Reels and Spindles (part 2)

"Why, I'm working all the time, ain't I? Anybody that has regular work can get anything they want at Mis' Hackett's, or other places, too. Ma and pa do the same way."

"But—that's debt. It must be horrible. It seems like going out of one debt into another as fast as you can. Oh, Gwen, don't do it."

"Pshaw! that isn't anything. Why, look here, that's the very way your own folks did. If they hadn't been in debt, they wouldn't have had to move from Fairacres, and all that. Would they?"

Both Hallam and Amy were silent. The keen common sense of the mill girl had struck home, and again Amy realized that her vocation was not that of "preaching." Finally, the cripple spoke:—

"It's like it, yet it isn't. We had something left to pay our debts. It wasn't money, but it was money's worth. We paid them. We are left poor indeed, but we haven't mortgaged our future. That's all. But we are too young to talk so wisely. If your parents approve, they probably know best. Hark! there is a wagon coming."

They all paused, and drew aside out of the road to let the vehicle pass. It was so dark that they could distinguish nothing clearly, and the lantern fastened to the dashboard of the buggy seemed but to throw into greater shadow the face of the occupant. To their surprise, the traveller drew rein and saluted them:—

"Hello. Just getting home, eh?"

All recognized the voice. It belonged to Mr. Wingate.

"Yes, just getting home," answered Amy, cheerily.

"Growing pretty dark, isn't it? Hmm, yes. Heard you lost your donkey, Hallam."

"For the time, I have, sir," responded the lad, rather stiffly. He hated this man "on sight," or out of it, and it was difficult for him to conquer his aversion. All the kindness he had felt toward him, on the night of Mr. Wingate's first unwelcome visit to Fairacres, had been forgotten since; because in his heart he believed that his mother's death was due to her removal from her home. Yet he wished to be just, and he would try to feel differently by and by. Meanwhile, his unused strength was fast waning. He had met with a great disappointment that day, for he was going home empty-handed. He had lost his beloved Balaam, and he had nothing to show for it. In all his life he had never walked so far as from the mill to the Bareacre knoll, and even his crutches seemed to wobble and twist with fatigue. Amy had noticed this, and made him pause to rest more than once; but the night was cold, and he felt it most unwise to risk taking cold by standing in the wind. Poverty was teaching Hallam prudence, among many other excellent things.

"None of us can afford to be sick now," he reflected.

"Hmm. That half-witted fellow ought not to be allowed to go free. He's done me a lot of mischief, and I guess he injures everybody who befriends him. The last thing he ought to be trusted with is horse-flesh, or mule-flesh either. Well, I'm going your way, and it's a tough pull on a pair of crutches. If you'll get in, I'll give you a lift as far as the bars."

Everybody was astonished, and everybody waited for Hallam's reply in some anxiety. Amy knew his mind, and she knew, also, that he was very weary. She hoped that he would say:—

"Thank you; I'll be glad to accept," but his answer was a curt: "Thank you; I would rather walk."

"Very well. Suit yourself."

The horse was touched sharply, and bounded up the hill road at an unusual pace.

"Oh, Hal, why didn't you ride? You are so tired."

"Well—because."

"You'd better. Old man don't like to have his favors lost," remarked Gwendolyn. "I've heard lots say that, even though he hasn't been at Ardsley so very long."

Now, in the lad's heart, besides his unwillingness to "accept favors from an enemy," there had been another motive. Until that evening he had not realized how lonely and dark was the homeward walk for his sister, after her long day of toil, and even with the company of Gwendolyn. In this his first experience it had come upon him with a shock, that it was neither pleasant nor safe for Amy, and he resolved she should never again be left without his escort, if he were possibly able to be with her.

But he could not, or felt that he could not, tell this to the girls; much less to Mr. Wingate, finding it easier to be misjudged than to explain. Yet had the mill owner known the fact, it would have gone far toward propitiating him, and toward rousing his admiration for his young kinsman.

So with the best intentions all around, the breach between Fairacres and "Charity House" was duly widened.

The trio of mill workers trudged wearily upward, and the mill master hurried recklessly through the gloom toward a home he had coveted, but found a lonely, "ghost-haunted" solitude. For though there are no real spectres to frighten the eye, there are memories which are sadder to face than any "haunt" would be.

"Stir up the fire, man. Don't you know it's a bitter night outside?" he cried, as he entered it.

The master's tone boded ill for the servant if obedience were not prompt. So though a great blaze roared upon the wide hearth in the old room where we first met this gentleman he was not content, nor was the good dinner which followed appreciated. Nothing was right that night for Archibald Wingate.

Nothing? Yes, one thing gave him great satisfaction, so that, late in the evening, sitting before the blaze he had complained of, he rubbed his hands with a quiet glee.

"If you please, sir, there's a black donkey wandered into the place to-night. It went straight to the stable and to one of the box stalls on the west. It seemed to know the way. The stable boy says it's one of them belonged to the—the folks was here before we came. I thought you'd like to know, sir; and, if you please, is it to remain?"

"Yes, Marshall, it is to remain."

And again the old gentleman smiled into the dancing flames and rubbed his smooth palms.

Chapter XX.

In the Old Home.

After one o'clock on the afternoon before Christmas was a mill holiday; and while the great looms were silent, those who usually toiled at them took their way into Wallburg city to do their Christmas shopping. Though a few, indeed, were able to satisfy their needs at the local stores, and among these, for once, was Gwendolyn. She had come up the knoll after dinner hour, to invite Amy's presence at the gift buying, and concluded her invitation by saying:—

"Even if you won't get anything yourself, you might come and look at the pretty things. It's surprising how many you find you can pick out in a few minutes. They've the loveliest dolls there 't I'm going to get for Beatrice and Belinda. Victoria's so big she's outgrown doll—"

Cleena could hold her tongue no longer.

"Toys, is it, alanna! Better be shoes for their feet; an' as for Queen Victory an' her dolls, more's the shame to you as sets her the example o' growin' up before her time. Vases for the mother, is it? An' she after patchin' the sheets off her bed. Pardon unasked advice, which same is unsavory, belike, an' get the makin' of a new pair. That's sense, so it is."

It was sense. As such it commended itself to Gwendolyn, during her walk to the village, and bore results for the comfort of her family; for though she did run in debt to make her Christmas gifts, at least she now altered her usual habit completely, and for each member of the household provided some article of use. Even Mrs. Hackett paused in her busy attendance upon the crowd of customers to remark:—

"Well, now, Gwen, that's a good plan. I guess your folks will be proud of what you're giving them this year. Yes, I'm more 'n willing to trust you for 'em. A girl that'll spend her money as you are, isn't going to cheat me in the long run. Yes, the wagon'll be going out late to-night and will fetch 'em all for you. Flannel and sheeting and such are a mighty sight heavier to carry than notions. But say, I'll put in a little candy for the youngsters, seeing they're disappointed of their dolls."

Meanwhile, up at "Charity House," Amy had drawn Cleena into a corner to discuss their own plans, and especially to ask concerning a proposed trip to the city, by her father, and immediately after the holidays.

"You know, Goodsoul, that he hasn't been there alone in a long time. Is it safe for him to go now? If he should have one of his attacks, what would happen? Should Hallam go with him? and—worst of all—how can we spare the money?"

"Faith, Miss Amy, I'd leave the master be. It's the fine sense he's gettin' the now. It would hearten the mistress could she see how he does be pickin' up. Always that gentle I d' know, as if the sorrow had been a broom sweepin' his soul all free of the moilder an' muss was in it long by. Only yesternight, whilst I was just washin' off me table afore layin' me cloth, into the kitchen he steps an' sits himself down by the door, lookin' out toward Fairacres. It was as soft as summer, like it is this eve, but faith! a 'green Christmas makes a fat graveyard.'"

The very word made them both silent for a moment, and then Amy resumed:—

"Father has packed up a half a dozen or more of his small canvases, studies of heads most of them are, I believe, and all are unframed. What do you suppose he means to do with them?"

"Sell them. What for no?"

"But mother never liked to have him. These are all pictures he did long ago."

"The quicker they'll go off the hand then."

"Do you approve?"

"With all me heart."

Amy dropped her face on her palms and considered the matter. Even with her habit of dealing with facts rather than fancies, she still found life a most perplexing and complex affair. The only help she gained toward understanding it was that clew taught her by her mother of matching the days and the events as one matches a fascinating puzzle. Out of this thought she spoke at last, though quite to the bewilderment of honest Cleena.

"It seems as if our losing all that belonged to us were making us sturdier folks, improving us all. Mother needed no improvement, so she hadn't to face the battle long. Well, one thing I know, she would be glad for us all, and some way I feel her very near to-day. Only, if I could just talk with her and ask her things."

"Sure ye can, me colleen. I mind it's no far to the land where she's gone. But about the money. See here; how got I this?"

And Cleena whipped out a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and unfolded it with utmost care. In this were a number of silver pieces, from half-dollars to dimes, and added together made the "smart decent sum" of five dollars and fifteen cents.

"Why, Cleena! Where? I thought all ours was spent as soon as earned."

"Where? An' I to be mendin' a few clothes for me neighbors. Even that man John fetches me a blouse now an' again, to put in a fresh pair o' sleeves or set on a button that's missin'. Sure, ye didn't think Cleena was one would be leavin' her childer bring in all the wage. Only—" and the good creature's fine face clouded dismally.

Amy's arms were around the other's neck, and her soft cheek pressed against the shoulder that had borne so many burdens for her and hers.

"Only what, you darling Scrubbub?"

"Only I was mindin' to buy a few trinkets for you an' Master Hal. 'Tis Christmas comes but once a year, an' sure me heart should give good cheer—"

"Cleena, Cleena! A poet! What next?"

"Arrah musha, no! Not one o' them sort. But it's in the air, belike. Christmastide do set the blood running hitherty-which. So they say in old Ireland. It's this way, me darling. Gifts for you an' Hal—or the trip to town for the master. Which, says you? For here's the silver will pay either one, an' it's you an' him shall decide."

"Then it's decided already. At least, I'm sure Hallam will so agree when he comes in. You know he's stopped at Mr. Metcalf's to see some books on designing. Hallam thinks that either he might learn to do it or that perhaps even father might give some odd moments to it, though I don't know as he would hardly dare propose it. The idea was Mr. Metcalf's, and he hasn't much 'sentiment' about him. He said that if there was any way in which father could make a living, he would be happier if so employed. It sounded dreadful to me at first, and then it seemed just sensible."

"That last it was, and so I b'lieve the master'll say himself. But child, child, you do be gettin' too sober notions into your bonny head. Oh, for that Balaam the spalpeen stole! But since ye can't ride, why then it's aye ye must walk. Either way, get into the open. There's not many such a day 'twixt now and Easter. Away with ye! Haven't I me pastry to make an' to-morrow Christmas? Go where ye've no thought, an' let the spirit carry ye. Then there'll be rest. But be home by nightfall, mind."

"Cleena, you dear, the kindest, truest, best woman left in this world!"

"Indeed, that's sweet decent speech, me dear; but seein' your 'world's' no bigger nor Ardsley township, I 'low I'll not be over set up by that same. Run away, child, run away!"

"Cleena, you're watching down the road. Why? Why?—I demand; and you talk of pastry, the which hasn't been in 'Charity House' since we came to it, save and except that dried apple pie sent in by Mrs. Jones."

"Ugh!" cried Cleena, making a face of contempt. "The match o' that good soul's pastry for hardness an' toughness isn't found this side of the Red Sea."

"Cleena, is that old John coming here to-day? Is it he you are watching for?"

"Why for no? If a man's more nor his share an' nobody to cook it, why shouldn't he be a bringin' it up an' lettin' a body fix it eatable? Sure, it's John himself. Ye're too sharp in the wits, an' I don't mind tellin' ye; it's all charity, Miss Amy. Him livin' by his lone an' gettin' boardin'-house truck. If he says to me, says he, 'Shall I fetch the furnishin' o' the best Christmas dinner ever cooked an' you be after preparin' it,' says he, 'only givin' me one plateful beside your nice kitchen fire,' says he, could I tell the man no, and me a good Christian? Ye know better, Miss Amy. Think o' the master, an' Master Hal, to-morrow comes. What's the good o' John, then, but to find food for me folks? Run along!"

Mr. Kaye had already gone off for one of his long tramps, over the fields and through the woods, to which he was now much given. He had taken such, at first, to subdue the restlessness which followed upon his wife's death, and as some sort of break in his unutterable loneliness. But nature had helped him more than he had dreamed; and to the pure air, the physical fatigue, and consequent sound sleep was due much of the cure of his mental illness that all who knew him now noticed.

So there was nobody who needed Amy just then, and she set off from "Charity House" at a brisk pace, resolved, as Cleena had advised, to forget all worry and labor, and "just have one good, jolly time."

She took the road upward toward the woods behind Fairacres, meaning to gather a bunch of late ferns for the decoration of the morrow's dinner table, since Cleena promised it should be a feast day, after all.

Before she quite realized it even, she had deflected from her course, remembering just then a certain glen in the grounds of her old home where rare ferns grew to prodigious size, and where no cold of winter seemed to harm them. Then once upon the familiar path every step was suggestive of some bygone outing, and led her to explore farther and still farther.

"Ah, the frost-bleached maiden-hair. Nowhere else does it last like this. It's almost as white as edelweiss, and far more graceful. I must put that in my basket, if nothing else." So she pulled it gently and with infinite care, lest she should break the delicate fronds that had outlasted their season by so long. Then there were others, dainty green and still fragrant, which she gathered eagerly; with here and there a bit of crimson-berried vine, or a patch of velvet moss.

Always she kept to the depth of the little ravine, through which ran a tiny, babbling brook. This had long ago been named "Merrywater," nor had it ever seemed gayer and more winsome than then. It was like reunion with some old beloved playmate, and Amy forgot everything but the present enjoyment as she stooped and dabbled in the water here and there. Sometimes she came to the fantastic little bridges which Hallam had used to lie upon the bank and construct out of the roots and pebbles she brought him. Where these had fallen into decay she repaired them; and at one time was busily endeavoring to force a grapevine into place when she heard a sound that made her pause in her task and spring to her feet.

"Ah-umph! A-h-u-m-ph! A-H-U-M-P-H!!!"

"Pepita! No—Balaam! Balaam, Balaam—Balaam!"

She was off up the bank in another instant. The sound was from the old stable, so dear, so familiar to her. As she ran she caught up here and there great tufts of sweet grass, such as had been neglected by the mowers, but were dear to donkey appetites.

"Oh, the precious! The blessed little beast! Won't Hallam be glad! Won't this be a Christmas gift indeed, to bring him back his own pet! How glad I am I took this way to walk, and how queer it is that he should be back in his very own old home. Is it so queer, though? Wouldn't I come, too, if I were just a burro and were set free to follow my own will? I can hardly wait to reach him."

In a moment she had done so, and had filled the manger with the still luscious grass, while climbing upon its front she had thrown her arms about the animal's neck and was assuring him, as she might a human being, that he had been sadly missed and would be most welcome home.

On his part the burro was fortunately silent, though his great, dark eyes looked volumes of affection, and he laid his big ears gently back to be out of Amy's way, while she caressed him. She smoothed his forelock, ran her fingers through his mane, patted his shaggy head, and told him that his "big velvet lips were the softest things on earth."

"Ahem!"

This remark, if such it could be called, fell upon Amy's ears so suddenly that she half tumbled backward from her perch upon the manger, and just saved herself by springing lightly down, or she thought it was lightly, until she wheeled and faced the intruder.

None other than Archibald Wingate, making a horrible grimace, and holding up one of his pudgy feet as if he were in great pain.

"Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn't know it was your foot, or you were you—I thought it was only the hay on the floor."

"Ugh! Great goodness! Umm. If you ever have the gout, young woman, you will understand how it feels to have anybody jump down full force upon your toes. Ouch! O dear! O dear!"

