"'Pears like 'Satisfied' ain't got much strength any more," said
Skinner. "He ain't been worth much of anythin' sence I got back."

"Him an' Ma Longman've failed a lot sence Myry an' Ezry died," agreed
Jake. "An' no wonder! Them two didn't amount to much to my way o'
thinkin', but their pa an' ma set considerable store by 'em ... Ben
Letts were a bad 'un, too. It used to make me plumb ugly to see 'im
botherin' Tess when ye was shet up, Orn, an' him all the time the daddy
of Myry's brat."

"Yep, Ben were bad," agreed Skinner. "I were sure he done the shootin',
but 'tweren't till Ezry swore he saw 'im that the lawyer could prove I
didn't do it. But Tess says Myry loved Ben. Women air queer critters,
ain't they?"

"Myry sure was," assented Brewer, thoughtfully. "In spite of Ezry's
tellin' her, Ben'd most drowned him, an' done the killin' they was goin'
to hang you fer, up she gits an' takes the brat an' goes off with Ben.
It were the worst storm of the year. No wonder him, Myry an' their brat
all was drowned."

Longman, coming out of the shack, overheard the last remark. The other
two fell silent. After he'd sat down again, he dissipated their
embarrassment by saying,

"But Tess says Myry air happy now 'cause she air got Ben. Fer myself, I
dunno, though. But, if Myry air satisfied, me an' ma air satisfied,
too."

The other two nodded in solemn sympathy. After a moment, Jake took out
his pipe and filled it. Holding the lighted match above the bowl, he
glanced at Skinner.

"Where air Tess?" he asked.

"She air up to Young's. He air learnin' her book stuff, an' his sister
air helpin' the brat sing. It air astonishin' how the brat takes to it.
Jest like a duck to water."

"Tess air awful smart," sighed Longman, "an' she air awful good, too.
She sings fer ma 'most every day. I heard her only yesterday, somethin'
'bout New Jerusylem. Ma loves Tessibel's singin'."

Then, for perhaps the space of three minutes, they lapsed into silence.
At length, Jake Brewer spoke,

"Be ye goin' to let her marry the Student Graves, Orn?" he asked.

"I dunno," Skinner muttered, "but I know this much, I don't like high
born pups like him hangin' 'round my girl. 'Tain't fittin' an' I told
Tess so!"

Orn knocked the ashes out of his pipe and rose slowly.

"Guess I'll be moseyin' 'long, pals," he smiled. "The brat'll be back
'fore long."

"Wait a minute, Orn," Longman broke in. "Ma's got some pork an' beans
she wants to send up to Mother Moll. She thought, mebbe, Tess'd take 'em
to 'er."

"Sure, 'Satisfied,' I'll take 'em home an' the brat'll take 'em up the
ravine next time she goes to the professor's."

"Mother Moll were the only one of us all," Jake told Skinner, while
Longman was in the shack, "what stood by Tess. She allers says Tess air
a goin' to surprise us all. She says as how the brat'll be rich an' have
a fine home. I dunno--but old Moll do tell the future right good when
she looks in the pot."

"She told the brat I were comin' home from Auburn," added Skinner, "when
it looked certain I were goin' to hang."

Longman came out of the shack with a pan in his hands.

"Yep," he corroborated. "An' she told ma years ago she'd lose her brats
in a storm. Old Moll air a wise woman, all right."

The dish of beans in his hand, the Bible-backed fisherman directed his
steps toward his own home, some distance away beyond the ragged rocks.

The old squatter walked slowly. His health had broken in prison and his
strength seemed hardly sufficient to move the big body. The path, an
outcropping ledge of the precipitous cliff, was very narrow because of
the unusually high level of the water in the lake. Picking his way
slowly, he considered reminiscently the events which had almost
destroyed him.

He recalled the long years of monotonous existence in the shack, the
hard nights pulling the nets and the varied scrapes Tess had tumbled
into. Then, suddenly, came the shooting of the game keeper, his own
arrest, trial and conviction. The white glare of hateful publicity had
been thrown, without warning, upon him and his motherless brat. He'd
been torn away from his quiet haunts at the lake side and shut up in the
narrow confines of a fetid cell. The enforced separation from his
daughter, at the critical period between girl and womanhood, had left
her alone in the shanty and exposed her to countless perils and
hardships. Unmitigated calamities, especially the long imprisonment,
they had seemed at the time, but the event proved otherwise.

Friends had arisen and helped him establish his innocence and win his
pardon. The responsibilities thrown upon the squatter girl had been met
with love and courage and had disciplined her high temper and awakened
her ambition. The dirt and disorder that had formerly obtained in the
shack had disappeared. Her housewifely arts had transformed the hut into
a comfortable home, rough to be sure, small and inadequate, but
immaculate and satisfactory.

The shanty stood on a little point of land projecting into the lake.
Huge weeping willows shrouded it from the sun in summer. They mourned
and murmured of the past, when the breezes of morning and evening
stirred their whispering leaves. Their bare limbs thrashed and pounded
the tin roof when the storm winds tore down the lake. In front and to
one side, Tessibel's new privet hedge shone a dark, dusky green, and the
flower beds were beginning to show orderly life through the blackish
mold. The shack itself was rather more pretentious than most of the
squatter shanties. It had two rooms and was thoroughly battened against
the storms.

Coming into the path, Orn met his daughter and went with her to the
house.

The greatest change the year had brought was in the girl herself. She
had ripened into the early maturity common to the squatter woman. She
was no longer the red-haired tatterdemalion who had romped over the
rocks and quarreled with the boys of the Silent City. Her tom-boy days,
amid the ceaseless struggles against the hardships of the Storm Country,
gave to her slender body strength and lent to it poise and grace.
Bright brown eyes lighted by loving intelligence illumined her face,
tanned by sun and wind, but very sweet and winsome, especially when the
curving red lips melted into a smile. A profusion of burnished red
curls, falling about her shoulders almost to her hips, completed the
vivid picture. Tess of the Storm Country, the animate expression of the
joy and beauty of the lake side in spring, was the boast of the Silent
City.

       *       *       *       *       *

Late that same night, Tessibel lay asleep in the front room of the
shanty. Four miles to the south, Ithaca, too, slept,--the wholesome
sleep of a small country town, while Cayuga Lake gleamed and glistened
in the moonlight, as if fairies were tumbling it with powdered fingers.
Above both town and span of water, Cornell University loomed darkly on
the hill, the natural skyline sharply cut by its towers and spires.

An unusual sound awakened her. She lifted her lids and glanced about
drowsily, then propped herself on one elbow. Her sleep-laden eyes fell
upon the white light slanting across the rough shanty floor. Suddenly,
like a dark ghost, a shadow darted into it--the shadow of a human head.

At the first glimpse at it, Tessibel looked cautiously toward the
window, and there, as in a frame, was a face--a man's face. Tess dropped
on her pillow. For possibly two minutes, she lay quietly waiting, while
the shadow moved curiously to and fro on the floor. Twice the head
disappeared, and as suddenly returned, poised a moment, then, like an
image moving across a screen, was gone. Instantly Tess sat straight up
in bed. Perhaps one of the squatters needed her. She crept to the floor,
yawning, tiptoed to the door, and unbarred it. Without pausing to cover
her feet, she stepped outside, the fresh scent of May blossoms sweeping
sweet to her nostrils. The warm night-wind, full of elusive odors,
brushed her face like thready cobwebs, that broke at her touch, only to
caress her anew.

Midnight held no fear for Tessibel, for she loved every living creature,
those traveling by day being no dearer than those flying by night. She
felt no deeper thrills for the bright-winged birds singing in the sun
than for yonder owl who screeched at her, now, from the weeping willow
tree.

After picking her way to the front of the shanty, she made a tour of the
house and encircled the mud cellar, calling softly the while. No one
appeared; no voice, either of friend or stranger, answered the
persuasive importunity of Tessibel. But, after she was again in the
doorway, she heard north of the shanty the crackling of twigs as if some
stealthy animal were crawling over them. If there were an intruder, he'd
gone, and the girl, satisfied, went back into the house and once more
lay down to sleep.

When she woke again, Daddy Skinner was moving softly near the stove,
kindling the fire, and Tessibel lay in languid silence. She watched him
yearningly until he felt her gaze and looked at her. His twisted smile
of greeting brought an exclamation of love from the girl. All the
inhabitants of the Silent City knew this crippled old man could play on
the emotions of his lovely young daughter as the morning sun plays upon
the sensibilities of the lark. How she adored him, in spite of his great
humps and his now hobbling legs!

Soon, her father went to the lake for a pail of water, and she sprang
from the cot and dressed hastily.




CHAPTER II

THE COMING OF ANDY BISHOP


Later in the forenoon, when Tessibel returned home from an errand to
Kennedys', she found Daddy Skinner on the bench at the side of the
shanty, one horny hand clutching the bowl of a pipe in which the ashes
were dead. It took but one sharp glance from the red-brown eyes for Tess
to note that his face was white, almost grey; she saw, too, with a
quiver of loving sympathy, that his lower lip hung away from his dark
teeth as though he suffered. She sprang toward him, and dropped to her
knees, at his side.

"Daddy Skinner!" she exclaimed. "Daddy Skinner, ye're sick! Ye're sick,
darlin'!... Tell me, Daddy, what air the matter? Tell Tessibel."

She laid her hand tenderly on his chest. His heart was beating a heavy
tattoo against the blue gingham shirt.

"Ye hurt here?" she queried breathlessly.

The pipe dropped to the soft sand, and Skinner's crooked fingers fell
upon the profusion of red curls. Then he slowly tilted up her face.

"Yep, I hurt in there!" he muttered brokenly.

And as ashen and more ashen grew the wrinkled old countenance, Tessibel
cried out sharply in protest.

"Why, Daddy, what d'ye mean by yer heart's hurtin' ye?... What do ye
mean, Daddy?... I thought the doctor'd fixed yer heart so it wouldn't
pain ye no more."

The man considered the appealing young face an instant.

"I want to talk to ye about somethin'," said he, presently, "and I know
ye'll never tell anythin' Daddy tells ye."

With a little shake of her head that set the tawny curls a-tremble,
Tessibel squatted back on her feet.

"'Course I won't tell nobody, but if ye've got a pain in yer heart,
daddy, the doctor--"

"I don't need no doctor, brat. I jest--jest got to talk to ye, that air
all."

A slender girlish figure cuddled between Daddy Skinner's knees, and warm
young lips met his. Never had Tess seen him look just that way, not even
when he had been taken from her to prison. The expression on his face
was hopeless, forlornly hopeless, and to wait until he began to speak
took all the patience the eager girl-soul could muster.

"Brat, dear," he sighed at length, "I ain't needin' to tell ye again
what I went through in Auburn, hev I?"

Brown eyes, frightened and fascinated, sought and found the faded greys.

"'Course not, Daddy Skinner! But what fer air ye talkin' about Auburn
Prison?... Ye promised me, Daddy, ye'd forgit all about them days, an'
now what're ye rememberin' 'em fer?"

Skinner's face blanched, and drops of sweat formed in the spaces behind
his ears and trickled in little streams down his neck.

"I got to remember 'em, child," he groaned.

"What fer I want to know? Ye'd best make a hustle an' tell me or, in a
minute, I'll be gettin' awful mad."

The pleading, sorrowful face belied the threat, and a pair of red lips
touched Skinner's hand between almost every word.

"Do ye bring to mind my tellin' ye about any of the fellers up there,
Tessibel?" came at length from the man's shaking lips.

Tess stroked his arm lovingly.

"Sure, Daddy, I remember 'bout lots of 'em, an' how good they be, an'
how kind, an' how none of 'em be guilty."

"Ye bet none of 'em be guilty," muttered Daddy Skinner. "Nobody air ever
guilty who gets in jail.... Folks be mostly guilty that air out o'
prison to my mind."

"That air true, Daddy Skinner," she assented, smiling. "Sure it air
true, but it ain't no good reason fer you to be yappin' 'bout Auburn,
air it?... Now git that look out of yer eyes, an' tell Tessibel what air
troublin' ye!"

But Daddy Skinner's grave old face still kept its set expression. The
haunted look, born in his eyes in the Ithaca Jail, had returned after
all these happy months. Tess was frantic with apprehension and dread.

"Ye know well's ye're born, Daddy, nobody can hurt ye," she told him
strenuously. "Ye've got Tessibel, and ye've got--" She was about to say,
"Frederick," but substituted, "Professor Young."

The girl lovingly slipped her fingers over her father's heavy hand and
drew it from her curls.

"Ye're goin' to peel it off to me now, ain't ye?" she coaxed.

"Let's go inside the shanty," said the fisherman, in a thick voice.

With the door closed and barred, the father and daughter sat for some
time in troubled silence.

"I asked if ye remembered some of my pals in Auburn Prison, an' ye said
ye did, didn't ye, Tessibel?" asked Skinner, suddenly.

Tess gave an impatient twist of her shoulders.

"An' I told ye I did, Daddy," she replied. "'Course I do. I ain't never
forgot nobody who were good to you, honey."

"An' ye're pretty well satisfied, ain't ye, brat, most of 'em there air
innercent?"

"Ye bet, Daddy darlin', I air that!"

"Well, what if one of them men who were good to yer old father'd come
an' ask ye to do somethin' for 'im?"

With an upward movement of her head, Tessibel scrambled to her feet.

"Why, I'd help 'im!" she cried in one short, quick breath. "I'd help
'im; 'course I would."

"An' ye'd always keep it a secret?"

"Keep what a secret?"

Daddy Skinner's face grew furtive with fear.

"Why--well now, s'posin' Andy Bishop--ye remember Andy, the little man I
told ye about, the weenty, little dwarf who squatted near Glenwood?"

Tess nodded, and the fisherman went on, hesitant.

"He--were accused--of murderin'--"

"Waldstricker--Ebenezer Waldstricker's father?" interjected Tess. "Sure,
I remember!" Her eyes widened in anxiety. "Andy were sent up there fer
all his life, weren't he? An' weren't he the one Sandy Letts swore
agin?... 'Satisfied' Longman says Waldstricker give Sandy money for
tellin' the jury what he did."

"Like as not," answered Skinner. "Anyhow, Bishop were there fer life! He
air been there five years a innercent man.... My God, _Auburn fer five
years_!"

The last four words were wailed forth, the look of hopeless horror
deepening in his old eyes. Then he threw back his shoulders and spoke
directly to Tess.

"Well, what if he skipped out o' jail, an' what if he'd come here an'
say, 'Kid, 'cause what I done fer yer dad, now you do somethin' fer
me!'"

Tess was trembling with excitement as she stood before her father. The
generosity of her loving nature instinctively responded to his apparent
need. She was instantly eager to show her love and loyalty.

"I'd do it, Daddy!" she exploded. "I'd do it quick!"

"But what if--if--if--if--it made ye lots of trouble an'--an'--mebbe
some of yer friends--if they found it out--wouldn't think 'twere right?"

A queer, obstinate expression lived a moment in the girl's eyes. Then
she smiled.

"I ain't got no friends who'd say it were wrong to help somebody what'd
helped my darlin' old daddy."

Skinner bent his heavy brows in a troubled frown over stern eyes.

"But ye couldn't tell yer friends about it, kid," he cautioned.

A mist shone around the girl's thick lashes.

"Daddy, ye know I never blat things I hadn't ought to.... Slide yer arms
'round yer brat's neck, look 'er straight in the eye, an' tell 'er 'bout
Andy; an' if she can help, she sure will."

A noise in the vicinity of the cot gave Tessibel an involuntary start.
She turned her head slowly and saw two feet protruding from under her
bed. Clinging to Daddy Skinner, she watched, with widening lids, a
dwarfed figure crawl slowly into full view, and Tess found herself
staring into a pair of beautiful, boyish, blue eyes.

A slow smile broke over the dwarf's face.

"Yer brat's the right sort, Orn," he cried, in the sweetest tenor voice
Tess ever heard. "Ye don't need to make her promise no more.... Her word
air good's God's law."

"So it air, Andy," replied Orn. "Tessibel, this air my friend, Andy
Bishop, an' he were a good pal, as good as any man ever had."

For one single, tensely-strung moment, Tessibel contemplated the ugly
little figure and the upraised, appealing face. Then as a sudden sense
of protection spurred her to immediate action, she sent back a welcoming
smile. Two or three quick steps took her to the dwarf's side.

"I air going' to help ye, Andy," she announced brokenly. "Ye was in
prison fer life, wasn't ye, huh?"

"Yep, an'--an' I broke out, kid.... An' I ain't able to tell how I done
it."

"Oh, never mind that!" soothed Tessibel. "Ye was lookin' in the window
last night, wasn't ye?"

The dwarf rolled his eyes at the squatter, then back to the girl.

"Yep, that were me, but I didn't do no murder, brat; that air the main
thing an' Sandy Letts lied when he told the jury I done it."

"He said as how ye gunned Ebenezer Waldstricker's father, eh?" Tess
interrupted. "Eb air the richest man in Ithaca, an' him an' his sister
air been to Europe, but they come back early in the spring. I see 'em
every Sunday at Hayt's when I go there to sing. He air goin' to marry
Mr. Young's sister, Helen, an' he air gittin' some pink peach when he
gets her, ye can bet on that."

"But he'll get me by my neck if he can," lamented the dwarf, in despair.
"Waldstricker air a mean duffer--a mighty mean duffer."

"He air awful religious," reflected Tess, soberly. "I s'posed he were
awful good."

The dwarf made a gesture of disgust with his hand.

"Well, good or bad, I never killed his daddy," he returned. "I saw Owen
Bennett when he done it, but him an' Sandy socked it off on me. I got
life an' Owen got ten years.... There ain't no makin' him own up he done
it, air there, Orn?"

"Nope," mumbled the fisherman. "Most men won't take life sentence by
confessin' when by keepin' still they c'n git off with ten years."

"Mr. Waldstricker air a awful big, handsome lookin' man," asserted Tess,
thoughtfully. "Folks says he air good to the poor, too. He air the
biggest, fattest, elegantest elder in our church."

Andy flipped his fingers in the air and summed up what he thought of the
last statement in five words.

"Shucks! That fer the church," mocked he.

"It air just like Sandy Letts to lie about ye," remarked Tess, changing
the subject abruptly. "There ain't a hatefuller man in the Silent City
'n him. He makes a pile of money, though.... Once last fall he dragged
the lake fer two students an' got a thousand apiece fer handin' 'em over
to their folks, dead."

"He'd git five thousand fer handin' me over to Waldstricker, alive,"
replied Andy, solemnly. "I wouldn't a gone up if 't 'adn't been fer him.
He can lie faster'n a horse can trot."

Heaving a deep sigh, Orn turned to his daughter.

"What we goin' to do with my pal, Tess?" he asked. "He's got to keep out
of sight of folks.... Eb Waldstricker's five thousand bucks fer gettin'
'im back to Auburn will be settin' men like Sandy flyin' all over the
state."

The dwarf shivered from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

"I don't want 'em to git me," he whimpered disconsolately. "Ye won't let
'em git me, will ye, Orn?... Will ye, kid?"

Tess cheered the dwarf's despairing mood by a reassuring smile and
confident nods of the shining curls.

"Nope," she promptly promised.

And, "Nope," repeated Orn, grimly. "Git back under the bed, now, old
man. Any minute Sandy might be comin' in. Ye can't depend on that
squatter. He'd steal the pennies off'n his dead mammy's eyes."

As was her habit when thinking, Tess threaded her fingers through
several red curls, while her eyes followed Andy Bishop crawling feet
first under her cot.

"I bet ye didn't do nothin' wicked, ye poor little shaver," she
remarked.

"Bet I didn't do no Waldstricker murder," answered the dwarf.

"I know where I can hide 'im," she then said, with a satisfied smile.
"I'll fix up the garret fer 'im. 'Tain't very big, but no one but me
ever goes up there. You, there, under the bed, ye ain't 'fraid of bats
or owls, air ye?"

"Nope," came forth a sweet voice. "I ain't 'fraid of nothin' nor nobody
but Ed Waldstricker and Sandy Letts."

Tess giggled in glee.

"Well, they nuther one of 'em gits in my garret if I see 'em first,"
said she, "an' the owls air as tame as cats, an' 'll be company when
ye're lonely nights. Deacon air the speckled one an' he loves every inch
of Daddy an' me. If ye're good to 'im, he'll love you, too, Andy."
Turning to her father, "The person what'll help Andy air Professor
Young, I bet."

Daddy Skinner's face fell perceptibly, and two long lines marked off the
sides of his nose.

"Who's he?" came from under the bed in a stifled breath.

"He air a awful nice man," explained Tess. "He lives in Graves' old
place on the hill, an' he learns me new things out of books every
day.... His sister's teachin' me to sew, too. I told ye she air goin' to
marry--"

"Tessibel," interrupted Skinner, gravely fearful. "Ye said jest now
Waldstricker were a goin' to marry Young's sister. That makes them two
families kinda like one. Ye bet Young'd stand by his sister's man....
See?... Besides that, Young air a lawyer, an' if ye tell 'im about Andy,
it'll sure be 'is duty to pinch 'im an' put 'im back where he were."

"He helped you once, Daddy!" the girl rebuked him.

"But I were in jail all the time, don't ye see the difference, brat?...
Till 'twere proved Ben Letts done the murder, I were kept in jail, too,
an' they'll put Andy back if ye say anythin' to Young 'bout it."

"They sure will," came the dwarf's sobbing tones.

Tessibel sighed.

"Well, us uns'll have to keep our clacks shut 'bout 'is bein' here,
then," she acquiesced, "an'--an'--Andy'll have to keep in the garret
till the man in Auburn coughs up, that air all, huh?... He can come down
sometimes when it air a rainin' hard or dark nights when there ain't
nobody around, an'--an'--darlin', ye can offen chat with 'im when I air
outside watchin' fer folks.... Now, can't ye, Daddy?"

The young speaker went close to her father, smiling. She wanted to chase
that hunted look from his eyes, to make him feel a little more secure
about his prison friend.

"Please don't be lookin' like that, sweety," she pleaded. "Ye're just
like ye was goin' dead.... I tell ye nobody'll hurt the poor little
feller in the garret.... I'll see to that.... I'll fix it up all comfy
fer 'im."

With this idea of future protection for the little man, Tessibel began
to reconstruct the shanty. Dark curtains were hung at the square little
windows, for it was quite a daily occurrence for Sandy Letts to peek
through them before entering the door. Tessibel didn't wish to shut out
the sunshine and moonbeams, but then there was Andy Bishop to think of,
and Andy already had a warmer place in the squatter girl's heart than
even the sun or moon. Tessibel was beginning to love him, not only
because he'd been a friend to Daddy, but on his own account, because he
was a soul in torment and needed her.

It took quite three hours to arrange the garret for the dwarf's
occupancy. There were many pieces of fishing tackle to be sorted and
hung in the kitchen rafters. The nuts that had been spread out on the
floor to dry, now had to be gathered in sacks and stored in the mud
cellar. The cobwebs must come down, and a cotton tick filled with new,
fresh straw to be put in the garret. It was about three o'clock when
Tessibel ushered the little man up the ladder and displayed the clean
attic.

"'Tain't high 'nough fer me to stand up in," she told him, "but ye'll
get along all right, an' I air goin' to fix ye somethin' so ye can see
to read.... Can ye read?"

"Sure, I can read." Andy's voice rang with pride. "My ma, she's dead
now, she learned me how, she did!"

"Then I'll get ye lots of books," replied Tess, "an' ye'd best always
keep hid less'n I let ye down, 'cause Sandy might catch onto yer bein'
here. Waldstricker's money'll set loose a lot of sneaks like him lookin'
fer ye!"

Late that afternoon the dwarf ate his first meal in the garret, and
Tessibel and Orn Skinner ate theirs at the table, but the conversation
of the father and daughter intermingled now and then with a soft
statement or a question from above, and there was happiness in the
Skinner hut.

As soon as they finished supper, Tess went to the foot of the ladder and
called softly.

"I air goin' to tell ye somethin', Andy,--ye listenin'?"

"Yep, brat. Sure, I air listenin'."

"I air a goin' somewheres to find out somethin'," announced the girl
mysteriously. "Mebbe when I get back I'll tell ye what ye'll like to
hear.... Ye'll stay hid, won't ye?"

"Sure so," agreed Andy.

After bending to kiss her father affectionately, the girl said to him,

"Now, Daddy, I air goin' out a little while, an' you two be awful
careful how loud ye talk.... Somebody might hear ye!"

And for a short moment after the girl had gone there was silence in the
shack. Then a prolonged sigh drifted from the garret.

"My God, Orn, but she air a fine young thing fer ye to be fatherin',
huh? Ain't she?"

Andy's voice, though but little more than a whisper, expressed his
wonder and admiration.

"God's best," muttered Orn, and once more they lapsed into the
companionable silence of good friends.




CHAPTER III

TESSIBEL MEETS WALDSTRICKER


The shanty door closed behind Tessibel, and her hand still on the knob,
she hesitated a moment before starting for Mother Moll's. The girl had
kept her promise of the year before, for every week she had caught and
cleaned a mess of fish and carried them up the ravine to the woman's
shanty. But today, Tess wanted to consult the seeress about Andy. She
believed implicitly in the fortune-pot. Hadn't the old, old hag told
her, long ago, when Daddy Skinner was in prison, that the state couldn't
hurt him, and other things, too?

Turning into the lane up the hill, she met Sandy Letts carrying his drag
and a great coil of rope.

"Hello, kid," he greeted her. "How air yer Daddy?"

He eased his load to the ground and straightened up, slowly stretched
his mighty arms, and shrugged the stiffness out of his powerful
shoulders. Sandy and his burden filled most of the path.

Tess, desiring to avoid contact with him, stopped a few paces away.

"Daddy ain't so well these days, Sandy," she answered. "His heart hurts
'im."

"Ain't that too bad?" the man sympathized. "But, then, brat, yer daddy
ain't so young as he were once. Reckon he air not long fer this world.
When yer Daddy croaks, what'll you do, Tess? Ye'll need a home. Ye ought
to be gettin' a man."

The squatter'd stepped forward directly in front of her while he was
urging his suit.

"My daddy ain't old an' he ain't goin' to die, uther," flared Tess, an
angry light in her brown eyes. Oh, how she loathed and hated this fellow
who blocked her way! "You shan't say such things about my daddy! I don't
want any man but 'im." Noting his unshaven cheeks, loose hanging lips,
the lips and his large irregular teeth discolored with tobacco, the girl
drew back with a gesture of instinctive repulsion. "I wouldn't take you
anyway."

Instead of answering her, the squatter placed his great hands upon her
shoulders, and holding her thus at arm's length, looked down at her. Her
straight young figure, glowing face, and flaming eyes under the ruddy
aureole of her hair made a picture of grace, beauty and passion that
would have fascinated a more fastidious observer than Sandy Letts.

"God, girl, but ye air a beauty!" he cried, enraptured.

Tessibel's struggles to get away from the grip of the heavy hands
aroused the evil passions of the man's nature into insistent activity.

"Here, brat, give yer man a kiss," he commanded, and at the words, his
hands slipped from her shoulders, and his strong arms began to close
around her body. His face was so close she had to force her hand in
between his lips and hers. Then she made a desperate struggle. Rearing
the red head backward, she succeeded only in freeing herself partially.

"You let me go, you Sandy!" she cried out sharply. "I'll tell my Daddy
on you. Let me go!"

Then she went at him, kicking his shins with her feet, poking him with
her knees, and gouging his eyes and digging his face with her nails. As
well might Sandy try to make love to a cornered wildcat. He threw her
from him, and Tess, springing up, uninjured, raced up the hill. Sandy's
words, broken by fierce oaths, overtook her,

"You just wait! I'll tame ye yet, ye devilish brat, ye!"

At the top of the lane, Tess stopped to get breath. The familiar sounds
of the early summer evening assailed her ears. The narrow lake shone in
the clear light of the dying day like a broad strip of silver set in the
bosom of the hills. Her eyes rejoiced in its calm beauty, and a feeling
of peace and security grew in her thought.

Tess was about to cross the ravine when a step behind her caused her to
turn. Ebenezer Waldstricker, riding whip in hand, was coming toward her.
At his unexpected appearance, the blood fled from her face, leaving her
quite pale and trembling. This was the man who was seeking Andy Bishop
as at one time Dominie Graves had sought her father. How lordly he
seemed, looking down upon her unsmilingly from his great height.
Arrogantly he surveyed her from head to foot.

"You're the little church singer, aren't you?" he questioned after a
while.

Tess noticed with fascination that one corner of his mouth curled up as
if smiling, while the other was rigidly drawn down. She'd never seen an
expression just like that before.

"Yep," she murmured, dropping her lids.

"Where are you going?" asked the man, tersely.

Tess glanced about. She wanted to turn and run, anywhere to escape from
the brilliant dark eyes and the unmatched lips.

"I were goin' to see Mother Moll," she stammered, slowly. "She lives
over there in the gully." She hesitated, pointing to Moll's shack.
"Sometimes she reads out of the fortune-pot fer me."

Waldstricker glanced first at the little hut, then back at Tess.

"You don't mean you have faith in witchcraft?" he ejaculated,
incredulously. "Why, girl, that's positively against the Bible
commandments."

"Air it? Well I swan!" She nodded her head as though digesting a new
idea. "Anyway, Mother Moll always tells me the truth. She can see things
comin' years and years."

Waldstricker contemplated the grave young face for an instant, noting
involuntarily the abundance and beauty of the wind-blown hair. He turned
about on the path.

"I shall go with you," he said.

Her desire to forbid the proposed visit, struggling with her awe of the
powerful man at her side, confused her. She couldn't think clearly. She
twisted her fingers into her red curls.

"I'd ruther ye wouldn't," she explained. "Ma Moll hates strangers
worser'n she does the old nick!"

Waldstricker ignored the girl's speech except that the frown deepened on
his brow.

"Nevertheless I'm going," he returned, sternly. "I can't realize that
God-fearing men and women have such iniquity among them. Come on; I'll
go with you!"

Tess would gladly have deferred her visit until another day, and
returned home, but she feared he'd follow her there. Here was a man of
whom she was heartily afraid, and as she dared not defy him, she
obediently walked across the gully bridge, and hurried along the path.

Then she paused, looking at Mother Moll's shack, snuggled in a jut in
the ravine. It was quite close now. Tess knew the witch was at home, for
a thin line of smoke drifted zig-zag from the toppling chimney.

She looked back and found Waldstricker eyeing her. She noted both
corners of his lips were down now.

"I came from Ithaca purposely to see you and your father," said he.

Tess was so startled she took two sudden steps backward.

"My daddy ain't very well!" she exclaimed, nervously. "He don't like
strange folks comin' around, Daddy don't."

Waldstricker shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

"However, I must see him," he responded.

Tessibel felt a surging anger against this man. He had the same
imperious bearing she remembered in Dominie Graves.

"What fer? What d'ye want to see Daddy fer?" Her voice was compelling.

"About a matter that may make him a lot of money," the man explained,
pompously. "When may I come?"

She considered a moment before replying. This put a different face on
the matter.

"Could ye come tomorrow?" she demanded finally.

"Yes, at two, then. Tell your father, please."

"All right," muttered Tess.

Waldstricker's whip cut a cluster of wild flowers and nipped clean the
stems of their upraised heads.

"Oh!" cried Tess, sharply, hurt to the quick.

As if reading her thoughts, he retorted, "A flower hasn't a soul, so
what does it matter?"

Tess turned tear-dimmed eyes from him to Mother Moll's shack. Shocked at
his brutality, his arrogant cruelty to the flowers she cherished so
tenderly left her dumb. That his statement was false, she knew. To her
the flowers expressed Love's sweetness and beauty, but she couldn't
explain her faith to this haughty, dictatorial millionaire at her side.

She was all of a tremble as she mounted the narrow shanty steps.

An aged voice croaked, "Come in," in response to her knock. Before
pulling the latch string, Tessibel paused and said to Waldstricker,

"Wait a minute! I'll go first, an' tell Mother Moll you're here."

She crossed the threshold and saw the old woman swaying to and fro in a
wooden rocker.

"It air Tessibel, Mother Moll," she said gently. "I want to see what's
in the pot."

Mother Moll smiled a withered, joyous smile.

"Come in, my pretty," she clacked. "Yer Moll's allers glad to see yer
shinin' eyes. Come in, my love."

Tess advanced into the kitchen.

"That duffer Waldstricker's come along with me," she told her in a low
tone.

The old woman struggled to her feet with the aid of her cane. Her watery
eyes glared at the tall man in the doorway, and he as angrily stared
back at her. The woman hobbled two steps forward.

"If ye've come for me to tell ye somethin', it won't be nothin' very
pleasant," she growled at him. "Git me the pot, brat, dear!"

Tessibel went to the grate and lifted the iron kettle from the fire. It
was steaming hot, and she brought it over, placing it at the woman's
feet.

"Set down," the hag commanded Waldstricker. "I'll tell ye what's doin'
in the pot, an' then git out! I hate ye!"

Waldstricker, with the peculiar down twist of his mouth, glanced darkly
at Tessibel, but the girl's unresponsive, serious face turned his
attention again to the witch.

"You're a wicked old woman," he said grimly. "The county should care for
such as you."

But Mother Moll did not catch his words. She was crooning over the pot
inarticulately. The seams in the skin around her eyes netted together,
almost closing the flaming red lids. Through the narrow slits she was
following the steam as it rose and disappeared in the air. Then slowly
her finger began to trace shadow outlines in and about the pot.

"Mister, I see ye crowin' like a barnyard cock," she croaked, "and ye
think ye're awful smart and awful rich. An' so ye be, but some day--"
She stopped, sank back, then looked again into the steaming kettle. "I
see a wee leetle man like this--" She raised the cane beside her, and
Waldstricker, startled, leaned nearer the ragged grey head. "I see ye
huntin' the leetle man--like a dog hunts a rat."

"Yes, yes!" from Waldstricker, "and what else, woman?"

Lowering her stick again to the floor, Mother Moll rested her weight
upon its crooked handle and for a time muttered over the pot with raven
hoarseness.

"Ye think ye're smart, but ye ain't as smart as ye think ye air. The
leetle man sets on yer head--"

The hag paused, cracked forth a gurgling scream, then proceeded. "He
sets on yer head and lays on yer heart, an' with all yer money, ye can't
find 'im."

"I will!" gritted Waldstricker through his teeth, now, in spite of
himself, intensely interested in the old woman's revelations.

"Ye won't," rapped out the seeress. "Not till it air too late. I see--I
see--" Lifting one hand, the bony old finger made rapid gyrations above
the pot.

"What do you see?" burst forth the man impatiently.

"Hair," cried Mother Moll, swaying nearer him, "hair stranglin' yer
throat till ye can't speak, curls weavin' round yer neck like a
hangman's rope."

Waldstricker glanced backward at the squatter girl. She stood in rigid
silence, listening intently. Her hair, copper-colored in the light from
the window at her side, framed in its shining curls a face rapt and
absorbed. Waldstricker leaned forward again, the better to see the
rising steam wraiths.

"I see all ye love best sufferin'." Letting the cane fall clattering to
the floor, Mother Moll continued, doubled-fists outstretched to the man
before her. "I see the shadow of shame gathering about ye, I see a
girl--a little girl--yer sister--holdin' out her hands pleadin' to some
other man--" Again the aged voice trailed into that chattering laugh.
"An' I air seein' somethin' else." The old woman rubbed the palms of her
horny hands together and pitched forward on her toes. She lifted her
shaking, wizened face and thrust it so near the man that he drew back
with a rough ejaculation. Then smiling a wide, toothless smile, she laid
her finger on her lips. Drawing it away again, she mumbled.

"Hair stranglin' 'em both, same as you, long curls like snakes
stranglin' all of ye. God! _what hair!_"

Waldstricker, with flashing eyes, suddenly got to his feet.

"Come out of here," he ordered Tess, roughly. "That hateful hag! The
hateful wicked old woman!"

A wild, exultant yell left Mother Moll's lips.

"_Yep_, get out o' here!" she shrieked. "Get out quick, both of ye! Yer
lives'll twine like this, an' this, an' this." Tensely she locked
together her bony fingers. "An' hair'll strangle ye, wretched man, an'
may ye never breathe a fine breath after it touches yer proud throat!"

Moved by a kind of superstitious horror of the prophecies of the old
witch, Waldstricker pushed her roughly aside, seized Tess by the arm and
dragged her out of the house. On the path he let her go and stood
transfixed, as though the length and abundance of the red curls, falling
in disordered confusion to her hips, fascinated him. Then he lifted his
great shoulders, and a tense breath slipped through his teeth.

"What an awful old woman!" he flung out disgusted. "If there's any power
in law or money, I'll root her out of that shanty as I will the rest of
her tribe."

Tess was thoroughly frightened. His ruthless roughness hurt her and his
threats against Mother Moll and the squatters terrified her. Would he
try and root Daddy Skinner and herself from their shanty? No, he
couldn't! He couldn't! Neither would his long, powerful hands place
their grip upon the life of the dwarf. Mother Moll had said so, and she
believed--oh, how she believed it!

Waldstricker started to speak again, but unable to bear longer the cruel
corner-curl of his lips, Tess of the Storm Country turned and fled
swift-footed away toward the lake. The man watched the flying figure
bounding along toward the span of blue water. Then with another flip of
his whip, which struck the heads from the flower stems, he wheeled about
and walked swiftly up the hill.

[Illustration: "I WILL!" GRITTED WALDSTRICKER THROUGH HIS TEETH, IN
SPITE OF HIMSELF, INTENSELY INTERESTED IN THE OLD WOMAN'S REVELATIONS]




CHAPTER IV

TESS AND FREDERICK


Tessibel left Waldstricker with but one idea buzzing in her active
brain; to reach Daddy Skinner--to tell him all that had just happened.
She fled around the mud cellar and opened the door with swift-coming
breath. When she entered the kitchen, her father was seated on her cot.
He raised his eyes and greeted her.

"Daddy," panted the girl, closing the door, "I jest seen Waldstricker
an' he air a comin' down here tomorrow. I don't know what he wants, but
Andy mustn't come out of the garret, not fer anythin'. An', Daddy!" She
paused with a sudden sob, "He says he air a goin' to root Mother Moll
off'n her place. But don't let 'im turn us out of our shanty, will ye,
Daddy?"

"Nope," answered Skinner, grimly. "I ain't held it all these years to
let it go now fer a duffer like him."

"An', Daddy dear," blurted Tess, "Mother Moll told old Waldstricker's
fortune out of the pot, an' she says as how he ain't never goin' to git
Andy back to Auburn till it air too late, even if he uses up all the
money he air got. What d'ye think o' that?"

A little groan came from the garret. It no sooner fell on Tessibel's
ears than she scurried, nimble-footed, up the ladder. Poking her head
through the hole in the ceiling, she peered around. It was very dark,
and even straining her eyes, she could see nothing.

"Andy!" she whispered. "Andy, dear!"

"I air here, kid," murmured the dwarf from a dark corner.

"Don't be worrin'," encouraged Tess, softly. "I air begun to love ye,
Andy, an' you bet nobody durst touch ye. Whatever ye hear, be mum. Daddy
and me'll take care of ye, an' God will too."

Later she left the shanty in deep thought, and by the time she had
wended her way to the ragged rocks to meet Frederick Graves, she had
uttered many tense little prayers for the suffering dwarf in her attic.

These rocks were a bower of delight to the sentimental girl. It was here
in the gloom that in every expression of nature Tess heard Frederick's
voice; his clear tones came swiftly on the wings of the wind, in the
sonorous clap of the chimes as they spread their chant over the lake.

She was now seated on a broad, grey rock-slab, bending slightly forward,
listening for her lover's step.

"Frederick!" she breathed in delight as a tall form loomed from the
shadowy path.

In another moment she felt herself gathered into strong arms, and for a
while the boy and girl were silent in their mutual happiness. The
lakeside was quiet except for the sound of the tumbling waves and the
intermittent rumble of a train on the tracks above.

Now and then, far back in the forest, an owl whoo-whooed in croaking
tones, and in a nearby tree a family of baby birds twittered
continuously in their sleep.

All the daisies in the meadows, all the nodding buttercups in the
fields, seemed to be blossoming in Tessibel's heart at one time. She was
in Frederick's arms, and the whole world could offer her nothing more.

"Tessibel, my little love," began Frederick, between caresses, "you
remember what I begged you to consent to early in the spring?"

Tess made a movement to sit up.

"Ye mean--?" she stammered, confused.

Frederick drew her close.

"I want you to marry me right away," he murmured, entreatingly.

The words were whispered in passionate sighing out of the darkness into
her ear. Tess drew back a little.

"Right away?" she repeated, gulping. "What do ye mean by right away,
darlin'?... Now?"

Again strong arms evidenced strong affection.

"Yes--now," answered Frederick, earnestly. "You must! You must!... I
can't be happy unless you do--Oh, Tessibel! Won't you, Tess?"

Never had anything thrilled her as his halting insistence.

"An' Daddy Skinner--air he to know?" she stammered, chokingly.

"No, no!"

"An'--yer mother?"

"Well, not--not quite yet, dear."

Two slender hands covered a scarlet face, and tears trickled between
tense fingers.

"Then I can't!" Tess caught her breath in a sob. "I jest can't! Oh, why
couldn't Daddy know--an' yer mother, too?"

Frederick strained her against his breast.

"Because they can't--not yet," he whispered. "Not a soul must know. Just
you and I, darling. It'll be all right, dear, and I need you more and
more--every day."

The deepening tones in his voice frightened, while they thrilled her.
She pressed him back to look into his eyes, but even through the growing
gloom she could see the blue-veined lids were closed.

"Frederick," she murmured, drawing her face backward. "Frederick, let me
tell ye somethin'. Everybody had ought to know when a girl gets married.
Oh, they ought to know, so they ought. Daddy Skinner an' yer mother,
too."

Then of a sudden she was attacked by a strange tugging in her own heart.
She tried to free herself from his arms, but her resistance only made
him the more determined to bend her to his wish. She had always been
submissive, and he'd worshiped her for her womanly acquiescence to his
will. Trembling fingers forced her face upward and hot lips sought and
found hers. She shivered under the strong masculine pressure.

"Now listen to me, my love," he continued between fierce kisses. "Come
with me tomorrow night, and we'll get married and--and--"

Tess was trying heroically to hold to the principle she knew was right,
even though her heart directed otherwise.

"Not less'n I tell Daddy," she breathed back.

Her low denial served only to lock Frederick's arms more tightly around
her.

"You've got to come and you mustn't tell him, either," he urged. "You
mustn't!"

Succeeding at last in releasing herself, Tessibel sighed. She wanted to
be firm with him, to impress lovingly upon him her reason for refusing
him; but when he reached forth and folded her again in his arms, that
fine firmness gave way. She burst into wild weeping, holding him close
as he held her, trying through broken sobs to tell him what was
burdening her heart.

"It air like this, dear," she wailed, dismally. "Oh, I want to marry ye
more'n anything, but I've never deceived Daddy a bit in all my life. I
never done nothin' less'n I told 'im, and, Oh, I want to tell him,
Frederick! I do want to tell 'im!"

Frederick hadn't anticipated this resistance on Tessibel's part.

"Tess," he said, almost angrily, "I wouldn't ask you to do anything
wrong." Then softening, he pleaded accusingly, "You don't love me well
enough to be my wife."

"It'd be wicked," whispered Tess, falteringly.

"It would be right!" cried Frederick, in quick contradiction. "Tess, you
will, you will!"

The red curls shook slowly a mute negation.

"I don't believe you love me at all," groaned Frederick. Then taking a
long breath, "You want me to be unhappy, I know you do."

She lay limply in his arms while through the sensitive, honest mind
raced all the objections against his desire. There were his powerful
friends--his college--his--

"Yer mother--don't want ye to marry me," she cried, suffering.

"I know it," returned Frederick, promptly. "Still a man can't _always_
please his mother. Why, darling, what kind of a world would this be if
mothers picked out their sons' wives? A poor place! I can tell you."

"But yer mother air awful good and loves ye just like Daddy loves me,"
argued Tessibel, "an' when ye don't do right, everything goes wrong. If
Daddy Skinner ain't to know--"

"Nor anybody else," cut in the boy, growing moody after his sharp
retort. "I won't have any one know about it. Tessibel, I want this more
than anything else in the world. I love you--I love you, and you love
me. Then why not? You do love me, don't you?"

"That air why--I do what--ye want me to, I s'pose."

And as the halting words fell from her lips, the student crushed her to
him.

"I want you, dear," he breathed warm in her ear, "and it won't have to
be a secret over a year, not much over a year, darling, and
I'll----I'll----Oh! You will, Tessibel? You will?"

"Frederick!" she acquiesced, weakly. "Oh, Frederick darlin'!"

And for some time after her sudden consent, they sat on the rocks close
in spirit--close in thrilling nearness. Perhaps twenty minutes later,
Tess drew from the boy's arms.

"Daddy air callin' me," she said, softly.

And she went back to the shanty with the words, "I'm goin' to be married
tomorrow," ringing in her heart.




CHAPTER V

A GOSSIP WITH "SATISFIED"


The next day, directly after the midday meal, Tessibel went to see Mrs.
Longman, whose triple tragedy had made the woman an invalid, with broken
nerves and useless hands. Every few days since the drowning of Myra
Longman and Ben Letts and the baby, the squatter girl had carried to the
sick woman some little offering to gladden her lonely existence. As Tess
walked along the rocks, the image of Frederick Graves persistently
pervaded her thoughts. Before the going down of another sun he would be
her husband. Of course, just now she couldn't leave Daddy Skinner and
Andy Bishop, but by the time Frederick had a home ready, Andy would be
free from the charge of murder, and Daddy would live with them.

Tess never paused on the rocks between her home and the Longman shanty
that she did not think of Myra, and thinking of Myra brought the vision
of Teola Graves. A lonely little heart twist followed for the dead baby
who had been born in her hut. This day she did not hesitate as long as
usual. She must return quickly to Daddy Skinner and help keep guard over
Andy Bishop. Waldstricker was coming at two o'clock!

Rounding the lake point, on which stood the hut of her squatter friends,
she spied "Satisfied" seated on the bench near the doorway. Tess waved
her hand, and the old fisherman signaled in return.

"Ma thought ye'd be comin' soon, brat," was Longman's greeting.

"I air brung her some salt-risin' bread," Tess announced, sitting down
beside the fisherman.

Longman moved his pipe to one corner of his mouth.

"It air good o' ye, Tess," he thanked her, puffing. "Me an' ma air
lonesome--me an' ma air."

Tessibel touched him with affectionate assurance.

"I love ye, an' Mammy Longman, too," she smiled. "I air glad to bring
somethin' when I can."

For a few moments they sat quietly, the man smoking his pipe. Then he
slowly knocked the ashes from its bowl, giving it a final rap in the
hollow of his hand.

"Every day me an' ma miss Myry an' Ezry more," said he, stolidly. "Us
uns just plumb lately made up our minds both them kids was too good to
live, but us uns'd be awful satisfied to know if they air happy."

Tessibel brightened. She flashed a radiant smile at the sad-faced man.

"Sure, they be happy!" she ejaculated. "Everybody air happy in Heaven;
Ben Letts air a singin' 'round the throne jest the same's the rest of
'em air."

In open disbelief Longman slowly shook his head.

"Myry never could sing--Myry couldn't," he answered, moodily, and his
voice sank on the last two words.

Tess knew that, too, for she had heard the young mother try many times
to quiet the brat with the uneven, discordant tones of her voice; but
she knew, too, the great difference between Heaven and earth. She gazed
out over the lake dreamily.

"But ye see, 'Satisfied' darlin'--" she began.

"An' once, when Ben were soused," interrupted Longman, hoarsely, "I
heard 'im singin', 'Did ye ever go into an Irishman's shanty?' It were
more like a frog croakin' than a man singin'."

"But folks don't never get soused in Heaven," Tessibel imparted,
reverently, "an' they got a mess o' angels up there--" She looked
upward, a solemn expression on her young face--"angels what Jesus keeps
jest to learn folks how to sing. The brat's singin' too, as much as a
little kid can, 'Satisfied'."

She edged a little nearer and slipped an arm around the fisherman's
shoulders.

"It air just like this, honey, down here there air such a lot of work
jest to get fish an' beans. Up in Heaven they don't do nothin' but dance
around the throne an' sing all day. So everybody's got to learn how or
he wouldn't have nothin' to do."

"Well, I swan!" ejaculated "Satisfied," smiling wryly. "Will ye tell ma
about it like ye did me, Tessie? Ma air been worryin' fearin' Myry
weren't comf'table."

Tess bobbed her curly head.

"I'll tell 'er in a minute," she assured him; "but, 'Satisfied,' I were
a goin' to ask ye somethin'."

Longman nodded.

"An' I were goin' to ask you somethin' too, brat," he said. "How air the
singin' goin' in church?"

Tessibel sparkled like the morning dew.

"Oh, it air goin' fine, 'Satisfied.' I love it more'n more. Miss Young
helps me with my songs an' she's learnin' me to sew, too. Why, I git my
five dollars every Sunday jest as reg'lar as Sunday comes. I ain't never
knew how far a fiver could go afore. We won't be needin' nothin' this
winter, Daddy and me won't, dear."

She gave a delicious giggle to which Longman added a chuckle.

"That air good, brat," he replied. "There ain't nothin' like home
comfort in this world."

"An' ye see, 'Satisfied,' I ain't lettin' my Daddy fish much now, only
'nough fer us an' fer Professor Young an' Ma Moll.... Daddy ain't very
well."

"He air gettin' old," sighed Longman, taking up his pipe.

"No, he ain't," contradicted Tessibel, quickly. "He air got somethin'
the matter with 'is heart. Mr. Young had a doctor fer him, an' he says
he mustn't work. Now I got my singin' he don't have to.... Why,
'Satisfied,' I air savin' 'nough money to get a new bed an' a overcoat
for Daddy. A bran new overcoat, too! Nothin' second-hand, ye bet! He
ain't goin' to git no cold this winter, bless 'im!"

Longman allowed one of his thin arms to fall around the straight young
figure.

"That air nice, Tessie," he returned admiringly. "Ye be a pert brat, you
be!"

Tess paused a moment or two.

"'Satisfied,'" she hesitated, going back mentally to her former unspoken
query, "do ye know the Waldstrickers?"

Longman nodded.

"I knowed the old man who was murdered--young Eb's father. Made some
stir in town when he got shot!"

"Eb's been home quite a while now," observed Tess thoughtfully.

Longman's head and shoulders moved several times in affirmation.

"So ma read out'n the paper," he then said, "an' Bishop's lit out from
the coop, too, ain't he?... Funny how he done it!... Bigger men'n him
stay there all their days.... They'll find 'im, though, them prison
folks will, poor little duffer!"

Tess caught the sympathy in the squatter's voice.

"I air hopin' they don't," she sighed quickly.

An inquisitive, almost furtive expression shot into the fisherman's
face.

"When ye goin' to git married, Tess?" he hesitated.

Tessibel shook her red curls, flushing.

"Oh, I ain't knowin' jest the time yet," she parried. "Ye know,
'Satisfied,'--"

"Don't ye ever see much of the student nowadays, eh?" the squatter cut
in.

Because of its sudden palpitation, Tess laid her hand over her heart.
Oh, if she could only tell her old friend that that very night she'd
belong to Frederick forever! Passion leapt alive into her eyes, and her
cheeks flushed.

"I air a lovin' him, 'Satisfied,'" she murmured.

Longman made a nervous movement with one hand and shook his head.

"Tess, I been goin' to tell ye somethin' fer a long time," he stammered,
almost inaudibly. "Ye won't git miffed with a old friend, will ye?"

"Sure not, 'Satisfied'," asserted Tess, gently.

"It air 'bout Student Graves," explained Longman.

A glint of gold flashed from under her lowered lids and a slow, deep
scarlet ran in waves upward from her chin.

"What 'bout the student?" she demanded, dropping again to the bench and
placing the basket at her feet.

The squatter looked down. It was hard to say what he must with the young
face so confidently questioning.

"He air a goin' round with a nuther girl," he barked presently. "I been
hearin' an' so air ma--"

Tessibel rose, startled, and once more took up the basket. Some
gossiping tongue had been reviling her dear one.

"It air a big lie, 'Satisfied'," she uttered breathlessly. "I don't want
to hear nothin' against 'im uther. What tongue told ye that only wanted
to make ye feel sad fer me." She paused, then turned, but whirled back.
"When ye love a person an' love 'im hard, lies told about 'im don't set
well. Ye know they don't, Daddy Longman."

"Sure, I know it," replied the squatter, in quick-spoken sympathy. "Only
ma and me thought as how ye ought to know the things we heard."

Tess was standing rigid, gazing stormily defiant into the weather-beaten
old face. Wasn't she going to be married to the student that night! And
how many, many times Frederick had told her he loved but her; that no
other woman could ever take her place!

"I ain't goin' to believe it, if the hull hellish world tells me so,"
she flashed forth tempestuously. "Now I air goin' to give the bread to
Mammy Longman, 'Satisfied'."

Longman stayed her with a word.

"Ye ain't mad at me, brat, be ye?"

Tess stretched forth impetuous fingers.

"Nope, only I love the student, that air all! An', 'Satisfied,' I air a
cussed brat to be swearin' when Frederick says as how it air wicked. I
keep forgettin' when I git mad."

The squatter sighed, making a quick shake of his head and several weird
clicks with his tongue. Moodily he watched the bounding youthful figure
until it disappeared through the shanty doorway. Fully ten minutes
passed before Tess reappeared.

"Ma were satisfied with the bread, eh, brat?" asked Longman, in a
cuddling tone. "Ain't she likin' it, honey?"

Tessibel choked suddenly. There was something in the quavering tones of
the old fisherman, of the lonely, bereaved old man, that saddened her
loving heart. She went to him and touched him impulsively.

"Yep, she liked it, 'Satisfied'," she murmured, "an' I told 'er all
about the singin' in Heaven. She hadn't thought Ben Letts might be there
with Myry an' the brat.... Most folks ain't knowin' how awful long the
forgivin' arm of Jesus air."

And kissing the old squatter once more, Tessibel started homeward.




CHAPTER VI

WALDSTRICKER MAKES A PROPOSAL


While Tess was making her call at Longman's, Helen Young was
entertaining her fiance, Ebenezer Waldstricker.

"I shall never be satisfied until Bishop is back in Auburn, Helen," said
he, snipping the end from a long cigar.

The girl held up her needle and deftly shot the thread through the eye
of it.

"He's sure to be, dear," she soothed. "Here's Deforrest!" She hesitated,
laid down her work and stood up.

Professor Young shook hands with Waldstricker as his sister went to his
side smilingly.

"Ebenezer wants me to go down to Skinner's with him," she explained.
"Won't you come along, too, Forrie?"

The lawyer threw an interrogative glance at the churchman.

"Certainly," he answered. "Why? Anything particular?"

The question was asked of Waldstricker, who lifted his shoulder with a
long breath.

"Yes," he replied. "I've a little plan to get hold of Bishop! I'm
certain sooner or later he'll land back here among his own people. If I
can whet their appetites with money, they'll turn him over the moment he
appears."

"No doubt," observed Young. "But the Skinners--What have the Skinners to
do with him?"

Waldstricker thought a moment, inhaling the smoke the while.

"The girl, Tessibel, who sings at church might be of great assistance to
me," he said presently.

"How?" interjected Deforrest.

"Why, she goes among the squatters daily and would be likely to know if
Bishop sneaked into any of their huts. If I can interest her in the
reward--I've an idea she'll be of service to me."

"Perhaps," responded Young, in a meditative manner.

Waldstricker looked at Helen smilingly. "I think I started to give you
an account of what happened yesterday," he said. "Did I tell you I came
to see you, dear?"

Helen sat down and resumed her work.

"Yes, Ebenezer, but I was out!" she smilingly nodded. "I'm so sorry. If
I'd known, I wouldn't have gone to town!"

"It didn't matter at all." Then he laughed, coloring a little. "Of
course, I always hate missing you."

A loving look passed between the two, and Waldstricker proceeded, "But
as long as I was here, I thought I'd speak to Skinner. On the way down
the hill I met his daughter coming up. Rather startling personality,
that girl! But she's woefully ignorant!"

"She hasn't had much chance, poor little thing," excused Helen. "She
really has a beautiful voice, though."

"So I've noticed on Sundays."

"And she studies every minute," Professor Young thrust in, "and is so
eager to learn; she's advanced amazingly!" He laughed in a reminiscent
manner.

"One day," he proceeded, much amused, "she ran up the hill after me. I
didn't notice her until she was at my side, all out of breath. 'Well,
some little girl's been running,' I said."

"I want to learn things," she panted.

"Then I asked, 'What things?' and she answered, 'Oh, all about readin'
and writin' and the things big rich folks know. If I had books, I'd
learn 'em too.' ... Naturally I bought the books."

"Naturally," laughed Waldstricker.

"Well, I stopped to ask where she was going and if her father was at
home. Then she told me that she was on her way to a seeress, Mother
Moll, she called her, wasn't it?"

"Yes," assented Young, nodding his head. "The old woman lives on the
north side of the gully."

Waldstricker bent forward and pursued. "I went into the hut with the
girl." He stopped and his lip took an upward curve. "The old hag tells
fortunes from a pot, a steaming pot full of boiling water, I think."

Here he turned suddenly on Deforrest. "That's got to stop, Young. It's
against the Bible, prophesying and the like."

"She's really a harmless old thing, though," replied the lawyer
sententiously, "and every squatter on Cayuga Lake loves her. Believe me,
Eb, she's absolutely harmless."

"Not harmless if she's disobeying God's law," contradicted Waldstricker,
seriously. "Isn't there some way by which she can be turned out of the
shack?"

Deforrest shook his head. "Not that I know of as long as she holds her
squatter rights. Her people take care of her, and she tells their
fortunes to pay for food." He broke off the explanation, only to take it
up again, "No, there isn't any way to oust her. Frederick Graves' father
tried to get the Skinners off, but failed."

"Oh, I didn't know," observed Waldstricker. "I must have been away at
the time." He drew out his watch and looked at it. "Shall we go on down,
Helen? It's a little early. I told the girl I'd come at two, but a half
an hour doesn't matter.... I can't rest until I get hold of that dwarf."

During the interval in which Helen went for her garden hat, Waldstricker
said to Deforrest,

"I may need you, Young, in this Bishop case. I'm privileged to call upon
you, of course?"

"I'll do anything I can, Ebenezer," agreed Young.

So it happened that when Tess rounded the mud cellar, she glanced up the
hill and saw the three making their way leisurely toward the lake. She
gave one bound and literally hurled herself through the shanty door into
the kitchen.

"Walderstricker air comin!" she hissed through her teeth in quivering
excitement. "Scoot under the tick, Andy! An', Daddy, get on my cot, an'
don't say no word less'n they ask ye something face to face.... Let me
do the talkin'."

She had no more than settled her father on the cot and heard the last of
the dwarf's burrowing in the attic when a long shadow fell across the
threshold. Stepping forward, she met Deforrest Young, who held out his
hand to her.

She greeted her friend with a dubious smile, and taking his hand, bowed
awkwardly to his sister. In her confusion she ignored Waldstricker
entirely. Their presence in the squatter's hut was so portentous and the
time for the preparations to receive them so short, Tessibel's wits
almost deserted her.

"Come in, all of ye," she stammered, at last, and stepped backward
across the uneven kitchen floor toward the cot at the further side of
the room.

Then she placed chairs for them, and when all were seated, settled
herself on the floor near Daddy Skinner, and shaking her curls back from
her face, looked with grave brown eyes from one to the other of the
ominous group.

"I'm very glad to see you, Tessibel," said Helen graciously.

"I air awful glad to see you, too, Ma'am," returned Tess, still
embarrassed.

Miss Young smiled toward Ebenezer, then back at the girl.

"You remember Mr. Waldstricker, don't you, Tess, dear?"

Tessibel allowed her gaze to rest on the elder. Of course she remembered
him. What did he desire of Daddy Skinner? That was all she wanted to
know.

"Yep," she answered, more calmly. "I remember 'im, sure I do! He--"

Waldstricker interrupted her with a quick interrogation.

"We had a little meeting yesterday, didn't we, Miss Tessibel? You didn't
wait for me to tell you what I wanted." He delivered this most affably,
and Tess counted him very handsome, indeed, when both corners of his
mouth went up, but she knew that other trick of those lips. Not knowing
how to explain her flight, she kept silent. Deforrest noted the shadow
that clouded the lovely face and ascribed it to embarrassment. Thinking
to put her at her ease, he asked,

"Have you been studying today, my dear?"

"Well I guess I have!" The girl sent him a radiant, grateful smile. "I
studies every day, an' air learnin' my Daddy a lot of things now, ain't
I, Daddy?" She looked backward at the man on the cot as she asked the
last question.

"Yep," affirmed Skinner, faintly.

"Daddy air sick," she explained. "You'll be excusin' 'im if he don't
talk. I'll do all the gabbin' if ye don't mind."

Tessibel had regained her self-control. She knew that Waldstricker's
presence meant danger to her loved ones, Daddy and Andy Bishop. In their
defense, eager to hinder him, her quick thought sought his purpose in
coming to the shack. Could it be about Mother Moll, she wondered. She
would ask him. Looking up at Waldstricker, she addressed him timidly,

"I hope, sir, ye ain't mad at Mother Moll any more?"

Waldstricker, intent upon his idea of interesting her in the search for
his father's murderer, waived her question aside. He would attend to the
witch and her fantastic mummeries later.

"Never mind the old woman now," he began pompously. "I came here today
on purpose to see you about another matter."

Why, yesterday he had said he wanted to talk to Daddy; now today he
wanted to speak to her. She sat up a little straighter, each shoulder
carrying its load of red curls, the ends of which lay in a bronze
tangle.

"I'd do anything I could," she answered shyly, a lovely red dyeing her
face.

"I knew you would! Mr. Young has told me how anxious you are to learn
and to improve your condition.... Isn't that so?"

Tess nodded, looking from the speaker to Deforrest, who threw her his
ever-ready smile. Her gaze returned to the churchman and he continued,

"Now, I've a plan which, if it succeeds, will give you lots of money!
You could do almost anything you'd want to then."

Tess didn't move, only stared back at the handsome, swarthy face
incredulously.

"I couldn't earn much," she ventured, gulping. "I get five bucks every
Sunday fer singin' at the church, but--"

"Oh, I don't mean a few dollars," Waldstricker told her. "I was talking
about a lot--thousands."

Daddy Skinner straightened out on the cot and Tess tried to swallow, but
couldn't. She knew now that he referred to the reward for Andy.

"Lordy massy!" she got out at last, huskily.

Deforrest Young coughed, and Waldstricker's hand went quickly to his
face.

"I'll explain about it," he said, "and then you can decide if you wish
to do it."

"All right," replied Tess, leaning her chin on her hand. "Gowan an' blat
it out."

"I suppose you know my good old father was murdered," the visitor asked
her after a slight period of silence on his part.

Andy and what he had told her about the brawl in the saloon raced
through Tessibel's mind.

"I heard 'bout it," she replied, nodding.

"And you've heard, too, probably, the man who murdered him escaped from
Auburn a little while ago?"

Tess wanted to say "No," but she feared a long explanation would follow
which might trouble Daddy and the wee man in the garret, so she
acquiesced by bowing her head. "I guess he were the man Daddy were
talkin' 'bout, weren't he, Daddy?"

She turned toward her father, but his red lids were closed, and he was
breathing heavily.

"Daddy goes to sleep awful easy!" she excused to all three. Then she
told Waldstricker, "Yep, Daddy said the man broke out o' jail."

The man she spoke to looked keenly at her.

"The officers feel pretty sure he'll make his way down the lake side,"
he explained, "eventually landing among his own people."

A flash of the brown eyes and a quick stiffening of the supple body
under the red curls expressed the girl's resentment at the slur implied
in the speaker's statement.

"Among us squatters, I s'pose ye mean?" demanded Tess, belligerently.

"Yes," nodded the elder, with a contemptuous smile at the angry young
face.

Tess hated that tone in people's voices when they talked about
squatters.

"And I was wondering if you wouldn't like to earn the reward offered for
Bishop's capture," Waldstricker finished abruptly.

Tessibel's foresight had discounted the effect of this announcement. To
save Andy, she must deceive Waldstricker and persuade him to leave the
search of the Silent City in her hands. Her brown eyes were bright with
her purpose; she smiled slowly up at him showing every white tooth.

"You bet I would!" she exclaimed, shaking her curls as she tossed her
head. "How much air it, huh?"

"Five thousand dollars," replied Waldstricker.

"Jeedy!" gasped Tess. "That air a pile of money. I bet I earn it!...
What'd ye bet?"

She turned impetuously to Deforrest Young, and he laughed.

"I hope you may!" was all he said.

Tess was all eagerness now, her cheeks flaming and her eyes dancing.

"But I wouldn't know the man if I seen 'im in any of the squatter's
huts, huh?"

She flung this at Waldstricker, more of a question than a statement.

"He's a dwarf," he answered immediately, "and very small--like this.
Sandy Letts knows him and is looking for him, too."

At his statement, Tessibel's quick imagination pictured Sandy's brutal
face and greedy eyes, and for a moment her flaming courage almost
faltered.

"If a dwarf sneaks down here," she observed with a sweep of her hand
toward the door, "I'd get 'im easy. I know everybody."

"But would I have to halve up with Sandy, eh?" she continued, as though
struck with a new thought.

"Not unless Sandy helped you find him," Ebenezer replied genially. "You
could do as you pleased about that."

"Oh, Sandy couldn't help me, not a bit," Tess argued earnestly. "Sandy
ain't liked any too well 'round here."

"Well, manage it as you choose."

Waldstricker smiled at his success with the girl. "I don't care for
Sandy myself," he continued. "All I want is to get Andy Bishop." His
face hardened with hate as he pronounced the dwarf's name.

Tess put her hands under the curls over each shoulder and drew them
together beneath her chin.

"Five thousand dollars!" she ruminated. "I'd have a bully time a
spendin' it, wouldn't I?... I'd buy my Daddy a new overcoat every day
fer a year, an' I'd git 'im four new beds--one fer every corner of this
here kitchen, an' I'd git 'im a flannel shirt thick as a board to keep
the pains from 'is bones.... Then, I'd buy me a cow an' a calf an' a
horse an' a little baby pig an' a few cats an' a lot of dogs, an' I'd
let all the squatter brats play in my flower garden--"

Helen broke off this chatter with an amused laugh.

"Then mebbe I'd go to school a while," Tess kept on, "an' learn myself a
lot out o' books, an' after that I'd take singin' lessons an' I'd sing
to everybody what asked me--Then mebbe--" She dropped back for lack of
words. "I wonder if that'd take the hull of the five thousand."

Waldstricker stood up.

"You've got the right idea of spending money," he laughed. "And now,
young lady, we'll leave you, and if you hear that this dwarf is in any
of your friends' huts, you let me know, and I'll come right down."

"Sure," said Tess, heartily. "Ye bet I will."

Scrambling to her feet, she lifted the ruddy curls and flung them back
on her shoulders. To Ebenezer, watching her, came like a haunting memory
the witch's cry, "Hair, stranglin' ye--God, what hair!"

But he dismissed the suggestion easily and turned to Helen, smiling.

"Why not bring Miss Skinner to the next musicale and have her sing?...
Wouldn't you like that, Tess?"

"I'd get scared stiff," gasped Tessibel, terrified.

"But, Tess, dear," Helen thrust in, "I'd teach you the songs, and--"

The girl was looking down upon her dress, her face gathering a deep red.

Miss Young divined what was going on in the girlish mind.

"And I'd help you make a new dress," she went on.

"A hull lot of money folks'd be there, eh?" Tess demanded. Oh, how
afraid she always was of a crowd of those--different people!

