[Illustration: "YOU'VE GOT THE WINNING CARDS, MY GIRL . .. IT'S ALL INTHE PLAYING NOW"]

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JOYCE OF THE NORTH WOODS

BY

HARRIET T. COMSTOCK

AUTHOR OF JANET OF THE DUNES, TOWER AND THRONE, THE QUEEN'S HOSTAGE, ETC. 

ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN CASSEL

GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK

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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGNLANGUAGES INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

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TO

EVELINA HEMINWAY SMITH

"SISTER--FRIEND"

Accept the dedication of this book of mine as a very slight recognitionof your encouragement in my work; your faith in me. 

To you I first read the story; from you I received my first approval; Ibelieve its chances will be brighter in the book-world if your name andgood-will go with it. 

HARRIET T. COMSTOCK

Flatbush--Brooklyn, N. Y. February, 1910

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I 3CHAPTER II 24CHAPTER III 46CHAPTER IV 65CHAPTER V 78CHAPTER VI 98CHAPTER VII 111CHAPTER VIII 134CHAPTER IX 154CHAPTER X 177CHAPTER XI 198CHAPTER XII 212CHAPTER XIII 231CHAPTER XIV 251CHAPTER XV 273CHAPTER XVI 301CHAPTER XVII 312CHAPTER XVIII 334CHAPTER XIX 350CHAPTER XX 369

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PREFATORY NOTE

"Love is the golden bead in the bottom of the crucible. " And thecrucible was St. Angé. 

 * * * * *

Fifty years before this story began, St. Angé was a lumber camp; thefirst gash in that part of the great Solitude to the north, which layacross Beacon Hill, three miles from Hillcrest. 

When the splendid lumber had been felled within a prescribed limit, Industry took another leap, left St. Angé scarred and blighted, with afringe of forest north and south, and struck camps farther back andnearer Canada. 

Then Nature began to heal the stricken heart of the Solitude. A secondgrowth of lovely tree and bush sprang to the call, and the onlyreminders of the camp were the absences of the men during the loggingseason, and the roaring and rushing of the river through Long Meadowevery spring, with its burden of logs from the distant camps. 

In the beginning St. Angé had had her aspirations. A futile highway hadbeen constructed, for no other purpose apparently, than to connect thenorth and south forests. A little church had been built--there hadnever been any regular service held in it--and a small school-housewhich promptly degenerated into the Black Cat Tavern, General Store, andPost Office. A few modest houses met the highway face to face; a fewmore turned their backs upon it and were content with an outlook acrossLong Meadow and toward Beacon Hill, beyond which lay the village ofHillcrest which grew in importance as St. Angé degenerated. There werescattered houses among the clumps of maple and pine growths, and therewas a forlorn railroad station before which a rickety, single trackbranch ended. Sometime during the day a train came in, and after anuncertain period it departed; it was the only link with the outer worldthat St. Angé had except what came by way of Hillcrest. 

Toward Hillcrest, as the years went on, there grew in St. Angé a feelingof envy and distrust. Its prosperity and decency were a reflection, itsvery emphatic regard for law and order a menace and burden. St. Angéanssent their aspiring youths to the Hillcrest school--it was never analarming constituency--it was cheaper to do that than to support aschool of their own. There were emergencies when the Hillcrest doctorand minister were in demand, so it behooved St. Angé to keep up apartial show of friendliness, but bitterly did it resent theinterference of Hillcrest justice during that season immediatelyfollowing the enforced sobriety and isolation of the lumber camp. 

Were men not to have some compensation for the hardships of thebackwoods?

And just at that point in the argument Beacon Hill received its name andsignificance. From its top a watcher could view the road leading toHillcrest, and by a well-directed signal give warning to any chancewrongdoer on the St. Angé side. Many a culprit had thus been aided inhis plans of escape before Justice, striding over the western hill, boredown upon the town. 

Beautiful, unappreciated St. Angé! The trees grew, and the scar washealed. The soft, pine-laden breezes touched with heavenly fragrance thedull-faced women, the pathetic children, and the unambitious men. Everything was run down and apparently doomed, until one day the endlesschain which encompasses the world, in its turning dropped the GoldenBead of Love into St. Angé! Down deep it sank to the bottom of thecrucible. Jude Lauzoon was blinded by it and stung to life; JoyceBirkdale through its power came into the heritage of her soul. JockFilmer by its magic force was shorn of his poor shield and left nakedand unprotected for Fate's crudest darts. John Gaston, working out hissalvation in his shack hidden among the pines, was burnt by the diviningrays that penetrated to his secret place and spared him not. And then, when things were at their tensest, Ralph Drew came and tuned thediscordant notes into sweet harmony. St. Angé became in time a home formany whom despair had marked for its own; a Sanctuary for devotedservice. 

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ILLUSTRATIONS

"You've got the winning cards, my girl . .. It's all in theplaying now" Frontispiece

 FACING PAGE

"Once I went so far as to go up there with my gun" 76

That pictured Mother and Child were moulding Joyce's character 114

Presently he opened his eyes . .. And there sat the girl ofhis dreams near him 188

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JOYCE OF THE NORTH WOODS

CHAPTER I

The man lying flat on the rock which crusted Beacon Hill raised his headwith a snake-like motion, and then let it fall back again upon hisfolded arms. His body had not moved; it seemed part of the stone andmoss. 

The midsummer afternoon was sunny and hot, and the fussy little riverrambling through the Long Meadow was talking in its sleep. 

Lazily it wound around young maples, and ferny groups--it would crushthem by and by, poor trusting things--then it would stumble against arock or pile of loose stones, wake up and repeat the strain it hadlearned at its mother's breast, far up in the North Woods. 

"I'm here! here! here! I'll be ready by and by, by, by, by. " Then onagain, a little faster perhaps, but still dreamily. Children's laughtersounded far below; a slouching man or woman making for the Black Catbent on business or pleasure, passed now and then; all else was stilland seemingly asleep. 

Again Jude raised his head and gave that quick glance around. 

Jude was awake at last. Little Billy Falstar had roused him two daysbefore and set the world in a jangle. The child's impish words hadstruck the scales from Jude's eyes, and the blinding light made himshrink and suffer. 

"Him and her, " the boy had whispered, hugging his bruised and dirtyknees as he squatted by Jude's door; "him and her is sparking some. "Then he laughed the freakish laugh of mischief. 

Jude was polishing the gun which John Gaston had given him a yearbefore, and had trained him to use until he was second only to Gastonhimself for marksmanship. "Him and her--who?" he asked, raising his dulleyes to Billy's tormenting face. 

"Joyce and Mr. Gaston. Him and her is beaux, I reckon. She goes to hisshack; I listened outside the winder once--he reads to her and tells herthings. They walks in the Long Medder, too, and once I saw him kissher. "

Again the teasing laugh that set every nerve tingling. 

Then it was that Jude awoke, and his hot French blood, mingled with hiscanny Scotch inheritance, rose in his veins and struck madly againstbrain and heart. 

He stared at Billy as if the boy had given him a physical blow--then helooked beyond him at the woods, the sky, the highway and the dejectedhouses--nothing was familiar! They all seemed alive and alert. Unseenhappenings were going on--he must understand. 

"You saw--him--kiss--her?" The gun fell limply across the man's knees. 

"Yep, " Billy whipped his dramatic sense into action. He arose and strodebefore Jude with Gaston's own manner. "This way. His arms out, and hima-laughing like, and Joyce she kinder run inter his arms and he heldher, like this--. " The close embrace of the childish gesture seemed tostrangle Jude, and he gave a muffled cry. This acted like a round ofapplause upon Billy. 

"Yep, and he kept on hugging and kissing her like this--" Billy wentinto an ecstasy of portrayal. Suddenly, however, he reeled into sanity, for Jude had struck him across the cheek with the back of a handtrembling with new-born emotion. 

"Take that, you impish brat, " he had said, "and more like it if youstand there another minute with your lying capers. "

"They ain't lies, " wailed Billy, edging away and nursing his smartingface; "he did! he did! It was in his shack--I saw 'em!"

"Get out, " yelled Jude, glowering darkly; "and you tell that to any oneelse and, " he came nearer to the shrinking child, "I swear I'll chokeyer till yer can't speak. " So changed was Jude that Billy trembledbefore him. 

"I won't, " he whispered, "I swear I won't, Jude; don't--don't hit meagain; I won't tell. "

He was gone, but the old Jude was gone also. The new man finished thegun cleaning, his breath coming hard and fast meanwhile, and then, taking the gun with him, he went into the deep woods on the northernedge of the village. 

All the rest of the day he watched Gaston's shack from a distance; asthe darkness drew on he crept closer. 

Joyce did not come near the place, and Gaston himself only returned whenthe night was well advanced. 

Jude watched him light his lamp, and prepare his supper. Watched him, later, go into the inner room, and then he crept close to the broadwindow to see what Gaston was doing in there where no foot but Gaston'sown, so it was said, ever entered. As he had raised his eyes to thelevel of the casement, Gaston's calm gaze met his with a laugh in it. 

"Hello, Jude, " the voice was unshaken; "playing Indian Brave? Got yourgun, too? What you after, big game or--what?" Jude rose to his feet. Hewas trembling violently. Gaston watched him closely. "Come in?" he askedpresently. 

"No. I was only passing--thought I would look in. I'm going now. "

"Hold on there, Jude, what's up?" Gaston leaned from the window. "Areyou alone?"

"Yes. There ain't anything the matter. "

"All right. " Gaston looked puzzled. "Good night. " He watched Jude untilhe was lost in the shadows, then he drew the heavy wooden shuttersclose, bolted the door and placed his pistol near at hand. 

All the next day Jude haunted the vicinity of Joyce Birkdale's home, buthe kept hidden, for Joyce was safe within doors and a drizzly rain wasfalling. Night again found him on guard; and now he lay on Beacon Hillin the hot sun, napping by snatches (for he was woefully tired) andscanning the Long Meadow, with his feverish eyes, in between times. 

In his dreams the scene Billy Falstar had so luridly described wasenacted again and again, until he felt as if he, Jude, had been theonlooker. 

The people whom he had taken for granted in the past now assumed newmeaning and importance. Gaston had slipped in among them three yearsbefore, and after the first few months of observation he had aroused nointerest. He had minded his business, paid his way, taken his turn incamp at greenhorn jobs, accounted for his presence on the ground ofseeking health, and that was all. Life went on as usual, sluggishly anddully--but on. 

Jude had, before Billy's illumination, been thinking that after the nextlogging season he would annex Joyce Birkdale to his few belongings--thecabin, his dog and gun. The idea had not roused him much, but it hadbeen a pleasurable conclusion to arrive at; and now? Every nerve wasaching and the boy's heart was thumping heavily. Again he dropped hishead, and he cursed everything his thought touched upon--even the girlhe meant, in some way, still to have. 

One, two, three hours passed. Jude's hilltop was touched by the sun, butin the meadow the purpling shadows were gathering slowly. 

Suddenly Jude sprang up--something was happening down there below. Something in him had warned him. 

From the southern edge of the meadow a tall man was swinging along witheasy strides. He carried his broad-brimmed hat in his right hand andwaved it as if in greeting. From the opposite direction a girl wasapproaching. She wore a blue-checked gown, and her pale hair seemed toshine in the dimming light. She wore no hat, and she walked with thequick freedom of a child who longed to reach something precious. 

Midway of the meadow the girl and man met. He stretched out his arms, and they closed about the slim form. 

Then he bent his head over the fair one on his breast--but he did notkiss it! Jude was burning and palpitating. He strained his hearing, forgetting time and space. They were talking, and he would never knowwhat they said. 

Presently the girl slipped from the enfolding arms, and, clinging to theman's hands, looked up into his face. Sometimes she bowed her head, andonce she passed her hand across her eyes as if to wipe away tears. Thenthe man drew her close again. He raised the face that was crushedagainst his shoulder; he kissed the brow, the eyes, the chin--and thenthe lips. 

Something blinded Jude. Something thick and hot like blood, and when hecould see again, the two had parted. The man stood with bared headwatching the slim, drooping figure as it retraced its steps with never abackward turn. When it was gone he replaced his hat and took hisway--this time, toward the Black Cat. 

Jude stood alone on his hilltop and watched the lights spring to life incottage and tavern. The stars twinkled above him in the calm eveninggloaming. The little river trilled a vesper hymn as it felt its wayalong the dark rocky path--and then tears came to Jude's relief, impotent, boyish, weak tears, such tears as he had not shed since hisfather and mother lay dead, and in childish fright and sorrow he had notknown what to do next. But now, as then, he pulled himself together andset his teeth grimly. 

He did the wisest thing he could have done. He went down the hill andstrode toward the Birkdale house. 

But he did not walk alone. Almost forgotten memories rose sharply andkept him company as he pushed on to meet his Fate. 

Womankind in St. Angé was monotonous. There was a shading ofindividuality in the girls and newly-wed women, but it faded soon intothe dull drab that seemed the only possible wearing-colour of the place. Occasionally, though, the sameness had been relieved by a vivid touch, but only for a short hour. The Fate who snips the threads, hadinvariably clipped such colouring from the St. Angé design, and tossedit aside as useless. 

Jude remembered Marsena Riddall. What a woman she had been! What amenace to man's rights and woman's position. 

She had demanded, and got her husband's wages as he returned from camp. She met him at the edge of the North Wood, and held him up, morally andphysically. That she kept a clean and respectable house; that herchildren were well fed, clothed and cared for, had not counted to hercredit one jot among the powers that be. Her husband was not safe on theman's side of the Black Cat screen. At ten o'clock, did Riddall bravehis chances to that hour, Marsena would march boldly into the arena andclaim her quarry. If a man rose to expostulate, Marsena was equal to himwith tongue and wit. Masculine superiority trembled during Marsena'sreign, which lasted five years; then Fate downed her. 

Riddall was called away from his jailer by the command that even Marsenacould not defy, and she and her children faced life in a village where aman was an absolute necessity unless there was money to take his place. Jude grimly smiled as he recalled how the men and boys gave Marsena andher brood a jeering send-off as the rattling train bore them away soonafter Riddall had been laid behind the disused church. 

So while Marsena was still in Jude's memory, he came upon the desertedand decaying cottage where once Lola Laval had sung her prettyFrench-Canadian song. 

It was odd how Lola came always with that song accompaniment. Try as hemight, even now, in this disordered moment, Jude heard the ripplinglittle lark song rise and fall in the fragrant darkness. 

Jude, while but a boy, liked to draw water for Lola and run her errandswhen young Pierre, the husband, was in camp. When the logging season wasover, Lola's cottage vied with the Black Cat in popularity. Pierre was anoted card player, but, oh! Lola's song sounded above the slap ofpasteboard and the click of glasses. How pretty she was--and how thewomen hated her! The men were eager to serve her. She had no need tocommand; her desires seemed granted before she voiced them--poor, prettyLola!

 Alouette, alouette, alouette, alouette. Oh, alouette, chantez alouette, Alouette, je te plumerai. Alouette, chantez alouette, Alouette, je te plumerai. Je te plumerai le bec, Je te plumerai le bec A le bec, A le bec, Alouette, Alouette. 

Lola had not lasted long; only nineteen she was when Pierre in hisjealousy struck the light from her eyes by a cruel blow, and the songfled from her lips; then taking warning from a well-directed signal fromBeacon Hill, he had sought the Southern Solitude just before Justice, inthe form of the Hillcrest constable, came stalking into St. Angé. 

But the song was not dead. Again and again a man or woman would reviveit and so it had become a part of the place. To Jude, now, it waspainfully evident as he again plunged forward; it followed him sweetly, mockingly as it used to when Lola sent it after him to keep him frombeing afraid as he left her for his lonely home; he, a neglected littleboy. 

And now here was Joyce! With a stinging consciousness Jude realized thisnew personality that heretofore he had not suspected. Even as jealousanger spurred him on, a vague something he knew awaited him, calmed himand made him cautious. 

While he longed to grip and command the situation, he was aware of apower in Joyce--a power he had unconsciously, perhaps, sensedbefore--that bade him stand afar until she beckoned him. 

As he neared her little house, before even he saw the lights, he heard asong. It was that song! It met the rhythm in his own heated fancy--heand Joyce seemed to be singing it together:

 Alouette, Alouette. 

The light was streaming through open window and door. Inside Joyce waspreparing the evening meal, stepping lightly between table and stove asshe sang. Jude dared not enter unannounced, and his pride held himsilent. 

What was he afraid of? Was he not he, and Joyce but a girl? Still hekept his distance. 

"Joyce!" The song within ceased, and the singer stepped to the opendoorway. 

"That you, father?" No answer came. "Father?"

Then Jude came into the light. 

"You, Jude? Come in; father's late. I never wait for him and I am ashungry as a wolf. "

Joyce had been one of the few girls who had gone to the Hillcrest schoolas long as paternal authority permitted, and she showed her training. 

"I ain't come for no friendly call, " muttered Jude, slouching in anddropping on to a wooden chair beside the table. 

Joyce turned and looked at him, and the glow from the hanging lamp fellupon her. 

She was tall and slim, almost to leanness, but there were no awkwardangles and she was as graceful as a fawn. 

Her skin was pale, clear and smooth, her eyes wide apart and so dark asto be colourless, but of a wondrous softness. Her hair was of that shadeof gold that suggests silver, and in its curves, where the sun had notbleached it, it was full of tints and tones. 

"What have you come for?" she asked, as a child might have asked it, wonderingly and interestedly. 

"I want to ask you something, and I want the truth. "

"Oh!" Joyce sat opposite, and let her clasped hands fall upon the tablelaid out for the evening meal with the brown bowl of early asters set inthe centre. She forgot her hunger, and the steaming pot on the stovebubbled unheeded. 

"What you want to know, Jude? You look mighty upset. "

Jude saw with his new, keen vision that she was startled and wassparring for time. "It's about, " he leaned forward, "it's about youand--and him. I saw you in the Long Medder. I saw him hold your handsand--and kiss you. " The words smarted the dry, hot lips. "I--I want toknow what it means. "

Jude was trembling visibly as he finished, but Joyce's silence, herapparent discomfort, gave him a kind of assurance that upheld him in hisposition. 

The girl across the table had been awakened several weeks ago inGaston's little shack among the pines. Since then she had been livingvividly and fervently. The question with her, now, was how best to voiceherself--the self that Jude in no wise knew. Womanlike, she did not wantto plunge into what might prove an abyss. She wanted to take her ownway, but with a half-unconscious coquetry she desired to drag hercaptives whither she went. 

In the old stupid life before her womanhood was roused, Jude had held nomean part in her girlish dreams. He was the best of the St. Angé boyhoodand Joyce had an instinctive relish for the best wherever she saw it. Whatever the future held she was not inclined to thrust Jude from it. Insuccess or failure she would rather have him with her than against her. Not that she feared him--she had boundless belief in herself--but, hearts to the woman, scalps to the savage, are trophies not to bedespised. 

"I--I want to know what it means. " Again Jude spoke, and this time atone of command rang through the words. 

The corners of Joyce's mouth twitched--she had a wonderfully expressivemouth. Suddenly she raised her eyes. They did not hold the expressionJude might have expected from her disturbed silence. His growing couragetook a step back, but his passion rushed forward proportionately. 

The witch-light danced in the steady glance she turned upon him; shethrew her head back and her slim throat showed white and smooth in thelamp's glow. 

"Suppose he did hold my hand and--and kiss me, Jude Lauzoon, you'd liketo do the same yourself, now wouldn't you?"

She was ignorantly testing her weak, woman's weapon on the man's metal. 

Jude felt the mist rising in his eyes that once before that day had hidthis girl and Gaston from his sight. Like a mad mockery, too, Lola'slark song sounded above the rush of blood that made him giddy. He got tohis feet and staggered around the table. He held to it, not so much tosteady himself as to guide him, but as he neared the girl the blindnesspassed, and the tormenting song stopped--he stood in an awful silence, and a white, hot light. 

"Yes, by God, I do want to, and if yer that kind I'll take--my share andchance along with the rest of 'em. "

It was his own voice, loud and brutal, that smote the better part of himthat stood afar and alone; a something quite different from the beastwho spoke, and which felt a mad interest in wondering how she would takethe words. 

"You go and sit down over there!"

No clash of steel or dash of icy water could have had the effect thosequiet words had, combined with the immovable calm out of which theycame. 

The instinct of frightened womanhood was alive. If she could not downthe beast in the man by unflinching show of courage--she was lost. 

They eyed each other for an instant--then Jude backed away and droppedinto the chair across the table. 

Still, like animal and tamer they measured each other from the saferdistance. Presently the girl spoke, laying all the blame upon him forthe fright and suffering. 

"What right have you, Jude Lauzoon, to come here insulting me?"

"What right had you, " he blurted out, "to make me think you wasthat--that sort?"

"I didn't make you think it--you thought it because you--wanted to thinkit--it was in you. "

The beast was quelled now, and a stifled sob rose to the boyish throat. 

"I--I didn't want to think it--God knows I didn't, Joyce, it was thatthat drove me mad. "

"Can a man only think bad when he sees what he doesn't understand?"

Revulsion of feeling was making Joyce desperate. While her new powerbrought her a delirious joy, it also, she was beginning to understand, brought a terror she had never conceived before. She wished the housewere nearer the other human habitations. 

"If you're that kind, Jude, you had better take yourself to the BlackCat; you'll find plenty of your liking down there. "

Jude was visibly cowering now. 

"Why did he kiss you?" he pleaded. 

"Suppose I gave him the right?"

"Then what am I to think? Have you given him the right? Does he want theright? I mean the right first--and last?" Jude was gaining ground, butneither he nor the girl to whom he spoke realized it yet. Joyce drewback. 

"What is that to you?" she murmured hanging her head. For the moment shewas safe--but she felt cornered. 

Jude again bent toward her over his hands clenched close. 

"It means everything, " he panted, "and you know it. I've always likedyou best of anything on earth--ever since I went to school, to pleaseyou, over to Hillcrest; ever since I tried to keep from the Black Cat, because you asked me to. I've gone following after you kinderheedless-like till--till he gave me a blow twixt the eyes, with hishand-holding and kissing. It drove me crazy. I never thought of any oneelse with you--least of all John Gaston and you. He didn't seem yourkind--I don't know why, but he didn't. Howsomever, if it's allright--God knows I ain't in it--that's all. "

A hoot of an owl outside made Joyce start nervously. She was unstrungand superstitious--the fun of the game died in her, and she felt weakand nauseated. She spoke as if she wanted to finish the matter and havedone with it forever. 

"Well, I didn't give him the right. He didn't want it. I guess it wasall foolish--everything is foolish. When he found out how I liked books, and how I wanted to know about things, he just naturally was kind and helet me go to his shack to read. Sometimes he was there, sometimes hewasn't. He just thought about me as if I was a little girl--MaggieFalstar used to go sometimes--he told her fairy stories--it was all thesame to him, until--" the wonderful colour that very pale people oftenhave rose suddenly to Joyce's face, and the eyes became dreamy--"one daya week ago. "

"Well, " Jude urged her on--he was sensing the situation from the man'sstandpoint. 

"It was nothing. I had been reading a book there by myself. It was thekind of story that makes you feel like you was the woman it tells about. Then Mr. Gaston came in, and stood looking at me from the doorway; heseemed like the man in the book too. We looked at each other, and--and Iwas frightened and I guess he was--for I was grown up all of a sudden. Jude"--the girl was appealing to the familiar in him, the comradeshipthat would stand with her and for her--"he took me in his armsand--and--kissed me. Then he begged my pardon--and he pushed me away;then he led me to the door and said he--he didn't understand, but I--Imustn't come again to the shack alone, but to meet him in the LongMeadow to-day. "

"Curse 'im, " muttered Jude; "curse 'im. " But the move was a wrong one. Joyce rose to her own defence and Gaston's. 

"If you feel that way, " she cried, "you can take yourself off. "

"I--I don't feel that way, " Jude returned illogically and meekly; "goon. "

"He's a good man, Jude Lauzoon; better than any one here in St. Angé;and he isn't our kind--not mine, yours, or any one else's around here. He just made me feel ashamed of myself out in the Meadow to-day. I feltas if I had been bold and--and all wrong, but he wouldn't let me feelthat way. He acted like I was a little girl to him again--onlydifferent; and--I'm going to tell you something. " The pink flush dyedeven the white throat now. "He said he wished I would get married--itwas for the best. That's the way he wanted me for himself!" Joycelaughed with a bitterness that changed suddenly as she recalled thesubtle power she had felt over Gaston even while he was forcing her outof his life. 

"He asked me about Jock Filmer. "

"Jock Filmer?" Jude's jaw dropped. Was all St. Angé hurtling aroundJoyce? "Jock Filmer--why--why--" Words failed him and he laughednoisily. 

"Oh, I don't know, " Joyce tossed her head. "You seem to think nobodywould want me--I guess--they would--if I wanted them!" The girl was wornout; racked by the emotions that were reflected from the new attitude ofothers toward her. 

And now Jude came around the table again. This time he walked steadily, and he was quite himself. The best self he had ever yet been. 

"I want you Joyce--God knows I do. "

"He said you did. "

"Who?"

"He--Mr. Gaston. "

"He--said that? Then why in thunder did--he kiss you?"

That rock Jude dashed against at every turn. 

"He didn't until--until I told him--I liked you. "

Poor Joyce! She was never to tell any one that that admission had beenwrung from her in order to make Gaston think he himself had not beendeeply in her thoughts. It had been a difficult fencing match thatafternoon. 

"You told him that?" A light came into Jude's handsome, heavy face, which quickly vanished as the torturing jealousy, feeding upon a newhope, rose, defiantly. "You told him you cared--and then he kissed you, damn him! Maybe he thinks he'll get you to take me, and then he'll go onwith hand-holding and kissing all the safer. "

"Take that back, " cried Joyce harshly. "Take that back, Jude Lauzoon. "Yet as she resented the implied insult, the primitive woman in heradmired Jude as it had never admired him before. 

"I didn't mean it against you, Joyce, I swear it. Can't you see how Ilove yer and I don't want yer hurt? No one ain't going to hurt yer!" Hehad clutched her to him roughly but tenderly. "Maybe he wouldn't wantter, maybe I don't understand--but he can't, anyway!"

She was sobbing hysterically against his breast. 

"You're mine, lass; you're just a little one; you don't know things. You're no older than you was when you toted over to Hillcrest and--andnever felt afraid. "

Jude tried to kiss the tear-stained face, but she pressed it closeragainst him. He had to be content with the satin softness of her thickhair. 

Suddenly she sprang from him. A sickish odour was filling the room. 