Amy had never been accustomed to seeing people make ado over physical suffering. She did not understand this man before her, and a thrill of distress ran through her own frame, like the touch of an electric battery.

"Oh, I am so sorry! I wouldn't have done it for anything if I had known. Can't I do something now to help you? Let me rub it or—or—lead you. You look—" In spite of her good intentions, the horrible contortions by which Mr. Wingate's countenance expressed his feelings affected her sense of the ridiculous, and she smiled. As instantly ashamed of the smile, she buried her face in her hands, and waited what would come next.

"Huh! Yes, you look sorry, of course you do, laughing at an old man after you've nearly broken his foot in two. Hmm. You're a sorry lot, the whole of you; yes, you are! O-oh!" Yet he, too, and in spite of himself, laughed; but it was at his own pitiful joke about his kinsmen being a "sorry lot."

Fortunately, Amy did not understand a jest of this nature, but she was swift to see the brightening of his face. She put her hand on his arm, and tried to draw his hand within her own.

"Maybe it won't be so bad. Lean on me, and I'll help you to a seat or to the house. And thank you, thank you so much for putting Balaam in the stable, and taking such good care of him. If Hal had known, he wouldn't have worried so about the little beast. He's been so tenderly cared for, we couldn't bear to think of him as off in the open fields with nobody but Fayette."

Mr. Wingate said not a word. He simply ceased groaning and grimacing, and he slipped his arm through Amy's, while a curious expression settled on his face. He did not lean at all heavily upon her, however, and he merely glanced toward the burro as the pair walked to the stable door. Then the animal thought it time to protest. Amy had brought him fresh grass, but she had dropped it all outside his manger, where he could not reach it. This was aggravation in the extreme. More than that, whenever, in the old days, she had been afflicted with one of these outbursts of affection, there had generally been a lump of sugar connected with it. To lose affection, hay, and sugar, all in one unhappy moment, was too much even for donkey patience.

"AH-UMPH! H-umph! A-h-u-m-p-h!"

"Whew! he's split my ears open. Plague take the beast!" cried Mr. Wingate, hurrying forward, and now stepping with suspicious freedom from lameness.

Amy hurried, too, wondering at his sudden recovery. "Oh, do you dislike his talk? I love it. I always laugh when I hear it, it is so absurd, and Pepita's was even funnier. She had a feminine note, so to speak, and she whined like a spoiled baby."

"What do you know about spoiled babies?"

"Why—nothing—only William Gladstone, he's a trifle self-willed, I think."

"William Gladstone! What do you mean? Who are you talking about? Are you all crazy together?"

"Not the English statesman, certainly. Just Mrs. Jones's youngest son. And I don't think we're crazy."

"I think you are, the whole lot. Well, will you come into the house with me? How did you know the donkey was here? Who told you?"

"He told me," laughed Amy. "Yes, I'll go in if you wish, if I can help you."

"How did he tell you?"

"I was gathering these ferns in the glen, and I heard him bray. See, aren't they beautiful? They're for the table to-morrow. The prettiest ferns in all Fairacres grow along the banks of 'Merrywater.'"

"Yes, I know. I used to gather them when I was a child. My grandmother liked them, though she called them plain 'brakes.' So you're not afraid to trespass, then? And you're able to have a dinner-party even so soon after—and with all the pretended devotion. But Cuthbert—"

Amy's hand went up to her kinsman's lips. It was a habit of hers, sometimes playfully sometimes earnestly used, to ward off anything she did not wish another to say to her, and she had done it before she thought; but having so done she would not withdraw her silent protest. This man should never say, nor would she ever hear, a word against her father. Of that she was determined, even though she must be rude to prevent.

For a moment Archibald Wingate resented the girl's correction. Then, as her hand dropped to her side and her gaze to the ground, he spoke:—

"You are right. I had no business to so speak. I honor you for your filial loyalty and—Come into the house. I have something I wish to discuss with you. So you want to thank me for taking care of Balaam, do you? You may feel differently after you have heard what I have to say. Oh, you did give me a twinge, I tell you!"

"Would it relieve the pain if I bathed the foot for you? Or is there anybody else to do it?"

"Would you do that for me?"

"Certainly."

"Ring that bell."

Amy obeyed. It was the familiar one which summoned, or had summoned, Cleena from her kitchen.

A man answered the call.

"Marshall, have a foot-bath brought in here. This young lady is going to dress my foot for me. For once there'll be no blundering heavy-handed servant to hurt me."

Over and over and over Amy washed and soothed the red, misshapen foot. The repugnance she had felt to touching it had all vanished when she saw how acute must have been the old man's suffering and his now evident relief.

"I thought you made a big fuss. Now I don't see how you walk about at all."

"I walk on my will," answered he, grimly. "You're a good girl; yes, you are. You're a real Kaye. Our women were all good nurses and tender-handed. It's a pity—such a pity!"

Amy thought the prodigious sigh that moved his mighty breast was for his own distress, and echoed his regret sincerely. "Yes; it is a pity. It seems to me it should be cured. I wish it could."

"So do I. Say, little woman, suppose you and I try to cure it."

Amy looked up. She had been speaking simply of his disease. She now saw that he had not been thinking of that at all. For the moment, while she so gently manipulated the swollen ankle and bound it with the lotions Marshall handed her, he had been quite comfortable, and the keen twinkle in his eye set her thinking. Was it the family feud he wished might be healed? He, who was the very foundation and cause of it?

She caught his hand in both hers, eagerly.

"Do you mean that we might live at peace; in love, as kinsfolk should? Now—this peace day—when the Christ child comes? Is it that?"

But Marshall made a little motion which might be warning or contempt. The old man's face hardened again.

"What are you asking? Look, you've wet my cuffs! Your hands just out of hot water and all liniment!"

"Never mind your cuffs. Look out for your heart. You're a poor, lonely old fellow, and I'm sorry for you."

Before he knew what she was about, Amy had thrown her arms about her cousin's neck and imprinted a kiss—somewhere. It didn't much matter that it landed squarely on the tip of his pudgy nose. Archibald Wingate was so little in the habit of receiving kisses that he might easily have imagined this was quite the customary place for their bestowal.

Chapter XXI.

A Peculiar Invitation.

It would be difficult to tell which was the most startled. Amy stepped back from the unresponsive object of her affectionate impulse and blushed furiously. She feared that he would think her bold and silly, yet she had only meant to be kind, to comfort him because she pitied him. Now, she was painfully conscious that Marshall was standing near, coolly observant, with a cynical smile upon his thin lips. It was a curious fact, which Amy instantly recognized, that this master of whom so many people stood in awe should himself stand in awe of his own valet.

"Ahem—shall I remove the bath, sir? Has the young person finished?"

Amy had not been accustomed to hearing herself spoken of as a "person," and the word angered her. This restored her self-possession. She looked up, laughing.

"I don't know how I came to do that, cousin Archibald. I hope you'll forgive me."

"Oh, I'll forgive you. I don't know how you did it, either. Well, man, why are you standing there, grinning like a Cheshire cat. I tell you she has finished. You can take away the things."

"Very well; it is time for your nap, sir."

The worm turned. "What if I don't take one to-day? What will happen?"

"I don't know, sir, except that you will probably be ill. The doctor's orders are, when you have an attack—"

"Hang you and the doctor and the attacks, all together! You can leave the room, can't you? When I want you, I'll ring."

Because he was too astonished to do otherwise, Marshall obeyed. He was a privileged person. His master did not often cross his will. There being no other apparent heirs, Marshall had, in his own imagination, constituted himself Mr. Wingate's heir. Why not? A lifelong service, an untiring devotion to whims of all sorts, a continual attention to the "creature comforts" which were so greatly a part of Archibald's life—these merited a rich reward. Marshall intended to receive this reward, should he be lucky enough to outlive his employer. He felt that he would fill the position of owner of Fairacres with dignity and profit. He did not like this new interest Mr. Wingate was taking, by fits and starts, in the deposed family who were his relatives and—enemies. In Marshall's opinion the breech between these kinsfolk ought not to be healed. Amy's presence in the house was a disastrous portent. She must be gotten out of it as soon as possible, and in such a way that she would not care to come again. But how?

The servant revolved this question, as he carried away the bath, and so profoundly that he failed to notice where he was going and stepped down a forgotten stair so unexpectedly that he fell and drenched himself with the water from the tub.

"Plague on her! Now, I'm in for it!" Which meant that before he could remove the damage to his attire Amy would probably have gained whatever she came to seek. He did not believe that anybody would visit his master without having "an axe to grind," for he judged all men by himself.

However, having tasted the sweets of rebellion against this iron rule of Marshall, Mr. Wingate determined to enjoy it further.

"He's a meddling old fool. He's a good servant, too. There isn't another man in the world would put up with my tempers as he does. Never a word in return, and as smooth as silk."

Amy laughed. "He looks to me as if he had had his hair licked by kittens. It's so slick and flat. Do you have to mind him always?"

"Mind him? I—mind my servant, eh?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon. Of course—"

Mr. Wingate's face was scarlet. The weakness which he had hardly acknowledged to himself had been instantly discovered by this bright-eyed girl. It wasn't a pleasant thing to have so observant a person about. He had something to say to her, however, and he would do it at once and get rid of her. All his newly aroused affection died in his resentment against her judgment.

"I want to go to the studio. There is something there I don't mean to keep, and don't wish to destroy, without consulting some of you."

Amy followed him quietly out of the house toward the building where her father had spent so many hours, and which she held in strictest veneration. Did it not still enclose the "great picture" which even she had never seen, and which had been kept screened from the sight of all?

So she still expected to find the white curtain undisturbed; and as she entered the studio, paused—amazed. The canvas covered the end of the apartment; but after one hasty glance Amy shielded her eyes in a distress that was almost terror.

"Hmm. It is very realistic, isn't it? The thing is horrible. I don't wonder that Cuthbert's wits got scattered, working on it. It would drive me crazy in a week, and I'm a hard, matter-of-fact man. I kept it, because by right I might have kept everything that was here. I supposed I was getting something worth while. But this! I don't want it. I couldn't sell it. I hate to destroy it. What's to be done?"

"Oh, I wish I hadn't seen it!"

"So do I. I see it sometimes in the night and then I can't sleep. I mean I imagine I see it, for I never come here after dark. It's a wonderful picture, sure enough. A horrible one."

The canvas fascinated Amy. It depicted a great fire. It was ugly in extreme. The big, bare building was in flames, everywhere. The windows seemed numberless, and at almost every window a face; on these faces all the gamut of fright, appeal, and unutterable despair. They were human—living. The girl felt impelled to run and snatch them from their doom; also the impulse to hide her eyes, that she might not see.

Mr. Wingate had taken a chair before the painting, and was looking at it critically.

"I tell you that's a marvellous thing, and it's as dreadful as masterly. There's only one way I can see by which a man could get any money out of it: that's by cutting out the separate faces and selling them singly. A body might endure to see one such countenance in his collection, but not more; or, it might be destroyed altogether. It explains why Cuthbert never recovered from the shock of the accident he was in. He never lost sight of it. He must have begun this while it was fresh in his brain, and he did his utmost to keep it fresh. Poor Salome, she had a hard life."

"She had a happy life. She loved my father. He loved her. Whatever he did was right, just right in her eyes. You needn't pity her. But, oh, if she were only here to consult! Why did you show it to me? Why did I have to see it?"

"Because it couldn't be helped. The thing is; it exists. Now what is to be done with it?"

"I—will ask my father."

"I don't know that that is wise. It might bring about a return of his malady, and I'm told he is improving in all respects."

"I must do it; it is his. There is no other way."

"What if it makes him worse again?"

Poor Amy! All her Christmas cheer had died from her heart. She felt that it would be almost wicked to remind her father of this, his "life work," of which she had not heard him speak since he left Fairacres. Yet it was his. He had given years to its completion, so far as it had neared that point.

Mr. Wingate regarded her keenly. "Well?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know what to say. Have you nothing to propose?"

"Only what I did. To cut it up and sell the faces as so many small canvases. That would partially repay me for the things he still owes for—the paints and so on. But I detest the thing so I hate to spread the misery of it."

"Repay you? Do you mean that you believe you have a right—you own that picture?"

"Certainly."

"Why, it is the labor of—it means many years out of my poor father's life. Can such a thing be 'owned' by anybody except him?"

"Yes, of course. Hark you. You go home and tell him what I offer. I will take the picture off his hands and allow him—hmm—maybe two hundred dollars; or, he can take it and owe me that much more. In any case I want to get rid of it. I won't have it left here much longer. I shall have other uses for this room, maybe. Anyway, I mean to get that off the place."

Amy moved slowly toward the door. She did not know how to reply, and she felt her cousin was a very hard, unjust man. Yet she agreed with him that the picture was enough to make a person wish it out of sight, even out of existence.

At the doorway he arrested her steps, by laying his hand upon her shoulder.

"Help me down; I'm afraid of stairs. And there's another thing—that donkey."

"Oh, yes; I had forgotten Balaam. May I ride him home? Will you have him brought around for me?"

"Eh? What? Not so fast—not quite so fast! No, I don't mean the stairs. I can manage this pace for them. I mean the donkey. It came here of its own accord. It gave me an idea. If your brother wants to sell him—By the way, how do you expect to pay the rent?"

Amy stopped short, halfway down the stairs, and so suddenly that Mr. Wingate remonstrated.

"If you'd give warning of these spasmodic actions of yours, it would be more comfortable for those depending on you. There, please move along."

"The rent? I had not thought. Didn't my mother attend to that?"

"For the first quarter year, she did. To whom must I look now?"

Unmindful, since this new distressing question had been raised, how much she inconvenienced him, Amy sat plump down and leaned her head against the hand-rail.

It always appeared to aid her reflective powers if she could rest her troubled head against something material.

"I'll try to think. I earn two dollars and a half a week."

"Oh, my foot hurts again. Let's get into a decent room and talk it over there. I hate draughty halls and unwarmed rooms. There's a fire in the little side parlor off the dining room. That's my own private den. I want to get there and lie down. That rabbit pie I had for lunch doesn't agree with me, I'm afraid. Do you like rabbit pie?"

"No, indeed; I wouldn't eat one for anything."

"Why not?"

"I should fancy the pretty creatures looking at me with their soft eyes. They're the gentlest animals in the world."

"The most destructive, you mean."

She did not contest. Besides, she was now in great haste to leave Fairacres and regain the shelter of her own home. Strange, she reflected, how quickly she had ceased to think of this house, her birthplace, as a home; since all that went to make it such had gone elsewhere.

"About that rent money. If Hallam is able to keep at work we may together earn five dollars a week. That would be twenty dollars a month. The rent is ten. We will be able to pay it, I think."

"Do you imagine you will be able to live upon the remainder? Upon two and a half dollars a week, four grown persons?"

"If we have no more, we shall have to do so, shan't we?"

"Excuse me; but what would you eat? I saw no sign of scrimping and pinching that day I first came here—to stay."

"Oh, then Cleena was determined you should say no blame of her housekeeping. She gave you all in one meal. We've often laughed over it since."

"Humph! But this two and a half per week, what would it buy?"

"Meal and milk. Sometimes oat meal, sometimes corn. Once and again an egg or something for father. Oh, we'd manage."

"Hmm, hmm; you'd rather live on that than run in debt? You younger Kayes, who are all I seem to take account of now—Salome is gone."

"We will run in no debt we cannot pay, unless we are ill and it is impossible to help. Hal and I settled that long ago. So far we have managed, and now he is working too, I feel as rich as—rich."

"Exactly. Amy, if this old house were yours, what would you do with it?"

The answer was prompt and decided.

"Make it into a Home for Mill Girls."

"Whew! What in the world! Fairacres? The proudest old mansion in the country, or in this part of it! Are you beside yourself?"

"I should be with delight, if I could make that dream a reality."

"I gave you credit for more sense. But, business—that donkey. How much did Mr. Metcalf intend to pay for it?"