Her words directed Waldstricker's attention to the contrast between this
squatter girl in the bare shack and the fashionable folk who'd throng
his spacious drawing room.

"Well, a few," he answered, "but you come along with Miss Young just the
same, will you?"

Tessibel took the outstretched hand awkwardly enough and as quickly
dropped it and began to fumble with her own fingers. She looked down at
the floor while she traced a line on it with her toe.

"Mebbe," she replied in a very subdued voice.

She stood in the door and watched them walk slowly up the hill. Then she
turned back into the kitchen.

"My God, brat!" sobbed a voice through the hole in the ceiling. "Wasn't
that a nice list of beautiful things ye was goin' to buy? Oh, kid, I air
bettin' Waldstricker gits me."

Tess chuckled low, as she turned her face upward.

"Andy," she said, "ye needn't be worryin' 'bout me an' Jesus handin' ye
over to that old elder. Why, Him an' me air goin' to stick to you like
pitch to a nigger."

She turned to go, but hearing a sigh, took four steps up the ladder and
finished,

"Why, honey, Waldstricker air got as much chance a ketchin' you as a
tallow dog has chasin' an asbestos cat through hell."




CHAPTER VII

WALDSTRICKER AND MOTHER MOLL


"Deforrest is so interested in the little Skinner girl," Helen Young
explained to Ebenezer Waldstricker when they were alone after supper.
"Ever since he helped to get her father out of Auburn, he's done all he
could for her."

"He's a philanthropist at heart, I imagine," remarked Ebenezer,
agreeably.

"Yes, and so good to everybody. Dear Forrie! I wish he'd meet the right
woman and marry her. He'd be so happy in a home of his own. When I think
of leaving him alone--"

The tender face flushed crimson, and happy eyes dropped under the man's
bright gaze. He reached over and took a slender hand in his.

"But you're not sorry you're coming with me, are you, dear?" he chided
gently, and Helen lifted her head with a glad cry.

"Oh, no, no, darling!... I'm the happiest woman in the world!"

"And I'll keep you so," replied Ebenezer, in earnest.

"I was thinking, though," observed Helen, after a moment, "that
Deforrest might come with us if he hasn't made other arrangements."

Waldstricker contemplatively kissed each pink finger of the small hand
he held, then pressed his lips to the soft palm.

"I should like very much to have him, Helen," said he. "I'm very proud
of your brother, you know."

"You can't make me happier than to praise him," she smiled.

For several minutes no more was said. Then Waldstricker spoke as though
thinking aloud,

"I wonder if that little Skinner girl will be of any assistance in the
matter of locating Bishop?"

"Perhaps," replied Helen. "She seemed very eager to get the money! Don't
you think so?"

"Yes, I think she did, but I've been wondering if she's trustworthy. Is
she, Helen?"

Miss Young made a hasty affirmation.

"Yes, indeed, she's more than that!" she exclaimed. "She wouldn't
deceive any one she loves for anything in the world, so Deforrest tells
me."

"I sincerely hope so," sighed Ebenezer. "I've quite set my heart on her
helping me. Money is no object in a matter like this."

"Of course not," murmured Helen, sympathetically.

"Letts also is doing some good work," Ebenezer continued. "He's been
through nearly every hut on the Rhine."

Helen shivered. "I can't tolerate that man around," she replied. "Once
in a while he comes here to see Deforrest or to sell something, and I
can't get him away quickly enough."

"He's a good spy, though. That's all I want. He and the Skinner girl
ought to produce that dwarf between them."

"I hope so for your sake, dear," murmured Helen.

Waldstricker took out his watch and glanced at it hurriedly.

"It's time for me to go, sweetheart," said he. "I want to get home
before dark. Come as far as the lane with me--do!"

"The twilight is lovely, isn't it?" whispered the girl, when they were
traversing the pear orchard.

"Made more lovely because of you," replied Waldstricker, sentimentally.

"How romantic you are tonight, dearest!" Helen laughed.

They had turned slowly up the hill, when suddenly Helen stopped and
slipped her hand into Ebenezer's arm.

"There is that old woman you heard read from the fortune pot!" she
exclaimed. "Let's step one side until she's passed us? She rarely lets a
person go by without speaking."

Waldstricker threw up his head arrogantly.

"I'm not afraid of the hag," he replied pompously.

Together they advanced up the hill. Mother Moll, leaning on her cane,
crept slowly down toward them. When her faded, nearsighted eyes caught
sight of the two approaching figures, she halted in the middle of the
road until they were almost upon her. She stared at Waldstricker fully
fifteen seconds, while he looked steadily back at her. Then her withered
lips spread wide in a sneering, cackling laugh.

"So he air aready been settin' on yer head an' layin' on yer heart,
mister," she greeted him, "the leetle man like this, huh, ain't he?"

She shook her cane at the tall man and clacked at him again. Helen was
conscious that at Moll's insults, Ebenezer's anger was rising by the
minute. She was herself greatly moved by a kind of superstitious awe of
the old woman's cryptic utterances. But seeking to avoid any further
unpleasantness, she smiled in a friendly manner and asked,

"How do you do, Mother Moll?"

The hag thrust forward her face and raised one withered arm,

"I air fine, young lady," she screamed, crooking her fingers at the
girl, "an' feel finer'n you can do this day, or ye'll ever with him."
She pointed her cane at the scowling, dark-faced man; and slowly bobbed
her head back to Helen. "Yer life'll draw out long an' terrible, till
ye'll wish ye hadn't never seen 'im. He'll set up a knot hole an' drag
ye livin' through it. Then he'll turn yer heart inside out an' haul ye
back again."

She paused, while Waldstricker's face grew darker and darker. The frown
on his brow roused Helen to action.

"Let's go on, dear," she whispered. "Don't pay any attention to her
foolish talk."

"Not yet," returned Waldstricker, ominously. "Not yet!"

Moll laughed discordantly, shaking her head until the wisps of gray hair
fell in strings about her face.

"He knows I ain't done tellin' ye what'll happen if ye line yer life
with his'n," she croaked. "Lady, he air wicked, awful wicked, an'
nothin' but misery, deep an' plentiful, air a goin' to make him any
better. Every one he loves--"

Incoherently, she rambled on and the man's countenance took on an
expression of such rage that Helen Young uttered a cry of dismay. She
had never seen Ebenezer in one of his savage moods. Before she could
draw him away, he had lifted his riding whip and a sudden twist of his
arm brought it sharply down on the grandam's thin bent shoulders.

"Ebenezer!" screamed Helen, horrified.

"Drat ye, ye brute!" cried Moll, tottering back, "an' twice drat ye!"
She swayed forward on her cane. "Ye can lick me till I die, an' 'twon't
change yer own life any. It'll only add to the sufferin' ye got to go
through yerself."

Waldstricker's arm went up again, but Helen grasped it frantically.

"Ebenezer, don't!... Don't strike her any more. Please!... Go home,
Mother Moll.... Please go! Oh, do!"

The old woman leaned heavily on her stick, tearless sobs shaking her
emaciated frame. For a space of sixty seconds her watery, faded eyes
stared into Waldstricker's flashing dark ones--then she drew a long,
convulsive breath.

"It air like ye to hit the awful young an' the awful old," she shrilled
at him, "but, 'twon't do ye no good. Curls'll bring yer to yer knees,
hair'll make yer heart bleed blood redder'n the sun, an' the leetle
man'll jerk 'em tight 'bout yer throat till ye thunder out fer mercy."

"Come along," muttered Ebenezer, roughly, to Helen. "If she torments me
any more, I fear I'll kill her."

His words were not so low but they caught the quick ear of the old
woman.

"Kill me, yep, kill me, ye proud whelp! Go 'long; do it, ye big coward!
Before ye're done with life, ye'll hate yerself worse'n uther folks hate
ye."

She hobbled a little distance, reaching backward to rub her shoulders.
Then she twisted completely around, facing the other two.

"Mind my word, pretty miss," she croaked in half grunt, half yelp. "Let
'im go like ye would a snake; like ye would a slimy worm a crawlin' at
yer feet." Still snarling in pain, she lifted one shaking arm and
pointed a crooked forefinger at Waldstricker. "She won't always stay
with ye, ye skunk ye!" Then she staggered away, Helen and Ebenezer
staring after her until she was lost in the gloom of the gully.

"Isn't she dreadful?" Ebenezer said, with a rueful laugh.

"She's so old," was Helen's gentle reproof. "She's not accountable for
anything. Deforrest says she's very good to the other squatters."

"They're an unseemly mess." The man struck at an overhanging bough
savagely. "And your brother has power enough to remove the worst of them
if he wanted to. That old hag, for instance--"

"Deforrest wouldn't do it," interjected Helen.

"He may if I make it worth his while," replied Waldstricker. "But there,
I was foolish to let 'er get on my nerves so. I beg your pardon, dear.
My only excuse is I dislike to see the laws of God broken in such an
iniquitous way. Why, I felt when I struck her the righteous indignation
the Master must have felt when he drove the money changers from the
temple."

Helen looked at him, startled. She was shocked at his words, as she had
been terrified by his act.... A dreadful doubt darted into her mind. Was
Mother Moll right? Could she be? Instantly she dismissed the suggestion,
condemning herself for paying any attention to the empty vaporings of
the half-witted, childish, old woman. She was sorry for Moll, of course,
and grieved and hurt because Ebenezer had lost his temper and struck
her. But her loving heart excused him. Certainly the provocation had
been great. Old Moll was unusually impertinent.

Intent to repair the momentary disloyalty of her doubt, she pressed his
arm lovingly.

"There, dear, let's not speak of it again. It's over now and we'll
forget all about it."

A little later, when Waldstricker was moodily riding toward Ithaca,
Mother Moll's hateful prophecies repeated themselves in his mind.




CHAPTER VIII

TESSIBEL'S MARRIAGE


During the few hours after the departure of Waldstricker, Professor
Young and Helen, Tessibel Skinner was preparing for her marriage. For
the present she had dismissed her fear for Andy Bishop and had turned
her attention to her own wonderful secret, her marriage to Frederick
that evening. She went so nervously from one thing to another that when
she stood fully dressed before her father, he scrutinized her
inquiringly; but he confined his curiosity to the simple question,

"Goin' out, brat?"

"Yep, Daddy," admitted Tess, confused for an instant, "an' darlin',
don't worry if I ain't back fer quite a little while. I air goin' to
ride with Frederick." She leaned over him and cupped his bearded face
with her hands, her eyes like stars, first shining, then shadowing. "Ye
trust yer Tessibel, don't ye, Daddy Skinner?"

Since the first instant she'd been placed in his arms, a wee baby, the
squatter had never ceased to marvel at her loveliness. An expression of
adoring affection settled over his face.

"Sure, I air a trustin' ye, child," he assured her huskily, "or I
wouldn't be lettin' ye run 'round wild on the rocks like ye're doin'....
Ye won't be gone too long, honey?"

"Nope," answered Tess, kissing him, "bar up, darlin', an' don't open to
any knock lessen ye know who 'tis," and she ran out of the shanty and
closed the door behind her.

"Fine lookin', yer girl, eh, pal?" remarked Andy, presently, from the
ceiling.

"Yep," agreed Orn, morosely.

"She air got a beau, now, ain't she, old horse?"

The fisherman's face darkened with anger.

"Yep, an' I hate 'im like I hated his pa. But when a girl air fell in
love with some feller, that air all there air to it."

"I hope he won't never hurt her," sighed the dwarf.

"He better hadn't!" mumbled Skinner.

During the silence that followed between the squatter and his prison
pal, Tessibel was climbing the hill to meet Frederick. Many conflicting
emotions took possession of her as she neared the summit. After tonight
she would no longer be Tessibel Skinner, but Frederick's wife, and he,
her husband, her own forever and forever. This night-ride would be her
cherished secret until Frederick gave her permission to tell Daddy
Skinner--until the whole world should know. Her mind was busy with the
events of the last thirty-six hours. She was cogitating upon the
happiness of her future, when she saw the waiting vehicle ahead of her,
and Frederick's dark figure silhouetted in the moonlight. Faster and
faster fluttered her heart, and faster and faster moved her feet. She
reached the carriage without the student's realizing it.

"Frederick!" was all she had breath to say.

At the whispering of his name, the young man sprang to the ground. In
another moment he had Tessibel in his arms.

"You've come!" he murmured low, kissing her. "Oh, my dearest, you're
here!"

Then he lifted the slender figure into the buggy. Even in the pale
light, Tessibel noticed his face gleamed white, and his eyes shone
darker than usual. She sat very quiet as he gathered up the reins, and
it was not until they were well on their way along the Trumansburg road
that the boy turned to her. How beautiful she looked, her shoulders
completely covered with dusky-dark curls and her head bowed in maidenly
shyness! All his doubts as to the expediency of his act were set at
rest. She was deeply essential to his happiness, to his progress. To
know she was his wife, married to him, so that none could separate them,
would make his absences from Tessibel much easier to bear. He had in the
past feared Deforrest Young. Now that fear was being set at rest. He
never had worried that Sandy Letts would win Tess any more than he had
been apprehensive of Ben Letts before the drowning of the squatter. The
one person he stood in awe of was his mother. Again his eyes sought the
silent girl at his side. She had ever been a hallowing influence in his
life, and to lose her would be worse than death. After tonight the glory
in those unreadable brown eyes would ever shine for him. He threw one
arm across her shoulder, and drew her closer. "My little moonlight
girl!" he breathed in ecstasy, his cheek against hers. "Are you happy,
my sweet?"

Tessibel couldn't have spoken if she had so desired. Her heart seemed
filling her throat. Happiness hushed her voice, and gratitude to God for
giving her Heaven's best prevented her expression of it.

The next twelve miles were passed in silence. And ever after, when
Tessibel in imagination recalled the white road, winding its way into
the hills, the quietude of the countryside, the shimmering moonlight, it
seemed like nothing real. And she remembered, as in a daze, Frederick
taking her in his arms after the minister had married them--how he had
called her over and over his wife, his darling, and other whisperings
divinely sweet.... In memory all those hours were like strangely
mysterious dreams.

       *       *       *       *       *

Daddy Skinner was waiting for Tessibel. He had sat listening for hours,
mostly in silence, a deep brooding expression bending his ragged brows
together in a stern frown.

From his position in the attic, Andy Bishop could see the fisherman's
face. The dwarf was quick to recognize that something was wrong with his
friend.

"The world air waggin' yet, Orn," he remarked soothingly.

"Sure, but 'tain't much of a world," grunted Skinner, sighing.

Andy bent his head a little farther through the hole.

"It air a lot, while we got Tess," he answered. "We got Tessibel, ain't
we, pal?"

The squatter's mouth wrinkled at each corner.

"Yep, I guess we got 'er all right, but I wish to God she'd come home."

"She'll be along soon," assured Andy, with a smile.

For a few minutes they remained silent. Then Orn Skinner burst forth
again,

"I ain't got as much use for that feller Tess loves as a dog has for a
million fleas, an' I never liked 'is pa, uther...."

"Ye wouldn't wish she'd be lovin' Sandy Letts, even if he does make
money, eh, Orn?" asked Andy.

"Thunder, no!" snorted Skinner. "I'd ruther she'd be dead 'n married to
Sandy. But that ain't sayin' a honest squatter airn't better'n a high
born pup.... I wish Tess loved a decent chap."

At that moment the speaker's daughter was standing alone on a small
country inn porch, some miles from Trumansburg, waiting for her husband.

Frederick had gone to get the rig to take them back to the squatter
settlement. There was absolute stillness, absolute calm everywhere but
within herself. Her heart fluttered with new emotions, new desires,
ambitions to make herself worthy of the man she'd married. Her eyes were
on the sky, her soul among the stars, her own stars that had crept out
one by one, each to look lovingly down upon her happiness.

What a glorious night it was! More wonderful than yesterday even! Or any
of her many yesterdays! This hour, the climax of her love, had
transported her through the mystery of immeasurable joy. She would never
again be the old Tessibel. She was Frederick's wife! Her breath came in
sudden, quick, happy sighs, for just then she heard his voice from out
of the darkness. Ah, his tones, too, were deeper, richer than yesterday!

Even in the shadow, Frederick saw her distinctly as he came toward the
house.

"My own little wife!" he whispered tumultuously. "How happy I am!"

"Won't ye take me home now?" murmured Tess. "It air late an' Daddy'll be
worried."

"We'll start at once," promised Frederick tenderly, leading her down the
steps.

       *       *       *       *       *

Daddy Skinner heard the horse coming down the hill, heard Frederick as
he said his low, "Good-night, my darling," and unbarring the door, the
fisherman waited impatiently for his daughter to enter the shanty.

One glance and he stretched out his hand.

"Ye're sick, brat," he stammered. "Be ye sick, my pretty?"

Dropping her eyes, Tessibel shook her head.

"Nope, I ain't sick," she faltered. "But--but--"

She wanted to throw herself upon her father's broad shielding breast and
sob out her joy. But she couldn't do that so she stood hesitantly, her
lips quivering.

"I air wantin' to be hugged in yer arms, Daddy Skinner," she told him.
"Tell yer brat ye love her awful much."

And according to his custom in his daughter's sentimental moments, the
fisherman, after dropping the door-bar, seated himself in the wooden
rocking-chair, and held out his arms.

"I were just a sayin' to Andy, I wished ye'd come home," said he. "Love
ye, kid?... I love ye better'n all the world, and everythin' in it....
Well! If my pretty brat ain't cryin'.... Sandy ain't been chasin' ye,
has he?"

"Mebbe she air been a fightin' with her beau," piped the dwarf, from the
ceiling.

The girl's mind traveled back through the events of the evening.

"Nope, I didn't fight with 'im, Andy," she smiled through her tears.

Daddy Skinner's beard rubbed lovingly over the dishevelled curly head.

"There! There! My little 'un!" he singsonged. "I'll rock my babe a bit.
Ye stayed out too late, I air a thinkin'."

Oh, to tell him everything that had happened in the past few hours. But
she had promised Frederick, and Tessibel would rather have died of grief
than betray her trust. She put her lips close to the fisherman's ear.

"I air lovin' the student, Daddy," she whispered. "I didn't see Sandy
tonight. I jest been with Frederick."

The squatter's only answer was to press her lovingly to him and for a
long time he swayed back and forth slowly. Suddenly he ceased rocking.

"Ye'd best git to bed, baby," said he. "Crawl back, Andy, and let the
brat undress."

Andy's shining face disappeared with a "Good night, brat," and "Good
night, old horse."

The father and daughter heard him settle himself on the straw tick, and
soon all was quiet above. And later by half an hour, Tessibel was
dreaming of the young husband who that day had opened a new world to
her, who had led her from girlhood into the immensity of womanhood.




CHAPTER IX

THE MUSICALE


Tessibel, arrayed in her new dress and slippers, a roll of songs under
her arm, stood in the shanty kitchen. Neither Daddy Skinner nor Andy had
made any comment when she told them she had really consented to sing at
the home of the dwarf's enemy. Now she craved their commendation. A
little doubtful, she went to the ladder, and glanced upward. The dwarf
was nowhere to be seen.

"Andy," she called softly.

"Huh?" drifted from somewhere above in the darkness.

"Crawl to the hole, dear, an' squint down at my dress."

A little scramble and a face peered down upon her,

"Ye been a cryin', Andy," said Tess, a break in her voice. "What ye been
a cryin' fer, honey?"

"Seem's if Waldstricker air goin' to take ye away from my pal an' me."

Daddy Skinner gave a grunt with no articulate word in it. Tess whirled
around on him and fastened her bright eyes upon her father's bent head.

"Daddy," she began tremulously, "air you an' Andy thinkin' things ye
hadn't ought to of Tessibel?"

Skinner shook his head.

"Me an' Andy hates Waldstricker, that air all," he said.

Tess shrugged her shoulders.

"I ain't et up with love fer him uther," she offered in defense, "but
Miss Young wanted me to--oh, daddy, why didn't you tell me I couldn't go
right at first--"

"Of course, ye be goin'," broke in Daddy Skinner, "but don't ye forgit
us, my pretty!"

Tess gurgled in joy. She went to her father's side and gathered the dear
head into her arms.

"If that air all what air worryin' ye, then kiss yer brat," said she. "I
air goin' to sing an' mebbe I'll only see Waldstricker to speak to 'im.
If he says anythin' 'bout Andy--"

"What'll ye tell 'im, kid?" gasped the dwarf.

"Oh, I'll string 'im like I allers does," returned Tess. "Now you're
done squallin' like a baby, look at me!"

"Ain't she swell?" enthused Andy. "Orn, have ye looked 'er over?"

"Sure," mumbled the Squatter, "an' she air finer'n silk."

Tessibel hugged her father again, fluttered a kiss from the tips of her
fingers to the little man above, and repeating her usual admonition to
them, not to talk aloud, she started for Young's with palpitating heart.
Deforrest met her as she ascended the front porch. Smiling he took her
hand. His eyes expressed his approval of the winsome face and the trim
figure in the new dress.

"Prompt as usual," he greeted. "How beautiful you are tonight, my dear!"

The color swept to Tessibel's face in great waves. She loved everything
beautiful, the roses, the violets, the blue of the sky! Even the night
things were beautiful, too. Did Professor Young think her beautiful like
all these wonders? She smiled, her face shining in its mantling crimson.
Deforrest took her arm, leading her into the living room, where Helen
stood at the table, drawing on a long white glove.

"Gaze upon your handiwork," laughed her brother. "Quite a surprise for
Ebenezer and his friends, eh?"

Helen examined Tessibel from the top of her head to the tip of her
pretty boots with critical, gratified eyes.

"Yes," she decided, "you're all very satisfactory, Tess." Then to her
brother, "Now, let's go, dear."

When Deforrest drove his horses up the long roadway leading to the
Waldstricker mansion, Tessibel noticed the house was lighted from cellar
to garret, that a long line of vehicles was making its slow way to the
porch. Her heart fluttered with embarrassment. As they drew up to the
stone veranda, Tess reached spontaneously for Helen Young's hand.

"It seem's if I jest couldn't sing afore such a awful lot of folks," she
murmured helplessly.

Helen returned the pressure of the cold fingers.

"Try to imagine you're in church," she suggested. "You won't break down,
my dear, I feel quite sure."

"I--I--air goin' to try to be awful careful anyhow," replied Tess,
hopefully, but she heaved a deep sigh as Deforrest Young lifted her
quite into his arms and placed her on the low, broad porch-stone.

Amid a crowd of laughing people, they passed into the house, and while
they were removing their wraps, Helen took the opportunity to give her
little protege a few last admonitions.

"Don't forget to put the 'g's' on your 'ing's,' and remember always to
say 'your' quite plainly," she whispered.

"I will," Tessibel promised.

By this time, they had entered the crowded reception hall, and the
squatter girl's heart leapt into her throat when Ebenezer Waldstricker
came forward to meet them. He welcomed Helen Young tenderly, taking her
hands in his. Tess noticed both corners of his mouth were up.

"I'm so happy to have you here, Helen, my darling," he murmured, bending
over the hands he held.

A flushed face smiled into the speaker's.

"And I'm happy to be here, too, dear." Then turning, Helen announced
"Here's Miss Skinner ... Tessibel, Mr. Waldstricker."

Until then the Elder had not seemed to be aware of the girl's presence,
but at the introduction he extended his hand, formally polite. When, in
shy greeting, Tess lifted her eyes, one corner of his mouth drew down
rigidly. She was more at ease when Deforrest Young joined them. Her
welcoming smile caused that gentleman's heart to bound in delight. They
made their way slowly and with difficulty down the long hall, Tessibel
growing more and more conscious of the curious glances directed at them
from all sides. When they reached the drawing room door, her agitation
grew perceptibly, having noticed that Waldstricker was detaining Helen.
Deforrest held her arm with an encouraging pressure.

"Don't be afraid, dear," he whispered in her ear. "You'll stay near
sister and me the entire evening. There!" They had crossed the room and
neared a row of chairs arranged against the wall. "Sit down by this open
window. My sister will be here soon.... Why!--Why! childie, you mustn't
tremble so!"

A mist gathered under Tessibel's lowered lids. Each moment she grew more
frightened, and from the corner of her eye measured the distance between
their place and the piano. Oh, how thankful she was when Miss Young took
a seat beside her. Near the door she recognized Madelene Waldstricker.
Across the distance Tess studied the girl a moment. How pretty her gown
was!

Tessibel glanced down at her own dress; at her rounded arms shining
white under the little ruffle of fine lace. Her dress was pretty, the
prettiest she'd ever had, and gratitude toward the woman at her side
overcame for the moment her embarrassment. Presently Waldstricker came
to them with the request for a song, and Deforrest Young escorted Tess
to the piano. He pitied her from the bottom of his heart, as she
clutched frantically at his arm.

"You've only to be yourself and sing as you do for us, my dear," he bent
to whisper, "everybody will love you then."

That magic word "Love!" It always thrilled Tess into doing her best, and
she must do no less tonight for her friends' sake. She sank down quite
helplessly into the chair to which Deforrest led her and watched
Ebenezer escort Helen to the piano. Her muscles grew taut with fright.
How she wished to be back with Daddy Skinner and Andy! But she took the
song Deforrest handed her, and through a veil of embarrassment, saw his
smiling face close to hers.

"Sit here," he said, in low tones. "I shall be near you."

In one melodious touch of ivory keys, Helen started the prelude and
every one in the room grew silent and attentive. Then from the side of
the instrument there suddenly appeared before the quiet audience a
radiant vision, a girl with tawny, glittering curls hanging in a golden
fire-shower about her slender figure. The unfathomable brown eyes swept
over the throng a quick glance, then dropped to the sheet of music in
her hand.

A spontaneous murmur of admiration fell from many lips. For an instant
Helen Young's hands poised above the keyboard, then descended; and as
spontaneously as a bird begins its love song to the blue, so Tessibel
Skinner began to sing.

The powerful voice rose up and up in seeming unending volume,--up and up
until Deforrest Young sank against the wall and locked his fingers
together. How had his sister dared to risk such a song with such a
child!... Then he took a long satisfied breath, for he saw the little
singer sang as a lark sings, without fear or self-consciousness, without
knowledge of limitation to her thrilling harmony.

When Tess ceased on a high note, held until it drifted softly to the
furthermost corner of the room, a round of applause went up to the high
ceiling, and Miss Young, glancing around proudly at Tess, smiled and
nodded. The girl felt another song thrust into her hands. This time she
was less tremulous and sent back to Deforrest Young a charming, youthful
smile. Helen's fingers rippled over the keys softly for a minute or two,
and once more Tess began to sing.

"That I may know the largeness of God's love, teach me the fullness of
thine own," she thrilled forth.

A groan forced its way almost to Deforrest Young's lips. What a child
she was! Yet she sang that song with the abandonment of passion known
only to a woman. How beautifully, lithely young she looked, standing
there with those flowing, shimmering curls and the tender, throbbing
voice pleading to be taught the fullness of human love, that she might
find the largeness of the Infinite. Turning swiftly to the window, he
pressed his lips together to stifle his emotion. He could no longer bear
the stab at his heart, nor risk the mist rising in his eyes. Tessibel,
wholly unconscious of the stir she was making, sang on and on, her gaze
on the sheet in her hand. Suddenly she raised her eyes and there near
the door was Frederick Graves, his face waxen white, his dark gaze bent
upon her. Close beside him stood Madelene Waldstricker. But a single
instant Tess faltered in her song. Then again, passionately,
insistently, and tempestuously she sang, "That I may know the largeness
of God's love, teach me the fullness of thine own!"

She saw his lids droop as she carefully pronounced each beautiful word,
and saw him, without a glimmer of recognition for her, turn to the girl
at his side. He hadn't even welcomed her with his eyes. Never before had
he failed to greet her smilingly. She chilled to the bone, nor dared
look again. When the song was finished, she sat down limply. Deforrest
Young, strangely stirred, took her hand.

"Sweet child," he murmured, "it was delightful! Lovely!"

At the same moment Waldstricker was bending over Helen Young.

"My dear, how ambitious you are for so young a pupil!" he laughed.

"There's nothing she can't sing," she replied, rising. "Hasn't she a
wonderful range?"

"Very," replied Waldstricker, and he, too, turned to look at the
squatter girl.

Tess was striving to listen to Deforrest Young, but her disturbed mind
was where Frederick stood with Madelene Waldstricker. Her whole loving
heart desired him to come and speak to her.

"I never heard her sing like that before," Madelene was saying to
Frederick. "I believe you know her quite well, don't you?"

"I know who she is," stammered the student, flushing, "but as to saying
I know her well--"

"She's very beautiful!" interjected Madelene.

Frederick lowered his head flatteringly, "Not as beautiful as another
girl I know," he whispered, and Madelene dropped her eyes with a happy
sigh.

"Let's go and speak to her," she suggested. "I feel I must, I'm the
hostess, you know."

Frederick reluctantly fell into step with her, and together they crossed
the room, a striking picture of entrancing youth. Tessibel's heart ached
at the unusual sight. For one burning moment she wanted to scream, to
spring up and do some terrible thing to the small girl walking so
familiarly at her husband's side. Then she looked away miserably. She
could not bear the sight, nor did she turn again until she heard a
strange, rather high, girl's voice say,

"It was very lovely, Helen! Such a surprise to every one! I'm ever so
grateful to you."

"Tessibel, this is Miss Waldstricker," introduced Helen.

Tess raised a scarlet face at the sound of her name.

For one moment the two girls gazed into each other's eyes. Each had in
her panting heart a feeling of proprietorship for the tall, dark boy
standing moodily behind Madelene. Tess knew he was there, yet did not
look at him.

"You've a beautiful voice," observed Miss Waldstricker, with a shade of
condescension in her manner.

Tessibel could feel the blood pulsing even to her finger tips. What did
she care for compliments from Madelene Waldstricker? She wanted to hear
them from Frederick! Miss Waldstricker whirled suddenly to bring him
into the conversation.

"Mr. Graves.... Ah, yes, of course, you know Miss Young, and this--and
this is--Miss Skinner, Mr. Graves."

Then Frederick bent over Tessibel's hand, and her fingers shook in his.
She raised her eyes slowly and he was looking upon her as if she were a
thing apart from him now and ever would be. A crimson wave flew to her
face--a flood tide of humiliation.

"I've met Miss Skinner," she heard in a low, unfamiliar tone. "Your
voice, Miss Skinner, as Miss Waldstricker says, is very beautiful."

The accent of the ice in his words caused her to withdraw her hand from
his instantly. She was stung to the quick by his coldness and
indifference. She could not answer him. Was this her Frederick--this the
boy who had so often knelt at her feet in ardent adoration? He had gazed
at her as if she'd been a stranger, had praised her singing only by
repeating what another girl had said. Her head burned like fire, and her
heart gave a rebellious, defiant twist. She was his wife. All the
passion within her tempestuous soul raged in stout protest against his
treatment of her. Couldn't--oh, he could have said--have said--just a
little something! Then anger fell from her in a trice. Desolation like
an ash encompassed her. Of course, she was but a squatter; Frederick was
ashamed of her, ashamed he even knew her. It was just at that moment she
saw her husband place Madelene's fingers on his arm and laughingly move
away with her. Tess started out of her jealous agony as some one touched
her arm. Deforrest Young was smiling down upon her.

"Let's go to supper," he invited.

The girl made an effort to master her confusion. Slowly she rose and
took the professor's arm. The unfamiliar, embarrassing formality helped
to hide her anger and consternation. She found herself positively unable
to eat. When had she ever been capable of taking food when her heart
filled her throat? She was conscious every moment of the presence of her
husband and Madelene a little farther down the table, and that
Frederick's attention was wholly taken up with his companion. She had
but to raise her eyes to see Madelene's face beaming with pleasure.

Suddenly the voice of a stranger roused Tessibel from her bitter
meditation.

"I heard, Mr. Waldstricker, you've located Andrew Bishop. It's true, I
hope."

If it hadn't been for the queer feeling in her legs, Tessibel would have
stood up. Located Andy Bishop--where? Why in her shanty, of course,--up
in the garret under the straw tick. If they had found him, it must have
been there. When? Tonight, since she'd left home. She bent over and
searched the table for Waldstricker. He was seated next to Helen Young,
and his gaze was directed toward his questioner.

"Well," he replied, "that's not quite right, but we hope--" he
hesitated, swept his flashing eyes to Tessibel and smiled, "we hope to
have him back in Auburn soon. I have two good detectives working for
me."

Taking a deep breath of relief, Tess subsided in her chair, and she was
not sorry when the signal was given for the company to leave the table.




CHAPTER X

A VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCES


Frederick Graves had just left Tess at the shanty door. He had found it
difficult to explain away his conduct on the evening of the musicale at
Waldstricker's.

"It were awful," sobbed Tess, after Frederick had mollified her anger
somewhat. "I wanted to die! Ye looked like some big man I didn't know 't
all."

"Silly baby," laughed the student. "There were so many people there who
know my mother--" He paused and kissed the upraised, tearful face
passionately. "I didn't think you'd care. I supposed of course you'd
understand. I'm awfully sorry you didn't. You'll forgive me, darling,
won't you?"

Tess snuggled nearer him. She wanted to forget how unhappy she'd been.

"Sure, I don't care now,--such a awful lot," she sighed.

Later in the evening, when he came into the hall of his home in Ithaca,
he was greeted by his young sister, Babe.

"Fred," she called softly, "come on up, mother wants you."

For some minutes after taking off his hat, he remained in the lower hall
considering just what to say to his mother. Shaking his head dismally,
he mounted the stairs and went reluctantly to the front room. He hated
scenes with his mother. He hated everything about the house, hated even
the thought of going back to school. He wanted to take Tess away from
the lake--make a home for her--to be with her always. How dear she had
grown day by day since he'd married her! His very being fired at the
memory of her clinging sweetness.

When he opened his mother's bedroom door and walked self-consciously
forward to turn up the light, a fretful voice from the bed halted him.

"Fred, if you're going to make the room bright, please bring the screen
forward."

He dropped his hand from the gas jet.

"It doesn't matter," said he, sulkily, and he moved to the foot of the
bed. "Let it stay as it is.... Babe said you wanted me."

Mrs. Graves settled her glasses on the bridge of her nose and looked at
him.

"Yes! I did tell her to send you in. What's the matter? Anything?"

"No." The answer was brutal in its curtness.

"You've been with that Skinner girl again." The woman sat up in bed and
exclaimed angrily. "I can tell by the way you act."

A sudden fury took possession of the student.

"Of course, I haven't been to Skinner's," he contradicted roughly.
"Didn't I tell you I wouldn't go and see her any more? What do you want
now?"

Relieved by his words in spite of the ugly way in which they were
uttered, Mrs. Graves sank back on the pillows. "Sit down," she invited.

He was too nervous and angry willingly to grant even so small a request
just then.

"I can listen as well standing here," he answered crossly.

"But I can't talk as well when you stand," insisted Mrs. Graves,
peevishly. "Frederick! What's happened to you since your father died?
That squatter girl's turned your head. I know it. She's completely
spoiled you."

Tessibel and all her girlish sweetness came vividly across the boy's
mind. It was ridiculous to blame Tess. Ah, if he were as good as Tess
desired him to be, his life would be the most exemplary.

"Please leave her name out of it, will you?" he rasped rudely. "Even if
I can't see her, I won't hear anything against her."

Mrs. Graves sat up in bed, throwing back wisps of gray hair, that
persisted in falling over her nose.

"Oh, you won't, eh?" she shrilled loudly. "Well, now, you listen to
me.... You'll hear what I please to say to you, young man. It's a good
thing you don't go to Skinner's any more. It's time you were interested
in a decent girl. You've got to marry sometime. It's just as easy to
love a rich girl as a poor one. Why don't you propose to Madelene
Waldstricker?"

"Madelene's all right, I suppose," the boy answered "but I don't want to
marry her."

"You better want to," his mother rejoined tartly. "You've got to do just
that very thing."

"You're crazy, Mother. I won't do it. What do you take me for, anyhow?
Get that idea out of your head and keep it out."

"If your father were here, you wouldn't dare to say such things to
me.... I want you to sit down, do you hear?"

Frederick dropped into a chair wearily. The time had come to tell his
mother that Tessibel Skinner was his wife. After that was done, there
could be no such arguments. He started to speak, but his mother
interrupted him.

"Madelene Waldstricker's wild over you," she explained. "You can't deny
you've shown her open attention, at the same time you've been stealing
down to that Skinner girl's hut.... Oh, don't deny it any more! But
Madelene doesn't know very much about that, and she has lots of money.
It's your duty to Babe and me."

"I won't marry her, or anyone else," Frederick repeated.

His voice was very low but every word was distinct.

Mrs. Graves lifted her pillow, turned it over, patted, and sank back
upon it.

"Why?" she demanded, searching his face with accusing eyes. "Because of
that fisherman's--"

Now he would tell her; now he would explain! He coughed, took out his
handkerchief and wiped his lips.

"I shouldn't think you'd say anything against Tessibel Skinner," was
what he said at last, "considering what she did for us."

Mrs. Graves uttered a scream, and covered her face with her hands.

"Now throw that in my face, will you?" she cried. "Can't you let me
forget my shame and disgrace? Can't you see that girl coming into my
life would bring constantly before me my daughter's downfall and death?"

Her voice was tragic, and Frederick's heart always had been tender
toward his mother. He saw as vividly as if it had happened but yesterday
Teola dying in the church. It had been such a dreadful experience for
all of them. Frederick had never doubted for one moment that that
terrible ordeal had been the cause of his father's death. He went
quickly forward and slipped one arm about her shoulders.

"I'm sorry, mater," he murmured. "There, forgive me!--There!--Don't
cry!... Now don't get nervous--the doctor said you mustn't cry."

Mrs. Graves shivered in the strong arms.

"I've reason enough to cry," she whimpered brokenly. "You won't do
anything to help me, and you're the one who should."

"I'll go to work," he said eagerly. He sat down on the edge of the bed.
"I'm tired of college anyway!"

"Go to work!" echoed his mother. "What could you do? You wouldn't get
ten dollars a week. Nor anything like it. You haven't any profession,
and what is there in Ithaca to do anyway?... Oh, if your father'd only
lived!"

She broke into a fresh burst of tears.

"Hush, please, dear," said Frederick, smoothing back the grey hair. "Go
on and tell me what you want. There, see, now, I'm listening."

Mrs. Graves used her handkerchief vigorously.

"I said I wanted you to marry Madelene Waldstricker," she responded in
ruffled tones. "You've but to ask her, and she'll jump. Babe says she
talks of you all the time, and is frightfully jealous of you."

A fair, lovely face, glorious glistening brown eyes, and shrouding red
curls passed between Frederick's vision and his mother's face, and he
groaned.

"Don't! I said not to talk of Tess."

"But I can't help it," snapped Mrs. Graves. "I've got to tell you about
Madelene, haven't I? You must ask her now.... She's staying here
tonight."

Frederick withdrew his arms from under his mother and dropped his face
hopelessly into his hands.

"Oh, God, help me!" he groaned between his fingers. "I can't do that,
Mother! I can't!"

A tender hand went out slowly and touched him. He lifted his face with a
sharp gesture and grasped his mother's fingers in his.

"Don't ask me to do that, oh, don't, darling mater, don't!" he moaned.
"Anything else--I'd do _anything_ else."

The feminine fingers closed over the masculine ones.

"I must ask you, my son," insisted Mrs. Graves, gently. "It's the only
hope I have.... I've kept so many things from you, but now I'll tell you
why. The lake place is mortgaged to Ebenezer Waldstricker for more than
it's worth, and I've borrowed a lot of money from him and from
Madelene."

Frederick's hands fell from his face.

"Good God! My God!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Why didn't you tell me
before?"

"I couldn't--I couldn't, Fred, but now you see why you must do this for
all our sakes. I haven't any money at all only what they let me have.
Babe and I won't have any place to go if you don't help. Oh, Fred, you
will think of it, dear, you will?"

The boy got up feeling as if something worse than death had happened to
him. He saw no way out.

"Yes, I'll think of it," he temporized.

Mrs. Graves sank deeper into her pillow and closed her eyes with a long
sigh. Frederick said no more, but turned quickly and went out of the
room.

He staggered downstairs like a drunken man. He ought to have told his
mother he was married to Tessibel Skinner. He couldn't marry any other
woman!... How could he, when he was already married--married to the
sweetest girl in the world? Oh, to get away somewhere to think quietly!
To get something to stop the throbbing in his head! This new horror
facing him was more than he could bear. He'd go back now and tell his
mother he was married to Tess.... No, he'd wait until morning! He opened
the library door and stepped in, crossed the room slowly and drew down
the curtain. Turning, he saw a girl rise from the divan. Madelene
Waldstricker reached out two rounded arms with an impatient gesture.

"Ah, you've come," she said, smiling into his eyes.

Frederick gazed at the small girlish figure curiously. The new interest
in her awakened by the talk he'd just had with his mother, contended
with the image of Tess in his mind--radiant, loving, splendid Tess.

He walked to the table and feigned interest in a book.

"I've been with my mother," he said hesitatingly.

"Yes, I know," asserted Madelene, coming to his side, "and she's awfully
ill, isn't she?"

"More nervous than anything," replied the boy, impatiently.

"The doctor told your sister and me this afternoon she must have perfect
rest if she ever recovers," explained Madelene. "He says she ought to be
in a good health resort.... I wish I could help her."

"She tells me you have," blurted Frederick.

"But not so much as I'd like to," Madelene assured him softly.

There was deep sympathy in her voice, and Frederick looked at her
critically. This small brown girl had taken on new significance to him.
She had come into his life suddenly as a large part of it, that
deadening financial part that tied him hand and foot and made him feel
like a galley slave. But he could never marry her, never! He belonged to
Tessibel Skinner by all the rights of Heaven and earth. He studied the
eager girl again--for so long a time that she dropped her lids,
blushing. Truly, Tess and Madelene formed a strange contrast--his bride
with the red gold of her curls and eyes holding him a willing captive,
and this bright-eyed, brown-skinned, little creature, before him with
that eloquent, calling appeal of money for his mother.

Never before had he thought any one could for any reason whatever come
between him and Tessibel Skinner. He did not concede it now in its
fullness, but Madelene was looking pleadingly into his face and had
spoken of his mother with tender sympathy. He suddenly reached out and
took her hand. He would tell her of his young wife. He would take her
into his confidence right then, and all would be well for them
both--and for Tess.

"Listen, Madelene," the boy said earnestly. "I have something to say to
you."

At the touch of his fingers, Madelene went white and swayed toward him.
Her head fell forward on his chest, and his arms closed around her, as
if to keep her from falling. Of a sudden, a flushed face was lifted to
his, and a smile flashed around a rosy mouth.

"Oh, I'm so happy, oh, so happy!" whispered pursed lips.

And Madelene sighed as she dropped her head against him once more. For
the moment Frederick's mind went blank, but the girl's voice drew him
back.

"Oh, I was afraid you loved that girl who sings in the church," she was
saying. "I've heard so often you did. I just couldn't bear the thought
of it, Frederick. Your mother and Babe kept telling me you didn't, but I
suppose I was a little jealous."

She laughed and snuggled nearer him. But a short hour before another
girl, the girl he adored, his wife, had been in the same tender
position. He was so dazed that for the moment he could not find words
for an answer. Then slowly he led her forward to the divan.

"I want to talk to you," he ventured hesitatingly.

"Oh, I love to hear you talk," Madelene babbled with joy.

Frederick flushed. He'd have to tell her of his marriage with Tessibel
before she really admitted anything that would afterwards make her
sorry.

"What I've got to tell you is very serious," he said at length. "You'll
listen to me, Madelene?"

Five small fingers touched his lips.

"Nothing is serious now," came the interruption, "not now that I know
you love me. It's all I want in the world to make me supremely happy,"
and she sighed.

Frederick shuddered. Why, he hadn't told her he loved her! He was as far
from loving her at that moment as the very stranger on the street.

"But it's something you must know," he thrust in desperately.

"I know what it is," averred the girl smiling. "I know all about it....
It's just money, that horrid old money your mother borrowed of brother
and me.... But what does money matter? I've lots of it, bunches of it,
and more than enough for us all, and so has Ebenezer."

Frederick shook himself impatiently. She must listen while he explained
the impossibility of their ever being anything to each other.

"I couldn't take--"

"I'm not asking you to take anything but me," laughed the girl. "Just
me, see? There, dearest! Now don't talk of anything disagreeable
tonight. I just want to be happy."

And like a contented, purring kitten, she once more settled herself
against him. Somehow Frederick couldn't tell her of Tessibel just then.
The right moment had come and gone. In the morning he would! By the
light of the day it would be easier. Then he would explain everything to
her and his mother.

"Put your arms around me," whispered Madelene.

Thrusting Tessibel from his mind, he drew the little figure close into
his arms.

"Kiss me," she breathed, and two hours later, when Frederick Graves shut
his bedroom door, he had promised to marry Madelene Waldstricker.




CHAPTER XI

FREDERICK INTIMIDATED


Confused and angry with himself and Madelene, Frederick crossed the room
slowly.

What an awful mess! Married to Tessibel and engaged to marry Madelene!
His mother sick and head over heels in debt to the Waldstrickers! The
situation was becoming more complicated by the hour. He sat down by the
open window to think. The simple thing, and what he really wanted to do,
was to announce his marriage and let himself and the others take the
consequences. He didn't intend to give up Tess, and for a few minutes
his memory was alive with all the suffering of his brave young wife
during the past two years. What she had done for his sister Teola made
him shudder with grief. There was no other woman in the world like Tess,
and the sweetness of his intimate experiences since his marriage touched
him to tears.

"I won't give her up," he groaned aloud, "whatever happens, I'll stand
by Tess. She's worth all the rest--I love her better than life itself.
In the morning I'll tell mother and Madelene the truth."

But no sooner had he reached this conclusion, than the many embarrassing
consequences his confession entailed presented themselves. He could hear
his mother's querulous complaints. She hated Tess, blaming the little
squatter girl for the trouble which had made her an invalid and taken
her husband from her. Would he be compelled to choose between his
affection for his mother and his love for Tess? No, surely not that!

Yet there was Madelene! How could he face her, after all that had
happened. He bitterly regretted his weakness in permitting the girl to
avow her love for him, in engaging himself to her.

And worst of all, that harrowing debt! He groaned at the thought of it.

Madelene had told him, "Your mother won't have to worry any more, dear.
We can send her away for a nice, long rest, and when Professor Young's
lease is up, we'll fix the lake place for a summer home."

"If I could marry Madelene," he thought, "the debts--"

He got up, lighted a cigarette, his fingers shaking so he almost dropped
the match. He couldn't marry Madelene!

Yet to acknowledge his relation to the squatter girl meant a certain and
final break with the Waldstrickers, the financial ruin of himself and
his mother.

Even at that cost, he must do it. Tessibel was his wife, his dear little
wife. He had promised to make a home for her. But how? Could they get
along at all, and what would he do with her impossible father? As his
mother had said, he had no ability to earn anything. Bitter tears of
discouragement filled his eyes.

Suddenly, a thought found its way into his brain and seemed to clear the
situation completely.

"If I could explain it to Tess," he whispered, "and she would consent,
everything would be easy. I know she'd help me!"

Again and again, and from many different angles, the argument repeated
itself.

He lay wakeful in bed, his mind a confused jumble of diversified
thoughts, in which his mother, then Tess, and again the Waldstrickers
demanded his attention and sought to influence him. Worn out, at length
he fell into a troubled sleep.

He was late in rising the next morning. When he finally went into his
mother's room, he found Madelene seated by the invalid's side, holding
her hand. Frederick knew by the expression on their faces, that the girl
had confided to his mother the agreement made in the drawing room the
evening before. Smiling a little uncertainly, he crossed the room.

"Good morning, mater! Good morning, Madelene!" said he.

Madelene smiled shyly, stood up and moved a little away. Frederick bent
over his mother, who kissed him and murmured, "I'm so pleased and
happy."

He straightened up and took Madelene's outstretched hand, very much
inclined to tell them both then how impossible it was for him to carry
out his engagement. But his mother, ostentatiously turning on her
pillow, cried laughingly.

"Don't mind me, children, dear!... Kiss your sweetheart, if you want to,
Frederick!"

Snuggling to his side, Madelene threw her arms around his neck, and
whispered,

"You do love me, dear, don't you?"

Smiling into her eyes, he kissed her.

"Of course I do," he lied promptly. "Don't you know it, little girl?"

After breakfast, Mrs. Graves summoned them to her room again. Relieved
of her pressing anxieties, and excited by the sudden fruition of her
cherished plans, she looked and acted much better. She talked gaily to
the young people of their future, laughed at the girl's blushes, and
chaffed her son about his coming responsibilities.

"Frederick," she suddenly said more soberly. "I think you should go
right away now and see Ebenezer, and ask him properly for Madelene's
hand."

Feeling that such a course would commit him irrevocably, the boy
hesitated.

"Don't be afraid, Fred dear," Madelene broke in. "I know Eb likes you,
and," blushingly, "I think he will not be much surprised, either."

If he could only summon courage enough to tell Madelene before they met
her brother! Perhaps if he could get the girl alone he might.

"Come along with me," he said spontaneously. "We'll go together."

"Then wait until I get my hat," and she danced away, the happiest girl
in Ithaca.

On the way down the street, although he responded with dutiful
tenderness to his companion's conversation, his mind was busy with the
same old question: What should he do about Tess? If he could tell
Madelene, or perhaps it would be easier to make Ebenezer understand his
position.

But before he came to a decision, they met Mr. Waldstricker coming out
of the First National Bank on Tioga Street. He looked very prosperous,
very powerful, as he stood smilingly waiting for them.

"We were just coming to see you, Eb," said Madelene, blushing.
"Frederick--well, we both wanted to speak to you."

"All right, little girl," Waldstricker said pleasantly. "If it is
something special, we can go to the office; or perhaps you can tell me
here."

Hoping to gain courage by further respite Frederick suggested,

"We'd better go to the office, I think."

But Madelene was too full of her new happiness to brook any more delay.

"Oh, you men!" she exclaimed. "Don't be so formal and business-like!"
She took hold of one of her brother's hands, while she held Frederick
possessively by the arm. "We came to make an announcement and receive
your congratulations, and I want them now."

"So that's it?" chuckled her brother, smiling into her shining eyes.
"Well, I _am_ pleased! And I do congratulate you both, heartily. Fred,
run into the office in about an hour, I want to talk to you."

Frederick brightened.

"And I want to talk to you," he answered.

He swung to Madelene's side, drew a long breath and made a quick
resolution that before long he would make his confession to Ebenezer.

At the appointed time, Frederick entered Waldstricker's office. He'd
resolved to make a clean breast of his marriage to Tess. But without
giving him a chance to say anything more than "Hello, Ebenezer," that
gentleman began,

"Glad to see you! Sit down.... So you think you want to join my family,
do you? I suppose you know you're asking a great deal, when you haven't
any money or any profession, either. But then, my sister's fond of you,
and that means a lot. Fortunately, she has enough money so that you need
not worry about that. The question is, can you make her happy?"

He paused. Frederick fingered his hat, let it slide to the floor, and
picked it up before answering.

"Mr. Waldstricker, I think ... I want first ... I can't ... You see...."
He wanted desperately to tell the powerful man at the table that he
couldn't marry his sister, but somehow the words wouldn't come.

The older man thought he knew the cause of the young man's hesitation.

"There, there, my boy!" he laughed, pleased at his own insight. "Don't
try to explain anything. I know it's been hard for you. Frederick," he
continued more soberly, "as you know, I'm Madelene's only near relative.
Her mother has been dead many years, and since father ... was killed,
she has only me left. I want her to be happy, ... to have everything
that makes life worth while. She's chosen you, and I feel sure she's
wise in her choice." He stood up, his great height towering above the
boy, who also rose. Ebenezer thrust forth his hand and took Frederick's.
"I'm giving her to you," he went on. "Make her happy and there's nothing
I won't do for you."

Of course Frederick couldn't just then tell this man, who trusted him,
that he was already married to a squatter girl. Perhaps later--yes,
later he would. He hung his head in shame and the elder man, again
mistaking the emotion, ascribed it to diffidence.

"Mr. Waldstricker," began Frederick, "you were so kind to my mother and
so was Madelene. I'm not fit to marry your sister."

"Pshaw, boy, you're too modest!" Waldstricker laughed good-naturedly.
"If she's satisfied, that's all there is to it."

Turning back to the desk, he seated himself.

"Sit down again, Fred," he continued. "Have you planned to get married
immediately?"

Frederick shuddered. It seemed as if a great gulf were opening under his
feet and he were about to be swallowed up.

"Well, we hadn't considered that," he hesitated embarrassedly. "Probably
not for two years yet, until I get through college."

Here was a ray of hope. Lots of things could happen in two years.

"Nonsense!" was Waldstricker's prompt rejoinder. "Why should you bother
with college? You'd better get married right along and go to Europe for
your honeymoon. Then when you come back, take your place in my business
and help me. I need some smart young fellow, and there's no sense in
wasting your time at college. It isn't as though you had your own way to
make."

Frederick sought to make objections to these plans, but Waldstricker
impatiently got to his feet and stood looking down at the boy in the
chair.

"It's settled then, isn't it? Say no more about it," he said with
finality. "Run along and hunt up Madelene and tell her what I've said."

In parting, Waldstricker shook hands with Frederick, and placing his
hand on the boy's shoulder said with genuine emotion in his voice, "Make
her happy, my boy, and there's nothing in the world too good for you."

Frederick went into the sunshine, his head in a whirl. Waldstricker's
promises unfolded visions of ease and success surpassing in splendor his
wildest dreams. He had not meant to betray Tessibel nor to deceive
Madelene. Yet since these things were forced upon him, he would see what
he could do, but he took a long, deep breath when he thought of how
difficult it would be to explain his action to Tessibel.




CHAPTER XII

MAKING READY FOR THE WARDEN


The next day, while Frederick was studying over the problems relating to
his engagement to Madelene Waldstricker, Tessibel Skinner was sitting
with Helen Young on the veranda of the latter's home. The young squatter
girl was receiving a lesson in sewing.

"It air goin' to be pretty, ain't it?" she asked, holding up a blue
chambray dress.

"Yes, very," replied Helen. "You're doing nicely. I'm very proud of you,
dear!"

A shadow crept into Tessibel's eyes.

"I'll be a missin' ye awful after--after--"

"But you may come as often as you like to--our--home after we're
married," said Helen, affectionately. "Mr. Waldstricker will soon grow
fond of you, too, and the distance is only a little over a mile, short
cut."

"But you'll be so rich," sighed Tess, "an' mebbe'll be awful busy."

"Never too busy to see my friends," Helen smiled. "There! Now you've
been sewing an hour.... Let me hear you read.... By the way, I meant to
tell you last night's paper said they're trailing the man who killed Mr.
Waldstricker's father down here. The offer of five thousand dollars'
reward is stirring a lot of men to hunt for him."

"I thought as how they'd lost 'im, sure," remarked Tess, inwardly
quaking.

She forced her voice to say this in a tone as nearly natural as
possible.

"Yes, I think the paper says they did lose track of him," replied Helen,
"but they've suddenly found his trail again.... He must be somewhere
near here. A deputy warden by the name of Burnett is coming to
Ithaca.... Mr. Waldstricker will be very much pleased if they find
him."

Tessibel's questioning gaze prompted Helen to proceed.

"The paper says, too, the men up there in Auburn are pretty sure he's
somewhere among his own people."

A scarlet wave dyed Tessibel's face, and then receded. Her eyes drew
down a little at the corners.

"Ye mean 'mong the squatters, don't ye?" she queried sharply. "Squatters
air jest as good as any one else, Miss Young."

"Well, now, dear, I didn't mean they weren't," Helen laughed pleasantly;
"and I'm sure if they're all like you, Tessibel, they're very nice
indeed."

The memory of Teola Graves, the small, sickly baby, and the sudden death
of Minister Graves passed through Tessibel's mind. The promise to her of
the deed to the land on which their shanty stood was also in that
procession of ghosts belonging to the past.

"Daddy and me was goin' to own our hut ground," she confided
thoughtfully, "but--but--the dominie died afore we got it--so we air
squatters yet jest the same as the rest. Squatters be awful nice folks!
Most of 'em air better'n me."

"Well, anyway," took up Helen, wishing to keep off dangerous ground,
"the paper says the warden's going to start from the head of Cayuga Lake
and search every house and cabin until he--"

Tessibel rose to her feet unsteadily. In her vivid imagination she saw
the strong arm of the law reach out from Auburn Prison and drag from her
care and protection the wee, twisted little man chanting over the verses
and prayers she'd taught him.

"I ain't a goin' to read today,--I got to go now," she gulped. "Good
bye, Miss Young."

Daddy Skinner unbarred the door when he heard Tessibel call his name. At
the sight of his young daughter's agitated face, the fisherman slid into
his chair, beckoning her to a place on his knee.

"What air doin', Tess?" he questioned swiftly. "Ye're as white as
bleached starch."

Tess placed her finger on her lips, glancing in the direction of the
garret. Getting up, she barred the door and crept back to her father's
side.

"Burnett air a scootin' down here after Andy," she murmured, too low for
the dwarf to hear. "Miss Young says it air in the paper. I got to tell
the poor little feller now so he won't die o' fright when the warden
comes."

She went to the ladder and looked up through the hole. Then she set one
foot on the lower rung and began to sing softly,

    "Rescue the Perishin';
    Care for the Dyin'."

And on and on she sang, in throbbing melody, to the end of the hymn.
Tess had long ago discovered the fear-dissipating qualities of "Rescue
the Perishin'." A long happy sigh in the attic told her the dwarf had
enjoyed her song.

"Andy," she called in a low tone, "come down an' set beside the cot. I
has to talk to ye."

Andy needed no second invitation. His legs were stiff but his heart full
of good cheer, as he scrambled down the ladder with the Bible in his
hand. Crawling across the floor, he propped his bent little body against
the cot, and looked inquiringly at Daddy Skinner, and Daddy Skinner
stared moodily back at him.

"Andy," Tess began, squatting beside him. "Ye remember how slick Daddy
Skinner hopped out o' jail an' right back to me?"

Andy bobbed his head.

"Yep, I remember, brat," he responded. "I were glad fer him, but I sure
were sorry fer myself when he left Auburn."

"An' I were that happy I nearly died," replied Tess, musingly. "Well, I
air goin' to show ye a verse in the Bible what hauled 'im smack out o'
prison." Tess took up the holy book and opened it. "There! now read
it.... Right where my finger air! See?"

For several seconds Andy studied the words under Tessibel's pointing
finger, and Daddy Skinner evinced his interest by bending nearer in a
questioning attitude.

"If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed," Andy spelled haltingly,
and then glanced up, mystified. "Why, it air talkin' about movin'
mountains.... Ain't it, Tess?"

"Sure!" agreed Tess, displaying her white teeth in smiling affirmation.
"See?"

Andy shook his head.

"No, I don't see, brat," he replied. "I ain't wantin' to move no
mountains, I ain't."

Tess flung back her curls impatiently.

"Oh, Andy, yer head air all bone. Now look at me."

Misty, eager eyes were raised to the girl's.

"Can't ye see, Andy dear," she proceeded solemnly, "it air harder to get
a mountain out of yer way than 'tis to stay out of prison."

"Mebbe 'tis," conceded Andy, brightening. "I never thought of it like
that."

"But ye must begin thinkin' quick," ordered Tess. "Now every minute of
the day ye air to say over an' over verses I show ye. And the man who
helps folks move mountains'll keep ye right in this shack.... I air
thinkin' that'd suit ye some, huh?"

Andy looked at her meltingly.

"I'd ruther be here than any place in the hull world," he murmured in
reverent humility.

"Then," avowed Tess, "I air a goin'--Oh, Andy, I got to tell ye
somethin', honey, an' I--"

"What?" gasped Andy, faintly.

Tess paused an instant.

"Burnett's pell-mellin' down from Auburn after ye," she blurted. "I just
heard it at Young's."

Andy's face blanched to the hue of death. He had been so satisfied--so
secure in the little garret under the protection of his friends, and now
he would have to go back after all.

"Burnett?" he repeated almost inaudibly. "Burnett's comin' after me?"

Tess reached out and touched him.

"But he ain't knowing ye air here," she asserted hastily. "An' he ain't
a goin' to know it uther. An' I tell ye, Andy, if ye'll learn yerself
that verse 'bout the mustard seed, it'll keep ye here."

"I'll learn it, brat," promised Andy, but he seemed as if turned to
stone.

"But what be we goin' to do, kid?" asked Skinner, a look of helplessness
wrinkling his face.

"I dunno," replied Tess, with her hand still on the dwarf's arm.

And that was true, too! Tessibel didn't know just at that moment what
she could do to save Andy from the officers, but of one thing she was
certain; that beyond where the birds flew, and above the fast-moving
clouds, and over all and under all, was an arm and a love upon which she
had leaned and trusted, and they had never failed her. With this thought
deepening the red-brown eyes, she turned and looked first at her
Bible-backed father and then at the little dwarf.

"There air one thing ye both got to do," she instructed them. "Ye got to
stop yer worryin' an' ye got to stop bein' 'fraid."

Andy's jaw dropped.

"Stop bein' 'fraid!" he muttered. "Stop bein' 'fraid! God, Tessibel, ye
don't know what it means to allers be in the shadow of the prison, you
don't."

"Oh, yep I do," interposed Tess, blandly, "'course I do. Weren't Daddy
Skinner there? An' Daddy never'd got out in this world if it hadn't been
for a helpin' hand; the same'll help you, Andy."

"She's talkin' of Professor Young," grunted Orn, glancing at the dwarf.

Tess turned to her parent impatiently.

"I ain't nuther talkin' about Professor Young, Daddy. I ain't goin' to
tell him Andy's here 't all! I'll tell you both who I mean right now."

The men leaned forward, the dwarf's head shooting out like a turtle's.

"Who d'ye mean?" he entreated brokenly.

The color mantled Tessibel's brow and swept in rich waves over the
lovely, earnest face.

"Jesus," she breathed radiantly, flashing her eyes from one to the
other. "Jesus jest air a dotin' on ye, Andy, ye poor little dub ye! He
allers dotes on folks in trouble."

"Shucks!" grunted Andy, and "Holy thunderin' Moses!" fell from Daddy
Skinner.

Tessibel stood up, an angry glint in her eyes.

"Ye can say, 'Shucks!' if ye want to, Andy, 'cause you don't know
nothin'; but, Daddy Skinner, _you_ ought to be ashamed of yerself. Why,
he's the man what got ye out of jail! I couldn't a done nothin', an'
Professor Young couldn't a done nothin' uther if Jesus hadn't helped
him. An' now ye're saying, 'Holy thunderin' Moses,' just's if ye didn't
believe it."

The fisherman drew a shaking hand across his shaggy chin whiskers.

"I s'pose I do believe it, brat," he groaned, "but it air all so kind a
mysterious like, an' Young, ye know--Young fought like the devil to git
me back home."

"I know he did, Daddy," affirmed the girl, "but can't ye see ye'd a gone
to the rope if--"

A shrill cry broke from the dwarf, interrupting Tessibel's explanation.
Those ominous words recalled his own terror of Auburn Prison. Tears
gathered thick in his eyes and ran down his cheeks. The sight of the
little man's misery so affected Tessibel that she wound one arm about
his neck.

"Andy, darlin'," she comforted, "don't blubber like that. Don't I say!
There, put yer head on Tessibel's shoulder! I air a goin' to mother ye a
bit."

She took up her skirt, wiped away the dwarf's fast-falling tears, and
then her own.

"Now ye mustn't snivel," she faltered, trying to be courageous. "Why, if
ye keep it up, I don't know what Daddy an' me'll do. Listen, Andy,
listen to Tess."

Placing a slender finger under his chin, Tess drew the wry face up until
his tearful eyes were directed into hers.

"Andy," she imparted, "there ain't a deputy in this hull world can get
ye, an' don't ye be worryin' 'bout it. Jesus'd butt in an' help ye afore
the man could get his nippers on ye. He'll fix it so they can't get ye,
I bet."

And of a truth, Tessibel knew whereof she spoke.

"But Burnett'll be here most any time, now," shivered the little man,
his chest rising and falling with emotion, "an' I tell ye, Tess--" Here
he straightened up, his eyes glistening. "I tell ye, once let 'im git
after a house he thinks a feller air in an' he'd turn it topsy-turvy,
tissel end up. Why, Burnett can smell a man from prison a mile. I know
him, I do! Hain't I seen,--and you have too, Orn,--many a poor cuss get
away just like I did, mebbe over the river, mebbe a hundred miles or
two, or he might even git in another state, but Burnett'll haul him back
by his neck, jest the same."

Andy wilted at the end of his long speech like a hothouse plant in the
frost.

"But he ain't a goin' to git _you_, Andy dear," Tess interposed, hugging
the bent little figure. "Me an' Daddy loves ye, an' we'll hide ye, we
will. Be glad ye're little, honey. If ye was big, it'd be harder to
sneak ye out of sight."

"I don't see where ye're goin' to hide 'im, Tess?" remarked Skinner,
making the statement a question by the rising inflection in his voice.
"It air jest like Andy says, if Burnett gits on 'is scent, he'll find
'im all right, all right, an' five thousand dollars'd spur any man on to
hunt 'im down."

The squatter girl smiled in sudden decision.

"They won't find 'im where I put 'im," said she, decisively.

"Tell us about it, brat," urged her father, wistfully.

Tess thought a minute, and hummed a minute.

"He air goin' to get put in my straw tick! That air where ye're goin',
Andy," she explained presently. "An' I air got to be awful sick an' git
in bed an' stay there. I don't know anything else to do! Oh dear! I
can't look sick to save my life, can I?"

She got up and went to the glass and considered minutely her own rosy
reflection. After contemplating it for some time, she came back and sat
down, leaning a dimpled chin on the palm of one hand.

"I guess as how I don't need to be sick anywhere inside me," she
decided. Then a smile smoothed away the slight pucker on her brow. "I
know! I could hurt my foot, couldn't I? I guess as how that air best....
I'll hurt my foot.... Mebbe I'll sprain my ankle. I dunno yet, but I'll
be a bed all right, an' I'll have Deacon with me. I bet when that warden
sees me spread on that cot an' a owl starin' at 'im, he won't even think
o' askin' me to git up."

The dwarf uttered a weird cry in chorus with a groan from the squatter.

"What'll ye do, if he tries to take ye offen the bed?" Orn questioned.

Tess tossed the profusion of curls over her shoulder, and her smile
showed two rows of white teeth.

"I'll grin at him first, like this," she laughed, "an' if that don't do
no good, I'll sing at 'im. I air bettin' he won't touch me then. But if
he goes to haul me off, I'll holler an' make such a fuss I bet he'll be
glad to let me alone."

With this statement, Tessibel rose and finished, "Get off'n that bed,
Daddy. I air goin' to begin rippin' the tick now. If them deputies be
comin' down the lake, us uns got to be ready.... It's only straw, ye
know, Andy, an' awful soft. I'll fix yer head so it'll hang out a
little. Then ye can breathe."

Before the shadow of the willow trees went to sleep in their soft earth
bed late that afternoon, Tessibel had fitted the dwarf into the space
she had made vacant in her straw tick. At the top of the springs, which
consisted of taut ropes, she made a comfortable pillow for the little
man's head. And then they waited, the hearts of the two men heavy with
bitter fear, and the heart of the girl vibrant with faith that all would
be well with her friend.




CHAPTER XIII

SANDY PROPOSES TO TESS


Andy Bishop was stretched out in the middle of Tessibel's straw tick,
while the girl measured her length on the cot to assure her father that
the dwarf would be fully concealed from prying eyes.

"Does he seem all hid, Daddy Skinner?" queried she.

The squatter walked to the head of the cot and peered from all points of
vantage.