"Everything's burned, " she gasped; "everything!" She drew the pot fromthe stove and ruefully carried it outside. "Nothing left, Jude;" shelaughed nervously. "Nothing but crusts and leavings. "

"You go to bed, " commanded Jude authoritatively; "that's what you needmore than anything!"

"Yes, yes, that's what I need--sleep. I'm almost dead, I'm so tired. "

Jude looked at her hungrily. The sudden happy ending of his torture gavehim an unreal, unsafe feeling. 

He wanted to touch her again in the new, thrilling way, but she wasforbidding even in her sweet yielding. 

"You go to bed, " he said vaguely; "I'll go down to the Black Cat, andsee that your father gets home all right. "

Joyce stepped backward to the chamber door beyond. 

"Thank you, " she murmured; "I certainly am dead tired. "

CHAPTER II

There was only a path leading from the highway to John Gaston's shack. Apath wide enough for a single traveller, and the dark pointed pinesguarded it on either side until within ten feet of the house. The houseitself sat cosily in the clearing. It was a log house built by amateurhands, but roughly artistic without, and mannishly comfortable within. 

The broad door opened into the long living room, where a deep fireplace(happily the chimney had drawn well from the first, or the builder wouldhave been sore perplexed) gave a look of hospitality to the otherwisesevere furnishings. The fireplace and mantel-shelf were Gaston's prideand delight. Upon them he had worked his fanciful designs, and theresult was most satisfactory. There was a low, broad couch near thehearth piled with pine cushions covered with odds and ends of materialthat had come into a man's possession from limited sources. A table, home-made, and some Hillcrest chairs completed the furnishings, exceptfor the china and cooking utensils that ornamented shelves and hooksaround the room. 

An inner door opened into Gaston's bedchamber and sanctum. No one buthimself ever entered there. 

There was a broad desk below the one wide window of that room and arevolving chair before it. A boxed-in affair, filled with fragrant pineboughs, answered for a bed. This was covered with white sheets and apair of fine, handsome, red blankets. An iron-bound chest stood by thebed with a padlock strong enough to guard a king's treasure, and aroundthe walls of the room there were rows of books, interrupted here andthere to admit a picture of value and beauty out of all proportion tothe other possessions. 

Over the window hung a large-faced clock that kept faultless time, andannounced the fact hourly in a mellow, but convincing, voice. Just belowthe window and over the desk, was a pipe-rack with pipes to fit everymood and fancy of a lonely man. There were the short stumpy ones, withthe small bowls for the brief whiff when one did not choose to keepcompany with himself for long, but was willing to be sociable for amoment. There were the comfortable, self-caring pipes that obliginglykept lighted between long puffs while the master was looking over oldpapers, or considering future plans. Then there were the long-stemmed, deep-bellied friends for hours when Memory would have her way and wantedthe misty, fragrant setting for her pictures that so comforted ortormented the man who wooed them. 

By the rude desk Gaston was sitting on the evening that Jude and Joycewere clinging to each other in the house under the maples. His handswere plunged deep in the pockets of his corduroy trousers, his long legsextended, and his head thrown back; he was smoking one of hismemory-filled pipes, and his eyes were fixed upon the rafters of theroom. 

He was a good-looking fellow in the neighbourhood of thirty-five;browned by an out-of-door life, but marked by a delicacy of feature andexpression. 

The strength that was in Gaston's face might puzzle a keen reader ofcharacter as to whether it were native, or the result of years ofwell-fought battles. Once the will was off guard, a certain softness ofthe eyes, and a twitching of the mouth muscles came into play; but thewill was rarely off guard during Gaston's waking hours. 

An open book lay upon the desk, and the student lamp cast a full lightupon the words that had caught the reader's thoughts after the events ofthe day and their outcome. 

"In the life of every man there occurs at least one epoch when thespirit seems to abandon the body, and elevating itself above mortalaffairs just so far as to get a comprehensive and general view, makesthis an estimate of its humanity, as accurate as it is possible, underthe circumstances, to that particular spirit. The soul here separatesitself from its own idiosyncrasy, or individuality, and considers itsown being, not as appertaining solely to itself, but as a portion of theuniversal Ego. All important good resolutions of character are broughtabout at these crises of life; and thus it is our sense of self whichdebases and keeps us debased. "

Poe and Gaston were great friends. The living man knew that had he knownPoe in the body he would have feared and detested him, but there was nodoubt he had left trails of glory in his wake, for the comfort ofstruggling humanity, if only one could lose sight of the man, in thespiritual effulgence of his genius. 

Gaston, in his detached life, practised many arts upon his individualityand character. He had time and to spare to "abandon the body, " and hewas growing more and more confident, that in these self-imposed criseshe was gaining not only strength, but a keen and absorbing interest inothers. If the sense of self debased, then this detachment was his greatsalvation. 

The rings of smoke curled upward, lost shape and formed a haze ofblueness. The heat became intense, and the noises of the summer nightmagnified. The windows and doors were set wide, Gaston's wood-trainedsenses were alert even in this abstraction. 

"What next?" That was the question. He had just come through a conflictwith flying colours. He was flushed with victory, but the after detailsannoyed him. With the waning enthusiasm of achievement, from his pointof vantage of abandonment, he was trying to see beyond this confidenthour--see into the plain common days when a sense of self would controlhim, tempt him, lure, and perhaps, betray him. What then?

The realization of Joyce Birkdale's womanhood a time back had shaken himalmost as much as it had the girl herself. 

It had all been so peaceful, so elemental and satisfying before: thatcompanionship with the little lonely, aspiring, neglected child. She wasso responsive and joyous; so eager to learn, so childishly interested inthe fairy tales of another sort of existence that he kept from decay byrepeating to her. And then that sudden, upleaping flame in thepurple-black eyes. The fierce rush of hot, live blood to the pale face. The grip of those small work-stained hands as they sought dumbly to staythe trembling until he had taken them into his firm control. 

Well, confronted by the blinding flash, he had acted the man. That wasgood. He had not acted thoughtlessly, either. He had sent the quiveringlittle thing away quietly, and with no sense of bitterness, until he hadthreshed the matter out. And then in the Long Meadow, he had set thegirlish feet upon the trail he had blazed out for them during thenights of temptation and days of lonely self-abnegation. 

It was a hard, stumbling way he had fixed upon. His heart yearned overthe girl even as he urged her on. But Joyce was demanding her woman'srights. Demanding them none the less insistently, because she wasunconscious of their nature. He knew, and he must go before her; butthere was small choice of way. 

When he had held her in his arms out there in the open, he had biddenher farewell with much the same feeling that one has who kisses theunconscious lips of a child, and leaves him to the doubtful issue of anecessary surgical operation. 

But the victory over self was his, and Joyce was on Life's table. Therewas a sort of feverish comfort now in contemplating what might havebeen. Many a man--and he knew this only too well--would have put up astrong plea for the opposite course. 

What was he resigning her to at the best? There was no conceit in thethought that, had he beckoned, Joyce would have leaped into the circleof his love and protection. Not in any low or self-seeking sense wouldthe girl have responded--of that, too, he was aware; but as a lovelyblossom caressed by favouring sun and light, forgetting the slime anddarkness of its origin, she might have burst into a bloom of beauty. 

Yes, beauty! Gaston fiercely thought. Instead--there was honour! Hishonour and hers, and the benediction of Society--if Society everpenetrated to the North Solitude. 

Joyce would forget her soul vision, she would marry Jock Filmer--no; itwas Jude Lauzoon who, for some unknown, girlish reason, she hadpreferred when she had been cast out from the circle of his, Gaston'sprotection. 

Yes, she would marry Jude--and Jock might have made her laughoccasionally--Jude, never! She would live in cramped quarters, and havea family of children to drag her from her individual superiority totheir everlasting demands upon her. Perhaps Jude would treat her, eventually, as other St. Angé husbands treated their wives. At thatthought Gaston's throat contracted, but a memory of the girl's strange, uplifted dignity gave him heart to hope. 

Again the reverse of the picture was turned toward him. He saw herflitting about his home--who was there to hold her back, or care thatshe had sought dishonour instead of honour?

He might have trained and guided that keen mind, and cultivated thedelicate, innate taste. Yes; he might have created a rare personality, and brightened his own life at the same time--and the years and yearswould have stretched on, and nothing would have interrupted the purepassage of their lives until death had taken one or both. Gaston satupright, and flung the pipe away. Suppose he should choose to--go back?Well, in that case it would have gone hard with Joyce. The soul he hadawakened and glorified would have to be flung back into the hell fromwhich its ignorance shielded it. 

That was it. In giving the girl the best--yes, the best, in onesense--he must forego his own soul's good; forego the hope that he mightsome day choose to go back--and in that hope, lay Joyce's damnation. 

Through dishonour--as men might have classified it--he might have liftedJoyce up, but to save her soul alive from the hope he reserved forhimself--his open door--he must drive her back to squalor and evenworse. 

He had chosen for her and for himself. He had his hope; Joyce was tohave her honour; and now, what next?

His renunciation had strengthened him. His good resolutions steadiedhim; in the regained empire of his self-respect he contemplated theloneliness of exile, self-imposed, but none the less dreary. He was sohuman in his inclinations, so pitifully dependent upon his environment;and since he had stepped from the train three years ago, these roughpeople had taken him at his face value; desired nor cared for nothingbut what he chose to give. Desolate St. Angé was dear to him. 

No, he would remain. There was really no reason why he should abdicatethe little that was his own. All should be as it was, except for Joyce, and even she, now that he was sure of himself and had the rudder inhand, even she might claim his friendship and sympathy in her new life. 

He started. His quick ear detected the slow step outside. 

"Hello, Jude, " he called without getting up. "Step in; I'll fetch alight. "

"How did you know 'twas me?" Jude asked from the outer darkness. Thesalutation made him feel anew the awe of constant supervision. 

"I thought you'd drop in, " Gaston carried the lamp into the living roomand set it upon the table. 

Jude shambled in, drew a chair up to the table and sat down. Gaston tookhis place opposite and kept his eyes upon his caller. Jude grew restlessunder the calm inspection. He had come with a goodly stock ofself-assertion and sudden-gained dignity, but they withered under theinquiring gaze. 

"You've come from Joyce Birkdale's? I congratulate you, Jude. "

So he knew that too! Jude felt a superstitious aversion to this man hehad but recently begun to have any feeling toward whatever outside theordinary give and take of village life. 

Over the ground he had come laboriously to discuss, Gaston strode withunerring instinct. There were no words ready for this friendly advance, so Jude halted. He had meant to approach the announcement of hisengagement to Joyce by telling Gaston what he had seen from the hilltopthat afternoon and what he had gained since, and then he had intended, in man-fashion, to warn Gaston off his preserves. Instead, he sattwirling his cap and foolishly staring. 

"Smoke?" Gaston felt his guest's discomfort and tried to ease thestrain. He pushed the tobacco-jar forward; no St. Angé man evertravelled without his own pipe. 

"Given it up, " muttered Jude, "and cards likewise, and--and drink; I'mgoing to get married right away. "

This was rather startling. Gaston had expected some faltering on Joyce'spart, some dallying with the past. The smoke of his burning bridges wasstill in Gaston's consciousness. He had lighted the fuse, to be sure, but had not expected the demoralization to be so prompt. 

For a minute his gaze faltered, then he said cordially:

"Good! And you won't drink to it--or smoke over it? Well, then, shake, old man. "

For the life of him Jude could not decline. So their hands met over thebare table. 

An awkward pause followed. Gaston took refuge in smoke. He drew theinevitable pipe from his pocket, filled and lighted it, and during thetime of grace, got himself in hand. 

"Jude, " he said between puffs, "I want to see her married. "

Jude's anger rose. The words and the tone brought back his suspicionsand jealousies. 

"I want that girl to have a chance at life. " Gaston looked over Jude'shead, and drew hard upon his pipe. "She's never really waked up. Justgot the call, you know. Before this, she's been dreaming, and God aloneknows where she got her dream material. Like the rest of us, until shefinds out, she's going to expect her dream to come true. In heaven'sname, Lauzoon, help her to make it true. "

The import of all this touched Jude not at all, but the meddling of thisoutsider did mightily stir him to depths he had never fathomed before. Suddenly a kind of courage came to him, partly worthy, but whollyunreasonable. 

"I ain't no wooden-head, as some thinks I am, " he blurted out, while hisdull eyes flashed; "and, by gosh, I want that darn well understoodbetween you and me, Mr. Gaston! I don't want any interference in myaffairs; but as to what you're drivin' at, perhaps, I'll say this. I'mgoing to let Joyce have her head--in reason. "

"You better, " Gaston laughed unpleasantly. He rather liked Jude thebetter for his uprising; but he had no intention of showing a flag oftruce now. 

"Why?" asked Lauzoon; the laugh irritated him. 

"Oh, it's plain common sense to be with her, instead of against her, when she gets fully awake. Her kind goes well enough in harness if theother one pulls a fair share--if he doesn't--why, the chances are--she'dbreak the traces and--clip it alone. "

"Alone, hey?" It was Jude's turn to laugh now. "You ain't got the lay ofthe country yet, Mr. Gaston, not so far as the women is concerned. Howin thunder is a woman to go alone, I'd like to know, in St. Angé? Onceshe's married, she's married, and she knows it. Go alone? I'd like toknow where she'd go to?"

A breeze was now stirring outside. Gaston felt it and he shiveredslightly. 

"Jude, " he continued after a moment, "they sometimes go to the devil, you know. Even St. Angé's ideals do not prevent that, judging fromthings I've heard. "

"Not her kind, " Jude muttered. He was harking back to Lola Laval. Howthe girl rose and haunted him to-night! "Not her kind, Mr. Gaston. "

"No, you're right, Jude--not her kind as she is now. That's just thepoint. It's poor work, though, to draw on your bank account withoutnoting how your balance stands. If you do, you'll get a surprise someday. Joyce wants the best she can get out of life. She's had a vision, poor little girl, and she's making for that vision, believing it areality. We all do that, old man, and it's up to you to give her as muchof what she wants as you can. She's been building a place for hersoul"--Gaston was thinking aloud. Jude had vanished from hishorizon--"and she's going up to take possession some day. God, how thatwoman is going to love--something!"

And just then Jude shifted into view again upon the line of Gaston'sperceptions. He had risen to his feet and was glaring at his companion. There was an ugly look on his face, and his hands trembled with theeffort he made to restrain himself. 

"Say, Mr. Gaston, " he blurted out, "all that talk is damned moonshine, and I ain't such a fool but what I know it. Such gaff ain't nourishing. Now as to Joyce, I'm going to do the square thing by her. Herbook-learning is all right if she keeps it to herself, and don't let itget mixed up with her duties 'long of me. And right here, Mr. Gaston, "Jude choked miserably, "I guess her and me don't want no coaching fromyou. No harm intended, understand, but just a clean showing. "

Indignation and a realization of his own insignificance, had hurled Judealong up to this point, but he was suddenly landed high and dry by thecalm, amused look in Gaston's eyes. 

"Too bad you don't smoke, Jude, " Gaston said quietly, refilling hispipe. "But sit down, and loosen your collar. The room is infernallyclose. I've been thinking some of leaving St. Angé--"

"When are you going?" Jude broke in with an eagerness that intensifiedthe smile on Gaston's face, and bade the devil in him awake. The samedevil that in boyhood days had made him such an irritant to the bulliesof his class. 

"Oh, I'm not going, " he replied, puffing luxuriously upon his pipe;"I've changed my mind. All I wanted was new scenes and occupations. I'vedecided to stay on awhile. But I've been thinking, Jude, you don't wantto take Joyce into your shack. Let's build her another up on the sunnyslope beyond the Long Meadow on the Hillcrest side. I'm gaining strengtheach year; I like to keep myself busy and the work would be a godsend tome. What do you say? I can lend you a little money, too, if you needit. "

Need it? Unconsciously Gaston had touched the spring that unlocked theevilest part of Jude's nature. Jealousy, love, hate, were blotted out bythis unlooked-for suggestion. His dark face flushed and his dull eyesgleamed. Money! Money! To handle it, spend it and enjoy it without greatbodily effort in earning it. This had ever been a consuming passionwith Jude. A passion that had remained smouldering because no favouringchance had ever fanned it. Lazy and hot-blooded, Jude, in a prosperouscommunity, might have developed criminal tendencies young; in St. Angéthere had been nothing to tempt him--until now. 

"Thank you, " he said, and Gaston saw the change in him. "I--I may beglad of a small loan--just at the start, you know, and before I get mypay from the camp boss. It's almighty kind of you, Mr. Gaston, to thinkof this here building and all. Me and Joyce will take it grateful, I cantell you. "

"Going?" Gaston asked, for Jude had risen and was awkwardly shiftingfrom foot to foot. "Well, so long! Good luck--and a speedy marriage. "

Then the door closed upon the transformed Jude. 

"Now, what in thunder, " mused Gaston in the hot, smoky room, "has gotinto that fellow, I wonder!" Could they know of his money? The amount, and manner of getting it? Was he, in offering Jude this assistance, letting the leak in upon his own safety?

A cloud gathered on Gaston's face. A sensation of coming evil possessedhim. He felt as if, in an unguarded moment, he had given an enemy apower over him. 

The memory of the look in Jude's face when the money cast a gleam overhis hate, repelled him. Gaston was as fully alive to the possibilitiesnow as Jude was--perhaps more so; but there stood the pale, innocentgirl between them. He recalled her hurt, quivering face when he hadurged her into Jude's keeping. It had seemed her only salvation--hersand his! But it began to look now like a hideous damnation. 

"Poor little devil, " he murmured taking the lamp and going back into hisbedroom. 

The window of this room he closed carefully, and set the lamp upon therude desk. He drew the pistol from the drawer, and laid it convenientlyat hand, then he turned to the chest with the mighty lock and, havingunfastened it, drew forth a small package and went back to the chairbefore the desk. 

The package contained a photograph and some letters. The letters weretied together, and these the man placed beside the pistol. Thephotograph he took from its various wrappings of tissue paper and bracedit against the lamp. 

The big clock hanging over the window frame struck one. The heat in thelittle room became stifling, and the lamp flickered in its duty--for theoil was running low. 

With arms folded before him Gaston gazed upon the pictured face. Itbroke upon the senses like a revelation of womanhood. At the firstglance it seemed as if just that type had never been conceived before. The artist had grasped that conception evidently, for with no shading orbackground, with only a filmy scarf outlining the form from thecolourless paper, the compelling features started vividly upon thevision, as the individuality of the girl did upon the imagination. Anirritation followed the first impression. Was this child, or woman? Whatwas she to become, or what had she become already? Was she a soulreaching out for realization, or a well-developed personality, havinggained, with all its other attainments, a power of self-concealment fromthe inquisitive eye?

The brow, low and broad, bespoke gracious womanhood and a possibleradiant maternity, rather than intellectuality. The masses of hair werebraided and wound coronet-style about the small uplifted head. The eyes, deep, dark, and mystical gave no clue to the inner woman; but the mouth, while it was tender in its curves, had a rigidity of purpose in itsexpression that fixed the attention. A pretty, rounded chin, a slender, slightly tilted nose, an exquisite throat set off by the cloud oflace--such was the face that Gaston beheld, and presently it wrung agroan from him. 

"Ruth, Ruth, Ruth, " he muttered, and then his mind took to thememory-haunted highway that led back, back of the lonely years of St. Angé; past a certain black horror that had stood, and would alwaysstand, as a thing that should not have existed; but which had been, andwould always remain, an object that cast a shadow before it and behindit. 

"Did you do this thing?"

"I did. "

Question and answer made up the vital happening in Gaston's life. Everything before led up to them, and all that had occurred since wasthe outcome. 

They had admitted--or so he once thought--of no shading nor explanation. The questioner was not the type to deal unsteadily with a problem, andGaston had been too simple and direct to note fine points or shadings. Perhaps neither of them had understood. Life had been so fair until theterrible thing had loomed up. It had come like a cataclysm--how couldthey, young and inexperienced as they had been, deal with the situationjustly?

Suppose _now_ she stood before him, wonder-eyes raised, seeking hissoul's truth; hands resting in his until he should speak. Would he speakagain those two crude, fatal words? Would she drop her hands letting hissoul sink, by so doing, into the blackness which had engulfed it?

That was the torturing problem that Gaston was working out up in thelonely St. Angé woods; but he seemed no nearer the answer than when hehad come to the place, by mistake, a few years back, and decided to staythere simply because it was as desirable as any other forsaken spot, while he was debarred from the Paradise of life. 

The lamp flickered fretfully, and the spasmodic flare showed the rigidface torn with the emotions that were racking the soul laid bare beforeits God and its own consciousness. 

What had the dreary, desolated years done for him? He was a fool. Whyhad he not taken what was possible, since the ideal was dashed from him?

This girl, way off there behind the hideous shadow, had been wiser. Shehad replaced his memory by living love; why should not he take the poorsubstitute that the Solitude offered, and warm the barren places of hisheart and life with the faint glow?

It was a bad hour for Temptation to assail John Gaston. 

The armour of self-wrought strength was off. Suffering was flaying thenaked despair and yearning; and just then Temptation knocked softly andpitifully at the door of the outer room!

Gaston had done more while he had hidden in the woods than he was awareof. He had developed something akin to second sight. Loneliness andempty hours had strengthened this as blindness intensifies other sensesto abnormal keenness. Gradually he had grown to believe that a man'slife, complete and prearranged, lies stretched before, and occasionallysome, when the circumstances are propitious and the soul has a certaindetachment that ignores the bodily claims, can leap over the _now_ andhere, and catch a glimpse of the future and what it holds. This vaguesense had come to Gaston more than once during the past year or two--theseeing and hearing of that which had held no part in what was, at themoment, occurring, but which he noted later had become a fact in hislife. 

That feeble knock dragged the man's consciousness away from the picturedface; away from his wavering indecision; away from the darkening roomwith its foul smell of oil: he knew who stood outside in themoonlighted, fragrant summer night, and he wondered if he were going toopen that barred door to her. He waited for a glimpse of what was instore for them both. 

But his spiritual sight was blinded by a firm, deadening blankness!Whatever was to be the outcome must be of his own choosing. 

Again she knocked, that poor little temptress in the dark. What had Fatedecreed that he was to do? Gaston knew as well as if Joyce had told him, _why_ she had come. Her soul had revolted from her concession to Jude. In the bewitched hours of darkness, the primitive, savage instinct haddriven the girl to the only one who could change her future. Worn, weary, defiant, she had come to him; not questioning further than herdespair and his power. 

Well, why not? Who would be the worse, and who the better--if he drewher within and closed the door upon--St. Angé?

Another tap--this time upon the wooden shutter of the bedchamber!

Gaston shivered and trembled. He was not outside; he was stifling in thedark room. The light had gone entirely, and he was struggling to freehimself from an intangible enemy or friend; a thing that had, unknown tohimself, evolved during those isolated years among the pines, and wasrestraining his lower nature now. 

He battled to get to that little, insistent girl. He heard her sob, achildish sob, half desire, half fear. The veins stood out on hisforehead and his hands gripped the edge of his desk as he got upon hisfeet. 

The sob outside was echoed by a stifled groan from within--then all wasstill. 

Slow retreating steps presently sounded without. She, that sad, broken, little temptress, was going to meet the fore-ordained future that laybefore. There was nothing else left for her to do. All her reserves weretaken. 

Then Gaston, when all was beyond his power of recall or desire, openedthe window. 

Softly, sweetly, the fresh morning air entered. It was a young and goodmorning. A morning cool and faintly tinted, a morning to soothe a hurtheart, not to stimulate it too harshly. 

Gaston's lined face smoothed under the caress. His armour arose as ifunseen hands guided it, and placed it again upon him. Once more he wasthe strong, quiet man that St. Angé had taken upon faith, and acceptedwithout question. 

As he looked at the scene, his self-respect giving him courage to meetthe day, Jude Lauzoon's soft-stepping figure materialized upon the edgeof the pine woods. 

The humour of the situation for a moment gripped Gaston's senses. Hadall St. Angé stayed awake and been on guard while the night passed? Butthe smile faded. How long had Jude been there? Long enough to _knowall_, or just long enough to know half?

What should he do? If Jude knew but half, no explanation could possiblyavail. If he knew all; if he had been on guard before Joyce came--beencamping out with no definite purpose, since his late talk in theshack--why, then it was simply a matter to be settled between Lauzoonand Joyce. God help her! He, Gaston, could serve best by retiring. Thishe did physically. 

He put away his treasures and locked them fast; then, flinging himselfupon the pine-bough bed, dressed as he was, he soon fell into a troubledsleep. 

CHAPTER III

Jared Birkdale, with a contemplative eye, looked at his daughter throughthe haze of his tobacco smoke as if seeing her for the first time. In away this was so. He was not one to take heed of time or happenings. Whenhe was not obliged to work, he was enjoying himself in his own way, andso long as nothing jarred him, life slipped by comfortably enough. 

When he worked he was away, as all St. Angé men were, in the camps. Occupation, outside of Leon Tate's profession, was the same for all themen after first boyhood was past. When the logging season was overJared, more temperate, perhaps more cruel for that reason, settled down. When he was not occupying the chair of honour at the Black Cat--givenhim by common consent because of his superior mental endowments--he waslounging at home and idly appreciating the plain comfort for which Joycewas responsible; a comfort Jared neither understood nor questioned. 

But little Billy Falstar, the day before, with the fiendish depravity ofa mischief-making child, had set the match to a fuse of gunpowder allready for it down at the Black Cat. 

Resenting the treatment Jude had given him when he had voiced hisobservations about Gaston and Joyce, he had gone to the tavern to nursehis wounded feelings where company and safety abounded. His fear of Judehad departed. 

Several men, Birkdale among them, were sitting about when Billy, sniffing and rubbing his knuckles in his eyes to such an extent that ofnecessity notice must be taken, drew their attention. 

"What's up, Billy?" asked Jock Filmer good-naturedly; "shingle struck athin place in your breeches? Go around and buy a peppermint stick. Here's a cent. Peppermint ought to be as good for a pain in yourhindquarters as it is for one in your first cabin. Let up, kid, and getcheerful!"

Billy accepted the coin, but turned a calculating eye on the others. Ifhis news had had power to rouse Jude, how would it act now? Billy, freckled and sharp-eyed, was a born tragedian. 

"'Tain't Ma, " he said. "No more was it Pa; it was that Jude what beat memost to a jelly. "

This was startling enough to awaken a new interest. Jude was too lazy ongeneral principles to reduce any one to jelly unless the provocation hadbeen great. 

"What divilment was you up to?" Filmer asked with a leer. 

"I didn't do nothing! 'Pon my soul, I didn't. I swear!"

This Billy did, fervently and fluently. The children of St. Angé sworewith a guileless eloquence quite outside the sphere of wickedness. Thematter was in them. It must, of course, come out. So Billy swore nowwith only an occasional hitch where his indignation muddledpronunciation. 