"I suppose the same as he did for Pepita. Seventy-five dollars—burro, harness, and all."

"At ten dollars a month, that would take you along well into next summer. Tell Hallam that I will keep the animal and allow him eight months' rent for it. That's giving you a half month, you see. Will you?"

"Yes, I'll tell him," answered she, with a catch in her voice. "Only I had hoped to take him home with me. It would have made such a delightful Christmas for us all. You don't know how much we love those pretty creatures."

"Pretty! Opinions differ."

"And would it be quite right to make any such arrangements, after having asked the superintendent to buy it, and he agreeing? Wouldn't he be the one to say something about it?"

"Amy, you're incorrigible. You're a radical. A thing is either absolutely right or it is absolutely wrong—according to your standard. You'll be in trouble as long as you live, for you'll find nobody else with such antiquated notions as yours. There are a great many things that are expedient."

"I hate expedient things. I like just the easy, simple 'no' and 'yes' that was my darling mother's rule. I'm glad I'm at least a birthright Friend."

Mr. Wingate was silent. He seemed to drop into a profound reverie, and the girl hesitated to disturb him, eager as she now was to be away. Finally, as she had made up her mind to speak, he did so himself.

"Amy, do you ever use the plain speech now?"

"Sometimes—between ourselves. For mother's sake we can never let it die."

"Will thee use it to me now and then? It was the habit of my boyhood. Salome was my oldest friend. We've played together in this very room, again and again. She was my good angel. Until—No matter. You are her child. Not like her at all in face or manner. She was always gentle, and shrank from giving pain. Truthful and puritanical as she was in her ideas, she had the tact, the knowledge to say things without hurting those whom she corrected. She corrected me often and often, when we were young, but she hurt me—never. Now, you—heigho!"

"Now, I hurt—thee. Of course. I speak first and think afterward. But does thee know, cousin Archibald, thee is the very queerest man I ever met?"

"Have you—has thee—known many?"

"Very few. Thee is so good on one side and so—so—not nice on the other. Like a half-ripened pear. But I am sorry for thee. I wish I could do thee good. Do I speak it as thee wishes?"

"Indeed, yes. It is music, even though the words are unflattering enough. Well, I'll not keep thee longer. And I don't ask you to call attention to this whim of mine by saying 'thee' in public," he remarked, himself falling back into the habit of their intercourse.

"No; if I say 'thee,' it is to be always, whenever I remember—like a bond to remind me I must be kind to thee for my mother's sake. If she did thee good, I must try to do thee good too."

"In what way?"

Amy reflected. The first, most obvious way, would be by cheering his solitude. Yet she hesitated. The thing which had come into her mind involved the desires of others also. She had no right, until she consulted them, to commit herself. Yet she disliked to leave this lonely old fellow, without trying to make him glad.

She sat down again in the chair from which she had risen and regarded him critically.

"Oh, cousin Archibald, if thee were only a little bit different!"

"Thee, too!" he laughed—actually laughed; and the action seemed to clear his features like a sunburst.

"Oh, of course. Well, it's this way. To-morrow's Christmas, isn't it?"

"So I've heard."

"And somebody—Teamster John—has sent Cleena 'the furnishing of a good dinner,' she told me. I don't know when we may have another such a meal, one that thee would think fit to eat. I'd like to ask thee to come and share it with us, instead of staying here alone, all grumpy with the gout. But it isn't my dinner, thee sees, and I'm going home to tell my people everything. About the picture and the donkey and all. If, after that, they agree with me that it would be nice to ask thee to spend the holiday with us, I'll bring thee word. If I do, will thee come?"

Mr. Wingate leaned back in his easy-chair and hugged his gouty foot for so long and so silently that Amy grew impatient and rose.

"Anyway, I must go home. I've been here ever so much later than I meant to stay. Good-by."

"Wait! How impetuous you—thee is. Well, I've received a great many invitations to dine, from the banquets of bank presidents down to the boiled dinners of my own workmen, but I doubt if I ever received one so honest and so honestly expressed."

"Will thee come, if thee is asked?"

"Yes; I'll come—if I'm asked. Don't thee bother to walk all the way back again, though. If by nine o'clock to-night I have heard nothing to the contrary, I shall understand that I am expected to dine with my tenants at 'Spite House.' At what hour, please?"

"On Christmas, dinner is usually at three o'clock. And, if thee pleases, it is no longer 'Spite' but 'Charity House.' My mother changed all that. Thee must not dishonor her wishes if thee loves her."

A wonderful, an almost beautiful change passed over the old man's face.

"Amy, thee speaks as if she were here still."

"She is to me. She always will be. Good-by."

She was gone, and the house seemed bigger and emptier after she had left it. But Archibald Wingate would not have had anybody know with what almost childish anxiety he waited the striking of the clock, as the hour of nine drew near. He had been judged a hard and bitter man. He was very human, after all. The small brown hand of his young cousin was pointing a new, strange way, wherein he might happily walk, and in secret he blessed her for it. But he was a man who liked his own will and to follow his own road still; though he might do his utmost to bend that road in the direction she had elected. Meanwhile, he would have his supper sent in and sitting at ease before his own hearth-blaze review many plans.

So he did, and after the supper a comfortable nap, from which he roused with a start, fancying the old clock in the hall was striking the hour.

"Eh? What? Is it nine already? That timepiece must be fast."

"It's only me, sir, Marshall, with a bucket of coals. And, if you please, there's a young person outside insists upon seeing you, sir. Am I to bid him go away until morning?"

In his disappointment the master's face really paled. Marshall noticed it and wondered, but he knew enough, sometimes, to hold his tongue. This seemed to him to be one of the times, and he therefore made no comment, nor even inquired for the master's health.

"No, don't send anybody away. I fancy that was never the custom at Fairacres, on Christmas Eve, be the visitor who he might. We'll not disturb the old ways, more than we can help. After all—Bid the messenger come in."

Chapter XXII.

Two Wanderers Return.

The "young person" to whom Marshall referred in such contemptuous terms was Lionel Percival Jones. He so announced himself, as he was ushered into the presence of the great man.

"I've come to bring a letter from Amy Kaye."

"Indeed; would it not sound better if you said 'Miss Kaye,' or 'Miss Amy'? She is a kinswoman of mine."

Lionel Percival was astonished. He had prepared himself for this visit with the utmost care. He had oiled his curly auburn locks with a scented pomatum, and parted them rakishly in the middle. He wore his most aggressive necktie and his yellowest shoes, also his Sunday suit of clothes. With the exception of the necktie and the pomatum, he would not have attracted attention to himself anywhere, and so would have been well dressed. With these, he seemed to be all-pervading. He had instantly, by means of them, offended Mr. Wingate's taste, and put himself at disadvantage.

"Why, I'd just as lief say 'Miss,' but she's a mill girl, same as my own sister. I didn't go to mean no harm."

The mill owner winced. Then inquired:—

"Is there an answer expected?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. Wait here."

The master of Fairacres limped into the adjoining room and turned his back toward the door between, hiding his face from the lad's observation as he read.

"Humph! She left it open, which is correct enough with reliable messengers. Probably, though, he had the curiosity to read what she had to say,"—in which he wholly wronged the bearer. But Mr. Wingate had yet to learn that even lads who attire themselves atrociously may still be true gentlemen at heart, and sin in taste through ignorance only.

This was the note:—

"Dear Cousin Archibald Wingate: My father and Hallam will be very happy to have thee dine with us to-morrow, Christmas Day. Cleena says that dinner will be served at three o'clock. If thee knew her as well as I do, thee would understand that she means not a minute before nor one afterward. If thee pleases, I would rather not have any 'business' talk of any sort to-morrow. I would like it to be a day of peace, as my mother always kept it for us. Thee may meet some other guests, but we will try to make thee happy.

"Good night,

"Amy."

It was a very cheerful and smiling old gentleman who returned to the room where Lionel Percival waited for the reply, a brief but stately acceptance of the invitation; for since Amy had set him the example, the mill owner considered that she regarded such formality essential.

Then he called in Marshall and bade him see that the messenger had a bit of supper before his return walk, which proceeding made the valet stare, and the boy feel exceedingly proud. It would be something of which to boast among his comrades at the mill.

The morning proved a cloudless one, mild and merciful to such as suffered from gout, and Mr. Wingate drove himself to "Charity House" in his own little phaeton. He felt this was an occasion when Marshall's too solicitous attentions might be in the way. He held a debate with himself, before setting off, whether he should or should not add to the feast from his own larder, and he decided against so doing by the simple test of "put yourself in his place."

But there was plenty and to spare. Teamster John did nothing by halves. Those who have least of this world's goods are always the most generous. Cleena had prepared each dish with her best skill and waited upon her guests with smiling satisfaction. Afterward, in the kitchen, she and John discussed the strange reunion of their "betters," and Cleena speculated upon it in her own fashion:—

"Sure, there's never fish, flesh, nor fowl could withstand the loving ways of me little colleen. And to hear them talkin' together, like lambs in the field. Them—"

"I never heerd lambs talkin'," observed John, facetiously.

"Then it's deaf ye've been belike. Oh, me fathers, if here doesn't come me own Gineral—Napoleon—Bonyparty! Where have ye been avick, avick?" she demanded, pushing hastily back from the board and hurrying out of doors. "Well, it's proof o' yer sense ye comes back in due time for a bit o' the nicest turkey ever was roast. But it's shamefaced ye be, small wonder o' that! Howsomever, it's a day o' good will. Come by. Wash up, eat yer meat, an' give thanks. To-morrow—I'll settle old scores. Come by."

Yet when Fayette entered the kitchen and learned from John who were the guests in the dining room beyond, he scowled and would have gone away again. However, he had forgotten Cleena. That good woman, having received her prodigal back, did not intend to relinquish him. She saw his frown, his hasty movement, and shutting the door put her back against it.

"You silly omahaun! If your betters forgives an' eats the bread o' peace, what's you to be settin' such a face on the matter? Come by. Be at peace. There's the blessed little hunchback eatin' cranberry sauce cheek by jowl with her 'boss,' an' can't you remember the Child was born for such as you, me poor silly lad? Come by."

Fayette "came by" at last, silently and because he was half famished, and could not resist the savory odors of the tempting food Cleena offered him. Yet in his heart there was still anger and evil intent; and though he was amazed to find Mary Reese a guest at the Kayes' table, as well as their "mortal enemy," Mr. Wingate, he made no further comment, and as soon as the meal was over retreated without a word to his chamber and shut the door.

"It's like he might ha' just stepped out yesternight, he drops into ways so quick," said Cleena.

"But he's not the same lad. He'll give somebody trouble before long. You do wrong, woman, to harbor him. He's vindictive and dangerous."

The trustful Cleena laughed the teamster to scorn.

"Faith, give a dog a bad name an' he'll earn it. Let the lad be. In old Ireland we call such the 'touched of God.' We judge not, an' that's the size of a man—how he betreats the helpless ones. Put that in your pipe an' smoke it."

Surely, John thought, there was a deal of good sense and heart kindness in this stalwart daughter of Erin. He was Yankee himself, to the backbone; yet, as he pushed back from the table, satisfied and at ease, he pulled from his pocket a small paper parcel. It was his Christmas gift for his hostess, and intended to suggest many things. She was bright enough to comprehend his meaning, if she chose. Would she? She gave no sign, if she did, as she unrolled the package and placed its contents—a small flag of Ireland and its mate, in size, of the United States—behind the kitchen clock, where the blended colors made a bit of gayety upon the whitewashed wall.

"Long may they wave!" cried the donor.

"Troth, I'm not seein' no wavin'. They're best as they be, with the timepiece betwixt. Each in its place, as the Lord wills, an' mine's here. So here I bides till I'm no longer wanted."

"It's a biggish house," quoth the undismayed suitor. "There's room in it for me, too, I cal'late."

But if Cleena heard this remark she ignored it, passing swiftly into the dining room to remove the dishes of the first course, and substituting the luxury of a basket of fruit which she had accumulated somehow, as only herself could have explained.

Maybe there is no trivial thing that so greatly helps to bridge over a trying situation as good breeding. The breeding which is really good, out of the inner life: kindness and the reluctance to inflict pain. It was such breeding that enabled the oddly assorted company at that Christmas dinner table to pass the hours of their intercourse not only in peace, but with absolute enjoyment.

Finally, when the elders pushed back their chairs, Mr. Kaye proposed that Amy should sing some of the old-time ballads familiar to the childhood of both himself and his kinsman. So Hallam took out his mother's guitar and tuned it, and his sister placed herself beside him.

"Ah, how well I remember that little instrument," cried Mr. Wingate, "and the commotion it caused among the Friends. Music used to be the most 'worldly' and undesirable thing, but they are more tolerant now. Give us 'Lang Syne,' youngsters. It's the song for the day and—this hour."

It was. They sang it lustily, and Amy was amazed to hear how finely that deep voice of their cousin could fill in the pauses of her own treble, sweet but not strong. Then there was "Annie Laurie," and "Edinboro' Toon," and "Buy my Caller Herrin'," and others; till Cleena drew John to the door to listen and applaud, forgetting for once the big pile of dishes standing unwashed upon her kitchen table.

"For, aye, it's a time o' peace, thank God. An' her that has gone is among us never a doubt I doubt. What's a bit o' idlin' when a sight for saints is afore ye? If Fayetty, now—"

But Fayette was not there. Neither was he in his own room when Cleena sought him there. He had left it while she was off guard and had made his escape unseen. Forces of good and evil were tormenting him: the struggle to do right and please these good friends, and the greater yearning to seek the wrong path to revenge.

Yet, after all, what was this poor human waif to these happier folk? So he asked himself as he sneaked away in the twilight which hid his departure.

Had Amy heard the question, she would have answered it promptly: "Much, Fayette. Everybody one knows is something to one's self."

But she did not even hear of his brief visit, for, having discovered his fresh defection, Cleena decided to keep the matter to herself.

It was getting quite late when Archibald Wingate drove away from "Charity House" toward Fairacres, and as he went he pondered of many things. Once or twice he fancied he saw a lurking shadow in the road, that was not due to either bush or tree which bordered it. But he thought little of the matter, so engrossed was he with the recollections of the evening.

"Queer, what a pleasant time I had. Yet we are all, practically, enemies. Each side feels that the other side has been at fault. Anyway, I seem to hear Salome saying: 'Judge not my children by the mistakes of their parents.' Nor will I; of that I am resolved. I'll give even that top-lofty lad, Hallam, a fair show, by and by. I must test him a little longer first, then I'll begin. That is, if he's made of the right stuff. As for Amy, she's a witch. She's wheedled the heart right out of me with her bright, unflinching, honest eyes. Talked to me about getting up a 'club' for the mill folks. 'The right sort of club, with books and pictures and everything helpful.' The saucebox! and she earning the mighty wage of two-fifty per week. Well, all in good course. I haven't toiled a lifetime to attain my object, then relinquish it without a little enjoyment of it; though, after all, possession isn't everything. The struggle was about as enjoyable as the result. But I succeeded! I am master of Fairacres, of Ardsley Mills, of half all Ardsley township. The old family is still on top. But, I'll buy Cuthbert's great picture and burn it up—sometime. Hmm. Wonder where that visionary Frederic Kaye is, of whose unpractical schemes I am reaping the benefit. Odd—buried himself in California, so to speak, and the only visible proofs that he had ever reached that happy land are a couple of braying burros.—Hello! hello, I say! Who's that? What's up?"

The shadow which had dogged the track of the mill owner's phaeton had suddenly become a reality. His horse was seized, forced backward, the horsewhip wrenched from its socket, and before he could defend himself Mr. Wingate's head and shoulders felt the cuts of the whip, delivered in swift and furious intensity.

"Hold on! hold—on! What—who—stop, stop, s-t-o-p! You're killing me! What's wanted? It's murder—murder!"

And again after another visitation of stripes, that awful cry of "mur-der!"

The word holds its own horror. No one can thus hear it shouted, in the stillness of the night, unmoved. It affected even the ferocious assailant of the lonely old man, and arrested his further blows.