"He sure air, kid," he chuckled. "I can't see nothin' but a row of red
curls a mile long. Andy'll git back in the garret all right if Burnett
don't pull you off'n that bed."

"He won't do that," said Tess. "Jesus'll see I stay on it, I bet."

"There's some un a comin' now," hissed Skinner between his teeth,
startled. Tess had no more than cuddled under the blanket when a loud
knock resounded throughout the shanty. Daddy Skinner lifted the bar and
opened the door, his large form filling the narrow door-frame. At the
sight of Sandy Letts' smiling face, he stepped back, relieved.

"God, Sandy," he grinned, "ye might as well kill a man as scare him to
death. Come in an' set."

Lysander stepped into the kitchen, and his eyes fell upon Tess.

"What air the matter with the brat?" he asked, looking from Orn to the
girl lying there so languidly.

"She air kind a hurt--" began the fisherman.

"My foot air all packed up in a rag," interjected Tess. "I air always
doin' something to myself. The next time I come jumpin' down the lane, I
hope I won't be hurtin' my ankle."

She smiled wanly at Sandy, and he grinned back at her.

"If I knowed ye was sick, Tess, I'd a brought ye some candy," said he,
good-naturedly.

"Candy ain't good for a girl's teeth," sighed Tess. "Don't never bother
'bout bringin' it, Sandy."

"A pound or two won't hurt ye," asserted Letts. "An' when I likes a
girl, I allers bring 'er sweets. I say kid, ye do look awful pretty,
layin' there with your curls all stretched out that way. Now, my cousin
Ben, he wanted to marry ye, too, but he never liked yer hair; I love
it."

"Daddy were jest a sayin'," put in Tess, with a fleeting glance at her
father, "that it air mighty good for my curls to get spread out like
this. Wasn't you, Daddy?"

Daddy Skinner stared at her, and her warm, glowing smile gave strength
to the old man's heart. Without waiting for his reply, Tess turned to
Letts.

"Where ye been, Sandy, an' what ye been doin'?" she asked, simulating an
interest she did not feel.

Lysander, pleased at the attention, thrust his thumbs into the armholes
of his vest and spread out all his fingers, giving a little important
twist to each.

"I been down to Riker's a searchin' their shack fer Andy Bishop,"
bragged he, "an' now I air goin' to Longman's."

A little groan fell from Tessibel's lips.

"I air ashamed of ye, Sandy," she said slowly. "Longmans wouldn't have
no murderer in their hut.... They be awful good folks.... Ye know they
be, Sandy."

"Sure I know it, Tessie, but I've said as how I air goin' to search all
the squatters' huts an' I air goin' to do it, I can tell ye that."

Tess smiled at him wistfully, pleadingly.

"I'd hate ye all my life, Sandy Letts," she vowed, winking one eye at
the burly squatter, "if ye'd come in my house and butt 'round. Course ye
can do it if ye want to, but I'd never speak to ye again in the hull
world."

Sandy threw back his head and guffawed.

"I wouldn't do nothin' like that to you, pretty kid," he answered with
pride in his tones, "'cause I know if ye had that dwarf in this hut
ye'd pass him up to me quick.... Five thousand ain't to be got off'n
every bush these days. I air after that Waldstricker reward, an' I air
goin' to get it!"

Tess spread a little wider a few of the dusky, shining curls.

"It's a lot o' money," she said thoughtfully.

Letts hitched his chair nearer the cot and bent over eagerly.

"Sure it air, Tessie," he said, "an' I air here today a purpose to tell
ye somethin'. I want you an' yer pa to listen wise to me fer a minute. I
air goin' to git that there five thousand an' I air goin' to marry you."

Tess started to speak, but Lysander stopped her with a wag of his head
and a wave of his hand.

"I said for ye to listen," he cried brusquely. "Ye ain't havin' offers
like mine every day, miss, an' yer Daddy won't never have no chances
like I air givin' 'im. I said listen, an' here air what I say.

"It won't be more'n a week afore I hand that dwarf over to the warden.
Burnett air comin' down from Auburn. He air almost here by this time.
Then when I git the money, I air a goin' to put yer Daddy in a nice
place where he'll get rid of 'is rheumatiz, an' after that I air goin'
to fix my shack up with a lot of new stuff, an' ye can have the choosin'
of it, brat, an' there air my word, by God."

Sandy gazed from father to daughter with a broad smile. He had delivered
his speech in pompous pride, his voice rising higher and louder with
each word.

"What do ye say, Orn?" he demanded.

Skinner looked at Tess out of the corner of his eye. He could see her
lips moving ever so slightly, and he knew she was murmuring a prayer for
the little man in the straw. His own eyes felt stinging tears around
their lids.

"Ye'll have to settle it with the brat," said he at length, wiping his
lips with the back of his hand. "I've allers said 's how if Tess wanted
to git married, I wouldn't say nothin' 'gainst it, as long as she got a
good man."

"An' I air that," Sandy affirmed positively. "'Course I been in jail
more'n fifty times, an' mebbe I'll git in fifty times more, but that
don't do a man no harm as I knows of. I'd allers leave a little money
home for my fambly."

He threw his bold, black eyes upon the little figure in the bed, and the
girl dropped her lids.

"How about it, Tessie?" he wheedled in low tones.

Tess wriggled. She didn't know just what answer to give. She wanted to
keep the big squatter good-natured, yet desired that he should go away.
She was sorry for the little man beneath her.

Prompted by instinct, she turned her solemn brown eyes upon Letts.

"I'll say this to ye, Sandy," she began. "If ye'll let me alone, an' not
be tryin' always to kiss me--"

Lysander cracked his knee with one large fist.

"I ain't never got a kiss from ye yet, brat," he chuckled.

"'Course not," she responded; "but 'tain't because ye ain't fit fer one,
now air it, Sandy?"

"No, ye can bet on that," laughed the man, "an' I got marks on my shins
to this day you put on 'em the last time I tried it. But I like to see
ye fight, brat, I swear I do.... Now, how about gettin' married to me,
huh?"

Tessibel contemplated the heavy face a moment. She was going to drive a
hard bargain with Lysander if she had to drive any at all.

"Ben used to make me awful mad teasin' for kisses," she exclaimed. "I
told him an' I air tellin' you, Sandy, I ain't goin' to give any man my
kisses less'n I marry him."

Letts puffed out his chest and struck it with a loud resounding whack.

"I air glad of that," he grinned. "It sounds good to me, you bet. I
don't want no other man palaverin' over my woman. I got--"

"An' you been makin' me mad lately, too, Sandy," Tess interrupted, "what
with runnin' after me an' makin' me fight to keep my own kisses, I don't
have no peace. Now, I'll tell ye what I'll do. You get busy an' find
Andy Bishop, an' git that five thousand, then ye come here again an'
ask me what ye just did, an' ye see what I say to ye. Eh? How'd that
suit ye?"

A scarlet flush rushed over Lett's swarthy skin.

"But ye got to promise me ye won't ever try fer no more kisses, till I
git married to ye, Sandy," Tess continued. "You said what you wanted;
now, I've said somethin', an' I mean it too."

Letts shifted one large boot along a crack in the floor. He was thinking
deeply.

"That's pretty tough on a feller when he air lovin' a girl the way I
love you, brat," he said after a while.

"But ye got to promise what I want ye to, Sandy, or mebbe I'll git
married to some 'un else."

"Ye'd better not, kid," he muttered darkly, "if ye don't want to git
yerself an' the other fellow into trouble."

"Then ye'd best promise 'bout the kisses," returned Tess, decidedly.

"I'd kiss ye now fer a two cent piece," he undertoned passionately, but
Daddy Skinner had his hand on the other man's arm before he could move
toward the cot.

"I wouldn't do nothin' like that, Sandy," he said, ominously. "No man
don't kiss my brat less'n she air wantin' his kisses. Tessibel said as
how when ye git Bishop an' the five thousand, ye can come back....
Today, she ain't feelin' well, an' I air goin' to ask ye to go along
home, or wherever ye were pointed fer when ye stopped 'ere."

Then Daddy Skinner opened the door.

"The leaves won't be fallin' from the trees, brat," he flung back
sulkily, "afore I come fer ye, an' don't forgit it!"

Daddy Skinner closed the door and dropped the bar after his departed
guest, and there was silence in the shanty until the sound of Lysander's
footsteps faded away.

Then Tess crawled off the dwarf and stood up.

"Landy," she groaned, "wouldn't that crack yer ribs! Now I got to be
prayin' to beat the band every minute to keep Andy in the garret an' to
save me from bein' married to the hatefullest old squatter devil in the
hull world."




CHAPTER XIV

THE WARDEN'S COMING


At ten o'clock in the morning, the day after Andy Bishop was fitted into
Tessibel's straw tick, a covered runabout wound its way along the lower
boulevard running to Glenwood. Two men were seated in it, solemn,
dark-browed men, with dull eyes and heavy faces. The man holding the
reins was heavy set, square shouldered, and more sternly visaged than
his companion. Some one had said of Howard Burnett, that the Powers, in
setting him up, had used steel cables for his muscles and iron for his
bones; and surely there was a grim grip to his jaw that presaged evil to
those opposing him.

"Devilish queer," he muttered, after a long silence, "how that little
dwarf ever disappeared the way he has, isn't it, Todd?"

"Not so strange after all," protested Todd. "Andy Bishop could crawl
into a rabbit hole and still give the rabbit room to sleep."

"That's true, too, but you'd think his deformity would prevent his
getting very far.... Now wouldn't you?"

"Well, I don't know about that, either." The speaker struck a match
under the lapel of his coat, and cupping the tiny flame in his hand,
held it up to the dead cigar in his mouth, and added between puffs,
"Human nature's a funny thing!... Now Andy's got a kind a pleasin' way
with him ... even if he is deformed, ... and he's got a peach of a
voice. Why, he speaks as soft as a woman.... I wouldn't want him to ask
me to do anything I was set against if I didn't want to do it."

"Rotten rubbish!" spat out Burnett. "I don't give a tinker's damn about
his voice. It's up to me to run the dwarf to earth, and I'm goin' to do
it."

After a very long silence, Todd turned to Burnett.

"But what does get me is why the five thousand Waldstricker's put up,
ain't been bait to catch Bishop before this," he said ruminatively.

"Well, it hain't, that's evident," growled Burnett, setting his teeth.

As a rabbit lifts its head, frightened at unusual sights and sounds, so
Jake Brewer lifted a startled face as Howard Burnett pulled up his horse
suddenly at the squatter's side. The warden stopped the man's progress
by lifting his hand.

"Say, you, wait a minute there," he added to his imperative gesture.

Jake paused, curious and attentive.

"Haven't seen a dwarf, anywhere, named Bishop, have you?" Burnett shot
forth, leaning toward Brewer.

The squatter shook his head. "There be some Bishops round here," he
retorted surlily, "but there ain't no dwarf as I know of by that name."

"Where's the road leadin' down to that row of shacks by the lake?"
demanded Burnett. "Ain't there a lot of squatters living there?"

Brewer assented by a wag of his head.

"No end of 'em," said he, "but there ain't no very easy way gettin' down
with a horse.... Still, mebbe ye could.... Might tie yer wagon an' walk
down."

"Who're you?" shouted the warden, gruffly.

Jake cringed as if the questioner had struck him.

"Jake Brewer," was the unsteady response.

"What's your business?"

"I ain't got no real business," replied the other apologetically. "I
fishes an' hunts an' things like that."

"A squatter--eh?"

"Yep, I air a squatter all right," Jake admitted, "but I air a decent
man, an' allers been decent. I don't do nothin' I hadn't ought to."

"Who's sayin' you do?" snapped Burnett. "Now, I want to ask you a few
questions. I'm from Auburn Prison, and if you lie to me, I'll put you
where the dogs won't bite you.... Do you get me?"

Jake's jaw dropped, but he stood still, and looked at the officer
anxiously.

"Yep, I get ye," he returned submissively, "an' I ain't a goin' to lie
to ye nuther.... What do ye want?"

Burnett's fierce eyes bent a compelling glance on the man in the road.

"How many squatters 're living down by the lake?" he demanded harshly.

Brewer thought a minute.

"I calc'late mebbe there air fifty, mebbe a hundred," he answered. "I
ain't never counted 'em, mister."

Jake moved on a little, but the warden stopped him peremptorily.

"Any jail birds down there?" he thrust at him.

Brewer made a negative gesture.

"Not's I know of," he stammered.

"Ain't nobody down there been in jail? Anybody ever been to Auburn?"

Jake's crooked fingers mounted from his hair line to the back of his
skull, lifting the soft cap partly from his head. Then he scratched his
chin thoughtfully.

"Well, there ain't no guilty man down there," he said, at last. "There
air Orn Skinner--"

Burnett gave an exultant cry.

"My God, I'd forgotten he came from this part of the country! So
Skinner's here among this set of squatters, eh? What luck! I'll bet--"

"Ye won't find no dwarf in Skinner's shanty," expostulated Brewer with
conviction.

"That's up to me to find out!" growled the warden. "Where does Skinner
live? Near here?"

Brewer's fingers directed south.

"First turn to the left, 'bout a mile ahead," he pointed out. "Skinner's
shack air close to the lake. A hedge and lots of flowers air growin'
'round it."

Burnett tightened his lines, chirruped to the horse, and drove on, the
squatter staring open-mouthed after him.

       *       *       *       *       *

The summer sun bathed the hillside and warmed the Skinner shanty.
Tessibel's hedge lifted its green head upward as if to catch the golden
rays. The flower beds rimmed the hut like a bewildering, gorgeous
rainbow. Everything belonging to Tess seemed at absolute peace with
itself and the world.

Orn Skinner, his head sunken between the two humps on his shoulders, was
lazily whittling a stick when the sound of a horse's hoofs in the lane
near Young's barn arrested his attention. It was the one sound the
squatter expected that day, yet dreaded. Furtively, he leaned back near
the partly open door.

"Some 'un's coming, Tess," he warned.

Evidently, the fisherman did not expect an answer, for he straightened
up once more and proceeded to whittle. The pitter-patter of the trotting
horse, and the clatter of the wheels upon the flinty road, broke rudely
upon the familiar little noises of the quiet summer morning. One
sidewise glance satisfied Orn that the men in the vehicle were from
Auburn prison. He stopped whittling but a moment when Burnett drew up.

"Hello, Orn," called the officer, stentorian-voiced.

"Hello," and the squatter made a polite salute with his stick.

Burnett tossed the reins to the man at his side and climbed to the
ground, advancing toward the fisherman.

"This your hut, Skinner?" he interrogated.

Orn Skinner's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He endeavored to
speak, but apprehension and dread had apparently paralyzed his vocal
organs. He hadn't fully realized until that moment how desperate the
venture to which he had committed himself and Tess. Between Andy Bishop
and this formidable giant from Auburn was but the brave little daughter
inside the hut. Would she be able to carry through the hazardous task
she'd undertaken?

"You remember me, don't you, Skinner?"

It took several seconds before the fisherman could clear his throat
enough to speak.

"Yep," he succeeded at length in muttering. "I remember ye all right....
Ye air Burnett from Auburn, ain't ye?... What do ye want around here?"

Suddenly there came to the powerful officer a wild desire to throttle
the heavy-headed squatter. He had a feeling that this man knew more than
he could be forced to tell, perhaps.

"Better hold a civil tongue in your head, old fellow," he threatened,
"if you know what's best for you."

Orn lifted one great shoulder.

"Ye ain't got nothin' on me, Burnett," he snarled defiantly, "but I know
ye wouldn't be comin' 'round here if ye didn't have somethin' to come
fer."

The warden shoved his grim face so close to the speaker's that he drew
back, intimidated.

"Sure, I come for something," snorted Burnett, viciously.

"Then peel it off," answered Skinner, deep in his throat. "I air
listenin'."

He was bending so far back now that his shaggy head rested against the
shanty boards. Burnett was piercing him with a strange, mesmeric gaze.

"Where's Andy Bishop?" boomed like thunder from the warden.

That name, though he knew his questioner's errand, so suddenly falling
on Orn's ears, congealed his blood and knotted his muscles with fear.

"Andy Bishop?" he echoed irresolutely. "Andy Bishop? Who air Andy
Bishop?"

Burnett lifted a huge fist, but dropped it again. The time hadn't
arrived to punch from Skinner the knowledge he wanted. Later, perhaps--

"Now none of that, Skinner," he barked savagely. "None of that, you
hump-backed brute. You know perfectly well who I mean, and you know
where the dwarf is, and we want him and we want him quick.... He made
his getaway from Auburn.... Now give him up, see?"

Second by second, and minute by minute, Orn Skinner was gathering his
courage and strength. All through his life he had been used to brutal
officials like Burnett; so swallowing hard, he raised his great gray
head and looked straight into the other's dark face.

"If ye mean that little dwarf who were up to Auburn when I were there, I
don't know nothin' about him," he said. "I ain't never heard he come
from this end of the lake."

The warden's fist knotted once more.

"You're a liar, Skinner," he scraped from his throat. "Now look here! I
know confounded well you know where he is. If you don't want me to hand
you trouble by the bushel, you'd better cough up that little dwarf. Get
me? Eh?"

The fingers holding the broad-bladed knife sank to the fisherman's knee,
and for a moment the stick Orn had been cutting poised in the air. Then
a slow, broad smile showed his discolored teeth.

"It air the truth I been tellin' you," he declared deliberately. "I
don't know nothin' about Bishop, an' I don't want to know nothin'.... Ye
ain't got anything on me, Burnett. I air a livin' here peaceful with my
kid."

"Well, I'm goin' to search your shanty, anyhow," Burnett growled
menacingly, his under jaw sticking out like a bull dog's.

"Well, search it, I ain't carin'," consented Orn. "But my kid air sick
in there, an' I don't want ye to scare her."

Without waiting for further parley, Burnett, like an enraged lion,
bounded to the shanty threshold and one long stride took him well on his
way across the kitchen. Suddenly he stopped, staring straight ahead of
him, as if some shining spectre from another world had appeared in his
path.




CHAPTER XV

THE SEARCH


Burnett wiped his hand across his eyes to efface the vision which so
unexpectedly impeded his official progress. It was the sight of a girl,
nestled on a cot, and over the pillow upon which her head rested was
strewn in a wild, magnificent disarray, a profusion of tawny curls, such
as he never had seen. For a moment the corpulent deputy from Auburn, the
terror of all the criminals in the country around, forgot his delegated
obligation to the state. Tessibel Skinner's two slender arms huddled a
small, speckled hoot owl; and as in a dream, Burnett noted the girl's
red lips touched the bird affectionately in a hasty little caress.
Another thing he noted was the unflinching and prolonged questioning
glance with which the red-brown eyes met his. Tess couldn't speak a word
at first, now that she was actually face to face with the man after
Andy. He was even sterner than she had imagined he would be.

Quite gravely she considered his big frame from head to foot, took hasty
account of the firm setting of his jaw, and the deep, clean-cut lines
from his eyes to his chin. Then, she smiled a rare, enchanting smile,
the deepening dimples around the red moist lips suffusing the deputy
warden with a warm, welcoming glow.

"I heard ye talkin' to Daddy, mister," she said, gulping. "I air awful
glad ye came in to see me too. I'd a been hurt if ye'd gone without my
gettin' a peep at ye."

During each infinitesimal space of time, Burnett stood in the sunshine
of Tessibel's smile, his austere churlishness was slipping from him like
a loosened garment. As if forced by an unseen hand, he took one step
nearer her.

"Set down, sir," invited Tess, clutching the owl with one hand, and
making an elaborate sweep with the other. "That air Daddy's chair--ye
air awful handsome and big, but the chair'll hold ye all right."

Burnett caught his breath and sank into the indicated seat. He'd
intended to turn that shanty over from top to bottom, to rip it almost
to the ground. But the sight of the red-headed sprite on the cot
fondling a woodland owl, and the effect of her smile upon the beating of
his heart, dissolved his rage and stayed his action.

"Well, I'll be damned!" was all he said, and Tess smiled again. She
didn't mind if he swore. The one thing she desired was to get rid of him
as soon as possible. She was conscious of the gyrations of Andy Bishop
curled in the straw under her slender body, and she knew her curls were
shrouding a face distorted with anxiety.

"Are you sick, kid?" questioned Burnett, when he could draw a natural
breath.

"Well, ye see," acknowledged Tess, "I ain't 'xactly sick, but I got my
ankle all packed up. Sometimes girls hurt their ankles an' they have to
put a rag 'round 'em."

Tessibel was very careful not to say she'd hurt hers in this explanation
to Burnett's question.

"An' then ye see, sir," she pursued, "if ye turn yer foot over an' can't
walk, ye have to go to bed a spell, huh?"

"Well, I should say so!" asseverated Burnett, mustering the manner he
always used with ladies. "Say, by George, I didn't know Orn Skinner had
a pretty kid like you."

"My, didn't ye?" gurgled Tess, with shy lids drooping and her color
mounting. "I thought everybody in the hull world knew I were Daddy's
brat. He air had me fer ever so long. I been growed up for a lot of
years." She shifted the owl in her arms. "This owl air named Deacon....
Want to pet 'im a minute, huh?"

The warden threw back his head and roared. He felt as if he'd been hung
up for days by the thumbs--that this girl had mercifully cut the ropes
and let him down once more to peace and happiness.

"No, thanks, I'll let you keep your pet," he laughed good-humoredly.
"Queer play fellow for a girl, that's my opinion."

After a few more compliments, through which Tessibel flirted her way
into the big man's regard, the officer rose to his feet.

"Little lady, I came here for a specific reason," he announced.
Unquenchable mischief shone upon him from smiling, enquiring eyes.

"Oh," giggled Tess, "anyway, I air awful glad ye come."

The grim lips of the deputy curled upward again. Tess adored his mouth
twisted at the corners like that.

"I might as well get it over first as last," ventured Burnett. "But I'm
more'n anxious you shouldn't be mad at me. The fact is we've traced a
man down from Auburn--"

Tessibel interrupted him, startled; at least she acted so.

"From Auburn!" she gasped.

"Yes, ma'am, a murderer! Andy Bishop. Little man like this," the warden
explained, measuring a short space from the floor. "By some means or
other he wriggled his way out of prison--"

Tessibel's lips trembled and she turned her eyes away. Old memories
rushed over her, memories of the cold winter when she'd been alone in
the shack.

"An' ye thought 'cause Daddy'd been up there once, the man must a run
right straight here, huh?" she accused, with a sob in her voice.

"Well, I'll admit till I saw you I thought--I thought, but now--," a
negative gesture with his hand finished his answer.

Tessibel turned withering, tear-wet eyes on her visitor.

"I 'spose ye air thinkin' my Daddy even had something to do with his
flyin' the coop?" she flared up. "Air that it?"

"No! No! I didn't think that at all," the under-warden made haste to
deny. "I just couldn't think that about _your_ father."

Tessibel dimpled, suddenly glowing like a vivid poppy.

"Thank ye," she whispered, wiping away the tears. "Why! My Daddy
wouldn't do nothin' bad for anythin' in the world. He's the best old
Daddy livin'."

"Of course he is," vouched the warden, placatingly, "but what I want to
know is would you mind, or would it hurt your feelings--The fact is, I
came to search this house."

Tess had expected this, and without demurring, flashed forth,

"Ye mean ye want to go 'round it, don't ye, lookin' in all the corners
an' places; air that it, sir?"

Burnett acknowledged this by a nod.

"Sure, search it if ye want to, I don't mind. Ye'll 'scuse me not
gettin' up, won't ye? There ain't much to search, but ye can go in the
garret if ye want to. It air only a cubby hole; even the weest man in
the hull world couldn't stand up in it."

Andy stirred perceptibly beneath her.

"Then there air Daddy's room," Tess continued, "an' this room air the
kitchen an' the dinin' room an' the parlor, an' all the other rooms....
An'--an' it air my room, too."

"My God, but you're a cute kid!" he chuckled.

Tessibel's laugh rang out deliciously fresh and free, and Burnett caught
it up and sent it back in one loud guffaw. Then the girl lifted one of
her curls and spread it out to its extreme length. Tess had been born
possessing all the arts of her sex, and used them effectively, upon an
occasion like this.

"I wish my ankle wasn't wrapped up," she smiled hospitably. "I'd show ye
'round the shanty myself. Ye noticed the hedge when ye come in, didn't
ye? Well--I planted that an' all the flowers--and this owl belongs to me
an' I keep 'im in the garret,--an'--I almost got a dog once, but not
quite! Job Kennedy owns 'im, an his name air Pete, but he likes to live
here better'n he does to Job's." Tess gasped for breath and flushed
rosily. "But I air keepin' ye, sir," she excused, "an I mustn't do that.
You go on and look in Daddy Skinner's room an'--then ye go up in the
garret, an' then ye can look behind the chairs an' behind the stove, an'
ye can look under the bed--"

She paused dramatically and held up a warning finger.

"Please don't scare none of my bats nor my uther owls in the garret.
They be awful nice bats an' awful nice owls too! Ye wouldn't hurt 'em,
would ye, mister?"

"I won't do anything you don't want me to, kid," the infatuated man
promised. "Honest, I won't search the house if you say not."

"Oh, sure, search it," insisted Tess. "Then ye'll be pretty sure there
ain't nobody hidin' 'round."

Burnett walked toward Daddy Skinner's room.

"I wouldn't mind havin' a daughter like you," he vowed, looking back. "I
got two nice boys to home, but I tell you a man misses a lot in the
world, if he doesn't have a girl. Why, kiddie, I've had a better time in
the past five minutes than I've had in the past five years." He paused,
his hand on the latch of the door into Daddy Skinner's room.

Tessibel gurgled and giggled, and giggled and gurgled, as if she hadn't
a care in the world although she felt a paralyzing pain in her heart for
the dwarf beneath her. Then she threw a mischievous glance into the
man's face and offered,

"While ye air searchin' the shanty, I'll sing to ye, huh?"

"Now, can ye sing?" interrogated Burnett, smilingly.

"Oh, Golly, sir, I been singin' since I weren't no bigger'n this owl,"
replied Tess. "I'll begin now."

She knew Andy must be numb with fright and the weight of her body, and
remembered how many times when he had been kept in the garret long
periods together, while people were coming and going, and danger ran
high, she had sung to him--it had soothed his pains, allayed his agony.

So as Burnett disappeared from sight into the little back room, Tessibel
began to sing the old, but ever newly encouraging song,

    "Rescue the Perishin';
    Care for the Dyin'."

And in the fleeting moment during which the officer from Auburn was
searching Daddy's room, her hand went backward quickly and reassuring
fingers touched the dwarf's face concealed by her curls, and still she
sang,

    "Rescue the Perishin';
    Care for the Dyin'."

Then Tess felt Andy's body relax and heard the faintest possible sigh.

When Burnett came forth unsuccessful but cheerful, her fingers were
toying with her curls, and she broke off her song, question him with her
eyes.

"There ain't a soul in there," laughed the man. "I might a'known Bishop
wasn't around here; in fact, I did know it the minute I looked at you,
kid. Now, just as a matter of law and order, I'll take a peep in the
garret and under the bed, and then I'm done ... Say, you got some voice,
ain't you, kid?"

"It can holler good and loud," grinned Tess.

"And you're some religious, I bet, according to the hymn you've been
singin'," went on the warden. "Now ain't you?"

Tess sobered instantly. She was always very careful not to be irreverent
about sacred things.

"You can bet your boots, I air some _awful_ religious," she acquisced
earnestly. "I've knowed about God and Jesus ever so long."

"That's nice," responded Burnett, becoming grave in his turn.

Oh, would he never go! Would he never finish?

When Burnett walked toward the ladder, she sighed dolefully.

"Does your foot hurt you, kid?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"Nope," faltered Tess. "I guess I were a thinkin' what'd happen to the
little man when ye get 'im."

The warden was trying the strength of the ladder.

"Oh, I'll hike him back up state quicker'n scat when I get my fingers on
'im," said he, his head disappearing in the hole in the ceiling.

In less than thirty seconds he was down again and had taken a squint
under the bed.

"There isn't any dwarf under there either," he said, amusement in his
tones. He stretched forth his hand, reaching down to the girl on the
cot.

"Now, don't hold nothing against me, kiddie, for comin' here, will ye?
Just shake hands with a feller and say it's all right, eh?"

Tessibel lifted the owl high in the air and opened her fingers. There
was a small ghostly flutter and in another instant Deacon had
disappeared into the garret.

She gave the warden both her hands, and for the little minute Burnett
stood by the bed holding them in his and assuring her of his good will.
Tessibel sent up a prayer of thanksgiving. Her little Andy, Daddy
Skinner's friend, was saved!

When Burnett reached the door, he looked back at her. The girl's lips
were parted in a brilliant, farewell smile. He whirled about and came
toward her again.

"Kid," he said huskily, "I'm a hard-headed old cuss, harder'n brass
tacks. I been made so by just such men as Andy Bishop--" He paused, and
during his short hesitation, pregnant with meaning, Tessibel kept her
eyes on him. "I was wonderin', little one," he finished, shame-faced,
"when you say your prayers, if you'd pipe one for me. I need it, so help
me God, I do."

In another moment he was at the door, and in response to the hasty
glance he sent her, Tess flung him a misty, loving smile.

"Sure, sir, sure I will," she called, "an' thank ye for bein' so kind."

Burnett strode out; Tessibel rolled off the dwarf's body to one side of
the cot, and Andy gave an audible grunt.

"I air gee-danged glad that air over," sighed Tess. And as she lay very
still, the warden's hearty voice came floating to her.

"That's a mighty fine girl you got, Skinner."

Tess also heard her father's husky reply. "Bet yer life, she air....
Good day to ye, sir."

Shortly after, the anxious listeners in the shanty heard the click of
the horse's shoes and the rumble of the departing wheels on the stones
amid the wagon's creaking complaints against the steepness of the hill.




CHAPTER XVI

TESSIBEL'S SECRET


Tessibel Skinner had been married to Frederick Graves for six long
weeks: She had become somewhat accustomed to the deception practiced on
Daddy Skinner, and Frederick was constantly allaying her fears and
misgivings by telling her that she belonged to him now; that she was his
darling, his joy, the better part of his life. Many times he assured her
between kisses that it wouldn't be necessary to keep the marriage secret
long. Each day, each hour, each minute, the girl-wife basked in the
thought of her young husband's love. She unfolded the hidden beauties of
her nature to him as spontaneously as the opening flower responds to the
genial warmth of the rising sun.

Early one morning Tessibel arose, a new light shining in her eyes.
Because Daddy Skinner was still abed, she started to the shore for
water. It was a glad, shining, diamond-studded earth that greeted the
view of the expectant girl; there was wonderful stillness everywhere,
and for some minutes she stood contemplating the scene before her. South
from the Hog Hole to the northern curve at Lansing, the lake was
dappled, its surface broken here and there by little capfuls of breeze,
which dimpled in the light, while the smooth spots reflected the blazing
glory of the morning sun. The leaves of the weeping willow tree swept
the rapt, upraised face, and Tess drew down about her head and shoulders
one of the thickest branches. These century-old trees were really a
vital part of her life--old loves to Tessibel, loves that had kept watch
over her since the day of her birth in the shanty.

[Illustration: "I WAS WONDERIN', LITTLE ONE, WHEN YOU SAY YOUR PRAYERS,
IF YOU'D PIPE ONE FOR ME"]

A brilliant flame flooded her face.... Frederick stood with her in
spirit nearness. What she would tell him that evening would be whispered
so low that not even the nesting birds could hear. She imagined the
tenderness with which he'd clasp her in his arms, and thrilled,
visualizing the darkening of his eyes. Tessibel was painting
pictures--her exalted soul running the gamut of joy.

What a wonder-world it was! What a glad, peaceful, new day, her first
real day of living--the beginning of life itself; Frederick's life and
her life! Now, of course, he would tell his mother they were
married--would take her to Daddy Skinner, and--and--She could plan no
farther just then. Her whole being was God-lifted. Even the waves
lapping at her feet seemed to speak the language of a world to come.

She dipped the pail into the lake slowly, filling it with water. Then
with a last sweeping glance over the golden-tinted waves, she returned
to the shanty. Daddy Skinner by this time was seated in his chair, his
grey face wearing an expression of misery.

"Ye air sicker this morning, honey, huh?" asked Tess anxiously, lifting
the pail to the table.

"Yep, brat, awful sick, but mebbe I'll feel better after a while."

"Yer coffee'll be ready quicker'n scat, dear," said the girl. "Flop on
my bed an' stretch out a minute. Tessibel'll get her daddy's breakfast."

Five minutes later she had fried the fish and made the coffee.

"I air goin' to give Daddy his eatin's first, Andy," she called up
through the hole in the ceiling.

"All right; sure, do, kid," assented the dwarf.

       *       *       *       *       *

Daddy Skinner gradually felt better, and during the morning Tessibel's
youthful spirits rose by leaps and bounds. All through the day she
warbled out her happiness, lovingly bantering the two crippled men. Thus
the minutes crept on to eventide, to that hour on the ragged rocks with
Frederick.

She left the shanty early, that she might commune undisturbed for a time
with her dear wild world. Through the gloaming the dull sound of the cow
bells came distinctly from Kennedy's farm. The roosters were crowing a
last good-night to the sun. The monstrous shadows of the great forest
trees were going to sleep in the earth for another night. While the
daylight was fading, the girl sat relaxed against the rocks, her
unfathomable eyes contemplating the purple-spanned lake. She had drifted
into a reverie ... blissfully dreaming, with Frederick the foremost
figure of her dreams. The solemn descent of night ever signified the
mystery of his love to her. Now, from the fullness of her unalloyed joy,
she glanced up at the sky and blessed the whole world. In imagination
she deciphered the words the stars were forming. Stretched from pole to
pole, they lettered the heavens with the wonders of infinitude. In a
diadem of gold, "God is love" was written; from the unsearchable north
to the south where in their turn the slender rimming clouds sent it on
to the world beyond. "God is love," whispered the swaying trees, and
"God is love" came softly to the ear of the sensitive girl, as an echo
is flung back from the rocks and is sent home to its maker.

And even as Tess dreamed, the passion stars in their invisible courses
bent toward her. Impulsively she lifted her arms upward toward those
twinkling participants of her secret, emblems of the immeasurable glory
of her love for Frederick. By a simple turn, she could see the tree of
her old-time fancies, the familiar figure in the tall pine, with
swaying, majestic head and beckoning arms.

At that moment, she perceived Frederick making his way along the ragged
rocks. She could hear her heart's blood pulsing madly, striking at her
wrists, throbbing at her temples, making a race the length of her
quivering body. Now, she could see him plainly in the dim light, and a
smile deepened the dimple at each corner of her mouth. An indefinable
shyness kept her from running to him to tell her glad tidings. But what
made him walk so slowly and with hanging head? It wasn't like Frederick.
Something unusual had happened or he would not lag so in coming to her.

She was even more mystified at the peculiarity of his greeting. With
nerves as tautly drawn as fiddle strings, she remained very still. In
his own time he would tell her all about it. She lifted her arms, but
Frederick, unheeding, sank to the rocks beside her. She laid her hand
on his, expressing her love to him by the simple contact.

"Don't!" he said shortly. He drew away from the caressing fingers
impatiently. "I've come to tell you something."

"Well, here I air," answered Tess, quietly.

There was an exquisite tenderness in the young voice. In the white light
of the early evening Tessibel could see Frederick's brows fiercely drawn
together. Probably his mother was worse and that accounted for the
change in him. She became instantly all devotion.

"Air ye goin' to tell me about it, honey?" she entreated softly. "It'll
make ye feel better.... Tell Tessibel."

He turned away, and moved nervously until his shoulders were fitted into
a rock cavity; then, he dropped his head back with a prolonged sigh. It
was even more difficult than he had imagined.

"Of course I needn't tell you ... that I love you, need I, Tess?" he
stammered, after a while.

He could not assure her too many times of his affection. She leaned
against him, adoring, wrapped in the delight of his love as a water lily
is wrapped in its green sepals.

"I know it, dearest!" she murmured, much moved. "Ye tell me that every
day. But what else air ye--"

"You'll forgive me, and not be ... too unhappy?" Frederick interrupted
her anxiously.

Unhappy, while her whole being was transfused with ecstasy! Unhappy,
when his life and hers intermingled in one glad, glorious song of
inseparable unity! There never could be a diminution of her joy.
Frederick loved her! That was enough.

"There ain't nothin' I wouldn't forgive," she vowed, misty-eyed.

"But, Tess, I feel as though you won't forgive me this," sighed
Frederick. "But if you'll promise me--"

"I do--I will," she interjected, sitting up. "Why, of course, I'd
forgive ye anything."

Frederick dared not look at her. Even in the twilight he could feel her
eyes searching his face for an explanation.

"I need you to help me, Tessibel," he said at length.

Help him! Hadn't she ever been ready to help him? He had but to ask her.
She dropped her head against his arm again.

"Tell Tessibel," she urged, smiling.

One slender, girlish arm slipped lovingly about him. A set of small
fingers took his cold hand in a firm grasp.

"Tess loves ye, dear," came soothingly. "Now tell 'er, an' then ye'll be
happier."

Shame rose rampant in the boy's breast.

"I can't do it," he muttered under his breath.

But he knew all the time he would. The events of yesterday, culminating
with Waldstricker's brilliant offer, closed every other path. He
groaned, catching his lips tensely between his teeth. Some one had to
suffer, but the sacrifice must not touch his mother nor estrange the
Waldstrickers. That Madelene would be wronged by his action gave him
little concern. But at that moment to hurt the girl at his side; oh, how
he hated the bitter necessity! Conscious of the despicable part he was
playing, but having really decided, he drew himself from the girl's
arms. To gain a little more time, he thrust his fingers several times
through his damp hair.

"Tess," he hesitated, "you've promised you'd never tell about our being
married."

An encouraging touch turned the boy's twitching face to hers.

"An' I ain't never goin' to till ye let me," she asserted soothingly.
"Ye ain't lettin' that worry ye, darlin', eh?"

She encouraged him to answer by the tender cadence on the end of her
question.

"No, no, Tess!" Then desperately, "Oh, in God's name, how am I ever
going to get it out?"

Tessibel became suddenly terror-stricken. It must be something very
serious to force from him such language in such heart-rending tones. She
shivered nervously.

"You mustn't think for a moment, Tess," the boy burst forth, with
renewed courage, "that I don't love you! I shall love you always,
always."

"Always," echoed Tess, reassured. If Frederick loved her, nothing else
mattered. Perhaps his mother was--Her thought snapped in two at an
ejaculation from Frederick.

"And what I do is because--well, because--I must," he stammered. "You
understand that, don't you, sweetheart?"

"Sure," agreed Tess, puzzled.

"And nothing will ever be changed between you and me--"

"Nothin' can ever hurt us, Frederick," she interrupted quickly.

And Tess believed this to be the eternal truth. Faith the size of a
grain of mustard seed had piloted her through severe storms. Since Daddy
Skinner had been restored to her, that faith had grown to the size of
the mountain itself.

"I won't let it," went on the student, swiftly. "Neither must you. You
must trust me--you must believe! No, don't put your arms around my neck
till I've finished!... And then, oh, my little girl, I shan't let you
out of my arms, ever! ever!"

Greatly moved, he suddenly reached forth and drew her unresistingly to
him, smothering her hair, her eyes with kisses, clinging to her, as if
he would never, never let her go.

Her heart beat wildly against his.... And she loved him more than all
the world, and loved God more because of him.

But he released her almost immediately, and Tessibel sank back, sighing.
She was no longer nervously eager to divulge her secret. She waited
almost mechanically, as one waits for an advancing joy--as a hungry man
watches abundant preparation for the appeasing of his hunger. Hearing
him groan, she turned troubled eyes up to his.

"Daddy always says for to tell bad things quick!"

But this only served to call forth another deep breath of misery. After
a lapse of what seemed ages to the waiting girl, Frederick gathered
courage, and began,

"Tess, I've told you how very ill my mother is, haven't I?"

"Yes, an' I air awful sorry, dearie," she murmured.

The compassion he aroused subdued her voice to a whisper.

"And she's asked me to do something for her and I've--got to do it,
Tessibel," faltered Frederick.

"Sure ye have," Tess agreed.

"I didn't decide to do it, honey,"--Frederick was avoiding the vital
part--"until I saw how I could not let it make any difference to us. It
won't make any difference, dear heart!"

And Tess, already living in some distant day with full heart and full
arms, breathed.

"No, darlin', no difference to us.... 'Course not!"

"Oh, I'm glad, so glad to hear you say that!" said Frederick, relief in
his voice. "It won't be so dreadful, my sweet, if you trust me. And it
won't be long--perhaps a year, perhaps two years--"

Tessibel's muscles grew suddenly rigid.

"Years, ye say?" she repeated, stupefied. "What years? Why years?"

The resigned and submissive Tess changed instantly to an intense,
resolute woman, with compelling, fear-clouded eyes. Frederick, alarmed,
hastened to explain.

"You remember Madelene Waldstricker, don't you?"

Did she remember Madelene Waldstricker? Would she ever forget that one
night when he had treated her, his own wife, as though she were a
stranger?

"Sure, I remember 'er," she admitted, flushing. "What about 'er?"

Before replying, Frederick snatched her hand and kissed it.

"My mother.... Oh, Tessibel, it'll be all right--" He paused, then
finished despairingly, "My mother wants me to marry her!"

Tess caught the picture his words suggested; then recoiled as if death
in monstrous guise had appeared before her, open-armed. Incredulous
horror leapt alive in her eyes. He had said, "My mother wants me to
marry Madelene Waldstricker." But even though his mother had demanded
it, he couldn't! He wouldn't.... But he'd said he must!

Tess clenched her hands until the nails pressed into the flesh of her
palms. Her throat refused to yield a speaking voice, but something
screamed aloud within her as if a giant hand had clutched and torn her
soul.

"But ye air married to me," she got out at last, piteously.

Frederick put his arms about her.

"I know it, girlie dear!... I'm not denying that, but no one knows it
but us, just you and me, and I'm afraid ... I've got to do ... this ...
Mother ..."

"Oh, God, no!" shuddered Tess.

Oh, he couldn't mean to desert her now when she needed him so--needed
him more than she had even in those days when the shadow of the hateful
rope hung over her beloved father; even when Teola's child had been
thrust upon her, and Ben Letts had daily menaced her desolate life.

She was still for so long a time Frederick feared she'd fainted.

"Tess!" he spoke sharply.

"What?"

But it didn't sound like Tessibel's voice answering.

"Will you hear me out, dearest?" he pleaded. "Oh, won't you listen to
me?"

Surely she was listening intently. He had never spoken when she had not
given loving heed, if she were within the sound of his voice. Frederick
attempted to raise her face to his, but with a pathetic little word of
protest, she slipped from his arms, and fell face downward to the rocks.
The tortured boy would rather have had her scream, strike at him,
anything, than sink into that accusing, forlorn prostration!

"Tessibel! Tess!" he cried. "Whatever I do can't separate you and me. It
can't! I swear not to let it!"

He stooped and drew her gently to a sitting posture.

"No, I won't let it!" he reiterated excitedly. "I won't! No other woman
_could_ ever take your place. Can't you see, Tessibel? Can't you
understand what I'm telling you?"

"Nope," whispered Tess. "I ain't able to understand. Oh--" She lifted a
white, twitching face. "Oh, don't go 'way an' leave me! Not now--not
just yet!"

"But you said," he entreated, "you've always said, honey, you'd stand by
me, and you will, won't you? This is the only way you can help. You
will, dear, please!"

"I 'spose I air got to," she stammered, shivering. "Course I do
everything ye want me to. But--but--tell me ... why."

"It's just like this," Frederick explained reluctantly. "My mother
needs--money. She's got to have it. She's already borrowed a lot of
Waldstricker and ... even our lake place is mortgaged to him. His sister
loves me--"

The speaker felt the slender body recoil as from a blow.

"Tess!" he cried, "I don't love her. Oh, can't I get you to understand
anything? If you tremble that way, you'll drive me mad. I'm only going
to marry her.... Well, to pay the money, that's all."

He cut and clipped the words as though he hated them, yet finished his
explanation determinedly. As keenly as a darting flame, it burned into
Tessibel's soul.

"Tell me ... more," she breathed dizzily.

"It'll only mean you and I will be apart for a little while, Tess,"
stated Frederick. "When I get back home, I'm coming straight to you,
and--"

"She air lovin' ye, ye said?" interrupted Tess, huskily.

"But I don't love _her_, Tess!... I love only you!... You know that,
sweetheart!... You hear me, darling?"

"Yep, I hear," whispered the girl.

Frederick settled back against the rocks, drawing her into his arms.

"My father," he proceeded more calmly, "left us without any money. I
suppose I didn't realize how hard it's been for mother. She's only just
told me she'd mortgaged the lake place to Waldstricker and had borrowed
money from him. In a way I've been awfully selfish.... I've only thought
of you, dear."

Of course, now she couldn't tell him that intimate secret! If he knew,
he couldn't, he just couldn't do the thing his mother demanded; and she
had promised to help him. He had said it was the only way she could be
of any service, and her great love rose up and demanded the sacrifice.
Tess scarcely recognized her own voice when she next spoke.

"Did ye tell Madelene--I mean Miss Waldstricker--ye'd marry her?" she
asked.

"Well ... yes," stammered Frederick.

"And ye--ye--ye kissed 'er?... Oh, say ye didn't kiss 'er!... Ye didn't,
did ye?"

It was a plea to which Frederick would have given worlds to truthfuly
answer, "No." But his conscience, evidently sensitive in small matters,
compelled an almost inaudible, "Yes."

Raging jealousy, unendurable pain, arose within her.

"But ye couldn't--be married--to 'er, Frederick. It ain't possible, it
ain't!"

"I know I'm married to you," the boy assured her, swiftly. "I'd only be
married to her in the eyes of the world!"

The eyes of the world, the world through which she had so far walked
with proudly lifted head! Her dearly cherished love seemed to be
tumbling in ignominious ruins, and that very love had left her
defenseless. No one would ever know he belonged to her; that she
belonged to him. She would have to creep with bowed head in assumed
shame and disgrace even among the squatters.

"I'll die," she shivered, thinking of the coming spring.

His burning kisses stung her lips, through which his words tumbled one
over the other.

"You can't!... You shan't die!... Tess, you shan't! I'm only going away
for a little while.... You're mine, Tess, do you hear?... You've got to
live and love me always! You're mine! Oh, my love! Don't cry like
that!..."

The crushing strength of his arms hurt her. Suddenly another picture
shot across her brain, like a searing rocket. She clung to his arm as if
she feared that minute would snatch him from her. Then suppliantly she
lifted not only her face, but also her hands.

"Oh, she won't be like I air been to ye--like--like--"

Frederick heard the anguish in the agonized, girlish voice.

"Not like--not like I air been to ye, darlin'. Oh, God, not that!" she
cried again.

She waited in panting suspense for a fierce denial. Then she struggled
frantically in his embrace. All that was alive within her--all the
super-vitalized part of her soul--seemed scorched by the picture his
significant silence had painted.

"Let me go!" she demanded.

Frederick tightened his arms about her.

"Not yet, not yet! Stay here, rest here, my sweet."

But again seeing that image of the small woman in her place, Tess
struggled and freed herself.

"I air goin' to Daddy now," she whispered. "An' you can go home too,
please."

But he caught her again to his breast.

"You belong to me!" he cried intensely. "I won't go!--I'm going to stay,
Tessibel! I will--I will stay!"

Tess wrenched herself free.

"Ye c'n come again," she promised. "Some other time afore--"

Frederick caught her broken sentence and finished it.

"Yes, yes, Tessibel," he exclaimed. "I'll come back soon, very soon!"

"Sure, soon," quivered Tess, swaying, "go on, please!"

She flung up her hands, crying low in suppressed agony, as Frederick
whirled from her and walked rapidly away. He had not taken ten steps
before he was moved to go back, to take her again in his arms, but
thinking over all that had happened, of how hard it had been to flounder
through his explanation, he shut his teeth and went on.

With super-hearing, Tess listened until the sound of his footsteps died
in the lane.

He had gone--Frederick--her husband! Gone to another woman! No, that
couldn't be! He was hers always and forever. She sank down on the
rocks--on the dear, ragged rocks, where she had watched for him and
prayed for him, where life had been at its highest and best.

She tried to recall all he had said. Oh, yes, he was coming back. What
did he mean by coming back? When? She dully wondered if it would be
tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. Three days, perhaps,
three long, interminable days to think of him and to long for him. Could
she live three days? She sprang to her feet. She must see him
again--now--this minute; hear him unsay that awful thing. Why, he
couldn't belong to Madelene Waldstricker! Like a deer, Tess sped along
the rocks in the direction of the lane. A night bird brushed a slender
wing against her curls as he shot by her. To him she paid no heed save
to swerve a little.

Wildly, twice, three times she cried, "Frederick!"

An owl hooted a mocking response from the willow tree nearby.

"Frederick! Frederick!" rang through the night, out over the lake,
unanswered. He was gone! The realization of this brought the girl
crouching, shivering to the shore, where her feet were lapped by the
incoming waves. And there she lay, until as in a dream, a bewildered
dream, she heard Daddy Skinner's voice calling her. By a supreme effort
she gathered her senses together.

"I air comin', Daddy."

She stumbled through the night back to the shanty, her secret locked in
her breast.




CHAPTER XVII

TESSIBEL'S PRAYER


For four lingering days, hour after hour, Tess of the Storm Country
waited for Frederick. He had promised to return, and so each day when
her household duties were completed, she hastened to the ragged rocks at
the edge of the forest. But her eager hope passed into sick apprehension
as the lingering twilights of successive evenings deepened into the
darkness of night and he did not come. Tess grew paler and more
dejected, so that even Daddy Skinner's fading sight remarked it.

"Ain't feelin' quite pert, be ye, brat?" he inquired.

Tessibel started nervously.... It was habitual now if any one spoke to
her quickly.

"I ain't sick, daddy," she assured him. "I guess it air the hot day
makin' me tired."

"Nuff to bake the hair off a cast iron pup," observed Andy, from the
garret hole.

"I'll bet it air some warm up there, pal," sympathized Orn.

"Ye bet yer neck," agreed Andy cheerfully.

Then Tessibel hopefully started for the rocks in search of the sunshine
which had left her life with Frederick four days before.

       *       *       *       *       *

Deforrest Young, too, had noticed the change in his little friend ...
had observed her extreme nervousness and unusual shyness when she
recited her lessons. Today, moreover, she had not appeared at all. Late
that afternoon he called at the Skinner home to find the reason.

Daddy Skinner occupied his customary seat on the bench in front of the
shack, watching with listless, dull eyes the restless waves. He greeted
the professor with his twisted smile, as the latter called to him from
the lane.

"Where's Tessibel?" asked Young, after they had remarked upon the
weather and the health of themselves and their friends.

"Well, I don't know just where she air gone," replied Orn, "but seems to
me's if she went off toward the rocks. Shall I call her, eh?"

"No, no! I'll go look for her," answered the professor.

He found her sitting pensively on the rocks, her hand resting on the
head of Kennedy's brindle bulldog, and in the moment he stood there
gazing at the girl, he felt unaccountably saddened.

When Tess became conscious of his presence, she gave him a shadowy,
fleeting smile, which vanished almost before it had fully appeared. Her
eyes were heavy and dim with unshed tears, and she was as pale as the
mist clouds that drifted slowly across the sky and away over the eastern
hills. Perhaps it was the melancholy of that smile appealing to his deep
love that made Professor Young hurry toward her, holding out his hands.

Pete greeted him with a welcoming whine, wagging his whole body, in
default of the tail he had lost.

"Your father said you were here, child," Young said in a low voice. "May
I sit down?"

Tess acquiesced by a nod of her head, and he settled himself comfortably
on the rock. Crouching down on the other side of her, Pete put his head
in the girl's lap. Her hands rested upon his broad back, while the man
played with him, pulling and poking his heavy jowls and hanging lips,
and the dog uttered delighted growls at the attention.

"I'm afraid my little girl hasn't been quite well of late," Young began
presently.

The red-brown eyes fell and a flushed, lovely face bent beneath a shower
of bronze curls.

"Has she?" he queried again, with tender sympathy.

Lower and lower bent the auburn head until the man could no longer see
the troubled face.

"I knew there was something wrong with my little pupil," said he softly.
"Now tell me about it."

"I can't," whispered Tessibel. "I ain't able."

Oh, if she only could! At that moment it seemed that all of her
troubles would take wing if this thoughtful, solemn-eyed friend shared
the burden of her heart. When she lifted her face again and repeated, "I
can't tell," Deforrest Young placed his fingers under her chin and kept
his eyes steadily upon her until the transparent lids drooped and the
long lashes rested on her cheeks.

"Is it something you'll tell me some time?" he asked.

Tessibel shuddered, and made no reply, although there was a slight
negative shake of her head.

"Then I'll ask you another question, Tess dear," insisted Young. "Isn't
there something I can do to help you?"

Tessibel shook her head, a violent blush suffusing her face. Tears
gathered thickly in the brown eyes. To see her thus was agony.... His
great love sought to share and bear her suffering, yet he could not
force her confidence.

"I'm going to exact one promise from you," he continued, much moved.

"I'll be awful glad to promise what I can," she murmured humbly.

"Then it's this." Compassion for her abject misery was expressed in the
very tones of his deep voice. "If at any time in the future you need
me ... for anything, no matter what, will you--will you come to me and
tell me? Will you let me help you?"

Impetuous appreciation of his sincerity caused Tess to touch his arm.

"Nobody were ever so good to me in all the world," she said brokenly.

Never had Deforrest Young so keenly desired the right to care for her as
he did then. The impulse to take her in his arms, to tell her, as he had
once, that he loved her, almost unnerved him; but he could not. Tess
seemed of late to have grown away from him, to be no longer the
light-hearted child she had been, even in that dark time when her father
was in prison.

"You haven't promised me yet, Tessibel," he insisted seriously.

"I promise ... sure!" said Tess, swallowing hard.

In the silence that followed, Pete, as though conscious that all was
not well with his adored mistress, rose on his haunches, and tried to
kiss her face. The dog's sympathy was sweet. She wanted Frederick so
badly! Oh, she thought, if she dared ask Deforrest. She would! She could
not bear another night of this uncertainty, this suspense.

"I air wishin' to ask ye somethin'," she stammered. "Don't tell anybody,
will ye?"

"Certainly not," declared Young, quickly.

"Do ye--do ye happen to know where--the student Graves air--today?"

Young considered the long curls falling over each shoulder and the
anxious eyes. She was staring fixedly at him. Was the student somehow
connected with her present distress? Frederick's marked attention of
late to Madelene Waldstricker was, he supposed, generally known. He had
not seen him with Tess for a long time. He had concluded the young man's
interest in the squatter girl had passed. Was it possible that Tess
still cared for him?

"Well, that's hard to tell," he told her presently, looking out over the
lake. "But if they've had good luck, I suppose the young people are
quite well on their way to Paris by now. The ceremony, one of those
hasty affairs, was performed yesterday. They took the night train to New
York."

Tessibel's breath caught in her throat.... The heavens seemed to tumble
into the lake.... An awful booming sounded in her ears. She grew limp,
sick at heart, ... dizzy, but she made no outcry, only, unconscious of
its pain, bit her lip until it bled. The hope she had nursed, that he
would not do this awful thing was lost.

Pete stirred uneasily. Restrained by Tessibel's hand on his head, he
laid down again making whining noises in his throat, inarticulate
expressions of his love for the suffering girl.

"Didn't you know he was going to marry Miss Waldstricker?" asked Young.

"Yep,--I knew," whispered Tess, when she could breathe, "but--tell
me--about it."

"There's not much to tell," explained the Professor, reluctant to
distress her. "It seems the young lady didn't want a large wedding and
did want to start abroad immediately, so they had a private affair--no
one present but the relatives."

Tess made an effort to control herself.

"Graves won't go back to college any more," went on Young. "He's going
into business with his brother-in-law, Mr. Waldstricker. I understand
when they return from abroad they will live with my sister the rest of
the winter."

There was no response from the drooping little figure at his side.

Tess was thinking of the winter without Frederick. She sickened as she
pictured him away off in that foreign land. It seemed he must be at the
very end of the world. It bewildered her to think of his being with
another woman than herself. She could not think of them as married--He
was her husband. She was silent so long that Young spoke to her softly.
"Shall I take you home, my dear?"

Numb and dazed, she sat dumbly enduring the hurt.

"Nope, I air goin' to stay here awhile." 'Twas only a trembling breath
that wafted the man his answer.

Young hesitated. Then rising he walked away along the rocks, leaving
Tess and the brindle dog amid the falling shadows.

Spent with emotion, the squatter girl heard the retreating footsteps of
her friend die away in the twilight. Then she pushed the dog gently from
her lap and laid herself down upon the rocks and pillowed her aching
head upon his body.

Gradually the tender melancholy of the dying day touched her mood with
subtle sympathy and soothed her troubled spirit. Rapt in rueful revery,
she followed mechanically the flight of a flock of birds. Like swift
shadows flitting over the water, they dipped and winged upward and away,
out of her vision.

Frederick had gone from her life almost as completely and as suddenly as
those birds had disappeared from her sight. How mercilessly short had
been her days of happiness, those days threaded and inter-threaded with
her husband's love.

The sun had set and the purples and reds were fading from the fleecy
clouds in the eastern sky. The gloaming grew in caressing cadences up
from the limpid lake to the ragged rocks. The night winds blew gently
down the hill side, the swaying leaves were whispering "hush, hush," and
the surface of the lake, shimmering in the mellow light of the rising
moon, was flecked here and there into silvery sparkles. The airs of
evening fluttered the ringlets upon her forehead and enveloped her hot
body in cooling comfort. Responsive to the quiet beauty about her, the
turmoil of her thoughts subsided. The sharp anguish which had at first
stunned her was becoming but a dull ache, permitting her to think
connectedly.

This place and this hour held the most vital associations of her young
life. Here in the gathering gloom, Frederick had wooed and won her, and
had spent with her many of the too few hours of her wedded bliss. Upon
such another evening, she had made him the promises that had led to her
only deceptions of Daddy Skinner, and here, four short days ago, her
husband had murdered her joy.

Reflecting upon her plight, its hopelessness well nigh overwhelmed her.
Through the utter desolution of her life rang the haunting, words of the
Cantata she'd heard sung last Eastertide in the Big Ithaca Church.

"Oh, was there ever loneliness like this?"

Over and over the melody repeated itself, insistently recalling the
Master's agony in the garden, and lifting her thoughts slowly upward
away from herself to His ultimate triumph and glory.

Betrayed and deserted by the man that loved her, she fixed her attention
instinctively upon the Divine Love "with whom is no variableness,
neither shadow of turning" and sought courage from the words of Him "who
spake as never man spake." His command, "Love your enemies, do good to
them that hate you and pray for them which despitefully use you," came
to her tortured heart, a healing inspiration.

Immediately she got to her feet. The dog, tired of the enforced
inactivity, jumped up and ran to and fro on the rocks, barking. She had
given her husband up to another woman--he had said it was all she could
do for him. But she loved him and her love rejoiced in giving. Pete,
puzzled that the girl did not join him in his play as usual, came back
and stood in front of her and looked up into her face. She turned to the
old pine tree, her familiar friend, and extended her arms to the God of
her exalted faith.

"Goddy, dear, goodest Goddy," she prayed, "bless my Frederick wherever
he air--an'--help Tessibel to die--in--in the spring."




CHAPTER XVIII

A LETTER


A great deal had happened during the three weeks Frederick had been
gone. Helen Young had married Ebenezer Waldstricker, and they had been
away now nearly two weeks on their honeymoon. Deforrest Young, too, had
spent most of the time out of Ithaca. Tessibel Skinner heard from him
frequently, and through his good letters, she had been able to keep up
her studies.

One Monday morning while Tess was doing the simple chores around the
shack, she had the door open to admit the vagrant breezes of the summer
day. Andy, as his custom was on such occasions, lay quietly upon the
attic floor, secure from the observation of any chance passer-by.
Stepping to the door to shake her dust rag, Tess saw Jake Brewer coming
up the path.

"Hello, Jake," she called, a little loudly to warn Andy, "how air ye?"

"Pretty tol'able, thank ye, Tess," Brewer answered politely, "how air
you, and how's yer pa?"

"Daddy's pretty bad this mornin'," she told him, a reluctant smile
appearing for a moment at the corners of her mouth.

"Pshaw! Tessie, ye don't tell me. It air the heat, ain't it? But Tess, I
air got somethin' for you," he sniggered. "Bet ye can't guess what it
air."

"Sure, I can't, Jake." The girl tried to match his cheerful manner.

She wished she might greet her squatter friends as of yore, but her
heart was sad and lay stonelike in her breast. Of late, Jake had been
very kind, running many errands for her. Daddy Skinner was a favorite
with the inhabitants of the Silent City, and now that he was so ill, all
the other squatters did what they could for his sorrowing daughter.

"Come in, Jake," invited Tess. "Mebbe Daddy'd like to see ye.... He
ain't up yet.... Wait a minute.... I'll ask 'im!"

Jake stayed her with a chuckle and a beckoning motion of his forefinger.

"First I'll give ye what I brung ye, Tess," he said, while he fumbled in
his pocket. "Here! Look! It air a letter with a big ship up in the
corner of it.... Ain't it cute?"

Tessibel held out a trembling hand for the square envelope Brewer
proffered her. How many times within the past weeks had she visualized a
ship as it took its rapid way to the other side of the world! How many
times had she seen her husband with Madelene Waldstricker on that
pictured steamer! Now here it was before her very eyes, more stately
even than her mind had portrayed it. She stared at the letter, her face
going very white.

"Ye don't seem to be tickled, brat," said the squatter, grinning.

"I air, though, Jake," she replied, "awful tickled.... Come on in an'
see Daddy!"

She slipped the letter into her pocket and led the way to the back room.

She bent over the bed and roused her father.

"Jake air here to see ye, Daddy," she said. "Sit down, Jake! He can't
talk very loud, but ye can see he air awful glad to have ye here....
Daddy dear, Jake Brewer air tryin' to shake hands with ye."

Orn's great hand lifted slowly.

"Glad to see ye, Jake," he mumbled. "I ain't the best this mornin'!"

"Ye'll get better with the goin' of the warm weather," consoled Jake.
"These days be hot now for the wellest of us."

"Yep," murmured Daddy Skinner, drowsily.

Tessibel left the two men alone, and went back to the kitchen. Her
throat was filled with longing, her lips drawn a little closer together.
She sat down near the door, looking out upon the lake. She dared not
open the letter then, not until Jake had gone and Daddy was asleep.

Brewer came out quietly, his cheerful manner subdued somewhat.

Tess got to her feet. She tried to smile, but the serious expression on
the squatter's face brought her quickly to his side.

"Jake," she murmured, quick-breathed, "ye think he air awful sick, eh?"

Brewer shifted his gaze out through the door. The sight of the girl's
pleading face hurt him.

"He ain't real pert; that air a fact," was his reply.

"We air doin' everythin' we can think of," Tess told him. "Mr. Young's
doctor comes awful often, an' he says Daddy air got heart trouble."

"He do seem to have a hard time breathin'," answered Jake, trying to be
cheerful; "but if I was you, Tessie, I wouldn't worry. He'll be gettin'
well. He air stronger'n a horse."

Tess wanted to believe her father was better. She couldn't allow her
mind to take any other view of it.

"He air always been right rugged," she said, nodding, "an' if his
heart'd only stop beatin' so hard--" She hesitated and touched Brewer's
arm. "Thank ye fer bringin' my letter," she interrupted herself
irrelevantly.

"That air all right, Tess," smiled Brewer. "Ye see when I go to the
Postoffice fer our mail, I ask fer your'n an' fer Longman's, an' I most
allers get some fer one or t'other.... Nice day, eh, ain't it?"

"Yep," affirmed Tess, dully. She bade the fisherman good-bye and stood
watching him take his way along the lakeside until he had disappeared.

When she turned she caught sight of Andy's glistening eyes looking at
her.

"Jake air a good feller, ain't he, brat?" he asked.

Tess came directly under the ceiling hole.

"Yep, he sure air," she answered. "Andy, I air a feelin' so bad today.
Will ye listen for Daddy if I go out a spell?"

"Course I will, go long," he urged. "Close the door when ye go out. I'll
keep my ears open."

Tess walked slowly along the lake shore path, her head drooping wearily.
She knew the letter in her pocket was from Frederick. To have opened it
even before Andy's loving eyes, or in the presence of any other person,
would have been, in her opinion, a desecration.

Against the high gray shoulder of a ragged rock, she sat down pensively.
It was here she and Frederick had spent so many happy hours and, now,
alone, she had come to read his letter. She took it slowly from her
pocket, studied the picture of the ship in the corner, and whispered
over and over the name under it. It seemed almost impossible to tear it
open. What had he told her? She pressed the envelope to her lips. Her
darling's hands had touched it, his fingers had written her name upon
it. Ripping it slowly along the edge, she took out the contents, and
there fluttered to the rock a yellow backed bill. Tess picked it up and
examined it carefully. Frederick had sent her some money. Tess laid it
down again and placed a small stone upon it. Then she took up the
letter.

For a few seconds her eyes misted so profusely she could not read. She
dashed the back of her hand across her lids, choking down hard sobs that
rose insistently. When she could control her emotions enough to read,
she fixed her eyes upon the first words: "My own darling:"

Crunching the paper between her fingers, she dropped her head and wept
wildly for several minutes. She wanted Frederick then as she had never
wanted a soul in all the living world.

"I am here alone in the writing room," Tess read on, wiping her eyes.
"Oh, Tessibel, when I think of you there without me, I go almost mad!
What I've done seems the very worst thing in the world, and it grows
worse as the hours go by. Forgive me, my darling. I dared not come back
after that night; I was afraid some one would see me and tell my mother
or some of the Waldstrickers. Tessibel, if I could only jump into the
sea and get back to you, I should be the happiest fellow in the world. I
love you more and more, and I'm perfectly miserable without you."

Her fingers on her lips, and her eyes on the letter, Tess wept softly.
Oh, how she loved him, too, her husband.

"I won't stay away very long, my dearest," the letter continued. "I'm
coming back to you and shall never leave you again. I'm sending you some
money which I want you to use, and I'll send more very soon. This will
make you comfortable for a little while."

Tess picked up the bill and looked at it once more. Then she put it down
again and went on reading the letter.

"I shall always love you better than any one else in the world,
Tessibel ... when I return we shall be together most of the time. I shall,
I hope, get over my fear of Ebenezer Waldstricker. I'm studying in my mind
a way to make it possible for us to have a home together, of which no
one shall know. Believe that I love you ... always and always, my
darling.
                                                Your
                                                           Frederick."

Tess lifted her head with a long-drawn sigh. But there was something
more to read, a line or two tacked on the end of the letter.

"P. S. My darling, I want you to burn this! I fear some one might get
hold of it.
                                                                   F."

After reading over and over the letter, until she had almost learned it
by heart, she went back to the shanty, to do as Frederick had bidden
her. Kissing the pages again and again and weeping softly so as not to
disturb Andy, Tess burned the letter.

That night when Daddy Skinner was sleeping, his laboring breath heard
plainly through the shanty, a red-brown head bent over the kitchen
table. Around the flickering light fluttered the summer moths, and once
in a while one of Tessibel's beloved night things dashed in at the
window, took a zig-zag course about the lamp, and flew out again into the
shadowy weeping willows. A long, sobbing sigh from the girl brought the
dwarf's eager face to the hole in the ceiling.

"Air ye sick, brat?" he whispered.

Tess lifted her eyes from the table.

"Nope, Andy, I were thinkin', that's all," she answered, low-toned.

And perhaps fifteen minutes later, when she had written a name on
several envelopes and had torn them up in seeming disapproval, Andy
ventured again.

"Ye act awful sad, brat dear. Can't ye tell me about it?"