"Billy's got a fine flow of language, " Birkdale put in amusedly. "For ayoungster, I don't think I ever heard it equalled. " Birkdale was aboutto urge Billy to renewed effort, when something the boy was wedging inamong his evil words caught his attention. 

"I was just a-telling him--" more lurid expressions--"'bout Joyce andMr. Gaston. It didn't seem like nothing; just them two being beaux likeall girls and fellers, but Jude he did me dirt, he did!" Billy stoppedrubbing his eyes. 

He was interested, himself, in the effect his words now had. For amoment he feared all the men were going to rise up against him as Judehad done. A silence fell upon the group. Filmer gave one keen glance atthe imp on the doorstep, and then refilled his pipe and leaned back inhis wooden chair. 

Tom Smith, the ticket agent of the Station, looked as if some one haddashed water in his face, so startled was he; and Jared Birkdale simplystared open-mouthed at the spy in their midst. Then Tate, theproprietor, with the tact for which he was noted, went to the bar andbegan filling glasses. 

St. Angé had received a shock; but St. Angé took its shocks in apeculiar way. It reserved its opinion until it had drunk on them. 

Soon after the revelation Birkdale went home without a word having beenspoken by any one on the subject so suddenly thrust upon their notice. 

Jared had gone home to assure himself that Joyce had actually grown upto the extent of making Billy Falstar's remarks possible. 

The afternoon's contemplation had caused him some astonishment. 

Joyce _was_ grown up! Then he had slept on the knowledge, and dreamed ofother days--a life apart, and beyond St. Angé. 

St. Angé was a young place; it had no antiquity; almost all who livedthere had had a setting in some other time and environment. 

Jared recalled, in his thoughts that night, the beginnings of things inhis life. Joyce's mother, and the babies who had come and gone likelittle ghosts, each one taking more of the wife's and mother's beautyand power. 

Then that flight to the St. Angé lumber camp--it was really that, nothing less--the attending discomfort and paralyzing reality of whatlay before!

Joyce was born the year after the settlement in the rough forest home, and then poor Mrs. Birkdale gave up the struggle. 

She told Isa Tate that had the baby been a boy she would not have feltthe way she did, but to face the life of another woman in her own lifewas more than she could bear. 

Isa had tried to hold her to her responsibility: Isa had more than herown share of trouble--but Jane Birkdale had slipped away in the middleof the severest winter St. Angé had known for many a year and Isa hadbeen obliged to have "an eye" to the baby Joyce. The small girlresponded in health and joyousness, and Jared, when he was himself, hadhad the grace to be grateful. 

As the years slipped by the fire of Jared's own little private hellaroused him to a consciousness that he deserved anything but a happyfuture. 

He hoped, in due season, that he would forget the wrongs he had done hiswife, but they gathered strength with time. His sins walked with himthrough the sober lumber season; their memory drove him to the BlackCat; but his keener wit evolved a desire to "make good, " as he termedit, in his relations with his daughter. 

He would so conduct himself with her that she, at least, should havenothing against him; and when age, sickness or accident befell him, hemight turn to her and find refuge. Jared had always had some kind ofsanctuary to flee to when overtaken by the results of his own evilnature. 

And now, by the impish words of Falstar's Billy, he was brought face toface with a possibility that staggered and unnerved him. 

Joyce and Jude, or Joyce and Jock Filmer, had been possibilities inJared's distant future. But Joyce, already a woman, and that silent manGaston who had come from a Past that he rigidly reserved for his owncontemplation--Gaston, who lived among them as a traveller who mightdepart with the day into a Future Birkdale instinctively knew would holdno possible connection with St. Angé--Joyce and Gaston! Here was asituation indeed. 

Astonishment, anger, a dull fear and a determination to grip somethingout of it all for himself, swayed Jared as he sat tilted back, eyeinghis daughter after the night's travail. 

He had come from his troubled thought imbued with a forced strength andsingleness of purpose that made themselves felt by the quiet girl at thewindow. 

Joyce had brought no strength from her disturbed night. She wasill-fitted for the encounter. 

"By Jove, " Jared suddenly ejaculated, "it's just struck me all of aheap, Joyce, that you're more than ordinary handsome. "

The girl raised her eyes with a dull show of surprise, then went on withher sewing. 

"With the learning I've given you over and above the other girls of theplace, you _ought_ to do pretty good for yourself--and me--and nomistake. You always was a real grateful child, and you ain't one everto forget the fifth commandment, Joyce--the only one with a promise. "

"The only one needing it, " Joyce returned, with a bitterness for whichshe was sorry the moment after. But when Jared turned to quotingScripture the girl grew rebellious. It was always distasteful to her tosee, or hear, her father parade his superior knowledge. For some reasonshe always felt more ashamed of him then than at any other time. 

"You've got a nasty bit of a temper, Joyce. " Jared's eye gleamed. "Ihope you ain't going to take the first chance you get to shirk your dutyto me. "

"I guess not, father, but I hate to be dragged to my duty; and I have aheadache. "

"What give you that, Joyce?"

"I don't know. " Again the fair head bent above the coarse sewing in thetrembling hands. 

She had seen the light in the chinks of Gaston's shutter. She had felthis nearness, but rigid aloofness. The memory of these things hadtortured her and left their trace in worn-out nerves and hurt pride. Shefelt that she hated Gaston and in revolt her thought now clung to Jude. She forgot her father. 

"Joyce!"

"Oh, yes, father. " How the insistent invasion of paternal intimacyjarred. 

"I've been thinking lately how you and me might do better than stickhere in St. Angé. "

A sudden illumination flashed into the pale face. Was there apossibility of escape that did not include Jude?

"Where could we go, father?" Joyce was all attention. 

"Oh! there are several places. I wasn't always here by a long shot. I'vealways meant to tell you some day, Joyce. It has sometimes struck me assingular that you never asked. "

"I never cared. I was here--and the rest didn't matter--or it never did, until now. "

"Well I was a handsome young buck once, my girl. " Jared glanced at themirror hanging over Joyce's head, and smirked. "I ain't a bad lookingfeller now. A little trimming of the beard, fashionable clothes, refinedsurroundings and you'd have a father that any girl might be proud of!"

Joyce noted now, as she had more than once before, since Hillcresttraining had given her a certain power of discrimination, her father'sstyle of speaking. 

"What happened, father, before you came here?" she asked quickly. Herdirectness, and the slight she paid to his personal reflections, ruffledJared's complacency. He was not ready to confess more than wasabsolutely necessary. 

"Just one of them misunderstandings, " he replied, slipping into St. Angé's carelessness of speech, "that happens now and again to any youngman with a fine taste and slim purse. A matter of business! I alwayscalculated to go back and make it straight, after the first flash hadpassed and I had money enough. I never give up or got discouraged. Itwas your mother losing grip sort of set me back; and then your raisingand expenses here, kinder held me down. But the spirit in me has soarednevertheless. "

"Sometimes it seems to me, " Joyce's eyes grew dreamy, "that every one inSt. Angé has something to keep still about. Every one seems to be herebecause he has to, not because he wants to. People seem to drift in herelike logs after a spring freshet--and they get jammed. "

Jared laughed. The idea caught his fancy. 

"You've hit it, Joyce!" he said, "You've hit it all right. Jammed, bydamn! that's it; but to carry the simile further, when the jam isloosened up, there's going to be some logs as gets away. "

"_Where_ could we go, father, and how?"

The pleading intensity of the girl encouraged Jared. He refilled hispipe, imagined himself in the mirror trimmed up and fashionably attired, and then drove his axe to the heart of the matter. 

"When all's said and done, girl, " he began, "I've been a pretty good dadto you. Given you years of schooling and stood by you when I might haveskipped and led my own life. Many a man with his wife dead, and a kidon his hands, _has_ done it. I've worked for you, and given you the besthome in St. Angé; and now if you let me play the cards that you've gotin your hands, we'll get out of this and live in clover to the end o'time. "

"I don't know what you mean, " Joyce gasped. 

This was no idle talk. She was fascinated and frightened. It seemed asif her father had his fingers on the rope that was strangling the lifeout of her. 

"You've got the winning cards, my girl, if I don't miss my guess. It'sall in the playing now. I've had one eye on you all along, Joyce. I'veseen, like any kind father might, that there ain't a young fellerbetween here and Hillcrest but would be glad to have you. But like a rapon the _shut_ eye it has just been sprung on me that Myst. Has had hismind on you as well!"

Joyce's eyes dilated and the colour rose through her soft paleness, butshe did not speak. 

"It's always the way. Them most concerned gits wind of scandal last. Even the brats have caught on before me. But once your father has botheyes open, folks better watch out. "

"Who do you mean by Myst. ?" asked Joyce, and her strained voice soundedunnatural. 

"Gaston, to be sure! I've got a wit of my own, Joyce. Myst. --short forMystery. That's what Gaston is. No one knows a damned thing about him. "

"Well, that's to his credit, anyway. " Joyce flung up a defence now. Shemust fight, but she must keep herself out of sight. 

Jared glared angrily. He did not like the tone. 

"Oh! I ain't the one to object to you keeping your mouth shut, " hereturned. "Jammed logs"--the phrase stuck in his mind--"jammed logsdon't creak any; but when it comes to joining forces, like two jamstogether for instance, there's got to be, in the nature of things, somedemonstration. What I'm aiming at is this. Has this here Myst. Meantbusiness or has he not? I'm a man of the world--so is Gaston--he ain'tnever hoodwinked me. I had my reasons for coming here, and likewise, sohas he. That's my business and his, by thunder! but when _he_ meddles inmy affairs he's got to show his hand. Now is it, or ain't it, business'twixt you and him?"

"What kind of business?" Joyce's voice was low and even. She wasapproaching her father cautiously and fearfully. 

"Honourable--or otherwise?"

A silence followed. Something was born, and something died in thesunlighted room while that silence lasted. 

The child's dependence upon its father fell, torn and quivering, beforethe new-risen self-protection of the pitiful girlhood. 

For the first time, consciously, Joyce experienced the soul-lonelinessfor which there is no aid. Her deep eyes pleaded for help and mercywhere there was no help, and alas! no mercy. Birkdale had his answernow, though no word had been uttered by those quivering lips. 

"You can't be expected to act for yourself in these matters. " Jared puthis pipe on the table and brought his chair to the floor. "You ain't thefirst girl as has been game for such as Myst. , but he's made a damnedmistake if he thought two couldn't play at his game here in St. Angé. We'll make something out of him no matter which way you put it. "

"Make something--out--of--what?" Joyce bent forward and real horrorfilled her eyes. Was even the security of Jude to be wrenched from her?

"Out of Myst. He's got money, It comes in letters--checks. Tate has waysof finding out. Myst. Has a fat account over to Hillcrest. He thought wetook him on trust. We knowed what we wanted to know. "

"And so, and so, " panted Joyce, "what next?"

"Well, by the living God, if he wants to marry you, let him come out andsay so, and I won't hold back my presence nor my blessing. "

It was quite plain now. Gaston was the target at which Jared aimed. Insome way she must shield him and shield him so effectually that no harmcould reach him. There was no escape for her. Every path was closedthrough which she had hoped to go free and happy. 

"I ain't going, though, " Jared was whining in his semi-religious tone, "to have my reputation smirched. Either he marries you, or he pays well, and we'll get out. See?"

"Oh, yes, I see!" Joyce shivered in the hot room; "I see what you think, but _why_ do you suppose I'd marry Mr. Gaston if he _did_ want me?Sometimes girls don't--marry--men even when they are asked. Books arefull of such things. " A heavy sob came after the pitiful words. 

"Oh! that's your dodge, eh?" Jared laughed comfortably from the secureposition he had gained for himself from this misery. "Trying to shieldhim, eh? It won't do, Joyce. Your daddy's too much a man of the worldfor that. Now here it is in a nutshell: The boys at the tavern are backof me. How do I know? You leave that to me. Now I calculate that Gastondon't want any of the dust of his past stirred up by us. If he's beenplaying with you, it's for _you_ to say whether you'd rather have himforced to marry you, or have him pan out money enough to hush the matterup. I'm willing to sacrifice something for you, Joyce. I'm willing to goso far as to say I don't want the dust of _my_ past raised--I'm actuallywilling to sacrifice--anything. "

"Even me!" The words were a moan of fear and misery. 

"Sure!" Jared did not catch the point. "This is an opportunity thatdon't come often. Retribution for Myst. , by thunder, and clear gain forme and you! Out beyond the high trees, girl, there's better diggings forus. God! how I've smothered, these long years. The end justifies themeans--you will say so, too, when you see what lies down to the south. "

Jared laughed wildly as if the ambition of all the desolated years hadbeen achieved. Joyce, compelled by his delirious words and excitement, almost felt a responsive sympathy; but her words, slow and hard, broughther and Jared down to the bleakness of St. Angé again. 

"You are wrong, terribly wrong. Mr. Gaston never wanted to marry me, andI can take care of myself--I always have--taken care of myself!Why--why, I'm engaged to Jude Lauzoon. I'm going to marry him rightaway. We can't even wait for him to build a new shack. If a ministerdoesn't happen this way, we're going over to Hillcrest. Oh, what a jokewe've played on you!"

Jared stared idiotically, and Joyce's laugh rang wildly out. 

"Mr. Gaston and me! What an idea! Why, he's helping us"--theinspiration to say this came from a blind belief in Gaston's quickadaptability--"he's helping me and Jude--to what we want. "

"The devil he is!" It was all that Jared could clutch from the rout. "I--I believe it's a thundering lie, " he added as an after-thought, andas a cover to his retreat. 

"It's no lie. " Joyce had regained her calmness. She was panting, but shehad reached safety and she knew it. An unlovely, unhallowed safety, butsuch as it was it was her salvation and Gaston's. 

When she had stolen to him the night before it was her last ignorantimpulse to gain her own ends. From now on she must be on guard, or herworld would come clattering about her heart and soul. It took Jared someminutes to digest the information that had been flung at him sounexpectedly, and then anger and baffled hope swayed him. Joyce marriedto Jude would make _his_, Jared's, future no securer than it now was. Indeed it might complicate matters, for Jared had no belief in Juderising above the dead level of St. Angé standards. 

"You're a durn fool!" he ejaculated at last, while the new impression ofhis daughter's beauty stirred him painfully. "You are a durn fool tofling yourself away on Jude when you might have done most anything withyourself--if you was managed right. "

Then in an evil moment Joyce laughed. Her lips parted in an odd littleway they had showing the small white teeth and forming the dimples incheeks and chin. So great was the girl's relief; so appalled was she atwhat might have been, that the conflict of emotions made her almosthysterical. 

"Daddy, " she said, between ripples of laughter, "you thought you had methen, didn't you? But being your daughter, you know, I had wit enough totake care of myself. "

Jared listened to this outburst in sheer amazement. Unable tounderstand, in the least, what was passing over the girl before him, heweighed her by his own low standard, and drew the worst possibleconclusion as Jude had done before him. 

He looked steadily at Joyce, and he saw the colour and fire come tocheek and eye. The ringing laughter struck through his brutality andhurt something in him that was akin to paternal love; but so long hadthat protecting tenderness been ignored by Jared, that now when it wascalled upon to act, it did so in a savage rage. 

"By heaven!" he thundered, "I catch your drift, you young divil. And ifthat Myst. Ain't a slick one! Going to use Jude is he, to pull hischestnuts out of the fire?"

Then Jared strode forward with arm upraised as if to strike and, by sodoing, again command the situation. In like manner had he downed andcontrolled Joyce's mother. But he paused before the pale undaunted girl. Her laugh died suddenly, to be sure, so suddenly that the gleamingteeth and pretty dimples outlived the mirth long enough to give astricken, death-like expression to the face, but the change brought nofear; it brought something worse. 

Joyce's moral sense was an unknown quantity in her present development. Her father's true meaning affected her not at all; what she felt was--aloathing disgust, and a conviction that if she was to hold even Jude forherself against her father's anger and purpose, she must flee to othershelter. 

She drew herself up and cast a look upon Jared that he never forgot tohis dying day. It was an added faggot to that hell of his. 

"Isa Tate, " the even voice broke upon him, "Isa Tate said you killed mymother. But I'm not afraid of you, and I'm going to live my life. Youcan't kill me! I know when and where to go. "

With that she gathered up the work that had fallen to the floor, andalmost ran into the little bedchamber beyond the kitchen, closing thedoor after her. 

Jared sat dumbly staring at the wooden barrier. He longed to call her, but his tongue pricked with excitement. 

He dared not go to her--so he waited. He heard her moving about insidethe room. A half-hour passed, then an hour. Noon came and went. The firewas out, and dinner, apparently, was as distant as it had been two hoursbefore. 

Jared fell asleep in his hard chair, his dishevelled head lying on hisarms folded on the bare table. When he awoke it was three o'clock andJoyce stood before him. 

She was very white, and the drawn look was still in evidence. She wore ablue-and-white checked gown; short and scant it was, but daintily freshand sweet. She had her poor little best hat on--a hat with a bunch ofroses on the side--and she carried a large basket in her hand. 

Jared stared at her as if she were part of a nightmarish dream. 

"Where are you going?" he asked hoarsely, a new fear gripping him. 

"It doesn't matter to you, father. I'm just--going. "

Jared experienced a shock as he realized how far this girl had alreadygone from him. 

"Good-bye, " she faltered; "good-bye, father. "

She turned from him and walked to the door. Then a latent power for goodroused Jared. 

"Joyce, " he called after her; "there's twenty dollars left--take it all, girl. "

"No. "

"Then for God's sake take half!" He was pleading, pleading with a womanfor the first time in his selfish, depraved life. 

Joyce turned and looked at him, and the tears filled her eyes. 

"No, " she repeated, "I--I couldn't take it. I don't want it; but I'mgoing to Isa Tate, father. "

How frightfully still and lonely she had left the little house. Jaredlooked at the old furniture and found it strange and unnatural. Thesummer day grew dim as he waited there among the ruins of all that hethought had been his own. No dinner; no probable supper--Jared thoughtupon the physical discomfort, too, but he was sober enough, and shockedenough to give heed to the graver side of the situation. 

What he suffered as the afternoon faded and the ticking of the clockthudded on his senses, no one could ever know. 

We may leave retribution for sin out of our scheme ofthings-as-they-should-be for others. Each sin takes care of itself, andburns and blisters as it strikes in. Men may suffer without givingoutward sign. Justice is never cheated, and we may trust her workingsalone. Jared suffered. Suffered until nerves and body could bear nomore, and then he went down to the Black Cat to face the situation Joycehad created and deal with it in his own fashion. 

CHAPTER IV

When Joyce went with bowed head from the only semblance of a home thathad ever been hers, she carried with her, in the rough basket, all thatshe could rightfully call her own in personal effects. The load was notheavy and she scarcely noticed it as she walked rapidly through themaple thicket which divided her father's garden-place and the LongMeadow. 

She felt like an exile, indeed. A friendless creature who had no realhold upon any one. 

She thought of Gaston--but he no longer suggested safety to her. Shethought of Lauzoon, and a wave of fear and repulsion swept over her. Sheknew she was driven to him. She knew she must accept whatever fate heoffered, but with the remnant of her intuitive belief in her personalcharm and beauty, she paused at the edge of the wood, to plan some sortof attitude that would secure Jude's admiration as well as hisprotection. She must not call upon him in a moment of weakness anddefeat. That would be putting a weapon in his hand that no St. Angé mancould be trusted to wield mercifully. 

She must hide all traces of outraged feeling; she must find a vantagepoint from which Jude might take her. He must come to her; she must notgo to him. Thus she pondered. For one wild instant she turned her facetoward Hillcrest. There were those over the hill who might give herwork--what work? What could she do? But granting that she obtained work, how long could she retain a position, with her father and Jude inpursuit? No; she was a product of St. Angé and had all the falteringdistrust of other environments common to the shrinking childhood of thepoor village. 

Down beside the last tree of the thicket the girl crouched with hershabby basket beside her. 

The elemental woman in her saw, as clearly as any cultivated sistermight have seen, that if she hoped for success in her married life, shemust not throw herself upon Jude crushed and downed. A brave front mustbe the breastwork behind which she was to fight. 

When she had told her father she was going to Isa Tate, she had spokenwildly; but the inevitable closed upon her. Every one went to Leon Tatein trouble. Leon, like the old gods, first made mad whom he wished todestroy; for the trust that all St. Angé put in Leon's bland generositywas nothing short of madness. When any difficulty arose, private orpublic, it was carried to the Black Cat for adjustment and finalsettlement. By putting every individual under deep obligation to him, Leon controlled money, loyalty and obedience. Every man in St. Angé wasin his debt, and every woman had accepted, in some form or other, hiswife's services. The difference between Isa and her husband was, however, vital. Tate was a friend to man in order that he might draw hisvictims into his net. Isa had a woman's soul hidden under her roughexterior and, while she played the part assigned her by her diplomaticlord, she found comfort for her own lonely nature in giving comfort. 

Joyce, in going to Isa for protection, would in no wise interfere withher father's welcome at the tavern. Leon would arrange that, and bringabout a brilliant climax for himself; at least he always had done so inemergencies. 

Crouching under the tree, as the sun went down behind Beacon Hill, Joycesaw the future unfold itself. There was nothing to do but go to Isa. Then Leon would, by his subtlety, make it seem that she had come thereto get ready for her marriage to Jude. He'd even arrange, perhaps, themarriage, and so clutch Jude and her closer to his power. He'd smooththe way for her father, too, and hush tongues and smile--oh, how hewould smile on them all!--and no one would ever know. 

The sun went down and the stars came out. Still the girl sat there; butpresently a healthy appetite was the call that roused her. She had noteaten since noon of the day before. She was weak and suffering. Shethought with a kind of comfort that perhaps it was hunger alone thatwas now causing her mental and physical agony. After she had eaten, allwould be well with her. She could control Jude and her own fate. Shewould never let any one think--Gaston above all--that she was notmistress of her own shabby little life. 

She got up dizzily, and was shocked to find how heavy the basket was;still, with a constant shifting from hand to hand, she could manage it. 

Lola's giddy little lark song sprang to memory out of the ashes of herhurt and pain, and rose and rippled in the fragrant darkness as sheentered the Long Meadow. 

Beacon Hill stood gloomily to the west, and above it gleamed aparticularly bright star. Across Long Meadow the lights in the housesflickered from open windows, and the Black Cat's glare seemed to controlher motions. It drew her on and on. It was to play a part in her futureas it did in the futures of all--sooner or later. 

Wearily she mounted the steps of the tavern and went to the side doorthat opened into whatever there was of privacy in Leon's establishment. Isa was washing the supper dishes. She was a tall, gaunt woman with akindly glance that Nature had, for a safeguard, hidden under heavy blackbrows. 

"You, Joyce?" she said, going on with her task. "I thought maybe it wassome one else. "

"Isa, " the girl stepped cautiously forward, "I want to tell yousomething. "

The gathering hilarity in the tavern made this moment secure. Isa putdown her dish and faced the girl. 

"What?" she asked bluntly. 

Quickly, breathlessly the truth, with all its hideous colouring, truthbald, and yet with a saving clause for Gaston, was whispered in Isa'sear. 

When the parting with Jared was confided, the woman put her arms aboutthe girl. 

"Now you hush, Joyce, I've heard enough. This is a man's world, God helpus! Us women, when we can, must cling together. Me and Tate pull inharness because we find it pays--we'll help you out--Tate in _his_ way, me in mine, but, Lord a-mighty, don't I hope there'll be a heaven justfor women, some day!

"Sit down, you poor, little haggled thing, I don't believe you've eat amorsel. You look fagged out. They ain't worth it, Joyce, men ain't. Father, husband--not one of them. But since we've got to use them, wemust make out some kind of game. Here!"

She set food before the wan girl, and the readjustment of life, in hermasterful hands, seemed already begun. 

It was comparatively easy, later on, to go into particulars with Isa. With the roar and clatter growing hourly more deafening in the tavern, Isa and Joyce, sitting on the back porch under the calm stars, spokefreely to each other. 

Isa, like a dutiful wife, had, while Joyce satisfied her hunger, confided as much of the girl's trouble to Leon as she thought advisable. Leon had recognized the opportunity as one by which to capture what wasleft of Jared's independence, and rose to the emergency. 

"Leave it to me, " he said. "Everything will be blooming to-morrowlike--like a--garden--er--Eden. "

So now Isa had only Joyce's sore little heart to deal with. 

"Come, girl, " she began at last; "tears never yet unsnarled a knot. Beyou, or be you not, going to marry Jude?"

"Yes--I am. " There must be no doubt upon that score and Joyce sat upstiffly and faced her helper. 

"Well, then, look at the thing sensible. In a place like St. Angé, wherethere ain't women to spare, you either got to be a decent married womanor you ain't. Long as I've lived in St. Angé, and that's been more'ntwenty years, I ain't never yet seen a comfortable, respectable, satisfied, old maid--they ain't permitted here, and you know it. Inseason, of course, you'd marry--that's to be looked for. It chances tobe Jude--and after you get over the strangeness, he'll do as well as anyother. They are all powerfully alike when they have their senses. Thesameness lies in their having their faculties. The only man as was everdifferent in St. Angé was Timothy Drake. He got smashed on the head by afalling tree up to Camp 3, and his wits was crushed out of him. But doyou know, what was left of Tim was as gentle and decent and perticerlaras you'd want to find in any human. He never drank again, never cussednor stormed, and I've laid it by as an item, that the badness andsameness of men lies in their wits--if you want a companionable, safeman, you've got to turn to sich as are bereft of their senses--and mostwomen is that foolhardy they prefer wits and diviltry, to senselessnessand decency. "

Joyce smiled feebly at this philosophy. 

"You are the one to decide, " Isa went on. "Now see here, girl, I ain'tlived fifty years for nothing. I ain't been in and out of my neighbour'shouses, in times when all the closets are open, without learning a heapabout things. Men is men and there's no getting around that. So long asyou can, you better let them think they amounts to something even whenyou own to yourself they don't. Private opinions ain't going to bring ontrouble; it's only when they ain't private. Now granting that man iswhat we know he is--it's plain common sense to get as much out of him asyou can. Make the place you live in the best thing he's got; and just solong as you can, keep yourself a little bit out of his reach--tantalizehim. There ain't nothing so diverting to a man as to claw after a woman, when he's got the belief in himself that when he _wants_ to clutch her, he can. 