"Murder." That meant death, prison, everything that was hateful. Even to Fayette's dull brain there penetrated some realization of what his present deed implied. For this was he who had waylaid an "enemy" on the highroad and beaten him into unconsciousness.

Then he remembered his own wrongs, and his anger flamed afresh.

"Thought you could do all the lickin', did ye? How many times did you have me thrashed? What did you care if the man who thrashed me 'bout killed me? What was I, only 'Bony,' out o' the poor farm! Ugh, you old rascal! Take that, and that, and that. Huckleberries! but it's fun to settle such scores."

The old horse which Mr. Wingate drove stood quiet in the road, else the matter might have had a different ending; for had she run and dragged her now helpless master, he would surely have been killed. As it was, she did not move, so there was nothing to deaden the sound of the sharp blows Fayette administered; and in the silence of the place and night this sound carried far.

It reached the ears of a foot passenger, toiling up the mill road toward Fairacres and quickened his pace. So that when the half-wit finally paused for breath, he felt himself caught by his collar and heard a stern voice demanding:—

"What's this? Hold! Stop! This—here, in Ardsley?"

Fayette looked up. The man who had gripped him was much taller than he, and seemed in that dim light a giant for strength. The capture brought back all those visions of punishment and the prison. In a twinkling the agile lad had writhed himself free from his short coat and leaped away into the darkness.

The newcomer heard a sound of retreating footsteps and mocking laughter, then turned his attention to the injured man in the phaeton.

"An old fellow, too, he seems. Hello! Are you alive? Hey! Can't you speak? That's serious."

The stranger's actions were alert and decided. He gently raised the bent figure of the unconscious Mr. Wingate to as comfortable a position as he could, stepped into the vehicle, and took up the reins.

"If nothing is changed, the nearest house is old Fairacres. But I didn't look for such a home-coming. Get up there, nag!"

Not since the days of her youth had the sorrel mare been forced into such a pace as then. The rescuer drove for life and death, and as if all turnings of the old road were familiar to him. Nor did he slacken rein until he reached the front door of the mansion, and sung out in a voice to wake great echoes:—

"Hello, there! Come out! A man in distress!"

This hello reached the stable, where Fayette was loosing Balaam, and roused that intelligent beast to speak his opinion concerning these disturbances of his rest.

Marshall, hurrying to answer the imperative demand at the front door, heard the burro's bray of protest, though he paid it small attention then, because of the nearer demand. Holding his candle high above his head, he slid back the bolts and peered out, but the sight which met his gaze set him trembling like an aspen.

"Why—my land! Master, what—what's happened? Have they murdered you out of hand? Ah, but my mind misgave me how 'twould be. To think it—to think it!"

"Hush! Put down the candle. Give a lift; he's powerful heavy. Is this your master?"

The servant retreated. This might be the very person who had done the mill owner such terrible injury. He would put his own precious anatomy out of harm's reach.

"Oh, you fool! Come back. You're safe. Leave that door open. I'll bring him in myself. Make way there—quick!"

Marshall tried to barricade the entrance to the room beyond the hall by means of his own plump body, and was promptly kicked aside, as the stranger strode past him, bearing the unconscious man upon his shoulder, very much as if he had been a bag of meal.

"Is this your master?"

"Y-ye-s. Who—are you—ordering—"

"Hot water—lights—a doctor—everything—at once. I'm Frederic Kaye."

Chapter XXIII.

Frederic Kaye's Welcome Home.

The excitement at Ardsley was intense. Never had its quiet precincts been disturbed by a crime so unprovoked and dastardly.

"To strike a man in the dark."

"To waylay an old fellow like that. The man is a coward, whoever he be, that did it."

"Poor old 'boss.' He wasn't to say over lovable, in ordinary, but I'd pity even a scoundrel got treated that way."

"He ought to be punished with his own stripes."

"Oh, he'll get what he deserves. Never fear. If old man Wingate had been poor—well, you might say. But a rich man has friends."

Such talk all through the mill, on that day after Christmas, interfered seriously with the customary labor. But it was small wonder; and though he tried to enforce discipline and keep things running smoothly, even Mr. Metcalf himself was greatly disturbed and anxious.

The news of the assault upon the mill owner had spread rapidly. At first the story told by the stranger, who had so suddenly and opportunely appeared upon the scene, was given credence. Then, when it was remembered that this stranger, now known to be Frederic Kaye, had been injured and supplanted by Archibald Wingate, a faint suspicion began to rise in men's minds.

Only those who have suffered from it know with what terrible rapidity an unjust rumor grows and spreads. Inoculated by this evil germ, even the fairest judgment becomes diseased. Those who had best known Frederic Kaye, the old people who recalled his frank, impetuous, happy-go-lucky boyhood, here in the town where he was born and bred; those who had received good from his hand, and nothing but good; even these joined with the baser sort in considering the night attack upon the mill owner "quite natural. Just what might have been expected."

"Of course no one knows what sort of life Kaye's led out there in Californy. The jumping-off place of creation."

So, instead of finding himself among friends, the returned citizen discovered that he was among enemies, under the basest of suspicions. He had remained all night at Fairacres, with the doctor so hastily summoned there. This gentleman was an old acquaintance, and from him Mr. Frederic, as he had always been called in distinction from Mr. Kaye, the artist and his brother-in-law, learned the history of the past weeks. Yes, even of years.

"It's a pity, a great pity! When I failed to pay what I owed on the property here, and Salome, my sister, saw that I would lose everything unless somebody came to my aid, she did so. I hoped, I fully expected, to be able to return what she advanced. All the world knows now that I was not."

"She was not the first person who has been ruined by injudicious indorsement."

The Californian winced. His home-coming was proving a terrible disappointment to him, and he little dreamed how much worse than disappointment was yet in store.

"Well, bad luck has pursued me. I have lost in every speculation I ever undertook. The last I tried was the evaporation of fruits. There's money in it, if I had the capital—"

"Then you did not know how badly things were going with your sister?"

"I never dreamed it. You knew her well—Salome was never a whiner. If she had even intimated the straits which she was in, I would have thrown up every chance and come back at once, to put my shoulder to the wheel in some shape. I wouldn't have permitted it."

"How happen you here just now?"

"My niece, Amy, wrote me of her mother's death. It was a brief, heart-broken little letter. I have it here. It brought me home, but I still fancied that home was this house." The gentleman took from his pocket a small envelope and read its enclosure aloud. It was, as he had stated, extremely short and gave only the facts.

"My dear Uncle Frederic: Our mother is dead. She is buried at Quaker cemetery. My father and Hallam are well. So is Cleena. I don't know how to write to you because you are really a stranger to me. The burros are both well. Your loving

"Amy Kaye."

"There, that's all. It was enough to bring me clear across the continent, however. My heart aches; I should have come sooner. Oh, for one sight of Salome's beautiful face before—" He dropped his head on his hand and a sob shook the strong frame.

The doctor rose and busied himself about his patient. He respected the brother's grief, and he liked this man, unthrifty and neglectful as he might have been.

Then Marshall made a sign, and the physician left the room so quietly that Mr. Kaye did not hear him go. Outside, in the hall, the valet was waiting, almost breathless with eagerness.

"Will he live?" he questioned in a whisper.

"Time will tell. I hope so," was the unsatisfactory response.

"Well, if he don't, that's his—murderer."

The other sprang back as if he had been struck.

"Man, take care what you say! How dare you?"

"Ain't it reasonable? Didn't he say he was the man that owned the mill, this house, everything before master did? Who else had a grudge against the poor old man?"

"Lots of people, I reckon. It won't hurt him to tell the truth. He was as testy as a snapping turtle—you know that. Plenty of folks disliked him. Most likely the person who attacked him was a tramp who hoped to find money. By the way, did anybody look to see if there had been robbery as well as assault?"

"I did. No; there wasn't anything stole, so far as I know. That's what, one thing—why it must have been—"

Dr. Wise laid his hand on Marshall's shoulder.

"Look here, man, you stop that talk. Not another word of it. How dare you, I say how dare you, thrust suspicion upon an innocent man? I'd stake my life on the integrity of any Kaye was ever born. Unfortunate this returned wanderer may be, but—If you let me hear one single word more of such fol-de-rol, I'll make it hot for you. Understand? Haven't we got enough on our hands to keep your master alive? There must be quiet here, absolute quiet. It's your business to have it maintained; and if you don't, I'll have you punished as accessory to the deed. Hear me?"

All this had been delivered in the lowest tone possible, yet each syllable was as distinctly enunciated as if it had been shouted. The doctor knew Marshall. He chose that idle threat of "accessory" as the safest means to accomplish his own object.

This was all very well, so far as it went. Unfortunately, the doctor was not the only person to whom the valet had already announced his suspicion. There were other servants in the kitchen, and they had been swiftly poisoned by his opinion. So that when, after a sleepless night of watching beside his kinsman's bed, Frederic Kaye set off for "Charity House" and his relatives, he was even then a marked man.

Into the sacredness of reunion, when the little family on the knoll were discussing all that had befallen them, on either side, and the two men were renewing old affections, while Hallam and Amy were forming new ones for this new uncle, there came an alarming summons.

A local officer of the law presented himself before the group and on behalf of the public safety arrested the stranger.

"Arrest me? Why, what in the name of justice do you mean?"

"Just what I say. For the attack upon a peaceful citizen, who lies at the point of death, brought there by your villainous hand," repeated the sheriff, solemnly. He so seldom had opportunity to exercise his office that he now embellished it with all the dignity possible.

"Indeed, take care of your words, friend! It was a case of rescue, not attack. You are slightly mixed in your ideas, sir. I found him suffering a terrible horsewhipping at the hands of somebody whom I do not know, who slipped away from me when I seized him, and disappeared in the darkness. I was too anxious over Mr. Wingate to notice, or even care, which direction the rascal took. But—aha, it's too absurd!"

"Remember that whatever you say will be used against you," cautioned the officer of the law.

"Let it. I could ask no better treatment."

"You say you grabbed a fellow. What was he like?"

"It was too dark to see distinctly. He appeared rather tall and slim. I don't remember that he said a word, but he laughed harshly as he ran. Somehow, that laugh gave me the impression that the man was demented. But I have nothing else to judge by, and I would not be unjust. The thing for which to be thankful is that Dr. Wise hopes my kinsman's injuries are not fatal."

"Hmm. All the same, sir, you will have to go with me."

Frederic Kaye turned toward his friends a countenance which expressed as much amusement as annoyance. Cuthbert Kaye had risen, and his face was white with indignation. The sight of this, determined his brother-in-law to yield quietly to the inevitable. He had heard much during his night with Dr. Wise of the artist's recent condition, and he felt it would be criminal to let him become excited now. So he laid his hand affectionately upon the trembling shoulder, and remarked, with laughing disdain:—

"Why, lad, don't think of it. It's a ludicrous mistake, of course, and the best, the simplest way to correct it is for me to go with this gentleman; and I doubt not I'll be back in time for dinner. Why, Cleena, woman, take care! It's delightful to find you so loyal to your 'black sheep,' but fisticuffs won't answer, nor even a shillalah."

This was a diversion, and everybody laughed. For Cleena had advanced threateningly toward the sheriff, raising her rolling-pin, that she happened to have in hand, as if she would bring it down upon his offending head. Her hand dropped to her side, but her eyes did not cease to hurl contempt upon the officer, as, under cover of the merriment resulting, Frederic Kaye himself led the way out of the house toward the "bar of justice."

Because Cleena fancied that Amy had taken cold, the girl had remained at home that morning, but she now begged to be allowed to return to the mill.

"I want to go and see Mr. Metcalf. He'll be the very one to help Uncle Frederic, if he needs help, and I'd rather tell him the story myself."

"If you go, I will too," said Hallam, quickly. "I'll have no holidays you do not share."

"Nonsense! Your work is 'piece work.' If you get behind at one time, you can make it up at another. The superintendent told me you could soon bring it home to do, if you wished."

"But I shall not wish—not for the present. Let us both go."

Mr. Kaye looked up as if he would remonstrate. Then he took up a western newspaper that their guest had laid down, and began to read. But his children had seen his glance, and interpreted it to themselves by a swift exchange of their own. Amy's eyes spoke to her brother's, as plainly as words:—

"We mustn't leave him alone to-day," and Hallam's had telegraphed back:—

"No, I see that. One of us must stay."

"Well, father, Hal is not half so necessary to the success of Ardsley Mill as I am. He's going to help you mount those sketches this morning, while I hunt up Uncle Frederic, and try to get a 'day off' to visit with him. Cleena must dish up the remains of the yesterday dinner for us, and we'll keep Christmas over again. Isn't it just lovely, lovely, to have one's relatives turn up in this delightful fashion? First, Cousin Archibald, behaving just like other folks; and now this romantic arrival of the long-lost uncle. Good-by. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Mr. Kaye and Hallam repaired to the upper floor as Amy went away, but Cleena remained standing for a long time, motionless in the middle of the room. Her head was bent, and her gaze fixed, as if she were studying some matter deeply. Finally she roused with a mighty sigh and stalked out of the room.

"Sure, the pother o' life. It's an' up an' down, so fast it makes a body dizzy in their wits. That boy, Fayetty, one day as good as a fine fish o' Friday; the next—eatin' me heart out with the worry. Never a doubt I doubt 'twas himself belabored the old man on his road home. There's bad blood 'twixt 'em. But I'll aye see if he's in his bed the now."

So she ascended to the back chamber that Fayette used. To her knock there came, at first, no response; but she kept on with her tapping and interspersed this with coaxing tones, and finally a voice answered her.

"What you want?"

"Yerself, avick."

"Well, you can't have me."

"Can I no? It's two makes a bargain."

"Clear out."

"After you is manners for me. Come by."

"Leave me alone."

"I'd take shame to myself. Have ye heard the fine doin's? No?"

"What doings?"

"The lad's back from foreign parts, Miss Amy's uncle. He's the one has donkeys in his pocket. Heard ye ever o' him?"

"Where's he at?"

"Faith, I d' know. Belike he's after takin' a stroll about, meetin' old friends. What for no? Come on an' help me get a fine dinner out o' scraps."

"Suppose he'd give me one?"

"Never a doubt I doubt, he'll give ye all ye deserve. Come by. There's kindlin' to split an' praties to peel, an'—Whist! What's that I hear?"

Fayette's curiosity was very strong. It had led him into trouble more than once. It now induced him to open the door and peep through.

"What's that, Cleena? Anything happenin'?"

"Arrah musha, but I think yes!"

"What?"

"Sure, if ye're askin', I'm believin' it's Willyum Gladstone happenin' down in your minin' hole."

"Huckleberries!"

The door flew open, Fayette rushed by as if he could not move half fast enough. It seemed to Cleena he cleared the stairs with two bounds, and an instant after she heard him hurrying into the cellar at the same headlong pace.

"Hmm. I thought that'd fetch him," she chuckled. Then she suddenly remembered that she had once heard the lad speak of using "giant powder," or some such explosive in his work of the underground passage. She had strictly forbidden this, and had carefully watched lest any suspicious material might be brought upon the premises. She had even persuaded Teamster John to examine the trench and the articles which Fayette had placed there. He had found nothing wrong, and the pick and the shovel had been so long disused that they had rusted. Of late Cleena had let William Gladstone play down there in the soft dirt, while she was busy at other things.

"Alanna, the day!"

Cleena followed her leader only a trifle less swiftly, and reached the top of the cellar stairs just in time to receive a whirling object plump in her arms. The object was the incipient statesman, and in a second more the half-wit had also reached the kitchen floor and had shut the door behind him.

"I'll teach him to interfere with my gold mine!"

Chapter XXIV.

Fairacres Is Closed.

"Oh, Mr. Metcalf, may I come in?"