Tessibel rose to her feet, the gleam of the night light radiating upon
the red-brown of her eyes. She swallowed the lump in her throat before
she could speak.

"I air a little sad, Andy dear," she murmured.

"What were ye doin', honey?" asked the dwarf.

Without answering at that moment, Tess took up the envelope she'd
sealed. Two steps took her to the mantel, where she placed the letter
against the clock, standing a minute to gaze at it. The next instant she
explained to the little man leaning above her.

"I were writin' a little, Andy, darlin'."

Then she went softly into Daddy Skinner's room and closed the door.




CHAPTER XIX

ITS ANSWER


While Tessibel Skinner, lonely and despondent, was grieving in the
squatter country, Frederick Graves arrived in Paris with his young wife.
There had been for him but few hours since that last evening upon the
ragged rocks, during which Tessibel's face had not haunted him, the
brown eyes, sometimes smiling, more frequently shadowed with tears.
Impotent remorse possessed his days and filled his wakeful nights with
anguish. At such times when life seemed intolerable, the thought of the
comfort he had supplied for his mother and sister was balm to his
troubled soul.

He regretted, too, that he had not gone to the squatter settlement to
see Tess again before his marriage to Madelene. He had thought, then,
that the sight of her pleading pain would be more than he could bear. He
had already vowed to himself over and over with clenched teeth that he
would stay but a short time away from America. He must see Tess. He did
not worry over her keeping the secret of their clandestine marriage ...
he had implicit confidence in her promise.

Madelene's keen enjoyment in displaying the many sights, already
familiar to her, bored him to distraction, and they had been in France
but a few days before she discovered his indifference to the wonders
which seemed of such importance to her. On the way over she had noticed
his spells of abstraction. She had seen how quickly the shadows
descended upon her husband's face when it was in repose. With an
intuition characteristically feminine, she concluded rightly that
Frederick's interest was not in her, that his attention was really
concentrated upon something quite apart from his wife and their
honeymoon. She determined to find out the reason.

One morning, breakfasting in their charming room, Madelene started a
bright conversation, which Frederick met with but a chilly response.

"What's the matter with you, Fred?" she demanded curiously. "You haven't
spoken a pleasant word for two days."

A faint smile sketched itself about the corners of Frederick's lips.

"Aren't you stretching that a little, my dear?" he evaded
half-playfully.

"Well, perhaps a wee bit," laughed Madelene, ruefully. "But honestly,
dear, you look as if you'd lost your last friend instead of being on
your--honeymoon."

She sprang up, rounded the table and perched daintily on the arm of his
chair.

"I do want to make you happy, darling," she urged. "What's the trouble?"

Frederick made a slightly impatient gesture with one shoulder.

"I'm happy enough, Madelene! But it's this beastly weather! I suppose
that's the reason I feel so lackadaisical. If you don't mind, I don't
believe I'll go out today."

Madelene uttered a little cry of disappointment.

"Now, I _am_ vexed!" she pouted prettily.

"Oh, then I'll go with you, of course," Frederick hastily cut in. "It
doesn't make any difference to me."

The young wife felt an impulse to anger.

"But it ought to make a difference, Fred dear," she pointed out to him.
"Why, you make me feel so small ... so insignificant.... I don't want to
drag you about if you don't want to go."

Absorbed in his self-centered meditations his wife's sightseeing
excursions seemed to him a perfect nuisance.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, dear," he apologized hurriedly.

Madelene got up and went to the window and gazed down upon the street.

"I know what we'll do," she stated, dancing back to the table. "Let's go
to some quiet, cool place for a week or two. I hate Paris in the hot
weather, anyway. And it'll be fun to be by ourselves ... and we'll have
long walks.... Would you like that?"

The dark wave of blood surging into Frederick's temples made her look
curiously at him. Why should he be embarrassed at such a suggestion?

"As you please, my dear," he interrupted her thought.

Madelene sighed. He did look ill. It might be the hot weather, but he
had such a strange, detached manner most of the time ... as if he were
far away ... or she was. Her mind was busy with the problem. She could
not eat.

Frederick, too, was but toying with his breakfast. He was wondering just
what Madelene was planning to do in the country. It would be even harder
for him there than in the city. With Tessibel's face always between
them, he could not make a lover's love to her anywhere.

An hour or so later, while Frederick had gone to smoke under the trees,
his wife stood critically studying her reflection in the glass ... with
but few misgivings. She was pretty, surely so, and very rich! What more
could a man want? In the coolness of the country, Frederick would be
better. He would lose his moroseness and give his undivided attention to
her. She would make all the arrangements for the change without
disturbing him. He should not be bothered a little bit; and Madelene
grew quite happy again with the thought of having Frederick all to
herself in some romantic country spot.

She summoned her maid, and for a while with the aid of the hotel
officials, she sought for a place near Paris, yet far enough away to
escape its harassing heat and noises. By night Madelene had decided upon
a farm near the village of Epernon.

"We can get in to the city to shop, Marie," she told her maid. "But Mr.
Graves simply can't stand the hot weather in town."

"He does look sick and worried, ma'am, doesn't he?" agreed the maid.

Twenty-four hours later Frederick and Madelene were settled in a pretty
villa nestled at the edge of the forest. Nature in its noblest
expression surrounded them. At the going down of the sun, Madelene stood
beside her husband on the porch, and pressed her cheek fondly against
his shoulder.

"It's so beautiful, isn't it, dear?" she whispered coaxingly.

Out of his wife's words and the gentle gloaming, came a deadly sense of
loneliness. A shiver shook Frederick from head to foot. His only answer
was an ejaculated affirmative in a hoarse voice. The weird sighing of
the trees took him back to Ithaca, back to the ragged rocks ... to
Tessibel. For a moment he was so agonized that tears stung his lids to a
deep hurt.

If in noisy Paris he had been carried in spirit to the squatter country,
where a girl stood and gazed at him with red-brown eyes, how much more
did she haunt him in the quiet spot where the leaves sang the same old
tunes they sang in her world, where the wind played among them as it did
in the Silent City! Now and then from yonder clump of trees a bird
twittered; an owl screeched from the tall tree at the right, and farther
on a brook chanted its purling song like Tessibel's brook under the
mudcellar. Oh, his dear little girl! His Tess of the Storm Country! If
in those olden days he had desired her, now that desire was a hundred
times more poignant. In all his willful life he had never suffered like
this. Tess with her clinging arms, her sweet, winning ways! He sighed a
deep, long sigh. Yet soon he would hear something from her. He had
written her, ... had sent her money for the necessities of her simple
life ... his heart throbbed at the thought of a letter from her.

Madelene's conversation he had not heard, and it was not until she spoke
directly to him that he remembered her presence.

"Don't you think so, Fred?" she was asking.

He heaved another sigh as he left Ithaca and came back to France after
that flight of fancy.

"Don't I think what? I really didn't hear what you said, Madelene," he
admitted guiltily.

Madelene experienced a hot flash of indignation.

"Do you mean to say you've allowed me to talk all this time and you
haven't heard a word I've said?" she demanded in a thin, rasping voice.

"I'm sorry," murmured Frederick. "Pardon."

Then the girl lapsed into a sulky silence, and Frederick, too sick at
heart, too indifferent to her likes and dislikes to care, did not
encourage her to repeat what she had said.

It was perhaps a week later when young Mrs. Graves felt her first real
jealousy. In the happiness of her hasty marriage, she had almost
forgotten the story told her by the gossips of Ithaca. It was only when
her husband's eyes were encircled and darkened by a far-away expression
that Tess entered her mind. But even then, after a glance in the mirror,
she dismissed the little singer contemptuously.

One morning just before breakfast, they were standing under the trees.
On Frederick's face was that dreary look of discontent. Madelene
contemplated him steadily. She had watched and studied, but had not yet
solved the problem that occupied her mind. Was the squatter girl the
obstacle? she wondered. It didn't seem possible. Frederick was so
fastidious. Why, the girl could scarcely speak a word of good English!
But it would do no harm to make sure. She decided to speak to her
husband of Tessibel Skinner. But how?

Frederick owed her some consideration, and Madelene deeply desired he
should be more attentive to her. Suddenly she laughed aloud. Frederick
turned, the cloud partially lifting from his eyes.

"A happy thought, I dare say?" he inquired.

"Not very," answered Madelene flippantly. "I was wondering how long it
would take that Skinner girl to earn enough money to pay for a trip like
this."

Had a bomb gone off in his face, Frederick couldn't have been more
appalled. His brows drew together in a dark frown; his face grew livid
and tensely lined. Madelene noted the effect of her words. Her suspicion
was confirmed,--the problem solved! It was the squatter girl who stood
between her and her husband!

"I forbid you," said Frederick in a low, angry voice, "ever to mention
that name again."

Then he whirled about and walked away through the trees. In alarm,
Madelene sped after him.

"Frederick!" she implored. "I'm awfully sorry I said that.... I didn't
mean to hurt you."

He shook her from his arm.

"Very well," he replied savagely, "but just please don't speak of her
again."

Tears blinded the girl's vision.... An enraged feeling rose in her
heart. Never in all her spoiled life had any one spoken to her in such a
way. If Ebenezer had been there, Frederick would never have dared!

By this time, having stood mute for several seconds, she was thoroughly
indignant. This was her first real conflict with Frederick, and she
began to feel ill as well as incensed.

"It's dreadfully disagreeable of you to get angry over a little thing
like that," she said impetuously. "One would think you loved that girl
and not me. I was told lots of times you were crazy about her, but of
course,--"

She hesitated now. She wanted to say cruel things about the squatter
girl back in Ithaca, but she dared not. She was overwrought with anger,
but her husband's threatening face forced her to silence.

"Are you determined to keep harping on a subject I wish to forget?" His
words carried an ominous meaning, which quickened her already awakened
jealousy. Determined to probe the matter to the bottom she demanded.

"Why should you wish to forget her? Does she disturb your memory as much
as that?"

"Perhaps," replied Frederick gloomily.

He saw the danger involved in the discussion and curbed his tongue. Then
he left her and walked quickly into the house. Madelene followed, angry
and rebellious, and found him seated at the table, white-faced, with the
morning mail unnoticed before him. Still enraged, she glanced over the
letters indifferently.

"They're all for me with the exception of one," she said sulkily, "and
it's an Ithaca letter.... May I open it?"

Frederick took it from her and looked at the envelope. His name was
staring back at him as if every cramped letter were an accusing eye, and
the writing was in the hand of Tessibel Skinner! He studied it a
minute....

"You have mail of your own to read, my dear," he said quite kindly.
"Let's have breakfast."

When during the morning Frederick found a moment to himself, he took
from his pocket the letter that had been searing through his clothing to
his heart. Gazing upon it, he shook as if he had the ague. Trembling
hands held it up to the light. Several times he turned it over. What had
Tess written to him? Had she told him, as he had her, that she loved him
better than all the rest of the world? He uttered a desperate
ejaculation and stretched out his arms. If he could have spanned the
world that separated them, he would have dragged her to him by the
terrible force of his desire. Again he turned the letter over.

Something kept him from ripping it open. He longed to delay the
happiness of reading it, and while he waited, he lifted it to his lips
and passionately kissed the crude writing. It ran up hill a little, but
that only made him smile and love it the more. It brought memories of
past joys, memories of Tessibel's endeavor to learn. Poor little child!
Suddenly he slipped the paper knife into the envelope and slowly dragged
it across the top.... Then he inserted his fingers and pulled out--the
bill he had sent her. In a sudden passion he looked frantically into the
empty envelope.... Nothing!... Absolute emptiness!

The money fluttered from his hand to the floor, where it lay like a
sentient thing, staring back as if mocking him. He stood half-blindly
gazing upon it. When he looked more closely, he stooped and picked it
up. There written across its yellow back was the one little line,

"Darlin', I air a prayin' for you every day. Tessibel."

In a storm of remorse, he collapsed to the floor with his face in his
hands.




CHAPTER XX

MADELENE COMPLAINS TO EBENEZER


"Read that letter; then you'll see why I'm angry," said Ebenezer
Waldstricker to Helen one morning after he had frowningly perused a
letter from Madelene. "Her last two have had a touch of this thing in
them, too. If I find--"

He stopped because his wife had dropped her eyes and begun to read.

"Dear Eb:--

"Your letters have come along one after another, but they haven't made
me feel happier. I do dislike to act as if I were telling tales; but I'm
so miserable, and you're the only one in the world I can call on in my
distress. You will forgive me, I know, dear Ebenezer. We've been here
now such a long time, that I really feel as if we ought to come home,
but I simply dread it more and more I think of it.

"You can't imagine how doleful Fred is, and I know it's the Skinner girl
who's causing it."

Helen uttered an anxious exclamation. She knew her husband's dislike of
the squatters. Her quick glance at his face called from his stern lips
the cold question.

"Have you finished?"

"No."

"Then do!" he snarled, opening and closing his hands impatiently.

"You may ask me what proof I have," Helen read on, a slight pucker
between her brows, "and I will say this: Fred has two or three times
called me by her name, nearly dying of embarrassment when I asked him to
account for it. Then once in his sleep he called out quite sharply,
'Tessibel!' He flies into all kinds of rages when I ask him questions
about her. He won't admit he's ever cared anything for her--"

Helen looked up again and paused momentarily.

"Well, Ebenezer, he used to like Tessibel!"

Waldstricker waved his hand angrily.

"What's past is past!" he roared. "And now he's got to treat my sister
decently, or I'll know the reason why.... The young pup! Why, here I've
given him the chance of his life!... But finish the letter!"

Helen sighed as she again allowed her eyes to rest on the page in her
hand.

"But I feel sure his interest in her isn't because of what she did for
his sister," Madelene's letter continued. "Will you take some pains to
find out all you can for me, Eb dear? It might be well for you to see
her yourself, and perhaps you could make her admit something. I don't
want you to worry about me, though. If I can make Fred act like a human
being, I'll be happy enough. Tell Helen I shall bring her a lot of
pretties from Paris, and will be awfully glad to see you both. Love to
all.
                                                            Madelene."

"P. S. Perhaps you can make that girl tell you whether she's had a
letter from Fred or not, and make her give it to you if you can. I think
he's written her, but he says not."

"I'm very sorry about it," Helen murmured. She laid the letter on the
table and looked across at the dark-faced man opposite, "but really I
don't think Tess cares for him at all now. Deforrest has repeatedly said
she never speaks of him, and that as far as he can make out, she has
quite forgotten him."

"I'll make it my business to find out," muttered Waldstricker. "If I
discover she has any hold on that young--"

"They may just've been romantic," excused Helen. "Why don't you ask
Deforrest to find out for you?"

Ebenezer shook his head.

"I'm going down first myself," said he.

Helen rose and went to her husband's side. Her eyes were misty with
unshed tears. She so desired Ebenezer to be himself again. She felt a
little rebellious when she considered Madelene's turning her peaceful
home into such a turmoil.

"You won't be stern with her, dear?" she pleaded.

"I'll treat her as she deserves," snapped Waldstricker.... "If Deforrest
weren't so stubborn and hadn't rented Graves' place for the next four
years, I'd do my best to oust the Skinners from that property.... One
thing is certain, the old witch has got to go."

Helen sighed, exasperated. Her husband's face was crimson and the cords
in his neck as rigid as taut ropes.

"Ebenezer dear, why will you get yourself into such a state of
excitement over a set of people who'll never come into your life at
all?" she begged of him.

There was gentle reproof in her tones. Ebenezer glanced at her sharply.

"Never come into my life at all!" he repeated. "Does this look as if
they never came into my life, eh?" He leaned over and tapped Madelene's
letter. "Am I going to see my sister--"

"Madelene is probably mistaken," interjected Helen, hopefully.

"It'll be better for the squatter girl if she is," answered Ebenezer,
whirling and going out.

Now it happened that Tessibel was standing outside the cottage clipping
her hedge when she heard the sound of horses' hoofs coming down the
lane. She stepped to the shanty door, gave the sound which warned Andy
of a stranger's approach, and was back again when Waldstricker's great
black horse came in sight. Opposite her, he drew his steed to a
standstill and bowed curtly. Tess had never seen his lips so sternly
set, not even when he had dragged her from Mother Moll's hut. She made
no move to go to him.

"I came to speak to you, Miss Skinner," he called. "Come here?"

Then Tessibel went a few steps nearer, without laying down her shears.
Looking up into his face, she asked,

"What do ye want, Mr. Waldstricker?"

It was hard for Waldstricker to tell just what he did want when that
pair of red-brown eyes were gazing at him.

"I think I'll dismount," he said suddenly.

Throwing one leg over the broad back of the horse, he slipped to the
ground. The bridle over his arm, he walked toward the girl until she
was standing but a step away.

"You haven't any news of Bishop for me, I suppose?" he asked.

Tess grew suddenly intuitive. Immediately she knew he had not come to
ask her about Andy. She shook her head, her tongue cleaving to the roof
of her mouth.

"Have you done anything to locate him?" persisted Waldstricker.

He was feeling his way to bring in the other matter, and looking more
closely at the girl, he reluctantly admitted to himself she was
beautiful.

"My daddy's been awful sick," said Tess quickly. "I ain't much time to
do anything but take care of 'im an' sing in the church."

Waldstricker was not interested in the sick squatter, so he gave no sign
of sympathy. Rather, he wanted to come to the crucial point immediately,
but Tess was so unapproachable that he remained quiet a few embarrassing
moments to think of the right thing to say.

"You must be a little lonely now Mr. Graves is married," he stated
presently.

Tessibel grew deathly pale, and took one backward step. Had he come to
talk of Frederick? Had he found out the secret she had kept religiously
so many weeks?

"Mr. Graves?" she repeated, and then again in almost a whisper, "Mr.
Graves?"

It was the first time in ever so long she'd pronounced that loved name
aloud.

"Yes," said Waldstricker, darkly, "and I came down today to see the
letters you've received from him."

Tess lifted her head and looked him straight in the eyes. Did he know
she had had that one precious letter? Who'd told him about it? But she
couldn't give it to him,--it was burned. Neither would she admit
receiving it.

"What letters?" she asked, when she could speak.

"Those Mr. Graves sent you from France!" responded Waldstricker, in very
decided tones.

Tess thought quickly. Frederick had told her he was afraid of
Waldstricker. So was she! He was the man who had been instrumental in
taking her husband away from her. She felt a cold rage growing into
active life within her. How dared he come here.

She was looking at him so steadily that the powerful churchman lowered
his eyes, and for a moment pretended to be arranging the horse's bridle.
Then, he centered his bold, black eyes upon her until her nerves
tingled.

"I wish to see what he's written you," he repeated, this time rather
lamely.

"I ain't got any letters," Tess told him.

"Haven't you received any from him?" demanded Waldstricker.

The girl shook her head so decidedly that her curls vibrated to the very
ends. It was as though every bit of her loving body would shield the
dear one way off in France from this compelling, mesmeric man.

Waldstricker felt she was not telling the truth. He grew enraged, the
blood flying purple to his face.

"I said I wanted you to give them to me," he repeated emphatically,
going nearer her.

"An' I says as how I didn't have none," evaded Tess, growing angrier by
the minute. "An' if I did, I wouldn't give 'em to you. 'Tain't none of
yer business if I get letters, I'll have ye know!" She took several
backward steps toward the shanty. Her rising temper stirred up the
impudence she used in her conflicts with the rude fishermen. "Jump on
yer horse an' trot home," she finished tauntingly.

Waldstricker's mingled surprise and anger showed in his exclamation.
What an impertinent little huzzy she was! In his heart he believed
Madelene was right, but the defiant squatter girl baffled him. He would
go home more than ever satisfied Tess Skinner was keeping from him
something about his young brother-in-law. He mounted his horse, his
muscles working with rage.

"I'll make you confess sooner or later," he muttered ominously, "or I'll
know the reason why."

"Scoot!" was all Tess said, and she waved her hand and snapped the
pruning shears together derisively.

Waldstricker whirled his horse up the lane, and striking the animal with
a spur, bounded away.




CHAPTER XXI

THE END OF THE HONEYMOON


Helen Waldstricker walked nervously up and down the library. Many times
during the past hour she had gone to the window and stared out into the
night. It was almost impossible to read or work with her mind in such a
state of perturbation. Every sound caused her to lay aside her book. She
was waiting for Ebenezer to return from the station with Madelene and
Frederick.

Helen dreaded the home-coming of the newly married pair. Ebenezer was
all upset over the letters his sister had written him from abroad, and
as Deforrest was obliged to be away so much, she had spent many hours of
mental worry by herself.

The sound of a carriage took her into the hall, where she stood until
Ebenezer threw open the door.

The first sight of her young sister-in-law showed Mrs. Waldstricker that
the girl was not at all contented and happy. Madelene's face was pale,
but not more so than Frederick's. Ebenezer looked like a thunder cloud.
Helen, with her usual tact and sweetness greeted the young people in a
sisterly manner.

"I'm so glad to have you both back," she purred, kissing first one, then
the other. "Now, dear,"--to Madelene, "come along up with me and get off
your wraps and then we'll have dinner."

The two women went upstairs together in silence, and it was not until
Helen had closed the door and Madelene had removed her wraps that Mrs.
Graves turned upon her brother's wife.

"I suppose you noticed from Ebbie's letters that I've been awfully
unhappy?"

"Yes," admitted Helen, "but I was in hopes it had passed over."

"It's worse now than it was before," answered Madelene, "I'm perfectly
certain he doesn't care for me--"

"Then why did he marry you?" interrupted Helen.

"For my money! That's why!"

Helen's answering ejaculation brought a short, bitter laugh from the
girl.

"Oh, no, dear," protested Mrs. Waldstricker. "You must be mistaken. I'm
positive, he's an honorable young man."

Madelene flung herself impatiently into a chair.

"Sit down," she said. "Don't stand up!... Oh, I'm so tired! It seems
years since we left France. And Fred's been like a death's house all the
time. I can't for the life of me see why he should act the way he does.
Why, Helen, he goes days without as much as ever starting to speak to
me. If he talks at all, I simply have to drag the words from him."

"That's dreadful," sympathized Helen, "but perhaps he isn't well, dear.
Why don't you get him to see a doctor?"

Madelene shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.

"It's not a doctor he wants, it's that Skinner girl, I can see that
plainly enough."

Helen dropped on the arm of the girl's chair and slipped her arm around
her neck.

"Well, now you're home," she soothed. "Ebenezer'll help you if he can,
and I know Deforrest will. I'm perfectly certain though, Tessibel
Skinner would do nothing to make Frederick swerve from his loyalty to
you."

"Do you know whether Eb went down there to see her?" asked the girl,
wearily.

"I think he did. He asked Tess for Frederick's letters, but she said she
hadn't received any from him. And really, I don't believe she did, for
she tells everything to Deforrest and she'd tell him that, I'm sure."

Madelene shook her head incredulously.

"I feel perfectly positive he wrote her," she asserted.

"Well, perhaps!--" said Helen.

Then they were silent a few moments.

"I suppose you haven't guessed something I have to tell you," stammered
Helen, presently.

Madelene turned her eyes upon her sister-in-law. Then she smiled.

"Helen, dearest, aren't you glad about it?"

Helen blushed and radiated a smile.

"Yes, very, and so is Ebenezer! We both feel as if we have much to be
thankful for--and now if you were only happy--"

"Oh, Helen, I know I've upset Ebbie a whole lot,--but who else could I
go to?... Do tell me when--"

"In May, dear," whispered Helen. "I wish you were as happy as I.... But
there's the dinner bell. Let's go down."

When they entered the dining room, Ebenezer was standing alone, his back
to the grate.

"Did you say anything to him, Eb?" demanded Madelene.

"Certainly, child, but he insists he scarcely knows her. He rehearsed
the trouble his sister had before she died--"

"Oh, he's told me that, too," interjected Madelene, tartly, "but that
wouldn't make him mix her name up with mine, would it, and make him get
mad every time I mention her?"

"He seems to be very much incensed that any one should accuse him of
caring for her," observed Ebenezer. "And Madelene--"

Helen went quickly to her sister-in-law.

"Dear," she interrupted her husband, "if I were you, I wouldn't say
anything more about it to Frederick until you're certain.... Here he
comes, now. Do be pleasant to him, both of you."

But in spite of Helen's good offices, the first dinner at home was
anything but a happy one for the young couple.




CHAPTER XXII

THE REPUDIATION


A week after the arrival of Frederick and Madelene Graves in Ithaca,
Tessibel Skinner sat sewing near the kitchen stove and talking to Andy
Bishop in the shanty garret. Outside the wind gusted over the lake, the
snow birds making shrill, protesting twitters against the coming
blizzard.

"You ain't mournin' 'bout somethin', kiddie, be ye?" whispered the dwarf
from the hole in the ceiling.

"A little," she confessed, glancing up at the dwarf, while she knotted
the thread. "I air jest thinking how awful it air fer Daddy to sleep so
hard. That medicine he takes must be awful strong."

"So it air, brat, but he don't suffer," comforted Andy.

"Get back, Andy," warned Tess, getting up. "Some one air walkin' in the
lane."

She could hear the steps plainly, now. Whoever it was paused in front of
the shack. When the knock came, she placed her sewing on the chair. With
a glance at the attic, she walked forward and took down the bar. The
opening door revealed Frederick Graves standing in the falling snow.

"I've come back, Tess," he breathed brokenly.

The girl staggered back speechless to the middle of the room. Dismayed
eyes sought Frederick's, eloquently demanding a reason for his coming.
The boy followed her swiftly in and closed the door. How ill she looked!
God, could it have been his own conduct that had made Tessibel so
fragile! He had promised to love and cherish her forever. The thought
that he could revivify her by the very strength of his overflowing love
took him forward a step. Tess looked helplessly about and retreated a
little.

"Daddy's sick," she murmured.

"I'm sorry. I'm very sorry, dear.... I had to see you, Tessibel," cried
Frederick, passionately. "I hurried back from abroad because of you, my
darling.... Oh, Tess dear--"

Tessibel made a dissenting gesture.

"Please go away," said she, in agitation. "Go away, please."

Instead of obeying her, the boy came nearer.

"I can't go!" he answered hoarsely, running his fingers through his
thick hair. "I've suffered horribly for what I've done.... Tess, don't
make me suffer any more--Oh, darling, please understand--"

"I air understandin'," interrupted Tess, steadying herself. "Ye can't do
nothin' now.... Won't ye please go?"

"No," replied Frederick, setting his teeth sharply. "No, I won't! I came
to tell you what I want you to do."

Tessibel sank into the chair, her legs refusing to hold her up any
longer. Frederick was looking down at her sorrowfully. How could he ever
have left her? His excuse about his mother's needing money now seemed
small and unimportant. How like a glorious golden mantle her curls
encompassed her! A spasmodic desire to twine them again around his
fingers gripped him. He wanted to take her in his arms, to love her, to
be loved in return, as she had loved him on the ragged rocks. How
beautiful she was--yet how frail and worn! It seemed as if the ice that
had warped and frozen his heart to a hard, unresponsive mass, during the
months with Madelene, was melting in the presence of the girl he loved.
His soul had thirsted for the sight of her, his arms yearned to hold and
press her close. He stood a moment undecided, then suddenly bent forward
and drew her forcibly to him. Groaning deeply, he dropped his hot lips
upon her neck, and Tessibel started back as if he'd stung her.

"If you look at me so cold and white, Tess," he moaned, "I
shall--I'll--"

Then he sought for her lips and found them, kissing her stormily until
she felt a keen sense of terror and physical pain. His passionate
insistence carried her completely out of herself for the instant.

"Tess, Tess!" he murmured, "nothing matters now! Don't send me away from
you again, sweet."

Tess lay in his arms, mute and unresponsive.

"Say one little kind word to me, Tess," he implored again, brokenly.

But Tess couldn't speak. She felt her tongue burn as if infinitesimal
sparks had touched each groove upon it. She could not stay in his arms!
Before the world he belonged to another woman. She pushed him away, drew
herself from his embrace, and sat down again. Her action brought a
fierce ejaculation from the boy's lips.

When Frederick ordered his horse that morning, Madelene had slipped her
hand into his.

"May I go with you, dear?" she begged. "Do order my horse, too, won't
you?"

He colored to the roots of his hair and shrugged his shoulders
impatiently.

"I'd rather go by myself," he returned so curtly that Madelene bit her
lips to keep back the tears.

Stung with jealousy, the young wife watched her husband ride out under
the bare trees to the road beyond. Then she ordered her own horse, and
dressed herself quickly.

Affairs between the young couple had reached a crucial point. Madelene's
suspicions of Frederick were unusually active. She had it clearly in
mind that he had gone to the Skinner hut. All the distance to the lake
her face burned. She knew well enough she was doing something
unpardonable, but how could she stay calmly at home when stinging
jealousy goaded her to action?

She cantered past Kennedy's farm and on down the hill, her thoughts in a
turmoil. If Frederick were not with the squatter girl, how happy she'd
be! She hadn't formulated an excuse for Tessibel if she found her
suspicions incorrect. She'd have to tell her something reasonable. Ah,
she would pretend she'd come about the church singing.

Beyond and below the lake lay grey and somber, shadowed by the winter
sky. The wind stung her face and tweaked her fingers through her warm
gloves. Directly in front of the Young house, she reined in her horse
and contemplated it. How much had happened since she had married
Frederick, and Ebenezer had married Helen Young--how much to her and to
him!

Frederick's conduct had destroyed her illusions about marriage. She
could be supremely happy if he would treat her a little more as if she
were his wife, more as the husbands of her friends treated them. She
rode on again slowly until through the willow trees she saw the smoke
curling upward from the chimney of the Skinner shanty. Her heart beat
furiously when she slipped from her horse and tied him to a fence post.
Intuitively, she felt she'd find her husband with Tessibel Skinner. She
walked the rest of the way down the hill, stopped before the hut and
looked it over. All without lay dressed in its winter garb, and the
small house, save for the smoke, appeared uninhabited.

Then as a human sound from a tomb, came Frederick's voice. Madelene
staggered back. She realized that not for one single instant had she
doubted she would find her husband there. And he was there! She'd heard
his voice passionately insisting something. Red fire flashed in front of
her eyes.

Without thought of consequences, she flung open the door and stood on
the threshold, breathless and crimson, in all her indignant wifehood.
Frederick stood near the chair in which sat Tessibel. In one single
moment Madelene sent an appraising glance over the girl huddled in the
wooden rocker--a woman's glance, mercilessly discovering her condition.
Then her blazing eyes came back to Frederick. He had not spoken at her
appearance--he had only reeled backward a few steps.

"You see I followed you," said Madelene in cold, metallic tones. "I knew
you were coming here when you left home."

Tessibel got up slowly, went forward, and closed the door. Once more the
man she loved had brought humiliation upon her.

"He were just a goin' to go!" she whispered, and she went back and
dropped into her chair.

"Oh, he was, eh?" Madelene laughed harshly. "It's very good of you to
let him go. I'll give you to understand my husband--"

She made a rapid step toward Tess, whose head went up instantly. The
red-brown eyes battled an instant with the blue, stopping Madelene's
progress. Frederick, stung to action, reached forth and grasped his
wife's arm.

"Madelene!" he exclaimed. His tone brought flashing eyes upon him.

"You think I'm going to stand tamely by and watch you come here to see
her?... You both think I'm a fool, I suppose. Well, I'm not such a fool
as I look!"

Defiantly, the speaker surveyed her husband up and down. "I knew very
well you intended coming here. That's why I asked--you to take me today
and why I--followed you. I've had hard work to make myself believe you'd
leave me for--"

Her scintillating look swept again over Tess from head to foot. Her eyes
drew down at the corners; so did her lips. It dawned dazedly on Tess how
much Madelene looked like her brother. Then, suddenly Mrs. Graves
laughed, a note of triumph riding in her tones. She faced Frederick and
throwing out both hands, disdainfully, at the squatter girl huddled in
the chair, cried,

"My God, look at her! If you've any eyes, you'll see ..." and turning
upon Tessibel, "Were you trying to pass off on my husband a spurious--"
The scorn in the contemptuous tones of the shrill voice stung like a
whip lash.

The appeal gathering slowly in Tess' eyes was but a dumb response to the
other woman's taunting, bitter words. She could not have spoken had her
life been at stake. She crouched down in terrified shame.

Then like a flash the meaning of his wife's words rushed over the almost
stupefied man! God! and he had not known! Tessibel, her new light of
coming motherhood, cowered before him like a stricken thing. He sprang
forward during Madelene's hesitation and grasped his wife's arm again.
He was so furiously angry his tightening fingers brought a cry of pain
from her.

"Hush!" he cried peremptorily. "Hush!... You're crazy!... Haven't you
any heart?... You've gone mad!"

Madelene shook off his hand.

"Yes, I'm mad half crazy. And you've made me so. Ever since I married
you, you've had this girl in your mind morning, noon and night.... Now I
know it! Oh, what a fool I was! I--I suppose possibly the next thing
we'll know you'll be claiming the--"

Frederick shook her roughly.

"I said to stop it," he gritted. "Come away this minute."

Madelene, crying now, was struggling to pull herself from Frederick's
grasp.

"I want to talk to that woman before I go," she screamed in desperation.
"Let me go, Fred! I _will_ speak to her."

"You'll not if I can help it," answered Frederick. "Come out of here, I
say!"

By main strength he was drawing his wife toward the door. Tess was
staring at them as if they were creatures from another world.

"I'm sorry," Frederick said directly over Madelene's head to her.
"Dreadfully sorry."

"Sorry!" shrieked Madelene. "Sorry for such a woman! Look what you've
done to me, both of you!" She wrenched herself from the strong fingers
and flung back to the squatter girl. "I want to know if my husband is
the father--"

Frederick had hold of her once more. The anger in his white face was
terrible to see.

"If you speak to her again," he said murderously, "I'll--I'll--"

"I suppose you'll kill me," shrilled his wife. "Well, go ahead! The only
way you'll ever get her will be when I'm dead!" Then she thrust her
white working face close to his. "If she won't speak, will you? You're
my husband, and I find you here with this--this--.... Are you the father
of her baby?"

"No," said Frederick, dropping his eyes. "No, of course not!"

Tessibel bent her head to receive the last brutal stroke he had to give.
She moved but uttered no sound.

"Well, do you love her then?" demanded Madelene.

And Frederick, not daring to look at Tess, repeated, "No, of course
not.... Don't be a fool!"

"Then, what do you want of him, girl?" Madelene cried hoarsely to
Tessibel. "You've heard what he said."

Tess thought she was going to die. All the awful hurt which had lain
dormant for so many weeks rose up with ten thousand times the vigor. It
was as if Heaven had belched out flames to consume her, and she knew
there was no escape from this thing that had come upon her. Frederick
had not only repudiated his love for her, but his baby too. She threw
back her curls with a proud gesture.

"I don't want 'im," she said straight to Madelene. "Take 'im away an'
don't let 'im come here any more."

When Madelene started to speak again, Frederick shoved her from the hut
into the gray day. He turned once and looked at Tess. She was just where
he'd left her, her eyes brimmed with sorrow and her teeth locked tightly
together.

Then the door banged shut and she was alone in the kitchen. A little
later she heard as in a dream the sound of horses' hoofs retreating far
up the lane. Then all the powers of darkness closed in about her, and
malicious elfin voices chattered her shame in her ears. Frederick had
repudiated her and his child and had gone! Tess staggered forward, and a
few minutes afterward, when Andy slipped down the ladder, he found her
curled up on the cot insensible, her face shrouded in red curls.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE QUARREL


When Frederick Graves closed the door of the Skinner hut, he wheeled
furiously upon his young wife.

"Come home," he said gruffly. "You've done enough harm for today."

"If I've done more than you have," retorted Madelene, tartly, "then I'm
some little harm maker!" Suffering intensely from jealousy, she whirled
about, crying, "That's what's been the matter with you all the time
we've been abroad! And I know very well Tessibel Skinner sent for you to
come home."

"That's a lie," interrupted Frederick, fiercely.

Madelene paused in her ascent of the hill lane.

"What made you come down here today, then, if you didn't want to see her
yourself?"

Frederick was silent. He hated scenes like this. If he spoke his real
mind, he'd plunge himself into hot water at once. And he was always
careful not to do that. Silence at the present moment was better than
speech. Besides, his late contact with Tessibel Skinner had left him
aquiver. Oh, how he loved her! Every nerve in his body called out for
sight of his beloved. He would have gone back to the shack if he'd
dared.

"Where did you leave your horse?" snapped Madelene, when they'd nearly
reached her own.

"In the lower stable at my father's old place,--over there."

"I'll help you mount and then get my horse," said he. "Do you wish to
ride on without me?"

Mrs. Graves made a dissenting gesture.

"No, of course, I don't. I want you to come with me directly. I won't
let you out of my sight so near that girl. I think it's perfectly
outrageous! I somehow believe you lied to me about--"

"Keep your opinions to yourself," growled Frederick. "I've no wish to
hear them."

Madelene was about to put her foot into the stirrup. Instead, she stood
while fresh tears gathered under her lids.

"Frederick, you're cruel and awfully ugly to me," she said plaintively.
"How can you do such things after _all_ the money I've given you?"

Frederick expressed his feeling by a cynical little laugh.

"Perhaps if you didn't throw up your confounded benevolence so often, I
might show more gratitude," he snapped back.

Then he lifted her to the saddle, gave her the bridle, and walked beside
her to the barn.

His thoughts were busy until, when they reached home, the silence
between them was appalling. Thankful to be a few minutes by himself, the
young man went away to stable the horses and his wife entered the house.
Madelene found her brother sitting before the grate fire. Helen looked
up and smiled at her sweetly.

"Come and get warm, dear," she said. "You've had a long ride, haven't
you?... Why, what's the matter, Madelene?"

Mrs. Graves dropped into a chair.

"I'm so awfully unhappy," she cried, "and Frederick's as mean as he can
be.... I hate that Skinner girl!"

Mrs. Waldstricker dropped her work into her lap.

Ebenezer looked at his sister critically.

"What's she done to you now?" he asked, without waiting for his wife to
speak.

Madelene flung up an angry, flushed face.

"She's done enough! I hate her and always shall. She sent for Frederick
to come down there--and he went--"

"Are you sure?" asked Mrs. Waldstricker, in a shocked voice.

"Of course I'm sure! I'm not in the habit of saying things I'm not sure
of, Helen. I might have known when people told me he was in love with
that squatter it was true."

[Illustration: "HUSH!" HE CRIED, "HAVEN'T YOU ANY HEART?"]

Her loud, angry voice reached Frederick as he entered the room. The
frown deepened on his brow. He looked at his brother-in-law for a
minute. He never remembered being so angry before.

"Madelene has told a direct falsehood when she says Tessibel Skinner
sent for me," he said. "She did not!"

"But I found him in her shanty, Ebenezer dear," thrust in Madelene, "and
she's a wicked, little huzzy."

"Hush!" cried Frederick, white-lipped.

"I won't hush, so there!" screamed his wife. "I won't! I won't!... And,
Ebenezer, she's bad, she is! She's going to have a--"

Frederick wheeled around desperately. Madelene was placing him at the
extreme of his endurance. Human nature could bear no more.

"Oh, my God, such a woman!" he exclaimed.

"There, you see!" gasped Madelene. "He won't listen to a thing against
her, and he's been acting as guilty as he could all the way home.... No
wonder I don't believe a word he says!"

Mrs. Waldstricker picked up her work, folded it, and laid it on the
table.

"But, Madelene, it's so bewildering," she exclaimed. "Tell us, dear,
just what happened."

Between sobs and tears Madelene went over the trial she had passed
through, and continued, "While we were abroad, I thought there was
something the matter with him, and I know one day he got a letter. He
wouldn't let me see it, though I begged him to. Now, I know it was from
her!" The speaker flung about upon her sister-in-law. "If you could have
seen her today, Helen, the shameless thing! She didn't even have the
grace to say she was sorry for anything she'd done."

"She probably wasn't," monotoned Waldstricker. Then he looked directly
at his wife. "I've often argued with your brother about those squatters.
They're a pest to the county. Deforrest--"

"Oh, don't blame Deforrest, Ebenezer," Helen interjected agitatedly.
"He's so good at heart, and he did all he could for the little Skinner
girl. I know there's some mistake. I'll go down and see her tomorrow."

Waldstricker got up heavily.

"You'll do no such thing," he retorted. "_Don't dare_ go near--her!"

Helen flushed at her husband's tone.

"But Deforrest is away," she argued timidly. "I feel I ought to do
something."

Madelene went hastily to her brother's side.

"Don't let her go, Ebbie," she gasped. "It's an awful place; a little
bit of a hut--"

"I've been in it many times," interrupted Helen, with dignity, "and I do
feel, Ebenezer--"

"I want no argument about the matter," said Waldstricker, sternly. "If
she's in the condition Madelene says she is, then her home is no place
for my wife.... It's shameful, absolutely shameful!"

"But, Ebenezer, she's probably been unfortunate. Poor little child! I
wish you'd--"

Waldstricker cut her plea in two with an angry gesture.

"I command you not to go there," said he, sharply.

"Very well," sighed Helen. "Of course, I'll do as you wish."

Then she got up quietly and went upstairs. Indeed, had she her way,
she'd have gone to Tessibel Skinner without hesitation. She knew her
brother would be grieved to his heart's core, if this awful thing had
happened to the little red-headed squatter girl. But she had no choice
in the matter.

Frightened, too, she wondered what Ebenezer's plans were. He was so
relentless in his desire to punish sinners. Bye and bye, when she was
less nervous, she'd ask him to wait until Deforrest returned before
doing anything.

Her head was throbbing with excitement. Her heart, too, ached for
Tessibel. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. Presently, she
heard Ebenezer's slow tread coming upstairs. When he entered the room,
she raised her lids and smiled.

"Come here, dear," she murmured.

He came directly to her side.

"What is it, my darling?" he asked tenderly.

"I feel so unhappy about the little Skinner girl," sobbed Helen.

"I'm sorry, dear, but you must not go against my wishes. As a good and
obedient wife, you should realize I know best. I can't allow you to go
down into that cabin."

"I won't go, dearest, but will you please promise me one thing--"

Ebenezer bent upon her a look so stern she dared not finish. "Oh, I do
wish Deforrest were here!" she ended irrelevantly.

"I do, too; but as long as he is not, you must trust me to do what I
think best."

He went out abruptly, and Helen Waldstricker cried herself to sleep.




CHAPTER XXIV

WALDSTRICKER INTERFERES


That evening Frederick Graves shook in his shoes when he returned home
and received Waldstricker's message to meet him in the library at nine
o'clock. If there was one person in the world he didn't want to see just
then, it was his dictatorial brother-in-law. He stood in his room
considering the situation, when he heard the grandfather's clock on the
stairs slowly strike the hour of nine.

"Well, it won't help any to keep him waiting," he muttered.

Unwillingly, he walked down the stairs to the library door. Pausing, he
saw Ebenezer seated at the table reading the Bible.

"Come in and sit down," greeted the latter, curtly.

"Thanks," said Frederick, taking a chair. "Mind if I smoke?"

The man thus addressed made no answer. He read a verse or two partly
aloud as if to himself, then closed the book and laid it on the table.

"What's the matter between you and Madelene?" he inquired presently,
fixing Frederick with a steady gaze.

"Nothing.... Nothing, that I'm to blame for. Madelene followed me to the
lake and found me in Skinner's shack. That's all the row was about."

"Why were you there?" Waldstricker did not change his tone.

Frederick threw his cigarette into the smoldering grate and shrugged his
shoulders impatiently.

"Can't a fellow stop in a shanty without the whole town gossiping about
it?" he demanded peevishly.

"That's just it, Frederick. I don't want people talking about my
sister's husband and a squatter girl," the older man explained. "I must
know why you were there."

"Look at here, Eb," exclaimed the boy, "why don't you let Madelene and
me fight out our own quarrels? I don't interfere with you and Helen."

"Huh! I should hope not!" growled Waldstricker. "But quarrels are not
what we're talking about.... Why were you in the Skinner hut?... Are you
in love with that girl?"

"God! No! Are you mad? What's the matter with everybody?"

"There's nothing the matter, my boy, only I want to warn you I won't
have my sister unhappy."

"She makes herself unhappy," growled Frederick, selecting another
cigarette from his case.

"I can't see any use of your going down there at all," Ebenezer went on,
turning to poke the fire. "It doesn't look well after the things that
happened in your family."

"That's just it," said Frederick, using the elder's words as an excuse;
"our trouble makes it quite proper some one of my family should go
there. The girl did enough for us, God knows."

Waldstricker gave a decided negative shake of his head.

"It's your mother's place to go, not yours. You don't want a scandal, do
you?... Let her go there if any one does."

Again Frederick found an excuse.

"She can't go when she's out of Ithaca, and I took Miss Skinner a
message from my mother today. If Madelene hadn't acted so abominably,
I'd have told her about it."

Waldstricker looked keenly at the other man.

"I didn't notice you tried very hard to explain matters this afternoon!
Now, did you?"

"I was mad," retorted Frederick, sulkily.

"May I see the message your mother sent?" came quickly from
Waldstricker.

Frederick started. Evidently his brother-in-law didn't believe his
story.

"If Miss Skinner'll give it to you, you can!" said he. "... I say, Eb,
let Madelene and me get out of this the best way we can, won't you? Tell
Maddie to behave herself and leave the Skinner girl's name out of her
rages at me.... That's all I ask."

"No," thundered Ebenezer, wrathfully. "I won't have my sister in tears
all the time over a squatter girl. Madelene says you received letters
from her abroad."

"Well, I didn't," snapped back Frederick.

"That's past, anyhow! Now, then, I'm going to tell you something. I need
a man to go to San Francisco to our office there, and as Madelene wants
a change, I'm going to send you."

Frederick shuddered. Had he dared, he would have rebelled at this
wholesale delivering him over, tied hand and foot, to his tempestuous
young wife. If he were sent away, what would become of Tessibel? His
heart turned sick with apprehension. He had had no time to explain his
plans to her.

"You have no objections to going, I suppose?" Ebenezer broke in on his
harassing thoughts.

"No! If Madelene's satisfied, I am," replied Frederick, flipping the ash
from his cigarette.

"Then be ready to get away by, let me see, early in March," his
brother-in-law announced.

Early in March, and this was but December! He had that much grace then.
He could do something for Tess if the family relaxed its vigilance upon
him a little.

"And there's something else," proceeded Waldstricker. "It's--it's this!"

Then he deliberately made a statement that brought a red fire into
Frederick's eyes. He staggered to his feet.

"You wouldn't, you couldn't do that, Ebenezer," he groaned.

"Oh, ho!... That gets you on the raw, does it, young man?" sneered the
elder, one lip-corner rising to an unusual height. "So you do care that
much, eh?... A while ago you made the statement she was nothing to you."

"I want to be human," Frederick managed to get out.

"Human, eh? No, that's not it! What you want is a few other women on
your staff besides your wife. But you won't as long as you're married to
my sister, and I'm running things. I'll see that none of the members of
my family disobey my law or God's law either."

The big man got to his feet, slipped his hands into his pocket, and
stared at his white-faced, young brother-in-law.

"How does my little scheme suit you?" he demanded grimly.

"I think it perfectly devilish, by God, I do," cried Frederick.

"Oh, you do, eh? So you swear with your other faults?... Does my sister
approve of that?"

"I've never asked her," snapped Frederick, "and if you're through with
me, I'd like to go."

"Have a little talk with Madelene before you go to bed--and, oh, Fred--"
he called after the young man hurrying up the stairs.

Frederick paused, his hand on the banister.

"By the way, I shall want your assistance in the little matter I spoke
of."




CHAPTER XXV

THE SUMMONS


Jake Brewer paused in the lane opposite Skinner's home. The shanty was
almost snowed in. A thin curl of smoke trailed up from the chimney and
drifted among the leafless branches of the willow trees.

Brewer dropped a pair of dead rabbits to the deep snow at his side, and
shifted the gun he held in his right hand to his left. Then, he fumbled
in his overcoat pockets. Discovering what he wanted, he picked up the
rabbits and walked through the path to the hut.

Tess took down the bar at his rap.

"Lot o' snow, Tessie," smiled Brewer. "Here, I brought ye some letters."

Tessibel took the two letters the fisherman handed her.

"They got yer name writ on 'em, brat," said he, knocking the snow from
his boots against the clap boards. "That's how I knowed they was
your'n."

A shadowy smile flitted over the squatter girl's face.

"Sure, they be fer me," she replied. She turned the letters over in her
hands. "Thank ye, Jake, fer bringin' 'em.... Come in a minute, won't
ye?"

"Sure, an' I air always glad to do somethin' fer ye, kid.... How's yer
pa this mornin'?"

Brewer stepped into the hut, placed his gun and the rabbits in the
corner, and spread his hands over the stove.

"He ain't so well today, Jake! Poor Daddy, he suffers somethin' awful
with his heart, Daddy does.... It air rheumatism."

"Ever try eel skins, brat?" asked Brewer, sitting down. "My grandma wore
a eel skin for rheumatiz for twenty-five years, an' Holy Moses, the
sufferin' that woman had durin' 'em times my tongue ain't able to
tell!"

Tess glanced at the letters in her hand half-heartedly.

"We've tried 'em, too, Jake," she answered. "Daddy's been wrapped in 'em
night after night. But they don't seem to do no good."

"D'ye ever have Ma Moll incant over him, Tessie?"

Tessibel nodded her head.

"Yep, I give 'er three dollars for ten incants an' they didn't do no
good uther." She went a step nearer Brewer. "But I air prayin' hard,
Jake, every day for 'im," she confided softly.

Brewer nodded his head.

"I guess that air better'n incants any time if ye can do it, kid," he
smiled.

"I guess so, too," agreed the girl. "Tell Miss Brewer I'll be to see her
soon as the weather gits better."

Jake got up, scratched his head, and thought a moment.

"I might leave ye a rabbit, seein' yer daddy ain't well 'nough to do no
gunnin'," said he.

"Ye're awful good, Jake," murmured Tessibel, following the man to the
door. "Stop in any day."

"All right," and Jake struck out toward the rock path.

Tess closed the door and put up the bar. Andy was eyeing her from the
ceiling.

"What ye got, kid?" he whispered.

Tess held up the letters.

"Two of 'em, an' this one air from Mr. Young. Shall I read it to ye,
Andy?" she asked, looking up.

The little man chuckled with joy.

"I'd like to hear it," said he.

Tess drew a chair under the boyish face peering upon her, and sat down.

"Dear Tessibel," she read.

"I hoped to be home this week, but find my work won't be finished.
Please keep at your books and study hard. Get the doctor any time you
need him for your father. I know you're trying to be a brave little
girl, and may God bless you.
                                       Affectionately,
                                                   Deforrest Young."

Tessibel choked on the last word.

"It air awful hard to be brave, Andy," she faltered, brushing away a
tear.

The dwarf made a dash at his own eyes.

"Ye got another letter," he cut in irrelevantly.

"Yep," said Tess.

After pulling forth the second sheet, she spread it out and read it
through without looking up.

"Miss Tessibel Skinner:

"It is necessary for you to attend a church meeting next Wednesday
afternoon at three o'clock in the chapel. Please oblige,

                                       "SILANDER GRIGGS, _Pastor_."

"Anything much?" demanded the dwarf, interestedly.

"Nope, Andy, only a note askin' me to come to church tomorrow afternoon,
but I jest can't go, Andy!... I can't! I ain't been fer two Sundays,
now, 'cause I been feelin' so bad."

She raised her eyes full of misery to meet Andy's sympathetic gaze. How
could she go after that awful scene nearly three weeks before with
Madelene and Frederick? She never could face the Waldstricker family
again.

"I won't never go to church, ever any more," she mourned presently.

"Mebbe not, dear," returned the dwarf, smothered in his throat. "An' the
church'll be worser off'n you!"

Troubled in spirit, Tess considered the letter a few minutes.

"I s'pose they be gittin' up somethin' fer Christmas, an' I ought to go
an' tell 'em I can't sing. I said as how I would over three months ago
if Miss Waldstricker'd help me; but I can't.... Will ye look after Daddy
while I air gone, Andy?"

"Sure," agreed the dwarf. "I'll slide under his bed an' talk the pains
right out o' 'im."

"I wish the meetin' was in the mornin'," Tess sighed. "It gits dark so
early, an' Mr. Young ain't home! He'd come an' git me an' bring me back
if he were. It air a long walk," and she sighed again.

"Mebbe 'twon't be so cold tomorrow as it air today," cheered Andy and
they lapsed into silence.




CHAPTER XXVI

THE CHURCHING


The dawning of Wednesday brought one of those drab days so frequent in
the lake-country. The daylight, dim even at high noon, hardly suggested
a possible sun shining anywhere. Misty sheets of stinging ice-particles
drove from the northern skyline to the hill south of Ithaca.

The snow crunched sharply under Tessibel's feet as she picked her way
from the shanty to the lane. Kennedy's brindle bull, leaping and
barking, invited her to a frolic. The girl called the dog to her, and
petted him.

"No, no, Pete, Tess ain't able to run an' play with ye any more," she
told him, sadly, "but ye can go with me to Hayt's."

Nuzzling her hand, the great dog walked soberly by her side, as though
he understood. Tess shivered a little as the frost-laden air bit
nippingly at her ears. The winter birds between her and the lake lifted
their wings and mounted against the wind, some driving in flocks, others
now and then by twos and threes. Tess followed their flight through the
storm.... How strong and happy they seemed!

For an instant she paused at the gate in front of Deforrest Young's
empty house. The snow had drifted until the path could no longer be
discerned. A little twinge of loneliness touched Tessibel's heart. Her
friend would not be at the church that day.

When she came within sight of the chapel, she bent and petted Pete. She
took his head between her gloved hands and looked into the lovely eyes
shining out of his ugly face.

"Go home, Petey dearie," she said. "Tessibel air goin' to church. They
don't let dogs in God's house, honey."

Obediently the dog turned and trotted off.

Tess opened the chapel door and stepped in. Buffeted, as she had been by
the storm, she met the warmth within with a grateful little sigh.

Half-way to the stove in the middle of the room, she stopped, arrested
by the unusual group beyond. Ebenezer Waldstricker stood there,
surrounded by the elders of the church. In all she counted five men: the
minister, Silander Griggs, and three elders. At one side sat Frederick
Graves.

Puzzled and embarrassed by Frederick's presence and appearance,
half-conscious of something menacing in the stern faces turned toward
her, she was tempted, weary as she was, to turn back into the blizzard
raging without. As she awkwardly scraped the snow from her shoes, Pastor
Griggs came to her and led her to a seat near the fire.

Waldstricker gazed at her critically, but didn't bow his head. Tessibel
didn't mind if people failed to speak to her, and she didn't like
Waldstricker anyway. She did not look at Frederick after that first
fleeting glance, but bowed her head on the pew-back in front from sheer
weariness. The memory of that scene in the cabin three weeks previous
recurred with renewed clearness. Madelene's insulting words, re-echoing
in her ears, made her grow faint from stinging humiliation. Oh, how
sorry she was she'd come to church! She could have asked Jake Brewer to
bring up a note explaining that she could not take part in the Christmas
doings.

The sound of moving feet told her the time had arrived for opening the
meeting. If she thought at all of the absence of the female members of
the church, she sought for no other reason than the steadily increasing
blizzard.

One by one she heard the men take their places. Then, the pastor cleared
his throat loudly and began to pray. Perfect silence save for his
droning voice filled the small chapel. Tess heard him praying for the
members of the congregation, for the mothers at home with their
children, and as usual for all earthly sinners.

"And particularly, dear Lord," continued the deep voice, "may thy tender
mercy and loving kindness visit the heart of our sinning sister here
present and soften it, making her obedient to these thy servants, to
whom Thou hast committed the government of thy church."

Why! What had he said? "Sinning sister ... here present." Why, they were
all men but her! The pastor finished his prayer with a resounding
"Amen," in which the elders joined reverently. Confused, Tessibel sat
back in the pew, puzzled and frightened.

"I have before me here on my desk," Griggs announced, "a letter from
Deforrest Young. In answer to a letter from the church, asking him to be
with us this afternoon, he has requested that Brother Ebenezer
Waldstricker be instructed to vote in his name.... I do so instruct you,
Brother Waldstricker."

Ebenezer moved in his seat as if in consent.

"It's a delicate matter which we have to consider," observed the
minister, looking from pale face to pale face.

Tessibel glanced at the speaker. He, too, was ashen in the dim afternoon
light.

"Come to the point, please," commanded Waldstricker, curtly.

The minister bowed his head in silent prayer.

"Tessibel Skinner," he said, "I ask you to stand up."

The girl got up obediently, but sank down again, her trembling legs
refused to support her. She did not, however, turn her startled brown
eyes from her pastor's face.

"It is charged against you, Tessibel Skinner," he read from a paper
before him, "that you have broken the laws of God and violated the
discipline of this church; that you, an unmarried woman, are now
pregnant. Are you guilty or not guilty?"

As the accusing voice ceased, the stern eyes of the dark-faced men, who
had watched her closely during the reading, seemed to pierce her through
and through, ... to lay bare her most intimate secrets.

What should she say? She wasn't unmarried, as the pastor had charged,
but the rest was true. Without Frederick's consent, she couldn't
explain; she couldn't deny the charge. Surely, Frederick would stand
forth and defend her now. She listened intently for a sound from him.
She dared not turn toward him, for fear she might break her promise by
some look or word. But nothing except the storm-sounds disturbed the
silence of the little church. Frederick had failed her again!

Unable alike to plead guilty or not guilty, she sat head bowed and eyes
downcast before her judges.

Waldstricker broke the appalling hush.

"Speak up, girl," he ordered harshly. "You're guilty, aren't you?"

The forlorn child struggled to her feet and raised her eyes to the
speaker's face.

"Oh, sirs, don't ask me 'bout it," she begged with outstretched hands.
"I can't tell ye nothing 'bout it 'cept ... I air goin' to have a baby
in the spring."

Waldstricker glanced significantly at the other elders who nodded in
acquiescence. Then he turned to the minister, still in the pulpit.

"It is enough," he decided sternly. "She has confessed her sin."

Dropping again into the pew, Tessibel cast a quick glance toward
Frederick, who stared set-faced out into the storm.

"We find, Tessibel Skinner," continued the minister, as though reciting
a carefully rehearsed speech, "you have sinned grievously. Your silence
convicts you. You are no longer worthy of membership in this church, of
communion with Christian people. But it is not right that you should
suffer alone. For your soul's welfare and in the interest of justice, I
ask you the name of the man--"

Tess got up again and faced them ... disgraced and outcast might be, but
she must be loyal to her promise.

"Don't ask me that, sir," she pleaded, bewildered, flinging a terrified
glance toward the door. "I air goin' now, an'll never come no more, but
don't ask me to say nothin', please."

She turned into the aisle as Griggs stepped from the platform. She
directed an appealing glance toward him that cut the man's heart through
like a knife.

"I want to go," she repeated. "Please!"

"Not yet," broke in Waldstricker, grim-jawed. "It's the duty of this
church to teach you a lesson if it can."

Tess looked helplessly at the row of stern men. What did they intend to
do to her? Oh, if they'd but let her go back to Daddy Skinner!

"Please let me go home to my daddy," she pleaded faintly. "I'll never
come no more, but I can't--I can't talk."

Waldstricker walked toward her menacingly.

"You've got to talk," he gritted, grasping her arm. "You've simply got
to answer what the pastor just asked you."

Tess flashed him a look of abhorrence. Oh, how she hated this man!... It
seemed to her that he killed for the sake of killing ... tortured for
the pure joy of it. She set her teeth hard on her under lip, shaking his
hand from her arm.

"I won't talk!" she cried. "You let go of me! See? You touch me again
an'--an'--I'll--I'll--"

She paused for some fitting threat. Would no one help her? No, not a
friendly face met her searching gaze. If she could get to the door--out
into the snow, under God's grey sky! But as if divining her intention,
the elders gathered in an accusing squad in front of her. Frederick
remained in his chair by the window, apparently oblivious to the tragedy
being enacted in his presence.

"I wish ye'd let me go home to my Daddy Skinner," she prayed again.

Her curls fell in a cluster over either shoulder as she sank to her
knees in the aisle.

Waldstricker whirled upon Griggs.

"_Make_ her tell us what we must know," he insisted, "or by the God that
rules this house, I'll have her sent to some place where incorrigible
girls go!"

Incorrigible girls! He had said incorrigible girls of her, Tessibel
Skinner, who obeyed even a glance from any one she loved. Desperately,
she made a direct appeal to him.

"My daddy's near dead, Mr. Waldstricker. Please don't send me away from
him, not yet--not just yet."

"Then answer what we ask of you, child," interjected the minister. "I
think Brother Waldstricker has some questions to ask you."

Waldstricker drew a paper from his pocket.

"How old are you, Tessibel Skinner?" he demanded.

"Over half past sixteen," whispered the girl's white lips.

She _was_ over half past sixteen. There was no harm in telling that. It
wouldn't hurt Frederick for the church people to know her age.

"Are you a member of this church?"

Tessibel lifted her head. "Ye all know I air."

"Then answer this," shouted Eb. "Who is the man that made you unfit for
decent people to speak to?"

The wobegone face hid its crimson tide in two quivering hands. The end
of the shining red curls swept the floor. Frederick made no sound.

"Who is he?" insisted Waldstricker once more.

"I can't tell," moaned the girl.

"I'll make you tell," he threatened, infuriated.

"I won't!" reiterated Tess, raising her head. "I can't."

Madelene's sad, tearful face flashed through Waldstricker's mind with
the suspicions she had aroused against Frederick. Like an angry horse,
his nostrils lifted and sniffed the air. Fury against this girl rode in
his heart.

"You needn't tell us the man's name," he taunted triumphantly. "We
already know it."

Up struggled Tess to her feet and thrust back the tawny curls
feverishly. If they knew, then Frederick had told them.

"And you've got to marry him," Waldstricker's hoarse voice came to her
ears.

Why, she was married to him!... that long ago night. If he had told them
anything, why had he not told them all? She dared not look around, but
waited breathlessly.

"We've decided," Ebenezer proceeded, "that if you consent to our plans,
you will suffer no further disgrace. You can go away with your husband
and have your home--"

Tess grew dizzy ... this time with joy. She had been given back her
husband, her Frederick! Waldstricker had used the word "home." A home
with--with--His voice broke in upon her dreams brusquely, creating
grotesque figures in her brain. What was he saying? She turned dilating
eyes toward him.

"Lysander Letts! Lysander Letts!" Waldstricker shouted again.

The door at the side of the pulpit swung open and Sandy slouched in and
came forward.

"Here's your woman," the elder continued, looking from Tess to the
squatter. "Take her, and may God forgive you both for the sin you've
committed."

Tess stood rigidly waiting. She didn't turn her head toward the oncoming
man; rather she centered a prolonged gaze upon her persecutor. When she
felt some one pause at her side, she moved away, still without speaking.

"Parson Griggs, marry the man and woman," roared Waldstricker.

Excitedly he tossed the damp hair from his forehead, his cheek muscles
working involuntarily. His scheme was near its fruition. Tessibel
Skinner was almost married. Already Ebenezer could see, in his mind's
eye, how happy Madelene would be when he brought her the news.

The big, dark-faced squatter was standing beside the red-headed girl,
and Silander Griggs was hurriedly hunting through a book for the
marriage ceremony.

"Make it short," gritted Waldstricker to the minister.

Tess stood as if she had died standing, her face devoid of blood even to
the lips. Misery, deep and unutterable, rested upon the white face. When
she raised her eyes and saw Letts at her side, and Griggs with an open
book in front of her, she wheeled away without a word.

"Marry him!" cried Waldstricker.

"No," said Tess.

"Letts, take hold of her hand," commanded the elder.

Sandy, rage working alive in his eyes, tried to obey the churchman. But
the girl took another step away.

"Gimme yer hand," growled Sandy.

All he wanted was to get the squatter girl into his possession. He had
not forgotten the threats he had made in other days, and in another
hour, he would wring from her the name he wanted.

"No," said Tess again.

"You mean you're not going to marry Mr. Letts?" asked Griggs.

Tessibel caught her breath, swayed, but shook her head.

"No, I ain't goin' to marry 'im," she answered.

Marry Sandy Letts, a man she hated! Of course she couldn't!... She was
already married. She couldn't commit such a sin as that, not even
if--if--She turned a little and glanced in the direction of Frederick,
but dropped her eyes before they found him.

Waldstricker grew intense with suspense, and a sudden determination to
test his and Madelene's suspicions came over him.

"Frederick," he cried, "come here and help us force this huzzy to marry
the man who betrayed her!"

Frederick rose from his chair as though to obey, and in turning, looked
squarely into the girl's eyes.

"My God, Eb, I can't!" he protested, his voice thick with horror. "Let
her go, Eb! For God's sake, man, you can't marry her against her will!
Let her go!"

He sank down, and rested his head on his arms upon the chair back, his
shoulders shaking violently.

The minister came to Tessibel's side. He placed a pitying hand on her
head, facing his elders.

"Let her go home, brethren," he entreated. "You can't make her do this
thing if she refuses, and the ... business can go on without her."

"She's a wicked girl," snorted Ebenezer, with a bitter twist of his
lips.

"I say to let her go," repeated Griggs.

"And I say she shall be punished," Waldstricker glared from the minister
to the elders and then rested his gaze on Frederick, who was by this
time sobbing in great gulps.

Pastor Griggs considered his parishioner's angry face. Griggs was young
and stood in awe of some members of his flock--Waldstricker most of all,
but the sight of the girl in such anguish overcame his timidity, and he
cried:

"Let him that is without sin among you first cast a stone at her."

Tessibel sank sobbing to the floor, and her pastor stood by her side,
hand uplifted, waiting.

Then over Ebenezer's countenance flashed a look of self-righteous
fanaticism, which made large the pupils of his dark eyes and inflamed
his swarthy skin deepest crimson. He strode to the stove, picked from
the scuttle a ragged chunk of coal, and when he turned again, he had
changed from red to white. Crazed, he took two steps toward the kneeling
girl.

"I can cast the first stone," he said swiftly.

He lifted his arm and before any man could stay his hand, something
whirled through the intervening space and struck the kneeling squatter
girl. High pandemonium broke loose. Voices, some censorious, some
approving, contended.

"I have first cast a stone at her," cried Waldstricker, above the din.
"Let others follow if they dare!"

Tessibel crouched lower to the floor, a bleeding wound in her neck. She
had made no outcry when the missile met and lacerated her flesh. Dully,
she wondered if they intended to kill her, and for a moment a sickening
dread took possession of her when she thought of Daddy and Andy. She was
growing faint and dizzy, but struggled to her feet as Griggs took her
arm. He led her through the Chapel aisle, pushing aside the other men.
At the door, Tess caught one glimpse of Sandy Letts' dark, passionate
face.

"Go home," the minister said hoarsely; "and may God forgive us all."

       *       *       *       *       *

How Tessibel found her way home, she could never afterwards tell. Spent
by the struggle with the storm, she staggered into the shanty. It took
almost the last atom of her strength to close the door against the
howling blizzard. Leaning against the wall, she looked up and saw Andy
staring at her from the hole in ceiling, his fingers on his lips.

"It were awful cold under the bed," he told her. "Yer Daddy air asleep,
so I came up here to keep warm!"

When he noticed the girl's unusual appearance, he scurried down the
ladder, waddled across the kitchen, and stood in front of his friend.

"What air the matter, brat?" he quivered.

Solicitous, he helped her into a chair near the fire and took off her
hat and coat. The blood from the neck wound had made crimson blotches on
her white waist.

"Ye're hurt, honey," he cried, alarmed. "How'd it happen?"

"I air hurt a little," said she, faintly. "Fetch me some water, dear,
an' don't--don't tell Daddy!"

"Get on the cot, kid," said he, "an' I'll put up the bar."