"I know the kind of naked feeling you've got when you sense your powerwith men first; but that wears off when you get your bearings and findout that it's only a shuffle in the game, anyway. Land of love! if manand woman was _all_, then when they came face to face with life theywould get smashed; but housework tempers the matter powerfully; andman's work out among other men; and then when children come and you haveto contrive and pinch, why you just plod along and don't ever getflustered. It's just the first dash of cold water in the face, child;after that all lives is pretty much the same. "

Joyce had grown quieter as Isa's words droned on. It was, for all hercommotion, a very humdrum thing that had happened to her. 

As it was she, Joyce, was going to be very respectable. She'd manage, and Jude would always find her worth his while to be decent for. Shewould wrench what she could from him and St. Angé and be a commonplacemarried woman. 

Now that all the fuss and fury were over, it seemed quite a sillyexhibition she had made of herself. She almost wished that she hadstayed at home. 

"The little loft room is yours, Joyce, for as long as you want it, " Isawas saying, through the sobering silence. "I ain't going to side withJared Birkdale when a woman's sense of right has been roused. Jared'swits are the keenest and the cruelest round here, and the poison in histongue is the deadliest; I guess _I_ know. Are you coming in, child? Thebed's made, but you best carry a pitcher of fresh water up with you. "

"I'll be there in a minute, Isa, and the cracked pitcher's by the well, isn't it?"

"Yes, " Isa replied; "and I'll leave a lighted candle for you, the ile ispretty low in the lamp. Good night, child, and don't fuss. I never sawfussing hurt any one but the fusser. "

Joyce rose stiffly and stood by the open door. She stretched her limbsand winced at the pain in them. Then she clasped her aching hands aboveher head and permitted her tired spirit one long, heavy sigh. 

She stood for some time in that relieved state. The chill of thedeepening night soothed her, and the late new moon looked down throughthe pines at her--then she turned sharply. Some one was near!

Her startled glance fell upon Jude Lauzoon. He was crouching upon thestep of the porch. 

"I thought you was sleeping, standing up, " he whispered hoarsely. "Ididn't want to scare you none. "

"Why are you here?" Joyce's heart fluttered. Had he heard all?

"Why are you?" Jude turned the tables. 

"Where else should I be--to--to--" she looked at him appealingly, "toget ready to be married?"

Jude was master of the situation in a way Joyce did not know. He couldafford to be condescendingly gracious. He, of all who had taken part inthis poor little drama, now held the centre of the stage, and theknowledge gave him a certain manliness highly becoming. 

"Stay here until we get married--is that it?"

Joyce nodded. 

Jude felt a pity for her that would have been contempt had not herbeauty and charm mastered him. He was going to clutch her once and forall, but he was willing to let her see that he only meant, since he musthave her, to clutch close enough to bind her to him. He was not going tostrangle her: he meant only to stifle her. Jude was cool now, and alert. 

"I've got something to say to you, Joyce, and it better be said and donewith. I slept on it last night and most of to-day. I went to yourfather's this evening to have it out, but you wasn't there. I met JockFilmer in the Long Medder and he told me where you was, and why. Yourfather had aired his affair in the tavern. "

Joyce clasped her cold fingers nervously. There was nothing for her todo but wait Jude's pleasure. Leon had not been able to overpower Jared'spersonality evidently. 

"I saw you go to Mr. Gaston's shack night before last! I'd been therebefore you, and I was lying off in the pine grove when you camea-visiting. "

The widening eyes of the listener were the only sign that thisinformation was startling. 

"Do you know, " Jude gave a chuckle, "up to that minute when I saw youa-knocking, and him taking no heed, I had thought 'twas him as had beenshining up to you. I was actually hard agin him, and once went so far asto go up there with my gun!" Joyce shivered. "Yes, by gosh! with mygun. Just suppose I'd killed him, and him not to blame either?

"Now there be some men, Joyce, that wouldn't have you after knowing whatI know, but I ain't one as goes off the handle without looking on bothsides. Since I know _he's_ all right, I can manage you properenough--and I own up to wanting you, and I'm willing to let bygones _be_bygones, only--and you might as well know this--once I've had my eyesopen, I ain't going to shut them again. I'll always be within call ifyou should forget yourself, and take to attracting Mr. Gaston'sattention. He's my _friend_ now, by gosh! He's going to stand by me. He's the real stuff and shows up to me in the finest colours, never oncehinting that your seeking him had made you cheap. He's a bigger fellerthan I ever thought, and I ain't going to have no foolishness. Youunderstand?"

"Yes; oh, yes; I understand!" Again the shivering seized Joyce. 

"I should think to have a man turn a deaf ear to you like that, wouldend any nonsense without more fuss. "

"It--it will. " The low voice shook. 

"But you see, protecting a young girl agin herself is one thing. Hemight feel different if a married woman wanted to turn fool. Now, Joyce, I ain't ever going to say anything more about this, 'less it'snecessary. I know you're pretty and maybe a bit more flighty along ofthat, but being married and having your own work, may tone you down. Ifyou'll stick by me, I'll stick by you; and in time Mr. Gaston can be afriend to both of us and no harm done. You understand, don't you? Iain't hard, I'm only letting light in on the whole thing. "

"I--I understand, Jude. "

"And now, as to marrying. Mr. Gaston is going to lend me money, and I'mgoing to put up an addition to my shack, and get some fixings over toHillcrest. If you want, we'll get married over there and rough ittogether before the buildin's done. "

"I--I'd rather wait, Jude if you're willing. I want to get some--somethings. " Joyce's teeth were chattering. "But if a minister shouldhappen in St. Angé in the meanwhile, I'd--I'd marry you. " This seemed areasonable request--"I don't like the minister over at Hillcrest, he'sso fearful in his sermons, he makes me afraid. "

"Well, " Jude rose, "when the house gets along, we'll see. Things aretight and trim now. Good night! Go to bed--and forget it. "

He put his hands on her shoulders and bent and kissed the cold, upturnedface. Then he laughed: for he had got what he wanted, and she was verysweet and pretty. 

"Go to bed now--trot on!"

Joyce staggered indoors and hurriedly bolted the door behind her. Shetook the spluttering candle and mounted the steep stairs. Once alone inthe small stifling room, she gasped, and put her hands to her throat asif to remove a pressure that was there. 

Presently she blew out the light, set the shutters wide to the palemoonlight, and undressed herself quietly and methodically. 

Already she seemed used to her lot. It was very ordinary, tame andfamiliar. 

She had received the first dash of cold water in the face, and hadaccepted the new situation. 

There was no longer even the excitement of trying to dangle a littleabove Jude. He had her close in his grip. She must accept whatever hedoled out to her--and that was the fate of all respectable married womenin St. Angé. 

CHAPTER V

The late September afternoon held almost summer heat as it flooded St. Angé. The breeze gave a promise of crispness as it passed fitfullythrough the pines; but on the whole a calmness and silence pervadedspace which gave the impression of a summer Sunday when a passingminister had been prevailed upon to "stop over. "

However, it was not a summer Sunday, as St. Angé well enough knew, forevery able-bodied man in the place had that day signed a contract withthe Boss of Camp 7 for the lumber season; and the St. Angéans neversigned contracts on Sunday. 

The calmness was accounted for by the fact that Joyce Birkdale was to bemarried. The circumstances leading up to this event had beensufficiently interesting to demand sobriety. St. Angé did not believe inputting on airs, but it had its own ideas of decorum; things had sort ofdovetailed lately, and, according to Leon Tate, "it was up to them tospread eagle and plant their banner for knowing a good thing from arotten egg. "

Leon was above consistent figures of speech. He had power of his ownthat controlled even language. 

[Illustration: "ONCE I WENT SO FAR AS TO GO UP THERE WITH MY GUN"]

After Jared Birkdale had defied Leon in his own stronghold, and, insteadof agreeing with Tate that Joyce had come to Isa as to a mother, hadinsisted upon bare, unglorified fact, he had betaken himself intooblivion. Tate was confronted with the predicament of having a helplessgirl on his hands to do for--unless another man was forthcoming. 

Jude rose to the occasion. He confided to Jock Filmer his desire forimmediate marriage, and good-natured Jock, his system permeated bygossip, consented to send down to the Junction--since Joyce objected tothe hell-fire minister at Hillcrest--and bring a harmless wayfarer ofthe cloth, who Murphy, the engineer of the daily branch train, had said, was summering there. 

"He's a lean, blighted cuss, " Murphy had explained; "what God intendedfor an engineer, but Nature stepped in and flambasted his constitootion, and so he took to preaching--that not demanding no bodily strength. 

"He comes pottering round the engine, using the excuse of saving mysoul, and I don't let on that I see through him. I give him pints aboutthe machinery; and if I tell him he can ride in the cab with meanywhere, he'd marry a girl, or bury a tramp, if he had to go to hell todo it. "

So Jock detailed Murphy to decoy the side-tracked gentleman at theJunction up to St. Angé. 

The stranger was expected on the afternoon train, and Tate had theguest room of the Black Cat in readiness. 

Jock had lazed about the Station since noon. The wedding preparationsbored him, and the train's delay angered him. 

"See here!" he exploded to Tom Smith, the agent, "ain't it stretching apoint too far when that gol-durned train gives herself four hours'lee-way?"

Tom spat with dignity, and remarked casually:

"Long as she ain't likely to meet any train going down, seems to methere ain't any use to git warmer than is necessary. "

"If she keeps on, " drawled Jock, "she'll have a head-on collision withherself some day. Is that the dying shriek of the blasted hussy?"

Tom stopped the imminent expectoration. 

"It be, " he announced, and went out on the track to welcome the guest. 

"She do look, " he contemplatively remarked, "like she had an all-firedjag on. "

The train came in sight, swaying unsteadily on its rickety tracks. Puffing, panting and hissing, it reached the platform and stoppedjerkily. 

Murphy sprang from the engine; the conductor strode with dignity worthya Pullman official, to the one passenger coach behind the baggage car, and assisted a very young and very sickly man to alight. 

Tom Smith, with energy concentrated on this single activity of thetwenty-four hours, began hurling mail-bag and boxes about with theabandon that marks the man whom Nature has fitted to his legitimatecalling. 

Filmer eyed the passenger with disapproving interest; Murphy, afterlooking at some part of the machinery, lolled up to Jock. 

"Is that it?" Filmer nodded toward the stranger, who sat exhaustedlyupon a cracker-box, destined for the Black Cat, with his suit-case athis feet. 

"It ain't, then, " Murphy returned. "It got on the Branch 'stead of theMountain Special, by mistake. It's a lunger bound for the lakes, andsome one gave him a twist as to the track an' we caught 'im. But shure, the rale thing, the parson, when I was after tellin' 'im of the job whatwas at this end of the game, he up and balked--divil take 'im!--an' saidhe wasn't goin' to tie for time and eternity, two unknown quantities. What do ye think of that?"

Jock thought hotly of it, and expressed his thought so fervidly that theboy on the cracker-box gave attention. 

"Say, " Murphy continued, "give it straight, Filmer; does it be aftermeanin' life or death for Birkdale's girl? What's the almighty hurry, anyway?"

He leered unpleasantly. Jock squared himself, and faced the engineer. 

"Come off with that guff!" he drawled. "What hurry there be is _my_hurry, you blamed idiot! And my reasons are my own, confound you! I'veset my mind on having that affair come off to-morrow, gol durn it, andI'm going to have a parson if I have to dangle down to the Junction onthat old machine of yours, myself. "

A few added words of luridly picturesque intent gave force and colour tothis declaration. 

The stranger on the cracker-box rose weakly and drew near. 

"Excuse me, " he began, in a voice of peculiar sweetness and earnestness, "I wonder if I can be of any service? I am a minister!"

Filmer reeled before this announcement, took the stranger in from headto foot, then remarked in an awed tone:

"The hell you are!"

"I am. My name's Drew, Ralph Drew. "

Murphy beat a rapid retreat. The scene was too much for him. Filmer, indoubt as to whether this was a joke or not, stood his ground. 

The young fellow laughed good-naturedly. 

"I know what you think, " he said, and coughed sharply; "I got mycredentials all right. I nearly finished myself in getting them, butthey're all right. Graduated last June, went under soon after, got on myfeet two weeks ago, and am making for Green Lake. I got side-tracked atthe Junction through my own stupidity, and landed here. Perhaps you candirect me to a quiet place for the night, and I'll be glad to help youout in any way along my line, if I can. "

This lengthy explanation was interrupted by short, hacking coughs, andFilmer's eyes never dropped from the eager boyish face through it all. 

Presently he leaned down and took the dress-suit case from the other'shand. 

"Drop that, " he drawled, "and you follow me. There's the Black CatTavern, but I guess that ain't your kind. Do you think you can make myshack? It's a half-mile, and pretty uppish grade. "

The boy began to thank Filmer. 

"Hold on!" Jock commanded. "Keep your wind for the climb, and stopgassing. "

The two started on, and the climb was a silent one. Filmerappreciatively strode ahead, speechless. Drew, panting, accepted thesituation gratefully, and made the most of his position and his leader'ssilence. 

Filmer's shack was a lonely place, standing on a little pine-clad knollfacing the west. It had four small rooms, a broad piazza, and a thriftygarden at the rear. 

The room assigned to Drew had a cot-bed and rough, home-made toiletaccommodations that suggested comfort and a sense of refinement. WhenFilmer made him welcome to it, he said quietly: "Now kid, you makeyourself trim and dandy. Come out on the piazza when you get good andready, and we'll have supper out there later. " It was evident thatJock's sympathies had been touched. 

Once alone, Drew sank upon the low bed, and permitted the waves ofweakness and weariness to engulf him. 

The young face grew pinched and blue, a faintness rose and conqueredhim. The eyes closed, and the breath almost stopped. But it was onlymomentary, and with returning consciousness came renewed hope and suddenstrength. 

From the broad open window the boy could see the western hills, alreadygay with glistening autumn colour, shining under the glowing sunset sky. The tall pointed pines, standing here and there in clumps, rose sharplydark in the early gloaming of the valley. 

"It's my chance, " thought the boy, his eyes widening with enjoyment ofthe beauty; "and, by Jove, I believe I've caught on!"

He got to his feet. The giddiness was gone. He flung off hisdust-stained garments, as if they held all of his past weakness andmisery. He plunged his head into the clear, cold water in the big basinon the pine table; when he emerged, colour had mounted to his pale face, and depression was a thing of the past. 

"Hang it!" he exclaimed, rubbing his face and head with the rough towelthat he took from the back of a chair; "this is good enough for me. NoGreen Lake in mine! I'll send for my trunk"--he had begun to whistle inthe pauses of his thought--"and put up my fight right here. Filmer'sgood stuff; and there's a job ready-made for me, I bet! This is where Iwas sent, and no mistake. What's that?"

It was the odours of supper, and Drew stood still, inhaled the fragranceand grinned broadly. 

"Gee whiz!" he cried; "I'm as hungry as a ditch digger. " He dashed overto his suit-case, opened it and pulled out the contents. A pair offlannel trousers, a heavy flannel shirt and thick shoes were selected, and soon Drew, radiant and revived, went forth from the disorder he hadcreated, eager for the meal that he heard Filmer placing on the piazzatable. 

Drew was to eat many of Filmer's meals in the future; he was to learnthat Jock was a master-hand at cooking, but he was never again to knowjust the positive joy that he felt during that first meal; for hebrought to it an appetite made keen by the hope of recovered health--thehealth he had squandered so foolishly, poor fellow, while he was makingfor his goal at college. 

At last he tilted his chair back and laughed. 

"I haven't eaten like that, " he said, "nor with such enjoyment, since Iwent tramping up in the Maine woods when I was a youngster. "

Filmer was removing the empty dishes. There was a sense of delicacyabout his host that was compelling Drew's notice. He watched himpassing from kitchen to piazza, and he saw that he was big, strong andhandsome, but with a certain weakness, of chin, and a shyness ofexpression that came and went, marring the general impression. 

Filmer's shyness was increasing. Never before in his life had he beenbrought into close personal contact with "the cloth" as he termed it, and even this "swaddling garment" was having a slow-growing hold uponhim. 

Presently Jock came timidly out, after his last visit to the kitchen, with pipes and a tobacco-box. 

"I'm not certain, " he began, "how your kind takes to tobacco, but if Idon't get my evening smoke, I get a bad spell of temper--so, if youdon't object--I'll light up. "

"If you'll wait a moment, " Drew returned, "I'll join you. I always smokemy own pipe--I've got sort of chummy with it--but I'll share yourtobacco. "

Filmer grinned, and the cloud passed from his face. 

"I calculated, " he said, "that your kind classed tobacco with cussingand jags. Light up, kid. "

They were soon lost in the fragrant smoke, the bliss of satisfiedappetite, and a peaceful scene. The sun went down, and left the hillsand valley in an afterglow of glory. The beauty was so touching thateven Filmer succumbed, shook the ashes from his pipe and delayedrefilling. Presently he looked at Drew's face. It had paled fromemotion, and shone white in the shadow of the porch. 

"You look peaked. " Filmer's words brought the boy back to earth. "Beenthrough a long siege, maybe?"

"Oh, overstudy and weak lungs!" Drew spoke cheerfully. "Bad combination, you know, and I didn't pull in as soon as I should have. I crammed forexams. Made them, and then collapsed. I'm all right now, though. All thestruggle's over. I've only to reap the reward. There was a big doctordown in New York who told me that the air up here was my one chance. I'mgoing to take it. A few months here, and a life anywhere else I maychoose, he said. 

"What do you say to letting me have your room and company--you needn'tgive any more of the latter than you want to, you know--for a spell?You'll find me easy to get on with, I fancy, no one has ever complainedof me in that way. I don't care what Green Lake is like, I like _this_better. I like this, way down to the ground. I've gone daffy over thewhole thing. " He drew in a long, happy breath. "What do you say?"

"I'd like to ask, if it ain't too inquisitive, " Jock inquired, ignoringthe boy's eagerness, while he put forth his own claims, "why in thundera chap like you took to the preaching business? Somehow you look like afeller that might want to enjoy life. "

Drew laughed heartily. 

"Why, I mean to enjoy life, " he replied, "and I chose this professionbecause I like it. I believe in it. You see, I was born to be a fighter. If I'd had a big, lusty body like yours, I might have been--anything. Asit is, I had to choose something where I could fight with other weaponsthan bone, muscle and bodily endurance. I'm going into the fight ofhelping men and women in the best way I can, don't you see? I suppose Imust sound cheeky and brazen to talk this way, but I'm full of the joyof it all, and I've made the goal, you see, and for all the breakdownI've come out ahead. It's enough to stir one, don't you think?

"The night I graduated, I don't mind telling this to you, I went down onmy knees when all the excitement was over and the lights were out, and Isaid, 'I am here. I've got money; the good God need not have me on hismind along that line; he can send me where he chooses, to do his work;I'm ready. '

"It was like consecrating myself, you know. Well, when the sicknesscame, I thought perhaps he didn't want me or my money either; but I cameout of the Valley and here I am now, and I tell you--it seems good. "

Filmer folded his arms across his chest, and looked steadily ahead ofhim. 

"Do you know, " he said at length--"and I hope you'll excuse me--I thinkyou're the most comical cuss that ever happened. "

Drew met this frank opinion with the boyish laugh that was having theeffect of clearing up all the dull places in Filmer's character. He hadnever heard that laugh equalled but once, and he rarely went back tothat memory--the path was too hard and lonely. 

The reserves were down between the two. Without reason or cause, perhaps, they had fallen into a confident liking. 

"Have you done much marrying and burying yet?" The question startledDrew, then he recalled the conversation on the Station platform. 

"Well, no, " he said, "practical demonstration comes after graduationgenerally. I've substituted for ministers--preached a Sunday, now andthen, you know; but of course, I _can_ perform the marriage ceremony, orread the burial service. "

"You look pretty young, " Jock spoke slowly; he was noting the strangedignity of his guest. Any reference to his profession brought with itthis calm assurance that held levity in check; "but it's this way. There's a wedding fixed for to-morrer. I've set my heart on it comingoff, and there ain't a durned parson to be had, that the girl favours. Now under these circumstances, you can't afford to look a gift horse inthe mouth so to speak, and no offence intended. I can give you a tip ortwo before you trot in, and as for you, why you know, there ain'tnothing equal to being thrown neck and crop into a job. 

"The first time I went logging I got one leg broke and my head smashed, but I haven't ever regretted it. That accident, and the incidentalscare, did more for me than any two successful seasons could have done. Now, your plunging right into a marrying may prove providential. Sermonsand infant christenings will seem like child's play after. What do yousay?"

Drew was laughing and the tears stood in his eyes. 

"I'll--I'll do my level best, " he managed to say through his spasms ofmirth. "This seems like a horrible approach to anything so serious, butit is the way you put it, you know, and--and the air, and the supper. The laugh comes easy, you see. "

"Oh! enjoy yourself. " Filmer waved his pipe aloft. "I'm glad you _can_take life this way, with the handicap of your trade, I don't quite see, by thunder, how your future parish is going to account for you, but sofar as I'm concerned you can laugh till you bust. "

Filmer was delighted. Not in years had he been so taken out of himself. 

"Now this here town, " he explained, "likes to have its buryings andweddings set off with a sermon with the principal actor as text. Theylike to get their money's worth. See? This girl, what I want spliced, is a devilish--" he paused--"you don't mind _moderately_ stronglanguage, do you?" he asked. "We all get flowery up here. What islacking in events, talk makes up. I'll hold back when I can--in reason. "

"Don't mind me!" Drew was trying to control his mirth. 

Filmer nodded appreciatively. 

"Well, as I was remarking--and I've got to be open with you--this heregirl will be safer married, and so will some other folks. I ain't muchof a reader of character, but I sense things like all creation, and I_feel_ that getting the girl in harness as soon as possible is the onlyplain common-sense method. She's mettlesome, you know, the kind thatkicks over the traces, and slams any one happening to be handy. Sheain't never done it yet--but she's capable of it. "

"Is--is the girl a relation or----?"

Jock flushed. 

"Neither. Nor the man. The feller--Jude Lauzoon is his name--I don'tcare a durn for, but he's all gone over this girl, and if any one cansteer him straight she can, and when she gets the reins in her hands, Ibelieve she's going to keep her head, in order to steer straight. 

"The girl's name is Joyce Birkdale. Mother dead; raised sort ofpromiscuous on the instalment plan. Father an old buck who only keepssober because he want's to see what's going on. He lit out and madehimself scarce a time back, and this here Joyce took refuge after a hellof--excuse me! after a row with the old man--up to the Black Cat. LeonTate acts the father-part to any one in a fix--it helps his trade--keepsfolks in his debt, you know, but he ain't going to hamper hisself past acertain point, and if this here Jude Lauzoon should get a beckon fromold man Birkdale he'd skip as quick as thunder--that's what is troublingTate, and, by gosh! it's troubling me, but for another reason whatneedn't enter into this here conversation. 

"If it was trusting you with a funeral or a christening, " Filmer felthis way gingerly, "I wouldn't care a durn. You can't hurt the dead andthe kid might outgrow it; but when it comes to tying folks togethertight, it's a blamed lot like trusting something brittle in a baby'shand. It mustn't be broke, you see, or there'll be h--I mean trouble, topay. "

"See here!" Drew sat up straight, "I'm not much younger than you, if thetruth were known. So let us cut extreme youth out of the question. "

"Maybe you are about my age, kid, " Jock gazed indulgently upon him, "anddon't let your necktie choke you; but you're pretty raw material, andI'm seasoned. That's the difference. It ain't anything against you. It'sthe way you've been handled. Burying is looked upon by young _and_ old, solemn-like; but I didn't know how you looked upon--marrying. "

"It's the solemnest thing in life. " Drew spoke clearly and impressively. "I think death is a light matter in comparison. I've always thoughtthat--since, well--for several years. "

"Now you're talking!" Jock leaned over and gave Drew a friendly slap onthe shoulder. "Now you're getting on the right course, and I want togive you this tip. Lay it on thick with Jude. Tell him he'll beeverlasting blasted in kingdom-come if he don't act clean and hold on. Specially slap it on about holding on. Jude's intentions are goodenough. He's powerful promising at the start, but he's the d----, thegol-durndest quitter anywhere around. 

"Every new boss bets on Jude when the season begins, but every man ofthem would like to kick him out of camp before the spring sets in. Allthe hell-fire threats that that religion factory of yours drilled inyou, you plank on Jude to-morrow, when you make him and Joyce man andwife. How fervent was that factory of yours? There is a difference intemperatures among them, I've heard. "

"Oh! mine was mild, " Drew was again helplessly convulsed, "so mild thatI'm afraid you'd call it frigid. But that doesn't matter. Futuredamnation is a poor threat when every man among us knows that a presenthell is a much worse affair. It's the awakening of a soul to _that_fact, that is going to save the world of men and women. "

A full moon was sailing high in the heavens now, and Drew's animatedface showed clear in the pale gleam. Jock hitched his chair nearer. 

"Do you mean to insinuate, " he asked, "that you've been wasting yourtime and health studying a line of preaching that hasn't got a red-hothell in the background for sinners?"

"I mean just that. " Drew threw back his head proudly. 

"What in thunder do you do with them, then?"

"We try--by God's help _I'm_ going to try--to take fear from them. Makethem _want_ to be decent. Make them _want_ to use the powers they havein themselves. Make them want to work _with_ God, not alone _for_ God. "

Jock's face was a puzzle. Admiration, pity, bewilderment, and a desireto laugh, waged war. Finally he drawled:

"Well, I'll be eternally durned, if I ain't sorry that a bright chaplike you has wasted his youth, and pretty nearly drowned the vitalspark, in arriving at such a cold-storage conclusion as this here oneyou've been airing. Why any one with half an eye can see that ifhell-fire can't stir sinners, a slow call to duty ain't going to get ahustle on them. I swear if it wasn't so late, I'd get Gaston over hereto listen to your views. Gaston is open to all kinds of tommy-rot thathas a new mark on it. I'll be jiggered if I don't believe Gaston willwant to pay you a salary to keep you here just for a diversion. But takemy advice, and keep to old-fashioned lines, to-morrer 'specially, whenyou come to the marrying. Lord! Lord! But Jude would be having a picnicif he grasped that rose-coloured streamer of yours. "

Drew made no reply. He was thinking, and his thoughts led where he knewJock could not follow. 

Presently a thin, blue-veined hand stole out in the darkness and foundFilmer's. 

"I--I--didn't know such men as you--such a place as this--existed, " saidthe low, eager voice. "It's like having died and awakened in a newatmosphere, where even the people are different. It's--it's quite aninspiration. "

Jock kept the hand, delicate as a woman's, in his strong, rough palm. 

"You're somewhat of an eye-opener yourself, " he said. "I've always heldthat mixing is learning on both sides. As long as you've got strengthand inclination to stretch out, you'll always find something stretchingout to you. 