The superintendent was alone in his office and admitted Amy at once. "Such strange things have happened, I've not come to work to-day, but to ask your help. My Uncle Frederic—"

"Sit down, child, you are breathless with haste. You needn't talk. I have heard your news. Dr. Wise has sent me a message. I am expecting him here immediately."

"Isn't it dreadful?"

"Very," answered the gentleman, and his grave face emphasized his words. He knew Archibald Wingate better than anybody else could know him. He was the rich man's confidential employee, from whom no weaknesses were hid. He believed the mill owner to be vindictive, and he had heard his often-expressed contempt for the "whole family of Kaye, so far as its men are concerned." Of course, this had been some time ago; before Fairacres had become Mr. Wingate's home. Since then his enmity toward his relatives had seemed to slumber, it had even altered to a sort of friendliness; yet Mr. Metcalf had no faith in the endurance of this friendliness should any test be put upon it. The attack of the night before had pointed suspicion very strongly toward one of "the Kayes," and should the victim recover, he would, doubtless, prosecute to the full extent of the law the person who had assaulted him.

"Do you know how he is?"

"Of whom do you ask?"

"Cousin Archibald, of course. I am so sorry for him. If I hadn't to work, I would go and take care of him, if he'd let me."

"I don't think he would. Besides, you would not be either strong or wise enough. He must have trained nursing, the best obtainable. I hear that he has recovered consciousness and is resting quietly. What complications may arise one cannot foresee. He has been a high liver, and he is an old man; but I hope for the best. I hope it not only for his sake, but everybody's concerned."

"Wasn't it queer that that man, that officer,—a sheriff he called himself,—should come after my uncle? It frightened my father, so Hallam stayed with him. I'm sorry to be away from my place to-day, but Cleena fancies I have taken cold. Then, too, since Uncle Frederic came, of course I should devote myself to him. He's just splendid. So big and strong and jolly. Even under his sorrow about my mother he is as sunshiny as possible. He's like a fresh west wind that 'airs' a house so wonderfully. I do want you to see him; and I came to ask if you'd just go and explain to that sheriff how silly it is to suspect him."

Mr. Metcalf regarded Amy for a moment in silence. With all her good sense, she was as ignorant as a child of many things in practical life. He answered her very gently:—

"I expect to see him soon, that is my intention. Dr. Wise and I will become his 'bail', so that he can soon be set at liberty."

"I do not understand you. What do you mean?"

"Why, this: your uncle has been arrested upon suspicion of waylaying and assaulting Mr. Wingate. He will be imprisoned unless somebody becomes surety for him, that he will appear at court when summoned to stand his trial and prove his innocence if he can. It is right you should know this, though extremely disagreeable for me to speak of it."

Amy's face paled as he talked. She did not wonder that her father had been frightened. The thing was horrible, and the disgrace of it crushed her. She bowed her head beneath its weight, and sat silent so long that the superintendent was moved to rise and comfort her.

"Don't take it so to heart, my child; there is, of course, some great mistake. The thing is—to find out who the real assailant was and bring him to justice. This, unfortunately, will be a difficult matter."

"No; I won't mind it. Why should I? If he had done this wicked thing, I should be right to feel shame; but he didn't. Oh! I've just thought of something that might help. Uncle Frederic said he caught the man by the collar, and the man slipped out of his coat and ran away. Where is the coat? Has anybody looked for it?"

"Several persons, my own messenger among others. There is no trace of any garment anywhere near the highroad. If we could find that, as you say, it would simplify matters greatly. Come with me; I heard Nanette wishing she could show you her Christmas gifts. To hear her describe each, one would imagine she could see them. She is so interested about Balaam, too. She wonders where he is, and if he misses Pepita as much as she would miss one of her numerous sisters. When Dr. Wise has been here and we have concluded our business, I will call for you, probably, with your uncle. I have a new horse I'm anxious to try, and things are so unsettled here to-day—"

"Unsettled?"

"Yes; Ardsley doesn't often have such a sensation as its wealthiest citizen being horsewhipped. It's difficult to get the hands to work regularly. It's just as well you do not try, till it's blown over. You would be asked no end of questions, idle as the people who would put them."

In his kind heart he wished to save her not only the questions, but the shadow which might rest upon her because of her misjudged relative. By nightfall, or earlier, he was determined to have the Californian set at liberty. It was an outrage that one who acted the good Samaritan should receive such reward, and he believed that two as influential townsmen as Dr. Wise and himself could, by their indorsement of the prisoner, turn the tide of public opinion in his favor.

So Amy went again to the Metcalf home and forgot all her cares in the midst of its bright young people. The hours went swiftly round, and it was not till the gate clicked and a trio of gentlemen came striding up the path that she remembered how anxious she had been.

Then she sped out of the house and flung herself into her uncle's arms.

"Oh, I'm so glad they found out their mistake! How ashamed that sheriff will be! Please, Mr. Metcalf, may I show him his own little Pepita, that was? And thank you for helping him to explain, or for the 'bail,' and everything. Thank you, too, Dr. Wise. Do you know how Mr. Wingate is?"

"Improving. He's pretty badly scared and shocked, but I think he will come out all right."

"Can he tell who struck him? That would clear everything up all right."

"Yes; it would be a simple solution of the matter. I am hoping he will be able to tell, after a while; but for the present my object is to prevent, as far as possible, his recalling the incident. He must not be excited, else there may be fever. But all in good time, I think. Now Mr. Metcalf has invited us to ride behind his new horse. I have an hour of leisure, and I propose to show this old Ardsley boy the changes a few years have made, even in our quiet town. Did I hear anything about a small girl named Amy being one of the party?"

"Indeed, you did. Oh, what a treat! A real Christmas gift. To ride behind a brand new horse, beside a brand new uncle, in a brand new carriage, is enough to turn my head; so forgive me if I'm silly—sillier than common. And oh, Mr. Metcalf, can't Nanette go too? She's so little she takes up no room worth mentioning, and I love her."

It was a merry party. Amy believed that all the morning's trouble had been overcome, and did not realize that being out on bail was in itself sort of an imprisonment to a man of honor. Until the real culprit was found Frederic Kaye would still be under suspicion; yet he could enjoy his parole, and this ride had been purposely planned by his friends as a means of influencing that variable public opinion which had first promptly misjudged him.

Therefore, they drove through the principal streets of the town, past all its business places, and lingered by the haunts of the village gossips, that Ardsleyites might see and comment.

"Well, if that don't beat all!" exclaimed Mrs. Hackett to her customers. "There's Dr. Wise and the 'Supe' driving Mister Fred all over creation. I guess they don't believe anything against him, bad as things look. I don't know as 'tis right, either. I guess I'll wait and see before I make up my mind."

But having already spread the "news" by means of every villager who had visited her place of business that morning, this was rather late in season to stem the tide of rumor; though on the principle of "better late than never," it may have done some good.

When the ride was over and the Kayes deposited at the door of "Charity House," Amy was in the wildest of spirits. It seemed to her as if the world were the loveliest, friendliest place, and her gayety infected all about her. The gentlemen accompanied Mr. Frederic into the new home and spent an hour delightfully with the artist, amid his pictures. Then Cleena, aided by Amy, brought in a tray of luncheon, and they stayed to share it.

"Blessings on Teamster John's turkey. What a lot of comfort it has given lots of folks!" remarked Amy to Cleena, in the kitchen, as she surveyed the neatly arranged tray.

"Yes, so be. Arrah musha, were the man as sensible as his fowl I'd know. But, colleen, keep an eye to that back door. Fayette's behind, in the store closet. It's behind he must stay or there's mischief a-brewin'."

"Indeed, I wonder he isn't putting himself forward, to attract Uncle Frederic's notice, as he always does of strangers. Well, poor lad, I fancy the introduction can wait. When you've carried in the tray, I'll go and serve them."

But after the light meal was over and the guests departed, Hallam became absorbed in the new magazines that his uncle produced from his valise; while the elder Kayes dropped back into the reminiscences that were so interesting to themselves and so dull to Amy. Try as she would, now that all was quiet, she could not keep from her mind a picture of Archibald Wingate, riding home from a pleasant visit and suffering such mischance.

"My first little dinner-party, too. I must go and see him. I must tell him that I am sorry. I must offer to help."

So, after a while, as the afternoon waned, Amy put on her outdoor things, and telling only Cleena her errand, set off for Fairacres. She was admitted by a strange servant, and was passing straight toward the room which her cousin occupied when she was met and prevented by Marshall.

"If you please, miss, he's allowed to see nobody."

"Not even me? Surely, I will not disturb him. I won't even speak to him, if that will hurt him. I just want to satisfy myself how badly he's injured, and maybe smile at him. Just that little bit. Oh, Mr. Marshall, isn't it so sad! I'm so very, very sorry."

"Yes, and well you might be, miss. No, not even to look at him. He's not to be worried by nobody."

So Amy went sorrowfully home again, and as she had to resume her labor in the mill at such an early hour the following day, she could not repeat her visit until another night came round. Frederic Kaye had gone to the mansion, however, and had been coldly assured by the officious Marshall that "the master was doing well." This bulletin had been issued through the upper half of the old-fashioned door, which opened across its middle, and to effect an entrance the caller would have had to force the bolts of the lower half. The valet regarded the Californian with suspicion that, as the latter admitted, was not ill-founded; and he had not forgotten the feel of the stranger's boot-toe on the night of the accident. So he kept a safe barricade of the premises, and Frederic also went away unsatisfied.

For several days these visits were repeated, with similar results; but when Sunday came round and she had daylight for her purpose, Amy again hurried to Fairacres.

"I'll see him this time, if I have to climb over Marshall's objecting shoulders," she merrily cried to Cleena, as she departed.

But when she reached the old homestead she found it desolate. The light snow which had fallen overnight lay everywhere undisturbed. No paths had been cleared nor entrances swept. The windows were closed and shuttered as Amy never had seen them. Even the stables were shut up and deserted; and after a half hour of vain efforts to arouse somebody, the disappointed girl returned to "Charity House."

"Troth, ye went away like a feather, an' you come home like a log. What's happened, me colleen?"

"He's gone. I can't see him. I can't tell him. Oh, I'm so sorry, so sorry!"

To comfort her, Uncle Frederic paid a visit to Dr. Wise, and came back with news that was not very satisfactory. Without consulting the physician, Mr. Wingate had suddenly decided to go south for the winter. Marshall had attended to everything. The horses and cattle had been sent from Fairacres to one of the outlying farms belonging to the estate. There was no reference to future return, and Mr. Metcalf had been instructed to settle all accounts. Beyond this there was no mention of anybody, and no address was left except that of the mill owner's city bankers, who would forward any necessary papers. Mr. Wingate had gone away for absolute rest, and wished not to hear from Ardsley unless under extreme necessity.

So Amy's dream of a reunited family, of that peace and happiness which should exist between Fairacres and "Charity House," came to an end. But other hopes and plans took its place, and she returned to her mill work on the Monday, too busy and eager to spend time in useless regret.

"The best thing about life," observed this wise young person to her Uncle Frederic, "is that it has to keep right on. There's so much to do, and the days are so short, if a body grieves one moment he's sure to laugh the next. And, uncle, I've such a lovely idea about a 'club' for the mill folks. To take the place of one that—doesn't seem to help them much. I believe you're the very man to arrange everything, and that you were sent home just in time."

"Wh-e-w! A Daniel come to judgment? No, a faithful daughter of a brave, unselfish woman. You'll never be Salome, little girl, but maybe you will be an improvement even on her. All her good sense with a little more—snap."

"Considerable more snap than wisdom, I fancy," laughed she, and sped down the hill to join Gwendolyn for her walk millward.

Chapter XXV.

Mysteries and Masteries.

"Sure, Mister Frederic, I'd be proud to show ye the cellar that's doin' below. Would he mind comin' the now?"

"A 'cellar below' is surely in its proper place. I'll be delighted to view it, Mistress Goodsoul."

"Alanna, it was ever yourself had a jest an' a twist of a body's words! To my notion, it's a tidy job, but I sometimes misgives it's no all right for the house."

"Then it surely should be looked after. Who's doing it for you?"

"That silly one I was tellin' you about. He's—he's—" The woman glanced over her shoulder, as if she feared to be heard. This was a curious circumstance in the case of one so frank as she, and her old friend commented on it.

"Why so mysterious, Cleena? Secrets afoot? But it's after Christmas, not before it."

"Come by."

He followed her gayly down the stairs into the one central cellar, and from this slightly farther into another, being opened toward the side. She carried a lighted candle in her hand, and pointed with pride to the neatness of the work as far as it had proceeded.

"Nobody could ha' done it finer, eh?"

"It seems all right. The walls will have to be supported, of course, though it looks a solid rock. Old Ingraham obeyed the Scripture injunction in letter, if not in spirit. What does Cuthbert think of this?"

"The same as of most things—nothin' at all. So long as he's his bit pictures an' books to pore over, the very house might tumble about his ears an' no heed. There's been no nerve frettin' nor crossness since the mistress was called—not once. He's a saint the now. But it's aye good ye're come home, Mister Fred."

"And it's good to hear you say so, old friend. Yet if it suits you just as well, I'd prefer to have you say it up in the open. I'm not a lover of dark cellars, or of holes that may be cellars some day. Come out of it; it gives me the 'creeps.'"

"Ye believe it's all safe, eh?"

"Safe enough so far."

"Come by. If you like not this place, you must e'en bide the kitchen a bit. I've somewhat to speak to you."

Cleena started back over the way they had come, and Mr. Kaye was following her, when he stumbled against something soft, and fell headlong in the mud; but he was up again in an instant, no worse for the accident save by the soil upon his clothing. He had grasped the thing over which he had tripped, and held it up to the candle-light.

"Hello! Seems to me I've seen this garment, or felt it, before. That peculiarity of a cloth coat with a leather collar is noticeable. Whose is it, Cleena?"

"Fetch it," she commanded tersely, and he obeyed her. Once in the better lighted kitchen she extinguished the candle, carefully closed all the doors, and seated herself near her visitor. She had taken the coat from him, and laid it upon her own knees. Her manner was still full of that mystery which consorted so oddly with her honest, open face.

"I thought so. I thought so, so I did."

"Very likely."

"Cease yer haverin', lad. There's matter here."

"Considerable. Upon my clothes, too. The matter seems to be of the same sort—rather brown and sticky, what the farmers call 'loom.'"

"Know you whose coat this be?"

"Never a know I know," he mimicked, enjoying his bit of nonsense with this old friend of his youth.

"It's Fayetty's."

"Your superior cellar digger? Whew!"

He had now become quite as serious as she desired. "Cleena, this is a bad business. This coat was on the back of the man who horsewhipped Mr. Wingate."

"I thought it; but, mind you, me lad, he's not for punishin'."

"Hold on, he certainly is. Don't you know that I—I, a Kaye, am under suspicion of this dastardly thing? Of course you do. Well, then, I'm going to step out from under the suspicion with neatness and despatch. How long have you been hiding this, Cleena?"

"The poor chap's been here ever since. Only once a day he slips out, but he's back by night. Oh, he's safe enough the now."

"Glad of it. Like to have him handy; and as soon as you've finished what you have to say, I'll walk into the village and inform the sheriff, or somebody who should know."

"You'll do naught like it."

"Why, Cleena, woman, have you lost your good sense?"

"Have I saved it, no? Hear me. I know 'twas me poor little Gineral Bonyparty 't did the deed. I knew, soon as I heard the tale o' the coat. You're no so stupid yerself. You recognized it immediate. It was a part o' his uniform he wore a-paradin'. His notion 'twould save the collar clean o' the jacket I fixed him. He's never no care in all his hard life till he met up with me. The poor little gossoon!"

"Cleena, Cleena, turncoat! Wasn't I once, on a day gone by, another 'poor little gossoon'? But come, drop nonsense; it's a disgracefully serious business for me and for your whole family."

"It's because o' the family I say it. The lad's for no punishin'. Not yet. You're big an' strong, an' uncommon light o' heart. It'll do ye no harm. The suspicioned you must be till—Wait lad. You loved the mistress, Salome?"