In another moment he was leaning over her. He brushed back the tousled
hair from the girl's forehead, and pulled away the long curls seeped
with blood.

"I air yer friend, brat," he whispered. "Tell me 'bout it."

Tessibel had to confide in somebody.

"I'll get a rag first an' wipe ye off," said the dwarf. "My, but ye did
get a cut, didn't ye?... What did it?"

Gently he began to wash away the crimson stain from her face and neck.

"Somebody hit ye?" he demanded presently.

"Yep."

"Who?... Who dared do it?" The dwarf's face darkened with rage. "Where
were the brute that done it?"

"Andy," sobbed Tess, "I air goin' to tell ye somethin'; ye may think I
air awful wicked, but--but--Andy, don't tell Daddy, but in the spring I
air goin' to--"

"Yep, I know, Tess," he murmured. "I heard the woman yellin' at ye the
uther day way through my blankets. But 'tain't nothin' to cry over.
God'll bless ye, brat, and God'll bless--it!"

Her sobbing slowly subsided, and in halting words Tess told the dwarf
the story of the afternoon's dreadful experience.

"And, Andy, it were awful. Mr. Griggs wanted to let me go home, but the
uther men wouldn't, an' then the minister says like Jesus did to the men
who were goin' to stone the poor woman, 'Let him that ain't a sinner
throw the first stone,' an' Waldstricker picked up a great hunk o' coal
and hit me with it. Do ye suppose he air so awful good an' I air so
awful wicked he had a right to strike me?"

"Sure he didn't, Tess," Andy comforted. "Course not!"

The willows moaned their weird song to the night, the wind shrieked in
battling anger over the tin on the roof, while the snowflakes came
against the window like pale eyes looking in upon the squatter girl and
the dwarf on his knees beside the cot bed.




CHAPTER XXVII

DADDY SKINNER'S DEATH


It was Saturday evening, three days after Tessibel Skinner had been
churched from Hayt's Chapel. The night wind called forth moaning
complaints from the willow trees. The rasping of their bare limbs
against the tin roof of the cottage did not disturb Daddy Skinner
struggling for breath in the room below. All the familiar night-noises
kept a death vigil with the squatter girl.

A sound outside made her lift her head. Kennedy's brindle bull was
scratching to come in. She rose, went to the door and opened it. Pete
ambled over the threshold and curled down by the stove.

"Anythin' the matter, brat?" whispered Andy.

"No, I were lettin' in the dog," explained Tess, resuming her seat
beside Daddy Skinner who was stretched, dying, on her cot. She had moved
him from the back room into the warm kitchen, and at that moment he was
sleeping restlessly. The sight of his working face brought a quick hand
to Tessibel's lips, and her white teeth set deeply into the upraised
knuckles to help stifle the groans. Every trouble of her own sank into
insignificance before the calamity facing her. Many times Tess had
viewed death afar off, but not until the past three days had it
threatened her own loved ones. In that hour she was experiencing the
extremity of sorrow, and each aching nerve in her body seemed to possess
a stabbing volition of its own, for again and again the torturing points
stung her flesh like whips.

For three long days she had managed somehow to uphold the dear, dying
father. No word had come from Deforrest Young, and Tess felt sure he had
returned twenty-four hours before. Perhaps Waldstricker had robbed her
of her dearest friend. Bitterly pained, the girl realized what the loss
would mean to her. Yet she had no censure in her heart for Deforrest
Young; indeed no bitterness for Frederick Graves; only a deep, deep
gratitude to the one, and a great, overwhelming love for the other. And
while thinking of what an empty void her life was becoming, Tess saw her
father's head turn and his lids lift heavily.

"Daddy!" she murmured, but if he heard, he did not heed. He was gazing
steadily at something over and beyond her head, and then he smiled at
it. In superstitious dread, the squatter girl glanced where the faded
eyes were directed. What had he seen? A face, perhaps, or the passing
shade that always haunted a squatter shanty when some one was dying, but
then, many times she, too, had seen faces in the rafters up there among
the dry nets.

"My pretty brat," were the words that brought her startled eyes back to
her father. Her throat filling with heavy sobs, she went over and kissed
him stormily. The horny, stiff fingers gathered a few of her red curls
and drew them slowly upward until parched lips touched them, while tears
stole from under withered lids, and Tess cried out in sharp anguish.

"Daddy Skinner, I can't live without ye!" she moaned, cupping his face
with her hands. "Take Tessibel with ye; take 'er, please!"

She cuddled at his side, lifted one of his heavy arms and put it around
her in pleading anguish. Just then it seemed as if it would put off the
approach of death if she insisted on staying within the broad grasp of
Daddy Skinner's arms.

She was wiping away his tears, tenderly touching the dying face with
faltering fingers.

"I saw yer ma," choked Skinner thickly, and he smiled again.

Tess turned her head, a dreadful sinking in her soul. Her mother's face,
then, was what Daddy had seen away off up there among the rafters. The
mother who had died so long ago had come after her dear one. Drawing one
tense set of fingers backward across her cheek, Tess stood up quickly.
Perhaps--perhaps--

She threw a glance at the ceiling. Daddy Skinner had seen her mother.
They were going away together. If they would but take her with them!
She turned unsteadily to go she knew not where, but the sound of her
father's voice brought her quickly back.

"Brat," he faltered, "lean down--I want to tell ye somethin'."

Tess bent her ear close to the thick blue lips.

"I air here, Daddy! Tess air here," she mourned.

Long, laboring breaths moved the red curls hanging about the girl's
rigid face.

"I said as how I air here, Daddy," she murmured again, touching him.

But Daddy Skinner was once more gazing into the dark rafters, his jaws
apart, the greyness of death settling about his mouth.

"Daddy! Daddy!" screamed Tess. "Don't look like that! Don't go away--oh,
Daddy, please!... Andy! Andy!"

The dwarf slipped down the ladder, and dropped at the side of the bed.
The dog roused from his nap by the stove was already there, nuzzling his
tawny head against his distressed friend, while he made inarticulate
sounds of sympathy in his deep throat.

"Pal Skinner!" Andy cried, white with apprehension. "Give us a word, old
horse."

Placing his hand upon Pete's collar, the dwarf drew him, with a word of
command, to the floor beside him.

The dying fisherman looked from his prison friend to his daughter. He
lifted a limp hand, and it rested upon the girl's bowed head. The other
he dropped heavily on Andy Bishop's shoulder. It was as if he were
giving to them both his parting benediction. In mechanical sequence the
dwarf counted the dying man's mouth open and shut five times before the
struggling voice came forth.

"I were goin' to say somethin' to ye, Tess," he then gasped, moistening
his lips. "Gimme a--drink--of water."

Andy held the cup while Orn drank. He struggled to swallow, belching
forth hot breath.

"When I air gone, brat dear," he articulated huskily, "stay in the
shanty an' take care of Andy till there ain't no more danger fer 'im.
Ye'll promise me, Tess?"

She enclosed his hand in hers and held it to her lips.

"I were a wantin' to go with you and Mummy, Daddy," she sobbed. "I air
always lonely in the shanty without ye--but if ye say, 'Stay with Andy,'
then I stays."

"That air what I says, brat, darlin'," panted Skinner.

Then for many minutes he was lost in the terrible struggle of strong
life against the grip of death. Tess wound her arms about his neck and
lifted the great head to her breast. She stared at his changing face as
at an advancing ghost.

He seemed to be slipping slowly into the great beyond, and she was
powerless to hold him back.

How many times had Daddy Skinner spoken of dying! How many times had she
heard him agree with Andy that death was better than life any day! But
at those times she had beaten back the muttered words of her father and
the dwarf. Ah, in those days, death had been far away, kept off by
happiness unsurpassed!

"It air hard fer some folks to die," wailed the fisherman. "An' so easy
fer uthers. Me--now me--Oh, God, oh, brat-love, let me go! I hurt so! I
hurt awful--let me go!"

The heart of the tortured, sobbing girl seemed to be bursting from its
pain and suspense. Her beloved father wanted to go away--to follow the
wraith mother beckoning from the rafters. How could she open her arms
and allow him to leave her alone in the shanty!

"Help me, brat-love," sighed Daddy Skinner once more. "Help yer old sick
daddy!"

Help him! How could she? Hitherto Tessibel's faith had loyally responded
to every demand upon her. But she couldn't help her daddy die! She knew
not how! Then, as if drawn by some invisible power, her eyes lifted,
piercing the shadows among the time-dried nets. And there, for one small
moment, she saw--she saw a face, a young, girlish face, infinitely
sweet, smiling down upon her.

"It air the Mummy!" she cried, her voice vibrant with love. "I air goin'
to help 'im, darlin'."

Buoyantly her mind gripped the old-time faith, the redoubtable faith
that had opened wide Auburn Prison, that had restored to her arms this
same adored father. She had helped him then--and oh, to help him now!
His great cry, "God, Tessibel, let me be goin'!" rang in her ears. Her
gaze was glued to his face. Terror and pain were strangling his throat
until his eyes grew death-dark in the struggle. Tessibel lifted her
ashen face, wildly working in entreaty. Oh, for a little faith! Faith
the size of a grain of mustard seed! And Daddy Skinner would be gone to
that place beyond the clouds and the blue, where suffering is not. Did
he, could he, believe? Did she, could she, believe, too? Then in a
blinding flash, she remembered the mysterious dawning of her own faith.
Enduring sublime suffering, she bent once more and drew her father's
heavy head to her breast.

"Daddy! Darlin' old, good Daddy, look at yer dear brat, an' listen to
'er."

"I air a listenin', my girl," he said between set teeth. She put her
head directly in line with her father's vision.

"Look at me, Daddy," she craved tremulously, "an' listen to me. Can't ye
remember how ye came back from Auburn like the innercent man ye were?"

"Yep," whispered Skinner.

"'Twere the Christ on the cross helped ye, Daddy. Ye air wishin' to go
away now with my mummy, huh?"

"Yep," groaned Skinner. "God, aw kind, merciful God, let me go!"

Tess laid him gently back on the pillow. A bright light flashed into her
soul. The red in her eyes turning almost to black.

"Then go, my darlin'! Go, Daddy," she moaned, rising and looking upward.
"Take 'im, Mummy, little love-mummy, take 'im back to Heaven with ye."

Inspired by that smiling face in the rafters, Tessibel opened her lips
and began to sing,

    "Rescue the Perishin';
    Care for the Dyin'."

It was a glorious strain that echoed and reechoed around and around the
shanty kitchen. It gathered within its heavenly power the moaning of the
wind and the haunting noises of the tin-rusted roof. Even the weeping
willows, bowing their mournful heads in sympathy, could no longer be
heard in their endless chant.

Strangely stirred, Pete struggled up, disregarding the dwarf's desire to
detain him. He placed his forefeet on the edge of the bed, lifting his
head to the girl's shoulder. Responsive to the pressure of his body, she
threw her arm around him. Gravely the golden eyes of the great dog
regarded his suffering master on the cot as the tender melody of the
song continued to fill the shanty.

Tessibel ever afterwards remembered Daddy Skinner's eyes as for those
last few moments he lay looking at her. They were kindly, tender,
smiling, as he watched her lips moving in the song he'd always loved to
hear her sing.

He seemed to realize that she was singing him into the very presence of
the Savior of the world--into the presence of Him who was leading
Tessibel Skinner and her squatter father through their garden of
Gethsemane.

    "Rescue the Perishin';
    Care for the Dyin'."

On and on she sang, and on and on the dying man gropingly felt his way
to Eternity. Sometimes he smiled at her; sometimes at the wraith in the
rafters. But not for one moment did the voice of the little singer cease
its insistent cry for a complete rescue.

The dwarf was silent, his shining face reflecting the peace and security
of which the squatter girl sang.

    "Rescue the Perishin';
    Care for the Dyin'."

The beautiful voice did not falter. Suddenly the powerful lungs of the
fisherman gathered in one long, last breath, and when it came forth to
meet Tessibel's song, the broad shoulders dropped back, the chest
receded, the smile faded from the gray eyes--and Daddy Skinner was dead.

He had died listening to those appealing, melodious words, "Rescue the
Perishin'; Care for the Dyin'." That sudden collapsing change in the
gaunt figure seemed to freeze the very song on Tessibel's lips. Her
voice trailed to a limp wail, as if an icy hand had caught her throat.
Silence succeeded silence. Even the storm seemed for an instant to still
its raging roar, then Pete threw back his head and howled his grief. As
his resonant cries filled the shack and mingled with the turmoil of the
elements, Tess clung to the dog, staring with horrified eyes at the huge
beloved form crushed and crumpled upon the cot. Death had come and gone.
The mystery in the shadowy rafters had taken Daddy Skinner away.

The dwarf raised his head and looked at Tess. Slowly he leaned over and
pressed his lips to Orn Skinner's brow, and as he rose, he lifted the
girl's rigid arm from the tawny back and seized the dog by the collar to
quiet him.

Then came one of those unthinkable, weird cries, a nightmarish cry from
the girl's throat, and--as God tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb, so
in Divine pity he covered Tess of the Storm Country with mental
oblivion.




CHAPTER XXVIII

YOUNG DISCOVERS ANDY


During the minutes Daddy Skinner lay grappling with death, Ebenezer
Waldstricker sat in his handsome drawing room with an open Bible on his
knee, talking to his wife.

"I've explained to you time and time again, Helen," said he impatiently,
"why I struck her and I'm not sorry I did it."

"It seems awful, though," replied his wife, reflectively.

Waldstricker frowned into the wistful face.

"Why awful when the Bible ordered me to do it? I've given you the
Master's own words to verify it. Didn't he say, 'Let the man without sin
first cast a stone?'"

Mrs. Waldstricker raised her eyes to her husband's face.

"But Ebenezer--"

"There's no argument, my dear," the man interrupted. "I tell you I know
whereof I speak. It came to me like a flash on Wednesday in the
church ... I had to show the world a man--a man without sin."

Helen stared back at him in amazement. Her husband had never before
expressed himself in quite such bombastic terms, and, oh, dear, she knew
he was good; but for any human being to claim to be without sin! She'd
never heard of such a thing.

"But, dearest," she argued pleadingly and partly rising, "are you sure?"

"I have no doubt about it," interpolated Ebenezer, striking his chest
emphatically. "As I said, I know whereof I speak."

Helen sank down again.

"I'm glad you can explain it, dear," she murmured dubiously. "It'll be
easier for you to make Deforrest understand about it when he comes. He's
so wrapped up in that girl.... He'll be here in a few minutes, I think,
if the train's on time."

"I'll make him understand all right," answered Ebenezer.

The words had scarcely left his lips before both husband and wife heard
the approach of sleigh-bells.

"He's coming now," said Mrs. Waldstricker, and she rose and started to
the window.

"Sit down and don't look as if you were going to die," her husband
commanded. "But perhaps you'd better go to your room while I'm
explaining the thing to him."

When Deforrest Young opened the door and walked in, his face was
wreathed in smiles.

"Well, hello, everybody," he cried heartily. "It's an awful night."

Ebenezer rose and extended his hand.

"So 'tis," he agreed.

Helen went forward quickly and helped slip the snow-covered coat from
Deforrest's shoulders. At the same time she lifted her lips for a kiss.
How she adored this brother of hers, and how anxiously she desired he
should be satisfied with Ebenezer's account of the church proceedings.

"I'm lucky to be home for Sunday," remarked Deforrest. "I was afraid the
case wouldn't close before day after tomorrow. But the jury came in last
night, and everything was quickly closed up."

"We read about it in the paper," said his sister sympathetically. "It
must have been a harrowing thing to go through."

"It certainly was! But the acquittal helped. The woman is very young and
without friends, and I was glad to get it for her."

"But she's bad!" cut in Waldstricker. "Every paper said she was guilty."

"But the jury pronounced her innocent," exclaimed the lawyer, "so that
puts an end to the argument!"

Ebenezer fingered the leaves of the book he held.

"I've the happenings of a week to tell you, Deforrest," he stated
deliberately, as if dismissing the former subject.

Professor Young bent down and slipped off his overshoes.

"I'm awfully tired, old chap," said he. "Won't they keep till morning?
I'd like a bite to eat, and then--then bed." He smiled at his sister.
"How about something to eat, sis, dear?"

"Helen, go see about supper for your brother," ordered Ebenezer.

Mrs. Waldstricker, seemingly glad to escape, left the room quickly.

"Fire ahead, Eb," said Young. "I suppose I might as well hear it now as
any time."

"You sent Parson Griggs a letter for me to vote in your name?"

"Of course," responded Young. "I knew Helen was interested in the
Christmas festival, and I thought you'd do as well as I."

"And so I did, brother," replied Ebenezer, pompously, "and your vote
turned the tide into the channel God wanted it. Some members allowed
their human feelings to run away with 'em."

Ebenezer's mysterious words suddenly awakened Deforrest's interest.

"Has something out of the ordinary occurred?" he queried.

"Yes," assured Eb, "but I've attended to it all right!"

Professor Young sighed.

"That's good! There, now, I'll sit by the grate and warm up while you
tell me about it."

He dropped into a large chair, and extended his feet to the cheerful
blaze. Waldstricker paused before making his explanation. At length:

"We put a member out of the church last Wednesday," said he, steadily.

Deforrest Young turned completely around and stared at his
brother-in-law.

"Put a member out of the church!" he repeated, thunder-struck. "Why
church a member?... That _is_ out of the ordinary, I should say. What'd
he do?"

"It wasn't a man, 'twas a woman."

"Well, for God's sake!" Deforrest's voice was low, deep, and filled
with disgust. "I hope you men didn't make a mess of yourselves.... What
happened?... Some girl kissed her sweetheart under the pine trees?"

The elder glanced over the top of his brother-in-law's head.

"Worse than that!" said he. "Much worse than that!... We churched a
Magdalene!"

It took an appreciable length of time for Young's tall figure to rise
from the chair. He turned around and stood with his back to the fire.

"I didn't know we had a Magdalene in the church," he commented drily,
and then more impetuously, "Oh, Lord, why don't you spit it out and not
beat all around the bush telling me?"

There was something about Ebenezer's slow manner of approaching the
point that made Young impatient. In the meantime his mind was rapidly
running over the women in the Hayt's congregation.

Waldstricker got up, too, drawing his big frame to its full height.

"We churched--Well, the fact is,--We churched Tessibel Skinner."

When the name fell upon Deforrest Young's ears, every muscle in his body
became rigid, making him taller by inches.

"Tessibel Skinner?" he repeated mechanically, as if he'd heard awry.
"Did you say Tessibel Skinner?"

Waldstricker took a long breath. Deforrest was receiving the action of
the church with better grace than he had anticipated.

"Yes, Tessibel Skinner!" he repeated. "She's with child."

In the awful minute after the torturing words had fallen from the other
man's lips, Deforrest Young felt as if he must tear the lie from the
speaker's throat. For it was a lie! God! What a lie! A lie told against
Heaven's best--the best girl in all the world. Without a word, he
reached for his overcoat.

"What're you going to do?" demanded Ebenezer, a little perturbed. "You
needn't see her.... She's been justly dealt with."

There was no answer from the tall lawyer. Only one thing was in
Deforrest Young's mind--to go to Tessibel Skinner. He gave no thought to
the wild night, no care for his own fatigue and hunger. Disdaining
another glance at Ebenezer, he whirled to go. Helen's pale face
appearing in the doorway made him pause.

"Deforrest," she quivered. "Deforrest, dear, oh, don't go out tonight!
Stay and let Ebenezer tell you about it, do please! The church has done
all it could--it must be all right if the church did it, Forrie."

Then Young's wrath broke loose....

"All right? All right?" he thundered. "The church has done all it can,
eh? Well, by God!" He turned a livid face from one to the other. "What a
cursed outrage!"

Waldstricker cried out, horrified.

"Man, man, what are you saying!... How _dare_ you provoke the wrath of
God!... How dare you question the decision of the church! Besides, I
tell you she's a Magdalene. She's been justly punished. I attended to it
myself."

Then Young saw clearly that the church action had but expressed his
brother-in-law's will. He knew his implacable hatred of the squatters
and particularly of Tessibel. He recognized that revenge had prompted
him. Pushing the protesting elder aside, he ejaculated:

"You pious hypocrite! Get out of my way," and was gone.

The bitter winter wind nipped at Young as he strode down the steps and
battled his way to the stables. Waldstricker's words were pounding at
his brain like a hammer. What had they done to Tess? He remembered
Ebenezer had said that his vote--his own delegated vote--had turned the
tide against his pretty child!

He had no mercy for the stumbling horse as he spurred down the long
drive, into the public thoroughfare, and thence to the shore road. When
he came opposite to his own closed, uninhabited house, he could see by
straining his eyes the dusky shadow of the willow trees shrouding the
Skinner home.

A glimmer of light struggled from the curtained window of the hut. With
desperate haste he tied his horse to the fence post. He could scarcely
stop to spread over the animal the blanket he'd brought for the purpose.

Then as he waded through the snow and rounded the mud cellar a dog's
mournful howling, pierced and punctuated by a girl's shrill,
heart-broken cry, fell upon his startled ears. In another minute he had
flung himself against the shanty door and forced it open. Kennedy's
bulldog greeted him, growling, and beyond him, stretched out upon the
body of her dead father, lay Tess. Hovering over her, chattering, was
Andy Bishop, the dwarf, the condemned murderer of Ebenezer Waldstricker,
Sr.




CHAPTER XXIX

THE VIGIL


During Professor Young's instant of hesitation on the threshold, the
wind gusted sheets of snow into the Skinner shanty. Quieting the dog by
a low-spoken word, Deforrest stepped in and closed the door against the
storm. The acrid smoke drawn from the stove by the back-draft, filled
the room,--a choking cloud.

Andy stared at the intruder for an instant, and then turned again to the
girl lying unconscious upon the body of her father.

Young's vision comprehended the whole tragedy. He pulled off his cap and
gloves and shook the snow from his shoulders. Advanced to the bedside, a
glance satisfied him that the squatter was dead and that Tess had
fainted. He had recognized the dwarf the minute he saw him, and
heartsick with apprehension, he wondered what he was doing there.

"Get up," said he. "Let me look at her."

The dwarf moved aside hesitatingly.

"Air she dead, too?" he whimpered.

"Bring me some water," commanded Young.

Andy went to the pail, dipped a portion of water into a small basin, and
waddled back with it.

"Her daddy air dead," he offered. "Ye can see he air dead."

"Yes!" nodded Young, taking the dish.

He did not speak again until Tess groaned, and opened her eyes. She made
a half struggle to sit up, and Young lifted her to her feet.

"Lean on me," he said gently.

Tess stared at him, incredulously. He had come after all! Relief
crumpled her up in his arms.

"Daddy air dead," she whispered.

"Yes, dear," soothed Young. "There, lean your head on my shoulder, poor
little broken baby."

His tones were so tender, so soft! They went to the heart of the
stricken dwarf, and like a hurt child he burst into tears. Professor
Young turned and looked at him.

"Don't do that," he said huskily. "Sit down--don't cry!"

Without moving from her position, Tess said, "Andy, Andy, dear, git on
up in the garret a few minutes, will ye?"

The dwarf crept to the ladder, and Deforrest let him go. A dozen
questions leapt to the lawyer's lips at the same time, but the girl
against his breast looked so desperately ill he had no heart to ply
them. Tess lifted her lids heavily.

"Ye won't tell nobody he air here?" she gulped.

"How long has he been here?" asked Young, instead of answering her
question.

"Ever since spring," sighed Tessibel.

"Was he here that day when Mr. Waldstricker and my sister--"

"Yep." The girl's whisper was very low.

"And when Burnett came too, I suppose?"

"Yep, I hid 'im ... Daddy loved 'im, Daddy did."

She began to cry softly. Her confession had taken her mind back to the
huge figure on the bed.

"I wanted to go with Daddy," she sobbed. "I didn't know--I thought I
couldn't live without 'im."

Stooping, Deforrest gathered the mourning little one into his arms, and
seating himself in the big rocker, pressed his cheek against her hair in
sympathy. Patiently he waited, holding her thus while the mercy of her
flowing tears dulled the first sharp edge of her grief.

Bye and bye the sobs ceased, and a faint, catchy little voice struggled
up through the red curls to the man's ears.

"Ye air awful good to me, you air. Oh, I needed ye so, and I feared--I
feared mebbe ye wasn't never comin' again!"

"My dear, my dear," Young soothed, much moved. Then he rose and placed
her in the chair. "You sit here and tell me about it."

Bravely she looked into the friendly face, a doleful smile quivering on
her lips.

"The first thing I want to know," she asked, "what air ye goin' to do
'bout Andy?"

Professor Young had anticipated this question.

"Until I've had more time to think about it, and until after the funeral
anyway, I'll keep your secret," he reassured her kindly.

"An' ye won't say anythin' to nobody 'bout 'im till ye talk with me
again?" she queried, fearfully.

"That's what I mean, Tess," Young answered.

"Ye air so good to me, ye air," sighed Tess, satisfied.

"Child," began Young a moment later, "can you bear to tell me about it,
now?"

"About Daddy?" asked Tess, "or about the other--"

The lawyer's nod, responsive to the latter half of her question,
reawakened the suffering girl's memory of the horror of the church
meeting.

"It were so awful," she said after a pregnant pause. "I mean--Mr.
Waldstricker--"

"What about it? Tell me," Young interrupted, as the gentle voice
hesitated.

"See ... this!" she murmured, turning her head.

Young's eyes caught the red of the wound on her neck.

"He did that!... How?" he ejaculated fiercely.

"He hit me with a piece of--coal!" answered Tess, sinking back, very
white.

"No, no; God, no!" he cried desperately. "He couldn't have done that!"

"He said I were ... bad," interrupted Tess, very low. She bowed her
head, and the man, stunned, made no move toward her. His muscles seemed
powerless, and he had no volition to comfort her. He could not erase
from his mind that horrid picture her few direct words had brought
before him. "But ... _you_ air trustin' me!" was the way Tess brought
him back to himself.

"Then it's true what--what--"

His tongue grew parched.

"Yep, but trust me, please!" cried Tess.

Trust her! Believe in her with her confession ringing in his ears. God,
if he did not love her, it wouldn't be so hard to believe, to trust, to
help. But with this fierce jealousy stabbing at his heart, he felt he
must know more--all. His mind went back to that time when she had come
to him with a child in a basket, and her plea had been the same, "Oh,
trust me! Please trust me!"

"If you could only ... tell me ... something," he groaned.

"It air true what Mr. Waldstricker hit me fer," bowed Tess, swallowing
hard, "but I can't say nothin' 'bout it, I can't! I ain't able to tell
nothin' more'n that!"

Young still stood several feet from her.

"I must do something to help you," he implored. "Won't you even tell me
when it--it will be, Tessibel?"

Through her tense fingers the girl murmured a stifled "March."

March--scarce three months away! He would have given five years of his
life to have had her tell him the truth about this thing that had
crushed her. He made a nervous movement with his fingers to his hair.

"You are bound by a promise?" he demanded sharply.

A white, uplifted, pained face was his answer.

"You'll tell me some day, if you can," he said, going swiftly to her.

"Yes," whispered Tess.

And then for a long time nothing was heard in the hut but the winter
without, the growls and mutterings of the bulldog in his sleep by the
stove, and a sob now and then from the dwarf in the garret.

The healing silence of a common love in the presence of a common grief
settled upon the strangely matched couple. The little squatter girl,
with her shameful secret, and the great lawyer and teacher, kept solemn
vigil over the body of Daddy Skinner.

       *       *       *       *       *

Daddy Skinner was buried. All the arrangement in connection with the
obsequies devolved upon Professor Young. It was he who brought the girl
back to the shanty in her simple, clinging, black gown, and after the
carriage had delivered them at the hut door, carried her, almost
unconscious, into the house and laid her gently upon her bed. Then he
closed the door and sat down beside her. It was perhaps an hour later
when she lifted her eyes appealingly.

"I air awful glad ye stayed with me," she choked.

"Tess,"--Young's voice shook.... "Will you let me talk to you a little
and not feel I'm intruding upon your sorrows or your secrets?"

"Ye wouldn't do anythin' what wasn't right," murmured the girl, under
her breath.

For some moments he smoothed her burning forehead. Then he lifted her
hand and held it in his.

"Tessibel," he began.

"What?"

"First, tell me about the little man in the garret."

"There ain't nothin' much to tell," she responded, shaking her head.
"When he got out of Auburn, he come here and asked me an' Daddy to take
care of 'im, an' we done it, that air all."

"I see, dear--and--and you didn't think the law required you to give him
up?"

Tess moved her head negatively on the pillow.

"Sure not, or I'd a done it long ago. The law--what do I care 'bout the
law?... It air always puttin' innercent men in jail. That air all the
law air fer."

"But this man is a murderer," Young tried to explain to her.

But Tessibel's gesture, both hands raised, palms outward, expressed her
dissent.

"They said as how Daddy were a murderer, too," she retorted, "but you
found out he weren't, didn't ye?"

Young, not able to gainsay this, nodded his head.

"How long are you going to keep him here?" he asked presently.

Tess sent him a glance pathetically sad and discouraged.

"I don't know. The poor little duffer hain't no friends. He ain't no
other place to go where old Eb won't git 'im."

Young thought of his brother-in-law. He realized immediately with what
joy that stern disciplinarian would snatch the little man back into
Auburn prison. Doubtless, too, he would visit his rage on the girl
who'd shielded him.

"Ye helped Daddy git out o' jail," Tess whispered. "Couldn't ye keep
Andy out?"

Deforrest Young turned his face to the ceiling. A pair of gleaming eyes
were staring down upon him from the square hole.

"Come down here, you," he said peremptorily.

Andy slid down the ladder and squatted himself beside the cot. Young
considered the boyish face some time in silence.

"What made you kill Waldstricker?" he demanded.

Andy shook his head.

"I never done it, mister," he denied positively.

"Tell me how it happened! If I'm going to help you, you must tell me the
truth."

This wasn't what Young had intended to say at all.

"Andy ain't a liar," came from Tess.

"Tell me every word," urged Young.

The dwarf curled himself into a little ball and began.

"Well, us was all in a saloon at the Inlet, an' old Waldstricker, he
come in with a nuther man, an' they both got a drink an' t'uther man
went out. Me an' Owen Bennet were settin' at the table, ... Waldstricker
he says somethin' nasty 'bout squatters an' ... Owen went fer 'im.
Waldstricker pulled 'is gun. I knocked it out o' his hand an' Owen
grabbed it up offen the floor an' sent a bullet right through
Waldstricker's heart. Then us uns beat it, I mean me an' Owen, an' when
they caught us ... he put the shootin' on me. I didn't do it, an' Owen
knows I didn't."

Young was very quiet during this recital. He was considering the eager,
boyish, upraised face.

"I hope ye believe me, mister--sir--please do," Andy pleaded.

Deforrest Young crossed his legs, smoothed his hair with one hand, and
sat back in his chair.

"I think I do," he nodded presently. "Only I am placed in a very
peculiar position. By rights I ought to send you back--then help you
afterward if I can."

Tessibel sat up, her eyes wildly frightened.

"Ye couldn't do that!" she cried. "Ye couldn't do that! Don't ye
remember a day on the rocks, when I was awful sad, an' you said, 'Tess,
if ye ever want me to do anything for ye, come and tell me.' Didn't ye
say it?"

Young bowed his head.

"I air askin' it now," said Tess, throwing out her hand. "I air beggin'
ye not to send Andy back. Let 'im stay with me. I promised Daddy I'd
take care of 'im."

"Lie down again and be quiet, child," urged Deforrest, sadly. "You don't
want to make yourself sick.... Hush, you mustn't cry!... Oh, child dear,
will you please stop shaking that way?"

He had forgotten that when Tess loved any one, she would battle until
her death before she gave him up.

"Then don't send little Andy back, an' I'll be awful good," she pleaded.

Young sat for some time, one hand on Tessibel's, the other beating a
tatoo on the arm of Daddy's wooden rocker.

"I suppose," he said at length, as if speaking to himself, "I'll be
highly criticized if any one finds out about this irregular proceeding.
Nevertheless--" He turned to Tess. "I'll go quietly to work and see what
I can do. In the meantime, dear child, you can't stay here in this
house."

"But I promised Daddy I'd take care of Andy here, an' I air goin' to.
Him and me can live here all right."

Young sighed. There was the same stubborn tone in her voice she had used
in those days when her father was away in prison, and he had argued with
her to leave the settlement.

"Well, at any rate," he said after a while, "I'll take time to consider
it, and then we'll decide something."

Ten minutes later he was riding slowly up the hill, and as the past
panoramied across his mind ... and evolved itself into the present, he
shook his head. Tessibel had separated him from his family, had made him
a stranger to his best friends. Would she now, by holding to
Waldstricker's convicted murderer, deprive him of his honor?




CHAPTER XXX

SANDY COMES TO GRIEF


The Skinner home was resting in its winter calm. Daddy Skinner was gone.
Andy still crept about the dark garret, and Tessibel passed her days in
study, performing the few duties the small shack required.

When Deforrest Young had gone away a few days after Daddy's funeral,
he'd smiled into her eyes and had bidden her to be of good courage.
Henceforth, he said, she was to be his charge. She felt a little lighter
hearted. It made her happier, too, to think he knew about Andy Bishop
and was going to help him.

The only person she feared was Sandy Letts. She'd not seen him since
that day in the church when he had tried to draw her nearer the
minister. Bitterly angry, she knew he must be. That he had delayed his
revenge so long seemed to her rather menacing than comforting.

Her mind was drifting back over all the events of the past few months,
when a shadow passed over the curtain at the window. She stole to the
door and placed her ear to the latch. From that position she could
plainly hear creeping footsteps crawling closer.

With her ear glued to the crack, she listened. There was no sound now of
walking. The outsider was listening, too. Suddenly, he knocked heavily.
Tess glanced to the garret. The dwarf's face was not in sight. Then the
knock came again.

"Who air there?" Tess called, her breath catching.

There was no answer, save another knock.

Tessibel spoke once more. After a pause, Sandy Letts' voice came gruffly
to her.

"Open the door, Tess. It air me, Sandy."

"What do ye want?" demanded Tess.

Sandy growled inarticulately, gave a kick to the floor, and rattled the
latch.

"I want to come in, I said. I air goin' to talk to ye!"

Tessibel thought of Ben Letts and of how he, too, had demanded entrance
to her home in just such a manner as his cousin was doing now. She
glanced about for something with which to protect herself if needed. She
wished with all her soul the brindle bull were with her then in the
shanty.

Sandy gave another rough pull at the latch-string.

"Open the door, Tess," he growled again, "or I'll bust it down."

Tess knew Sandy would carry out his threat, and, if he broke down the
door, his temper would be worse than now. She muttered a prayer to quiet
the terror in her heart, and slipped up the bar. Sandy, gun in hand,
stepped into the kitchen, and Tess closed the door.

"What do ye want, Sandy?" she questioned.

"I want to talk to ye, what do ye 'spose I want?" he flung out,
swaggering his shoulders.

"Well, sit down," invited Tess, seeking to propitiate. "Ye knowed Daddy
was dead, didn't ye, Sandy?"

"I can set down without bein' asked," grunted the squatter, dropping
into a chair. "Sure I knowed yer pa's flew the coop."

"What'd ye want?" Tess asked again after a moment.

"I've come to settle with ye for somethin'," said Letts.

"I ain't done nothin'," replied Tess.

Sandy threw out an angry hand.

"Ye have, too, ye have, too! Didn't I want ye for my woman, and didn't
ye go an'--"

"I said ye couldn't have me," interrupted the girl. "Folks ain't havin'
everythin' they want in this world, Sandy."

"Then ye turned me down in the church afore Waldstricker," went on
Sandy. "Ye might've been glad to marry a decent man after what ye'd
done. But ye ups and says, 'I won't!' An' I've come to ask the reason
why."

Tess walked across the shanty kitchen and sat on the edge of the cot.
Sandy followed her with his eyes, his face growing crimson as he gazed
at her.

"I air here for two things," he continued. "To find out the name of that
man Waldstricker asked ye 'bout--"

Tessibel's low voice stopped his impudent speech.

"I couldn't tell ye that, Sandy, not even if ye killed me," she
murmured. "What was t'uther thing?"

"I air goin' to take ye away with me fer my woman. But ye needn't think
I air goin' to marry ye decent like I would in the church t'uther day,
fer I won't."

Tessibel, weary and aching, grew cold with fear. She knew the squatter
would keep his word, if he could. He would abuse her as Ben had tried to
when her father was in Auburn unless help came. Then remembering all the
days she had lived and suffered and still'd been saved from Sandy and
his like, she breathed a deep sigh.

"I couldn't go with ye, Sandy," she explained.

A cruel expression set Sandy's large, sensuous mouth.

"Ye'll be glad to go with me when I git done with ye." He placed his gun
against the chair and stood up. "First, I want to know what made ye act
like that in the church fer. Don't ye know me well 'nough to think I'd
get ye sooner or later. Ye knowed yer Daddy couldn't always live in the
shack. Ye might better took me while ye could. I would jest have beat ye
a bit fer yer cussedness, then mebbe after a while I'd fergive ye. But
now--"

Tessibel's struggling to her feet broke off the man's volubility. She
was so frightened that almost without thought she circled toward the
door. Sandy got up and placed himself directly in front of her.

"No, ye don't git out o' here," he sneered, "not till I git through with
ye. Jest make up yer mind to that."

Sandy was moving toward her, his eyes gleaming with rage. What could she
do? She threw a hasty glance about the shanty. She knew Andy was under
the straw tick in the garret and could not hear the low conversation
going on in the kitchen.

As if in answer to her agonized prayer, another shadow passed the
curtained window. Sandy had not seen it or he would not have thrust
forth his great arms and snatched her to him. Tess uttered a scream. In
another moment Jake Brewer sprang into the kitchen and was looking from
Tessibel to the angry squatter.

Sandy pushed the girl roughly on to the cot--took two steps toward
Brewer, his manner threatening.

"What ye sneakin' 'bout here fer?" he growled out.

Jake grinned slowly.

"I allers come in to see Tess," he replied. "What were ye doin', Sandy?"

"I air goin' to take Tessibel to be my woman," muttered Letts.

Jake glanced at the pallid girl.

"Oh, well, I swan! So that air it, eh?"

"Nope," Tess got out through her chattering teeth. Then all the pent-up
rage in her body broke loose. "I ain't wantin' to be his woman. I want
to be let alone in my shack! Oh, Jake, won't ye make Sandy go away and
let me be?"

Sandy laughed evilly.

"It'd take a bigger man'n Jake," he remarked.

Brewer, unruffled, seated himself with the slow manner of a squatter.

"I don't say as how I air very big," replied Jake, crossing his legs,
"but I guess no man'll take Tess long's she don't want to go, when I air
here, Sandy."

Letts shook a threatening fist.

"Get out o' here, Jake," he growled, going toward the other man. "If ye
don't, I'll make it worse fer ye! Git out, I say!"

"Shan't do it. Now, Sandy, I ain't no woman to be 'fraid of you, so just
hold yer horses till us uns talk this out. Ye say ye want Tess fer
your'n, an' Tess, she don't want ye, now what ye goin' to do?"

"I air a goin' to take her jest the same," snarled Letts.

But thinking better of placing his hands on the other man, he went to
his chair and sat down. Tess, too, drew a little sigh of relief. Then
the three sat for several quiet seconds looking from one to the other.
At length, Tess broke out.

"Sandy said he'd keep away an' wait till he caught Andy Bishop afore he
come to git me."

Sandy glared at her.

"But I told ye if ye had a nuther man hangin' round I'd fix both of ye,
an' I'm goin' to keep my word," he snapped back.

"Ye can't fix any one but me, Sandy, 'cause ye don't know nobody else
to hurt, do ye," she interrupted him.

"It air easy fer a man like me to choke the name out of ye, brat,"
replied Letts, blinking his eyes at her. "I'd be likin' nothin' better."

Jake moved his big boots back and forth several times.

"I wouldn't try it if I was you, Sandy," he cautioned, "'cause ye know
uther folks might be interferin' with ye."

Sandy's throat emitted a deep, doglike growl as he clambered to his
feet.

"I'll do it now, dam ye both," he barked back in ugly defiance.

Jake was on his feet before Letts could take a forward step and had
placed himself between the big squatter and the girl.

       *       *       *       *       *

That afternoon when Jake came back to see Tessibel, she threw a quick
question at him.

"Air he dead, Jake?"

"Lordy, no, Tess, 'course not! He's tougher'n cow's tripe.... Sit down,
brat, an' I'll tell ye about it.... Don't be shakin' so. It were like
this! I was stoppin' Sandy from tryin' to git ye an' when I pushed 'im
back, he kicked his own gun an' got a bullet in his big, fat leg, that
air all."

"It was awful," cried Tess, wiping away her tears.

A slight smile played around Jake's lips, and showed a few of his dark
teeth.

"Brat," he chuckled, "Sandy ain't done to his death by no means, an' you
didn't have nothin' to do with it, nuther did I. 'Twere his own
cussedness that put that bullet in his leg. There air one blessed thing,
he won't be comin' round here for a long time yet botherin' you; so
cheer up, an' be glad ye air a livin'."

Then Jake went away, leaving the girl and the little man in the garret,
comforted and happier than they had been in many a day.




CHAPTER XXXI

WALDSTRICKER'S THREAT


Something had happened in the house of Waldstricker. Since the churching
of Tessibel Skinner, everything had been topsy turvy. The criticism
heaped on Ebenezer for his part in it had only served to make him more
arrogant at home and abroad.

One morning at breakfast, Frederick being absent, Madelene was alone
with Ebenezer and his wife.

"Put down your paper a minute, Eb," said Madelene, "will you?"

Scowling, Waldstricker let the paper rattle to the floor.

"What do you want now?... I can't have a minute's peace. What is it?...
More money?"

"_No_, nor nothing to do with it, Ebenezer. I want to ask you something,
and do be quite frank with me. Does Fred ever go to see that Skinner
girl?"

The man's heavy brows drew into a straight dark line above his eyes.

"He'd better not," he gritted between his teeth.

"That isn't the point," answered Madelene. "Does he?"

"I don't believe I'd give myself much concern about that if I were you,"
he said presently. "I understand that man Letts, Sandy Letts, who is
working for me on the Bishop matter, still wants to marry her."

"Of course she won't as long as Frederick--"

Waldstricker interrupted her.

"If Frederick does go there, he won't long when Letts finds it out."

Madelene's eager glance brought the unmatched lips aslant of each other.

"I don't think he'll go often," he repeated. "I'll see to it myself. She
can marry Lysander Letts or--"

"Or what?" Madelene's elbows came to the table, a hand on each cheek.
"Oh, Ebbie, do tell me! I'm so miserable about her. I wish she was
dead!"

"But, Ebenezer," said Helen, "it seems awful for such a refined girl to
marry such a man!"

The elder's uplifted hand came down on the table with a bang, and higher
mounted his proud lip. He ignored his wife's pleading speech, but
answered his sister's.

"So will Miss Skinner wish she were dead before I'm done with her," said
he.

"Why?"

Waldstricker leaned over the table, looking first at his wife, then at
Madelene. Helen shuddered. How relentless he looked when his mouth
turned down at both corners! She had grown so afraid of him of late.

"I've an effective way to keep him from her," said he.

"Goody!" exclaimed Madelene, and "How, dear?" asked Helen.

The man spoke only two words in a low, husky voice, but each woman heard
them.

"Good!" gasped Madelene, standing quickly. "How perfectly glorious!"

"How perfectly awful!" groaned Helen. "Ebenezer, don't do anything so
dreadful."

Waldstricker looked across the table with that strange glitter in his
eyes.

"Helen, must we go over again the same painful ground that women should
not interfere!"

Mrs. Waldstricker rose to her feet.

"No, Ebenezer, no, no! Only I was thinking of Deforrest!"

"Deforrest will not know of it until it's too late," said Waldstricker,
rising too.

"Does he know of Letts' trying to force her to marry him?" asked Helen.

"I've never told him. Possibly the girl has."

"I think not," answered Helen, gravely. "He'd have mentioned it to me, I
think!"

As her brother passed Madelene, he tweaked her ear.

"Just clear your pretty head of further worry, little kitten ... See?"

Madelene caught his hand affectionately in hers.

"Kiss me, best of good brothers," she smiled. "You've made me perfectly
happy! Isn't it dreadful to have to keep tabs on one's husband?"

"You won't have to long," Waldstricker assured her.

Then he kissed her and followed his wife into the library. Mrs.
Waldstricker walked to the window and looked out, her eyes full of
tears.

"Helen," said Ebenezer, gravely, taking her by the shoulders and turning
her face toward him. "You displease me very much."

The drops hanging on the long lashes fell suddenly.

"I'm sorry, dear, but I can't see why you always antagonize Deforrest.
You remember how angry he was after that church affair."

"Your brother's anger doesn't affect me in the slightest," returned
Ebenezer coldly. "When I see my duty to God, I do it, that's all."

"And you're really determined--Oh, Eb dear, for my sake, please--"

The husband made an impatient movement.

"Helen, how many times have I got to forbid your crying this way. You're
always in tears. You'll make yourself sick."

"Lately you've been so cross to me," sobbed Helen, burying her face in
her handkerchief.

Waldstricker put his arm about her.

"I don't want to be cross.... There!... Now lie down here on the
divan.... I'm going out for an hour or two."

Then he put on his cap, took up his riding whip, and went away to the
stables.

A few minutes later Helen Waldstricker sat up straight, and rang the
bell. To the servant who appeared, she said,

"Find Mr. Graves and send him to me immediately."

When Frederick received the message, cold chills chased each other up
and down his back. Dismayed, he desired to disobey but dared not,
besides Helen was the least dangerous of the three. What could she want,
he considered queruously. He hadn't had a minute's peace since he came
home. Madelene was in a state of tears nearly all the time; his
brother-in-law, dictatorial, difficult even in his milder moods, seemed
secretive and suspicious. As far as he was concerned, he kept from the
house as much as possible, but this only provoked to a greater degree
his young wife's tears and complaints. Only this morning, he had been
treated to a spell of hysterics the like of which Madelene had never
before equalled.

His wife would not believe his oft-repeated assertions that he had not
been to the Skinner cabin since the day she had surprised him there.
Frederick had spoken truly. His fear of his powerful brother-in-law and
his own lack of moral courage allowed the days to drift along until now
he felt he could not go into the presence of the girl he had thus
neglected.

He watched until his brother-in-law drove from the stables and
disappeared. Then he turned and went into the library. Helen beckoned to
him to come near her.

"I must tell you something," she breathed.

She pointed to a chair near the divan. For a time she talked in an
undertone, telling him something which sent the blood flying from the
young man's face, and left him faint and sick at heart.

And later by an hour, Frederick Graves was walking the railroad tracks
toward the Skinner shanty.




CHAPTER XXXII

HELEN'S MESSAGE


Tessibel Skinner was sitting in the shanty kitchen. She had a book in
her lap but her mind was far from her surroundings. Andy had been quiet
so long she'd almost forgotten him. Suddenly, his slight cough brought
her back to the present.

"Ye look awful peeked, brat, dear," he said. "I think ye'd ought to see
Young's doctor, hadn't ye?"

A vague smile crossed the girl's face, and she shook her head.

"No, Andy," she answered, "I don't need no doctor, yet."

"I wish ye felt better," sighed the dwarf. "An' the days is gettin'
awful blizzardy for ye to go outdoors."

"But I got to go out, dear, fer wood an' other things. Hark!" She got up
swiftly. "There air some one comin'."

In another instant the little man had crawled away from the ceiling hole
and was under the tick. The garret was as silent as the frozen lake and
the kitchen below, where Tess stood in anxious expectation. Tessibel,
knowing it couldn't be Sandy, put aside her first impulse not to heed
the rap. An instant later, she opened the door. That it might be
Frederick was farthest from her mind, until she saw him standing there
so thin and tired. Surprised and shocked at seeing him, the stress of
her feeling found her faint. She would have fallen if he had not
suddenly seized her.

"Tessibel!... Tess, darling!" he cried, sharply. Lifting her up, he
carried her into the room. She clung to him, crying, her confusion
calmed by his caresses. He placed her in a chair and sat down beside
her. Suddenly, she sat back in her seat, roused from her revery by
mocking memories of her wrongs.

"Couldn't ye let me alone?" she breathed hoarsely, covering her face
with her hands. "Ye might a let me be."

"I had to come, dear," Frederick told her. "I want you to do something
for both our sakes.... Oh, Tess, what terrible days have passed since I
saw you last!"

After a short pause, she dropped both hands and glanced up at him. Then
knitting her fingers together, she pressed them hard until they looked
like the veined stems of a pale flower. He had come to make another
demand of her--and she was so tired--so sick!

"I want you to make me a promise, Tessibel," urged Frederick.

"I said as how I'd help ye all I could," murmured Tess. "Ye're wantin'
me to do somethin' awful hard, huh?"

Her soul in her eyes, she looked at him, but his gaze was on the gloves
he was twisting back and forth between his fingers.

"Ain't ye goin' to tell me?" groaned Tess.

She dropped her chin into her hands with a touching gesture of pathos.
Frederick bent nearer.

"Tess, Mrs. Waldstricker sent me with a message--and you've got to do
what I want you to."

His strangely persistent reiteration that she should do his will served
only to produce another, "Why don't ye tell me, then?" from Tess.

"You must do something to save yourself!" he cried.

To save herself? What did he mean by saving herself? What did any one
intend to do? She'd stayed so alone no one could intrude upon her now.
And then, there was Andy, poor forlorn little man!

"Is anyone goin' to hurt me?" she faltered, faint and frightened.

"Yes, dearest, yes, and you must--"

He was on his feet and Tess struggled up, too.

"What've I got to do?" she breathed miserably.

"Tess," he groaned, "can't you understand how much I love you; that I
would save you if I could?"

With uplifted hand, he tried to raise her face to his.

"Don't!" she cried, pushing him away. "_Tell_ me what Mrs. Waldstricker
said!"

"You've got to do it, dear," urged Frederick, "or they'll take you
away."

"What do ye mean by takin' me away?" she implored, moving a frightened
step backward. "Who's goin' to try to take me any place?"

"Why--why--Mrs. Waldstricker says--"

He paused so long Tess could not bear the suspense.

"Oh, tell me!" she gasped. "Can't ye see ye air killin' me?"

Frederick began again.

"Mr. Ebenezer Waldstricker--"

Tess swayed on her feet.

"What air he goin' to do?" she panted.

Had her enemy discovered she was protecting Andy?

"He's going to take you to a--a--" stammered Frederick.

Tessibel grew faint and dizzy. She uttered a sharp scream.

"A reform school!" she cried.

"Yes."

The blow had fallen at last! She would be dragged from her home, up
before the eyes of the world in all her illness and shame. Then she sank
to the floor in abandoned misery.

"Oh, Frederick, save me!" she wailed. "Don't let him take me away, and
I'll promise never to go outside the shanty. Oh, make him let me stay!
Why can't I stay, oh, why can't I?"

"Waldstricker says you've got to go," said Frederick, sadly.

Tess sat up and flung back her curls.

"Well, he don't own the hull world, does he.... Couldn't you, well
couldn't _you_ say somethin' to make him let me be?"

"I don't know what to say," the boy mumbled.

"Couldn't ye tell 'em?" entreated Tess. "Please listen. Couldn't
ye--couldn't ye tell Mr. Waldstricker 'bout our little baby--our baby,
Frederick?"

He refused by a negative gesture of head and hand.

"Oh, don't shake your head, Frederick!" cried Tess, frantically.
"Please!... Please!... Me an' the baby won't be any bother to you!...
We'll jest love ye always an' forever, me an' the baby will....

"Ye could save us that way! Ye needn't tell 'em anythin' but that!"

Suddenly another thought took possession of her.

"What else did Mrs. Waldstricker say?" she demanded. "What were ye both
wantin' me to do?"

"Mr. Waldstricker told his wife and my--I mean Madelene--that you'll
either be sent away or must marry--marry Lysander Letts."

Tess stared at him wildly as though he were going mad. Or _was_ she
losing her reason! What awful thing had he said. Lysander Letts--surely
she had not heard straight.

"Ye weren't tellin' me what were true, Frederick," she whimpered
overwhelmed. "Oh, ye scared me so!"

"But I am telling you the truth!" he exclaimed miserably. His voice
broke. "I can't save you, Tessibel. Waldstricker can do anything he
wants. Why--why--Waldstricker's hands're stronger--are stronger than
God's."

She heard his words as if in a dream. "Stronger'n God's," echoed through
the recesses of her brain in fearful mockery. She was lost, engulfed in
the hatred of Waldstricker. She saw through the mist over her eyes,
Lysander Letts leering menacingly at her. She sat very still and held
her breath. If she let it go, her heart would break.

"Stronger'n God's," were the only words she remembered. Then, if that
were true, and Frederick had said it--then--then, nothing--nobody--could
take from her this brimming cup of disgrace and destruction. She
struggled to her feet, walked to the door and opened it. Her eyes sought
the dejected looking man.

"I air askin' ye to go now, please, right now," she said quietly. "Tell
Mrs. Waldstricker, I air much obliged."

"And haven't you something to say to me, Tess?... Oh, God, don't send me
away like this!"

She laid one hand on her heart. "Only go," she whispered, "an' never,
never come again!"

Frederick stepped over the threshold, and Tess shut the door behind
him.




CHAPTER XXXIII

HANDS STRONGER THAN WALDSTRICKER'S


Tess stood with swift-coming breath, her back to the door, waiting.
Frederick must leave before she dared speak to Andy. It seemed an
eternity ere the sound of the retreating footsteps died away, and she
knew he was gone.

Then she started across the room, haltingly. Strange, how difficult it
was to walk, and how giddy her head felt! What was it that had happened?
What was going to happen a thousand times worse? Frederick's brutality
left her bruised and broken. His threats twisted themselves through the
tangled tumult of her thoughts and his sinister suggestions stunned and
stupefied her.

Frederick had come and gone! She remembered that. Her skin still burned
where his hot lips had touched her. He had told her he loved her, had
begged her to say she loved him! Love? Yes, she had loved him--she did
love him, but her love lay low, its structure, like a squatter's hut,
she had seen, shattered on the sand by a storm.

Tess put a stick of wood in the stove, and a second later forgot she'd
done it.

Ebenezer Waldstricker came into her mind vaguely ... vindictive and
violent. Her hand went suddenly to her face. He was going to send her to
a reform school, going to take her from the shanty for years! How
powerful he was! Frederick had said Waldstricker's hands were stronger
than God's. What strong hands he must have--those hands descending upon
her defenseless, desolate life.

Andy was peering through the hole. Tessibel collapsed into Daddy
Skinner's chair.

"Brat," he said in a whisper, "I'm comin' down!"

Tess mechanically got up and barred the door.... Then she returned to
her seat. The dwarf was already squatted beside it, his eyes fastened on
the girl in eloquent silence. His chin sank between his knees. Then the
two of them sat.... The crackling of the freshly burning wood and the
ticking of the clock were the only sounds in the room.

"I heard what the man said 'bout Waldstricker's hands bein' stronger'n
God's," reflected Andy, aloud, presently. Then he raised his body a
little from the floor that he might look into the girl's face. "Say,
brat, has old Eb got any marks on his hands?"

Tess shook her head, brown eyes sombrous with suffering.

"No," she denied. "His hands are big an' white an' long an' soft."

Andy pondered a minute.

"They ain't no marks of nails on 'em, air there, kid?" he demanded,
solemnly.

The pursed, hurt lines around Tessibel's mouth softened a little.

"No," she murmured wearily, again. "No, Andy."

The dwarf reached and took one of the girl's hands. It lay on his own
quite limply.

"Look at me, brat, dear."

The red-brown eyes moved toward the upturned face.

"Tessibel, will ye think of this one little thing?

"The Christ's holdin' his hands over the hull world, givin' everybody
peace; you an' me, too, brat-kid. Waldstricker's hands ain't dragged me
back to Auburn, an' God's hands has kept me here.... You showed me that
from the beginnin', eh, brat?... It's sure, ain't it?"

He hunched himself nearer her, his face beautiful with faith.

"Ain't it true, kid?"

"Sure! Sure, it air true!" faltered Tessibel.

"Then if God's hands kept me here in the shanty 'gainst all Waldstricker
could do, can't they keep you here, huh?"

Tessibel's head lifted suddenly. What was Andy saying about
hands--Waldstricker's and--and--With her free fingers she brushed the
dampened curls from her forehead. Waldstricker's hands! Oh,
incomparable memory! How could she have forgotten the hands of the
Christ! They had brought Daddy Skinner from the shadow of the rope. She
had forgotten the power of those hands.... Hands of peace--hands of
love! As shadows fade before the majestic advance of the sun, so under
the inrush of divine light did the agonized expression fade from
Tessibel's eyes. The menacing figure of Waldstricker slipped away like a
gliding night-serpent, and Tess got to her feet.

"Andy," she breathed, bending over him. "Oh, Andy, darling! Ye're
telling me Jesus can keep me from bein' sent to that awful place? Ain't
that what ye're tryin' to show me?"

The dwarf scrambled up, reaching forth his hands.

"And he sure can, brat," he made answer. "Waldstricker can't pull ye out
of this hut when God's holdin' ye in."

Andy was smiling his rare, boyish smile. A large lump rose in Tessibel's
throat.

"I air goin' to ask God to hold me here, Andy," she choked brokenly.

So when night closed the grey eyes of the winter day, and darkness
descended on the Skinner shanty, a red-haired squatter girl and a wee
dwarf knelt in the glow of the hut lamp and petitioning lips framed in
whispers a simple prayer for their protection.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next day passed, quiet in the shanty and over the shining span of
frozen water. Waldstricker had not come. Tess crept into bed sighing
with relief. Andy rolled himself in his blankets and slept.

The morning arrived crisply cold, bleakly grey. Tess shivered as she
broke the ice for water. Would this day bring Waldstricker? Then, as
that harrowing thought flitted through her mind, another exultant,
smiling flash took its place. Tessibel's head reared with a proud
uplift. No human power could set aside the majestic promise of Heaven
that she might stay in the hut. Smilingly, she opened the shanty door
and cheerfully answered the dwarf's, "How d'y' do, brat dear?"

But the next few hours were laden with a sense of approaching calamity,
that sense which ties the tongue in apprehension. Andy was perched on
the ladder while Tess sat just below in the wooden rocker.

Suddenly, from far up the lane, the sound of wheels grating on the snow,
could be heard plainly. Both man and girl stared white-faced at each
other for perhaps thirty seconds.

"They're comin', but they can't take ye, Brat," muttered Andy. "You'll
stay in this shanty the same 's if you was nailed to the floor."

Then, he sought his place under the straw tick, and as nearer and louder
came the clatter of the horses hoofs, the more quiet grew the Skinner
hut.

Tessibel stood in the middle of the kitchen, her hand pressing down the
beatings of her heart. Somebody was approaching! There were footsteps on
the dry snow!

Directly the crunching sound ceased, a loud knock fell on the door.
Tessibel lifted the bar, and at her faint, "Come in," the door flung
back on its hinges and Ebenezer Waldstricker stepped over the threshold.
Another man, seemingly by common consent, waited outside. Waldstricker
came to a halt at the sight of the squatter girl. Even in her mourning,
and ashen pale, she looked glorious. Her burnished, unmanageable hair
clung like a golden mantle about her. She had lifted heavy lashes and
was looking him straight in the face.

Ebenezer, suddenly, felt a wild desire to strike, but he dared not touch
her, nor dared he go forward one step. Her advancing motherhood crowned
her with unapproachable dignity, and the man muttered an imprecation
under his breath. To have her appear in court so austerely lovely would
be to lose his case. He had expected she would plead, cry, perhaps
scream. What should he say to break that steady calm? He did not know
what a day and night of communion with the Infinite had done for the
squatter girl. He did not understand that beneath her were everlasting
arms, that her life was held in the hollow of a hand more powerful than
his own.

"I believe, my girl," said he, without preliminaries, "I told you when
the church took action against you, you'd be sent to some place where
girls of your class go, didn't I?"

Tess didn't move by so much as a wink. She seemed simply to have grown
deaf and dumb. How could she answer when she had not heard? She was
staring back into the man's bold, dark eyes. Her silence was like a
spark to his inflammatory temper.

"Aren't you going to answer me, Miss?" His rasping voice aroused Tess
from her trance.

"I didn't hear what you said," she told him, still very calm.

"I said," replied Ebenezer, arrogantly, "you're going to be sent to a
reform school."

"Today?" asked Tess, breathing deeply, now fully possessed of her
senses.

"Yes, today." Then he remembered Madelene.... he had made her a promise.
"But I'll help you to get out after a while, if you tell me who--who
brought you to this condition." He threw out both hands disdainfully
toward her. Waldstricker's white hands, hands stronger than God's! Who
had dared say it?

The girl cast her eyes to the rafters. There, the nets hung in strings
and mingled their tassled ends with the dry herbs. There, somewhere,
were that other pair of hands upholding her. She lowered her eyes again
to the man.

"Don't you hear me talkin' to you?" he grated. "I said you were going
today--but if you tell me--"

He bit off his words, her apparent helplessness shaming him to silence.
Then the import of what he had said flashed over Tessibel and she swayed
backward. This small break in that superb calm brought Waldstricker
forward the step the girl had yielded.

"Are you going to tell me?" he demanded again.

"Nope," said Tess rigidly, "Air I to go with ye now, this minute?"

He inclined his head with a bitter nod. "Yes," he snarled. He strode to
the door, and addressed the officer. "Come in! Come in! She's a hardened
huzzy.... Serve the warrant on her."

Tessibel took the paper but dropped it to the floor without glancing at
it. She didn't care what it contained, for minute by minute came the
sweet assurance from up there among the nets that God had heard and
would answer.

The officer was staring at her, askance. He remembered distinctly when
she had climbed up the ivy on the county jail to see her father. Then
she had been a child. Now she was a woman. Being a good-hearted man, he
hated his task, and a moment later hated it worse than ever. She sent
him one pleading, heart-rending glance, then dropped her lids.

"Ye couldn't let me stay till after March?" she whispered. "If ye only
would--"

It had been an effort to say it; an effort to both inclination and
voice. It was as if her throat were filled with ashes ... nor could she
finish the appeal.

"You can't stay even one day," thrust in Waldstricker, "I told you long
ago what to expect.... Get your things together."

Tess made no move to obey. She was waiting for an answer from out of the
dry nets, even from far behind the snow clouds where the blue slept.

"Get your things on," commanded the man, once more.

Oh, yes, she could do that! Putting on her things didn't say she was
going. She turned mechanically, took down her coat and scarf. These she
put on and went for her rubbers. She stood very near the wall as she
bent dizzily to slip them on. All the time her soul was looking upward
for the eternal answer, an answer from a power stronger than
Waldstricker's.

Then she went slowly to the little box where she kept her hat. After
brushing her hair back, she pinned it on in front of the mirror.
Today--well, now she was dressed, ready to go. She turned and came
forward. The constable stared from Waldstricker back to her. Was this
the girl who had stamped and screamed when Daddy Skinner had been taken
to Auburn?

"Are you goin' without any fuss, miss?" he asked dully.

"If I go at all," was all Tess said.

At the door she flung back her head, her eyes searching the rafters.
Straight as knife cuts hung the broken strings of the unused nets,
threaded here and there with wheels of silken cobwebs. Up through these
Tessibel stared. Up and up, above the curling of the chimney smoke, up
among the stars, up where the hands of love--God's hands, were ever
spread in benediction over her own wild, beautiful world. She smiled as
if responding to a smile. Waldstricker touching her made her turn
suddenly.

The cold wind from the door just opened by the officer, swept her hot
face. She flashed her eyes past him to the vast open stretches of
winter, and there, standing in the lane, smiling directly back at her,
was Deforrest Young. God in his own good time had sent her hands
stronger than Waldstricker's.




CHAPTER XXXIV

LOVE AIR EVERYWHERE THE HULL TIME


The moment the red-brown eyes fell upon Professor Young, the pale face
of the girl lit with a radiant smile.

"Oh, ye've come!... God sent ye, didn't He?"

At the sight of the tall, commanding lawyer, the officer and his
powerful principal stepped each to one side of the path in front of the
house and left Tess standing in the doorway, with trembling arms
outstretched to her approaching friend. Young came directly to her,
ignoring his brother-in-law.

"My dear," he murmured, snatching her hands, "you needed me! Poor child,
you certainly did!"

"Are you coming in," pausing on the threshold, he spoke to Waldstricker,
"or are you going on to Ithaca, Ebenezer?"

A smile passed over the elder's lips. He was secretly much amused at the
professor's assumption of authority.

"I'm coming in," said he. "I've something to show you."

Evidently not impressed by his brother-in-law's statement, Deforrest led
the passive girl back from the threshold of the shanty into the kitchen.

"Let me take off your wraps, dear child," he said tenderly.

Waldstricker's growing amusement found audible expression in a
condescending laugh.

"Wait a minute, Forrie," he commanded, spreading his feet pompously.
"She can't take 'em off. She's coming with us."

"And why with you?" Young asked, in simulated surprise.

Waldstricker fairly gloated with joy. Never had he felt so righteous and
uplifted. By his brother-in-law's actions, he was assured he did not
know of the warrant for Tessibel Skinner. But the girl's attitude
amazed him. To the quiet dignity with which she had submitted to arrest,
there had succeeded an air of complete detachment as though her
responsibility, even her interest in the matter, had wholly ceased.
Mutely watching the two strong men, she seemed like some small prey over
which fierce forces fought. Young began to remove the hat from her
bronze curls.

"We're going to take her away," cut in Waldstricker, putting one hand in
his pocket.

"Where to?" demanded Young, laying the hat on the table.

"To a--to a--" Waldstricker hesitated.

The frown on Young's brow deepened. He had paused for the other's
explanation, his under lip gathered between his teeth. Then, he laid his
hand protectingly on that of the silent, white-faced girl. Tessibel's
fingers turned upward and closed over his, and they stood thus a moment,
Waldstricker contemplating them through half-closed lids, one corner of
his mouth superciliously curled.

"You haven't told me where you were going to take her," Deforrest
insisted.

Bitter anger rose in Eb's throat. He had been balked at every turn he'd
taken against this red-headed girl, and instead of helping him,
Deforrest was aiding her. He did not intend that Madelene should suffer
any more, and he imagined his own home life would be more peaceful when
Tessibel Skinner was wiped from its horizon.

"If you'll have it plain," he cried triumphantly, "she's going to be
sent to a reform school! If ever a girl needed correcting, she does.
She's already been served with the warrant."

Young muttered under his breath. Holding out his hand, he said,

"Let me see the warrant."

Ebenezer pointed to the paper on the floor where Tess had dropped it.
Stooping, he picked it up.

"Look that over!" he said and handed it to the lawyer.

Professor Young took the paper, and before reading it, looked
reassuringly at Tess with that wide, white-toothed smile of his that
always cheered her heart.

"Sit down," he told her. "You do look tired, child."

With one swift glance at Waldstricker's face, she obeyed him.

Deforrest merely glanced at the paper in his hand.

"Oh, is that all you have?" he asked the constable.

"Yes, sir," the officer replied obsequiously.

"You're sure you haven't anything else?"

"Quite sure, sir," was the answer.

"That being the case," said Deforrest, quietly, "I'll match it
with--with this."

He drew from his pocket another paper which he tendered the officer.
After the man scanned it, he handed it without a word to Waldstricker.
The elder in his turn read it through. It was an order from the court
recalling the warrant obtained by Ebenezer Waldstricker for Tessibel
Skinner's arrest. The constable grinned sheepishly at Waldstricker.

"I guess that ends my usefulness here," he said, smiling admiringly at
Professor Young. "Good afternoon, miss! Goodday, gentlemen!"

Waldstricker, murder in his heart, took one stride toward Young, as the
door closed behind the departing man.