"And now as to that proposition of yours a time back, about bunking herefor a time. I'm agreed, with this understanding: I've got a devil of adisposition, but it ain't ever going to be no better and them as don'tlike it can find new quarters. I came here over ten years ago to indulgemy disposition, and I'm going to indulge it. When I don't want folks, Itake to the forest, or, if the weather is bad, I shut and lock my door. If, after knowing this, you care to take that room I gave you thisafternoon, it's yours for as long as you want it. I like you. I'm suddenin my likes, but I don't like your hell-less doctrine. I advise you notto turn that loose in St. Angé. We're none too good now, but if asoothing syrup was poured out, them as valued their lives would have tonavigate to the Solitudes. "

"I don't believe it!" cried Drew. "As God hears me, I believe it is justthe place to try it. "

"Oh! Get to bed. " Jock stood up and laughed good-naturedly. "Go to bedand get up steam for to-morrer. When you see the whole collection you'llwarm up your ideas. You're a terrible plucky kid to trust your own soulon a trifling little raft like this religion of yours. You better notoverload it with more souls, though; the risk's too tremendous. 

"Go sleep on your fairy story, boy. I don't see for the life of me howyour health could have broken studying such a mild mixture as that. Youmust have been real run down at the start. But never mind, don't lay thelaugh up against me, kid, I ain't enjoyed myself so much in ten years asI have to-night. "

The two parted the best of friends. Drew fell quickly into a deep, undisturbed sleep, but Filmer tossed about till morning. The grim Pastgripped him; he pulled the flask, that stood ever ready, nearer; butthe cowardice of the act swayed him, and he flung the bottle to thefloor. 

Then he swore, and tried to sleep again, but the Spectre jeered him. 

"The powers they have in themselves. " The words struck again and againon Filmer's aching brain. 

What powers? Oh! he had had powers. He might have been--what? He mighthave been where? If--if----

The sunrise of Joyce's wedding day was just breaking when Filmer'sSpectre gave up the struggle and sleep came. The only trophy of thevictory was the discarded flask, which lay untouched where the hand ofthe master--for that time at least--had flung it. 

CHAPTER VI

The word had passed along, and all St. Angé knew that Jock Filmer had araw specimen of a parson up at his shack, in safe keeping for the Sundayevents. For Joyce's wedding-day fell upon a Sunday. 

"He's fattening him up, " said Tom Smith, "and the Lord knows he needsit! Such a spindling youngster I _never_ saw--a parson!" The contemptwas too deep for Smith's expression, so he gave up. "And to think, "added the train conductor, stretching his long legs in Tate's tavern, "there he was on my car, and I never sensed his ideas. Talk aboutentertaining angels unaware, it ain't in it! He even cussed mild when Itold him his ticket was punched for Green Lake, and he was headed forSt. Angé. I never would have took him for anything but a plain milksoptill he let forth his opinions. "

"I don't call it a proper attitude, " broke in Tate, mixing a glass ofvile dilution for Murphy's consumption. "I don't call it a _proper_attitude for a parson to appear so much like other folks that you can'ttell 'im. It's suspicious, says I. How do we know as he _is_ a parson?"

This suggestion caused the company a moment's pause. 

"He better be!" muttered Peter Falstar. "He'd better be what he claimsto be, even if it _is_ a parson. We don't stand for any tricks fromstrangers. "

This lifted the spirits somewhat. Looked at _that_ way, they had thematter in their own hands. 

"I wonder"--Tate's face assumed its cheerful placidity--"if his marryingof Jude and Joyce would hold in any court o' law?"

At this the listeners laughed. 

"Who ever heard of a marriage in St. Angé getting to a court o' law?"asked Tom Smith. 

"But Jared ain't never had a daughter married before. " Tate nodded hishead sagely. "Jared's a deep one, and, taken off his guard, shows heknows more about law and order than any one man I ever let my eyes fallon. "

"He must be all-fired off his guard, " jeered Falstar, "when he talksorder of any kind. Where is he, anyway?"

"Exactly. " Tate held his own glass high and firm. "_Where_ is he? Hereis his daughter's wedding day--Where is he? I tell _you_ if thatmarriage ain't hard and fast, it's _my_ opinion Birkdale will triflewith it to suit his own ends. Jude's taking chances when he annexesJared to his responsibilities, and don't you forget it! If that marriageain't hide-bound, or if Jude don't provide for Birkdale, it's going tobe broke if Jared has to raise all damnation to do it. He's got his eyeto a knothole somewhere, you bet your life on that. "

By superhuman sacrifice St. Angé had kept itself sober the Saturdaynight preceding the wedding but it did not sleep much. The malepopulation discussed the day's doings and the women searched theirmeagre belongings for appropriate trappings for the next day'sfestivities. 

Their resources were limited, and the day being Sunday, added to thedifficulty. 

"You can't, " said draggled Peggy Falstar, "put on real gay toggings in achurch and on a Sunday. "

Isa Tate, as leading lady in the place, solved the problem. 

"We've got our mourning, " she said to Peggy and the others gathered inPeggy's dirty kitchen. "We always have that on hand. Now we can leaveoff the long veils and put some false flowers on our bonnets--realspruce ones. They will lighten up the black. Them as has black glovescan wear them, but by carrying a clean handkercher real conspicuous, thegloom will be brightened some. "

"I ain't had a pair of gloves in seventeen years, " moaned Peggy. 

"Well, you can sort of wind yer handkercher around your hands, "comforted Isa. 

"My feelings may be overcome, " said Peggy; "they generally is inpublic, and then I'll have to use my handkercher and show my hands. "

"You'll have to control yourself. " Isa looked grim. "And, land o' love, a wedding ain't no place for wailing. Tate and me has given Joyce a realsmart white dress, and she's trimmed her old hat all up with littlefrost flowers. She's a dabster at fixin' things. She's going to lookreal stylish. You know her mother was that way, though it was sorterknocked out of her, but the last thing she said to me was, 'Isa, I wantyou to put my grandmother's specs on me when I'm gone. Specs is dreadfulstylish, and I've always looked forward to my eyes giving out so I couldwear them. My eyes, ' says she, 'has lasted better than me, but I want tobe buried in my specs'; and so she was!"

The women all wiped their eyes. 

"She was a powerful impressive corpse, " whimpered Peggy, "but them specsgave me a terrible turn when I saw them first. The second look sortertook away the shock. I do hope, " Peggy sighed, "I do hope them specs waslong-distance ones. The good Lord knows Mrs. Birkdale had favourablereasons for seeing as far off as possible!"

"They was, " Isa nodded. "I tried 'em, and things was all blurred to me. "

And then the women parted gloomily, to meet again at Joyce's wedding. 

It was such a day as only the mountains know. A hushed, golden day witha mysterious softness of outline on the distant hills. 

The little crumbling church was open to the beauty of the morning, andJohn Gaston had decked it within with every flowering thing he couldgather from wood and meadow. 

Jock came early and stood in one of the narrow doors of the church, opening upon the highway. His hands were plunged in his pockets, and alook of concentration was on his handsome face. 

He was going to "set, " so he thought, his baby parson on to Jude. Therewas excitement in the idea. While he stood there Gaston came and tookhis stand at the other narrow door. The architect of the St. Angé churchhad had ideas of propriety in regard to established rules. 

"Looks--some! don't it?" Jock asked. 

"Yes, " Gaston replied; "I was bound to have it look as wedding-like aspossible. "

"You did the decorating?" Jock asked, and a curious frown settledbetween his eyes. "I thought it was the women. "

"They're thinking of themselves. Is your parson on to the game, Filmer?"

"He's all right. Gone off to commune with Nater. There he is now. "

Drew had entered the rear door, and went at once to the small barepulpit. 

"Umph!" whispered Gaston. "Looks like a picture of John the Baptist. "

"He don't act like it. " Jock was in arms at once against any suspectedcriticism. "He's got more sand than many a blasted heavyweight. Youought to hear his gab--it's the newest thing in soul-saving. Sort o'homeopathic doctrine. Tastes good, but bitter as pisen under thecoating. Real stuff inside, and all that. Get's working after it'staken, and the sweet taste lasts in your mouth while your innards areacting like--"

The people were gathering. They passed by Jock and Gaston withoutrecognition. Social functions in St. Angé ignored all familiarintimacies. 

Jude and Joyce came through the rear door, and sat in the front pew. 

The girl moved with the absorption of a sleepwalker beside Jude whoseshufflings bespoke nervous tension. Every now and then he glancedsheepishly at Joyce. Even to his senses, accustomed as they were to thegirl's beauty, there was a slight shock of surprise. 

The little round hat was gracefully wound with frost flowers until itlooked like a wreath upon the pale gold of the glorious hair. The facewas white and luminous, and the eyes looked as if they were expecting avision to appear. 

The white dress, home-made and cheap, had the unfailing touch thatinnate taste always gives, and it fell in soft lines about the slim, girlish figure. The little work-worn hands were folded loosely. Theywere resting a moment before taking up the labour of the new, untriedlife. 

Drew glanced down as the two came in, and when he saw Joyce he started, and leaned forward. 

He tried to take his eyes from that pale, exquisite face, but could not. It moved him powerfully not only by its beauty, but by its expression ofentranced expectation. 

Could the crude fellow at her side inspire such emotion? It was puzzlingand baffling, but it roused Drew's sympathy, and held him captive. Therough faces of the men, the pitiable, worn faces of the women, thesprinkling of freckled, childish faces were blotted out for him. Like astar in blank space shone that one sweet, waiting face with its wreathof fairy-like flowers. 

 * * * * *

She was waiting for something she expected him to give. Drew becameobsessed with this thought. Not the consecration of marriage--No! butsomething she--the soul of her--wanted. 

Out among the pines in the early morning Drew had made a few notes, these he clutched in his feverish right hand. When the hour fixed uponarrived, he arose and stood beside the rickety pulpit stand. He made ashort prayer; he knew it was feeble and rambling. 

"Scared to death, " thought Gaston, and he heard Filmer breathe heavily. Then Drew lifted his notes to the desk; tried to fix his eyes andattention upon them, failed and gazed helplessly at that one face in theappalling vacancy. Presently the bits of paper fell from his nervelesshand and fluttered to the floor. 

Back in his college days he had had his dream of the vital word he wouldsay to his people--_his_ people--on that first day when he was to cometo his own. Strangely enough he felt that his time had arrived. Calledonly by God, to a people who would never think of desiring him, he mustsay his word though only that pale, wonderful face thrilled to hismeaning. If only he could make _her_ understand, he would take it as asign from on high that his mission was not to be an unworthy one. 

Drew always had the power, even in his weakest moments, to utilize hispanic to more intense concentration. It was the faculty that had madehis college president point to him on more than one occasion as asuccess. Now, with the anchor of his notes fluttering in the Septemberbreeze, he put out to sea. 

"We brought nothing into this world, and it's certain we can carrynothing out. "

"He's mistaking this for a funeral, " thought Gaston, and he struggled toconquer his inclination to laugh. 

But what was happening? The boy up aloft was refuting the statement. Hisvoice had a power wholly out of proportion to the frail body. He wasgetting hold of the people, too, Peggy Falstar was crying openly, andslow, hard-brought tears were dimming many eyes. 

They were being told, those plain, dull people, and by a mere boy, too, that they had brought something into the world. A heritage of strengthand weakness; of good and evil, bequeathed to them by those who had goneon. From these fragments their souls must weave what is to be taken withthem when Death comes. The effort, the struggle, the success or failure, will be the part that they leave behind for them who remain, or who areto come later. In words strangely adapted to his listeners, that frailboy, with glorified face, was beseeching them, as they valued theirfuture hope, as they desired to make better the ones who must livelater, to gain a victory over their heritage of weakness and sin by theGod-given elements of strength and goodness, and to blaze the trail forthemselves, and to leave it so free behind them that weak, stumblingfeet might easier find the way. 

He was speaking to fathers and mothers for the sakes of their children. He was urging the two about to marry to see to it that they prepare bytheir own consecration, the _path on before_. 

A silence filled the little church. The boy, pale and exhausted, wasasking Jude and Joyce to come forward. 

Gaston saw them go, side by side, Jude shambling as usual, Joycestepping as if hastening to receive something long-desired. 

It was the briefest of services. Simple, unadorned, but dignified andsolemn. 

Amen!

It was over. Jude and Joyce were married! The people were stirring; weremoving about. The sodden, familiar life was awaiting every one of them. No; something had happened in St. Angé. Gaston knew it. Filmer knew it. Peggy Falstar had hold of her little Billy's hand, and Peter followedwith his little daughter Maggie drawn close to him. 

Leon Tate was red in the face, and Isa looked stern and thoughtful. Yes;something had happened in St. Angé. It would never be the same. 

Drew went outside the church and joined Filmer. He had seen the upliftedexpression on Joyce's face. He had had his answer from on high; and hewas strangely moved. 

He stood beside Filmer, motionless and flushed. Jock contemplated himfrom his greater height as if he were a new and startling enigma. 

"Say, kid, " he drawled presently, striving to hide the excitement thatwas causing the perspiration to stand on his forehead; "what got intoyou?"

"I reckon it was something getting out of me, " Drew replied with theshort cough. 

"I don't know as them few words you spoke are capable of holding Judeand Joyce eternally. What you think?"

"If they cannot, no others could. " Again the quick, harsh cough. 

"But that sermon!" Jock shrugged his shoulders nervously; "that's what'sshook the foundations of this here town. Leaving out the fact of youbeing _you_, standing up there handling folks's feelings as you did, Iwant to know if you stand by them ideas you passed out?"

"With all my mind!"

"Not elocuting and acting?"

"Surely not. "

"Why, see here, kid, if what you said is true--which, by thunder itain't!--don't you see that doctrine, 'bout coming with an outfit, addingto it, and taking away what you want, and leaving what you must; blazingtrails, clearing away underbrush and what not; why, don't you see that'sworse, by a confounded lot, than the old-fashioned hell?"

"Much, much more solemn. " Drew leaned against a tree. His new strengthwas exhausted. Jock was too absorbed to notice the weakness and pallor. 

"Why, " he went on excitedly, "when you know you're going to frizzle atthe end--just you, yourself, you can see the justice of it, and respectwhat sent you there, but to eternally be thinking of others, and messingup their lives--why that's durn rot. "

"Filmer, " the tone was low and faltering; "we're all one with God, nomatter how you put it. All working together; all bound on the samejourney. Think back; was there never one you loved who suffered with youand for you? Have you ever considered how much of that one's life youwere hampering, when you dragged him--or her--down?"

Filmer's face twitched. 

"Now, see here, " he blurted out, and his eyes flashed, "the folks roundhere ain't going to stand for this rot, and I don't blame 'em. When theythink it over, they'll get drunker than ever, and they'll even up withyou later. You've got to learn more than you've learned already. Feelings are private property and outsiders better keep off. Come hometo dinner. You look like a pricked bladder. This here gassing 'boutthings what ain't worthwhile don't pay. Here, lean on me. It's allgol-durned nonsense using yourself up so. "

He took Drew firmly by the arm, and led him away. 

Drew was too weak to continue, even had he desired to do so, theconversation Filmer had forced upon him, but when they were smoking inthe late afternoon Jock returned to the subject. 

"I was just wondering, " he said, through the haze; "ain't there never nolet up to that new-fangled idea of yours?"

"None. That's the beauty of it. "

"Beauty? Huh! Well, we'll drop it. Feel like toddling down to Gaston's?"Drew rose at once. 

They passed down the pine-covered path slowly, and as they nearedGaston's shack, Filmer paused. 

"Wherever you be, " he began slowly, "as occasion permits, you're goingto air them sentiments?"

"I'm going to live them. I may never have a chance to preach them. I'm abit discouraged about the weakness that followed my first attempt. "

"Oh, thunderation! You're going to pick up flesh and strength fastenough--it's that slush you've got on board that's getting my grouch. I'd rather you had a natural death, kid. I've taken a liking to you; andyou don't know St. Angé. "

CHAPTER VII

Joyce stopped her wild little song, and stood still to listen. Then shestepped to the window, drew aside the white muslin curtain, and lookedout upon the white, white world. 

She had thought she heard a step on the crisp snow, but probably it wasthe crackling of the protesting trees, for the weight of ice was almostmore than they could bear. 

The lights in the scattered houses shone red and steady in the stillglitter. A full moon dimmed the stars, but a keen glance showed thatevery one was in its place and performing its duty in the glorious plan. 

A white, holy night! Only such a night as comes to high, dry placeswhere the cold is so subtle that its power is disguised; where thegreen-black pines stand motionless in the hard whiteness, and where thesilence is only broken by mysterious cracklings and groanings, whenNature stirs in the heart of the seeming Death, while she weaves therobe of Spring. 

Joyce was beginning to feel the wonders of her little world; she wastimidly feeling out the meaning of things. Sometimes the sensation hurtand frightened her; often it soothed and thrilled her to deep ecstasy. 

Presently she left the window, and turned to the warmth and glow inside. 

Jude's old cottage had been transformed, and Joyce was developing intoone of those women who are inherent home-makers. Such women canaccomplish more with the bare necessities of life than others with theworld's wealth at their command. It is like personal magnetism, difficult to understand, impossible to explain. 

Comfort, grace, colour and that sweet disorder which is the truestorder. Chairs at the right angles, tables convenient, but never in theway. A roaring wood fire on a dustless hearth; pictures hung neither toohigh nor too low, and no sense of emptiness nor crowding. A room thatneither compelled attention, nor irritated the nerves--a place to restin, love in, and go out from, with a longing to return. 

On the south side of the room, Jude, with Gaston's financial andpersonal assistance, had added a bay window. 

That innovation had quite stirred St. Angé. Ralph Drew had designed itand, through the summer, while the building was in process, theinhabitants had watched and expressed their opinions freely andenjoyably. 

"Up to Joyce's, " Billy Falstar, that indefatigable gatherer andscatterer of news, announced, "they are smashing a hole in the off sideof the house. "

An hour later, a good-sized audience was occupying the open space onthe south side of the garden. 

"Why don't you have it run _in_, instead of out?" Peter Falstarsuggested. "It's just tempting Providence to let out more surface tocatch the winter blasts. "

"And it's wasteful as thunder, " added Tom Smith. "Just so much moreheating of out-door space enclosed in that there semi-circle. "

"There ain't nothing to see from that side, anyway, " Leon Tate remarked, as if possibly the others had not considered that. "If you want a moreextended, and rounded outlook, you'd better smash the north side out. From that hole you could see the village, and what not. "

"And the Black Cat, " Jock Filmer drawled. 

"It's no kind of an outlook at all that don't include the Kitty, eh, Tate?"

Tate scowled. He held a grudge against Filmer. It was he who haddiscovered, sheltered, and abetted the young minister who had sointerfered with trade a time back. Tate held his peace, but he had neverforgotten. 

The laugh that followed Jock's interruption nettled the tavern-keeper. 

But the pretty window had been finished before Drew and the autumn went. It was Joyce's sanctuary and pride. In it stood the work-basket, a giftfrom the mystical sister of Drew, who lived off somewhere beyond theSouthern Solitude, a girl about whom Drew never tired of talking, andabout whom events seemed to cluster as bees round a hive. 

In that nook, too, hung the three wonderful pictures--Gaston's weddinggift. 

There were spaces between the sides and centre of the window, and in themiddle place hung a modern Madonna and Child. This Joyce couldcomprehend. Gaston knew the older, rarer ones would be beyond her. 

That pictured Mother and Child were moulding Joyce's character. Gastonhad wondered how they might affect her. 

To the left of the Madonna was an ocean view. A stretch of sandy shore, an in-rolling, white-crested wave--with a limitless beyond. 

To the wood-environed mind of the girl this picture was simply abreath-taking fairy fancy. 

It existed, such a thing as that. Gaston had sworn it, but it wasincomprehensible. However, it led the new-born imagination to expand andwander, and when Joyce was at peace, and the sun shone, she went to thatpicture for excitement and worship. 

To the right of the Madonna hung a photograph. Gaston had taken ithimself long ago. A foreground of rugged, cruel rock; black where agehad stamped it; white where snow traced the deep wrinkles of time. Butout of this rough light and shade, rose a glorious peak, sun-touched andcloud-loved. A triumphant soul reaching up to heaven out of all thetime-racked rock. 

[Illustration: THAT PICTURED MOTHER AND CHILD WERE MOULDING JOYCE'SCHARACTER]

The dwarfish peaks, that had surrounded Joyce's outlook all her life, made one understand the girl's love for this picture. As this was great, compared to the small things she knew, so life held possibilities thather life hinted--she might struggle with that ideal in mind. 

The ocean scene was her fancy's fairy space; the towering peak, herphilosophy. 

But Joyce knew nothing of all this, consciously. Marriage, as Isa hadforetold, brought its many cares and new interests. The strangeness andimportance dwindled. No one considered the matter different from anyother joining of St. Angé forces into a common life--the girl herselfgrew to take it for granted and sometimes wondered why she _imagined_her lot different. 

She piled on more wood now, and laughed at the roar and glow. Then shedrew up the arm-chair that Jude liked; he would be cold and tired whenhe returned. With a little laugh she pulled her own chair, a low, deeprocker, from the bay window, out into the fire's warmth, opposite Jude'sspacious chair. Between them she placed a hassock--it was nearer herrocker than Jude's chair. 

This she evidently noticed after a moment's contemplation, for the smilefaded, and with strict impartiality she moved the stool to a positionexactly between the two chairs, and directly in front of the fire'sfull light and heat. 

"There!" she said, as if satisfied with her own sense of justice andpropriety. "That ought to suit everybody. "

The smile returned, and the little neglected song was taken up where theimagined footsteps had interrupted it. 

The room was rosy and warm; even the window that was to tempt Providencewas cosily heated, and the box of plants that fringed its outer edgestood in no danger of the frost's touch. 

A plate of deep-red apples on the table sent forth a homely fragrance, and they were almost as beautiful as a vase of roses would have been. 

Presently there was no mistake--steps were approaching. The crusted snowgave way under the heavy tread, the steps of the little porch creakedunder the weight of strong bodies. It was Gaston's voice that came firstto Joyce. 

"It's too late, Jude. Past nine. "

"Come in! Come in!" Jude was stamping noisily. "It ain't never too late, when I say come. Maybe Joyce can tempt you with a mixture she's adabster at. After the walk you need it, and so do I. "

The outer door was pushed back, the waiting cold rushed in with the twomen, but the home glow killed it as the kitchen door swayed inward, andJude and Gaston stepped toward Joyce. 

She stood with her back to the fire, a pale straight figure against thered light. 

"Hello! Joyce. " Jude was energetically pulling off his short, thickjacket. "Get busy at that 'mix' of yours. Put plenty of the real thingin and don't be sparing with the tasties. Off with your coat and hat, Mister Gaston. Make yourself comfortable. To folks as is already up, what's an hour or two?"

Gaston had taken Joyce's hands in welcome. 

"It's too bad, " he said, "to set you to work after your stint's over. The room looks as if you'd bewitched it. I tell you, Jude, there neverwas a man yet who could juggle with a house and put the soul in it. "

Joyce flushed happily, and took Gaston's hat from him, as he pulled offhis coat. 

"I'll have everything ready in a jiffy, " she said briskly. "Sit down, and tell me about it, while I mix the brew. "

Jude sank, without giving Gaston a choice, into his own chair. Gastontook Joyce's--he knew her fancy for the stool when he and Jude were bothpresent. 

"Well, " said Jude, stretching his legs out toward the blaze, and puttinghis heavy, snow-covered boots so near the fire that an odour ofscorching leather filled the room; "we got some men over to Hillcrest, and we've bargained for lumber and other materials; we're going to beginat once, clearing, and soon as the cold lets up, we'll start building. "

"Just think!" Joyce stirred the concoction in the jug jubilantly. "Justthink of Mr. Drew coming here and bringing folks with him. Isn't itwonderful?"

She was all aglow with interest, excitement and pleasure. Gaston lookedat her musingly. 

"I used to think, " she went on, coming forward with the jug and settingit on a low table near the hearth, "that nothing could ever happen herein St. Angé. Nothing that hadn't already happened over and again. Isahas always said the place would get a jog some day. She always seemed tosense that, " the girl smiled; "and she was right. Didn't you have to putmoney down for men and things, Jude?"

"Sure!" Jude spoke from the depths of his mug. 

"Did Mr. Drew send money?"

"Send nothing. " Jude laughed foggily from the depths. "That's how I gotthe deal so prompt, I told him I'd undertake the job without anysettlement till he got here to boss the doings. "

"But where did you get the money, Jude?"

"It's partnership, Joyce, " Gaston broke in. He set down his own emptiedmug, and drew a little farther from the fire's revealing light. "Lauzoon, Filmer and Gaston, Contractors and Builders. ' How does itsound?"

"But the money?" There was a little line of care, now, between thegirl's deep eyes. 

"Oh, that's all right! When Drew planks down the dollars, Mr. Gastonwill get them back. " Jude wiped his heavy lips on the back of his hand. 

"But--it must have taken--a good deal?"

"Come, Joyce, " Jude scowled, "you creep back to your corner. When womenget to tangling up money with their own doings, it's the devil. You keepto your business, girl, and leave deeper matters alone. "

Gaston frowned. Something lay back of that care-traced line on Joyce'sforehead. Something lay back of her questioning--what was it? And Jude'sassumption of the male superiority over his young wife disturbed Gaston. He had not noticed it so sharply before. 

Presently Joyce took the low stool, and clasped her knees in herenfolding arms. The two men had filled their pipes, and now, through thedim haze, looked at the fair, dreamy face between them. Then Jude laidhis pipe aside--and snored. The clock ticked softly. The logs fell apartin a red glow. In drawing away from the flying sparks, Joyce placed herstool nearer Gaston, and the pretty bent head came within easy distanceof the hand lying inert on the chair arm. 

"Jude gets awfully sleepy in the heat, " Joyce whispered; "you don'tmind?"

"No, why should I? But I ought to be going. You are tired, too?"

"No. " The sudden upward glance was all a-quiver with alertness. "I don'tever seem tired now. Keeping one's own house--is great! and it seemslike everything is waking up every minute. Sometimes I hate to go tosleep for fear I'll miss something. "

And now Gaston's hand touched the heavy curves of pale, gold hair. 

"You have made a _home_, " he said; "I wonder if you know what a greatachievement that is? I wonder if Jude knows?"

Joyce winced. 

"Oh! if he's a bit cross with me, " she whispered softly, "don't youmind. He thinks that's the way, you know. _I_ understand. "

"I suppose you do, " Gaston smoothed the silken hair, "but make _him_understand, Joyce. It takes understanding on both sides, you know. "

"And, Mr. Gaston"--the girl changed the subject as adroitly as a moreworldly wise woman might have done--"you helped me make this home. Iain't _ever_ going to let you forget that. These pictures, " her lovingglance took them all in, "and the books coming and going just fastenough to keep me nimble. It seems like you'd opened a gate and let someof the big world in. "

"There's plenty of it on the other side of the two Solitudes, Joyce. "Gaston's hand fell gently along the warm throat and rested on the bentshoulder. 