"Why, Cleena, you know it!"

"Love you her childer?"

"Dearly; for their sakes I must shake off this obnoxious misjudgment." He shrugged his shoulders as if the obloquy were a tangible load that could be shifted.

"Hallam, the cripple, that's walked never a step since a diny dony thing, an' a bad nurse set him prone on the cold stones o' the nasty cellar house where her kind lived. That winter in the town, an' me mindin' the mistress with Miss Amy a babe. How could we watch all the time? He must have the air, what for no? An' her with a face as smooth as bees-wax. Down on the cold, damp stones she'd put him, whiles off with her young man she'd be trapesin', an' him made a cripple for life."

"Yes, Cleena, I remember it all. And how, as Amy tells me, almost a fortune has been spent to restore him. But if ever I earn enough to try again, I'll never rest till every doctor in the world, who understands such things, shall tell me there is no hope."

"Good lad. Aye, aye, good lad!"

The gentleman looked at her in amazement. This had been the old servant's term of commendation when he had refrained from some of his youthful and natural mischievousness. She seemed to mean it just as earnestly now. Suddenly she leaned forward and placed her hands upon his knees.

"Say it again, avick. You'd do all in your power for me darlin' Master Hallam, what for no?"

"What idleness to ask! I would give anything in this world to see him cured."

"The Kayes are aye proud, in troth. Yer honor, lad; even yer honor?"

"Hmm, well—yes. Even my honor."

"Hark to me."

For five minutes thereafter Cleena talked, and not once did her listener interrupt. Her words were spoken in that sibilant whisper that is louder than ordinary speech, and not one of them was lost. When she had finished, she rose and demanded, laying her hand upon Mr. Kaye's shoulder:—

"Now, Mister Fred, will ye leave me gineral be?"

"Yes, Cleena. For the present, till a final test comes, he shall be safe from any interference from me. I'll take him under my personal protection. I'll make myself his friend. He shall have a fair chance. If he fails—"

"He'll no fail! he'll no fail, laddie! Such as him is the Lord's own. Whist, alanna, here he comes."

Fayette approached the entrance, walking stealthily, and casting furtive glances toward that part of the building where the guest had hitherto remained. Apparently satisfied that the coast was clear, he crept to the door and tapped it twice.

Cleena nodded her head, and Frederic Kaye opened to admit the boy, who would have retreated when he saw the stranger, had not his arm been caught and held so firmly he could not writhe himself free.

"Leave me alone. What you doin'?"

"Why, I haven't had the pleasure of meeting you since Christmas night."

"'Twasn't me. I never done it. Leave me be. Huckleberries! I'll smash ye!"

"Why, Fayette, I'm astonished. Be quiet, listen. I know you—I know all about you. You have got to behave. You must stay here and do exactly what Cleena and I tell you to do. You'll be treated well. I'll show you how you can make a lot of that money you like so much; upon condition, though—upon the one condition that you simply behave correctly. You are wise enough to understand me. If you disobey or prove tricky—well, I have but to hand you over to the law and you're settled. Do you understand?"

"You mean, if I don't mind, they'll jail me?"

"That's it, exactly. You're cleverer than I hoped."

"All right; I'll do it. Say, I believe Balaam's sick."

"Balaam? Have you got him, too? Are you a horse thief as well as highwayman? Well, poor fellow, it's lucky your lot is cast in this peaceful valley instead of on the frontier. Where is he?"

"I rode him to a place I know. There was plenty o' fodder once, but it's been took. He hain't had much to eat, an' maybe that's it. I was bound old Wingate shouldn't get him."

"Look here, young man, call nobody names. That's not allowed. And now you travel after Balaam. If he's too sick for you to manage alone, I'll go with you; if not, you must do it. How far away is he?"

"Not more 'n a mile."

"Fetch him. I've something to tell you, for your own benefit. I'll teach you how to grow mushrooms, down in that cellar you're digging. Well-grown ones will bring you a dollar a pound. I know, I've raised them. I'd made a fortune only I love daylight and hate darkness. If you can stand the underground part just for fun, you'll make it pay."

"Huckleberries! I'll get him. I'll hurry back."

As if he expected the new enterprise to begin that very night the lad started down the hill. Already there was a manlier bearing about his ill-shaped body. The necessity for hiding which he had felt had been removed, and he was a free lad again.

An hour later Frederic Kaye saw him reappear, riding the apparently restored burro, and smiled grimly.

"Hmm. Well, I'm in for it. I'm to remain under the cloud for an indefinite time. If it succeeds—I'll not regret. If it doesn't, maybe the Lord will square it up to my account, against the thoughtless neglect I showed Salome. Now, I'll go out and interview my old acquaintance of the Sierras. I wonder is his voice as mellifluous as erstwhile!"

"Br-a-a-ay! Ah-umph! A-h-h-u-m-p-h!!" responded Balaam, from afar.

Chapter XXVI.

A Picnic in the Glen.

It is amazing how fast time flies when one is busy. At "Charity House" all were busy, and to all the winter passed with incredible swiftness.

To Amy each day seemed too short to accomplish half she desired, and each one held some new, fascinating interest in that study of life which so absorbed her.

"You're the funniest girl, Amy. Even the lengthening of the days, getting a little lighter in the mornings, week by week, so we can see the sun rise and such things, as we walk to work—I'd never think of it, 'cept for you."

"Now you do think of it, isn't it interesting?"

"Yes, I like it. Things seem to mean something, now I know you. Before, well—'pears like I didn't think at all; I just slid along and took no notice."

"But it's so wonderful. Everything is wonderful,—even the way the months have gone. Here it is spring, the bloodroot lying in a white drift along the brookside, and the yellow lilies opening their funny tooth-shaped petals everywhere in the woods. Yet only a minute ago, as it seems, the dead leaves were falling, and I was on my way for the first time to work in the mill. I belong there now, a part of it. I have almost forgotten how it used to be when I was so idle."

"Seems to me you could never have been idle, Amy. Anyway, you've got on splendid. The 'Supe' says he never had a girl go ahead so fast. Isn't it grand, though, to be out of the mill this lovely day? Saturday-half means ever so much more fun now than it used to do, and doesn't cost half so much money. Don't worry you half so much either, as it did to go shopping all the time. Say, Amy, I've about got Mis' Hackett paid up."

"I'm delighted; it must be wretched to feel one's self in debt, I think."

"It's mighty nice to feel one's self out of it. I've got you to thank for that, too, 'long of lots of other things. Isn't the club doing fine? We wouldn't have had that, either, but for you."

"Nonsense! Indeed, you would. Hallam was as interested as I in the subject; and as soon as we told Uncle Fred, he was even more eager than we. But it is to father we all owe the most, I think."

"So do I. To dream of a splendid gentleman like him, and such a painter, taking so much time and trouble just for a lot of mill folks, I think it's grand. I don't understand how he can."

"Seeing that his own two children are 'mill folks,' I can, readily," answered Amy, laughing. "But, indeed, I know he would go on with it now just as thoroughly, even if we were not in the case at all."

This talk occurred one lovely afternoon when the half-holiday made a club picnic a possible and most delightful thing. The two girls, Gwendolyn and Amy, were a little earlier than the others, and were on their way to the appointed meeting place, "Treasure Island," a small piece of wooded ground rising in the middle of the Ardsley's widest span. From the island to the banks, on either side, were foot-bridges, and in the grove tables and benches had been built by the lads of the organization. It was an ideal picnic ground, and these were ideal picnickers; for those who toil the hardest on most days of the week enter most heartily into the recreations they do secure.

The girls were passing down into the glen where Amy had once lost her way and been rescued by Fayette. It seemed so long ago that she could hardly realize how few months had really elapsed.

She spoke of the matter to her companion, who seemed to be in a reflective mood that afternoon, and who again remarked upon the change in the mill boy, also.

"Your uncle and Cleena Keegan have made him different, too. He's as proud as Punch of his mushroom raising, isn't he? He owes that to Mister Fred; but, odd! he's as scared of Cleena as if she owned him. He didn't forgive that thing about Balaam, and seems to feel he has a right to him, same's Mr. Metcalf has."

"Poor old Balaam, he's made a lot of trouble, first and last; but I guess he's all right now, only Cleena won't let Fayette talk of him. She says it's 'punishment,'—the only sort she can inflict. I don't understand why she wants him punished, anyway."

"Maybe for stealing him that Christmas night out of Mr. Wingate's stable."

"Possibly; I don't know. She's like a mother puss with her kitten. One minute she pets him to foolishness, the next she gives him a mental slap that reduces him to the humblest, most timid mood. Well, I'm glad the burro business is settled, though it's odd how Fayette covets that animal; and the exercise of going up and down to his work, the days he has to go, isn't hurting Hallam at all. I never knew him to be so well and strong as he seems this spring."

"Amy, how was it about Balaam? Ma says she never heard the rights of it yet. And say, she likes that book you lent her, about the woman went round the world alone, visiting them hospitals, better 'n any novel she ever read. She's going to give up the other story papers soon as the subscription runs out an' take one o' them library tickets you were telling about, or your uncle, where they send the books to you by mail and you can have your choose of hundreds. Say, wouldn't it be prime if we could get a big library here?"

"Grand! We will, some day, too."

"My! You say such things as if you expected them to be. How, I'd like to know?"

"Well, if in no other way, by just us mill folks banding together and making a beginning. Indeed, I think my father would give his own little library as a start. There's a fine one at Fairacres, and I'm hoping when Cousin Archibald comes back he'll get interested in our work and help along."

"Might as well look for miracles."

"I do. I'm always finding them, too. There's one at your very feet. Don't tread upon it, please."

Stooping, the girl pulled Gwendolyn's dress away from a tiny green speck, growing in dangerous proximity to the wood road.

"What's it?"

"This baby fern."

"All that fuss about a fern!"

"It's life, it's struggle. See, so dainty, so fine, yet so plucky, forcing its soft frond up through the earth, among all these bits of rocks; never stopping, never fearing, just trusting the Creator and doing its duty. It would be a pity to end it so soon."

"Amy, did I ever! Well, there it is again. I shall never be able to crush anything like that without remembering what you've said just now. I—I wish you wouldn't. It makes me feel sort of wicked. And that's silly, just for a fern."

"Gwen, anything that makes us more merciful can't be silly. Heigho! there are the picnickers all coming along the banks and over the bridges. Truly, a goodly company, yet we began with just you and Lionel, Mary Reese, Hallam, and me. Now there are a hundred members, old and young. There's one of the everyday miracles for you!"

The vigorous young association which went by the name of the "Ardsley Club" flourished beyond even Amy's most sanguine expectation. Three rooms of "Charity House," the sunny western side of the higher story, had been cheerfully offered by Mr. Kaye as a home for the club. These rooms he had had fitted up under his own supervision, though the work had been done by the members themselves, in hours after mill duties were over. The color mixer had supplied the material with which the once ugly white walls were tinted; and upon the soft-hued groundwork there had been stencilled a delicate conventional design. At one end of the large room designated the "reading room" a scroll bore the legend which old Adam Burns had given Amy as a "rule of life": "Simplicity, Sincerity, Sympathy," and opposite gleamed in golden letters the other maxim: "Love Conquers All."

"Love, Simplicity, Sincerity, and Sympathy, which is the synonym of Love, and forms with it the golden circle," was adopted as one of the by-laws, and it is true that each member endeavored to keep this one law inviolably. The result was a spirit of peace and goodwill rarely found in a gathering of so many varying natures. It had been Mr. Kaye's idea to make the affair one of no expense to the members, outside of his own household, but Frederic promptly vetoed that.

"In the first place, there are none of us rich enough to do such a thing. There will be lights, firing, musical instruments, books, current literature, games—any number of things that cost money. Amy's idea is fine. A club of the right sort will be a powerful factor for good in this community of mill workers, but it must be made self-supporting. If you give the use of the rooms and will act as instructor along some lines,—art and literature, which you comprehend better than financiering, respected brother,—you will have done your generous share. Amy and Cleena will keep the rooms in order, with occasional aid from the girl members—after we secure them. A small sum, contributed by each member, will run the whole concern. People who are as constantly employed as these mill operatives have not the leisure nor means to acquire a book education, but a more intelligent, wider-awake, more receptive class is not to be found. Yet let nobody dare to approach them with anything at all in the nature of 'charity' or mental almsgiving. Your democrat beats your aristocrat in the matter of pride every time, and that is a paradox for you to consider. I relinquish the floor."

"After having exhausted the subject," laughed Hallam. But the subject had not been exhausted. Amy proposed the matter the very next day, at "nooning," and secured the members as mentioned by her to Gwendolyn. In a week the membership had doubled; and as soon as the affair was really comprehended, that it was a mutual benefit organization in the highest sense of the word, applications were plentiful.

Uncle Frederic had been a literal globe-trotter, and his journeyings on foot made him able to discourse in a familiar way of things no guide-book ever points out. Nor did Cleena's good cookery come in for any poor show among these healthy, happy folk. The club paid for the simple refreshments provided at their weekly "socials," and Cleena prepared them. Even this day, for their out-of-door reunion, she had made all the needful preparations, and had been so busy she had scarcely remembered to keep a close watch upon Fayette.

"But troth, it's no more nor right he should take his bit fun with the rest," she remarked to herself, as she pulled the last tin of biscuits from the chimney oven and spread them with sweet butter and daintily sliced tongue. "He's aye restless betimes; and—but it's comin', it's comin', me blessed gossoon!"

But to whom Cleena's exclamation referred it would have been difficult to say,—though possibly to Fayette, as her next words seemed to indicate. For the good creature still "conversed with Cleena" in every instance when she happened to be left alone, it being a necessity of her friendly nature that she should talk to somebody.

"Me gineral's never got over the burro business yet, alanna! An' it do seem hard how 't one has so little an' t' other so much. That Mr. 'Super' Metcalf now, as fine a man as treads shoe leather, never a doubt I doubt, yet himself judgin' it fair, since the man Wingate wanted the beast, the man Wingate should have him. Anyway, there he stands, brayin' his head off in the 'Supe's' stable, in trust for the old man'll never bestride him. Nobody rides him at all, Miss Amy says; yet here's me gineral heart-broke for him; an' the cripple goin' afoot; an' all them little Metcalfs envyin' an' covetin'; an' all because a man who's word is law said he'd take him for rent an' just kept him, whether or no. But a good job it was when Mister Fred come home, with money for rent an' a few trifles, but not much besides. Well, where's the need? Eight dollars a week is Miss Amy's wage now, God bless her! an' Master Hal's nigh the same,—let alone them bit pictures the master's be's doin' constant. Mister Fred's the knack o' sellin' 'em too. Well, if the mistress could see—and hark, me fathers! What's that?"

Down in the fragrant glen and on the little island the hungry "Ardsleyites" waited long for the promised supper; and up on Bareacre knoll things were happening that would provide another sensation for the little town, quiet now since the Christmas horsewhipping episode.

Chapter XXVII.

A Double Inheritance in a Single Day.

Almost before she asked it, Cleena answered her own question.

"The powder! the powder! It's Fayetty a-meddlin'! Oh, is he killed, the witless gossoon?"

Then she turned toward the stairway leading into the cellar, and from whence she had heard the dull roar, and now imagined she saw smoke as she certainly did smell suggestive fumes. She needed not to descend, however, for at the stair's head the lad rushed against her, bruising her with something hard and heavy that he carried, and thus dispelling her first fear of his personal injury.

"Fayetty—Fayetty! Hold by! What's amiss? What's—"

He deposited a box upon the kitchen table, plump in the tray of biscuits, and catching Cleena about the waist began to execute a grotesque dance with her for helpless partner. After a moment she was able to extricate herself from his frantic clutch and to demand sternly:—

"Ye omahaun, are ye gone daft?"

"It's money, Cleena Keegan! It's money! The cellar's full of it! Money, money, money! Chests full, cellars full—oh! oh! oh!"