"How'd you find out this was to happen today?" he gritted through his
teeth. "I insist upon knowing."

"A little bird told me," grinned Professor Young. Then, glancing at
Tess, and seeing how white she was, there rose within him a righteous
indignation, and he went on, "You might employ your time to better
advantage than torturing--"

For a moment he didn't know what to call Tessibel. She was no longer a
child, no longer a little girl, although she looked deplorably young and
sick as she sat huddled in the chair.

"Tormenting women," he finished, sharply. "And, Ebenezer, unless you
want to make an enemy of me, you better let Tess alone. You can't do
anything to harm her, for I won't let you. I may as well tell you, too,
that the day after her father's death I constituted myself her guardian,
and I'll move Heaven and earth to prevent any one harming her. Just
remember that when you plot against her next time.... Now go home and
forget there are such people as squatters.... You'll be happier, and so
will I."

"Deforrest," Waldstricker appealed, changing his belligerent tactics,
"if you keep this thing up, you'll rue it! You know very well Bishop is
hidden somewhere in this squatter settlement. I can only get him by
rooting his people out one by one; if you'll have that court order
rescinded and let me send the girl away, I'll make it possible for you
to run for Governor next fall."

For one minute, the lawyer surveyed Waldstricker critically. He reached
one hand toward Tess. She got to her feet, grasping his fingers with
hers.

"Ebenezer," Young said with great deliberation, "if I crawled across
this girl's body into the Governor's chair, I'd be the basest cur alive.
And furthermore, you promise too much! You can't deliver the goods!
What! _You_ name the next Governor! Why you can't even remove this
little squatter girl from her lonely hut!"

Waldstricker shrank from the scorn in his brother-in-law's voice, opened
the door and strode out.

"Tess," Deforrest said, putting an arm around her, "when are you going
to let me take you away from such things as this? I shudder to think
what might have happened if I hadn't come today, and I've got to go away
again."

Tess smiled up at the big man. Drawing herself erect and lifting her
head proudly, she looked into his face, exultantly, full of buoyant joy
at the tremendous proof of Love's protecting power in the hour of her
great need.

"I jest knowed old Eb couldn't get me," she asserted. "Jesus sent ye
jest in the nick of time, didn't he, huh?"

"But, my dear, listen," Young argued, his love making him apprehensive.
"It's awful for you to be here alone and unprotected. Let me take you
away somewhere."

"I ain't alone," Tess insisted confidently, serene courage resounded in
the sweet voice. "Jesus air here an' He keeps me safe all the time. He
got Daddy out of Auburn an' kept Andy an' me in the shanty. Why, He sent
you today. I know He won't let nothin' bad happen to me."

Untroubled, the brave eyes looked into his, conveying a message of
courage and perfect peace that somehow uplifted the man's anxious
thought to catch a glimpse of her exalted faith.

"But you know, Tess," he continued, "you are not so well this winter and
you ought to have some one here to look after you."

Tess shook her head, the bronze curls twisting and falling over her
shoulders and upon the arms embracing her.

"No, siree," she answered. "I can't have any one here, on 'count of
Andy. Oh, ye mustn't worry 'bout me. I air all right an' will be every
minute."

"At least, dear," Deforrest insisted, "let me get a doctor and nurse
when--when--"

The brilliant head suddenly bowed itself forward against Young's rough
coat. For a moment, her high courage faltered, but not for long. Surely,
the same power that had cared for her today would see her through this
other trial.

"Nope, not any doctor or nurse," she refused. "I'll have Mother Moll.
She knows what to do an' she air safe."

Withdrawing herself from Young's arms, she took his hand and kissed it.

"God sure air good to Tessibel," she murmured.

A moment they stood there. Then the lawyer took up his hat and turned to
the door.

"You know, Tess, I love you and want to help you always."

In the doorway, he paused and with bared head heard the girl's parting
speech.

"Sure, ye're lovin' me an' I air lovin' you, too. I know Mr. Young, love
air here an' everywhere the hull time."




CHAPTER XXXV

BOY SKINNER


A pale winter moon nestled among the snow clouds in the storm country.
The shacks of the squatter settlement were dark and silent, save for a
slender little light glimmering from the side of the curtains of the
Skinner shanty. Inside, all was quiet. The squatter girl had been in the
valley of shadows, and had struggled back from its depths, bringing with
her that miracle of miracles, a son, a little son not much bigger than
the hand of a man; and, now, pillowed on her arm, very near her heart,
lay a small head, a baby's head, covered with soft, damp curls.

Mother Moll had come and gone. When the old, old woman had looked down
upon the girl, she'd smiled that senile smile of age that split her lips
like a knife cut.

"Ha! So it air another brat comin' to the shanty," she shrilled. "Holy
Mary! It air the way of the world, the way of woman."

And now she'd gone, leaving the boy baby under the coverlet with
Tessibel.

A weary apathy had settled over the young mother. Strange dreams filled
the small room with haunting, tangible things which she could reach out
and touch if she dared. The rafters, too, were peopled with faces partly
hidden in the dry nets. But she seemed to be staring at something out
and beyond--as Daddy Skinner, too, had stared that never-to-be-forgotten
night.

The past months, where the grey days and sun days had all been the same,
moved vaguely in silent procession before her. She had lived through
them like a pale ghost indifferent alike to sunshine or shadow, and this
night she had drained to the last drop the bitter cup Frederick Graves
had given her to drink. Frederick, her husband, her beloved! She thought
of him indifferently. Even his babe at her breast seemed unimportant.
She considered them without emotion. But the ghostly faces, hovering
among the nets, interested her.

Then, distinctly from among them advanced a figure, a dear, familiar
figure. Daddy Skinner ... the same old adorable daddy--his shaggy,
thready beard hanging over his chest. For one single instant he bent
over her, lovingly laid his hand upon the bronze curls and smiled in the
way he had of doing before he had gone away with mummy. Tess flung up
her hands.

"Daddy! Daddy Skinner!" she cried.

The movement startled the babe from his sleep. The dwarf, roused by the
cries scrambled to the open hole.

"Tessibel--Tess," he called brokenly.

The girl lifted heavy lids.

"Daddy was here, Andy," she wailed in misery. "My own Daddy Skinner. I
want to go with him.... I can't live any longer without him."

"Can I come down, brat?" begged the dwarf, huskily.

"Yep," whispered Tess. "Mother Moll air gone."

"I heard 'er when she went," said Andy, and he slipped down the ladder.

The babe's shrill cry continued as the dwarf went to the bed.

"Yer daddy don't need ye as much as me an' the little feller. Let me
take 'im--I ain't seen 'im yet, ye know."

Andy bent over the cot. Gently he lifted the infant and carried him
nearer the lamp's dim rays. He stood gazing intently into the rosy face.
Then, he raised a tiny hand and spread first one finger, then each baby
fellow out in his own palm.

"Why he's real handsome," he decided at last. "Brat, he air the most
beautifulest in the world!"

At the last words he turned shining eyes toward Tessibel. She lay
gazing, not at Andy or the babe in his arms, but up into and beyond the
nets in the rafters, seeking another glimpse of her father's dear face.
Alarmed by her strange silence, the little man bore his precious burden
back to the cot and knelt beside the passive figure. Holding the baby
close, he breathed,

"Don't, brat, dear! Look at me. I been feelin' yer daddy round all day,
too. He'll always be near to help you an' the little kid."

A pathetic trembling of her lips hushed the flow of his words.

"It seems's if I couldn't live, Andy. I dunno how I can, I dunno how!"

Her voice trailed away into a plaintive moan.

"Let me take hold of yer hand, brat," murmured Andy. "I want to tell ye
somethin'."

He clasped one of her hands in his, while her free fingers shaded her
eyes.

"You got three folks standin' by you, kid," continued Andy, earnestly.
"Me, Young an' Jesus. While I been alone in the garret, all this time, I
been readin' an' a reasonin' out things. Don't ye remember when Mr.
Young come that night how he said he didn't blame ye fer nothin' ye'd
done?"

Beneath the tense fingers, she breathed a simple, "Yes."

"An' me--why me--I know yer heart's if I'd made it, honey, an'
Jesus--Air ye listening Tess?"

"Sure," assented Tess.

"Then I'll tell ye a story. Once a woman loved a man awful much, an' she
loved 'im like all women love men folks. An' a hull lot of righteous
ones dragged 'er right up to Jesus an' says, 'She air a sinner, sir,
what'll we do with 'er?' An' he says, 'Go away an' leave 'er with me.'"

Tessibel's hand clutched at the fingers holding hers.

"An' when he were alone with 'er," went on the dwarf, "an' she were a
kneelin' at 'is feet, he jest touched her lovin' like, an' says--"

"Don't, Andy, you--you hurt me ..." moaned Tess. "Don't!"

"An' I wanted to help ye, sweet," insisted Andy. "But still, I air
askin' ye to listen to the rest. Will ye?"

Tess acquiesced silently, her hand falling away from her white, drawn
face.

"An' Jesus says to the woman in baby trouble like yours, he says, 'Poor
soul, I ain't blamin' ye this day, I ain't!'"

The little man's eyes shone with the sublimity of the truth he was
imparting, and an uplifted expression of faith settled on his features.
The baby whimpered in his arms, and loosening his hold upon the girl's
hand, he rose to his feet carefully. Tessibel was crying now, in low
caught breaths that wrenched and tore at Andy's heart cruelly.

To soothe the child, he pattered to and fro upon the shanty floor; and
when he began to chant in a low, sweet voice that old, old precious
hymn, "Rescue the Perishin';" Tess cried out again. Andy Bishop, the
dwarf, was impressing upon Tessibel Skinner's heart that mysterious
faith she'd known so long, that same sense of God's love which she'd
taught him in those days when the dark doors of Auburn Prison yawned
wide for him.

The state had branded him a murderer, but here, with glistening eyes, he
preached the Christ and Him crucified. In the solitude of the garret, he
had learned his lesson well ... by the dim attic light, he had studied
the story of the forgiveness of sin. Suddenly, he ceased his song, and
as he trotted back and forth, swaying the little child in his arms,
Tessibel caught murmured words, "'Nuther do I condemn thee," said Jesus.
"Nuther do I condemn thee," said he.

And in that next pulsing minute through the eyes of her soul, the
watching girl saw above the squat dwarf the shadowy image of the smiling
Christ, and unspeakable peace descended upon her like a benediction. The
lines of suffering vanished from about her pursed mouth. The hurt within
her heart gave way to the "still waters."

"'Nuther do I condemn thee,' said Jesus Christ," whispered Andy over the
boy's face, and "neither do I condemn thee" sank into the very being of
the squatter girl as warm rain sinks to the heart of a parched flower.

She followed the waddling figure, a gleam of gratitude beaming in her
eyes. Surely, the bread Tessibel Skinner had cast upon the waters of
Andy Bishop's stormy life was returning after many weary days!

"Andy," she called. "Andy, dear, bring me my baby."

The dwarf laid the sleeping child within its mother's arms.

"The man on the cross, your man an' mine, brat," he whispered, "said,
'If ye have burdens, come an' I'll rest ye.' Didn't he say it, kid?"

"Yes, yes, Andy," whispered Tessibel. "Everything'll be all right
fer--you an' me an' the baby," and she ended, ... "Get back in the
garret an' pray for my brat's daddy, too, Andy. He air needin' it
worser'n me an' you."

Then the squatter girl turned her face to the wall, drew the baby under
the coverlet, and the dwarf scuttled up the ladder.




CHAPTER XXXVI

DEFORREST DECIDES


Deforrest Young sat alone in his bachelor apartments, which he'd
obtained after the quarrel with Waldstricker over the churching of
Tessibel Skinner. He was in Ithaca in response to a letter from Mrs.
Waldstricker, stating that she would meet him in his rooms this
afternoon.

His mind was busily at work with many problems. For the past week he had
had no word from Tessibel Skinner. Her silence was significant.
Mischief-making anxiety, which always pictures the worst side of a
situation, tormented him cruelly. He hoped Helen might have news from
the shanty by the lakeside.

When Mrs. Waldstricker finally appeared, his first impulse was to ask
about the squatter girl, but the troubled expression of his sister's
face checked the question on his lips. He drew her tenderly into his
arms, and attempted to comfort her with reassuring pats and caresses.

"You shouldn't have ventured out, dear," he chided. "Sit down here!...
There! Now tell me what's the matter."

"I'm so miserable, Forrie," she wept. "I can't do a thing with
Ebenezer.... He's in such a state of temper all the time!"

"Don't try to talk for a moment, dearest," soothed the lawyer, much
moved.

"But I must--I want to! It seems as if my whole life has been upset in
some unaccountable manner. And it isn't any better since Frederick and
Madelene went away. I was in hopes after they'd gone, I might have some
peace."

"Is it still--" Young's inquiry was broken off by his auditor's
exclamation.

"Yes, it's Tessibel Skinner! He seems perfectly possessed about her. I
can't understand why, either. I always tell him she's nothing to us. He
has even gone so far--Oh, Forrie, dear, tell me it isn't so!"

"What isn't so?" asked Deforrest, puzzled.

"Ebenezer says--he says you'd marry--" The inquisitor's courage oozed
away before she finished her sentence. Her brother turned and strode up
and down the room, while Mrs. Waldstricker's eyes, full of questioning
anguish, followed his tall figure.

"I suppose he said I'd marry Tessibel Skinner. Is that it?" His voice
was low, deep and intense. Wheeling about he looked across at his
sister.

She got up from her chair and went to him. Her desire to placate her
brother supported her determination to know his precise attitude toward
her husband. She placed her hand on his arm and replied hurriedly,

"Yes, that's what he said. I told him it was no such thing; that you did
what you could for the lonely child without a thought--"

Deforrest's hand closed over the speaker's.

"You were mistaken, then," he asserted quietly. "I'd have married
Tessibel Skinner long ago, if she'd consented."

"Forrie, dear, you wouldn't! You couldn't! Especially now! Oh, darling,
you're all I've got in the world.... Can't you see it would break my
heart?"

"You needn't worry about it, sister mine." A sad shake of his head
emphasized his reply. "Tess won't marry me. She knows I love her and
want to care for her, but she won't let me. She sticks there in that
wretched shanty, alone with her trouble and refuses every offer I make.
Her courage is splendid. I love her for it, although I'm torn to pieces
with anxiety."

"And I never knew," Helen mused. "I thought--I thought it was--just you
were charitable and kind."

"No, it wasn't that. I've loved her since the first, but she couldn't
love me, that's all. Then this awful thing happened." The deepening
lines in his face and his twitching lips revealed the intensity of his
solicitude. "Have you heard anything about her?"

"Yes. A man by the name of Brewer, one of the squatters, brought me a
message."

"Yes, yes!" interrupted the man, very impatiently.

Helen pressed her face against his arm. She divined the pain he was
suffering. How was she to soften the hurt her answer would inflict, even
her loving heart couldn't imagine.

"She has a baby boy," she whispered.

"God!" groaned Deforrest.

"The baby was born a few days ago, and every day the squatter's been at
our house, ostensibly to sell something, but really to tell me about
her.... I saw him this morning, and he says they are both doing nicely.
Forrie, don't you think--" There was something in her brother's stricken
face that broke off her question.

"Don't I think what, dear?" He got up and resumed his restless pacing up
and down.

"Oh, I want you to be happy. Couldn't you possibly--forget you've loved
her?"

"No, I can't," and he came to a standstill in front of her. "I might as
well be truthful, dear, as long as you know this much.... If Tessibel
will marry me, I'll take her and the boy--" he choked, paused a few
seconds and went on. "I'll take them both away from Ithaca. It's the
only happiness in store for me, and I believe I could make her happy,
too."

"I can't bear the thought of it," cried Helen, desperately. "Please
don't think I'm meddling, but has she told you anything?"

"No. Some one has mistreated the child shamefully, but she won't tell
anything about it."

"Poor little girl!" sighed Mrs. Waldstricker. "How I wish now I'd done
more for her! I might have, you know."

The lawyer raised his hand deprecatingly.

"What's past, is done with," he answered gloomily. "I don't know how
much she'll let me do, but I am going to help her in spite of herself.
That shack by the lake is an awful place. I swear I'll give her decent
surroundings and a chance to live.... I'm going down today."

"But, Forrie," his sister objected, "I want you to come home with me to
dinner. You haven't been to our house in a long time, not since the
night you came from Binghamton and went off to Skinner's in the storm."

"Helen, dear," Young explained, apologetically, "I can't come to your
house as long as Ebenezer feels toward me the way he does. You see,
don't you?"

"Oh, I suppose I do, but I just can't stand it. Eb has acted badly and
tried to shoulder it all off on you. But can't you overlook it, honey?"

"Why, Helen, how can I? I don't feel any too pleasant toward him, and he
doesn't want to be friends, either. He pays no attention to my wishes
but tries to ride rough shod over me. He regards my interest in Tess as
a personal affront. He persecutes her because he thinks he's annoying
me. But there, don't cry any more. You'll only make yourself ill! I
think you ought to go home and lie down. You've some one else besides
yourself and Eb to think of, dear girl."

"I know it," she sobbed, "and I've tried to show Ebenezer how happy we'd
be if he'd forget those people down the lake and let you do what you
want to. Sometimes I think he's lost his mind. I really don't know what
to do."

Helen rose from her chair.

"Nor do I," replied Young.

"But, Deforrest, don't you think if you talked to Ebenezer, he'd see
things differently?"

"I'm afraid not," said he, adjusting Mrs. Waldstricker's furs. "You see,
Eb's always had his own way in most things, and I can't take any other
position about Tess, and I won't."

"I wish you would come home with me," sighed Mrs. Waldstricker, when her
brother was tucking the sleigh robe about her.

"I'm sorry I can't, Helen. You'll hear from me soon," he promised, as
the sleigh moved away.

Half an hour later found the lawyer astride his horse, his fine face
clouded in sorrowful thought.

He cantered along the hard packed road. Here he noted the shimmering
veil of ice over some brooklet waterfall in a cleft of the hill side.
There the precise punctures of a rabbit track dotted the level snow of
the woods. Beyond a herd of cattle standing placidly around a
straw-stack blew clouds of vapor from their steaming nostrils. The
silent beauty of the hills, glistening in their frosty covering, set off
to advantage the silvery sheen of the ice-laden lake. Through the trees,
he caught occasional glimpses of East Hill winter-wrapped in its white
mantle. Just north of the city shone the resplendence of the ice-cloaked
rocks and waterfalls of Fall Creek Gorge, like a massive garniture
emblazoned on the mantle's skirt. The unbroken calm of the quiet winter
afternoon touched the rider's overwrought heart and awoke in him a sense
of the peace and the dignity of the visible creation. The untroubled
serenity and repose which all nature presented, soothed his troubled
spirit. Something of the unruffled confidence expressed by Tessibel,
when he'd last left her, penetrated his revery. Her words, "I know
Love's everywhere the hull time," had comforted him many times, and now
they came again upon their healing mission.

       *       *       *       *       *

Tessibel's baby was one week old. This afternoon she lay partially
dressed on the cot while Andy was plying his noiseless way about the
kitchen. He stopped a moment on the journey to the stove and smiled at
the young mother.

"I bet he comes today," said he. "You'd better be gettin' that sorrow
offen yer face, brat."

"I ain't right sorryful, Andy," she answered. "I was jest thinkin' of
all the good things Mr. Young air done for me, an' hopin' he'd get you
free, too. Mebbe when Spring comes, Andy, you can run in the woods with
me!"

"I air prayin' for it every day, kid."

"When you ain't afeered of Auburn any more," said the girl, after a
moment's silence, "we'll go away from this shanty, an' mebbe we can both
work. That'd be nice, eh, Andy?"

"Anything'd be nice if I air with you, an' the baby, brat," he choked.

"Oh, you'll stay with us all right," smiled Tessibel. "Daddy left me to
take care of you an' I air goin' to do it!"

Conversation lagged for a time. The dwarf poured out a cup of tea, and
placed a large slice of bread on a plate with some potatoes and meat.
These he took to the bedside.

"I don't know what we'd a done without Jake," he observed, drawing his
chair to the table.

Tess was beginning to eat a late dinner. Between bites she smilingly
assented.

"Jake air a awful good man.... Andy, ain't the baby stirrin' on the
chair?"

The dwarf went to the improvised cradle and carefully drew away the
blanket.

"He wants turnin' on 'is other side, that air all." With deft fingers he
rolled the baby boy over, placed the sugar rag between the twisting
lips, and went back to his dinner.

"Jake was tellin' me this morning," she continued, "Sandy Letts got
three years and a half in Auburn."

"That'll be dreadful for him," the little man responded, thinking of his
lonely years in prison. "But body-snatchin' air an awful thing. Reckon
he won't try it again when he gets out.... Eh, kid?"

"At any rate, he won't be after us for a while," she replied, sighing
contentedly.

"Well, I must slick up a bit," Andy announced presently. "I want to get
the shanty fixed. Young'd think I weren't doin' right by ye, if 'tain't
red up, brat."

"When I tell him all ye've done," she smiled affectionately, "I bet
he'll be praisin' ye."

Then they were silent until the little man'd gathered and washed the few
dishes.




CHAPTER XXXVII

THE NEW HOME


WHEN Professor Young arrived at the end of the lane near the Skinner's
shack, he dismounted, blanketed the horse and hitched him to the fence.
The approach to the hut had been shovelled recently and the snow was
banked high on either side. He hurried along the path and knocked at the
door.

A stir in the shanty told the lawyer the dwarf was seeking the attic.
After an instant of quiet, he heard Tessibel's voice.

"Who air there?"

The man's nerves throbbed quick response to the clear young tones that
came sure and strong through the shack boards.

"It's I, Tessibel," he answered.

And at his answer the bar raised from its holder and Young opened the
door and stepped in. The change from the brilliant glare of the almost
horizontal beams of the declining sun on the sparkling snow to the
half-light of the closely curtained room, obscured his vision for a
moment. But by the time he'd removed his cap and rebarred the door, he
could discern the familiar outlines of the shanty kitchen. He saw Tess,
half-risen on the cot. She rested on one elbow and stretched the other
arm out to him. Her face, wreathed in smiles, shone a cordial welcome.
When he'd gone to her and snatched the extended hand in both his own,
she bent moist lips and touched the back of the fingers.

Her spontaneous joy brought him a sudden hope that tingled through his
blood and warmed it. To see her so well, so sparkling and joyous, lifted
his burden of anxiety and warmed in him a glow of profound thanksgiving.

"Tessibel!" he greeted her, relief and yearning compressed into the one
word.

It was some time before either spoke. In Tessibel's heart swelled an
affection such as she held for no other person. In Young's, in spite of
his self-communion on the way, surged the insistent call of the man for
his mate, a hopeless longing which might never be satisfied.

"I'm glad it's over, child," he said softly. "My sister told me--"

"I got my baby!" she broke in. "He air over there. Take a peep at 'im."

There was no embarrassment in the bright smile she sent him, no sense of
shame in showing her friend the dear little being who had come to her
out of the Infinite to be worked for and loved. Young smothered a groan
but he turned obediently and went to the chair in which the baby was
cradled.

Folding back the blanket, he gazed at the sleeping infant. Manlike, he
was experiencing the passionate wish that this small boy were his own.
Jealousy, sudden and violent, assailed him. Hardly could he restrain the
words of interrogation and denunciation that demanded utterance.

The mother's question brought him back to the cot.

"He air beautiful, ain't he?" she breathed, a misty gleam on her lashes.

"Yes," said Young, and he sat down in Daddy Skinner's big rocker.

"Wouldn't ye like to hold him?" Tess hoped he would.

"Not yet," replied the lawyer. "I want to know more about him. You must
tell me now whose son he is, and let me help you decide what to do about
it.... Won't you trust me a little, Tess, dear?"

He hitched his chair nearer the cot and looked earnestly into the dear,
brown eyes she turned fearlessly and unashamed up to his own.

"He air mine," Tessibel told him, and a tender smile played about her
lips, "but I can't tell ye any more.... There ain't nothin' to do about
it. It air all right--huh?"

"Oh, my dear," sighed the man. "I hoped you'd relieve my mind a little.
But--but I'll not speak about it again till you come of your own accord
and tell me.... I've been thinking about something else, though--"

"Air it about Andy?" interrupted Tessibel.

Young looked up and discovered a boyish face smiling down upon him from
the attic.

"Come down," he said to the dwarf.

Andy descended the ladder and trudged across the floor.

The lawyer stood up and extended his hand. "How are you, Andy?" he
enquired pleasantly. "Pretty well, I hope?"

Andy shook hands gravely.

"Yep, thank ye, professor, I air that," he assented. "Hope ye're the
same."

"Andy's been more'n good to me," Tess confided. "Please sit down again,
Mr. Young.... Set on the floor, Andy!"

Obediently the dwarf curled up on the floor and turned eagerly to Young
who had resumed his chair.

"Ain't Tess got the fine baby?" he queried, and as though not expecting
an answer, added, "And she air awful happy."

A fugitive smile trembled on Young's face.

Awful happy! Awful happy! Was it possible? He looked into Tessibel's
joyous eyes and pondered. Yes, she was happy. He could see that! Happy
in a squatter's hut! Happy in the companionship of a condemned murderer,
and happy with a nameless child! His eyes went to the little one on the
chair. Yes, the three of them were happy. Tessibel's love was bound up
in Andy and the baby, and the dwarf had forgotten his own danger to
serve the other two. To help in the same loyal and unselfish way would
be his future work. At that moment Deforrest Young buried deep in his
heart the passion which hurt like nothing else hurts on earth, and
something very like happiness took its place.

He leaned back and crossed his legs. Then he reached into his coat
pocket and produced his cigar case. He bent forward and offered it to
Andy.

"Smoke, Andy?" he queried.

"Nope, thank ye, sir. Hain't smoked since Pal Skinner got sick. Couldn't
smell up the shanty with a pipe, ye see, eh?"

When the cigar was glowing and the fragrant smoke drifted in eddying
clouds through the kitchen, the smoker rocked a few minutes
contemplatively.

"I've seen Owen Bennet," he began presently. "He sticks to the story
that you did the shooting, Bishop, but I knew all the time he was
lying."

"Yep, he lied," interpolated Andy, bobbing his head.

"But as long as he won't tell the truth," Young stated "you're liable to
be taken back to Auburn."

The dwarf cringed as from a blow. Fear of going back to prison killed
the joy in his face instantly, but the speaker's quick assurance
straightened the bent shoulders.

"But no one knows where you are, and perhaps something can be done to
bring a confession from Bennet. Just at this time, though," looking from
the little man to the girl on the cot, "I'm more concerned about your
futures."

Tess didn't speak. She knew wherein her confidence lay and was willing
to await her friend's suggestion. She sat up, punched the pillow, turned
it over, and lay down again.

"It's perfectly evident you can't stay here, either one of you," said
Young, after a pause, "and if you'll be guided by me--"

"We'll do what ye want," murmured Tess, "if ye'll let us stay together
an' keep the baby."

"Yes, that is my plan," he replied.

Andy folded his short legs under him nervously.

"We want to stay together, me an' Tess does," he echoed, "an' the baby's
awful glad to live with us."

Young's lips curled an instant into a smile responsive to the quaint
statement.

"You remember, Tess," he resumed, "I have a lease of the house where
Graves used to live."

She answered only by a little forward bend of her head.

"My idea is this: I'll open the house, and you, Tess, can come there
with the baby. You can keep house in a little way for us all."

"Ye said Andy could live with--"

"Wait," interrupted the lawyer. "There're two nice rooms on the top
floor. You can arrange them for Bishop and he will be as snug as a bug
in a rug."

A sharp cry of joy broke from the young mother. She sat up straight. She
threw back the tangled curls, and leaning forward grasped the hand the
speaker thrust out to support her.

"Oh, what a good, good man!" she rejoiced. "An' me an' the baby'll love
ye forever, me an' the baby will."

Tessibel didn't remember she'd made the same promise to another man when
she'd begged him in vain to help her. She only knew that Deforrest Young
was offering herself and her little child a home, and a safe refuge for
Andy Bishop.

"It won't be all for you, you understand, child," said Deforrest.
"Think! I'll have a home, too, and you can study and work."

"An' some day when I'm earnin' money, and Andy's free, we'll pay you all
back," the girl interjected.

"Well, we won't worry about that now!... As soon as you're well enough,
I'll move you all up to the house. Tomorrow I'll see that coal and
things're sent down from town!"

The reply to his offer was a tighter squeeze from the squatter girl's
hand, and a sob from the dwarf. Unable to restrain his joy, the wee man
bounded from the floor and fled up the ladder into the garret. For a
time the man and girl in the room below sat silent, and all was quiet in
the shanty save the voice of Andy Bishop giving forth a thanksgiving
such as he had never expressed before.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two weeks later a light filtered through the closed shutters of Young's
residence on the hill. The old Graves house creaked in the blustery
March gale. The hurtling snow-particles rattled upon the blinds and
against the clapboards like small shot. Deforrest Young came out of the
house and fought his way against the blizzard's buffeting down the hill
to the Skinner shack.

Stumbling, he fell against the door.

"It's I, Tess," he shouted.

The girl lifted the bar and admitted him. Dressed in her outer wraps,
she stood in the kitchen, anxious and expectant. This minute to Tess was
the changing point of her life. Young as she was, she understood what it
would mean to the three of them to leave the shanty, to take up their
abode in a real home.

"Ye said we was to take the baby first," she greeted him, reaching for
the shawl on a peg in the door post.

"Yes, but it's so bad I'll have to take you first, child," the lawyer
replied. "Come down, Andy, and after we're gone, bar the door and stand
by the boy.... I'll come back after you in a few minutes."

Then he flung an arm about Tess and drew her into the winter night.
Wind-blown and snow-covered, Young almost carried the shivering girl up
the steps into her new home. How luxurious the comfortable furnishings
seemed compared to the poverty of the shack! Young helped her off with
her coat and rubbers.

"Get the baby and Andy, quick," she panted.

Left alone her imagination followed her champion out under the
frost-laden trees into the drifted lane. She knew his call would raise
the bar and let him into the shanty. She could see the dwarf's beautiful
face smiling his welcome. The thought that Deforrest would wrap up her
baby, protect him from the keen blasts, thrilled her.

She went to the window in the north room and pressed her face to the
pane. Ah, yes, there in the little path were two figures, one little and
one big, struggling through the drifts. Her two friends! Presently, in
the arms of the tall figure, she could discern a bundle, a small bundle.
She watched them until she heard their steps on the porch. When
Deforrest placed the baby in her arms, and she noted Andy's happy face,
Tessibel's joy was complete.




CHAPTER XXXVIII

DINNER AT WALDSTRICKER'S


Three years and a half had passed since the birth of Tessibel's baby, a
period of growth and security for the squatter girl and Andy Bishop.

Just before Boy Skinner's birth, Frederick and Madelene had gone to San
Francisco. A place had been made for him in Waldstricker's office there
and Madelene felt the continent none too wide to put between her husband
and the Skinner girl, but her efforts to win his affection had been a
complete failure.

Lysander Letts, convicted of grave robbing, had been sentenced to prison
and was still confined at Auburn.

During the weeks after Frederick's departure, Ebenezer Waldstricker had
been unusually busy. In May, just as the tardy promises of the Storm
Country spring, were beginning to be fulfilled by the full leaved
glories of early summer, little Elsie Waldstricker was born. A few weeks
later, the three of them had left Ithaca for a long period of travel.
Mr. Waldstricker had visited all his business friends and correspondents
and established many new connections. Proceeding leisurely around the
world, they'd returned to Ithaca not long after Elsie's third birthday.

During their absence abroad, except for the caretaker, the great house
above Hayt's had been closed. Affairs at the lake side had run along in
their usual way. Tessibel had been able to ameliorate the conditions of
her squatter neighbors and was regarded by the inhabitants of that end
of the Silent City, as their lady bountiful. They put her in a niche by
herself. None prouder than they of the evidences of culture and
refinement she showed, while with characteristic independence, they
called her "Brat" just as in the days, when she ran bare-legged and
dirty on the lake side.

Andy Bishop had occupied the room on the top floor of Young's home. He'd
devoted himself to the same studies Tess pursued and by greater
application had been able to overcome the handicap of the girl's
quickness and greater natural ability. Not so readily had he learned to
speak correctly. The idioms of his boyhood days still slipped out of his
mouth. But no suspicion of uncouth English marred the girl's speech.

Forlorn and abandoned, the Skinner shanty lay moldering under the
weeping willows. Summer heat and winter storms had worked their will
upon it. Thick grasses and tall weeds had driven out the squatter girl's
flowers and the hedge had grown into a tangled thicket.

The brilliant sun of a hot June morning found no more home-like place
than the old Graves house, where Deforrest Young lived with his squatter
friends. On the porch stood Tessibel Skinner. The girl's ruddy curls
fell in the same profusion as of old and shrouded a smiling, happy face.
Professor Young had caught her one day doing up the red hair in a great
ball on her head.

"Tess, it's a sacrilege," he protested sharply, "like wadding up the
petals of a rose or the leaves of a fern. Keep the curls, won't you?"

Below, from the pear orchard, came a joyous shout, the free, careless,
laughing response to the girl's call.

"I'm coming mummy," cried a child's voice.

Tess leaned forward, the better to watch the small boy lightly climb the
terrace. Her face evinced the joy which she found in her baby, and in
the quiet, happy life under Professor Young's care. She held out her
hand to the little one. He danced to her side and she bent and kissed
him.

"Mummy's boy, oh, mummy's little boy! Didn't I tell you, darling, not to
soil your blouse? Uncle Deforrest'll be here soon."

"Boy rolled down the hill," pouted the child. "Boy loves to roll down
the hill, mummy."

His mother kissed him again, diverted by his words, which recalled her
own girlhood frolics. Hadn't she many times tumbled the length of the
lane, while Daddy Skinner had stood and watched her indulgently? Her
arms about the boy, she allowed her eyes to rest for a moment on the hut
at the lake side. Tessibel loved the shanty and always would love it,
but more did she love the home in which she now lived. Her fingers
played idly with the child's dark curls. All that Deforrest Young had
done for her in the past years swept before her mind like a panorama.

How safe he'd made it for Andy! How the little man had improved! How
delightful their studies together! They constantly looked forward to
that day when they should be able to return to their friend some of the
generosity he had shown them.

Now he was coming home after an absence of many weeks, and the three
were awaiting his arrival.

"Run up to Andy, darling," Tess said to the child, "and let him wash
your face and hands, and put on another blouse, my pet. Oh, there 're
grass stains on this one, too."

A trembling, rosy mouth turned up to the speaker. She kissed it quickly
and passionately.

"Never mind, honey, just run along. Mummy doesn't care.... There, kiss
me again."

Two loving arms went quickly around the mother's neck.

"Boy loves his pretty mummy," was whispered in her ear.

"And mummy loves her pretty boy. There! Run along to Andy. I want to
gather some flowers for Uncle Forrie."

Andy was studying at a table, when the door opened and the dark-faced
boy popped into the room.

"Mummy says wash Boy's face and put on clean blouse," said he. "Please,
Andy. I forgot to say 'please'!"

Andy pushed back his chair and waddled to the child. The dwarf was the
same ungainly figure that had moved about the hut four years before. His
face had lost all its tightly strung misery and his expression was more
thoughtful and he seemed more manly.

Boy was a continual joy to him. The little fellow supplied an outlet for
his overflowing love. True, he adored Tessibel, but his care of the
little one had drawn them together so intimately that he and the baby
boy thoroughly understood each other.

He'd have liked to romp with the child under the trees and to row him up
and down the quiet span of blue water, but grateful for the love and
protection he'd found in Young's home, he seldom permitted his mind to
dwell upon the hardships necessarily incident to his secluded life. Just
now a little sense of discouragement touched his thought and clouded his
face. While he was washing Boy's chubby fingers, the little one observed
him closely.

"There's tears in your eyes," he burst out suddenly. "What for, Andy?"

"I was just thinkin,' pet."

The child thrust his feet apart and flung up an entreating face.

"I don't want you to think if it makes you cry."

"All right, sir!" Andy replied promptly, tickling the youngster till he
laughed and shouted, "I won't think any more if you don't like it."

When Deforrest Young came around the corner of the house, Tessibel was
standing on the lower step of the porch, her hands full of flowers. To
his adoring eyes, the girl typified the unfolding life of the spring.
Strong was she, like the sturdy trees, dainty as the flowers she held in
her hands. To his passionate desire as unresponsive as the sullen lake
on dark days, yet grateful for his kindness as the field flowers to the
sun after a hard rain. She was a child with a woman's heart, but the
woman's heart closed to him by the secret of Boy's paternity. Her
smiling lips greeted him. She dropped the flowers and two arms stole
around his neck. Young drew her very close. How dear, how very dear, she
had grown in these last studious years!

"It seems ages since you went away," she said, and pointing to the
flowers, "I hoped to get these all on the table."

"My dear," interjected Young, "you're the rarest blossom of them all."

Tess was used to his compliments, and she loved them, as she loved the
birds and the friendly sunshine.

"For that, sir," she laughed, "you'll have to help me pick 'em up."

While they were gathering together the scattered bouquet, they heard a
stamping down the stairs.

"Boy couldn't hardly stand it till you came," smiled Tess, opening the
hall door.

A small avalanche of concentrated eagerness piled out of the house.

"Uncle Forrie! Uncle Forrie!" cried Boy, swarming upon him. "I'm awful
glad you're home."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Now, then," said the lawyer after dinner, "I think our little mister
here ought to crawl into bed.... Well, one more romp, then bye-bye. Eh?"

"One more romp!" screamed the child.

His mother carried him away half an hour later, and when she went to
Andy's room, she found Young there talking to the dwarf.

"I've such a lot to tell you two," said he. "Now we're all comfy, I'll
begin."

"Will it please Andy?" asked Tess.

Deforrest shook his head.

"I'm afraid not!... Bennet won't have to stay long in prison and he
still insists he didn't do the shooting and that Andy did."

The latter groaned, and a shadow fell over Tessibel's face.

"I wish something could be done," said she.

The lawyer considered the end of his cigar.

"Well, I can't think of anything right now," he sighed.... "I suppose
you've heard Lysander Letts is out of prison?"

Young asked the question as though it amounted to little, but he knew by
the sharp cry from the girl and the upward lift of the dwarf's head that
they both dreaded Sandy's return to Ithaca.

"But I don't want you to worry. I'll send him back if he comes around
here."

Tess shook her head despondently.

"Oh, I hope he'll let me alone!"

"I'll see that he does," said the professor, rising and straightening
up. "Well, I'm going down to write some letters. Cheer up, Andy! Maybe
something'll turn up."

"Kid," began Andy, when the lawyer had gone. "I been thinking, we don't
have to worry 'bout Sandy Letts. Ye know the lots of times when we
didn't have Boy's Uncle Forrie to do things for us, how we prayed for a
helpin' hand and got it?"

"Yes, Andy dear," Tess answered, thoughtfully.

"Then let's do it now. Let's get busy prayin' so Sandy can't hurt ye an'
I get out of my pickle.... Huh?"




CHAPTER XXXIX

FATHER AND SON


After an absence from his native city of three years and a half,
Frederick Graves was returning to Ithaca, a very sick man. He had
learned from Helen's letters to Madelene that Tessibel Skinner had a
small son. His brother-in-law's exasperation at Young for giving the
squatter girl and her little son a home at the lake had also been
reflected in the correspondence. He had been able to glean but the bare
outlines of the story, because Ebenezer and Helen had been abroad most
of the time, and his impatient spirit chafed to know the intimate
particulars of Tessibel's life. Jealousy of Young tormented him.
Hopeless brooding over his situation, and Madelene's continual nagging
had made him a neurasthenic wreck. Worn by insomnia and almost starved
by a nervous dyspepsia, he could no longer maintain even a pretense of
usefulness in the business. Madelene, thoroughly disillusioned, herself
worn out by his sullen and savage temper, had brought him back to
Ithaca, hoping the familiar sights and sounds of the home-land might
help him.

They arrived one rainy night at the station, where Ebenezer met them
with the carriage. He greeted both effusively, and his manner perhaps
was more cordial because of his brother-in-law's death-stricken face.

"You'll buck up now you're home, Fred," he said, after he had kissed his
sister and helped them into the carriage.

"Maybe, but I doubt it," the invalid replied wearily.

"Nonsense, Fred," his wife broke out. "You make me tired. You're always
whining. Of course, you're going to get well."

Too fatigued to argue, Frederick leaned back upon the cushions. Except
for an occasional word, they were silent during the long drive through
the rain.

Home at last, they found Helen waiting in the great hall. To Madelene,
who preceded the men into the house, she looked much older, more
dignified. Lines of worry around her eyes and mouth told the girl that
her sister-in-law's life with Ebenezer had not been entirely easy.

After kissing Madelene, Helen extended her hand to Frederick.

"I hope you'll be better soon, Fred," she encouraged. "Our country
fare'll put some flesh on your bones.... You look after the invalid,
Ebenezer, and I'll take Madelene upstairs."

The two women walked upstairs together. Waldstricker gazed after them,
pride and joy in his eyes. His wife and his sister reunited brought him
a feeling of content. Frederick, fussing with his coat and rubbers,
seemed hardly aware of their going.

"I'm glad to have you back, Fred," began Waldstricker, anxious to
express the gratification he felt.

"We're glad to get back, of course," Frederick responded coldly. He
followed the elder into the library and threw himself on a lounge to
rest until dinner.

In the room above, Helen helped Madelene off with her things and
listened to her chatter about the journey. She could detect a sullen
dissatisfaction with Frederick running like a dark thread through the
current of her talk. It was clear to Helen that Madelene had lost her
regard for her husband. Apparently, she cared so little that she didn't
feel it necessary to hide or explain her feelings.

"And, now I want to see little Elsie," gushed Madelene. "I've been crazy
to see her ever since she was born."

"She's such a darling," smiled Helen, "and is the very joy of her
father's heart.... Come on in the nursery."

For a few seconds Madelene leaned over the sleeping child, a rosy child
with thick blonde curls. A keen sense of the emptiness of her own arms
stirred in her an envy of the complacent young matron standing at the
foot of the little white bed. Perhaps Fred would've been different if
they'd had a little one.

"I'd love to have a baby," she breathed discontentedly. "But--"

During the significant pause, Helen linked her arm through the
speaker's.

"Let's go down to dinner," she suggested. "You must be famished after
your long ride."

At the table, the conversation touched many matters relating to the
happenings in the lives of the long separated families. Madelene plied
her knife and fork industriously, and jumped from topic to topic,
expressing a lively interest in all the events in Ithaca.

"And your brother, dear?" she asked her hostess. "Is he still at the
lake place?"

Helen threw a quick glance at her husband, whose lips sank at the
corners, his face coloring to a deep red.

When his sister asked the question, the glass from which the elder had
been drinking struck the table sharply, as though he wished to emphasize
his displeasure.

"Yes, he lives there," he broke in. "In your father's old place, Fred.
His lease is not up for almost a year."

"Helen wrote me he had the Skinner girl and her baby with him," said
Mrs. Graves. "Wasn't that a funny thing for him to do, Ebbie?"

Waldstricker pushed back angrily.

"Funny! Funny!" he ejaculated. "It isn't decent, and I've told him so,
too."

Frederick's face flushed, and he toyed nervously with the silver at the
side of his plate.

"But, Ebenezer, you don't mean she's living with him, do you?" he
faltered, leaning forward.

"They live there together, Young and the girl and her--" Ebenezer's
anger almost made him forget the conventional respect he owed his wife
and sister, "--her son," he concluded lamely. "That's all I know, and
it's enough. He's had the best houses in Ithaca closed to him on her
account."

Indignation at her husband's injustice burnt a red spot in Helen's
cheeks and kindled a flame of unusual animation in her placid blue eyes.

"You know better, Ebenezer," she retorted. "Forrie's given her a
father's care, and every one worth while honors him for it."

Frederick, kept in his attitude of tense attention by a sudden revival
of his jealousy of Young, sighed audibly and settled back in his chair.

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Helen," he said earnestly.

"Oh, are you, Fred?" cried Madelene. "So your old interest in that girl
isn't dead, yet? Well, all I can say is, I am sorry she didn't get you,
but I'll bet she's glad, now, she didn't."

Waldstricker looked keenly from the speaker to her husband. But
Frederick had again put on his mask of apathetic indifference and
answered his wife's gibe only by a shrug of his shoulders. Noting her
brother's scowling face, she went on maliciously.

"You'd better keep away from the lake place, my dear husband, or you'll
have both Ebbie and Forrie after you."

"Will you have your tea now, Madelene?" Helen was alarmed at the
threatened tempest, and hoped to change the subject.

"Yes, thanks, dear," and to her brother, "After all, Ebbie, Forrie
probably knows his own business best. You know he's quite partial to the
squatters and always did things for 'em."

Mrs. Waldstricker summoned the servant, and while the dishes were being
removed, Ebenezer sat and glowered from Frederick, white and distrait,
to his wife, who was explaining to Madelene the way she'd made the salad
dressing. When the servant had gone, Waldstricker began again.

"I'm out of patience with Deforrest! If he'd let me alone, I'd had all
the squatters off the lake side before this and probably would have
located Bishop."

"You've heard nothing of him, Ebbie, I suppose?" asked Madelene. "It
does seem queer a dwarf could disappear like that and not a word about
him from any part of the world."

Waldstricker's powerful hand clenched the teaspoon in his fingers so
violently as to bend the handle.

"No, I haven't," he growled. "I've a notion he's being harbored by some
of the squatters. But I want Deforrest to understand this--"

"Oh, let's talk of something else besides squatters," cried Madelene.
"Helen, your salad was divine.... Tell me, Ebbie, how you enjoy little
Elsie. I think she's lovely."

"Lovely!" he repeated in a very different tone. "Lovely is no word for
that child. She's an angel, isn't she, Helen?"

Helen smiled dubiously.

"An angel, very much spoiled, I fear."

"No such thing," argued Waldstricker, glad of an opportunity to air his
favorite theory. "Now Helen thinks the child's spoiled because she drops
on the floor and kicks and cries until she gets what she wants. I tell
her it's human nature, and perfectly right for my child to have her own
way. Thank God, there's nothing in the world she can't have."

Then looking from Frederick to his sister, he made a heavy attempt to be
humorous.

"What's the matter of you two? You've been married longer than Helen and
I. When are you going to start your family?"

Frederick maintained his pose of bored unconcern and an angry flush
mounted to Madelene's face.

"You think you're smart, Eb," she retorted. "Fred's all the baby I can
look after, and goodness knows he's trouble enough!"

"But, now, you're here, dear," Mrs. Waldstricker extended the olive
branch again, "we'll help you look after him.... I do hope the
weather'll clear so we can get out. The lake's been simply beautiful
this summer."

"Just after I returned from Europe, I tried to dispossess Deforrest,"
Ebenezer told Fred, "but he beat me in court. I wanted to clean up the
scandalous mess. I felt he was breaking God's law in harboring a woman
of that kind. But I'm only biding my time." His voice sank as he cast
his eyes slowly from one to another, at last, fixing them ominously upon
his wife. "Biding my time," he growled deeply, laying his napkin on the
table.

The gloom of his manner spread over the diners like a cloud. Helen's
face expressed consternation; Frederick's discouragement, and Madelene's
impatience.

"I must say this is pleasant," snapped Mrs. Graves. "Ebbie, I forbid you
to speak of those people again tonight."

Helen made a little move as though to rise. In her capacity as
peacemaker, it seemed advisable to change the scene of hostilities.

"Let's go to the drawing room," she invited.... "Fred, don't you think
you'd better go to bed?"

"Yes, I'm all tired out. I think I will."

At the drawing room door, he turned to the stairs.

"Good-night, all," he added, and went slowly up to his room.

Reclining in a big chair, Frederick recalled the talk at the supper
table and let his fancy rove in dreams of Tessibel and his son.

What a cruel persecutor Ebenezer was! How Helen had suffered during his
outrageous harangue! The young man ground his teeth. So Ebenezer was but
biding his time to do some terrible harm to Tessibel and her little boy,
his boy! Frederick breathed deeply, and pressed his hand upon his heart.
Would the thing never stop beating that way! Would it never in this
world quit that awful hurt when he thought of the squatter country! He
undressed hastily and went to bed, nor did he speak when Madelene crept
softly in beside him.




CHAPTER XL

HUSBAND AND WIFE


The next morning found Frederick Graves more nervous than ever. The
weather had cleared. The air, washed by yesterday's downpour, came
through the open window sweet to his nostrils. The countryside sparkled
in the morning sun and the greens of the woods and fields were deeper
and richer; but the beauty of the landscape touched him not. He'd
scarcely slept, and when weariness had at last overcome him, his dreams
had been filled with visions of a red haired girl, and a sturdy,
handsome boy playing about upon the ragged rocks. When he came down to
breakfast, Ebenezer told him he'd better see the doctor that day.

"You might go while Madelene and I are out this morning," suggested
Helen. "Ah," hearing a child's voice in the hall, "here comes my baby!"

When the door opened, a little girl of three bounded in. Ebenezer held
out his arms and Elsie sprang into them.

"Listen to Mrs. Waldstricker," he laughed. "She said, 'my baby,' and I
say, she's mine.... Aren't you my baby, pet?"

Helen smiled indulgently. This wee bit of femininity was the one
creature who could keep her father amiable from one end of the day to
the other.

"My girlie wants to eat with daddy?" Ebenezer went on, his face buried
in the flaxen hair. "Then she shall."

"Elsie wants to eat with daddy," parroted the child.

"That's why I say she's spoiled," offered Helen, shrugging her
shoulders. "Now her place is in the nursery, but what can I do?"

"Her place is right here on her father's knee," replied Waldstricker,
"where I always want her, bless her."

During the discussion about the child, Frederick got up from the table
and went out of doors.

As he left the dining room, he had no definite plan; but no sooner had
he walked across the front lawn and taken a view of the long road--the
way that led to Tessibel and his boy--than his feet, seemingly of their
own volition, led him along the grassy path up the hill. If he could
only see the two of them without his family knowing! One kiss from his
boy, one loving look from Tess, and he felt he could start again to
live!

To the sick man the distance was considerable, but minute by minute he
grew stronger, restored by revivifying hope. An hour, only a short hour,
only a little distance further and he would be at the lake; in sight of
the willow trees around the shack. He went down the hill to the top of
the lane. Here Tess had come to him that long ago night he'd married
her. Every familiar spot stung him with bitter memories of the squatter
girl.

He went slowly down and stopped under a great tree opposite the house
where he'd formerly lived. Young had the place now, and Tess lived there
and his boy. Ebenezer's insinuations hurt him. His jealousy of Deforrest
revived. Remorse for his criminal selfishness burned him, an
unquenchable fire.

Shaken by conflicting emotions, he went on by the deserted hut under the
willows to the lake shore. He'd go out to the ragged rocks and rest, and
then he'd try to see Tessibel and the boy.

He came to the great gray slab where he'd left Tess the night he told
her of Madelene, and sank down in the shade of the overhanging rocks.
Screened from the blazing sun, his hot skin rejoiced in the coolness of
the damp grotto. With unseeing eyes, he glanced out over the glassy
mirror of the placid water. Unheeding, he heard none of the bird-calls,
and paid no attention to the intimate little sounds of the lake side.

What should he do when at last he saw Tess and the boy? Would he dare
claim them?

Suddenly, something made him sit up straight and listen. It was a
child's laugh. He got up and stepped behind the hanging shoulder of the
rock and waited. He looked cautiously around the jutting-rock, and
there, racing toward him through the brilliant sunshine, was a little
boy, a handsome, sturdy boy, and bounding along beside him, Kennedy's
bulldog.

Then, instinctively, Frederick knew this was his son. He would speak, he
must speak! He stepped from his hiding place and came face to face with
the little fellow and his companion. The dog, uttering a great growl,
crouched on his hind quarters in rage. A stranger had ventured upon
ground belonging to his dear ones, and Pete was demanding, in his
doglike way, the reason thereof.

"Pete, Pete," called Frederick, soothingly, and Pete dropped his head
and came forward, as if to a friend. The boy stood, feet wide-spread,
staring fixedly at this man whom Pete knew and he had never seen before.

Frederick patted the dog and smiled ingratiatingly at the boy. He was
looking down into a pair of dark eyes, eyes like his own, into the grave
face of a child asking why he was there.

The dog nuzzled the man's hand and fawned upon him, making in his throat
little noises of welcome.

Frederick held out his other hand.

"Won't you come, too, little boy?"

"I can't!... Mummy wouldn't like it. I don't know you."

"She won't mind, I'm sure," replied Frederick, his heart beating so hard
he could hear it. "Pete knows me, and I know your mother. Her name
is--is Tessibel.... Isn't it?"

The man could scarcely get that beloved name from between his lips.

"Yes, Tessibel is my mummy," said the boy. "You know my mummy, and my
Uncle Forrie?"

"Yes," assented Frederick, sitting down. "Come here and let me tell you
all about your mother's beautiful curls."

Boy hitched nearer the tall stranger. He was drawn in some unknown way
toward this man whose arms were out-held to him. Then, suddenly, he
walked straight into them, his eyes still very grave, still very
questioning.

The moment Frederick touched the little one he felt the world was his.
He forgot Waldstricker, forgot Madelene, forgot everything, but his
elf-like son within his cuddling grasp. He touched his lips to the
little face.

"Oh, I've wanted to see you so," he murmured.

"Why didn't you come, then?" demanded Boy.

"I was away," said Frederick.

"My Uncle Forrie goes away, too. When he came home yesterday, he brought
me a beautiful engine--it goes on wheels. I love my Uncle Forrie."

"Could you love me, dear?" breathed Frederick.

"Yes, oh, yes. I love everybody. God, too. So does Mummy. And Deacon,
he's my owl, and An--"

Boy's lips closed on the nearly spoken word. He suddenly remembered the
daily lessons he'd had from his mother never to mention Andy's name to
any one; that, if he did, a big man would come and take his darling Andy
away. No, Boy couldn't stand that. He wouldn't say anything about Andy,
not even to this strangely attractive man.

"What were you going to say, boy?" petitioned Frederick.

"Nothin'. Just nothin'."

And the father was satisfied, satisfied not to talk, glad to have his
son so heavenly close. The long years of his exile were slipping away.
The nerve-racking yearning of tedious days and yet more tedious,
sleepless nights was partially quieted. His son, so long, merely, the
pulseless image of his dreams, had become a breathing reality, and the
child was the living link between its mother and himself. The longer he
held the little one, the more intense grew his desire for Tess. At
length this demand urged him to ask,

"Where's your mother?"

"She's home, just up there in that house. She's working."

"You haven't any father?" the man queried at last. A lump rose in his
throat and choked him. What had the child been told about him, he
wondered.

"Oh, yes, I have somewhere's, but I got another up in the sky, away back
in the clouds, Mummy says. And he's awful glad when I'm good, and he
cries like anything, when I'm bad. So I try to be good, and sometimes
I'm gooder'n gold."

To hear a name from the child's lips, the name he had dreamed of, was
the one thought filling his mind.

"Let me be your father?" he said, his voice breaking.

"Sure I will," he answered. "There's my mummy, now!"

Around the jutting rocks came Tess. The red curls hung about her
shoulders like a vivid velvet mantle, just as Frederick always dreamed
of them. But her figure, in her simple morning dress, was fuller and
more womanly. Upon her face was an expression of serenity and peace. Ah!
The woman was even more lovely than the girl he'd married, and to the
love-hungry man, on the great, gray slab of rock, she was infinitely
desirable.

"Mummy," shouted the child, joyfully, "I've found a daddy for us. Petey
and me found him."

Tess stared at the man, undisguised horror and dismay written in her
eyes. She'd not seen Frederick since that day he'd urged her to marry
Sandy Letts to escape Waldstricker, whose hands, he'd described, as
stronger'n God's. She'd hardly heard of him after he and Madelene had
gone West. She had long ago ceased to feel any desire for him. Indeed,
she scarcely thought of him. During the full happy years since she left
the shanty, under the loving tuition of Deforrest Young, the disgrace
this man on the rocks had heaped upon her had covered its claws and
lacerated her no more. But, at the sight of him, visions of the past
reared themselves in her imaginative mind. Memory, suddenly, flung all
the cruelties of his treatment of her into a kaleidoscopic jumble, and
meddlesome fear presented numerous suggestions of calamity. A moment she
stood as if turned to stone.

"Come on, come," Boy cried, tugging at her dress.

Frederick struggled to his feet, and held out his arms.

"Tessibel, oh, my Tess, be kind," he supplicated.

But she'd taken the child's hand and without answering, was making her
way swiftly backward to the rock-path.




CHAPTER XLI

TESSIBEL'S DISCOVERY


Frederick stood for one tense minute watching Tessibel hurry over the
rocks. Many times he had pictured this interview, ... even framed the
sentences in which he would express his remorse and win her forgiveness.
It had never occurred to his brooding thought that the years of absence
which had increased his own ardor, might have lessened the squatter
girl's regard for him. But the meeting wasn't working out as he'd
planned. He'd been almost paralyzed at her coming, speechless except for
the few halting words of entreaty. Now, it dawned upon him that she was
going away without a word, that she was taking the child with her, and
that he might never see either of them again.

"Tessibel," he called hoarsely. "Stop, or ... I'll tell Waldstricker."

His words brought Tess to a standstill. The threat filled her with fear,
for well she knew the elder's power. Still keeping hold of Boy's hand,
she retraced her steps.

"Why did you come here?" she asked, fear and distaste making her voice
cold and hard.

"To see you and ... him." Frederick pointed to the child, who was now
hiding behind his mother's skirts.

"Well, now you've seen us."

Frederick stared at the speaker, his lips pursed with surprise. Was this
Tess Skinner, the squatter girl? The voice was hers, but its tones were
resonant with contempt! Face and form he recognized, but not the new
poise, the dignity of her motherhood. The brown eyes he remembered as
lighted by love, now expressed unutterable abhorrence.

"Tess, dear Tess," he pleaded, "let me talk to you."

Tess stooped over the child, rearranged his little waist, and pushed
back the curly hair.

"Boy go home now, and mother'll come directly."

She kissed the bewildered upturned face. The baby couldn't understand
what was going on.... Mummy seemed sad, and the nice man, who was so
white and sick looking, had spoken angrily to his beautiful mother.

"I'd rather stay wif you," he lisped.

"But Mummy asks Boy to go," said Tess, and to the dog, "Here, Petey, go
home with Boy."

Placing his hand on the dog's collar, the child turned slowly and
unwillingly toward the house. He'd taken but a few halting steps along
the rocks before Frederick's voice rang out.

"Tess, Tessibel, let me hold him ... kiss him once more. Don't shake
your head! Don't say no! I've wanted him so all these years. Oh,
Tessibel!"

His pitiful pleading touched the listening girl. At last, face to face
with the man whose cowardice and selfishness had brought her so much
trouble, her one desire was to escape ... to run away. But he was
begging for her to be kind, to allow him to hold her baby!... What right
had he to kiss him?... To be sure, the child was his, too, but--but--

"Oh, No! No! I don't want you to!" she cried, protesting. "You can never
be anything in his life. Why don't you let us alone?"

Frederick had walked very close to her side by this time, his white face
twitching.

"I must kiss him once more," he persisted.

Tess turned to the loitering child. She could see that at a word of
assent from her, Boy would rush into the outstretched arms Frederick
held toward him. The mother, with a twist at her heart, recognized the
tie which drew together this man and her son. A dreadful fear clutched
her. Would Frederick do as he had threatened, hoping that he might thus
come in contact with his son? Her mind flew to Deforrest Young.... He
must never know the name of Boy's father. She could feel the blood
coursing madly through her temples, and her head ached dully.

Nevertheless, she went back and took hold of the child's hand.

"You may kiss the gentleman ... good-bye," she said in a constrained
voice.

"The pretty man was goin' to be my faver," said the child, pleadingly.
"I want a daddy awful bad."

"Yes, yes, I know," Tess returned tremulously. "Now hurry, dear, and
then run home."

Only too gladly did the child jump away and bound into his father's
extended arms.

"Mummy says I has to go home," he whispered.

While the tall man silently caressed the dark curls of her boy, Tess of
the Storm Country endured such pain as she'd never known before. The
mutual attraction between the two, so differently related to her, seemed
anomalous and impossible.

Frederick unwillingly allowed the child to slip to the rocks and after
Tess'd started Boy and the dog on their homeward way, she stood before
him, her lips quivering. She knew he, too, suffered, and she waited
quietly as he dried his eyes and recovered his choking breath.

She was sorry he'd come. She'd hoped never to see him again. But, now,
she must be assured that he would continue the deception in regard to
the past. As anxious as she had once been to have him claim her as his
own, to tell the world she belonged to him, she, now, wanted to keep
silent.

"It was useless for you to come," she chided presently.

Frederick made an impetuous movement with his hand.

"Oh, no, it wasn't.... Won't you let me atone, let me make up for all
the things I've done ... and haven't done? I want--oh, how I want--"

"It's too late," interrupted the girl. "Much too late."

"But, Tessibel, I know you love me. You can't have forgotten. And I'll
make the boy love me. He does now! Didn't you hear him call me father?"

"He has no father," she responded coldly. "And I--I haven't any love
left for you."

The words were low but distinctly spoken.

"I don't believe it!... I won't!... You shall love me!... I won't have
you with Young. ... He can see my boy every day ... be with you hour
after hour.... I hate him!"

"You hate him!" Tessibel's eyes burned and flashed with indignation.
"When you should be grateful, because he's done everything you should've
done.... You've said all you can. You can't make up to us ... the baby
and me.... Won't you please go?"

Frederick felt he was losing his reason. The love he'd nursed in secret,
the passion that had wasted him away, shook his frail frame. He wouldn't
be denied!

"God help me, I won't go!" he gritted, the words carrying on his
thought.

With one sweep of his arms, he encircled Tess in a close embrace. She
made frantic efforts to free herself, but Frederick, strong under the
emotion consuming him, only hugged her closer.

"Let me go!" Tess almost screamed the words. Then, her voice changed to
a tense whisper, hoarse with loathing. "How can ... oh, how dare you!"

But she could not protect her face from the searching mouth. Violently,
Frederick twisted her around and for one moment his lips fell upon hers.
Deep groans came between the kisses he thrust upon her.

A moment later the sound of advancing steps lifted Frederick's face from
hers. Muttering an oath, he threw Tess forcibly from him, for there in
the path was Ebenezer Waldstricker, about whose sagging lips played a
supercilious smile.

"So I was not mistaken," he sneered, looking his brother-in-law full in
the face. "If Madelene doesn't care, I do."

"Well?" growled Frederick. "You've found me here, now do what you cursed
want to, I don't care."

"Perhaps you'll care before I finish," said the elder grimly, and he
included the girl in his baleful glare. "I think you both will."

Tessibel's mind flew to Boy. What could these two men do to her darling?

She went forward toward Waldstricker, her eyes raised appealingly to
his.

"Won't you make Mr.... Mr. Graves keep away?" she petitioned. "I don't
want him here."

"Yes, it looked, when I came around the corner, as if you didn't want
him, miss," scoffed the elder. Then he laughed, and the laugh cut the
throbbing girl to the quick. "Very much as if you wanted him to go....
Now, then, sir, what's this girl to you?"

"I'm nothing to him, Mr. Waldstricker," she asserted, without giving
Frederick a chance to speak.

Graves still felt that maddening passion, that demand for his own.

"She lies," he said in low tones.

Tess turned to him passionately.

"You know what I say is true. You came here without my desiring it! I
don't want anything to do with you.... Haven't you both harmed me
enough?... Do I ever come around and hurt you?... Why don't you tell the
truth?"

"All right," he shouted, his irritation at her resistance overcoming his
fear of the elder. "If you want the truth, here it is. I'm----"

"Don't! Don't!" screamed Tess.

"Ah!" hissed Waldstricker's lips like a jet of steam.

He'd caught within his powerful net the girl he wanted. He'd bring to
light the secret that'd preyed upon his sister's spirits so long. For
the squatter girl he felt no pity, for Frederick only contempt. They
were both weaklings that he'd sweep away in his pursuit of Young and the
squatters.

"He's sick," said Tessibel, trying to discount Frederick's confession.
"Your brother-in-law's sick. You can see that!... He thinks ... why,
he's mad!"

"I'm not mad!" Frederick turned upon her fiercely, then back to the big
man whose eagerness bent him forward. "I'm the father of her boy."

The blood left Waldstricker's face, so that it looked like carved
marble.

"So 'tis so," he got out, "and you admit it, you cur, and you dared to
marry my sister? Now, as God lets me live, you'll both suffer for this,
and as for you, Tessibel Skinner, look out for that bastard of yours!"

The squatter girl uttered a heart-broken cry, and turning, fled around
the rocks into the lane and up the hill.




CHAPTER XLII

A MAN'S ARM AT THE WINDOW


It seemed to Tess that her feet were leaden, as if she could never
traverse the distance between the ragged rocks and the house. The
interview with Frederick had been a terrible ordeal, and she was sick
with disgust from his odious kisses. Waldstricker's untimely appearance
and his stinging taunts hurt and frightened her. She knew he would do
his worst and that Frederick wouldn't or couldn't help it. The desire to
get Boy into her arms, to keep him from the men below urged her on.
Wildly, she fled through the orchard, crying as she went.

"Boy! Mummy's Boy! Where's Mummy's Boy?"

Gasping for breath, her voice ejected the words explosively. Exhausted,
she sank upon the top step of the porch. The long run up the hill had
been almost too much, but in a moment, she lifted herself, still calling
and panting, and stumbled into the house.

"He's upstairs with Andy," said Young, looking up from his book. Then,
alarmed by her appearance, he jumped up and hurried to her. "What's the
matter, Tess? Tell me."

"Where's the baby?" she demanded hysterically, clinging to him.... "Tell
me where my baby is."

Drawing her into an easy chair, Deforrest attempted to quiet her.

"Boy's upstairs with Andy. Hush, hush, child! Don't cry like that!...
Oh, my little girl!... What is it?... What's happened? Tell me ...
quick!"

But Tess couldn't speak. She only clung to his arms, trying to stifle
her gasping cries.

Just then Boy's clear laugh came pealing down the stairway, a conclusive
comfort to his mother's heart. When her extreme agitation had subsided.
Professor Young sat down and called her to him. As of old, when first
he had heard her lessons in his home, she dropped at his feet, resting
her curly head against his knee.

"Now I want to know what's frightened you," said he, softly.

The girl made a gesture of refusal. "I can't tell it," she replied,
under her breath. "It's too terrible! It's too awful!"

"There's nothing too terrible for me to know," answered Young. "What
happened while you were out?"

"Don't ask me to tell you, Uncle Forrie," pleaded Tess. "I can't! I
can't!"

"Tessibel," demanded the lawyer, "was it Sandy Letts?"

"Oh, no, no, not him!"

The man pondered a moment.

"Was it--"

"Please don't ask me any more questions." She lifted a crimson face. "I
was foolish, I suppose, but I thought, I thought the baby--"

"Some one threatened Boy! Was that it, Tessibel?" he cross-questioned.

"Yes." The murmured answer was scarcely audible.

"One of the squatters, then?"

The red head sank again. This time a decided shake of the shining curls
made the denial.

Hoping to avoid further examination, the girl tried to rise to her feet,
but the questioner's hand pressed her back.

"Don't ask me," she entreated. "I'm better now."

She tried to smile, but the sweet lips trembled. Young hadn't seen her
so stirred in all the years of her residence in his house. He'd been
able to hold his love in check while he saw her happy and content, but
her present pitiful state broke down the barriers he'd erected and
hardly conscious of the change in his attitude, he kissed her.

Tess drew away sharply. The strange new quality in his caress aroused an
answering thrill the length of her body. In that moment she discovered
how deeply she loved Deforrest Young.