Jude gave another gurgling snore. The two did not change theirpositions, but there was silence for an instant. 

"That mountain-top, all jagged and high--my! how it just makes me wantto climb; climb through my work all day long; climb to getting somewhereout beyond. And that great empty picture with the awful white wavecoming from nowhere--it just makes me hold my breath. Sometimes it seemsas if it was going to swallow up everything and--me. It don't ever dothat, does it, Mr. Gaston?"

"It has done damage of that kind in its time; but generally it obeysorders and stops at the safety line. " Gaston smiled into the wonderingeyes. 

"I like the--picture--I like it terribly, " breathed the girl, "but I'd_hate_ the real thing. I am sure it makes a terrific noise. " Gastonnodded, and old memories seemed beating in upon him. "It would wear meout by its own----"

"Restlessness. " Gaston's thought ran along with the cruder one. "Itsrestlessness is at times--unbearable, unless--one is very young andhappy. "

"But I am young--and happy. " Joyce spoke lingeringly and her eyes grewfixed upon the heart of the coals. "Still I would hate it--and be afraidof it. It's beautiful--but it's awful. I don't like awful things. Ilike to look up at that brave old mountain, and know--it will always bethe same no matter what happens down below. "

Suddenly Gaston felt old, very old, beside this girl near him with herintuitive soul-stretches and her hampered life. 

"So the mountain is your favourite picture, Joyce?"

A grandfatherly tone crept into his voice, and the caressing handtouched the round, pale outline of cheek and chin with the assurance ofage and superiority--but the girl tingled under it. 

"No, " she said, almost breathlessly, "I like _that_ best of all. " Andshe pointed a trembling finger toward the Madonna and Child. 

Gaston was conscious of a palpitating meaning in the words and gesture. 

"Why?" he asked softly. 

"Because, " the fair head was lowered, not in timidity, but in deepthought, "because I want it--my baby--to look like that one. I look andlook at the picture, and I dream about it at night. I know every littledimple and the soft curls--and all. I pray and pray, and if Godanswers--then--" a gentle ferocity rang through the hurried words--"I'mgoing to _keep_ it so. It's going to be different from any other littlechild in St. Angé. And it all fits in, now that Mr. Drew is coming back. It's just wonderful! It was Mr. Drew that set me thinking about leavingsomething better for them as come after. He said terrible strangethings--but you can't forget them, can you? I've been--well, sort ofweeding out my life ever since he was here--and there can't be somuch--for my baby to do--if I clear out my own faults. Can there?"

The girl's absolute ignoring of any reason for withholding thisconfidence from him at first staggered Gaston, and then steadied him. 

Never before had Joyce so appealed to him, but the sacredness of theposition she had thrust upon him for a moment appalled him. He lookedintently at the girlish, innocent face. What he saw was a blind woman, groping through the child, seeking a reality that evaded it. 

Never greatly impressed with his own importance, Gaston became cruellyaware, now, that in a marked way he still was the one being in thegirl's world to whom she looked for guidance. The knowledge made himwithdrawn for an instant. 

Drew had appealed to her spirit--but he was elected Father Confessor, Judge and General Arbiter of her daily life. For a moment Gaston's senseof the ridiculous was stirred. Suppose they--those--people whoinhabited the Past, and peopled the possible Future--suppose they shouldknow of this? The eyes twinkled dangerously, but the girl in the glow ofthe red fire was terribly in earnest. 

"You are perfectly happy, Joyce?" It was an inane question, but likesome inane questions it touched a vital spark. 

"Why, if I get on the top of the things that might make me unhappy ifthey conquered me; and if I shut my ears and eyes--why, then, I guessI'm perfectly happy. I won't _let_ myself feel sad any more, and I makebelieve a lot--about Jude. You have to when you've been married long;and I guess he has to about me. So you see, living that way it comes outall right. And then when you have beautiful things, like this house, andthe books and pictures, and some one ready to help--like you--why_those_ things I just hold up in the light all the time. Isn't _that_being happy?"

"What a philosopher!" Gaston bent forward and again pressed the slimshoulder. The piteousness of this young wife getting her happiness, allunknowingly, by self-imposed blindness of the inner soul, clutched athis heart. 

"Hold hard to that, Joyce, " he said. "Hold fast to that. Let all thelight in that you can upon your blessings, and as to other things, why, don't acknowledge them! You're on the right track, though how you'vestruck it so early in the game, beats me. "

"Well, " Joyce was all aglow, "Mr. Drew helped. He was so funny andjolly. Just a big boy, but he had the queerest ideas about things. WhenI think of him, sick and weak like he was, and yet living out all hisbrave thoughts just as if he was a giant--why, sometimes I go off andcry by myself. "

Jude from his shadow and aloofness was staring dumbly at the pairopposite while the low-spoken words sank into his drowsiness. Jude wasprimitive. Actions were _things_ to him; things that admitted of noshades of meaning. What the two were saying in no way modified thesituation. Gaston's hand was caressing his wife--his woman, Jude wouldhave expressed it--and the bald fact was enough. 

A hot anger rose in him--an anger calculated to urge a personal assaultthen and there, upon the two who dared, in his own house, set hisrights--his alone--aside. 

The sleepy eyes widened and closed; the teeth showed through the roughbeard--and then, like a smarting blow, came the memory of all thatGaston meant to him. Money! Gaston's money. There had been loans, trifling, but many, and now Gaston stood ready to advance money for thisnew building project. Money enough to make Jude master of the situation. But with this thought came others that crushed and bruised him. 

He had been wrong. It was not his wife's folly alone that stood betweenhim and her. Gaston _had_ been using him. He was lending him money--hushmoney! And while he had gone his stupid way, thinking he held the whiphand over Joyce, the two had had their laugh at him. Money has donemuch for good and evil in this world, but it saved Gaston that nightfrom a desperate attack. 

A low cunning crept into Jude's thoughts. Very well, two or three couldplay at the same game. 

More money! More! More! and who knew? Why he might make a choice in thefuture--a choice for himself. 

He settled back and snored long and deep. Then he stretched and yawnedand gave ample notice of his advance, in order that the conspiratorsmight cover their tracks. 

When he opened his eyes, Gaston was leaning forward with clasped handsstretched out toward the fading glow, and Joyce, crouched upon her stoolwith huddled knees, gave no sign that confusion held part in herthoughts. 

"Say, " Jude had already adopted the guise of the man with a purpose, "you don't suppose, do you, that that young parson is coming up herewith any idea of saving souls?"

"Only his own, I fancy. " Gaston replied, without turning. "He wants tokeep his soul and body together. Seeking his lost health, you know. "

"What makes him fancy he lost it up here?"

"He doesn't. He lost it down there among books, bad air, and foolishliving. His physicians tell him his only chance for life is up in thisregion. Some day more of the big doctors will shut down on drugs andgive Nature a try. "

"Umph!" Jude shook himself. "Put a log on, " he commanded Joyce. Then:"He preached a durned mess of nonsense the last time he was visitingus, " he continued. "I didn't have any inclination to take his guffmyself, but I don't half like the idee, now that I've slept on it, ofhis coming in here as a disturbing element, so to speak. Living andminding your business, is one thing; interfering with other folks'business is another. Filmer, he told me a time back that he ain't had acomfortable spree since that young feller was here. He sort of upsetJock's stomach with his gab. The women, too, was considerable taken withhim--he's the sort that makes fool women take notice. It ain't pleasantto think of that sissy-boy actually setting up housekeeping here, andreflecting upon old established ways, with any tommy-rot about clearingtrails and such foolishness. "

Joyce smiled. So that thought rankled in more lives than her own?

"Going to retire from the contractorship, Jude?" Gaston got up andcrossed the room for his coat and hat. 

"Not much!" Jude rose also. "Only beginning right is half the battle, and I say for one, and Tate he was saying the same this morning, thatwe'd better stamp out any upraisings in the start, now that it's likelyto be a staying on, 'stead of a visit. When I select a teacher, " Judewas following his guest to the outer door, "I ain't going to take upwith no white-livered infant. See you to-morrow, Mr. Gaston?"

"Oh, certainly. Good night, Jude. Good night, Joyce. " Gaston looked backat the little figure by the fire, and he saw that the upturned eyes werefixed on the Madonna and Child. 

"Why don't you speak, Joyce? Mr. Gaston is saying good night. " Jude'swords reached where Gaston's had failed. The girl rose stiffly. 

"Good night, " she said slowly, and a great weariness was in her face. 

When Jude returned she still stood in the middle of the room, her handshanging limply by her side. 

Something had gone out from her life with Gaston's going. But she wasstill thrilled and her soul was sensitive to impressions. 

"What's up?"

Jude came close to her and stared boldly into the large, tired eyes. 

"Nothing, Jude. "

"You ain't so spry as when--there's company. "

"It's late--you've had a nap. I'm dead tired. "

"That's it, " Jude laughed coarsely. "I've slept and kept out ofmischief--you've been too durned entertaining--you're feeling thestrain. See here, Joyce, maybe you better not be so--amusing in thefuture. Maybe you better leave Gaston to me--business is business and Iguess we can do without petticoats in this camp. "

He was losing control of himself. 

"Jude, " Joyce came close and tried to put her hands on her husband'sshoulders. "Jude, I want you to pay Mr. Gaston back as soon as you can. It's been on my mind for quite a spell. We must owe him a lot. How much, Jude?"

"None of your--durned business. "

"And Jude--don't borrow any more. I know Mr. Drew would advance anythingfor the building. His family is terribly rich. Mr. Gaston knows aboutthem. I'd rather owe Mr. Drew than Mr. Gaston. Please, Jude!"

For a moment the sweet, quivering face put forth its appeal to the lowernature of the man. The girl was young enough, and new enough to swayJude after a fashion, but the charm died almost at birth. 

"See here. " Jude slipped from the clinging hands, and glared angrily. "You ain't ever properly learned your place. You better let go any foolidee that you can budge me with your wiles. I don't have to buy yourfavours--they're mine. What I do, I do, and you take what I choose tolet you have. See? If you get more than what is rightfully yours, don'tget sot up with the notion I don't know what I'm permitting. I guessI've got to let you see what you're up against a little plainer. I hada kind of dim idee that your schooling and book-learning made you a bitkeener than most about the real facts of the case, but you're all alike. Don't you question me in the future, girl, and you go your way--the wayI _let_ you go--and be thankful, but don't you forget you and me is_man_ and _wife_, and that means just one durned thing in St. Angé andonly one. "

Joyce staggered back as if the man before her had dealt her a blow. 

What had happened? Then she remembered that Jude was always irritablewhen he had been roused from sleep, or when he was hungry. 

The blindness was mercifully clouding her soul now; but its duration wasbrief. It only gave her time to stand upright. 

"Did you think I was asleep to-night?" Jude almost hissed the words. 

The suddenness of the question had all the evil power of reducing thegirl to an appearance of guilt. 

"You were asleep, " she whispered back. 

Jude laughed cruelly. 

"With my eyes opened, " he snarled--"It pays to _seem_ asleep, when youwant to catch on to some kind of doings. Your old man, Joyce, ain't halfthe fool you'd like him to be. I wasn't napping when Billy Falsterblabbed his warning. I wasn't napping when I saw that hand-holding andkissing from the top of Beacon Hill. I wasn't snoozing that night whenyou went crawling to Gaston's shack just after you'd given your word tome, and"--Jude had worked himself into a quivering rage--"I wasn'tsleeping when you and him sat _there_ to-night, blast ye!"

The convincing knowledge broke upon Joyce with full force. She wouldnever be able to ignore the fact again. Try as she might, dream as shecould, she was but a St. Angé woman, and he a St. Angé man. 

There was only one way. She must deal with the rudest of materials. 

"Jude, " she said slowly, "you pay Mr. Gaston back all that you owehim--I'll stint here in the house--and I'll promise never to speak tohim again. Could anything be fairer than that?"

She was in deadly earnest; but Jude laughed in her face. 

A fear grew in the girl's heart at the sound. Not even an appeal to hisselfishness could move him. She had lost the poor little power she oncepossessed. He did not care! And when that happened with a man likeJude--well, there was reason for fear. 

"I'm the boss, girl, and you better hold to that knowledge. Keep yourbooks, your pictures and what not as long as I say you can, and let thatdo you for what _I_ am getting out of it. See?"

"Yes--I see!" And so she did, poor girl; and it was a long barrenstretch on ahead that she saw. A stretch with hideous possibilities, unless luck were with her. 

"Don't you let on. " Jude was striding toward the bedchamber beyond. "Iguess you're smart enough to hold your tongue, though. Pile on a log ortwo, before you turn in; and you better draw the shutters to the northwindow--it's getting splitting cold. "

Joyce turned to obey the commands. Not slavishly; after all it was butpart of her woman-task. Jude feeling it necessary to tell her was thelash. It was cruelly superfluous--that was all. 

She laid two heavy logs on the red embers, and stooped to brush theashes from the hearth. Then she went to the north window and raised thesash. Before she drew the shutters she stood and looked out into thebrilliant night. 

Black and white. Sharp, clean and magically glittering it all looked;and the keen cold cleared the fear and fever from her head and heart. 

Yes, off there in the distance Gaston was entering the pine thicketthrough which his private path ran. He must have walked slowly--or hadall this new knowledge come so rapidly?

Gaston stood still at the entrance to the woods. Was he looking back?

Then something occurred. Once or twice before Joyce had been consciousof this. Something seemed to go out from her and follow Gaston. She, orthat strange something, escaped the fear and smothering closeness of thelittle house. It was free and happy out there with Gaston in the night. He was strong--stronger than anybody in St. Angé. Nothing could reallyhappen while _he_ was near. She saw his smile; felt his compellingtouch--no, not even Jude would dare hurt her, or go too far. 

Gaston passed into the dim thicket. Joyce, too seemed to be going onquite happily and lightly, when----

"I say, Joyce, shut that winder, can't you?"

A silence. As Joyce had followed a certain call the night she hadpromised to marry Jude, and had gone to Gaston's house, so now she wasgoing on--and on--and----

"Joyce!" At last the real clutched the unreal. The girl, for the firsttime, was conscious of the biting cold. She shivered and seemed totravel back to that rough call over frozen distances. With stiff fingersshe drew the heavy wooden shutters together and lowered the sash. Thenfeeling her way with outstretched hands, like a bewildered child, shemade her way to the inner chamber and Jude. 

CHAPTER VIII

The following June Joyce's little boy was born. It was a mostinconvenient time for him to make his appearance. 

The late spring had delayed the logging season. The winter had been along-continued, cold one; the men at the different camps had frettedunder the postponed ending of their jobs, and severe discipline had beennecessary in more than one camp. Hillcrest's ideas of decency had beendeeply outraged; its courts of justice had been kept busy by men, who, unable to resist temptation after restraint had at last been removed, carried lawlessness to an unprecedented excess. 

The river, too, with the depravity of inanimate things, had taken thatoccasion to leap all bounds and run wild where never before it hadventured. Not being content in carrying its legitimate burden of logs tothe lower towns, it bore away, one black night, more than half of thelumber that Jude had piled near the clearing for Ralph Drew's new house. 

This occurrence sent Jude into one of the fits of sullen frenzy whichwere becoming more and more common to him. He had been obliged to trackthe stolen lumber many miles to the south, seize it there, and makearrangements for bringing it back. This absence from the scene of hislife battle, turned Jude into a veritable fiend for the time being. Hehad enough self-confidence to believe he could hold things in his ownhands, when his hands and eyes were on the spot, but with absence anddistance--bah!

Many a horse and man suffered that spring from Jude's evil temper. 

Whether Gaston was aware of conditions or not, who could tell? He took akeen delight in the manual labour of working on Drew's house. He andFilmer, with or without Jude, hammered, sawed and made rough designsthat filled their days with honest toil and brought healthy sleep totheir tired bodies. 

And just when the early wild flowers were timidly showing themselves, after the winter's long reign, little Malcolm Lauzoon opened his eyesupon the scene. 

How could he know that the festivities at the Black Cat were interruptedby Jude's necessary absences, and Isa Tate's voluntary visits to Joyce'shome?

Leon Tate, good-naturedly reaping a belated prosperity, had insistedthat his wife serve Joyce how and as she might. 

Jude was becoming a man to be considered. He evidently had a future, andthe tavern's attractions had never held a sure power over Jude. Herewas Leon's opportunity for putting Jude under obligations. 

Tate thought fit to place himself and his wife on a social equality withthe Lauzoons. So Isa was in command when small Malcolm arrived. 

It was an early June morning, after a night of black horror, when Joycebecame aware of the singing of birds out of doors, and a strange, newsong in her heart. 

The latter sensation almost stifled her. She tried to raise her head andlook about the room, but the effort made her faint. She waited a moment, then slowly turned her head on the pillow and opened her eyes. There bythe low, open window sat Isa Tate, swaying back and forth in theold-fashioned rocker, with something on her lap. 

Again the strange faintness overpowered Joyce, and the big tears rolleddown her face. It had not, then, been all a hideous nightmare? Somethingsweet and real had remained after the terror and agony had taken flight?

"Isa!" So low and trembling was the call that Isa, drowsing luxuriouslyas she rocked to and fro, took no heed. 

It was many a day since she, detached from the demands of home cares, could make herself so comfortable. 

"Isa!"--and then Isa heard. 

"What is it?" she turned a steady glance toward the bed. She did notintend that Joyce should be exacting. Women were apt to be unless thenurse was rigid. "Do you want anything?"

"Oh! Isa is that--my baby?" There was such a thrill in the voice thatIsa was at once convinced that Joyce was delirious. 

She was going to have her hands full. A mere baby, to Isa, was no causefor that tone, and the glorified look. 

"I guess there ain't any one else going to put in a claim for him, " shereplied with a vague sense of humorously calming the patient. 

"Him!" Joyce's tears again overflowed. "Did you say 'him' Isa?"

"There, there! do be still now, Joyce, and take a nap. You won't haveany too much time for lazing. You better make the most of it. "

"It's a boy. Oh! It seems too, too heavenly. _My_ little boy! Isa, is--is--he beautiful?"

And now no doubts remained in Isa's mind. She must pacify this verytrying case. 

"'Bout as beautiful as they make 'em, " she said slowly, and tried toremember what was given to patients when they became unmanageable. 

"Does--does he look--like--" the words came pantingly--"like the picturein the other room?"

Isa was sitting opposite the door leading into the living room, and hereyes fell, as Joyce spoke, upon the Madonna and Child. 

Then, in spite of her anxiety and weariness, Isa laughed. The entiretrain of events since her arrival the day before had appealed to herlatent sense of humour. 

"Oh! exactly, " she answered and rolling the baby in a blanket she strodeover to the bed, and placed him hastily beside Joyce. 

"There, " she said soothingly; "now lay still or you'll hurt the littlebeauty. I'm going to fix something comforting to drink. "

She was gone. In the mystery of the still room and the early morning, Joyce was alone with her little son!

As she felt, so all motherhood, as God designed it, should feel. Beforethe acceptance of the wonderful gift, motherhood stood entranced. Fearand awe hold even love in abeyance. Into poor, loving, human hands asoul--an eternal soul--was entrusted. No wonder even mother-love heldback before it consecrated itself to the sacred and everlastingresponsibility. 

Joyce only dumbly felt this. All that she was conscious of was a fearthat her joy, when she looked upon the blessed little face, would killher, and so end what had but begun. 

A new and marvellous strength came to her. She raised herself upon herelbow and reverently drew the corner of the blanket from the tiny head. 

Suddenly the birds ceased singing. The June morning was enveloped in ablack pall. The ominous stillness that precedes an outburst of theelements held breath in check. 

Joyce was perfectly conscious. In the hideous blackness she saw herbaby's face clear and distinct, and with firm fingers she tore thewrappings from the small body--she must see all, all. 

Misshapen and grim in its old, sinister expression of feature, the babylay exposed. The face was grotesque in its weazened fixity; the littlelegs were twisted, and the thin body lay crooked among its blankets. Thebig eyes stared into the horrified ones above them as if pleading formercy. The sight turned Joyce ill. 

"In spite of all, " the stare seemed to challenge, "can you accept me?"

In that moment when the bitter cup was pressed to motherhood's lips, Joyce received the holiest sacrament that God ever bestows. In divinestrength she accepted her child. This little, blighted creature wouldhave no one but her to look to--to find life through. All that it was toreceive, until it went out of life, must come first through her. Shouldshe fail it?

With fumbling and untrained hands she drew it to her, and pressed itagainst her breast. With the touch of the small body at her heart, thedawn crept back into the room, and from afar the birds sang. 

With all her striving, poor Joyce had not eliminated from the baby'slife the inheritance of others' sins. He had come, bearing a heavy loadof disease and deformity. All that was left for her to do now, was tolift the cross as she might from this stunted and saddened life, andwalk beside him to the farther side. 

The poor, little wrinkled mouth was nestling against the mother-breast. Instinct was alive in the child. Joyce laughed. At first tremblingly, then shrilly. Suddenly she began to sing a lullaby, and the tune wasinterrupted by laughs and moans. 

Higher and higher the fever rose. Isa Tate, beside herself with fright, screamed for help, and for days Jude Lauzoon's house was the meetingplace of Life and Death; then Life triumphed, and people breathedrelievedly. 

"A homely young-un often makes handsome old bones, " comforted Isa. Nowthat Joyce was creeping back from the dangers that had beset her, Isafelt a glow of pride and interest. She was an honourable diploma toIsa's skill as nurse. In the future, Mrs. Tate was to feel a newimportance. She was assuming the airs of a woman who has learned themarket value of her services. Tate was to reap the effect of this later. 

"Oh! It doesn't matter much with boys, " Joyce answered, indifferently. "A girl would have been different. "

"That's a sensible way to look at it, " Isa agreed. "I often think that aman with good looks has just that much temptation to be a bigger foolthan what he otherwise would be. It's one agin 'em whichever way youtake it. They don't _need_ looks. They gets what they wants, anyway, andif they are side-tracked by their countenances, it's ten to one theywill get distracted in their aims, and make more trouble than usual. 

"Now that I hark back, the only men as I can remember that amounted toenough to make you willing to overlook their cussedness, was men as hada handicap in looks. 

"There was Pierre Laval's brother Damon. He was born with twelve toes, twelve fingers--two extry thumbs they was--and four front teeth. 

"He certainly was the most audacious ugly young-un I ever set eyes on. Iwasn't much more than a girl, to be sure, when I saw him first, but Iwent into yelling hysterics, and took to my bed. Pierre washandsome--and, you know how he ended? Damon, he gritted his teeth--andin his case he could do that early--and made up his mind to make goodfor his deficiencies--if you can say that 'bout one as had more ratherthan less than Nature generally bestows. Land! the learning that childwas capable of absorbing! Hillcrest School just sunk into him like hewas a sponge. When he got all he could over there, he just walked offas natural as could be, without a cent to his name--and they do say, soI've heard, that down the state they set an awful store by his knowledgeof stars and moons and such-like. And Mick Falstar, cousin to Pete--"

"Never mind, Isa. " Joyce looked wan and nerveless. These tales onlyaccentuated the agony she felt whenever she was forced to concentrateher thoughts upon actualities. 

When she was left to herself, she was beginning to regain the power ofignoring facts and living among ideals. She was growing more and moreable to see a little spiritual baby at her breast--a beautiful child. And with that vision growing clearer she felt her own spirit gainingstrength for flights into a future where this little son of hers, bornealoft by her determined will and purpose, should hold his own among men. Surely, she thought, God would not cripple mind, body and soul. Godwould be content with testing her love by the twisted body. The mind andsoul would be--glorious!

Day by day, the young mother, creeping back into the warm, summer life, watched for intelligence to awaken in the grim little face; the firstflying signal of the overpowering intellect that was to make recompensefor all that had been withheld. 

The misshapen body was always swathed in disguising wrappings; even theclaw-like, groping hands were held under blankets when curious eyeswere near. Isa had won Joyce's everlasting gratitude by holding hertongue regarding the child's bodily deformity; and the Hillcrest doctor, who had been summoned when the fever grew, did not consider thecircumstance important enough to weigh on his memory when once thepayment for his services was, to his surprise, forthcoming. 

But the sad, little old face with its fringe of straight black hair!That must be public property, and its piteous appeal had no power beyondthe mother, to stay the cruel jest and jibe. 

"Say, Jude, " Peter Falstar had said in offering his maudlincongratulations, "what's that you got up to your place--a baby or aChinese idol? That comes of having a handsome wife, what has notionsbeyond what women can digest. "

Jude did not take this pleasantry as one might suppose he would. His ownprimitive aversion to the strange, deformed child made him weaklysensitive. He recoiled from Falstar's gibe with a sneaking shame hedared not defend by a physical outburst. 

"He ain't a very handsome chap, " he returned foolishly, "don't favoureither father or mother--hey?"

Gaston overheard this and other similar witticisms, and his blood rosehot within him. 

The cruelty and indelicacy of it all made him hate, where, heretofore, he had but felt contempt. 

He realized most keenly that in his lonely life among the pines the fewinterests and friendships that he had permitted himself were deeper thanhe had believed. 

Jock Filmer, during the closer contact of daily labour, had become tohim a rude prototype of a Jonathan. They had found each other out, andbehind the screen that divided them from others, they held communionsacred to themselves. They read together in Gaston's shack. They had, attimes, skimmed dangerously near the Pasts that both, for reasons oftheir own, kept shrouded. After one of these close calls of confidence, they would drift apart for a time--afraid of each other--but the growingattraction they felt was strengthening after the three or four yearswherein an unconscious foundation had been laid. 

Then Gaston, too, realized that he had banked much upon the marriage hehad brought about between Jude and Joyce. In saving himself fromtemptation, he felt he had sacrificed the girl, unless he could bringinto her life an element that would satisfy her blind gropings. 

To argue that in saving himself he had saved her, was no comfort. He hadnot been called upon to elect himself arbiter of Joyce's future. No; toput it baldly, in his loneliness he had dabbled in affairs that did notconcern him--and he must pay for his idiocy. 

To that end he had, at first, put himself and his private funds atJude's disposal. He had had hopes that by so doing he might help Jude todecent manliness. But that hope soon died. Jude, lazy with the inertnessof a too sharply defined ancestry, became rapidly a well-developedparasite. 