Then did her eye fall upon the box and the spot where it rested, and indignation seized her soul. With one grasp of her strong hands she flung it to the floor, where it fell heavily, cracked, and burst asunder.

Both were then too astonished to speak. Fayette's wildest dreams had, evidently, come true. Cleena could not believe her eyes. Never in all her life had she seen so many precious coins. They were dimmed by age and moisture, yet, unmistakably, they were of gold, with a few that might be silver. All the fairy tales of her beloved Ireland rushed through her mind, and she regarded the half-wit with a new veneration.

"Sure, you're one o' them elf-men, I believe; that different from ordinary you can even make dollars o' doughnuts. Arrah musha, 'twas a smart decent day when Miss Amy fetched you home to Fairacres! Sent, was ye, to make the old family rich; and the marvel o' cure in your long, lean hands. Troth, I'm struck all of a heap."

But Fayette was not. He had never been so active. He began to gather up the coins which had been scattered by the breaking of the chest and, for want of something better in which to store them, pulled Cleena's apron from her waist and piled them in that. She sat on, silently regarding him. For a few minutes she honestly believed that he was a genuine specimen of the "little people" who were said to make green Erin their favorite home. But when he began to gabble in a hoarse, excited tone of how he had long been expecting this "find"; how he had watched his opportunity when all the household should be absent that he might disobey and use the explosive that would lessen his labor so greatly, she came back to common sense.

"So you've been lookin' for it, have ye? Well, now you've got it, but ye might ha' been killed in the job. What for no? With Mister Fred gone to town an' him tellin' ye most explicit ye should no touch nor meddle at all. Was aught like this found in either of them mushroom ones?"

"I—don't—know," answered Fayette, slowly, still stooping and tying his bundle. "If there was—that man's—got it. It was mine. I begun the digging. I—"

"An' he finished, eh? Well, you take up your pack an' put it here in my dresser. Then go wash your face. Such a sight! Hold, did ye any more harm there below?"

"Harm! harm! to dig such a treasure as this out of my mine? Well, if I used only a little bit of powder and got so much, what a lot I might have found if I'd used more. I'll bet the whole ground is full."

"Oh, ye silly! Put that stuff down. It's makin' ye lose what little sense you've got. An', me neighbor, look here. See them beautiful biscuits all spoiled the day, the day!"

This reminded the lad that he was hungry. He had been hard at work all day in the underground passage, the third and last of those he had set out to make beneath "Charity House." The first two had been completed, the walls shored, the rich beds for mushroom-raising made upon the dark damp floors. Already these beds were dotted with the white growths, that in a marvellous short time would be full-grown mushrooms and finding a place upon many an epicure's table.

That very hour, even, Frederic Kaye was in the city negotiating for their regular sale at profitable prices; and wondering not a little, it may be, at the strange fact that "Spite House," instead of being the barren, unproductive spot at first supposed, would prove instead a veritable mine of support to the whole household. Of that other "mining," with its anticipated results in gold of which Fayette had sometimes babbled, Mr. Kaye took no account. Old Jacob Ingraham who built the house had been a hard, close-fisted man, if all accounts were true, and not at all likely to deposit his money in the ground, when there were investments which would help to increase it. But of old Jacob's wife, history said little, and Frederic never thought.

Fayette placed the apron in the cupboard, as he had been bidden, and when he would have added the broken box also, Cleena prevented.

"Oh, ye dirty boy! That—that mouldy, muddy, nasty thing! No, no! No, no!" and she tossed it unceremoniously into the box of kindling-wood. In the roomy "Dutch" oven in the wall she had baked many of her picnic biscuits, and she regarded the ruin Fayette had wrought among her sandwiches with an air absurdly sad.

Now he had no scruples against a bit of dirt, and had already crammed his mouth full of the broken food, when Cleena looked round and saw him. His mouth was distended with laughter as well as bread, and this provoked her still further. Sweeping her long arm over the table, she brushed all the sandwiches into a big pan that stood conveniently near, and remarked grimly:—

"Not another bite o' better food do you get till them's all ate."

"All right. I like 'em. But what's the picnickers goin' to do?"

"The best they can. An' you're to help. Go wash your hands."

"I have."

"Again, once more; then show 'em to me."

The lad laughingly obeyed. Then demanded:—

"What for?"

Cleena replied by action rather than word. She tied a fresh gingham apron about his shoulders and brought the strings around in front so that his mud-stained clothing was entirely covered. Then she led him to her kneading-table and set a bucket of sifted flour before him.

"Make biscuit."

"How many?"

"Three hundred. Fall to, measure, I'll count."

She did. For two whole hours the pair labored in that kitchen, Fayette kneading, cutting out, slipping the pans into the ovens and removing them; while Cleena spread and cut tongue after tongue, till even more than the original supply had been reproduced. Then she paused and looked up.

There stood Teamster John in the doorway, smiling and watching Fayette's new occupation with genuine surprise.

"Shucks! makin' a cook out of him? Ain't ye rather late with your luncheon? I drove up to carry the baskets down to the 'Island.'"

"Humph! Ready they was, fast enough. But—man, look here," and she opened the cupboard door to draw forth the apron of gold.

"No, you shan't! He shan't touch it! It's mine—it's mine!" cried Fayette, and snatched the bundle from her hands. He had not tied it securely, and again the long-buried coins rolled into the sunlight and spread themselves over the floor.

"To the—land's—sake!"

"They're mine—they're all mine—every single one. I found 'em. I blasted 'em out. Nobody shall touch them—nobody!"

"You—blasted them—out? From the cellar of this house? You—simpleton!"

"Like to ha' done it yourself, hey?"

"No; but I'm sorrier than I can tell that ever you were let to fool with powder. How'd Mister Frederic allow it?"

Cleena answered promptly, "He didn't. He strict forbid it. Yes, I know, I know. It was a chance. If me guardian angel hadn't been nigh, you might never ha' seen old Cleena again. Arrah musha, but I'm that shook up I'd know! What say? Is it time yet for their supper down yon, or what?"

"It'll be a little late, maybe, but never mind. My, my! Chests o' gold! Who'd believe it? Like a story book, now, ain't it? And where, in the name of common sense, did you get all this flour and meat an' fixings, Cleena, woman?"

"Mister Fred. The last day he went to town. He was to buy enough for one picnic, so he brought home enough for two. That's ever his way. He's the good provider, is Mister Fred. Bless him!"

"Exactly. Well, I'll tell you, it is late, so I'll just drive down to tell the youngsters they'd better come up here and eat their supper. They'll be crazy wild for a sight of that chest and what was in it; and if they don't come to-day, they'll be besieging you all day to-morrow. When a thing like this happens, it belongs to the town."

"Don't neither; belongs to me. I found it. I'll keep it. I dare ye!"

"All right, lad. Don't worry. I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole. I've heard of such things afore now, and never once that they didn't bring trouble. All I'm thankful for is you didn't kill anybody nor smash up the house with your fool blastin'. You won't get another chance to try, if I have to come right here and stay myself;" and he smiled sweetly toward Cleena, who ignored the smile, but agreed with the suggestion.

"Yes; that's right. That's sense. What for no? Troth, to-morrow's a Sunday, an' not to be disturbed o' none such havers. What's a bit of old dollars dug out o' the mud? An' Monday's me wash. Faith, it's sense in small matters ye're havin', Teamster John. Drive yon an' make haste back. I'll spread me a cloth on the grass an' each may eat like a heathen, does he like, that same as he was down in the woods."

"But they shan't touch it—they shan't even see it! It's mine. I'll keep it, understand?"

Cleena understood not only the words, but the lad with whom she had to deal.

"Whist, alanna, would you hide yourself, then? Faith, no; run avick. Put on your Sunday suit, brush yer hair, make yerself tidy, then stand up like a showman at Donnybrook fair, an' pass the time o' day with who comes. What for no? The box an' the gold must be showed. Such a thing can't be hid. Well, then, gossoon, just show it yerself."

So when, not long after, the whole band of merrymakers came trooping over the knoll of Bareacre, they found not only their belated supper spread for them, but a sight to amuse their curiosity in the buried treasure, estimated at various sums by the excited beholders, and with an ever increasing value as the story passed from mouth to mouth.

"It will belong to 'Bony,' of course."

"No; to the Kayes. He doesn't own the house."

"Nor they. If they did, they wouldn't take it from him. They're not that sort of folks."

"But they're as poor as anybody now."

"Archibald Wingate owns the property. I should think it belonged to him."

"The 'Supe' will probably take it in charge."

So the talk bandied back and forth till poor Fayette's weak brain was in a whirl; and amid it all there was one name that fell upon his hearing with a sense of pain,—"Archibald Wingate." The man he hated. Well, of one thing he was resolved—this unearthed treasure might be the mill owner's, but if it were, he should never, never touch it.

Poor Fayette! So he still stood and proudly exhibited the wonder, and told over and again exactly how he had long suspected its existence, and had watched his opportunity, with this result. Since he was happy and watchful, Cleena felt he was secure—for the present. But all the time she longed for Mr. Frederic's return, or even for that of Mr. Kaye, who was abroad upon a sketching ramble. There should be somebody in authority present, since Hallam and Amy were both too young, and Teamster John—well, he might "do at a pinch." In any case, he must remain on guard till a better man appeared.

This better man did arrive, just as the evening fell, in the person of Uncle Fred, riding up the driveway in old Israel Boggs's farm wagon. Amy was first to discover their approach and ran gayly to meet them, beginning her tale of the afternoon's adventure with her very salutation; but long before she reached the side of the wagon she saw that something was amiss with her jolly uncle. His face was very grave, and even his voice was hushed, so that though his greeting to his niece was even kinder than usual, it startled her by its solemnity.

"Why, Uncle Fred, what is the matter? What has happened?"

"I'll tell you presently. But how come so many here? I thought the picnic was at 'Treasure Island.'"

She nodded cheerfully to Israel, whose face was even more sad than Frederic Kaye's, and gave a rapid history of events. Strangely enough, neither of the two newcomers appeared much interested. It was as if some greater matter absorbed them, and their manner subdued Amy to silence; while the farmer tied old Fanny, and then followed his friend into the front part of the house, quite away from the excited groups surrounding Fayette and his wonderful exhibit.

Once inside the shelter of the passage, Mr. Frederic laid his hand upon Amy's shoulder, and said, very gently:—

"Prepare for a great sorrow, Amy dear. I have just come from the death-bed of our good friend, Adam Burn."

Never till that moment had the girl known how well she loved the saintly old man. Rarely meeting, he had still exercised over her young life one of its most powerful influences, and an influence all for good.

"Oh, Uncle Fred, it can't be. It mustn't be. He was so good, so kind, so—"

"Altogether lovely. Yes, dear, all that. Old Israel, here, needs comfort. Talk to him a little."

So she led the heart-broken Israel into the farthest room, and sitting down beside him persuaded him to speak with her of the one that had passed on, and in the act to find relief. Then she slipped away a moment and found Hallam, who, when he had heard this later news, quietly dismissed the club and brought the happy holiday to a reverent close.

"Land! that makes all such ilk," said Teamster John, pointing to Fayette's glittering heap, "to seem of small account. What's a litter of gold alongside of such as him?"

And not one among them all who had ever known Adam Burn found anything now worth discussing save the goodness and simplicity of their dead neighbor and friend.

But late that night, after Israel had gone back to the desolate Clove, to make such arrangements for the old man's burial as his friends at "Charity House" had deemed fitting, Uncle Frederic remarked, casually:—

"By the way, Amy, Mrs. Burn ('Sarah Jane,' you know) told me a bit of news, to the effect that you are the old man's heiress, because of your name that was his wife's. She says he gave you a sealed letter before he left Ardsley, which letter explained everything,—where the will was to be found, and the few directions necessary for the settlement of the estate. Your father and I are trustees, she thinks, until you come of age, but you are the heir. Good night."

"No, no, uncle, I don't want to be! I want nothing that is gained by his death. And—I lost that letter, anyway."

"Lost it? That's serious. However, it can doubtless be arranged. Good night."

Chapter XXVIII.

One Wonderful Autumn Day.

The months flew by. The summer came and went. It was the hour for closing on a "Saturday-half," a whole year since Amy Kaye first visited the mills of Ardsley, and now she felt as they were a part of her very life. Beginning at the bottom she had industriously worked her way upward till she had just been promoted to the pleasant and well-paying task of "setter," in the big clean room, where the open windows admitted the soft air of another Indian summer.

Away, at the extreme end of the long apartment, was a sunshiny office, lately constructed for the personal use of Archibald Wingate. This office was partitioned from the setting room by a glass sliding door, and through this, as Amy now lifted her eyes, she could see the broad back of her relative bending above a desk full of correspondence.

At every setting frame there are two operators, for left hand and for right; and it was Amy's good fortune to have Mary Reese for her comrade, and a more sunshiny pair of workers could be found nowhere.

For Hallam, also, it had been a busy, happy year. Like Amy, having begun with the humblest task and smallest wage, he had now advanced to be bookkeeper in one department, while he still retained his work of coloring and preparing the patterns for use in the weaving of the famous Ardsley carpets. He looked a far stronger, healthier lad than of old, and his disposition to think upon the dark side of things had now no time to develop, for activity effectually prevents brooding.

Fayette was still a member of the Kaye household, and seemed to belong there as much as any of the others. He had been busy, too, all the year through, with his mushroom-raising, his gardening, and now that the autumn had come round again, with odd jobs at the mill. His deftness would always procure him employment of some sort, yet only that morning Mr. Metcalf had remarked to Hallam, confidentially:—

"Queer, but I can never trust 'Bony.' He seems as honest and reliable as possible for a time, and then, suddenly, he will do something to disappoint me. I don't like his demeanor toward the 'boss.' Ever since Mr. Wingate returned, late this summer, and took to coming here every day, 'Bony' has come too. Have you noticed?"

"I know he comes. I hadn't connected the two comings, however. I guess he's all right. There's a splendid side to that poor lad's nature, if you but knew it. Some day, I hope before very long now, he and I are to surprise the world."

"Why, Hal, you're as gay as a blackbird. What's the surprise, eh? Too precious to disclose even to me?"

"At present, yes. In a little while, a few days—Heigho!" and the lad looked significantly toward his crutches, leaning against the desk where he wrote.

But the superintendent did not observe the glance. His mind was full of misgiving. Within a day or two he had had occasion to suspect that the half-wit had some uncanny scheme on hand. The lad's dislike of the old mill owner appeared to grow with the passage of time. The dull brain never forgot an injury, and it always seemed to Fayette that Mr. Wingate had wronged him. From the old days of his "bound out" life on the farm, when whippings and punishments were of almost daily occurrence, to the present, there had been no diminution in the mill boy's resentment. Now there was this later injury, or injustice, as he believed, about the money found in the cellar of "Charity House."

The facts were these: the glittering coins had, when estimated, been of about one thousand dollars' value. To Fayette this seemed an enormous sum; to Mr. Wingate, a trifle. In the chest with the treasure had been also a time-yellowed letter, or memorandum, signed by the wife of Jacob Ingraham, and decreeing that the property thus hidden had been placed by her own hands in the wall of the cellar of "Spite House" for the "benefit of my nearest of kin."

The document, in itself, was as curious as its hiding-place, and proved that the ancient dame had been a keen observer of men's failings, if not their virtues.

"For I have seen, in this, my lifetime, that gold profits a man nothing. It is ever a bone of contention, and he who has it is poorer than he who has it not. I hope this chest will do him good who finds it; and if it is never found, then the earth will be so much the richer by this small portion of the wealth it has lost. In any case, to prevent evil, and, if possible, to secure a blessing, I have said one prayer over each coin herein disposed, and so, in duty to my conscience, I lock the box and throw the key down the old well of this Bareacre knoll."

The letter had further added that nobody, not even Jacob Ingraham, had known of this bestowal of the chest, because had anybody, "most of all, he," so known, it would have been excavated and its contents scattered.