"Don't ... don't kiss me! Never, never kiss me again."

What was it she had said? The man felt his heart contract with a
shooting pain.

"Why, child, I've kissed you since you were a little girl.... Why
shouldn't I?"

"I don't know, I don't know," she faltered. "Somehow it's different,
now."

Something in her tones, some dejection in the bowed head brought the
man's hand from the shrouding curls. His heart began to live again, to
come forth from beneath his stern will and make known its own desire.

"Tess," his voice tense with emotion, "will you marry me?... Will you,
Tess?"

The girl got to her feet, swaying. Marry him? Her fingers twisted
together as her eyes dropped before the expression of his. He, too, was
on his feet, holding out his arms.

"I'd ... marry you," she confessed haltingly, "but I can't."

"Is it Boy?" demanded Young. "Why, child, don't you know I love him
almost as if he were my own?"

"I can't," wailed Tess, again. "How I wish I could!"

"You saw some one today, didn't you, Tessibel?"

She nodded affirmatively, but volunteered nothing further.

"I must know," cried the man. "Don't you see, child, you've just told
me--Tess, look at me."

The drooping lids raised slowly.

"Tess, when you said you desired to marry me, did you mean--oh, you
meant you love me, child dear, didn't you?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"Then, can't you see your love for me and mine for you makes it
necessary I should know everything? Some one today--tell me, dear."

"Waldstricker came down--" Tess paused, but trembled on. "I was talking
to--"

"Who?" ejaculated Young, fiercely. "Who?"

"The baby's father."

Shocked by her unexpected answer, he dropped into his chair and covered
his face with his hands.

"Don't feel that way," she whispered. "Listen, I'll tell you about
it.... Boy ran to the rocks with Pete, and I went after him. I found him
there with--with--"

"Oh, Tess," groaned Young.

"His father's been away a long time," the girl went on, "and now he's
back, and he wanted to see the baby, and then I sent Boy home and
Waldstricker came--"

"My God! won't you ever tell me who was there with you?"

Boy's mother bowed her head, and through the red hair came two trembling
words, just one whispered name that seared the man's heart like flames.

"Frederick Graves."

Only one long shudder showed the listener's agony. Tess, too, remained
quiet, her veins bursting with pulsing blood. She could not tell him the
rest, Frederick hadn't told, neither could she. Her promise on the
rocks, so many years ago, still bound her.

The lawyer lowered his hands, and the whiteness of his face drew
Tessibel to her knees beside him.

"I've always made you sad," she murmured. "I'm sorry, forgive me."

"Just tell me ... all," he insisted.

Then she began at the beginning and told him over again how Boy had gone
to the rocks with Pete and she went after him. At the part where
Frederick had taken her in his arms, she faltered. In the light of the
wonderful, new love for Deforrest, she couldn't go on!

"Won't you let me ... keep the rest?" she implored.

"No, I will not!" groaned the man. "I will not!"

"Then, let me stand up."

She got up slowly and stood looking out of the window.

"He kissed and kissed me," she said, choking, "and just then
Waldstricker came and ... saw."

"Oh, God help me!" the heavy voice pleaded.

Tess knelt again. His supplicating cry aroused her faith to vivid
activity. Deforrest had prayed, "God help me!" and, oh, so differently
than the same words used by Frederick a short time previous. He was
bearing pain for her. Hadn't she suffered, too, and time and again
called into the heart of the Infinite for help? And always at the times
needed, it had come. God would surely help her friend. Tess forgot
herself in her ardent desire to comfort him.

"He will help you, dear," she whispered. "He'll always help when you ask
Him. Didn't He get Daddy Skinner out of Auburn and He kept Andy with me
in the shanty till we came to you? Oh, I know He'll help you and me,
Uncle Forrie."

The loving appellation, taught Boy when first he could lisp, roused the
man as perhaps nothing else would have done. The three of them still
needed him, needed him more than ever. He was there at their sides like
a wall of stone, to defend, to love and protect. And whatever happened,
Tess loved him!

He drew her to her feet and smiled a twisted smile into the lovely face.
This day had started another epoch in their lives. She had said God
would help, and he had learned many lessons from the squatter girl. For
the first time in his life he understood something of the overwhelming
faith of Tessibel Skinner. Yes, he would be helped!

The girl's next words cut off his thought.

"Waldstricker said he'd hurt Boy," she said, flushing, "but, but--"

"But you have faith he can't, haven't you, Tess?"

"Of course!" she nodded. "I know he can't! You remember the day
Waldstricker tried to get me and you came and stopped him, how I told
you I knew he couldn't," and more softly, "do you remember what I said
when you went away that day?"

"Yes, indeed, I do, dear! I've often thought of it. 'Love is everywhere,
the hull time,'" and, he smiled.

Radiantly she told him, "And, now, somehow, I know that Love will let me
be all yours some day."

Young turned swiftly, and going to the door, swung out without another
word, and Tess hurried upstairs to Boy.




CHAPTER XLIII

SANDY'S JOB


Tessibel Skinner's flight left Ebenezer Waldstricker and Graves together
on the ragged rocks. The bigger man turned and surveyed the other,
scorn, anger and disgust struggling for expression in his face. The
latter, paying no apparent attention to the enraged elder, leaned
against an outcropping gray rock and fixed his gaze on the lake, noting
mechanically the play of sunshine and shadow upon its dazzling bosom.

Through the elder's seething mind thoughts tumbled tumultuously. Could
this moody, pale-faced man be the same nice young fellow that had
married Madelene? How had he dared to marry her, and having done so,
what had compelled him, after all this time, to acknowledge the Skinner
brat?

He walked forward a step or two, coughed and began to speak. Frederick
seemed not to hear him.

"I said," repeated Waldstricker, "I've discovered what I've suspected
for four years."

Frederick allowed his eyes to rest an instant on his brother-in-law's
dark, passionate face. Then, again, he turned his attention to the lake.

"And I don't intend to allow my sister to suffer by this," went on the
elder.

"I suppose you'll tell her, won't you?" questioned the other, foreseeing
unpleasant complications and already regretting the rashness that'd
betrayed him.

"She won't learn it from me," promised Ebenezer.

"Nor from me," agreed Frederick. "I've no wish to have a whining woman
hanging to my neck."

Waldstricker muttered an oath under his breath.

"Well, of all the contemptible pups in the world!" he snorted. "Talk of
ingratitude! Here's a girl, a good girl, too, and Madelene's that--"

"No one said she wasn't," snapped Graves. "But her goodness doesn't keep
her from nagging, my dear Ebenezer."

"Shut up!" snarled his opponent, the last atom of his patience exhausted
by the speaker's flippant criticism. "You cur, you deserve a good
thrashing, and I'm going to give it to you, now!"

Jumping for him, he lifted his arm to strike, but before the mighty fist
descended, Frederick, outworn by his long walk and the excitement of the
morning, slumped upon the rocks, a limp form at his assailant's feet.
Stunned, the tall man gazed down at the crumpled figure, and
mechanically lowered his arm. Then, he stooped, examined his fallen foe
and stretched him out upon the rocks. Leaving him there, Waldstricker
hurried to the lake and filled his hat with water, and returning, bathed
the stricken man's face and neck. In a few moments, the faintness
passed, and Frederick drew himself to a sitting posture against the
rocks.

"You great brute! It's like you to strike a sick man," the white lips
taunted, as soon as their owner could speak.

The slurring words brought a hot blush of shame to Ebenezer's face.

"I'm sorry, Fred," he stammered at length. "I was so angry I must've
forgotten you're not well. I'm glad I didn't strike you. But what are we
going to do, now?... If we don't tell Madelene, how about the Skinner
girl?... Won't she make trouble for us?"

"No, she won't say anything, I'm sure!" Frederick's voice was low, but
positive. "She doesn't want to have anything more to do with me. What
she said about not wanting me was true. She wouldn't stop to speak to
me, even, until I threatened to tell you.... I suppose Young's made her
so happy she's glad to forget me."

"What gets me is how you and Young, decent fellows, got mixed up with
such a girl," Ebenezer growled meditatively.

"If you knew Tess as I do, ... you'd understand," wailed Frederick.
"She's the dearest, bravest, sweetest girl in the world."

"Bosh!... Now, the question is about getting you home. My buggy's up in
the road. Do you think you can walk there?"

"I guess so."

With his brother-in-law's help, Frederick got to his feet. Slowly,
leaning on the big man's supporting arm, he made his way, with many
pauses for rest, to the waiting vehicle.

Waldstricker put his companion into the carriage and unhitched the
horse. Instead of getting in beside him, he handed him the reins, saying
as he did so,

"You can drive all right, can't you? Old Ned knows the way back and will
go home if you let him alone. I want to see Young."

Before turning away, the speaker chirruped to the horse, which started
obediently up the hill toward Ithaca, drawing after him what cowardly
selfishness had left of Frederick Graves.

The elder walked slowly up the path to Young's house, turning over in
his mind to what advantage he could best use his newly acquired
knowledge.

Coming out of the door hurriedly, Deforrest Young met his brother-in-law
face to face as the latter rounded the corner of the house. At the sight
of this pompous person, whose meddling threatened so much trouble to his
dear ones, the indignation which Tessibel's words had in a measure
quieted, flared up anew. He wanted to fight, to pound, and if possible
to kill with his hands the man in front of him.

"You'd better come no farther," he said between set teeth. "Just stay
where you are!... I shan't be responsible for my acts if you don't."

"So she's told you," said Waldstricker, laughing loudly. "And it hurts,
eh? Now, you know what you're keeping?"

Trembling with suppressed passion, the lawyer walked deliberately to the
steps, his face waxen-white.

"I told you to come no nearer. I'd advise you to go away," said he. His
low voice, contrasting sharply with his flushed cheeks and blazing eyes,
testified eloquently of the tremendous curb imposed upon his temper.

"Yes, she told me, ..." he continued in the same tone, "and the more she
told me, the more heartily I pitied her. She told me of your threats,
too, but I want you to understand, the moment you turn your hands
against her, I'll fix you."

"Don't forget my wife's your sister. I'll see our family's honor upheld
even if you've forgotten it." Waldstricker simulated a confidence he
didn't quite feel.

Young's fists knotted.

"You mind your business, Ebenezer, and let my house alone."

Waldstricker, kicking uneasily at a stone in his path, thought a moment.
At last he looked up.

"I'll let your house alone all right, if you'll get rid of that girl,
and that--"

He didn't use the word he'd intended. Deforrest didn't give him time.

"My house is my own," he interjected. "If you watch yours, you'll have
all you can 'tend to."

"I'll go," said the big man, hoarsely, "but I don't say I won't come
again, and I warn you, as I warned that squatter girl, when the time
comes--"

"Get out!" snarled Deforrest, starting down the steps, "and get quick."

And the elder, not daring to stay, turned and went toward the pear
orchard. It was then, that he glanced up and saw Tessibel and her little
one at an upper window, watching with startled eyes for his departure.
The baby turned from the window and raised his arms to some one within,
and a hand below a man's rough coat sleeve clasped the boy and lifted
him up out of Waldstricker's sight.

Walking along the road to Ithaca, he reviewed the exciting events of the
morning and tried to consider and determine the complications they
involved. He was unable to find a motive for Frederick's dramatic
announcement, although he did not for a moment doubt its truth. It was
queer though that, after having kept still so long, he should blurt out
his secret in that fashion. He considered his promise not to tell
Madelene and concluded he'd been wise. Probably Frederick wouldn't live
long anyway, and in the natural course of things, Madelene would soon be
free and the Graves chapter ended. He wondered what had kept Tess silent
all these years. How had she withstood his persecution even in her
betrayer's presence and made no sign? He was glad she had, but he
couldn't understand why. Evidently the girl's disclosure to Young wasn't
going to make any difference in his brother-in-law's conduct. Suddenly,
like a bolt shot into the midst of his revery, rose the question. Whose
arm was that? Young was on the porch, the girl and the baby in plain
sight at the window. But there was some one else, a man. He had seen his
arm and coat sleeve.

"That's certainly peculiar," he ruminated. "I didn't know Young had any
one else there. It may be all right, of course, but it seems mighty
suspicious."

All the way home and all the evening, the thing bothered him. In every
way imaginable he tried to account for that other man in Young's house.
He canvassed the neighborhood. A chance visitor wouldn't be upstairs,
and anyhow he'd have looked out to see the row with Young. But this man
kept away from the window. He'd only shown his hand and arm. Whoever he
was, he was hiding in Young's home.

Was his brother-in-law a party to it? A man couldn't be kept for any
length of time in the house without his knowing it. Young and Tess were
hiding someone! At bed time he decided that the next day he would find
out who was the other man in Young's house. It might give him a hold on
his obstreperous brother-in-law and the hateful squatter girl.




CHAPTER XLIV

SANDY'S VISIT


The next day, Ebenezer Waldstricker met Lysander Letts, just back from
Auburn, loitering along Buffalo Street near the Lehigh Valley station.
The prison-pallor of the squatter's face and hands and the ill-fitting,
cheap prison clothes on his big body made him conspicuous among the men
on the street. Waldstricker pulled up his team.

"Sandy," he called, "come to the office when you're uptown. I want to
see you."

An hour or so later, the squatter slouched into Waldstricker's private
room.

The elder rose and greeted him.

"So you're out again?" The question was really a statement.

"Yes," assented Letts, sitting down on the edge of the chair, "an' I
wouldn't a been if I hadn't been let out on good behavior. I made up my
mind I wouldn't stay a minute longer'n I had to."

"I guess after this you won't be stealing dead bodies, will you?" asked
the rich man.

"Nope, you bet I won't! I've enough of Auburn. It ain't like the Ithaca
jail!... Heard anythin' of Tess Skinner?"

"Yes, she's got a boy over three years old."

Lysander nodded his head slowly, as if he'd received confirmation of a
conclusion previously formed.

"Thought likely," he muttered. "Where air she livin'? I met Jake Brewer
on the street an' he says she air left the shack."

"So she has, but not very far away.... Letts, I want you to do something
for me. Are--or I might put it--do you still want to make up to the
Skinner girl?"

Sandy's face grew dark with uncontrollable anger.

"I want to rip the skin offen her inch by inch," he snarled.

The other man gave a low, mirthless laugh. The picture of the girl he
disliked so intensely, writhing in the great hands of the brute opposite
him, appealed to the elder's sardonic humor.

"That wouldn't be a bad idea," he averred. "But she's got some one who
won't see her hurt."

Letts jumped up and stepped close to the desk where the other was
sitting. Here was a complication he hadn't anticipated. He moistened his
dry lips with a tobacco stained tongue and demanded,

"Who air he?... Air she married?"

"No, she's living in Graves' old place, the house I, now, own, with
Deforrest Young."

"Ye mean, your wife's brother, the lawyer?"

Waldstricker nodded.

"An' ye say she air livin' with him?"

"Well not exactly that, I suppose, but she's keeping house for him.
She's got her child there, too."

"Has, eh?" said Sandy, dryly.

A wicked look came over his face and he slouched back into his chair.
Ebenezer went to his office window and looked into the street.

"Want to earn some money, Letts?" he demanded, without turning around.

"You bet! Ye bet I do!"

Ebenezer returned to his desk and sat down again facing his visitor.

"You'll have to go about this business carefully."

"Trust me," promised the squatter.

"I am. There's a mystery about Young's house--I mean, there's some one
in it beside my brother-in-law, the Skinner girl, and the boy."

"Who air it?" The question was no perfunctory expression of interest.
Anything relating to Tess was vitally important.

"That's what I want you to find out. It's a man!"

"Mebbe it's the brat's pa," offered the other.

"No, it isn't, and by the way, you let up trying to find out about
that."

"What do ye mean?" interjected Sandy, sullenly.

"I mean I want that matter dropped."

Letts merely grunted, for to acquire that information was one of the
first things he intended to do, but there was no use telling the elder
so.

"What ye want?" he muttered.

"I'll give you a hundred dollars to find out the name of the other man
living at Young's."

"Done!" cried the squatter. "Do I get any of the dough, now?"

"Part of it, if you like," replied Waldstricker, slipping his hand into
his pocket. "But listen to me. You're to come directly back here and
tell me, when you find out. Discover his name, if you don't know the
man. Do you understand?"

"I does that. You leave it to me. Then, I'll settle with Tess Skinner."

"As you please about her," consented Waldstricker. "Go along now. I'm
busy."




CHAPTER XLV

ANDY VINDICATED


Lysander Letts left Waldstricker's office highly pleased. He was going
to see Tess, and he had twenty-five dollars in his pocket. In the long
hours of silent meditation in prison, he'd tried to outline that
meeting, and to figure out how he could work Waldstricker. His errand
provided for both contingencies.

He swaggered along the street, bumped into people roughly, and for his
rudeness gave them oaths instead of apologies. At an inlet saloon, he
displayed his money ostentatiously, and bought many drinks for himself
and the "setters." The squatter's capacity for the Rhine whiskey had
been impaired by his imprisonment, and it was not long before he began
to feel the effects of his liquor. A full pint in his hip pocket, Sandy,
finally, broke away from his companions and started up the railroad
tracks for the Silent City. Staggering a little, he meditated with
drunken seriousness what he had done and was going to do.

Famished by his detention in prison, he hungered for the sight of Tess.
All the fierce passion of his undisciplined nature clamored for her. And
when he had her, he'd carry out all the brutalities conceived in the
long nights in his cell. He'd find out the father of her boy. If that
duffer, Waldstricker, could discover it, he could. He'd make Tess tell.
He'd show Young, too. He'd get even with the lawyer for helping send him
to Auburn. His grievance grew more active every step he carried his load
of liquor through the broiling sun, the long four miles from Ithaca.

"Wait till I get 'em," he muttered over and over, "I'll show 'em what's
what."

Before he reached the lane leading past Young's place to the Skinner
shack, he left the tracks and climbed the fence. Throwing his legs over
the top, he sat down to enjoy the breeze which blew from the green
lake, and, vibrating the leaves and bowing the shrubs and grasses, swept
up and over the hill into the illimitable space beyond. Sandy wanted
another drink, and reached back to his hip for it. The bottle stuck in
the pocket and he jerked at it savagely. He pulled it out, but he, also,
lost his balance, and in his efforts to save himself from falling,
smashed the bottle on the top rail of the fence. The whiskey ran down to
the ground and the thirsty moss drank it up.

Letts gazed at the jagged-edged glass in his hand, stupefied by the
magnitude of his calamity. Then he drew a long breath and cursed his
luck. He cursed the bottle, the fence, the whiskey, Waldstricker, who'd
sent him, and Tess and the unknown man, on whose account he'd been sent.
His maledictions included everything except his own drunken clumsiness.

Bye and bye, he got down from the fence, muttering and grumbling to
himself. Cautiously, in spite of his inflamed temper, he worked his way
through the trees. There was no sign of life about the house, but large
hammocks swung in the breeze on the porch. The squatter walked around
and around, keeping far enough away so his movements could not be
noticed. He stopped under a large tree to look up at the windows
Waldstricker had described.

Attracted by a sound to his right, he wheeled about and saw Tessibel
coming down the hill. His breath came sharply through his dark teeth.
Never had the girl been so desirable, and for the instant, he felt
possessed to rush upon her, to take her in his arms, to hold her close.
Then, Waldstricker came into his mind. Before he worked his will on the
squatter girl, he must find out the name of the unknown man. He had to
please the elder to get the rest of the money. But to speak to her would
be all right. He might discover something. He walked stealthily through
the trees and placed himself so that when the girl turned toward the
house, she would meet him face to face.

Tess was humming happily. When her eyes rested upon Lysander Letts, she
stopped.

"Hello, brat!" grinned Sandy.

The girl didn't answer. His prison pallor fascinated her. It contrasted
so sharply with the wind-tanned brown of the swarthy skin she
remembered. All the accumulated horror of him, which had been forgotten
while he was safely restrained at Auburn, swept over her.

"I said hello!" sniggered the other, once more. "Ain't ye glad to see
me?"

Ignoring his question, the frightened girl assumed a haughtiness quite
unusual, and in her turn questioned coldly,

"What do you want?"

"What do I want?" mocked Letts, not a whit disturbed by her manner. "I
want you!"

Tessibel stepped to one side, but the squatter put himself in front of
her, again.

"Now none of yer foolin'," he growled, and he added to his remarks a
collection of sulphurous epithets.

"Sandy," commanded the young woman, still in her grand manner, "step out
of my way! Right now! Do you hear?"

Unmoved, her drunken tormentor flung up his arms, hands open in assumed
disgust.

"Well, hark to the way the squatter girl's talkin', will ye?" he
sneered. "I'll take that outten ye, kid, afore I've had ye long. Where
air yer brat?"

The brown eyes, responsive to his suggestion, glanced toward the house.
There was Boy coming slowly up the little path toward her. He dearly
enjoyed the rare occasions when visitors came, and his face lighted up
when he saw the man talking to his mother.

"Boy, run back home," she called.

Sandy made a dash down the hill toward the child, shouting curses and
commands to him.

"Wait, kid! Don't ye move! I want ye."

The young mother instantly flew after him. Her swift feet took her on
and on, up to and past the squatter whose speed was impaired by his
years of confinement and the whiskey he'd swallowed. Then, she flung
herself in front of the child and held out her arms.

"Stop, Sandy! Wait!" she panted. "I'll talk to you. Let the baby go
home."

The race which had flushed the girl's cheeks and deepened her breathing,
left the fat squatter wind-broken and exhausted.

"Let 'im go, then," gasped Sandy.

"Go back, Boy dear," urged Tess.

Boy didn't move. He seemed mesmerized by the strangely white face of the
drunken man.

"Mummy, come home, too," he hesitated.

"Yer mummy can't. Git out, ye beggar, afore I kick ye!" threatened
Sandy.

His breathing was easier but the discomfort he felt aggravated his ugly
mood. He reached forth one of his great arms and, seizing the child by
the shoulder, threw him roughly to the ground. The little one, more
frightened than hurt, cried loudly. His shrill shriek of terror reached
the ears of the dwarf. Alarmed, Andy sprang to the window and looked
out.

The scene on the lawn below petrified him. Tess was picking up the
child, and standing over her, fists doubled menacingly, was--Lysander
Letts. Andy thought the enraged squatter was going to kill her and Boy.
Wholly forgetful of his own danger, he continued to watch.

His small boyish face was still at the pane, when Lysander looked up.
Andy saw the upturned glance and flung himself back out of sight. Had
Letts seen him? Impelled to look out again, he drew a long breath of
relief. Tess and the child were slowly coming, hand in hand, toward the
house, and the man they feared was making his way through the orchard.

"I saw Sandy," was the dwarf's greeting. "What was he a botherin' you
about, honey?"

"I thought he was going to kill Boy. But suddenly he said good-bye and
went away. Were you at the window, Andy?"

"For just a minute, kid. I don't think he saw me. I heard Boy cry, an'
that's why I went."

A frightened feeling took possession of the girl.

"I hope he didn't see you. Did he, Andy?"

"Sure not. I was watching him all the time. I dodged back before he
looked up."

Tess considered the little man a minute.

"If you saw him look up," she argued, "maybe he saw you looking down.
Oh, I hope he didn't, but I'm afraid he did," and she sighed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sandy Letts had recognized the dwarf. The shock of the discovery sobered
him. He couldn't bother with Tess and her brat any longer. He had
business in Ithaca! Waldstricker's five thousand dollars, so long sought
and so eagerly desired, summoned him. All the way to town, he built
castles in Spain with the money. Through every dream, like a thread of
hate, ran the purpose to get Tess, and when he had the girl, to torture
her through her child.

When he arrived at Waldstricker's office, he found the elder absent. An
evil leer on his face, he swaggered up and down the street, his hands
thrust deep into his pockets.

He had made the great discovery of his life. He had lined his pockets
with gold, and more than that, he had made a lifelong friend of one of
the powerful men in Ithaca.

He saw Waldstricker when he turned the corner from State and made his
way down Tioga. The squatter turned into the large building, slunk in an
alcove, and waited. He heard the heavy tread of the elder on the stairs,
heard him pass and go higher up. A few minutes later, he followed.

When he opened the door, Waldstricker greeted him.

"Back again?"

"Yep," chuckled Letts.

"With news, I hope," stated the other.

"Sure," replied Sandy.

"Then tell me," answered Waldstricker, peremptorily. "I'm busy today."

"Did ye ever hear anything of Bishop?" asked the squatter.

"No, I never did."

"Want to?"

"Yes."

"Air that reward up, yet?"

"Certainly. But why all this talk? If you know anything speak out!"

Sandy walked very near the rich man, lowered his voice, and said,

"I found 'im, mister."

Ebenezer's nose was offended by the rank odor of liquor Sandy exuded.

"You're not telling me the truth," he asserted. "You've been drinking.
You're drunk now."

"Yep, I air drunk some, but I air tellin' ye what's so," insisted Letts.
"Andy Bishop air the man ye saw t'other day."

"In my brother-in-law's house!" gasped Waldstricker, beginning to
comprehend all that Sandy's discovery meant.

"Yep, that air it," replied Sandy.

"My God, oh, I thank thee!" ejaculated the elder, falling into his
chair.

"How long he air been there, I don't know," continued Sandy.

"And that doesn't matter.... Now, then, to get him back to Auburn. I
want it fixed to hustle him there quick, so Young can't put a stay on
the proceedings."

Breathing hard, he took out his watch.

"It's half past four. Do those people have the least idea you saw
Bishop?"

"Nope, but I saw 'im all right," said Letts, an expression of satisfied
malice animating his ugly white face. "Maybe we can't make it hot for
that dum lawyer who air got my girl, now."

Towering over Waldstricker's desire to lock up his father's murderer,
was the wish to get even with Deforrest Young and Tessibel Skinner. If
they'd had the dwarf all this time, they were all in his power. Now, he
would wring their hearts! He'd show them no mercy.

"We'll even up some old scores, eh, Sandy?" he agreed.... "You get sober
and be here tomorrow morning at nine o'clock, sober--cold sober,
understand?"

"Sure, Mr. Waldstricker, sure, I get ye. I ain't tight now, not real
soused."

Moving to the door, he stopped. "But I air not goin' to swig any more
booze till we gets Andy Bishop an' I finger that reward."

More intoxicated by his dreams of affluence than by the liquor he'd had,
the pale-faced graduate of Auburn swung out of the room and clattered
down the stairs.

After Waldstricker'd written and despatched a letter and a telegram, he
closed the office and went home.

Helen met him smilingly.

"Elsie's asleep," she announced, taking his hat.

He snatched it from her slender fingers, and his wife moved back. She
looked more closely into his face and the exaltation shining in his eyes
frightened her.

She followed him into the drawing room and closed the door. Patiently,
she waited until her husband had thrown himself into a chair and was
looking at her.

"What is it, dear?" she murmured.

"I have your brother just where I want him," fell from his lips.

"Now, what's Deforrest done to displease you?"

"I've found Andy Bishop in his house!"

The woman couldn't believe her ears. It could not be! She mustn't take
him seriously.

"Oh, how perfectly ridiculous!" she said, relieved.

"It's true enough," replied Ebenezer, getting up. "There's no doubt
about it, and the prison yawns for him and for that Skinner girl,
too.... No! no!... You needn't beg for 'em. I won't hear it!... They've
done enough to me.... Now, it's my turn!"

"Ebenezer," gasped Helen, "don't do anything you'll be sorry for. If
Forrie has had the dwarf there, let him tell you why. If you put him in
prison for it, I couldn't--I couldn't live with you!... Can't you
understand that?"

"As you please, madam. I shall do my duty, even if the criminal is your
brother."

"But you couldn't get along without Elsie and me."

She was very near him now, having taken little steps while she was
speaking.

"Without Elsie!" he mocked. "I don't have to live without Elsie. You can
do as you please, but my daughter stays with me, and your brother, my
dear, and the woman he's living with--go to jail."




CHAPTER XLVI

SANDY'S COURTING


Sitting on the porch late that afternoon, Professor Young heard from
Tess of the coming of Sandy Letts.

"And, Uncle Forrie," she continued. "I can't understand why he went away
so quickly."

"Perhaps he thought I was around somewhere."

"Perhaps," meditated Tess. "But I don't think so. You see, Andy was
looking out of the window. Oh, dear, I've told him not to, but he's
always trying to see what Boy's doing. You don't think Sandy saw him, do
you?"

The unpleasant consequences of Andy's discovery rushed through the
lawyer's mind. To be sure, he'd lived with this possibility ever since
he'd brought the squatters from the shack, but the lapse of time had
developed a sense of security which the girl's question rudely
shattered.

"I hope not. What time did you say that Letts was here?"

"About dinner time," said Tess.

"Well, now it's after five. If he'd seen him, they'd have been back
before this. What does Bishop think about it?"

"Oh, Andy's quite sure Sandy didn't see him, ..." Tess explained,
shaking her head.

"Anyhow, it's no use to worry, honey," smiled Young.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning three men in a wagon passed the Kennedy farm. Ebenezer
Waldstricker was driving and beside him sat Lysander Letts. Alone on the
back seat sprawled the big sheriff, a half-smoked cigar between his
teeth.

When they reached Young's barn, they left their rig and walked quietly
toward the house.

"You don't want to give 'em any chance to get the dwarf out of the way,
sir," said the sheriff. "We'd better get in without their knowing we're
here."

"Yes," agreed Waldstricker.

They'd rounded the porch and were in the living room before Deforrest
Young and Tessibel Skinner were aware of their coming. The officer held
a revolver in his hand. Leering triumphantly, Waldstricker spoke to
Young.

"We want Andy Bishop."

The lawyer turned to the sheriff.

"Put up your gun, Brown, you won't need it," he ejaculated. "Here,
child," to Tessibel, who had risen from her chair and started for the
stairs. "Wait a minute. Sit down."

Tess sank into a chair, white-lipped and silent.

"I suppose there's no use trying to hide him any longer?" continued
Deforrest, turning back to the officer.

"No, I reckon not, Mr. Young.... Where's the dwarf, Professor?"

"Upstairs. I'll call him," replied the lawyer.... Then glancing at the
girl, "You go and get him, Tess."

"Let me git 'im, sheriff," Sandy thrust in. "I'd like the job, sir. Eh?"

"Mebbe I better myself. It's my duty to take him."

Tess smiled at the speaker and getting up moved a step toward him.

"Let me bring 'im, sir," she entreated. "I'll get 'im. Please let me!"

Charmed by her beauty and the sweetness of her voice, the sheriff
glanced doubtfully from the frowning elder to the lawyer.

"Mebbe it isn't quite regular, but if Mr. Young says it'll be alright,
I'm willing," he decided finally.

Young nodded, and Tess rose and started toward the stairs. Passing Sandy
and Waldstricker, she had to draw aside her skirts to avoid touching
them.

The dwarf, seated on the floor beside Boy, was mending a train of cars
when Tessibel's white face appeared at the door.

"Andy," she said, trying to speak calmly. "Remember about the hands
stronger'n Waldstricker's? Nobody can hurt you. But--but--"

At her hesitation the little man scrambled to his feet. He'd heard men's
voices from the room below but had paid no particular attention. Now, he
knew the long-dreaded calamity'd happened. He looked pitifully up at the
speaker.

"They've come for me?" he gasped.

"Yes, dear, and you must go. But remember all the time, God's hands're
stronger'n Waldstricker's," repeated Tess. "Nothing can hurt you....
Come, dear."

A few moments later, the three of them entered the living room, but
stopped short at the sound of the elder's angry voice.

"I'll send you and your squatter woman to Auburn with him, if you don't
look out," he said.

"Do what you please," snapped the lawyer.

Holding the dwarf's hand, Tess went directly to the sheriff.

"Here's Andy, sir," she faltered. "Be awful kind to him, please, sir.
He's so little!"

Still dry-eyed and showing a quiet dignity, she stepped to Young's side
while the sheriff adjusted the handcuffs to himself and to Andy and led
him out into the sunshine.

At the door, Waldstricker allowed Letts to precede him, then turned.

Shaking his fist, he threatened, "I'll get you two, next."

"Very well," Young answered. "Do anything you like, only get out ...
now."

The sound of retreating footsteps had hardly died away when Tess dropped
into a chair and began to cry, the baby wailing in sympathy. Deforrest
put his hands on her shoulders.

"There, there, Tess, you musn't do that! Dress yourself and Boy quickly.
We're going to Auburn, too."

       *       *       *       *       *

The gates of Auburn Prison swung slowly back and admitted a party of
six people and, clanging, closed together again. Large-eyed with wonder,
Boy clung to Professor Young's right hand, at whose other side walked
Tessibel Skinner. In front of them between two officers was little Andy.
Once, Tess caught his eyes and smiled at him. Both were certain that
somewhere up and beyond were the hands stronger'n Waldstricker's, but
they'd hoped those pitying hands would have lifted them up before this.
Still they clung to their faith and all the long ride from Ithaca had
bolstered each other up with wan smiles and comforting promises.

The business in the warden's office was simple and quickly dispatched.
Once in the room, Andy was permitted to stand with his friends. The
officers made their report and the clerk wrote some entries in his books
and gave them a receipt. Then, he rang a bell.

Professor Young was talking to the warden when a guard came through the
iron door from the interior of the prison.

"Take Bishop in," the clerk directed briefly, without looking up from
his books.

Andy turned to Professor Young, took his hand and tried to stammer out
some words of gratitude.

"There, there, old man, brace up!" said the lawyer, patting him on the
shoulder. "Hope it won't be for long!... Here, Boy, say good-bye to
Andy."

Troubled, the baby clung to his friend.

"I don't want Andy to go. I want 'im to come home," insisted the child.

Kissing the little fellow passionately, the dwarf gave him to Deforrest
and turned to Tessibel. She took his hands firmly in her strong ones and
looked earnestly into his face.

"Remember the hands stronger'n Waldstricker's," she whispered. "They'll
bring you right back home, dear. They did Daddy Skinner, Andy, darling."

Shaken by suppressed emotion, the little man sank to the floor.

"Oh, God help me to come back to ye!" he moaned dully.... "God help me!"

A moment, Tess fought the uprushing tears.

"You are coming back, Andy, remember that," she said quickly. Then, she
lifted her friend to his feet and kissed him.

"Here, sir," she said to the officer, "take him!"

Infected by Tessibel's faith, Andy ceased to weep. He flashed a last
loving glance at her and the boy, and preceded the guard through the
iron door into the prison.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some time later, after what seemed an eternity of waiting, the warden
came to Professor Young.

"The lady can see Bennet now," he said.

Silently, an attendant conducted Tessibel through the long stone
corridors to the prison hospital.

As she passed, eager eyes watched her from the rows of cots against the
wall. She was piloted to a bed near the end of the room.

"Here's your company, Bennet," said the officer.

The figure on the bed turned and pain-ridden eyes peered up. Tess felt
her throat throb with sympathy.

"What do ye want, miss?" growled a weak voice.

Tess smiled and bent over the bed. "I want to talk to you," she said.
"May I?"

Bennet's face softened immediately. He thought a beautiful angel had
dropped from Heaven to the side of his prison bed.

"Yep," he whispered, blinking at her. "There air somethin' under the bed
to set on, ma'am."

Drawing forth a stool, Tess raised the lowered back and sat down.

In the presence of such misery, she had almost forgotten her little
friend in the cell outside. Just then, she wanted to comfort Owen
Bennet, to say something which would take away that writhing expression
of suffering.

"You're very sick," she murmured. "Poor man, I'm sorry!"

Bennet kept his watery eyes on the pleading young face.

"Yep, I'm sick enough," he muttered.

"What can I do for you?" asked Tess. "Can't I do anything to make you
feel easier?"

"Nope," was the answer. "I'll be dead, soon. Mebbe, I'll get out time
nuff to die."

Then, Tessibel _did_ forget Andy. And, even, Deforrest and the baby left
her mind. She stretched forth her hand and touched the man's arm.

"Would you like me to sing to you, a little?"

Bennet bobbed his head.

"I like singin'," he mumbled.

In a low voice, Tessibel began to sing; nor did she take her hand from
the thin arm lying inertly on the sheet.

    "Rescue the Perishin';
    Care for the Dyin'."

came forth like the chanting of the chimes.

When the words, "Jesus is merciful," followed, Bennet put up his hand
and touched the girl's fingers. Tessibel closed her own over his. There
was no thought then of her errand, no remembrance that the man before
her was a murderer and had sworn his crime on little Andy.

"Jesus is merciful, Jesus is kind," sang Tess, and Bennet began to cry
in low sobs that made the singer finish her song in tears.

"Oh, He _is_ kind," she whispered. "He is merciful. Won't you believe
that?"

"Sing it again," entreated Bennet, huskily.... "Sing it again, will ye?"

Tess scarcely heard the words they were so low, so sobbingly spoken. She
cleared the tears from her voice, and "Rescue the Perishin'," and "Jesus
is kind," echoed once more through the long room. From here and there,
suppressed weeping came to the girl's ear; but she did not turn to look
at the weepers. Here, before her, was a man who was watching as Daddy
Skinner had watched the slowly opening gates of eternal life, through
which he must pass, alone and afraid. Ah, if she could make him less so!
If she could give him a little faith to grope on and on and up and up
into the freedom of the life beyond.

Bennet's hand was clasped in Tessibel's; the other covered his eyes.

Suddenly, he dropped his fingers.

"Ye say he's kind?" he gasped. "Jesus air kind, ye say?"

"Yes, yes," breathed Tess.

"But I air such a wicked man, awful wicked. I've done things God'll
never forgive."

"But he will," murmured Tess. "Don't you remember what I sang?" and
again,

"Jesus is merciful," brought a fresh rush of tears from the dying
squatter.

A hoarse rattle sounded, suddenly, in his throat.

"Be ye knowin' Andy Bishop, missy?" he muttered, when he could speak.

"Yes," said Tessibel, aghast. She'd forgotten Andy!

"Yes!" she said again, almost in a query.

"He were up here five years ... innercent," wailed Bennet, "an' they
just telled me he air been brought back again for shootin' Waldstricker.
I were glad at first, but, now, I--"

He coughed spasmodically, and Tessibel closed her fingers more tightly
over the thin hand.

"Tell me about it," she implored. "Don't you want to?"

"Yep, an' I air wantin' to write it.... Bring a paper." Bennet gave the
last order to the silent attendant. The latter left the room but almost
immediately returned with the warden. Tess relinquished the stool and
stood near the head of the bed. In silence the officer wrote the story
Bennet told them.

"It were like this," he stumbled. "Andy didn't have nothin' to do with
shootin' Waldstricker. He were a tryin' to stop me from doin' it.... I
done it!... Let Andy go!... Don't keep him in the coop."

The sunken eyes closed wearily.

"Sing about Him bein' kind, miss," he whispered.

Low, solemn and beautiful, the sweet soprano brought him back from the
brink of the grave.

Leaning over him, Tess whispered, "Jesus is always kind."

"I done the murder," repeated Bennet. "Let Andy go, and tell 'im I'm
sorry.... Here, let me write my name to the paper."

It took many efforts for the cramped fingers to scrawl the words, but
"Owen Bennet" was legibly written when the man dropped back, exhausted.

The warden folded the paper and, smiling, put it into his pocket.

"I've always believed he did it, Miss Skinner," he confided to Tess.
"Now, come away."

Bennet's ears caught the last words. In dying effort, he lifted an
imploring hand.

"Don't go, lady!" he mourned. "Stay a minute!... I air a needin' ye....
I air afraid, so awful alone!"

Tess spoke to the warden.

"Tell Mr. Young I'm staying for a while," said she, "and will you please
let Andy know about it?" And she sat down again.

Through the rest of the afternoon, until the long shadows of Auburn
Prison were lost in the gathering gloom, Tessibel sat beside the dying
man. Sometimes, she whispered to him, sometimes, she sang very softly,
and, when Deforrest Young and the warden came through the hospital ward
to her side, Tessibel had piloted Owen Bennet through the darkness into
a marvelous light.




CHAPTER XLVII.

WALDSTRICKER'S ANGER


Lysander Letts wanted to get married and settle down in a home of his
own. He had received and banked the five thousand dollars for
discovering the dwarf, and was, now, looking forward confidently to his
marriage with Tessibel Skinner. He was quite sure his wealth would
overcome the objections the squatter girl had hitherto opposed to his
suit.

He grew quite sentimental thinking of her. He'd buy a real house, and
put some fancy furniture in it, plush sofas in the parlor and lace
curtains at the windows,--not any squatter's shack or pecking-box hut on
the Rhine for him. His face darkened at a disturbing thought. He'd make
the girl give up that kid! He wouldn't tolerate another man's brat in
his home. But Lysander had a wholesome fear of Deforrest Young, and he
didn't venture down the lake until the second day after he'd heard Tess
had returned from Auburn.

On his way along the railroad tracks, he concluded he'd better go to
Brewer's and find out just how the land lay. The talk in the Rhine
saloons, the night before, had been that the dwarf'd returned from
Auburn, pardoned. He wanted to know the details, and was sure Jake
Brewer would be able to tell him. He passed through the woods and
scrambled down the steps the fisherman had cut roughly in the cliff
side. Mrs. Brewer answered his knock and invited him into the house.
Recognizing Sandy's voice, Jake shouted from the back room:

"Heard about Andy Bishop gettin' free?"

When Brewer came into the kitchen a moment later, Letts had taken a
seat. Beside him on the floor lay a large tissue-wrapped package and in
his hands he held a shiny new hat.

"Sure, I've heard he's back," he grinned, brushing a little
flower-pollen from a very loud trouser leg. "How'd it happen?"

Sandy handed Brewer a cigar and stuck one, jauntily, in his own mouth.

"Smoke that, while ye're tellin' me 'bout Andy," he suggested. "It air
the best money'd buy."

When the cigars were burning satisfactorily, Brewer sat down on the
doorstep and cleared his throat loudly. His news was the biggest thing
that'd happened in the Silent City since Orn Skinner escaped the rope.
Glad of another opportunity to recount the story of the dwarf's
liberation, he began:

"Well, ye see, Sandy, in the first place, yer tellin' old Eb, an'
gettin' the little feller sent back to Auburn air the best thing ever
happened to the kid. Tess and the Professor went with 'im. When they got
to the prison, Owen Bennet were dyin' in the horspitle. The brat seen
'im, an' sung to 'im an' talked to 'im, an' he confessed; said Andy
didn't do the shootin' but was tryin' to stop it, just as the kid allers
claimed."

"Yep," interrupted Letts, earnestly. "That air the way it were."

Jake nodded and continued:

"Sure, Sandy, us-uns all knowed ye swore false on the trial.... Well,
next day, Young an' the brat went to Albany to see the guvener."

The ex-convict's eyes widened at the thought of the squatter girl in
such august company.

"He were fine to Tess. Seemed kind a stuck on her, the Professor says.
The brat told 'im all about how she'd looked after Andy, an' how he were
in prison five years innercent, an' then, he give 'er a free pardon for
'im. Day before yesterday, they brought 'im home. Some happy they air, I
tell ye!"

"Well," commented Sandy, "I air glad he's out. I never did feel jest
right 'bout his bein' shet up, but I were needin' the money."

Jake rose, and coming into the room, took up a broken fishing tackle and
sat down again.

"That ain't all the news, nuther, Sandy. While the Professor was to
Auburn, some skunks tore down old Moll's shack. She come down here in
the rain madder'n a settin' hen. The old woman's going to stay with
us-uns."

"It air a fine thing fer old Moll," added Mrs. Brewer. "I been thinkin'
fer a long time as how she were too far 'long in years to be alone in
the shanty."

"Well," said Sandy. "I'm glad to hear it."

"What air ye doin' down here, Sandy?" inquired Mrs. Brewer.

"Me? oh, me!" He paused to choose his words. "I got some news for you
folks. I air goin' to get married."

"Air that why ye're all togged up?" Jake queried. "Gosh, but ye air some
beau, Sandy.... Ain't he, ma?"

"Yep, I air on my way to get my girl. I been waitin' over three years
for this here day, an' now--I air got flowers in this bundle."

"Who ye goin' to marry, Sandy?" demanded Mrs. Brewer.

Letts grinned again, straightened his shoulders pompously, and lined his
feet together on a crack in the floor.

"Tess Skinner," he answered, looking from the man to the woman.

Mrs. Brewer dropped on a stool, and her husband's jaws fell apart in
astonishment.

"Tess Skinner?" he repeated dully. "Pretty little Tess Skinner?"

"Well, I swan!" gasped the squatter woman. "Did she say she'd have ye,
Sandy?"

"Well, it air like this. I been askin' 'er to marry me ever since she
were sixteen year old, but she wouldn't while her daddy were alive. Then
once she says to me, 'Sandy, you go git Andy Bishop an' git that five
thousand, an' come back here.' Now I got the cash. I air a goin' to git
the girl."

"Mebbe she's foolin' ye," suggested Brewer. "Ye see, she had the dwarf
the hull time! Looks to me as if she'd put one over on ye."

"She'd better not try anythin' on me," returned Letts, snapping his
teeth.

"I heard 'er tell ye once," put in Brewer, "she wouldn't marry ye ...
the day ye shot yer leg up."

Sandy cocked the new hat on the side of his head, picked up his bundle,
and went to the open door.

"I'd a had 'er afore now if ye'd kept yer hands to hum, Jake," he
stated. "But I ain't holdin' up anythin' against ye for what ye done.
Now I got money, Tess'll be all the gladder. I air goin' to take 'er
over to Seneca Lake. I got a job on there. Good-bye, folks. Mebbe me an'
my woman'll drop in an' see ye some day."

The husband and wife watched the big squatter going down the rock path,
the tissue-wrapped flowers in his hand, then looked at each other and
laughed in perfect comprehension.

"I wonder if he gets 'er," chuckled Mrs. Brewer.

"I'll bet a bullhead he don't," grinned Jake.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sandy Letts wasn't anxious to meet Deforrest Young, but just how to
avoid it he hadn't figured out. It took him a long time to consider just
what was best to do. Perhaps the lawyer had gone to Ithaca. He hoped so.
At any rate, he could go to the house and if the professor were there
he'd give the flowers to Tess, and if he had to, come another day when
she was alone.

Strutting along, supported by his fine clothes, and the consciousness of
doing the right thing in the right way, the newly-rich man walked up the
path to Young's house and ascended the steps quietly. The door stood
open. Without knocking, he stepped across the threshold into the sitting
room.

Tessibel was working at a little table, cutting out a blouse for Boy.
She looked up, and recognizing her visitor, got quickly to her feet.

"Hello, Tess," said Sandy, coming forward a little. "Nice day, ain't
it?"

Tessibel's fear of him since his roughness to Boy was very active. She
had suffered in anticipation, for he'd threatened to come again, and she
knew he would. Now he was here she didn't know what to do. Deforrest
wasn't home and Andy was out with Boy.

"Yes, it's a nice day," she assented.

"Ain't ye goin' to ask me to set down?" demanded Sandy, at the same time
helping himself to a rocking chair. "I brought ye somethin', brat." He
unwrapped the bundle and took out a huge bunch of flowers.

"Ye want to nurse 'em a long time, 'cause they cost money, them flowers
did. They ain't no wild posies!"

"They're awful pretty," she thanked him. "I'll put them in water right
away."

While she was arranging the flowers, Sandy got up.

"How do ye like my new togs, kid?" he asked, pivoting around and around
on one heel.

"You look very nice," replied Tessibel, gathering courage from his good
nature.

"Ye bet I do," grinned Letts. "I air some guy when I air all flashed out
in new things. Got all this with Waldstricker's money. Lord, brat--"
Here the man reseated himself. "Ye ought to hear that bloke bluster when
he found out ye'd got Andy back. Now for me--I were glad, for I knowed
all along the dwarf didn't kill Eb's daddy. But in this world I find ye
got to look out for yerself first. That air how I got the five
thousand."

"I see!" flared Tess, her disapproval of his spying getting the better
of her fear. "But your blood money won't do you any good."

"Won't do me no good? My five thousand won't do me no good? What do ye
mean, brat? 'Course it'll do me lots of good. I air a rich man, I air.
It's goin' to buy us a real home, kid, frame house with plastered walls
an' shingled roof, painted red an' yeller. All what I want now air my
woman, an' I've come fer ye, Tess."

The girl's heart sank. She glanced about helplessly. What could she say
or do? There was no other human being within call. In hasty
retrospection, her mind swept back to Ben Letts. She shuddered as she
remembered the many times he'd made the same demand upon her. And then,
she as suddenly remembered how, during those days, she had been saved
from men like Ben and Sandy, and courage came again in response to her
silent call for help.

"Ye heard what I said, brat, didn't ye?" demanded Sandy, leaning back
and throwing one leg over the other. "I air here fer ye."

"Yes, I heard."

"An' ye're comin', ain't ye, kid?" ... His voice was deep and persuasive
by reason of the passion that surged through him.... "I air a little
sorry fer bein' mean to ye afore, brat, an' now I air rich ye can
forgive it, can't ye?"

He bent forward and held out his heavy hands, palms up, ingratiatingly.

"Yes, I forgive you, Sandy, certainly. But--but--"

"Now, there ain't no 'buts' in this matter, kid! Ye said as how ye'd
marry me when I got Andy's reward money. Now I got it ye got to keep yer
word."

Tessibel shook her head.

"I didn't say I'd marry you," she answered. "I said, away back there,
when I was only a little kid, you could come back and ask me again. But
I'm a woman, now, and I'm never going to marry anyone."

The squatter leaned his elbows on his knees, cupped his white face in
his hands, and glared at the girl steadily.

"Ye're goin' to git married to me today," he growled. "Ye can't play
fast and loose with me, kid, an' don't ye think ye can, uther. Get on
yer togs. I air goin' to give ye the time of yer life."

Tessibel stood very still. She could hear plainly, through the silence,
the lap of the waves on the shore below, and the soft chug-chug of a
lake steamer. A bee flew in at the door, lighted on the lace curtain and
clung there, making sprawly motions with his thread-like legs. She
remembered without effort the day the squatter alluded to--remembered
also Daddy Skinner's telling him to go. Perhaps he _had_ thought she
meant to marry him if he were rich.

"Sandy," she said, dragging her eyes to the man's face. "When I tell you
I can't marry you, I mean it. Please don't ask me any more.... Would you
like a piece of cake?"

"Cake?..." snarled Letts. "Hell! What do I want with cake? No, ma'am, I
don't want no cake nor nothin' but you, an' I air goin' to have ye,
too!"

He got up slowly, as if to make more effective his menacing words.

"If ye put on yer things like I says," he continued, "there won't be no
trouble, brat. But if ye don't--" he moved toward her, "ye'll wish ye
had."

To this Tessibel couldn't reply. Insistent, in her panting heart, was a
constant call for rescue. She looked steadily at Lysander and he glared
back at her.

"Tess," he threatened, "ye know me well 'nough not to come any monkey
shines on me. I says again, get yer hat, fer I'm goin' to take ye one
way or t'other."

"I told you I couldn't," she answered. "I'm not any longer a little
girl. I've got to work. I want to learn things and take care of my
baby."

She couldn't have said anything that would have fired the squatter's
rage any quicker. Her baby! What did he care about the brat?

"Ye don't have to work no more fer Young," he retorted. "I ain't goin'
to have my woman keepin' house fer no professor, an' ye can make up yer
mind to it 'out no further clack." In one bound, Sandy rounded the
table. "If ye won't do what I tell ye, then, I'll make ye wish ye had.
Ye throwed up at me once, ye brat, ye, I never had no kisses from ye!
After today ye won't be able to say that."

A strong hand shot out, guided by a powerful arm. Fingers clutched for
her, but Tess, eluding them, slipped to the window.

"Sandy!" she implored. "Sandy, don't touch me, don't! Wait!"

"I won't wait," snarled Letts. "I air waited years an' years, an' I
won't wait no longer."

At that moment there seemed no escape for the girl, who was holding out
her hands to keep off the brute facing her. The very quiet of the day,
the singing of the birds, and the shrill chirping of the crickets, only
added to her sense of isolation. She glanced hopelessly from the huge
squatter out into the summer air.

"Ye can't get no help," said Sandy. "Ye might's well give up!... God,
ye're all the sweeter fer havin' to fight like I been doin'!"

By a motion, extraordinarily quick for so big a man, he clutched her
bodily, and dragged her to him. She lowered her face against his chest
and buried it under her curls.

"I air goin' to kiss ye, my pretty wench," muttered Letts. "Gimme yer
lips, gimme--"

In the scuffle neither heard the step on the porch and neither saw the
tall form loom in the doorway. Sandy wrenched at the red hair, drawing
Tessibel's face upward. Then Deforrest Young grappled with him, and in
the one blow he landed under the squatter's chin, the angry lawyer
concentrated the vim of years of exasperated waiting. Sandy slumped to
the floor. Kneeling beside him, Young's leg pressed against something
round and hard in Letts' pocket.

A quick investigation brought forth a small revolver.

"Are you hurt, child?" he inquired, getting up. "Did he hurt you?"

"Not a bit, Uncle Forrie, but he scared me awful."

The prostrate man groaned, moved his limbs and sat up, slowly. He
glanced around as though trying to figure out what'd happened. The sight
of Young, holding the gun Waldstricker's money bought, told Sandy the
whole story of his downfall.

"Get up, Letts, and get out of here quick!" Young ordered, prodding him
with his foot.

Sandy scrambled to his feet unsteadily.

"Now, take your hat and get out," said Young, "and don't stay in Ithaca,
or I'll have you locked up again."

Sandy didn't wait for any further advice. He grabbed his hat and flung
out of the door. Deforrest followed him down through the pear orchard to
the lane, and there he stood for a long time watching the ex-convict
struggle up the hill to the railroad tracks.

When he returned to Tess he found her leaning on the table, her face
buried in her hands. She did not lift her head, nor make a move at
Deforrest's entrance.

"Child," he said, taking a chair at her side, "Letts won't bother you
any more. If he doesn't go away, I shall have him arrested tomorrow....
I won't have you insulted like this.... And, dear, I believe I'd better
send you and the boy away for a spell. A change will do you both good."

"Yes, yes, do!" pleaded Tess. She snatched his hand and pressed it to
her cheek hysterically. "Let me go somewhere, please!"




CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE SINS OF THE PARENTS


A few days after Sandy's tempestuous courting, Tessibel Skinner and her
son left Ithaca to spend the remaining part of the summer in the North
Woods. In September Young joined them for a few days and then brought
them back to the hillside above Cayuga Lake.

Later in the fall, when the cold winds and driving rains of the lake
began to find out the cracks in the shanties, Tessibel asked, and the
lawyer consented, that old Mother Moll come from Brewer's to them. Tess
gave her one of Andy's rooms. The dwarf had entered a school on College
Hill and lived in the city most of the time, but was home now for the
Christmas vacation.

The day after his return dawned bright and cold--one of those beautiful
winter days occasionally seen in the Storm Country. Heavy snows had
already fallen and made certain a white Christmas. Andy was helping
Tessibel in order that she might have time to complete her Yuletide
preparations. She'd filled her son's heart with delightful anticipations
of the holiday, now but a few days distant, and he was eagerly looking
forward to the Santa Claus who came to visit good little boys and fill
their stockings with goodies.

At the north of the house Deforrest had made a little snow-hill for Boy.
Many a happy hour the little fellow spent upon it with his sled. Oftimes
his mother joined him in the sport, and the joyous laughter of the two
children of nature rose high and clear in the winter air.

The morning's work finished, Tessibel wrapped up Boy and sent him out to
play. She stood for some moments on the porch watching the sturdy little
figure arrange the sled at the top of the hill.

How she loved him, and how good he was! Never since the day of his birth
had he given her one sorrowful moment. She turned her eyes from Boy to
the lake, and allowed them to rest upon the shanty near the shore. A
disturbing thought pressed into her mind. They would not be long there
now.

Deforrest had told her that his lease of the house expired the first of
January, and Waldstricker had refused to renew it. If they moved away,
she'd be lonely for the sight of her old friends and all the dear,
familiar things that had met her eyes every day since she could
remember.

She hoped her new home might be in the Storm Country. She loved the lake
in its every mood. Dark and sullen, visitors had called it. But she'd
seen it on summer days, a band of burnished blue cementing the harmonies
of greens and browns into a picture of perfect beauty. She knew its
deep, brooding peace when the light was fading and the evening breeze
gently ruffled its surface. She'd skated over its shining bosom in the
blinding glare of the unclouded sun and in the soft radiance of the
shadow-filled moonlight. She knew the soft spots in the ice caused by
flowing springs in the lake-bottom and had drunk their pure, cold water.
Her lifelong intimacy had wooed from rockbound lake its inmost secrets.
Today the water lay a gleaming jewel, huge by contrast to the myriad
sparkles the sunbeams pricked out of the snow. She looked across to East
Hill at the frosty veil of a ravine waterfall and sighed.

At a shout from Boy, she went to the far edge of the porch to watch him
slide swiftly through the pear orchard toward the lane. Glancing along
the line of his flight, she saw Waldstricker on his horse directly in
Boy's path. Fear and horror held her dumb and motionless. Evidently the
rider hadn't seen the swift-coming sled--but the horse had.

He reared and attempted to turn. At that point the ditches were deep and
the rounded crown of the road covered with ice. The animal slipped and
fell. At the proper moment the horseman jumped off and pulled the bridle
rein over his mount's head.

Her muscles taut with fright, Tess jumped from the porch and ran down
the hill to the scene of the accident. When she arrived Waldstricker was
jerking his steed savagely.

"Get out of the way you little imp," he shouted, in the midst of his
struggles with the animal. "What do you mean by riding in a public road
scaring horses this way?"

"Mummy said Boy could ride down hill," answered the child, holding his
ground staunchly.

"I'll mummy you!" The man's exasperation was increased by the child's
resistance. "Get out of the way!"

"Boy, come straight here to me," Tess called, trying to pass the excited
animal.

The child picked up the rope fastened to his sled, gave it a jerk and
started toward his mother. Frightened by the flash of the sled in the
snow, the horse reared and plunged anew.

"Drop that sled and get out of here!" Ebenezer thundered. "How many
times must I tell you? Get out!"

Tess called again, but Boy flung up a red, angry face to the elder.

"Mummy said I could slide," he repeated stubbornly.

"I'll teach you to argue with me," snapped Waldstricker, and before Tess
could reach him, he'd raised his arm and given the child a sharp cut
with his riding whip. "Get out, I tell you!"

"Mover!" screamed Boy, jumping back and falling over the sled. "Oh,
Mover! Mover!"

Like an enraged tigress, Tess threw herself upon Waldstricker, and tore
at the upraised whip in his hand. The frantic horse, fairly beside
himself with fear and excitement, pulled them both down the hill through
the snow. By a strenuous effort Ebenezer threw off the girl's grip, and
when he finally conquered the steed he was below the top of the lane
near the Skinner hut.

Before Waldstricker could mount and ride back up the lane, Tess had
picked up the boy from the snow where he had fallen. Without waiting an
instant, she fled frantically toward the house.

"Andy! Andy!" she screamed.

Andy came downstairs as fast as his little legs could carry him.

"Waldstricker's killed Boy!" gasped Tess. "Andy, get something.... Tell
Mother Moll.... Some water!"

She laid the baby on the divan in the sitting room and stood over him
until old Moll came.

"He air got a spasm," croaked the old woman. "Poor little brat! Get some
hot water."

For hours the child passed from one convulsion into another. When
Deforrest came home, Tess was in a state of frantic despair.

"Waldstricker struck him," she explained. "He's going to die."

In response to his questions, the girl gave him the details, and hotter
and hotter grew the listener's anger. He attempted to quiet Tessibel's
fears while he got ready to go for the doctor, but she persisted in her
claim that Boy wouldn't recover.

       *       *       *       *       *

On his way home, the elder tried to make peace with himself. He was
rather sorry he'd struck the boy; that he'd hurt the little imp, he
poofed at. Anyway, he had taught Tess Skinner to keep her brat out of
his way. His efforts to discipline her had resulted in an open breach
with his brother-in-law and caused discord between himself and his wife.
His disputes with Deforrest about the squatters had not turned out to
his satisfaction. His efforts to drive the old witch off his lake-land
by tearing down her shack had opened to her the house that he himself
owned. He had had to pay Sandy Letts the $5,000 reward for the capture
of Andy Bishop, and the whole city had laughed at the price paid for the
little man's short imprisonment. He'd tried every way he knew to put an
end to the situation. Helen ought to be able to do something with her
brother. She should have saved her husband from the gossip Forrie was
causing.

When he entered his home, Helen perceived that he'd acquired a new
grievance and discreetly remained silent while he was preparing himself
for dinner.

After a quiet meal, when they had seated themselves by the log fire in
the library, Mrs. Waldstricker took up a doll's dress she was finishing
for Elsie's Christmas. Her husband, stretched in an easy chair, glowered
sullenly into the grate flames. The meditations of husband and wife were
quite different. Helen wondered what was bothering Ebenezer now. She
wished they were more companionable; that things were pleasanter, more
as it used to be when they were abroad. Since their return, he'd sit for
hours in gloomy meditation. His fits of complete abstraction filled her
with dread.

She brought back in sequenced retrospection the happy years of
travel--how proud she'd always been of her handsome husband and of his
courtly deference to her. She had never ceased to be grateful that
Heaven had given her this man to love and cherish her. She couldn't tell
how or when the change had come, but somehow they weren't happy together
any more. He was so moody and quarrelsome lately. She missed her
brother, too. Why those two men should get by the ears over the
inhabitants of the Silent City she couldn't understand. But her thoughts
were soon concentrated upon the work at hand and contemplating the joy
she would have in Elsie's pleasure, she began to hum to herself.

Two or three times she peered at Ebenezer through her lashes. How
moodily quiet he was! She wished Elsie were awake--the little girl
always succeeded in dissipating the frown from her father's brows.

Suddenly, she held up the doll in all its newly-adjusted festive attire.

"There, now, dear, isn't the doll baby pretty?" she smiled.

Ebenezer didn't take his gaze from the burning logs.

"I'm not interested in dolls tonight." His tone was harsh and his manner
studiously rude. Then, as though he'd finally determined to say
something else, he looked around at her.

"I taught Tess Skinner a lesson today I don't believe she'll forget," he
burst forth savagely.

The doll dropped from Helen's hands, its head striking sharply against
the arm of her chair.

"What do you mean?" she gasped.

"You needn't get that expression on your face, my lady--"

"Oh, Ebenezer!" interjected Helen, drearily. "What makes you act so? One
would think you spent your whole time trying to get even with
somebody."

"I got even with my lady Skinner," smiled Waldstricker. "I gave her brat
a whipping." The words came slowly, and the man watched their effect.

Helen was not able to sense the full meaning of his statement at first.
Mechanically, she rescued the doll and laid it on the table. Beginning
to see the picture he'd suggested, she opened her mouth, closed it again
and at the next attempt spoke.

"Why, Ebenezer, Tessibel's baby is only a month or so older than Elsie!"

"Well, what of it! He's an impudent little whelp. Takes after his
mother, I suppose."

"But you don't really mean you whipped him!" Helen exclaimed, still
incredulous.

"That's just what I do. With my riding whip. What do you think of that?"

His words brought to Helen's recollection that other time he'd used his
riding whip. Then it had been upon Mother Moll, and the old woman had
screamed at him, "It air like ye to hit the awful young and the awful
old." She recalled, too, the other mysterious words the witch woman had
uttered. "Curls'll bring yer to yer knees--the little man air a settin'
on yer chest!" The prophecy addressed to herself, that he'd make her
life unhappy and that she'd leave him, she'd never before taken
seriously. But the question hammered at her consciousness. Could it be
that Moll had a second sight or something of the sort? Ebenezer's
trouble about the squatters centered about Andy Bishop and the Skinner
girl; the dwarf was certainly a little man and Tessibel had wonderful
red curls. Her husband had made her life unhappy and his mood tonight
was unusually ugly. She was touched with a superstitious half-conviction
that the old woman's words would be fulfilled.

"I asked you a question, Mrs. Waldstricker," the wrathful voice
interrupted her meditations. "Answer me, if you please."

Perhaps it was the recollection of Mother Moll's sibylline utterance;
perhaps merely that her husband's hostile attitude aroused a
corresponding feeling of animosity. At any rate, she sat erect in her
chair and fixed her eyes upon his scowling face. Never had he seen her
rounded chin so squarely set; never the red lips drawn into such
determined lines.

"I think you're a brute, that's what I think!" she responded
deliberately, as though stating a conclusion arrived at after due
consideration. "Yes, worse than a brute!" The answer was as unexpected
to the elder as though a lump of ice had suddenly boiled over. A quick
fury took possession of him.

"Think I'm a brute, do you?... What's the matter with you? Are you
getting soft on the squatters, too?"

Helen made a hasty gesture, indicative of denial.

"Well, you better not!" warned Ebenezer, angrily. "Your brother's
conduct is disgraceful enough. I'm sick and tired of having my own
townsfolk winking at each other every time his name's mentioned. Lawyer
Young and his squatter women! Sounds nice, doesn't it?"

To be loyal to herself and Deforrest, she could not help but disagree
with him.

"Now, Ebenezer, you oughtn't to say such a thing," she expostulated.

A flame of anger shot into the elder's steady stare.

"Don't you 'Now Ebenezer' me!" he snorted. "Young's making my lake
property a disorderly house. It's positively indecent! I won't stand it
any longer. I won't have those squatters there, and your brother can
make up his mind to that!"

Helen tried to interrupt but her husband waved her to silence.

"Mother Moll and Andy Bishop!" he mocked. "An old witch and a jail-bird!
Wouldn't it make a man tired?"

Helen leaned forward. An angry red spot burned on either cheek and her
eyes flashed. Her gentle temper didn't take fire easily, but even to her
endurance there were limits.

"You seem to forget, Mr. Waldstricker," she retorted sharply, "that your
men tore down the old woman's home and your money procured the perjury
that sent the dwarf to Auburn. It strikes me you'd better not throw
stones at Forrie."

Waldstricker jumped to his feet and rushed to his wife's side.

"What!" he roared. "You dare that to my face! Some more of Deforrest's
influence, I suppose. Nice family I married into, I must say."

Helen got up from her chair. The one thing that stirred her quickest was
an attack upon her brother.

"Ebenezer Waldstricker, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Forrie
minds his own business and you should mind yours." An hysterical sob
brought her to a pause, but she struggled on. "I don't know how I've
stood your temper so long. You must have lost your mind."

In view of the grievances he'd been nursing, his wife's sudden rebellion
seemed almost too unreasonable to be credited. She'd joined his enemies!
She was making common cause with her notorious brother and the
squatters! Very well, he'd use her the same as he would them.

"You think rather well of me, don't you Mrs. Waldstricker?" he rasped.
"Nice names you call me. Brute! Home destroyer! Procurer of perjury!
Liar! Crazy!" His voice grew louder as he hurled the epithets at her and
broke into a shriek upon the last one. "Get out of here before I teach
you the same lesson I taught Tess Skinner!" He lifted his arm above his
head; the great fist was clenched, and the cruel mouth was drawn at both
corners. "Get out of here before I hit you!"

Helen stood petrified. The blow had fallen. Mother Moll was right! She
retreated before his menacing gestures, but stopped near the door and
held up her hand in entreaty. She'd make one more effort.

"But, Ebenezer," she began, "where shall I go?"

Advancing toward her, he fairly shouted:

"I don't know and I don't care. Go down and help your brother take care
of his squatter baggage!"

He seemed fairly beside himself. Helen realized the hopelessness of
further resistance.

"Then I'll go and take my baby," she cried. "Perhaps when we're gone--"

Her words only added fuel to the flame of his wrath.

"You'll not touch my daughter," he interrupted. "She'll stay with me."

He rushed at her, pushed her rudely aside, and hurried up the stairs to
the nursery.

His wife followed as quickly as possible. At the nursery door Ebenezer
met her and blocked her way.

"You needn't wake her up," he hissed. "Go on! Get out of here! You're
worse than the Skinner woman!"