Even when he accepted the contract to build Ralph Drew's house, he haddone so from two motives. By this means he could, he found, command moreof Gaston's money than in any other way, and by assuming theresponsibility he placed himself on a social pinnacle that satisfied hisvanity. He became a man of importance. Gaston and Filmer, glad with theintelligence of men who know the value of work, took the actual burdenupon themselves. Lauzoon had the empty glory; they had the blessing oftoil that brought their faculties into play, and gave them relief fromsomberer thoughts. But Gaston was too normal a man not to consider thegravity of conditions that were developing. His hopes of Jude had longago sunk into a contemptuous understanding of the shiftless fellow. Hehad, however, believed that the hold he had upon him insured acomparatively easy life for Joyce. This, too, he now saw was a falsebelief. 

He knew the girl. He knew that mere housing and assured food were littleto her, if deeper things failed. 

It was this essentially spiritual side of Joyce that had interested himand appealed to him from the beginning. 

One by one he gave up his hopes for her happiness. He saw that Jude wasimpossible long before Joyce did; then he put his faith in the littlechild--and now that had failed! Poor girl! he thought; and in the innerchamber of his shack with the doors and shutters barred, the pistollying at hand upon his desk, he cursed himself for a fool who had triedto enrich his own wasted life with an interest in the lives of othersthat had brought about as bad a state of affairs as any meddler couldwell conceive. 

Then he grew reckless. Things couldn't be much worse, anyway, and if hemight brighten that dull life in the little house, he'd brighten it andJude be--the laugh that Gaston laughed was perhaps better than the wordhe might have used had he finished his sentence. 

There was the regular income from the outer world; as long as that wasat Gaston's command he felt he could control Lauzoon, and who elsemattered, except Filmer? Well, Filmer had sense to keep his opinions tohimself--although the look in his eyes when he disapproved of anything, was unpleasant and--impertinent. 

A clam like Filmer had no right to personal opinions of other folks'conduct. Unless he let light in upon his own excuse for being, heshould withhold condemnation. 

So Gaston spent his days' ends on Jude's little piazza, or in the baywindow of the sitting room when the air was too cool for the babysnuggling against the young mother's breast. 

Gaston brought his fiddle along, and those were wonderful tunes he drewfrom the strings. Sometimes he explained what they meant, his wordsrunning along in monotone that yet kept time to the alluring strains. 

Joyce smiled, and her ready tears came, but the colour was coming backinto her beautiful face; the brooding eyes once again had the glint ofsweet mischief in them, and the lip curled away from the pretty teeth. 

She had never been so beautiful before. Living in the ideal where herbaby was concerned made it perilously easy for her to live ideally inall other ways. 

Jude became a blurred reality. He was, when she thought of him at all, endowed with the graces and attractiveness of Gaston. Joyce did notconsider Jude as he really existed. She smiled vaguely at him--hispersonality now, neither annoyed her nor appealed to her. While livingwith him outwardly, she was to all intents and purposes, spirituallyliving with Gaston. For she gave to Jude the attributes that made Gastonher hero, just as she gave to her poor, twisted baby the beautifulcontours and heavenly beauty of the Madonna's exquisite Child. 

The summer throbbed and glowed in St. Angé. 

Was it possible that things were as they always had been? Jared Birkdalekept his distance and silence; and Joyce grew to forget him. 

The Black Cat flourished, and Jude made no attempt to curb his growingdesire for popularity there. He was developing a talent for instructinghis elders, and laying down the law. He was endeavoring to fillBirkdale's place. Jared had always been the tavern orator. Some one hasto occupy that pedestal in all such places, while the others enjoy theirpipes and mugs in speculative contemplation. 

But nothing was as it _had_ been with Joyce. She had the look of one onthe threshold of big happenings. Her pale beauty had a new glow. Thethinness of girlhood had given place to a slender womanhood, all graceand charm. 

She was rarely seen without her baby on her bosom. Even in her work shemanaged to bear him on one arm. 

Away from her, he wailed pitifully and almost constantly; while pressedagainst the warm, loving heart he sank into comfort and peace. When hewas awake his elfish eyes were fixed in solemn stare upon themother-face. Not knowingly nor indifferently, but intently, as if fromthe depths of past experience he was wondering and endeavouring tounderstand. 

One evening, and such an evening it was in late July, Joyce, in her lowrocker, the baby on her knees, sat on the piazza facing westward, whenGaston came around the house, fiddle in hand. 

"Alone, Joyce?" It was an idle question, but it would do. 

"Yes; Jude seems to have a lot to do about Mr. Drew's house, you know. "

Joyce still kept up a pretty defence of Jude. Not that it was in theleast necessary, or even sensible, but it had its part in her detachedand dreamy life. 

"The house is about finished, " Gaston replied, tuning up the fiddle. "And then what?" he said, placing the instrument. 

"I wonder?" Joyce looked down happily upon her child. 

It did not greatly matter, for now Gaston had struck into one of thosecompelling airs, so intensely sweet and melodious that it all but hurt;and the red sunset trembled as the tear-dimmed eyes beheld it. 

The tune changed. It danced elfishly, and trippingly--for very joy itmade one laugh. The tear rolled down Joyce's face, as the smile replacedit, and dropped upon the thin cheek of the baby. He did not flinch, andthe staring eyes did not falter, but something drew the mother'sattention. As the final tripping notes died away, she said softly. 

"Mr. Gaston, just look--at the baby. "

The child had rarely drawn them together. It was to make her forget thechild--and other things--that Gaston called so often. 

He came now, and bent over the two. 

"Does--he--look--just the same to you?" she asked. 

"Why, yes!" Gaston repressed the desire to laugh. "You see babies arenot much in my line. I don't think I ever saw such a little fellowbefore. They look about the same for a long time, don't they?"

"Oh! no. They change every day, and many times during the day. I weighedbaby to-day, " she faltered, "and do you know, he weighs _less_ than whenhe was born!"

"The ungrateful little heathen!"

"I'm afraid--I'm not a good mother. " The sweet face quivered. "And Iwant to be that more than anything else on earth. You see if I can gethim through--through this awful time when I can't tell just what mightbe the matter--it will be easy enough. But young babies areso--so--unreal. You don't know whether you've got them to keep or not. They seem to be kind of holding on to another life, while they clutchthis. A good mother knows how to unloose them from that other hold. "

Gaston was touched by the yearning in the low voice, but the weazenedface of the child repelled him, even while it attracted him. 

"Would it be so--so terrible if he did not let go that--other hold?"

It was a stupid thing to say, and Gaston despised himself for being sobrutal when he saw the look of horror on the upturned face. 

"Terrible?" Joyce gasped. "Why, if--if he should leave me, I couldn'tlive. You don't know how it seems to have him warm and little and softagainst your heart. The whole world would be empty--empty, until itwould kill me with the emptiness--and I'd always think, you know, he'dfound out I wasn't fit to be his mother. It's a foolish fancy, but youknow, Mr. Gaston, I think they come to try us mothers--if they find usout--not fit--they don't stay. Such a lot of babies don't stay!"

"Why Joyce!" Gaston tried to turn his gaze from that awful baby-stare. "Full of whim-whams and moonshine. You must get about more. You mustcome up to Drew's house to-morrow. It's a palace of a place--and Filmerhad a letter from Drew to-day. He's coming before the autumn cold setsin--he's going to bring an aunt and a sister--just get your idle fancyon the doings, and let Master Malcolm jog along at his own pace. If hedoesn't like you for a mother, he isn't worth considering. Look at himnow--he sees the joke, the brazen little cuss, he's actually laughing inour faces. "

"Oh!" Joyce sat rigidly up, and her own face became transformed. Themoment she had lived and waited for had come! The blank stare gave placeto a broken, crinkling expression; the thin shapeless lips trembled overthe toothless gums, and into the big eyes a wonder broke. A light seemedto shine forth--and the baby smiled into the adoring face looking down!

To Gaston, the sight was, in a sense, awful. The majesty of Joyce'sattitude toward the change in the child, was the only thing that savedthe occasion. 

"Is--it hungry?" he asked with the same dense stupidity he had displayedbefore. 

"Oh, no!" Joyce laughed gleefully. "Don't you see, he--he knows me. He--he--_does_ like--me--he's going to stay, and he takes this heavenlyway to show it. "

"The deuce he does!" and now Gaston laughed. "He's going to be a comicalimp, if I don't miss my guess. See, he's calming down now, andregulating his features. "

"But--he--smiled!" And just then Jude came around the corner of thehouse. 

Gaston saw the expression of his face, and something stifled him for amoment. He wondered if money was always going to be a check to Jude, after all. 

And if it should cease to hold him in leash--then what would happen?

He went away soon after, but he sat up until toward daylight, justoutside his shack. He feared something was going to occur. But nothingdid; and the next thing in Joyce's life story that tugged at hisheart-strings, was the sickness and sudden death of little Malcolm. 

CHAPTER IX

It was the evening of the day that the baby had been laid under a slim, tall young pine tree back of the little house. 

Jude felt that he had borne himself heroically throughout the tryingepisode. 

Never having cared for the child in life, he considered himself a prettygood father to hide his relief at its early taking off. 

As a man of means--what mattered if they were Gaston's means?--he hadhad a really impressive funeral for his son. 

The Methodist minister from Hillcrest had preached for full an hour overthe tiny casket. Not often did the clergyman have so good an opportunityto tell the St. Angéans what he thought of them. 

He dealt with them along old and approved lines. He had heard of Drew'sreligious views and he took this occasion to include a warning of thedamning influence that was about to enter the vicinity with the youngminister's return. 

"I warn you now, " he thundered over the dead baby, "to make the life ofthis infidel, this God-hater, a burden to him. "

Filmer from his rear corner, winked at Gaston at this. Gaston could seenothing amusing in the service--it was all in the passing show--apitiful and added agony. 

In that the show was a little grimmer than usual he found his resentmentrising. So Gaston did not return the pleasantry of Jock's wink. 

After the service, Jude had insisted that there should be no unseemlyhaste, and had instructed his chosen representatives to form a line andwalk from the house to the tavern and back twice with the tiny remains, before they were finally laid to rest. This show of respect was talkedof in St. Angé for days. 

Through all the bitter day Joyce had followed dumbly whatever othersdid. It was like walking in her sleep, and she was grateful that shefelt no sorrow. 

She had feared if the baby died it might kill her, and now that it wasdead she did not mind at all. 

Her arms ached a little at times. She thought that was queer; they hadnever ached when they bore the baby. 

At last she and Jude were back in the awful, quiet house. It was moreawful now that Jude was there. For after the burial, and before theevening meal, he had been lessening his tension with some booncompanions, down at the Black Cat, and Joyce had had the place toherself. 

Jude, having relaxed to the state of geniality, was willing to letbygones be bygones in the broadest sense of the word. He had big plansafoot--he had had them the night he came home and found Gaston and Joycehanging over the baby. These plans had been set aside while the baby wastaking his pitiful leave of life after his one smile, but Jude musthurry his case now. Nothing stood in the way--and, although many a womanmight get what she deserved, Jude was going to forgive Joyce again andtake her to his bosom in a new life, and they'd both forget what waspast. 

The hold of youth and beauty clutched the man's inflamed senses. Theevening meal, which Joyce had mechanically prepared, had been partakenof--by Jude--until little but fragments was left. 

A black shower, which had passed over St. Angé in the late afternoon, had changed the sultry heat to ominous chill. The wind among the pinessobbed dismally as if it were a human thing and could understand. 

Jude got up and shut the door. It was quite dark outside, and the lampflickered in the breeze. 

At his action Joyce sprang from the chair, and the dull calm that hadpossessed her for the past day or so was shattered. Her eyes blazed, andthe colour came and went in the stern, white face. 

"Don't--do--that!" she panted, springing to the door and flinging itback. 

"What in thunder is the matter with you?" Jude stepped aside. Somethingin this change and fury startled him. 

"Don't shut--the--door, Jude. We--we--can't leave him out there alone inthe cold. He's so little--our--baby!"

Jude had a moment of doubt as to how he should deal with this foolery. If he were quite sure it was just Joyce's nonsense--but perhaps she hadgone crazy. The thought stayed him. 

Then he considered that in either case he must get the upper hand, andat once. All depended upon that. 

"Go and set down, " he commanded, eyeing the girl as she stood in theopen doorway. "You don't 'spose we're going to live with open doors, doyou?"

There was mastery in the tone, and, to gain her end, the woman resortedto her only course. 

"Just--for to-night, Jude--just a little way open. I'd choke if I--shuthim away so soon--and he so little and--and--all. "

Fear of what he did not understand roused in Jude a brutish desire toovercome this something that threatened. For a moment he decided to rushfrom the house and leave the thing to work out its own way; but secondthought brought with it his plans, which must be set in motion at once. 

This attitude of Joyce's was a new obstacle, but if he conquered her, hemight overcome it. So by sheer force of weak will he strode over to thewoman who defied him, even while she pleaded, and grasped her roughly bythe shoulder. 

In that touch Joyce recognized what all suppressed and deprivedwomanhood has always felt, and she recoiled to reconnoitre. 

"You do as I tell you, Joyce, and go and set down. The door is going tobe shut and you take that in, plain and quick. " He drew her away, andslammed the door with a crash. 

Joyce went quietly to her chair, but a new and terrible look came intoher eyes. 

Jude sat on the edge of the table, disregarding the spotless cover andsoiled dishes. He wanted to be near Joyce in case of an outbreak, and hehad much to say. 

"Are you listening to me?" he asked slowly, as if he were speaking to achild. 

"Oh! yes, " Joyce replied, and her tone reassured him; "I'm listening. "

"Do you think you've ever taken me in any?"

The man's sullen black eyes held the clear, bluish-gray ones. 

"Oh, never, Jude! You're terribly smart. I've always known that--butplease--" the strained eyes turned for the last time toward the door. 

"Cut that out!" said Jude. "You're just acting. You can't pull me by thenose, but it will pay you to calm down and listen to what I've got tosay. I've heard from your father!"

"Have you?" The white impassive face did not change expression. 

"Yes; by thunder! I have; and as it concerns you as much as it does me, you better take more interest. I heard from him more'n two weeks ago. Imet him, too, in the south woods, a few nights back. "

"What's he hiding for?" the monotonous tone jarred Jude more than anyoutbreak of temper could have done. His recent restraint, and hispent-up plans had worn his nerves to the raw edge. He was in the slow, consuming stage of emotions that was likely to lead him to a desperatemove if he were balked. 

"Now look here, " he blurted out; "you and me has got to get down tobusiness, and that to once! I've kept mum long of the kid's taking-off. "Joyce's eyes widened as she stared through the open window over whichthe rose-vine was being lashed by a new storm. 

"I've bided my time, and it was more for you than for me, you can bet. 

"This is the big time of our lives, and I ain't going to hold back anyfacts what can make things clear and reasonable. Me and your father wantyou, maybe for different reasons, maybe not. You ain't the common sort, and we know you can help us. If you was like most women, him and mewouldn't have no compunctions about cutting, and leaving you to wayswhat you seem to hanker after. But he's actually pining for a sight ofyou, and even knowing what I do about you, I can't give you up! That'sthe plain situation as far as you're concerned, and you can take it forwhat it's worth. Are you listening?"

"Oh! yes, yes, I'm listening, Jude. " And so she was. She was listeningto the moan in the tree-tops. It sounded like the last plaintive cry herchild had made, and it hurt her cruelly. 

"I've got more money in hand, Joyce, than what I ever had--I've gotfifteen hundred dollars. "

Somehow this had power to reach the listener as nothing before had done. Her aching eyes fell upon Jude, and a new fear contracted them. 

"Where did you get it--the money--Jude?"

"That's my business. I'm only dealing with facts. "

"Yes, but I must know. It--it isn't yours, Jude. "

"Isn't it?" Jude laughed. "Well, then, we'll call it mine for argerment. That pa of yours is a slick one!" The sudden change of subject relaxedthe brief interest Joyce had shown in the conversation. 

"Leaving here in the sulks about you, what does he do but go down towhat he calls civilization, and strikes a rich claim first thing. Allthat was lacking was ready money. Back he comes, and finds out the layof the land here, without so much as showing his nose. He says he hadseveral plans to get money--but this plan of mine is the easiest, sowe're going to work it. All my life I've dreamed by day and night"--asudden glow illumined Jude's dark face, --"of the road and where itleads. Always, as true as God hears me, Joyce, always, as boy and man, when I've fancied myself on the road, and beyond the forests, I'vealways seen you beside me. I don't care what you are, or whattemptations beset you--you've always been the one girl for me. We'regoing to begin a new life now--with no back flings at each other. Giveme a kiss on it, girl. "

Jude came over to her, and she felt his hot, excited breath on her cheekand throat. 

Dazed as she was by what he had said, she was frightened at his manner, and drew back, warding him off with rigid hands. 

"Don't!" she cried, hoarsely. "Don't touch me. You're all wrong--I'm notgoing anywhere with you. I'm going to stay right here--I swear it!"

"You won't go?" Everything swayed and trembled before Jude. "But if Ipromise to--to--pay it back? You know there was no time set. " This wasthe last concession Jude was to make. His horrible suspicions werechoking him. 

"I'm not going. I--I couldn't--I--couldn't leave--him. " The white facequivered and the big eyes overflowed with tears. 

Jude had only one thought--a thought lashed to the fore by his jealousrage, and defeated hopes. And poor Joyce, distraught and grief-crazed, realized not the terrible blunder he was making. 

"You're--staying--just--for him?" Jude was close to her now, and hisbreath came short and hard. 

"Yes; I know you won't ever understand. If I was away, I couldn't bearmy life--this--this longing would be always tugging at me--and I couldnever help it. If we stay here, Jude, I'll go on just the--same; it'sbeing--near--that counts!"

"You--tell me this to my face--you fool!"

For an instant Joyce's dull agony wavered, and an inkling of what Judemeant rushed upon her. 

"Oh!" she gasped, and put her hands out to him. But it was too late. Thehot blood was surging in the weak brain. With a violence he had nevershown before, the man flung the outstretched hands from him, then hestruck viciously the white terrified face twice, leaving dull, red marksto bear witness. 

His rage fed upon the brutality. Now that he had let himself loose, hegave full rein to his hate and revenge. 

He gripped the slim, childish arm, and pushed the shrinking form beforehim. 

"Go--you!" With one hand he drew the door back, and hurled the girl outinto the black storm. "Go to _him_!"

Joyce kept her feet, but she staggered on until a tree stopped hercourse. The contact was another hurt, but she gave small heed to it. 

Like a burning flash she seemed to see two things: Jude's trueunderstanding of her blundering words; and her possible future, aftershe had made him understand. For, of course, she must go back and _make_him understand, and then--well, after such a scene, a woman's life wasnever safe in St. Angé. It was like a taste of blood to a wild animal. Still she must go back. In all the world there was nothing else for herto do. 

Her face stung and throbbed, her arm ached where Jude had crushed thetender flesh. She leaned against the tree that had added to her pain, and wept miserably for very self-pity. She was downed and beaten. Afterall she was to be like the rest of St. Angé women. 

Sounds roused her. Strange, terrific sounds. 

What was Jude doing?

Trembling in every limb, she went forward and peered through therose-vine into the room. 

The rain was cooling her face and the wind was clearing the agonizedbrain. 

Inside, the scene struck terror to the watcher's heart. 

Jude was crashing the furniture to pieces in a frenzy of revenge. 

The chairs were dashed against the chimney; the books hurled near andfar. One almost hit the white face among the vines, as it went crashingoutward. 

Then Jude attacked the pictures--her beautiful pictures!

The mountain peak was shattered by a blow from the remnant of the littlerocker, then the ocean picture fell with the sound of splintered glass. Last the Madonna! Joyce clutched her heart as the heavenly face wasobliterated by the savage blow. Then, maddened still further by his ownexcesses, Jude laughed and struck with mighty force, the lamp from thetable--and the world was in blackness!

How long Joyce stood clinging to the vine in abject terror, she wasnever to know. 

Consciousness of the live, vivid sort, was mercifully spared her for aspace. She knew, but did not comprehend, the true horror of hersituation. 

No thought of explaining now to Jude occurred to her as she stoodcringing and trembling against the house in the darkness. Only onethought possessed her vitally--Jude must never see her again. If he did, he would kill her. Kill her as Pierre was said to have killed poorlittle Lola, long, long ago. 

Joyce's teeth chattered and she gripped her shaking hands over them. When her heart _did_ beat--and minutes seemed to pass when it made nomotion--it hurt her cruelly. 

What was he doing in there? The storm was gaining power, and no othersound rose in the blackness. Then suddenly Jude rushed from the house. He passed so close to Joyce that his coat touched her. By some powerentirely outside of ordinary hearing or seeing, Joyce knew that he wasmaking for the Black Cat with the tale of his wrongs. They all did that. It was the finishing stroke for the woman. 

Alone, in the blackness and storm, reason reasserted itself in Joyce'smind. It brought no comfort with its restored poise; rather, it broughta realization of her true position. Her life was as utterly shatteredand devastated as was the little home. Everything was gone. The future, with pitiful choice, was as densely black as the night that shut her inwith her dull misery. With Jude, there could be no possibleunderstanding. To confront him, even with the powers of the Black Cat atcall, would be the wildest folly. There was nothing to say--nothing. 

Still, Jude had money. It was quite plain to the keen mind now--it wasGaston's money! Ralph Drew had probably sent the money in payment andinstead of passing the amount on to Gaston, who had advanced thedifferent sums, Jude was making off with it. She must stop that. Forherself, what did it matter? But still, if Gaston, who had such power, could hold Jude and claim the money, he might find a way out of thisawful trouble. She must go to Gaston, and at once. 

Aching in every limb, and soaked to the skin, Joyce turned toward theNorth Woods. The howling wind was with her, and it was the only help shehad. So she came at last to the lonely little shack among the pines. 

Gaston had built a roaring piney fire upon the hearth of his outer room. He was luxuriating before this with a long-stemmed pipe between hislips. 

The day had perplexed and touched him deeply. Never before in all hisSt. Angé life had he seemed to get so close to the heart, the humanheart, of things. Joyce's white, still anguish over the death of herbaby had tugged at his feelings. 

So _that_ was what mother-love meant the world over?

A sharp, quick knock startled him. Gaston rose at once. He knew upon theinstant who it was. He knew that from some dire necessity Joyce wascalling for his aid. 

There was no time nor inclination for him to fall back upon that innersense of his and seek to peer beyond the present and its need. He strodeto the door, flung it open, and Joyce and the terrific storm burst intothe room together!

"He--he's driven me from the house. " The girl's wild face madeunnecessary the idle question that Gaston spoke. 

"Who?"

"Jude. " Then Gaston shut and barred the heavy door. He could at leastexclude the rain and wind. 

"Look here! and here!" the girl pointed to her bruised face upon whichthe storm's moisture rested, and the slender arm with its brutal mark. 

"Good God!" ejaculated Gaston, as he gazed in horror, "and on this day!"

Rage against Jude, tenderness for Jude's victim, struggled hotly inGaston's mind; but presently a divine pity for the girl alone consumedhim. 

Her misery was appalling. Now that she was comparatively safe, bodilyweakness overpowered her. She swayed, and put her hands out childishlyfor support--any support that might steady her as her world went black. 

Gaston caught her and placed her gently in his deep, low chair. 

"Poor girl!" he murmured, "Poor Joyce! You're as wet as a leaf. Here!"He quickly brought one of the red blankets from the inner room. "Here, let me at least wrap you in something dry. And now drink this, it willdo you good. "

He poured some wine into a glass and held it to her blue, cold lips. 

"Come, Joyce! We'll straighten things out. Trust me. "

She gulped the warming wine, and shivered in the blanket's mufflingcomfort. 

"And now, " Gaston was flinging logs on the blazing embers, "you'recoming around. Whatever it is, Joyce, it isn't worth all this agony ofyours. "

"I'm--I'm afraid they'll come and kill us. " Joyce's eyes widened and theold fear seized her again. The momentary comfort and thought of safetylost their hold. 

"In God's name, Joyce, hush! You're safe and I'm not afraid. Come, don'tyou see if you want me to help you, you must pull yourself together?"

"Yes; yes; and we--I must hurry. "

Now that he had time to think, Gaston knew pretty well what hadoccurred. The vulgar details did not matter. The one important andhideous fact was, that for some reason, Jude, with the crazy brutalitythat had long been gathering, had flung his young wife from hisprotection on to Gaston's. 

Well, he would accept the responsibility. He was quite calm, and hisblood was up. A pleasurable excitement possessed him, and he laughed tocalm the fear he saw in Joyce's eyes. 

The clock struck nine. All that was respectable and innocent in St. Angéwas in bed at that hour. 

Gaston wondered what he was going to do with the girl. The thought didnot disturb him; but, of course, he must make arrangements. 

Long ago he had so shut out his own world that he could not, now, callupon it for Joyce's protection. St. Angé was impossible as a workingbasis--his thoughts flew to Filmer. Yes; as soon as Joyce could explain, he would go for Filmer and together they would solve this riddle for thepoor, battered soul, shrinking before him. 

He must hurry her a little. St. Angé and nine o'clock must beconsidered. 

The wine had brought life and colour into the white face. The glorioushair, now rapidly drying in the warm room, was curling in childishfashion above the wide eyes. 

She was certainly too young and pretty to run the risk that the nightmight bring. 

A complication arose. Divine pity made way for a sense of the girl'sbeauty and helplessness. The bruise upon the soft cheek cried out fortenderness and protection. Gaston strove to detach himself from thepersonal element. He strove to feel old and fatherly but he was stillyoung; Fate was tempting him in the subtlest manner. The best and theworst of the man came to the fore. 

The wind howled outside; the warmth and comfort held themclose--together, and alone. 

What did anything matter? They had both done their parts. They had triedto be what the world called good--and here they were tossed back uponeach other, and not a hope beyond. 

Then Gaston found himself speaking quite outside of the consciousnessthat was almost stifling him with its allurement. 

"Joyce, I must take you home as soon as you can walk. I can straightenthis out. It shall not happen again. You forget I have a certain holdover Jude. "

"There is no home. " The words fell dully from the girl. "He--he brokeand destroyed everything before--he went to the Black Cat. "

Gaston started. 

"But he--did not know you came here? You see it will be in your favour, if they find you there among the ruins. I'll see to it--that they go andfind you there. Can you walk now?"

"Yes, but--but you do not understand. The money--it was that I came totell you about--Jude has a great deal of money--I think Mr. Drew hasjust sent it. He's going to--get away--with my--father. "

Gaston now saw that no time must be wasted. If necessary he must carryJoyce, and set her down near her fallen shrine--then he must stop Jude. The money did not matter; but a frenzy of self-preservation, mingledwith his desire to save Joyce, rose within him. The money was his holdon Jude; it was the only salvation for this critical moment. 

Now that he faced the grim possibility, he found that he was as eager topreserve a clean future for himself as for her. 