Now Archibald Wingate was, on his mother's side, the last direct descendant of Mrs. Ingraham, and the property was clearly his. To him, as soon as he returned from his prolonged stay out of town, the broken chest and intact contents had been given by the superintendent, who, Mr. Kaye promptly decided, would be the proper guardian of the treasure until his employer returned.

There had been a terrible scene with Fayette when Cleena told him this decision, and for several days thereafter the lad had not been visible. Some thought he had gone off in one of his wanderings through the woods and fields; but the truth was, he had been kept under lock and key by the energetic and masterful Cleena Keegan. She had assured that patient listener, herself, that:—

"Sure, it do be right. Will I lose all the good we have gained for the sake o' bad temper? The end's in sight,—the blessed end o' the secrecy, an' the weary struggle o' keepin' me gineral's nose to the grindstone, and now to leave go? Not while Cleena Keegan draws a free breath, an' can handle a silly gossoon, like him yon."

From the first it had been a strange and powerful influence that this good woman exercised over the foundling she adopted, and fortunately his imprisonment was not so very long, else it would have been impossible to conceal it from the rest of the household; not one of whom did, however, suspect such a proceeding.

When the object for which she had restrained him of his liberty seemed quite gained, Cleena let Fayette go; and, oddly enough, after his liberty was granted him, he no longer cared for it. He kept close to Bareacres, bare no longer, but teeming with the rich vegetation resulting from his own labor, guided by Frederic Kaye's trained judgment. The summer had proved a most interesting as well as busy one to both these gardeners. The results of their mutual labor were harvested and stored for the family's winter use, and Fayette had returned to the mill. Idleness, or the want of that regular employment he had enjoyed, now reawoke the dark thoughts which had disturbed his clouded brain during the time of his "retreat" under Cleena's compelling will.

This day, when Amy watched her cousin through the glass partition, and waited with Mary for Hallam to complete his own task in a room adjoining the private office of Mr. Wingate, Fayette was hanging about the mill, as if himself waiting for some one.

Amy called to him once, and received a surly answer:—

"I'll go when I get ready. I ain't hurting nobody—yet."

"Of course not, who'd suppose so? I'd think you'd like a run in the woods after hours. There was a frost a few nights ago. There may be hickory nuts to gather."

"Gather 'em, then, if you want 'em. I don't. I've got other fish to fry. I'll fry 'em, too."

"Well, you're cross, 'Fayetty, me gineral.' I'll not wait much longer, even for Hal. You can come home with him, and help him bring the patterns he is to show father, please."

"I thought you wanted to see Mr. Wingate, too, Amy," observed Mary, "about that legacy of yours. You're the queerest girl. Any other would be wild to have things fixed, but you don't seem to care a bit."

"Why should I? We are very comfortable at 'Charity House.' Mrs. Burn, dear Adam's daughter-in-law, has gone abroad again. If she had time, she'd cheerfully help us—if she could. We think the letter of instruction will sometime be found, and that will make all clear. We don't like law, and Adam would have hated it. No; we'll wait for a time longer, but I promised father I'd consult Cousin Archibald, and see when he would meet either father or Uncle Fred to discuss it.

"Meanwhile, old Israel and his wife are doing just the same at Burnside as if their master were still there. All I could think of taking the property for, it seems to me, would be to give my father such a lovely home again."

"Well, Amy, I must go. I want to finish reading that book Mr. Kaye lent me, this afternoon. I'll see you at the club to-night. Good-by."

With a kiss and a hand pressure, which revealed the depth of their friendship, Mary departed, and Amy turned to the open window to watch the cloud shadows drift over the lovely valley, wherein the Ardsley leaped and sparkled. As she gazed, thinking of many things, she became conscious, in an idle sort of fashion, that Fayette had passed out of doors, and was walking close beneath, or along the building's wall, and in a stealthy manner, suspicious in itself.

"Heigho! What now, I wonder. He's up to some mischief, I'm afraid. How queer he is at times. Why, even when he was told that Mr. Wingate knew him for the person who horsewhipped him last Christmas and had refused to take any notice of it, except to thank Uncle Fred for his rescue—even then Fayette would not say that he thought my cousin good. All he did say was: 'Well, he better not. He knows too much. If he locked me up or had me fined, I'd lick him again soon's I got out. He ain't no fool. But that don't make me feel any different. He ain't jailed me, but he's got my money. Mine; I dug it out the cellar an' blasted, to the risk o' my life. He keeps it, when he's got a bank full, they say. Kept Balaam, too, or give him to one of them Metcalf youngsters. Well, his time'll come. I'm not forgettin', if I do keep my mouth shut for a spell.'"

Recalling this speech, Amy tried to put herself in the half-wit's place, which effort made her pity him the more, yet watch his present man[oe]uvres none the less closely. But presently he disappeared in a distant lower doorway, and she forgot him and returned to her happy day-dreams.

Fayette had bided his time. On such an afternoon, at such an hour, he judged that nobody would be in the mill building save the distant watchman and that indefatigable toiler, Archibald Wingate, with whom was the half-wit's present business. He had seen the last whisk of Mary's blue skirt disappearing above the back-stairway, and, knowing that Amy and she were waiting for Hallam, concluded that the trio had departed together.

So he entered the little basement door gleefully. All seemed propitious, yet he meant once more and carefully to examine the preparations he had made, to see if there was any flaw anywhere. He was so absorbed, so excited, that he scarcely breathed as he crept slowly along the inside of the wall, just as a moment before he had passed along its outer surface. At one spot he paused and tried a simple-looking tube that had been brought from the outside, through a convenient aperture, into the inside of the building. The thing looked harmless, yet it ran along the groove where the floor and wall joined, clear into that cheery inner office, where Archibald Wingate sat that very moment, signing his name to one of the most generous letters of his life.

"There," he reflected, as he leaned back in his chair and tossed aside his pen; "there, that is foolish enough to satisfy even my impractical small kinswoman, bless her! A thousand dollars isn't much, but it's—a thousand dollars; and when I double it by another thousand, which has never been buried by any ancient ancestress, it makes a tidy sum for a foundling lad. Poor 'Bony,' he hates me like poison. I wonder, when he finds out that I've done this for him, when I place it in his hands myself, and tell him, furthermore, that I have asked Fred Kaye to send west for several more of those burros he's given us a sample of, and that one is for the 'Rep-Dem-Prob' himself—I wonder, will there rise in his stunted heart some perception of what life should mean; of what it shall mean, during my last brief hold of it, to me? and all because of a girl's bright trustfulness and love."

It was a day for musings. Even Fayette, intent on evil, had his own—like Amy and the lonely old man in the silent office. He wondered, pausing for a moment, how "it would feel to be blown up. That day when I found the money he's took from me, if I'd had a bigger charge of powder, would I ha' knowed what struck me, if it had gone off sudden? Hmm. I almost hate to do it. He seems—he'll never guess, though, and he hadn't any right. He's been again' me from the first. I'll do it. He hain't had no mercy—I won't, neither."

So he crept softly back to the low entrance, and stooping, struck a match. The match burned well, and in an instant had communicated its own flame to the cheap fuse that ran along the wall. In the far-off office, concealed beneath the mill owner's desk, there was already waiting a powerful explosive, which Fayette had purloined from the store of the workmen who were excavating for the new wing of the building. In a moment more the fuse would have burned unnoticed to its fatal end, and an awful crime, of whose enormity the dull criminal had no real comprehension, would have been committed.

But Hallam had caught the prevailing mood. He, like the others left lingering about the silent building, had fallen into a reverie which, judging by his bright expression, was full of happiness. For many months, and for the first time in his life, he had kept a secret from his father and Amy. If that can be called a secret which was known also to Cleena, to Uncle Frederic, and to Fayette, upon whose aid alone the success of this mystery had depended. The lad had been faithful. At most times his help had been rendered freely, out of love and sympathy; at others there had been compulsion on Cleena's side and from the other one of the quartette, who had himself suffered false blame and the disgrace of suspicion because of the secret.

"To-morrow, please God, it shall end. I couldn't bear to tell them, who love me so, until I was sure, sure. The old surgeon said it might be a miracle would be enacted for my benefit. Well, it has, it has! I've known it, really, almost from the beginning, though it's been so hard and at times so seemingly hopeless. But if I hadn't loved them even more than myself, I wouldn't have kept on trying. To-morrow—the experiment in their presence! Will it ever come!"

The lad stood up and arranged the papers in his own desk. Then he heard, or fancied that he did, a slight sound in the deserted building. The corps of operatives had been well drilled to watch for any sign of that dreaded element, fire, and he was alert now,—the more that, following this, there was a slight odor, pungent and more alarming than even the first sound.

He wheeled about and—what was that? In the dimness of the angle where it lay, away out toward that closed office with its unsuspecting occupant, a tiny spark was making its steady, creeping progress. For an instant Hallam gazed at it astonished, the next he realized its full meaning and horror. Could he reach it? Was there time?

With a shriek of warning he rushed forward,—stumbling against, leaping over obstacles,—gaining upon that menacing point of fire and fume, which now seemed to race him like a living thing.

The miracle was wrought—two miracles! A few more seconds, and it would have been too late; but now the lame walked and, as it were, the dead came back to life.

Hallam's shriek, the uproar of overturned obstructions, reverberated through the empty building and brought Archibald Wingate, Amy, and poor Fayette face to face with the panting, excited rescuer. All comprehended at once what had been attempted and how prevented. The mill owner laid an iron grip upon the half-wit's shoulder, who made no effort to escape; for at last, at last, there had penetrated to his dim intelligence the wide, the awful difference between good and evil. When he saw the once crippled lad, whom his own hands had restored to health, thus fling away his life with unstinted hand, that he might save the life of another,—once his enemy also,—there had roused within the dormant brain of the foundling a sudden perception of Hallam's nobility and his own baseness. Therefore, stunned by this new knowledge, he stood humble and unresisting.

Amy's great heart comprehended just what and how her poor protégé was suffering. With her, to think was to act. She sprang to him and laid her small hand on his other shoulder, and the tender sympathy of this touch thrilled him more than the hard grasp of his master.

"Oh! but Hallam—Hallam—you walked! walked! you ran! You—you—who never—"

Her voice choked, ceased, and she turned from Fayette to fling herself headlong into her brother's arms. For the first time in their lives he could receive her and support her firmly. Then she stepped back and shook him. Gently at first, then violently. His crutches were—nobody cared where, though certainly not at hand; yet he stood fixedly, resisting her attacks, and again catching her to him with that overflowing joy that only such as he could guess.

"But I don't understand. Tell—tell; not here, though. Is all safe? No danger any more?"

"No," said Fayette to her demand, "there ain't no danger. Not 'less the fuse had burned out to the end. It's under the desk. He'll find it. I—I—but it's put out. I—"

"You didn't mean it, did you, boy? You could not. You didn't understand."

"No, I didn't, I didn't," whimpered the stricken fellow.

Mr. Wingate relaxed his hold. How could he retain his fury against such an enemy? It was too unequal. The lad was dangerous, he must be punished, he—

Hallam read these unspoken thoughts.

"For my sake, Cousin Archibald, forgive him. It is he who has made me able to save you this day, even though it was he who put you in such peril. Months ago, Amy read in a paper how a lad was cured whose case was just like mine. There was only will power on the cripple's part, and the daily, sometimes hourly massage by one of those persons whose physical magnetism, or whatever it is, was strong. 'Bony' was such a person, and I just such a cripple. We began. For weeks I couldn't move my legs without using my hands to help. Then one day I found, just after the rubbing was over, that I could push one foot along the floor a tiny way. That gave us both courage. He has been untiring. We were soon on the road to what I believed, though with lots of set-backs, would be a cure. Uncle Fred knew; that's why he wouldn't let Fayette be arrested or punished for assaulting you. He took the blame himself, if the boy would stick to me. Cleena knew, too—"

"And not us, father nor me!" exclaimed Amy, in a hurt tone.

"No; that was to be my blessed surprise for you two. It was to your own suggestion, which I suppose you forgot soon after, with the newspaper scrap you brought, that I owe the beginning. It was Cleena kept us at it. She wouldn't let us give it up,—no, not if she had the whole crowd under lock and key on a bread and water diet; eh, Fayette?"

The shamefaced fellow looked up, with a slight gleam in his eye, then dropped his gaze again.

Hallam went on: "To-morrow, the First Day that mother loved, I was going to make an experiment before you all—my surprise. I have practised in private continually, and uncle, as well as Cleena, has urged me to tell you before; but I kept it till the anniversary—you know."

"Ah," said Archibald Wingate, with a sudden recollection, "so it is. She was my best friend, my best beloved. You are her children. All my hard middle life seems to have slipped out of my memory, like a bad dream, and I am back in our youth-time again, with Salome and Cuthbert and Fred,—all gay and glad together. I wonder, I wonder what she would bid me do to you, poor fellow," he finished, regarding the abject natural with a pitying air.

"I know! Forgive him, else thy Salome and my mother were not one."

"Amy, thee is right. Come into the office, all of you."

"Is it safe?" she asked, hanging back.

"We'll make it safe. 'Bony,' or Fayette, take that stuff you put under the desk and step out there to the Ardsley. Behind that rock is a deep hole. I used to fish there as a lad. I can see if you obey. Drop that death powder into the stream and come back."

Fayette obeyed, and they watched him, shivering. But when the water flowed on after an instant, undisturbed and merrily singing its deathless song, they breathed deeply and with complete relief.

"Look here, Fayette; you think I've been a hard man. So I have—so I have. You've been a bad boy too, eh?"

"Yes; I won't never—"

"Of course you won't. Look here, I say. What's this—this heap of stuff I took out of the safe? Did you ever see it before?"

"Yes; it's the money I blasted out."

"Well, if it were yours, would you promise never again to blast anything or anybody or anywhere? Your very own to keep forever, if you liked."

"Huckleberries! Do you mean it?"

"If you promise, I mean it."

"Oh, I do—I do. I'll keep my word. I meant to try and I did. But it's over. I'm glad; I wasn't happy, never. I promise, whether or no, money or not."

"I believe you'll keep that promise: Hallam and Amy, here, are witnesses. Now, listen: I, too, promise. I'll not only give you this old hoard, but this besides." He swept into view a pile of golden eagles, larger than any there save himself had ever seen, and placed it beside that time-worn lot of similar material. In bestowing his gift he had provided to have it in such shape as he knew the half-wit would best comprehend. "This is for you, also. It is just as much more as you found. I give it to you because my little cousin here has taught me it is better to give than to receive. You must take both piles, in this new hand-bag, and ask Mr. Metcalf to take care of it for you. You trust him, don't you?"

"Yes—yes," answered Fayette, in breathless eagerness.

"Now, the condition: if you ever again, by word or deed, do any sort of injury to any human being or to any helpless animal, I will have you punished, punished in full for all you have done wrong in the past. Do you understand?"

"Yes," sobbed the grateful and greatly excited youth. Somewhere he had heard, maybe from Cleena's lips, something about heaping coals. He felt at that moment as if the living coals were lying upon his own poor head.

"Then go; and if it will give you any pleasure to know it, I believe that you are now about the richest of the mill operatives living in Ardsley village."

Stumbling, through his tears, and truly far more grateful for the prevention of his crime than even for his unexpected good fortune and full forgiveness, Cleena's Fayetty went.

As his footsteps died away, Amy, who seemed given to outbursts to relieve her full heart, threw her arms about the old man's neck and kissed him over and over.

"That's better, child, that's better. The first time thee planted it on my nose, I seemed to have a dim perception that this was not the regulation feature for such gifts, but it answered; though I like them better on my cheek, child. Thee's improving. Now let's go home. Yes; it's the carryall. There's room for us all. On the way I'll tell thee—"

"No, no; wait till we get home. Don't let's leave anybody out any more. By thy face I can see it's something delightful thee is going to tell. Oh, make the old horse travel, travel—fast, fast!"

Chapter XXIX.