She could not go into the nursery. The angry man on the threshold
effectually prevented her. Mrs. Waldstricker turned down the hall and
went to her own room. She could hardly comprehend the untoward disaster
that had destroyed the whole fabric of her life at one stroke. The blood
was throbbing at her temples and pounding through her body. Her ears
rang; her face burned and she was trembling all over. Mechanically, she
fumbled for the matches on a nearby table, found one and struck it. She
attempted to light the lamp but dropped the chimney and it rolled away
under the bed.

Drearily, she tried to consider her course. Ebenezer had ordered her to
go. Then she must go. She'd always done as he directed. But where? Her
cheeks burned more fiercely as she recalled the brutal answer he'd given
that question. No, she wouldn't go to Forrie! It would only make
Ebenezer more angry and make more trouble for her brother. It didn't
make much difference where she went anyway. Life without her husband and
her baby wouldn't be life at all. She couldn't visualize her days
without Elsie, the little one they'd both longed for and prayed over.
Slowly, because each little act required a separate effort of volition,
she dressed herself. Prepared at last to depart, she took a long look
through the rooms. Past events went in giddy rapidity across her vision.
How she'd loved and still loved Ebenezer! They'd been so happy together.
She sighed and went through the hall to the nursery. Her movements had
evidently been heard. When she approached the door, her husband stepped
out and pulled the door to behind him. For a moment their eyes met. In
his she saw the dull smoldering coals of hate. She bowed her head and
silently went through the baleful glare he cast upon her down the stairs
and out of the mansion to which she had been brought a happy bride.




CHAPTER XLIX

TESSIBEL AND ELSIE


Gloom lay over the Silent City. Bitter hatred burned in the simple heart
of every squatter. Waldstricker's open enmity had expressed itself in a
series of injuries, calculated to enrage them. The shanty folk resented
his cruelty to Mother Moll. The destruction of her shack promised a
similar fate to their homes. When the story of Waldstricker's attack
upon Boy Skinner spread among them, fierce threats were muttered at the
fishing holes and by the firesides. The wintry winds of the Storm
Country, shrieking over the desolate masses of ice and snow, were not
more fierce and cruel than the squatters' demand for vengeance. The
daily bulletins of the little one's illness kept the interest alive and
added to the growing excitement and indignation.

Day after day, the doctor had come to the Young home, each time shaking
his head more gravely. To Deforrest, the helpless witness of the
unfolding tragedy, the days and nights were but a continuing torture.
Andy Bishop stole about the house like a small white ghost, waiting upon
Tessibel and Mother Moll. One morning, a few days before Christmas, the
doctor told Deforrest Young he considered Boy beyond earthly help. And
now it devolved upon the lawyer to tell Tessibel she must lose her baby.

He went softly to the sick room. Whiter than the pillow upon which his
cheek rested, Boy lay relaxed, breathing rapidly. Tess stood at the foot
of the bed, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. Anxious eyes
turned to greet Young. At the bedside the man stopped a moment and
looked down upon the little figure. Shocked by the imminent signs of
approaching dissolution, he went over and placed an arm around the girl.

"He's awful sick," Tess whispered. "What'd the doctor say?"

"I'm afraid, Tess--I'm afraid," he answered, unable to frame the medical
man's decision.

Dawning comprehension and dismay struggled in the young mother's eyes,
for the agonized tones of the well-loved voice and the tender solicitude
of the supporting arms had put into Young's halting words the dread
import of his message.

"You mean--you mean--?" she questioned.

"Tess, darling; my pretty child," Young murmured helplessly.

The red head dropped upon his chest and for a moment Tess clung to him
as though to find protection from the menacing horror. Then she freed
herself, dropped on her knees by the bedside, and rested her head on
Boy's little hand. During the hours of watching she had striven to steel
herself against this possibility. But she couldn't understand. Boy, her
cherished bit of living joy and sunshine! What would become of him?
Separation? Yes, but where was he going? She didn't know. She couldn't
think. A sudden shudder, a kind of voiceless sob shook her.

Young stood quietly by the bedside, watching and waiting. His love for
mother and son centered all his thoughts in them. He shared his
darling's grief and desired above everything to console her; but the
very depth of his sympathy prevented him. Hopeless himself, in this grim
crisis, every human effort seemed futile.

Placing a tender hand on her shaking shoulder, he bent down.

"My poor little girl!" he breathed. "I wish I could help you some way."

"Nobody ... can." The hopeless despair of her voice made vocal the utter
desolation she felt.

A gentle movement of the little hand against her face commanded
Tessibel's immediate attention. She smoothed the pillow the while she
whispered softly little words of love to Boy. Then she looked around at
Young.

"Please tell Andy to fix the kitchen fire," she said, even at this time
mindful of her domestic duties.

"I'll see to it myself," and he went out softly and down the stairs.

He found Andy in the sitting room.

"The doctor--what'd the doctor say?" the dwarf demanded.

"Go to 'er," trembled Young. "Brace her up all you can."

The little man went slowly upstairs and entered the sick chamber.
Through the tears in his eyes, he saw the dying babe in the white bed
and the young mother kneeling on the floor, the flaming red of the
clustering curls an incongruous note of brilliant color.

Andy waddled across the room and knelt down beside Tessibel. Lifting his
arm he let it fall across the girl's shoulders. His silent sympathy,
always unselfish, never intruded. Tess stared at Andy a moment, and then
buried her face in her hands upon the coverlet.

"He's going away," she got out through her fingers. "Andy, I can't let
'im go!"

"I've been prayin' for 'im, Tess," choked the dwarf.

The girl made no response, but to show her friend she'd heard, one of
her hands sought and held his.

"If it air right for 'im to stay, dear," murmured Andy, "the good God'll
help 'im.... Don't ye think so, Tess?"

"I don't know, Andy.... I'm afraid!... It's too awful!"

"Kid, ye know it air true. You've only to ask him," Andy insisted.

A hopeless shake of the bowed head accompanied the whispered answer.

"I can't, Andy! I can't!... I'm so afraid!"

"What you 'fraid of, brat, dear? Jesus air loving you same's He did in
the shack. He got Daddy Skinner out of prison, an' he took care of me,
didn't he, huh?"

Maddened by suffering, she drew herself impatiently, away from the
dwarf.

"Don't, Andy! I don't want to hear! He let Waldstricker whip my baby."

Although the young mother could hear the muttered prayers of the dwarf,
no answering faith came into her soul. Hot hatred of the man who'd
struck her son surged through her. Never again would she think of him
without the raging cry within her for revenge. Her anger barbed the
shafts of his rancor and dulled her own understanding of Life and Love.
Resentment inhibited every constructive effort. The courage, even the
desire to fight against death's coming, was wanting.

"I hate 'im worse than anything in the world," she muttered.

"Yes, darlin'," soothed the dwarf.

"I'd like to kill him. Oh, I must do something--" She tried to get to
her feet, but Andy held her tightly.

"Stay here!" was all he said, and Tess ceased to resist.

At midnight Boy died. He went away very quietly, without a cry or
struggle. At the very last, he turned upon his side, looked into his
mother's face, his eyes unshadowed and joyous. He smiled a little,
sighed with the passing breath, "Mummy," and sank to sleep. So dazed was
Tessibel that without protest she allowed Deforrest to pick her from her
knees and carry her out of the room.

Mother Moll and Andy performed the necessary services to the mortal clay
that'd been their darling. Loving fingers, tenderly touching the
delicate body, made Boy ready for the grave. Through the stillness of
the night, the sighing of the ceaseless wind of the Storm Country,
soughing of death and desolation, called to their minds the weird
superstitions of squatter lore. The old witch mumbled of signs, portends
and warnings, and uttered dire prophecies in which her wrath at
Waldstricker found expression.

       *       *       *       *       *

While Tess and her squatter friends were carrying Boy through the sullen
cold to God's wind-swept half-acre, Ebenezer Waldstricker sat before the
glowing hickory logs in his sumptuous library. Several letters in his
morning mail required his presence in the city. On the table before him
lay a list of things he intended to buy for little Elsie's Christmas.

Since the day he'd whipped Tessibel's son and forced his wife from his
home he'd devoted himself to the little girl. In spite of his best
efforts, the child's grief for her mother had driven him almost to his
wits' end. He'd made up his mind to spare no expense to bring joy back
to his darling.

Whenever his mind reverted to the scene at the lake he tried to justify
his act in striking the little fellow, but the news of Boy's death had,
for a moment, given him an uncomfortable turn. He hadn't intended
anything like that. He wasn't to blame! Probably the little imp would
have died anyway!

Helen had sent every day to ask after Elsie, and the thought of his
wife's anxiety pleased the elder. Perhaps, after a while, the squatters,
as well as the members of his own household, would learn his word was
law; that he would not allow any of them to go against his will. Again
and again the corner curl of his lips showed his satisfaction.

Hearing the jingle of sleigh bells at the door, he rose from his chair
and slipped on his great coat and cap.

"Daddy, bring mover back," quivered Elsie, when he kissed her good-bye.

Waldstricker stooped and gathered her into his arms.

"Daddy'll bring Elsie lots of pretty things, and so will Santa Claus.
He's coming down the chimney tonight--"

"Elsie wants mover," sobbed the little one.

Ebenezer surrendered her to the nurse.

"Get her mind off crying," he said morosely. "Give her everything she
asks for."

"I can't," muttered the woman, and when the door had closed, "There,
there, child, don't cry! Your mother'll be comin' back some of these
days."

       *       *       *       *       *

In the early afternoon Waldstricker bought and packed into the sleigh
all kinds of presents for his daughter. His spirits rose when he thought
that her demands for her mother would be quieted on Christmas Day.

It was quite dark when his powerful team fought their way through the
storm up to the porch of the house. While the man was coming for the
horses he took the bundles from the sleigh. At the door he met several
white-faced servants.

"What's the matter?" he queried, relieving his arms of their load.

"The baby!... We can't find her.... She's gone," said a voice.

"Gone! Gone where?" roared Waldstricker.

"Nobody knows, sir," gasped the nurse. "She was in the library looking
at the pictures--"

Waldstricker brushed past the speaker. He rushed through the house
calling his child frantically. In his wife's sitting room he stopped,
arrested by an illuminating thought.

Helen had stolen the baby! He drew a long breath that hissed through his
teeth. Of course, that was what had happened. Instant anger filled his
mind. He'd show her. He wouldn't stand it. He went below and called the
servants into his presence.

"Who was here this morning?" he questioned.

"Nobody." Not one of them had seen a person.

"Mrs. Waldstricker was here, wasn't she?" he insisted.

"No, Mrs. Waldstricker hasn't been home today."

The elder set his grim lips and went out again. Elsie was with her
mother! That Helen hadn't been to the house didn't prove anything. She'd
sent some one. Elsie wouldn't have gone away of her own accord.

When Ebenezer appeared at Madelene's home he was fuming with fury. His
sister greeted him cordially and ushered him into the drawing room.

"I'm glad you've come, Ebenezer. Helen's been crying ever since she's
been here."

"I'll make her cry more before I'm done with her," gritted Waldstricker.

"But, Ebenezer, she's sick. And you were so cruel to send her away like
that."

Waldstricker turned savagely upon the speaker, hands working
convulsively and face and eyes ugly from fear and anger.

"Never mind about that now--Where's Elsie?" he demanded. "I want her and
I want her right away."

Madelene fell back a step, wax-white.

"Elsie!" she echoed. "Isn't she home?"

"Madelene," Ebenezer began in a deadening voice, "you know me well
enough not to play with me like this. Where's my daughter?"

Madelene's hands came together.

"She's not here!... She's home, Ebbie, dear, she must be!"

"She's not!" fell from Waldstricker. "Call Helen!"

"Helen can't come down, Ebbie, she's in bed!"

"I'll see her." Low thunder rolled in his tones. His sister grasped his
arm.

"Be kind to her, Ebbie, dear--"

"I'll see her," repeated Ebenezer, not changing the tone of his voice.

Without another word, Madelene whirled and went toward the stairs, the
church elder following his sister with slow tread.

Helen turned her tired, white face to the visitors. At the sight of her
husband she sat up straight.

"Where's Elsie?" the man shouted harshly from the door.

Something had happened to her little girl! Her husband was asking for
the child! Mrs. Waldstricker jumped out of bed quickly.

"I haven't seen her," she answered. "Isn't she home?"

Then Waldstricker believed. Elsie had disappeared. She was not with her
mother!

"She's gone," was all he said, and, wheeling, went out.

       *       *       *       *       *

Not one of the servants could tell Madelene or the distracted mother any
more than they had told the father.

The search began without the slightest clue of the child's whereabouts.
Elsie had disappeared, as if she had been snatched into the sky. The
storm, already very severe, had thickened the early twilight into dense
darkness. The light snow that had fallen earlier in the day to the
depth of several inches drove in swirling clouds before the wind and
piled in deep drifts, while the congealed air pelted icy particles of
frozen moisture into the confused uproar upon forest and field. Fear
that the child had started out to find her mother and had been overtaken
by the blizzard obsessed Waldstricker. He sent messengers in all
directions, and himself rode furiously through the snow inquiring
everywhere. Finding no trace of her at the neighboring houses, he
instituted a systematic search of the locality.

       *       *       *       *       *

All the afternoon Young had sat with Tessibel, most of the time in
silence. She showed no desire to talk, and he knew not what to say.
Watching from the sitting room window, Tess seemed to find diversion in
the wind-driven snow, as though the blizzard's riot met and matched the
aching bewilderment in her own breast.

Nor did she pay any attention to a knock which resounded above the
beating of the storm. Deforrest went to the door and carried on an
undertoned conversation with some one outside. Then after dispatching
the caller, he went back to the girl.

"Tess," he hesitated, but his voice broke and he was unable to complete
his sentence. In responsive inquiry, she turned from the window and
looked up at him. The deep dejection of her attitude depicted her
despondency and despair. The brown eyes, dull and lustreless, staring
out of the drawn white face, expressed the hopeless wonderment the man
had seen in the glazing orbs of a stricken deer. A great wave of pity
welled up in him. How could he break this frozen composure and bring to
the overwrought heart the healing blessing of flowing tears?

"Tessibel," he continued, sitting down, "what were you thinking about?"

"I was wondering what I could do to ... hurt Waldstricker," she replied,
gripping the arms of her chair. Then she rose suddenly, throwing up her
head. The intensity of her emotion fanned the dull coals of hate in her
eyes to a hard brilliance and touched her white cheeks with vermilion.
Vivid, active, her beautiful face, passion-drawn and cruel, red curls
writhing and twisting upon her shoulders, Tess seemed a veritable fury
crying for vengeance. She lifted clenched hands.

"I'll hurt Waldstricker," she vowed. "God help me to do it!"

Springing to his feet, Young ejaculated:

"Don't, Tess! You mustn't!"

Turning away, she paced up and down the room, muttering imprecations.
Her companion stood silent, unable to assuage her agony or rebuke her
vindictive words.

At length Tess stopped directly in front of him.

"I know you don't like me to feel that way about Waldstricker, but I
can't help it. I hate him so!"

Then she went to the window and stared out into the storm again.

After a moment's hesitation, Young touched her. Drawing her back, he
held her in his arms, attempting to soothe and quiet her by murmured
endearments.

"I'm awfully sorry, dear," he explained. "I must go to town. Helen's
sent for me."

Tess nodded indifferently. It was all one to her now. She'd lost Boy,
and she was willing to be alone to plan how she could punish his
murderer.

"I'll send Andy to you," said Young, leading her to a chair.

He went in search of the dwarf and found the little man in his room
huddled on the bed.

"Andy," said Deforrest, "come here."

Without a word the dwarf went to the lawyer.

"I'm going to Ithaca. Go down and stay with Tess until I get back."

He turned and went out, and Andy, silent and sick at heart, followed him
down the stairs.

       *       *       *       *       *

Andy was not able to persuade Tess to talk with him, but obeying
Professor Young, he stayed very near her. The blizzard howled and banged
outside, adding by its noisy commotion an element of dread to the grief
within.

About nine in the evening footsteps sounded on the porch; the dwarf got
up and went to the door. Jake Brewer entered and closed the door against
the storm. The squatter took off his hat and shook the snow from the top
of it. He looked, alternately, from the girl in the chair near the
window to the little man staring up at him.

"I come to speak to the brat," he said.

"She ain't very well," answered Andy.

Tessibel looked around.

"Sit down, Jake," she invited. "The night's dreadful, isn't it?"

Brewer coughed and remained silent.

"Can I do anything, Jake?" inquired the dwarf, softly.

"Nope, it air only Tess can do it," replied the squatter.

Tessibel heard but remained in the same position.

"Tess air the only one can help," repeated Brewer.

The girl sank back in her chair, allowing her hands to drop in her lap.

"What is it?" she asked listlessly.

"Ma Brewer air sick," said the squatter. "She air knowin' ye air in
trouble, but--but--"

It seemed to the girl as if this Christmas-tide had brought sorrow to
everyone.

She rose to her feet, stiff from sitting in the same position for so
long a time.

"I'll get her something, Jake," she said quickly.

"Ma an' me know ye got a lot of sorrow, brat," choked the man, "but Ma
were a wonderin' if ye'd run to the shack fer a minute." Noticing the
girl's hesitation, "She's awful sick an' mebbe if ye'd come, she'd feel
better.'"

"I'll get your wraps, brat," Andy offered.

Both men helped Tessibel into her things. She stood very quiet until
Andy held out her mittens.

"I'll only be gone a few minutes," she promised the dwarf. "Come on,
Jake!"

And together they went out into the storm.




CHAPTER L

TESSIBEL'S VISION


Tessibel and Jake Brewer made their way through the bleak, dark, pear
orchard to the lane. The night held no terrors for the girl. All her
winters, she'd battled with the cold and winds of the Storm Country.
Now, through the lane to the lake, they struggled, heads bent against
the blinding blizzard. Under the weeping willow trees stood the empty
shanty which had housed her childhood days, and, mechanically, she
turned her eyes toward it. She recalled, dully, the strange sequence of
events that had transformed her from a squatter's brat and lifted her
out of the bleak barrenness of life in the shack. She'd escaped the
squalor, the horrid cold and the hardships, common to the women of the
Silent City. She lived more comfortably and decently than the
fishermen's wives. She'd learned many things, but all her efforts to
improve herself had been centered in her ambitions for Boy. Now it was
all wasted! She'd won for him nothing but Waldstricker's enmity. Her
aspirations for him and for herself were buried in the little grave on
the storm-swept hillside by Daddy Skinner. Like a borrowed mantle, the
culture she'd gained under Professor Young's loving tuition slipped from
her and the elemental passions of the primitive people that produced her
assumed their sway. Subconsciously, the squatter's standards
re-established themselves, and she hugged to her heart the hate she'd
been cherishing.

On the ice-covered rocks, where they were sheltered from the wind, Jake
began to talk.

"I wouldn't have asked ye to come, Tess," he apologized, "if we hadn't
needed ye bad."

"I wasn't doing anything at home," the girl answered tonelessly.

"Mr. Young weren't there, were he?" asked Brewer.

"No," replied Tess. "His sister's sick and sent for him."

"I guess she air sick, all right," commented Jake, ominously.

If Tess heard, she didn't heed the sinister suggestion in the squatter's
speech. She was busy, her whole attention devoted to plans for revenge
upon Waldstricker.

The light from Brewer's hut, which was set back a little from the lake
shore, in a frost-riven and water-worn niche in the precipitous cliff,
shone mistily through the storm. Cut by slanting lines of driving
snow-crystals, its milky radiance obscured rather than defined the
drifted path. Breathless, from the blizzard's buffeting, they gained, at
last, the hut door.

The fisherman lifted the latch and they stepped into the hut. Seated in
chairs around the bare little room were several men, squatter friends of
the neighborhood. Near the stove stood Ma Brewer, white-faced and
anxious. As soon as she recognized the girl, she began to weep and
gesticulate hysterically. Tess went to her and seized her hands.

"Why! Ma Brewer, what's the matter? What'd you want of me?"

Before she could answer, a rough voice broke the silence.

"We all wanted ye, Tess."

She wheeled about and looked from one to the other.

Jake was still standing near the door. The triumphant leer on his face
was reflected in the several expressions of the other men.

"Then, Ma Brewer wasn't sick?" Tess demanded slowly.

"Nope," said Jake, "but I'll bet someone else air."

Tessibel allowed her eyes to rove about the shack. A slight movement in
the corner attracted her attention. There, like a forlorn little lamb, a
tight rag about her mouth, her curls matted and damp, crouched Elsie
Waldstricker. Instantly, Tess recognized her and her heart pumped with
joy. Surely, her prayer had been answered! Here was her opportunity! The
child was suffering, she could see that, but the very extremity of
torture could hardly repay for the pain Boy'd endured. While Tess was
pondering the penalties she'd inflict, a smile touched her lips. The
frightened blue eyes searched the hard brown ones, but the child found
no comfort or encouragement in the frowning face of the squatter girl.

"It's Waldstricker's brat," declared Jake, exultantly. "I were a
snoopin' 'round Eb's place an' run on 'er down near the road by that
there bunch of tamaracks. I says, 'What air the matter, Kid,' an' she
says, 'I want my ma.' I says, 'Come along an' I'll git 'er fer ye,' an'
the kid come jest like a lamb goes to the slaughterhouse." And Jake
threw back his head and roared.

The other men joined in the grim laughter. After a minute, another voice
sounded above the last ugly chuckles.

"Now, we got 'er, Tess, ye air to do anythin' ye want to with 'er."

Still, the blue eyes looked into the brown, and, still, Tessibel's heart
raged its satisfaction. What were the squatters going to do with
Waldstricker's daughter? The girl turned her head slowly and glanced at
the row of dark men in their chairs against the wall. She cared nothing
for the child on the floor, except that she was the one thing that
Waldstricker loved best. Surely, to injure her would injure him! The
little feet were tied and so were the small hands. This pleased Tess,
too, for she remembered how they'd held Boy when he was imploring them
to keep the big man away.

Waldstricker! Ungodly, wicked Waldstricker! His time had come! She'd go
and leave the little girl with the squatters. Well she knew that a word
from her and the baby would be seen no more.

"I guess when old Eb found out his kid were gone," grated Jake Brewer,
"he got a wrench or two hisself."

The heavy voice brought Tess about.

"What'll we do with her?" She flung her hand toward the child in the
corner.

"Yer say'll go, brat," put in Longman. "That rich duffer air had his way
too long. Us squatters're a goin' to show 'im 'tain't so safe to ride
rough shod over everybody."

"You're going to kill her?" asked Tessibel, dully.

"Yep," flung in Brewer, "if ye say so."

Mrs. Brewer was crying softly. Her husband turned fiercely upon her.

"Ma, here," said he, "air makin' some awful fuss over nothin'. She wants
the kid took out of the state an' put some'ers. Us men says it air got
to die."

"It air too awful, Tessie," sobbed Mrs. Brewer. "The baby ain't done
nothin'."

Tessibel refrained from looking at the speaker. Her heart bled afresh at
the woman's words. Boy hadn't done anything, either, but Waldstricker'd
killed him. It was just, he should give his daughter for her son. It
wouldn't bring Boy back, but surely he'd rest easier if Elsie joined
him. The thought that her enemy would know the ache that tore her heart,
was balm to her own heart. Yet something within her tugged her eyes to
the baby on the floor. How Boy'd cried when the convulsive pain had tied
his little limbs into cruel knots! She wanted to hear Elsie cry, too.
The wails of her enemy's child might drive the shrieks of her own little
one from memory.

"Take the rag off her mouth," said she, quickly.

"She'll cry like a sick cat, if ye do," warned a man.

Tess crossed the room to the corner where Elsie lay and kneeling by her,
unfastened the cloth about her mouth. The baby held up her bound hands,
blue and swollen from the tight ligature, and whimpered,

"Elsie's hands hurt."

The squatter girl had never voluntarily hurt a living thing. All her
life quick sympathy had responded instinctively to helplessness and
misery. Even the toads and bats knew her tender care. Waldstricker's
child was to her, then, the most loathsome of breathing creatures. She
might let the squatters kill her; she might even do it herself. But this
was another thing! Face to face with the concrete case of pinching a
baby's wrists, her instinct sent her fingers to the tight cords about
the uplifted hands. Without conscious purpose, she, also, loosened the
plump ankles. Elsie rolled in a whimpering, little heap on the floor.

"I want my Daddy," she whined.

"You can't have your Daddy," answered Tess. Lifting the child to her
feet, she noted how like to Deforrest Young's were the little one's
eyes.

"Your daddy air a dirty duffer," said Jake. "Give 'er a whack in the
face, Tess."

He came forward from his place by the door and stopped near the two
girls. The fisherman raised his own fist, and Tessibel moved a little
aside. She regretted, now, that she'd loosened the little one's bonds or
had done anything to relieve her suffering. She didn't care what they
did to Waldstricker's girl. If they wanted to strike her, what affair
was it of hers?

She turned her eyes upward, and, there, from among the rafters, she
seemed to see Boy's face smiling down upon her. Love, shining from the
dear eyes, radiated bliss and joy. How very sweet and peaceful he
appeared! Then, Brewer's voice penetrated her consciousness. He was
leaning over the rigid little girl.

"Brat," he was saying, "you air goin' to get the lickin' of yer life,
an' don't ye ferget it."

"Pretty lady, help baby," mourned Elsie.

Tessibel shoved the squatter aside.

"Don't touch 'er yet," she said in low, distinct tones.

Jake took something from his pockets and thrust it into the girl's
hands. It was a small, wiry, riding whip.

"It air the one her pa used on Boy," he muttered. "I stole it from 'is
stable."

Tessibel uttered a cry and dropped the whip. The terrible scene in the
lane, invoked by the speaker's words and the sight of the whip, poured
into her mind a new flood of hate.

Yes! Elsie should be treated as her father had treated Boy! She stooped
and picked up the whip. The men leaned forward, watching intently. Their
heavy breathing and Ma Brewer's sobs mingled with the ticking of the
clock and the storm's racket against the hut sides.

She studied the whip and tested its hissing pliability. That tip had
stung Boy beyond endurance. The length of it had put him in his grave.
Waldstricker's hands had tortured her son. She would make his daughter
pay the reckoning. She drew a deep breath and raised her arm.

Elsie had crept unnoticed to her side, and as Tess glanced down, the
child touched her hand with little fingers, marble-cold. The girl drew
away from the suppliant touch, then, lowered the whip and stood
considering the baby face.

"I hate you worse'n anyone in the whole world," she spat out.

"Then, lick 'er," growled Longman, and the other squatters muttered
their approval.

Elsie dropped her head against Tessibel, and clung to her skirt.

"I want my--mover," she burst out, crying.

"Get even with Waldstricker, brat," said another voice.

Tess raised her arm and glancing along the uplifted whip, again, she
looked into Boy's eyes, and, as she gazed, the little face in the
rafters receded, grew dimmer.

She dropped the whip, and unmindful of the squatters, lifted her hands.

"Mummy's baby boy!" she called. The happy eyes faded last from her sight
and it seemed to her they summoned her thence. A moment more, she stood
shivering, staring into the shadows, and, then, she turned upon the
dark-browed men.

"You said I could do anything I wanted to with 'er, eh?"

"Yep," Brewer assented. "Beat 'er, kill 'er, the more the better for
us-uns."

"Then give me a blanket to wrap her in. I'll take her home
where--where--Boy--died."

Brewer's lips fell apart and he laughed evilly.

"Good idee, brat," he said. "Ye can make it a thousand times worser for
the kid if ye do.... Get a blanket, Ma."

Carefully, the girl wrapped the blanket around and around the little
one. Elsie whimpered disconsolately but made no objection. Anything was
better than being left with the men who tied her up. Lifting the bulky
bundle, Tess started for the door, Jake picked up the whip from the
floor, handed it to her.

"Ye're forgettin' somethin' ain't ye, brat? Ye'll be wantin' this, I'm
thinkin'," he chuckled.

"I can't ever thank you all enough," she flung back hoarsely, tucking
the whip into her coat pocket, "for giving me this chance at
Waldstricker."

Longman got up and opened the door and Tess stepped out into the storm,
carrying Waldstricker's daughter.

       *       *       *       *       *

Deforrest Young was trying to calm his sister. Her frantic cries for her
baby contrasted strangely with the icy despair of the other mother he'd
tried to comfort. His heart, still sore from Boy's loss, bled in ready
sympathy to his sister's mourning. He grasped Helen's hands which were
tearing her hair.

"Don't!" he said. "We'll find her soon. By morning she'll be back home
again. Ebenezer has nearly every man around looking for her, ...
searching every barn and asking at every house.... Darling, do you think
you could stay here with Madelene and let me go out, too?"

"Yes, yes, go, but Oh, God, I shall die if you don't find her!"

Hour after hour men on horseback and men on foot hunted through the
hills and gullies for little Elsie Waldstricker.

It was almost twelve, when one by one Ebenezer's friends rode
sorrowfully home after a useless search.




CHAPTER LI

THE CHRISTMAS GUEST


When Tessibel carried Elsie into the living room, she looked furtively
about to assure herself that Professor Young had not returned during her
absence. Only Andy should know! He would help her--he, too, loved Boy
with all his soul. The little girl still in her arms, she hurried up the
stairs to her own room, and after removing the blanket, placed her in a
chair. Elsie stared about, too frightened and tired even to whimper. The
whip fell to the floor and Tess picked it up. For a long time, she held
it in her hand, meditatively trying its strength and suppleness while
she glared at the child. Then she slipped quietly into the hall, still
carrying the riding crop at her side.

"Andy," she called softly. "Is Mother Moll asleep?"

Andy came out of his own room.

"Yes, she's asleep. I been singin' to her most ever since you been gone.
The old woman sure does like my singin', Tess." He waddled toward the
girl and when he noticed the expression on her face,

"Somethin's happened," he ejaculated, "Anything the matter with Ma
Brewer?"

Tessibel backed into her room and beckoned the dwarf onward by a
movement of her head. After she'd shut the door, she pointed to the
child with a hissing swish of the whip.

"Waldstricker's," she announced briefly. "The squatters stole her and
gave her to me."

The sight of the little girl stopped Andy near the door. Instantly his
alert mind pictured Waldstricker's present anxiety and the awful
retribution he'd exact when he learned of her abduction. He had no idea
as yet what Tess intended to do and her attitude revealed no hint.
Personally, he was powerless because, to his physical weakness, the
storm presented an unsurmountable obstacle. Except for Mother Moll, he
was alone in the house with Tess and the Waldstricker child. Here was a
terrible predicament. He'd already lost many years of his life, because
he was present when Waldstricker's father was killed. He'd done what he
could to avert that crime and paid a heavy penalty, for his
interference. What to do, now, he didn't know. How to save the little
one and protect Tess he couldn't guess. Casting frightened eyes first on
the girl, then on the silent child, he crouched against the wall.

"What ye goin' to do with 'er?" he mumbled at last.... "What's the whip
for?"

"I don't know yet," replied Tess, and she balanced the raw-hide in her
hand. "This is the whip Waldstricker used.... Jake says to beat 'er like
he beat Boy."

The cruel look on her face and the fire in her eyes frightened the
dwarf. To him, she seemed almost insane.

"What'd ye tell 'em you'd do, Tess? Air you goin' to lick 'er?"

"I guess so. I didn't tell 'em for sure what I'd do."

She dropped the whip on a table and walked across the room to the window
where she stood looking out into the night with unseeing eyes. Then,
whirling on Andy, she clenched her fists and burst forth.

"She's the only thing Waldstricker loves! If I hurt her, don't I hurt
him?"

"Sure, dear," the little man acquiesced. "Sure, it'd make 'im ... think
a bit ... mebbe."

Elsie stirred uneasily, making the chair rock back and forth.

"Baby's hungry," she whimpered.

Tess threw off her wraps and flung out of the room. In the kitchen she
stirred the fire and heated some milk and broke bread into it.

While she was gone, the dwarf made up his mind that now, if ever, he
must prove the power of the faith Tess'd taught him. Motionless, but
watching the baby, he reviewed the proofs he'd had in the shack and
during his years with Tessibel on the hill. Surely, the hands stronger'n
Waldstricker's had lost none of their protective power! So absorbed did
he become, he hardly noticed when the girl came back, but he heard her
say to Elsie,

"Here, cat! I hate you so, I could strangle you with it!"

Tess was kneeling beside the chair and he noted that her fingers fed the
child carefully, and when a few warm drops of milk ran down the shaking
baby chin, Tess took out her handkerchief and wiped the little face
gently.

"Uncle Forrie won't be back tonight," he observed, after a while.

"Don't talk about him," gasped Tess. "I don't want to think of 'im."

"I don't see what we're goin' to do, brat," returned Andy miserably.

"I'll never give her back to Waldstricker, that's certain," Tess
gritted. "I'll throw her out in the snow first. Let 'im find her, then,
if he can."

Hunger satisfied, warm and snug, the tired baby smiled her thanks and
fell asleep. After placing the bowl on the table, Tess drew the blankets
about the little figure and stood up.

"Don't tell me not to do it," she said fiercely.

"I weren't going to, brat, dear," sighed the little man.

Then, the girl went to the window again. For what seemed hours to the
dwarf, she stared silently into the winter night.

In her mind's eye she could see the high waves of the lake rolling and
tumbling from hill to hill, and could outline the forest opposing its
rugged weight to the tempest. Under the successive attacks of the gale,
the loosened old joints of the house creaked their protests at the
blizzard's roughness. The shrieking of the wind, the sharp rattle of the
storm-driven snow against the glass, everything in the wild night
without, responded to the conflict in her own breast.

She felt sorry, now, she hadn't left Elsie to the mercy of the
squatters; but the thought of what they would have done to the child
made her shudder.

"No, not that!" she groaned aloud.

"What'd ye say, brat?" asked Andy, without moving.

"Nothing," muttered the girl, and she maintained her position at the
window. It was as though she were waiting for something she knew not
what. In a sudden hush of the storm, she heard, faintly, the chimes in
the library tower on College Hill.

Ah, yes, it was Christmas Eve! How Boy had looked forward to Santa
Claus! How many little things she'd made for his stocking! She drew a
long, sobbing breath. Boy wouldn't want any of her love-things any more.

She knew the chimes were playing,

"Peace on earth, good will to men."

Every Christmas Eve, at midnight, the bells rang out the sacred chorus.
For many years, the music had completed her Christmas preparations. The
annual message had always brought her inspiration and spiritual uplift.
A brick, torn from its place in the chimney, tumbled down the roof. Its
clatter rudely broke in upon the joyous refrain. So had Waldstricker
destroyed her peace. No peace for her, no peace for him! She tried to
fit the words to the chiming notes but without success.

"Peace on earth, good will to men."

Straining her eyes into the darkness, while the angels' message tugged
at her heart strings, the overwrought girl saw another vision. Boy
smiled upon her out of the storm. Ineffable happiness shone in the
lovely face and steady eyes. Freed from mortal chance and change, she
beheld him safe and secure in the everlasting now of eternity. The
apprehension of Life's unalterable continuity--unfolding to her uplifted
thought--destroyed the hopeless sense of separation and banished hate
and anger from her heart. The compelling light of reawakened Love
penetrated the inmost recesses of her spirit, and dissipated the shadows
of discord and resentment. Peace possessed her. While the wonder of her
healing held her motionless a little longer, the song she'd often sung
to Boy at twilight came bubbling to her lips.

    "In heavenly love abiding,
    No change my heart shall fear."

Amazed, Andy stepped to her side. Gratitude for his darling's
deliverance filled his heart. Turning to him, she put one arm around his
shoulders. His throaty tenor joined the caroling soprano.

    "The storm may roar without me,
    My heart may low be laid,"

Above the raging of the wind, they lifted the triumphant refrain,

    "But God is round about me,
    How can I be dismayed?"

Moving into the brighter light of the shaded lamp, she seemed
transfigured. All the strained hurt look was gone. The brown eyes
expressed a deep brooding content and the bright face glowed with love.

"Tess, dear Tess," cried Andy, "you found 'im, didn't ye, Tess? It air
wonderful."

"Boy lives forever!" the smiling lips ejaculated.

A tiny snore directed their attention to the little girl in the big
rocking chair.

"Wrap her up, Andy," Tess directed. "I'm going to take her home."

Andy's shaking hands could hardly do the girl's bidding.

"It's an awful night, brat. Can you do it?"

"I'll get her back, all right," promised Tess, and she went out and down
the stairs.

When she came back, Andy viewed her with amazement. She stood tall and
slender before him, dressed like a stripling youth in one of Deforrest
Young's riding suits, boots on her feet and a cap in her hand.

"I couldn't walk in a dress," she explained simply. "Help me wrap up my
hair. I've got to go cross-lots."

Quickly, Andy fastened the shining curls under the big cap. Elsie was
still asleep in the blankets. Tess picked her up and went out into the
hall and down the stairs. When the dwarf opened the outside door, the
stinging gale slashed at the open portal.

"God help my brat!" prayed Andy. Tess looked into his face a moment, and
then strode away with her burden.

The lane was even harder to reach than it had been when she came from
Brewer's. She labored to the tracks, and struck off across the fields.
The wind stung her face with particles of ice, that cut like needles. A
snow owl dropped from the gloom of a tree, poised a moment on wing, and
stared at her with glittering, hungry eyes. Then, he fluttered upward
and was gone. To force her way along took all her skill and experience
with snow and storm. Unable to wade through the deep drifts by the
fences, she had to roll over and over the tops of them. At such times,
she put down the warmly wrapped baby and as she rolled, jerked her along
through the snow. The bitter gale contested every inch of the way. The
wind blew with such tremendous power in the cleared spaces that she
could not face the biting blast, but again and again was compelled to
creep over the icy crust, and pull the blanketed baby behind her.

When she reached the Trumansburg road, she could hardly breathe. The icy
winds froze the sweat upon her toiling body and chilled the very marrow
of her aching bones. The little one lay a dead weight in her arms. The
ceaseless attacks of the cruel wind sapped her strength. She wanted to
rest, but she remembered it wouldn't do to stop. Every step was a
nightmare of impossible effort.

Suddenly down the road but a little way, a white light spread before her
like a beckoning hand. Gathering her remaining strength for a final
effort, she staggered toward it.




CHAPTER LII

THE STORM


The blizzard that raged in the Storm Country, the day before Christmas,
was general through the East. Frederick Graves, on his way home for the
Yuletide festivities, had been hampered and delayed by the storm.
Indeed, the Lehigh train almost lost its way among the drifts, and
instead of arriving about supper time, it came limping in late in the
evening. When the much married man stepped off the train at the Ithaca
depot, he moved slowly down the long platform toward the carriage stand.
Waldstricker's coachman met him near the end of the station and relieved
him of his suit case. One glance at the newcomer's emaciated face,
bearing the tell-tale spots of hectic red, told the man why Graves had
been in the mountains.

"Mr. Waldstricker sent me down to meet you, sir," the servant told
Frederick. "Your wife is up to our house and I'm to take you there. It's
a bad night, but I'll get you through all right."

Frederick hesitated a moment before getting into the covered sleigh. He
hadn't calculated to go to Waldstricker's. But the servant's next words
decided him.

"You see, sir, Miss Elsie's lost. She went out this afternoon and hasn't
been seen since; at least, hadn't been found when I left there about
seven o'clock. Mr. Waldstricker's tearing around through the snow like a
wild man and every one at Hayt's is out hunting for her."

Warmly wrapped, Frederick leaned back in the sleigh. While the horses
plodded slowly against the storm up the long hill, he renewed his
meditations and reviewed the course of action he'd determined to follow.
His unsatisfied passion for Tess had grown more insistent during the
months spent alone in the mountains. He'd written her many letters
which had not been answered or returned to him. Indeed, he hadn't heard
of or from her, directly or indirectly, for many weeks. Her failure to
reply to his letters, as well as her hostile attitude, the last time
he'd seen her, he ascribed to Young's influence. That Tessibel had
become actually indifferent to him, he couldn't comprehend at all.
Surely, the love she'd shown him couldn't die! The separation had only
made his passion the greater. It might be that, through his neglect, her
love had grown dormant, but nothing could destroy it. Freed from the
lawyer's control, and in new surroundings, the well remembered sweetness
of their short honeymoon would become a present experience.

He'd been able to secrete, when he'd been in charge of the California
office, considerable sums of money. By careful management, he had
increased his takings to an amount that would be a comfortable fortune
for himself and the squatter girl. There had been no break between him
and Madelene, but he had persuaded himself she would be glad to separate
from him. It was too late to do anything about it tonight, though.
Tomorrow, or the next day, he'd take his dear ones away.

As soon as they were settled in some distant city and were secure from
the elder's wrath, he'd write Madelene. He chuckled grimly to himself at
the thought of their rage when they learned of her anomalous position as
his unmarried wife.

Then, his fancy played about the home he'd have. He pictured Tess moving
through the rooms in the intimacies of domestic life. Almost, so vivid
the picture his passion painted, he held her in his arms. He'd do
wonderful things for the boy. He should have the best education
possible! Lost in his dreams, the time slipped rapidly away, and he
found himself, all at once, in front of his brother-in-law's brilliantly
lighted home.

When he came into the great hall, Madelene hurried out of the library to
meet him. She presented a cool cheek for the customary kiss of greeting
and helped him out of his extra wraps.

"Take off your coat, dear, and come into the library," she urged. "The
man told you about Elsie? But Eb's sure to find her. I'll see about
something to eat while you're getting thawed out."

She bustled off to the kitchen and her husband went into the library and
dropped into a chair before the grate.

When Madelene came back, she stopped by the table impressed, suddenly,
by the pathetic weariness of his appearance. The change in him startled
her and reawakened all the love she'd ever felt for him. In addition,
there was, in her affection for the sick man, an element of maternal
devotion, as though the unsatisfied desires of her empty arms demanded
him. She crossed the room and seated herself on the arm of his chair.

"Fred, dear," she said, "you must have had an awful trip. Now, that I
have you home again, I'm going to look after you, myself."

One after another, she noted the symptoms of decay and dissolution
presented. His clothes no longer fitted but hung, bag-like, upon his
emaciated frame. His shoulders were stooped and his chest sunken. The
high linen collar he'd always been so particular about, no longer set
close to a shapely neck, but sagged away from the taut cords below his
bony jaw and chin. She lifted one of his hands and stared, through the
tears that welled into her eyes, at the claw-like fingers resting in
hers. Her husband's pitiful plight completely softened her heart and
wiped away the memory of her jealousy and dissatisfaction with him. He
needed her, now, and everything that love could do for him, she'd give
him.

Lifting his fingers to her lips, they sat, thus, in silence, before the
log fire until Frederick withdrew his hand and let it fall into his lap.
Madelene shifted her position a little and slipped one arm around his
neck. Although somewhat amazed at the demonstration, Frederick submitted
to the caresses and found in them something of peace.

"I'm awfully sorry, Fred," she whispered, after the lapse of a few
moments. "Let's begin again and do better. I do love you, so. Put your
arms around me and tell me you'll forgive and forget."

Convinced that it was easier to humor his wife's soft mood than to risk
the strain of repulsing her, Frederick slipped his arms around her and
held her close.

"There's nothing to forgive, Madie," he muttered. "I've been awful
selfish and I'm paying the penalty, that's all. You better let me go and
forget me."

Supposing he referred to his approaching death, Madelene cried out
sharply, in protest.

"No, no, Fred, you mustn't say such things. You make me feel like a
murderess."

She wound her arms tightly around him and kissed him stormily.

"I love you and you love me," she continued. "That's all there is to it.
We'll be happy, yet!"

For a few moments, she rested in his embrace, happier than she'd been in
many a long day. Then, she disengaged herself and stood up.

"Come, dear," she smiled, "your supper is ready."

After he was seated at the table, she told him of the quarrel between
her brother and his wife, of the loss of Elsie and the search then going
on.

"Helen's most crazy," she concluded. "She's lying down, now. I gave her
a powder and I think she's sleeping."

Frederick toyed with the food before him. He made occasional
monosyllabic comments that kept the running fire of his wife's chatter
going. Unable to pretend to eat more, he leaned back in his chair.

"I'm not much of an eater," he smiled, "but I've enjoyed your lunch very
much."

The sound of steps on the stairs interrupted him.

"Hark, Fred!" his wife exclaimed. "That's Helen, now."

Together they left the dining room and went to the library, where Mrs.
Waldstricker had preceded them.

Helen's distraught manner prevented anything like a conventional welcome
to her brother-in-law. After Frederick had expressed his sympathy for
her anxiety about Elsie and tried to quiet her fears, Madelene carried
him off to his room. When she had seen to the details for his comfort,
she returned to the library to share Mrs. Waldstricker's vigil.

Frederick found, when he was left alone, that he was in no mood for bed.
He was too tired to sleep, too nervous to be quiet anywhere. It seemed
to him as though there were some unusual quality in the air, some
mysterious whispering to his inner consciousness. He felt vaguely
excited. He tried to read but the words conveyed to him no meaning. To
an extent never before experienced, possibly because he was again in the
Storm Country, he wanted Tess. After a time, he heard the banging of the
front door downstairs and confused cries in the hall, but paid little
attention to them. In the silence that succeeded, the narrow walls of
the bedroom became unbearably close. He'd go downstairs to the library.
It might be he'd be able to rest in a chair before the log fire.




CHAPTER LIII

THE HAPPY DAY


Like the kindly eyes of a welcoming friend, the two great lights upon
the posts of Waldstricker's gateway met Tessibel Skinner as she
struggled between the tall stone pillars to the private driveway. In
sheer fatigue, she allowed Elsie to slip to the snow and sank down
beside her. Her heart sang with joy and thanksgiving. She was going to
give Helen her dear, golden-haired baby. There was no thought, now, of
her hatred for Ebenezer, only wondrous anticipation of his joy at
receiving his little girl out of the storm. Through the white light,
Tess could outline the rounded figure in the snow. Rhythmical breathing
assured her the little one slept in security. Once more, Tess got to her
feet and, once more, she gathered up the living bundle. She was almost
at the end of her journey. The short rest had given her new strength,
and when she got to the stone porch she was able to mount the steps, and
move laboriously, almost breathlessly, to the door. Memories keenly
bitter-sweet rushed over her. The last time she was on that spot she was
going to sing for the master's friends. What numberless happenings
loomed before her mental vision, happenings to her and to Waldstricker.
She was too dazed, too cold, to consider them in sequence. In the
confusion of her soul, only two things stood out distinctly. Her
marriage to Frederick Graves and Boy's shining face when the assurance
had come to her that he lived and would ever live. Then Deforrest
Young--Ah, yes, she had forgotten him! In a little while she would see
him, and he would take her back to Mother Moll and Andy.

She was directly in front of the heavy portal, now, and with one stiff
set of fingers she laid hold of the handle and twisted the knob. The
door opened under her pressure and displayed the long reception hall. A
rush of warm air welcomed her, and she uttered one little cry and
staggered across the threshold.

       *       *       *       *       *

Helen Waldstricker and Madelene Graves were waiting wearily for some
message from the searching party. Hours had passed that seemed like
centuries strung into eternities, hours that had brought no word of the
lost baby. Suddenly, Helen sat up as an unusual sound came to her ear.

"Did I hear something?" she asked. "I thought it was a voice."

"Only the wind," answered Madelene, drowsily.

The girl was thinking of Frederick and dreaming what their life might
be, now that they were beginning again. Of course, he was ill--very ill,
but she'd take him away and nurse him back to health again.

Then, another hoarse little sound forced its way through the closed
door, and Helen got up and opened it. In that moment, when she looked
the length of her spacious hall, the whole world took on a gladness
unsurpassed. True, the door was open and the blizzard battled in and
flung its snowflakes to her very feet; but across the doorway was a
human body--Tessibel Skinner, and at her side, a rosebud face from which
the blanket had fallen. Mrs. Waldstricker gave a glad cry and sprang
forward. Tess tried to get up but failed. All she could do was to
whisper,

"I've brought you back your baby." Then, she crumpled forward over Elsie
Waldstricker in a forlorn, snow-covered heap.

By that time, Madelene was in the hall. She recognized Tessibel, and
felt a keen thrill of biting pain. She had suffered much from this
beautiful squatter girl, but she, also, realized that Tess had brought
the child back to her distracted parents. Between them, the two women
managed to carry the girl and baby into the library. Both were crying,
and Elsie, too, now awake, was insisting that her mother "Rock baby."

To answer their hysterical questions, when her throat was so hoarse, was
impossible for Tessibel.

"Let her rest right here, then," said Helen. "Mercy me! If the child
hasn't some of Deforrest's clothes on. Let's take the baby upstairs,
and, Madelene, you bring down some dry things for Tess.... Here, Tess,
dear, let me wrap you in this for a few minutes."

Tessibel sank into the warm woolen robe Mrs. Waldstricker placed about
her. Then, the two women went upstairs with wee Elsie. Tessibel felt the
warmth from the fire permeate her whole being. She had suddenly grown so
sleepy! It was delightful to be able to close her eyes and watch in
perfect peace the figures of her dreams! Memories, deep and entrancing,
engulfed her. Many forms passed to and fro across her vision. There were
the dark faces of her squatter friends, then Ebenezer Waldstricker. Her
lids lifted heavily, her eyes centering upon another face--a face which
made her cry out and struggle to her feet with trembling desire to get
away. Frederick Graves closed the door behind him softly and the girl
noted how thin and sick he looked and that his twitching lips tried to
smile her a welcome.

"Tessibel," was all he said. She sank back into the great chair, white
and weak, her face strung with terror.

Frederick didn't pause to ask why she was there. It was enough to know
she was near him, and he forgot all else; his recent promises to
Madelene,--Ebenezer and his mother. Only, did he remember that his young
squatter wife, the mother of his baby son, was near enough for him to
take her in his arms. Ah, yes, he'd take her away, right then, just as
he had planned to do so many, many times. He bent over her, his breath
coming in labored, explosive gusts.

"Tess, darling," he murmured, much moved. "How wonderful you should be
here tonight. Say something to me, sweetheart."

Tess attempted to push him from her. The touch of her hand thrilled him
to his toes. How he would care for her--take her away from her squatter
world, that stormy world filled with sorrow and pain! His world should
know of her goodness, her loyalty and strength.

"I'll tell Ebenezer I'm your husband, Tessibel," he breathed in her ear.
"Oh, my darling, what joy there is in store for us, what wonderful
happiness--"

"No, no," cried Tess.

Then, again, he seized her hand, murmuring,

"Yes, yes, my love! I know it's hard to forgive me, but I've never loved
any one but you. I didn't even try to care for Madelene. I couldn't.
And, now, my precious--"

"Please, don't say such things," cried Tess. "I only came--"

She wrenched her fingers loose from his and through her own
interruption, he went on quickly.

"Oh, my dearest, be a little kind to me. Forgive all I've done. No, I
shan't let you go until you promise me something--you must listen!"

Driven on by the passion dominating his weak body, Frederick dragged her
to him. Deforrest Young came into the girl's mind. How she loved him!
She would not tolerate Graves' hateful embrace. She made a frantic
struggle against the arms holding her.

"Frederick, Frederick!" she gasped.

"No, I won't listen, Tess," he cried. "I'm sorry enough for all I've
done and I won't go away from you any more."

He crushed his mouth against her cheek. She should not baffle him thus.
Now, that she was in his arms, his hot breath mingling with the warmth
of hers, he was sure she could not resist him. Suddenly, she ceased to
struggle--Limply, she lay against his breast. How he loved her!
Frederick remembered with a thrilling, cutting desire that in those
dear, olden days, she had been the sweeter and better part of himself.
He had come back to fight for her, to take her and the boy away. Between
passionate kisses, new resolves raced through his fevered mind. He told
himself no barrier was strong enough to keep him from her. But he had
forgotten Ebenezer Waldstricker. It was not until he heard a short,
sharp ejaculation that he turned partly around. His brother-in-law was
standing in the open door, clad in a long fur garment, his handsome face
dark with terrible anger. Frederick dropped one arm, but tightened the
other about the squatter girl.

Waldstricker could feel himself growing hot to the edge of his collar.
At the sight of the girl he hated, a sudden fury took possession of him.

Tess became aware that the crimson churchman was looking her over from
head to foot. She flushed painfully as she realized her masculine attire
and thrust one hand behind her to loosen Frederick's arm, while with the
other she steadied herself against a chair. She could not force herself
to speak.

Waldstricker cleared his throat.

"How long has it been considered good taste, Mr. Graves," he demanded
icily, "for a man to bring his mistress into his wife's home?"

Every word was perfectly articulated. Frederick grew deathly sick and
sat down quickly, making a violent gesture with his hand. He wanted to
deny Waldstricker's deadly insult, but he, suddenly, had no strength.
How Tess came into the house he did not know. But he did know she was
not there at his instigation. He could see that Waldstricker had hurt
her beyond expression, too. She was staring at his brother-in-law,
silent, as if frozen by his cold contempt.

Looking from one to the other, Ebenezer went on.

"It is my painful duty to ask Miss Skinner to leave this house ... now,"
said he.

Frederick managed to stand up and fling one protecting arm about the
pale girl.

"Not in this terrible storm, Ebbie," he got out hoarsely.

"She came in the storm," returned the elder, "and I see no reason why
she can't go back in it. She seems nicely dressed for such weather."

He went forward and seized her arm and quickly swung the slender form
from Frederick's embrace. The girl was so dazed and weary she made no
resistance. The powerful elder snatched up her coat and cap and roughly
put them on her. Then, he pushed her ahead of him through the long
reception hall. Tessibel had not spoken a word, nor did she speak when
Waldstricker pulled open the door and, with a low growl, shoved her out
into the darkness. When he returned to the library, he found Frederick
stretched out upon the divan. A look of death had spread over his face,
and the appeal in his eyes brought the elder forward quickly.

"Fred, what possessed you to bring that girl here?"

"I didn't. I found her here," murmured Frederick. "She'll die in the
storm. Call her back, Eb, she'll die--"

"No, she won't," replied Waldstricker, gruffly, "and what's more I won't
have her here. How she had a nerve to come at all, I can't see....
Where's Helen?"

"Upstairs with Madie, I guess," sighed Frederick.

"Poor Helen," groaned Ebenezer, moodily. "If I could only give her some
news of Elsie. But I feel sure we'll have her home by morning."

"I hope so!" answered Frederick. Then, he raised on one elbow and spoke
with difficulty. "Eb,--Ebenezer, I've something to tell you." The effort
made him gasp for breath, and fall back.

"I guess I'm done for," he muttered.

"I'll call Madelene," said Waldstricker, turning quickly.

"No, no, Ebenezer. Come here. There, now, let me tell it. I--I--married
Tessibel Skinner before I married Madelene."

Waldstricker staggered back. He was appalled at the death-stricken face
opposite. He knew Frederick was dying, and had no doubt he was telling
the simple truth. The world seemed turned upside down. Now, in the light
of this new knowledge, he could see many things. He shuddered when he
thought of Tessibel. He and his were in the squatter girl's power. What
mercy could he or Madelene expect at her hands? The shame and disgrace
would kill his sister. Had the Skinner girl come to his house to claim
her husband?

At that moment, he heard Mrs. Graves' step on the stairs. He turned,
intending to ask Frederick not to tell Madelene of his secret marriage,
but quickly changed his mind. Frederick was too ill; the first thing was
to relieve his suffering.

"Get some water," the elder commanded when she appeared in the doorway.
"Fred's sick."

Madelene dropped the armful of clothes she held and fled to obey. When
she came back, the young wife tenderly ministered to the dying man.
Never before had he seemed so dear!

"I think we'd better call a doctor," said Ebenezer, and he went out.

For a moment, he felt impelled to go to his wife, to tell her how sorry
he was for all his ugly moods. He blamed himself bitterly for Elsie's
disappearance. If her mother had been home, the little girl would not
have gone away.

In the servant's quarters, he gave orders that a doctor should be sent
for. As he came back to the reception hall, he saw Helen looking down up
him,--and she was smiling. How could she smile when the world was no
longer glad, no longer beautiful? But a few hours before he had left her
in tears, almost insane. Now she stood quietly, happily, as if joy
unlimited were hers.

Mrs. Waldstricker placed her fingers on her lips.

"Come up, dear heart," she whispered.

Ebenezer mounted the stairs.

"I'm so miserable, Helen," he said. "I don't know what to say."

Helen stood on tiptoe and put one arm around his neck. She drew the
massive head down and pressed her face to her husband's cheek.

"I don't think there's anything much to say," she said softly, "but to
thank her for bringing her back."

Waldstricker straightened himself impatiently.

"Brought who back?" he demanded. "What do you mean? My God, Helen, the
whole house has gone mad."

"Didn't you see Tessibel in the library?" Helen asked. "She--"

"Well, I should say I did," Ebenezer snorted, "and I cleared her out of
there. How dare the impudent huzzy come to my house?"

"Great Heavens! Ebenezer!" exclaimed Helen. "She carried Elsie all the
way from the lake!"

When these words fell upon Waldstricker's ears, he couldn't comprehend
their import entirely. Elsie was found! But--Then, the full horror of
his impetuous action burst upon him. The squatter girl had brought her
back! Oh! Brute and fool that he was! He groaned and started to speak
but his wife's voice interrupted him.

"Elsie's in here. Come see her! Won't you come, dear?"

The husband followed his wife through the nursery door, and as he
centered his eyes upon the little bed in which his baby lay, life turned
over for Ebenezer Waldstricker. He bent down and placed a reverent kiss
upon the flushed, sleeping face. Then, he turned to Helen.

"I'm going to find Tessibel Skinner," he said, and, abruptly turning,
went out.

       *       *       *       *       *

Deforrest Young forced his foaming horse into Waldstricker's gateway and
galloped up to the porch. It took him but one brief moment to fling
himself to the ground, and up the steps into the house. Andy had told
him Tess had gone to Ebenezer's with little Elsie. To know his darling
was out in such a night nearly drove him mad. It hadn't taken him long
to decide to go after her.

Meeting Ebenezer coming down the stairs, the lawyer's first demand was,

"Where's Tessibel--" and Waldstricker's reply came low and
self-accusing.

"I sent her home, but, Deforrest, I didn't know about her bringing
Elsie, then."

The lawyer didn't wait to ask anything more. Sick at heart and
apprehensive, he went from the mansion and into his saddle and once more
out between the great stone gate posts.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the church elder pushed her through the doorway, into the winter
night, Tessibel stood one moment swaying, back and forth, in an effort
to steady her mind enough to plan her next action. She knew the long,
wintry road to the lake must again be traversed before she could lie
down and rest. A sob came to her lips. She was so tired, so wearily
unable to think. She had wanted to stay where it was warm, to wait
until Deforrest came after her; but Mr. Waldstricker had almost thrown
her into the snow. He had told her she couldn't stay, so, of course, she
couldn't go back. How cruel he had looked and how strong his hands were!
Once, some one had said Waldstricker's hands were stronger than God's.
But, no, that wasn't true! She and Andy had proved it false. It was just
that Waldstricker didn't like her; he didn't like any of the squatters,
that's why he made her go away. Probably, he wasn't as glad as she
thought he'd be to get his baby back. She drew her coat closer about her
shoulders and stepped from the porch. The snow had ceased to fall, and
the wind had quieted its turbulent raging. Very cold and quiet, the
whole white night-world seemed. Of a sudden, the solitude was pierced by
a hoarse sound from a sleepy fowl in the great barn below in the
meadows. A night bird uttered a shrill, belligerent cry and sank to
silence in his tree top. Tess turned her head sharply. These life-sounds
out of the dusky beyond came from her friends. She wasn't afraid, only
cold and chilled to her body's depths. Slowly, she went down the drifted
driveway to the Trumansburg road and turned lakeward. She wondered if it
was safe to return home cross-lots when she was so tired. It was shorter
through the fields, but her legs seemed almost unable to bear up her
weight in the deep snow.

At the top of the hill, opposite the Stebbins' homestead, she crouched
down to rest a moment. Once, she thought she heard a horse. It might
have been, but if so, the animal had passed, for no longer could she
hear the thud of hoofs upon the snow road. Then, something touched her,
and she turned her eyes upward. There, in the sky, was a moon--Was it
her moon, that pale riding thing, taking its way through the white
clouds? How cold it looked, and how cold it was! She shivered, settled a
little in her coat and closed her eyes. A moment later, something
brushed her hand. Slowly, the long red-brown lashes lifted and the
red-brown eyes settled upon a figure bending over her, a figure, white
like one of Mother Moll's conjured ghosts. Tessibel wanted to go to
sleep. Why had the night stranger touched her, just then? Oh, she was
out in the snow. A person ought never to lie down in the snow. Daddy
Skinner had told her so many times. She mustn't sleep. She must get up
instantly--but--her legs were too stiff, too difficult to move. Then,
the figure faded slowly from her vision. How heavy her chest felt. A
moonbeam lay slant-wise across it. That couldn't be so heavy, just a bit
of the moonlight. Why, of course, something else was cradled in the
white beam. Tess looked closer. A babe, as fair as an unblemished rose
leaf, lay straight across her breast and considered her with
unfathomable, interested eyes.... It was Boy--her Boy--she had him back
again. Then, he hadn't been put in a little box in the ground beside
Daddy Skinner. She managed to raise one arm and drop it across the small
body. How lovely he was, this moonbeam babe, so white, so gentle and
dark-haired.

Tessibel was warmer since he had come to her; her arms no longer
trembled, but her legs seemed to have lost their desire to walk. She
felt glad of that, too, because she was too tired to walk, anyway, and
the baby was very sweet. Then, once more, a long shadow came between her
and the moon and someone bent over her. Ah, 'twas Daddy Skinner, the
same beloved, heavy humped-shoulders--the same precious face, and he was
fondling the moon baby, and twice kissed _her_ with tender, twitching
lips. She smiled happily and moved a little in the snow. She tried to
catch Daddy's hand, tried to call his dear name, but only a little sound
came from her tightened, frozen throat. Then, smiling, Daddy Skinner
went back to the moon, and Tess, drowsily, cuddled the white babling
closer, and went to sleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

Deforrest Young brought his horse to an abrupt standstill. Had he heard
a faint sound off there in the path? With a sudden spring, he
dismounted. Over near the fence, he thought he had seen through the
streak of light a human hand move upward and then sink into the snow. He
paused a moment and shuddered. Had he lost his senses through the
suffering the week had brought him? He shook himself and turned to his
horse again. No silly vision should drag him across a snowdrift on such
a night. He was going home to Tessibel. In hesitant quandary, he still
stood staring west to the rail fence. Then, something impelled him to do
the very thing he had decided would be fruitless.

One bound took him through the piles of snow at the side of the road.
The lawyer bent down, his heart tightening with fear. A human being lay
close to the fence. Young quickly pulled the face into the moonlight.
The quiet, death-like form was Tessibel Skinner.

A huge sob tore its way from the lawyer's throat, and burst fiercely
through his teeth. Was she dead, his dearest who had received evil,
perhaps death, for the good she had done?

Above his head the limbs of a great tree sang their song of winter to
the night. Deforrest remembered Tess had always loved the whispering of
the wind. A low cry followed by words fell from his lips.

"Love air everywhere the hull time," he sobbed. "Oh, Love, Divine,
merciful Love, protect my pretty child!"

In another sixty seconds he was pounding through the snow road toward
the lake with a sleeping red-haired girl in his arms.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was broad day when Tessibel opened her eyes. She lay for some time
looking at the ceiling, then around her. She was alone in the room, yes,
in her own room at the lake. Something had hurt her dreadfully, for even
her arms ached so she couldn't move them. She wondered where Andy was,
and Mother Moll, and if Deforrest were home.

She tried to sit up, but the pains shooting through her body made her
content to be quiet.

Later, by a few moments, when Deforrest Young opened the door and stole
in, she smiled wanly at him.

"My little girl's had a good sleep," he said softly, coming forward.
Then, he took her hand and stood looking down upon her, his whole soul
in his eyes.

"Tessibel," he hesitated, "do you remember what happened last night?"

Tess stared at him, a little pucker between her eyes. Last night? What
about last night?

Oh, yes, she did remember. Elsie Waldstricker at the squatters; her own
struggle through the snow to the mansion on the hill; how Waldstricker
had turned her away.

"Yes, I remember," she whispered. "Did you find me, Uncle Forrie?"

Sudden tears swept away Young's vision. He nodded his head.

"And my brother-in-law's downstairs and wants to speak to you,
Tessibel," said he.

Tess made a negative shake with her head, and a look of fear crept into
her eyes.

Through Waldstricker's baby she had measured the height of God's love
and forgiveness, and through his own unrighteous arrogancy she had
plumbed the depths of human woe. She thrilled at the thought of little
Elsie, of Helen's joy this birthday of Jesus, the tender teacher of her
youth. She would have welcomed them, but she didn't want to see
Waldstricker. By the crack of his whip, he had destroyed her love-life,
as a bubble from a child's pipe is broken by a gust of wind. But before
she could frame her refusal, Ebenezer Waldstricker appeared in the
doorway. He came forward to the bed and held out his hand.

"Tessibel," he said huskily, "I'm bowed with shame before you. Child, I
cannot tell you how sorry I am."

Tess took his hand without the slightest show of hesitation.

"I'm glad you've got your baby home," she murmured brokenly, and that
was all.

A great emotion shook Ebenezer's soul as a giant oak is shaken in a
mighty wind.

"Last night when I sent you away," he explained tensely, "I didn't know
about your bringing her back. I appreciate, child, that's no excuse for
me. Nor did I know, then, that you were married--"

He stopped, the bitter pain in his throat aching his voice into silence.

"Mr. Graves is dead," he whispered, "and my sister--"

"Oh, I'm so sorry for her, Mr. Waldstricker," cried Tess, struggling up.

Deforrest stepped forward to Ebenezer's side and supported her.

"Yes, you would be," the elder asserted. "Your heart is so tender.... My
poor little Madelene--I fear the shock will kill her. She doesn't know
yet that she really had no husband."

Tessibel's eyes grew large with astonishment. Then, Frederick had
exonerated her to Waldstricker. Her eyes sought Deforrest Young's.

"Mr. Waldstricker told me downstairs about it, my darling," he said
tenderly. "My brave little girl!"

Tess flashed a sudden look at Ebenezer.

"Mr. Waldstricker, I never want your sister to know she wasn't Fred--I
mean Mr. Graves' wife," she told him. "It won't do any good and I'd
rather you wouldn't tell her."

Then, surely, did Tess win from her proud enemy all the respect and
reverence he could bestow on any human being. Ebenezer Waldstricker
lowered his lips and pressed them to the slender hand he held.

"My dear, my dear," he moaned. "If I could only undo some of it."

Oh, how Tessibel wanted some of it undone, too. Her red head bowed
slowly over his strong white hand.

"Oh, Mr. Waldstricker," she burst forth with sobs, "I want my little
baby so bad, so awful bad."

Ebenezer uttered a groan and wheeling quickly went from the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

Later in the day, when they were alone together, Deforrest sat down
beside Tessibel.

"Now, you can tell me all about it, child," he said.

"Yes," whispered Tess; and she did. It was difficult to go back to those
long, terrible years through which she had stumbled in shame and
disgrace, but Deforrest Young upheld her by sympathy and encouragement.
When the pitiful tale was finished, he bent forward and drew her into
his arms.

"This Christmas is the happiest of my life," he murmured.

Hearing Andy on the stairs, they'd just taken more conventional
attitudes when he burst into the room.

"Mother Moll's been havin' a seance all to herself," he grinned, "an'
she says, there's a wedding ring hanging over the brat's head, an' she
said to tell you, Uncle Forrie--" He paused, giggled a little and
ended--"Red curls'll twist around your heart so close ye won't ever get
away."

Then the dwarf toddled back upstairs, chuckling to himself.

"Mother Moll's right," whispered Deforrest into the small ear. "I'm the
happiest man in all the world, Tessibel."