He must get her back. He must find Filmer, and he must lay hold of Jude. 

"Come, Joyce, trust me, I swear to you that it will be all right. "

He took her hand and led her toward the door. Then a confused noiseoutside stayed them. 

There was a crushing of underbrush as if a light wagon was being drivenover the narrow path; a mingling of voices rose excitedly. 

"You damned scoundrel!" It was Filmer's voice. "Don't you utter that lieagain until he's had a chance to fling it back in your teeth. Whateveryour cursed row has been, he's got nothing to do with it. Shut up!"

"Hold on there, Filmer. " It was Tate speaking. "This here wagon's gotwedged in the trees. I want to see this thing settled square. Ifshe's--" a bristling string of epithets followed, then Tate apparentlyfreed the vehicle he was in, for he jumped to the ground and joined theknockers at the door. 

So the morality of St. Angé was at stake! Gaston showed his teeth in ahard smile. There was but one conclusion for them all to come to, ofcourse. 

"Say, Gaston, old man!" Filmer shouted; "open up. I thought maybe you'dlike to bid Jude an affectionate farewell before he skipped. If he owesyou--_anything_, here's your chance!" Another knock shook the door. 

The two inside looked at each other--man and woman! They both knew withwhat they had to deal. A dare-devil expression rose to Gaston's face. Hetossed precaution to the winds. 

Abject terror possessed Joyce and she reeled as she stood, clutching theblanket closer. Gaston put an arm about her, strode to the door, unbarred it, and flung it back. 

"Well, " he said to the men on the threshold, "what are you going to doabout it?"

Filmer staggered as if Gaston had struck him, and the look in his eyeswent scathingly to Gaston's heart. But while it hurt, it arousedresentment. What right had Filmer to judge--Who knew _his_ past? ButGaston knew Filmer was _not_ judging. He knew he was only biddingfarewell to his one friend of the Solitudes. The friend he had trustedand revered. 

The effect upon Jude was quite different. No doubt swayed him--he wasmerely debating in his mind whether he could now get away with themoney and the wagon he had hired. 

"Since you've got her--" he stammered, "how about--the--the money?"

The question nerved Gaston. 

"Money?" he cried; "get out with it, you thief and would-be murderer. Use it to get as far from here as you can, for as true as there is aheaven above us, if you ever interfere with me or--mine--again, I'llshoot you at sight. Get out--all of you!"

He slammed the door violently shut, and with clenched hands and blazingeyes, he faced his companion. 

He and she were the only ones in the new world. Stung by the memory ofthe look of lost faith in the eyes of the one friend to whom he hadplanned to turn in this emergency; recalling Jude's glance of triumph ashe turned away, Gaston's moral sense reeled, and the elemental passionsrose. 

Joyce stood shrinking before him. Beaten, bruised and trapped, sheawaited her doom. 

Her primitive love for this man held no part in her present condition. Whatever he consigned her to, that must she accept. St. Angé standardswere well known to her. The people would be quick enough to spurnpersonal responsibility for her, but if she were independent ofthem--well, they were not the ones to hold resentment!

No moral training had ever had part in this girl's life; nothing heldher now but a fear, born of her past experience with man's authority, asto her future fate. 

She was abandoned and disowned. Her recent loss and grief had bereft herof any personal pride and hope--like a slave before its master, shefaced Gaston--and mutely waited. 

The unexpected happened. Gaston laughed. Laughed in the old, unconcernedway; but presently the rising awe and question in the lovely eyeslooking into his own, sobered him. He began to understand and to get herpoint of view. He stood straighter, and a new expression passed over hisface. 

"Sit down, Joyce, " he said, urging her gently toward the chair, "I mustmend the fire. Things look as if they had fallen to pieces, but theyhave not. Believe me--they have not. For heaven's sake stop trembling;every shudder you give is an insult to me. There, there, you don'tunderstand, but, it's coming out all right. It was only when others weremeddling that we got on the rocks. I've got the rudder in my hand now, and by God's help, " he was fiercely flinging on the logs, "we'll sailout into the open with colours flying. When did you eat last?"

She was watching him with alert, feverish eyes. Like an ensnared animalshe felt a frenzied eagerness to be ready for the snarer's next move. 

"Eat?" she faltered, "why, why, I have forgotten. Yesterday--to-day--oh! does it matter? I'm not hungry. "

"Well, I am. I always wanted a snatch after the play. "

"The--the play?" Joyce leaned forward. 

"After an infernal row, if you like that better. They both play thedickens with your digestion. "

Bringing out the food, and making coffee eased the tension of thesituation and after they had eaten, for Joyce struggled to follow hisexample, the atmosphere was less electrical. 

The hands of the clock got around to ten-thirty; it was of noconsequence, however, and then Gaston cleared the table, kicked arebellious log back to its duty, and drew a chair beside Joyce. 

The little bruised arm lay stretched pitifully along the arm of thechair. Gaston winced as he saw it, and he laid his strong, warm handover the cold fingers that did not draw away. 

"Joyce. " His voice was almost solemn in its intensity. "I don't believethere is anything I can say that you would understand now. God knows, Ipity you from the bottom of my soul and, God helping me, I'm going tohelp you in the best way I can. You need rest more than any other littlewoman in the world to-night, I reckon, go in there, " he nodded towardhis own chamber, "and try your best to sleep. I want to smoke and thinkit all out here by the fire. Remember, you are safe. "

She rose stiffly and stood before him. Fear was gone from her; weaknessremained; a horrible, sickening weakness, but no fear. Vaguely, gropingly, she tried to understand what lay behind his slow, solemnwords, but the effort was too great. She sighed and looked down upon himas if he had suddenly become a stranger to her, then, stepping backward, with uncertain faltering movement, she gained the door of that roomwhere no foot but Gaston's had ever before stepped. 

CHAPTER X

It was mid-October when Ralph Drew, his pretty sister Constance and hisdevoted maiden aunt--Miss Sally Drew--arrived in St. Angé and took uptheir new life in the bungalow which, under Jude Lauzoon'scontractorship, had been made ready. 

During his first short stay in St. Angé young Drew had regained not onlyhis lost strength, but he had gained an insight into the needs of themen and women of the small place. He had always intended doing somethingfor the village and its inhabitants after his return to town for theyhad appealed strongly to his emotional and sympathetic nature. But whatSt. Angé had vouchsafed in the way of restored health, she hadbegrudgingly bestowed. To have and to hold what she had given, therecipient must, in return, vow allegiance to her, and, forsaking allothers, cling to her pines and silent places. He must forswear oldhabits and environment--he must give up all else and fling himself uponher mercy. 

It had been hard. Back there in the town, where the pulse of things beathigh, he had fought the knowledge inch by inch. 

"Would a year be enough?" It would be useless. "If winters were spentthere--several winters?" The big specialist shook his head. 

High, dry mountains, somewhere, were the only hope. St. Angé wascomparatively near, she had given a hint as to what she could do--bettertrust her. 

One after another the outposts of lingering hope were taken by the grim, white Spectre. He must abdicate, and accept what terms the enemyoffered. 

Wan, and defeated, but still with the high courage that was his onlypossession, Drew tried to get the new outlook. 

If there were to be--life, then there must be work, God's work; he wasno coward, he would do his part. 

Mingled with the many, dear, familiar things of the life that no longerwas to be his, was a slim, pretty, little girl whom he had enshrined inhis college days, and before whom he had laid his heart's sacredestofferings since. She, and his splendid courage would make even St. Angéa Paradise. 

Raising his eyes to her face, as she sat beside his bed the day thespecialist had given his final command, Drew whispered his hope to her. 

The soft, saintly eyes fell before the trusting, pitiful ones. 

"Dear, " he said, a new doubt faced him--one he had never believedpossible; "they say I will be well--quite well, there if I stay. Andyou and I--" but that drooping face drove him back among the shadows. 

"We--must--think of others. " It was the voice of a self-sacrificingsaint, but the heart-touch was lacking, and Drew received his sentencethen and there. 

For a few, weak days he decided to remain and finish it all and forever. 

Then his manly faith bade him sternly to gather the poor remnant of hisstrength together; grasp the broken blade that was his only weapon, andfinish the fight how and where he could. 

"We'll go with you, laddie, " Aunt Sally whispered, hanging over this boywhom she loved as her own. 

"And, dear, " Constance sobbed on his pillow, "she wasn't worth yourlove. I just knew it from the start. She's a selfish--egotistical--" athin, feverish hand stayed the girlish outburst. 

"Never mind, Connie, we'll fly to the woods, and try to forget all aboutit. " And taking advantage of the golden October calm, they came to St. Angé. 

Lying upon his bed in the bungalow chamber, looking out over the hillsand meadows, gorgeous in autumn tints, Drew began slowly, interruptedlyto be sure, but perceptibly, to gain strength. 

Having relinquished finally the old ideal of life, it was wonderful, even to Drew himself, to find how much seemed unimportant and trivial. It was rather shocking, in a mild way, for him to realize that a certaingirl's face was growing less and less vivid. At first he attributed thisto bodily weakness; then to weakness of character; finally, thank God!to common sense. With that conclusion reached, the present began feeblyto be vital and full of meaning. 

Had perfect health been his, a call to serve the cause to which he haddedicated himself might have taken him farther than St. Angé from hisold life. It was the finality of the decree that had put him in thatpanic. Well, he would not permit finality to hold part in his plans. Hewould live as if all things _might_ come to him, as to other men. Itshould be, day by day, and he would accept these people--if they wouldaccept him--not as minister and parishioners, but in the larger, deepersense--as brothers. With this outlook determined upon, a change for thebetter began. Before it, while the old weakness possessed him, JockFilmer, sitting daily by his bed, was merely some one who was helpingnurse the fever-racked body; afterward, Jock materialized into the mostimportant and satisfying personality to be imagined. He was untiring inhis devotion and gentleness. Caught on the rebound from the shock Gastonhad caused him, Filmer went over to the new call to his friendship withan abandon that proved his own sore need of sympathy. 

The family, grateful for the signs of returning health in the sick man, thankful for Jock's assistance and enlivening humour, disregardedconventions, and admitted the new friend to the holy of holies in theirbungalow life. 

Jock had not been so supremely happy in years. The companionship healedthe wound Gaston had given his faith, and he found himself shielding anddefending both Gaston and Joyce against his own crude judgments. 

Before coming to St. Angé, Drew had been kept in touch with all that themen who were working for him considered his legitimate business. Anything pertaining to his house was fully explained; village scandal, however, had been ignored, and when Drew was able to be moved in asteamer-chair to his broad porch facing the west, he had many astoundingthings to learn. 

One morning, lying luxuriously back among his cushions and inhaling thepine-filled air with relish, Drew electrified Filmer, who sat near himon the porch railing, by observing calmly:

"Filmer, I've a load of questions I want to ask. "

"Heave 'em out. " Jock sighed resignedly. Of course, he had anticipatedthis hour, and he knew that he must be the high priest. "Heave 'em out, and then settle down 'mong facts. "

"Where is Jude Lauzoon?" This was hitting the bull's eye with avengeance. 

"Gone off for change of air and scene--somewhere. " Jock presented astolid, blank face to his inquisitor. 

"Gone where?"

"Now how in--how do you expect I know? Just gone. "

"Taken that pretty little wife of his to new scenes, eh? Well, she neverseemed to me to belong here rightfully. I hope they'll do well. "

Jock hitched uncomfortably. 

"Well, " he broke in, feeling it was inevitable, "Joyce didn't, as youmight say, go with Jude. She's stopping on here. "

"With the baby? There was a baby, I recall. My sister talked of it agood deal. She was interested in Joyce Lauzoon from what I told her. "

"Well, " Filmer felt his way, "there was, as you say, a--a baby, at leasta kind of--a--baby. It was about as near a failure as _I_ ever saw; butJoyce was plain crazy about it. "

"Was? Is--the child dead?" Drew's big eyes were full of sympathy. 

"Well, I should say so! And women is queer creatures, Drew. Now any onewith an open mind would have been blamed glad when that poor little cusscut loose. It never would have had a show in life; it was a big mistakefrom the beginning, but after it went, and was comfortably plantedbehind the shack, what do you think? Why, she came back one night anddug him up and put him--" In his endeavour to keep Drew from more unsafetopics, Filmer had plunged straight into an abyss. 

"Put him where?" Drew felt the gripping of life. It hurt, but itstimulated him. He was suffering with his people--his people! Joyce'slovely face, as he remembered it, pleaded with him for sympathy. It washer face that had first given him assurance. She should not call invain. 

"Oh! back of where she is stopping now. They've made the spot quite alittle garden plot, and--"

"Filmer, see here, tell me all about it!"

"Well, by thunder, then, here is the yarn. You see in the first place, you didn't marry Jude and Joyce as tight as an older and moreexperienced hand would have done. I ain't blaming you, but I've used thethought to help me to be more Christian in my views about what happened. The knot you tied was a slipknot all right. "

A shadow passed over the sick man's face. 

"You mean--" he began. 

"I certainly do. There was a hell of a--excuse me--there was a rumpus ofsome sort the night the kid was buried. It ended up with a generalsmash-a-reen of furniture, pictures and such--and I guess Joyce came infor a share of bruises, from what has leaked out since. But the outcomewas, she walked up to Gaston's shack that same evening, and whathappened there hasn't got into the society news yet; but when Jude andme and Tate went up to straighten out what _I_ thought was a drunken lieof Lauzoon's, there she was all right, wrapped up in Gaston's redblanket, his arm around her, and him asking what we was going to doabout it?"

"What have you--done?" the even words came slowly. 

"Nothing. Jude evaporated. I got a bit of a jog about Gaston; I ain'tover virtuous, but Gaston was a sort of pattern to me, and I'd got himinto my system while we was working on your house. He made me--believein something clean and big--and I didn't enjoy seeing him spattered withmud of his own kicking up. But Lord! It ain't any of my business. "

"And the others here? Do they make her and him--feel it?"

Filmer laughed. 

"You forget, " he replied; "Gaston's got about all the floating capitalthere is around here. Where he gets it, is his own affair, and him andJoyce don't ask no favours. The whole thing has settled into shape. Youneedn't get excited over it. Of course, the women folks have warned youraunt and sister off. I believe they call Joyce the worst woman in theplace--when they're whispering--but they don't take any chances ofgiving offence by speaking out loud. "

"Poor little girl!" Drew's eyes were misty. He shivered slightly andpulled his fur coat closer about his chin. "How does she look, Filmer?"

"As handsome as--well, a queen would give her back teeth to look likeJoyce. I never seen the like. Head up, back as straight as a pinesapling, eyes shining and hair like--like mist with sunlight in it. Gaston has taught her to speak like he does. You know he always kept hislanguage up-to-date and stylish? Well, she's caught the trick now. You'dthink she'd travelled the way she hugs her g's and d's. She trips overthe grammar rules occasionally--but I always said they had to be born inyour blood to make you sure, and even then--you have to exercise themdaily. "

"Poor little Joyce! I always felt she was only half awake, as she stoodthat day before me. If I had it to do now--I would wake her up, before Imade the tie fast. "

"Lord help us!" Jock felt the relief of an unburdened mind; "is it inyour religion to tie anything fast?"

"Yes; yes. " Drew was looking over the sunlighted hills and thinking ofthat lovely, dreaming face of a year ago. 

"And now, " Filmer was drawling on, "while you and me are on this sort ofhouse-cleaning spell, let me drop another item of interest into yourthink-tank. We-all up here ain't going to stand for any preachingbusiness. I say this outspoken and friendly, meaning no ill feeling;just plain, what's what. You see them ideas of yours what you handed outlast year set folks thinking. They sounded so blasted innercent and easythat we all chewed on 'em for a time, and some of us got stung. Now themas is native here can't think without suffering; and them as came here, came to get rid of thinking, and so you see none of us want to be riledalong that _line_. See?"

"I see. " Drew smiled, and stretched his thin white hand out to Filmer. "Thanks. But if they'll let me live--that's all I want. It's my only wayof preaching, anyhow--and Filmer, I _am_ going to live. I feel theblood running to my heart and brain. I feel it bringing back hope andinterest--a man can make a place for himself anywhere if there are menand women about. _I_ thought first--back there--when I droppedeverything, that there never could be anything else worth while, but Itell you old man, if you take even a remnant of life and love to Death'sportal you're always mighty glad to get the chance to come back and seethe game out. It's when you go empty-handed, that you long to slip inand have done with it. Filmer, there's something yet left for me todo. "

Jock was holding the boyish hand in a grim grip. He tried to speak, butcould not. He stared silently at the muffled figure in the long chair, then with an impatient grunt, dropped his hold and actually fled inorder to hide the feelings that surged in his heart. 

Left alone, Drew sank wearily back and closed his eyes. Thelately-acquired strength proved often a deserter when it was tested, andfor the moment the sick man felt all the depression and inertia of thepast. He _felt_, and that was his only gain. Before, he had been tooindifferent to feel or care. 

"Poor, little, pretty thing!" he thought, with Joyce's face before himagainst the closed eyelids. "She couldn't stand it. She didn't look asif she could. I'm sorry she had to find her way out by such acommonplace path. What was Gaston thinking of to let her? He knew--heshould have kept his hands off and not blasted what little hope mighthave been hers. "

Half dreamily he recalled what Filmer had just told him. His weakenedbody held no firm clutch on his imagination at that time of his life--itran riot, often giving him abnormal pleasure by its vivid touches;occasionally causing him excruciating pain as he suffered, in anexaggerated way, with suffering. 

He saw Joyce, bruised and shuddering as a result of Jude's cruelty; hesaw her poor little idols dashed to pieces before her eyes; he felt hergrief for the dead baby, and when he remembered Jock's account of hertaking the small casket to the only spot where she herself was safe, theweak tears rolled down his cold, thin face. He was too exhausted andfull of pain to wipe them away. 

He heard his aunt and sister come out of the house. 

"Asleep!" whispered the older woman in a glad tone. 

"I'll go for a walk, " Constance added, tip-toeing away. "Have the milkand egg ready when he wakes, auntie. Did you ever see such a day? I feelas if I had just been made, and placed in a world that hadn't been usedup by millions of people. "

They were gone, and Drew sighed relievedly. 

Presently he opened his eyes, if he had slept he was not conscious ofit, and there sat the girl of his dreams near him. 

"Mrs. --" he faltered, "Mrs. Lauzoon, how good of you to come and see me. I hope you know I would have come to you as soon as I was able?"

Joyce had been studying his face--nothing had escaped her: its wanness, the sharp outline, and the tears congealed in the hollows of his cheeks. She pulled her chair nearer, and took his extended hand. 

"I'm sorry you've been sick, " she said simply. 

Then they smiled at each other. 

[Illustration: PRESENTLY HE OPENED HIS EYES . .. AND THERE SAT THE GIRLOF HIS DREAMS NEAR HIM]

It was hard for Drew to readjust his ideas and fit this beautiful womaninto the guise of the Magdalene of his late thoughts. 

Vaguely he saw that whatever she had undergone, she had brought from herexperiences new beauty; a new force, and a power to guard herpossessions with marvellous calm. She was being made as she went alongin life. Her spiritual and mental architecture, so to speak, could notbe properly estimated until all was finished. This conclusion chilledDrew's enthusiasm. He would have felt kinder had she been less sure ofherself. 

"You are looking--well, Mrs. Lauzoon. " Drew felt the awkwardness of thesituation growing. 

"Please, Mr. Drew, I'm just Joyce again. Perhaps you have not heard?"Her great eyes were still smiling that contented, peaceful smile. 

"I've heard. Need we talk of it, Joyce?"

"Unless you're too weak, we must; now or at some other time. You see Ihave been waiting to talk to you. I've been saying over and over, 'He'llunderstand. He'll make me sure that I've done right. '"

Drew, for the life of him, could not repress a feeling of repulsion. Joyce noticed this, and leaned back, folding her hands in her lap. 

Drew saw that her hands were white and smooth. Then she gathered herheavy, red cloak around her, and hid those silent marks of her newrefinement. 

"They call me"--the old, half-childish smile came to the face lookingfull at Drew--"the worst woman in town. At least, they call me that whenthey think I won't hear. You know they were always afraid of Mr. Gastona little. But I hear and it makes me laugh. "

The listener closed his eyes for a moment. He could better steady hismoral sense when that sweet beauty did not interfere with his judgment. 

"You see, if I had stayed on--with Jude, and lived--that--awful life": asudden awe stole into her voice--"then, if they had thought of me atall, they would have thought of me as--good. It would have been--goodfor me to have--poor, sad little children--like--like my--mybaby--You've heard?" Her lips were quivering. The play of expression onher face, the varying tones of her voice unnerved Drew. He nodded to herquestion. 

"It was such a--dreadful, little, crooked form, Mr. Drew--such--ahideous thing to hold a--a--soul. Just once, the _soul_ smiled at methrough the big, dark eyes--it wanted me to know it _was_ a soul--thenit went away. "

Even while the smile trembled on the girl's lips the tears stood in hereyes. 

"You see, " she went on, "no one would have blamed me if I had gone onlike that--the misshapen children, and soon they would have stoppedhaving souls--and Jude's cruelty, "--again that fearsome catch in thevoice--"they would have called me good--if I had stayed on--but you willunderstand?" She bent toward him with pleading and yearning in her face. "Oh! how I have just hungered to talk it over with you--and to feelsure! There isn't any one else in all the world, you know, to whom Icould say this. "

"How about Gaston?" Drew heard his own words, and they sounded brutal, but they were forced from him. 

Joyce stared surprisedly. 

"Why--we never talk of--of that. How could we? But I read--and Mr. Gaston has taught me to think--straight--and don't you notice how muchbetter I talk?"

"Yes--and dress. " All that was hard in Drew rose in arms. This girl waslike the rest of her kind for all her wood-setting and strange beauty. The only puzzling thing in the matter was her desire to talk it out withhim. 

"I have lots of pretty things to wear. " Joyce smoothed her heavy cloak. "He's the kindest man I ever knew. That's another reason I had forwanting to come to you. I want you to show him just _how_ youunderstand. I begin to see how lonely he is--how lonely he has alwaysbeen up here--there is no one quite like him--but you. But Mr. Drew, doyou remember what you preached that day you--married us--Jude and me, Imean?"

"I'm afraid not--so many things have happened since. " Drew tried to keephis feelings in check. 

"Well, I remember every word. " The glowing face again bent toward Drew. "Can't you think back? It was about what we've brought into the world, what we get here and shape into _our_ lives, and then what we leave whenwe go--away. The blazed trail, you know, and clearing the way forothers. Oh, it was the sort of thing that when you thought about it youdidn't _dare_ go on being careless. "

"I do--recall. " Her intensity was gripping Drew in spite of himself. "Itwas an old fancy. But it has helped me to live. "

"It has _made_ me live. I tried it fair and honest with Jude, Mr. Drew, but no one could do it with him. The trail got choked with--awfulthings--and I only had strength enough to run away, after one year. If Ihad stayed--I--I would have rotted as I stood. " She breathed thick andfast. Her old life, even in memory, smothered her. Drew caught a slightimpression of what it must have been for this strange-natured woman. Hebegan to think she was not yet awake, and the thought made him kinder inhis estimate of her. 

"But, " he said gently, "was there no other way out of your difficulty?"

She looked pityingly at him. 

"I didn't go to Mr. Gaston to--to stay, " she whispered: "there was areason for my going--a reason about Jude--then things happened that Iguess were meant to happen. There was no other way out for me--but I hadnot thought that far. I guess if God ever took care of any one, he tookcare of me that night. "

This utterly pagan outlook on the proprieties positively stirred Drew tounholy mirth. But it did something else--it made him realize that thegirl before him was quite outside the reach of any of his preconceivedideas. He could afford to sit down upon her plane and feel no moralindignation. Perhaps, after all, she had brought his work to him whenshe came herself. 

"You see, after Jude and Mr. Tate and Jock Filmer found me there late atnight--there was nothing else for me to do. Jude would have killedme--if I had gone away alone--he was--awful. Besides, where could I havegone?"

"Gaston should have acted for you. He knew what he was doing to you. "

The righteous indignation confused the girl. 

"Why, he did act for me. " The fire sprang to the wondering eyes. "He isthe best man on earth. There are more ways of being good than one. Thepeople here can't see that--but surely you can. Mr. Gaston made mylife safe and clean. I could grow better every day. Why, look at me. "She flung her arms wide as if by the gesture she laid bare her new life. 

"He has taught me until I can see and think, wide and sure. He is alwaysgentle--and he never lets me work until--until I'm too tired to want tolive. 

"Isn't it being good when you are growing into the thing God meant youto be? Ought you not to take any way God offers to reach that kind oflife?" Joyce flung the questions out fiercely. She was perplexed byDrew's attitude. If he were as much like Gaston as she had believed, whydid he look and act as he was doing?

"If--if you have, and if you are, all that you say, why do you questionme so?" Drew asked. He was feeling his way blindly through this newmoral, or unmoral, thicket. 

"Because sometimes a queer thought comes to me. I know it is becausethese people can not understand; but _you_ can, and when you have toldme it is all right--I shall never have the thought again. "

"What _is_ the thought, Joyce?"

"You see, " she almost touched him now in her intensity, "I do not knowanything about Mr. Gaston--really. About what he was, what his life wasbefore he came here. I would not hurt him for anything God could give tome--and sometimes I have wondered if--if in that life that was; thelife that _might_ come again to him, you know, --for for he is _so_different from any one here--I wonder if what he has done for me, couldhurt him? Could anything that is so heavenly good for me--hurthim?--tell me, tell me!"

And now Drew dropped his eyes and sent a swift prayer to God forforgiveness. 

He had thought her without conscience, without soul. He felt himself ina dim valley, and he hardly dared to raise his eyes to her. 

"I am perfectly happy. " The words quivered to him, and beliedthemselves. "And he says he--is--but would he be if he were backthere--where he came from? In my getting of _my_ life, am I taking from_his_?"

"Good God!"

"You--you do not understand, either?"

"Yes; I do, Joyce--I understand. I understand. "

"Am I hurting him?"

"He must answer that, Joyce, no one else can. He must face that someday, and also whether he is hurting you or not. We cannot any of uschoose a little sunny spot in life for ourselves and shut out the pastand future by a high wall. The present faces both ways, Joyce, and lightis let in from all sides. Light and blackest gloom, God help us!

"What Gaston's other life was--he alone knows--he ought to tell you ifhe hopes to help you really. If he's the good man he seems to you, Joyce, he _will_ tell you, and give you a chance to play the game. "Suddenly an inspiration came to Drew. "Tell him, " he said slowly, "thatI have friends coming here--friends who will probably build summer homesand introduce a new life. It's none of my business, perhaps, but you'vecome to me for help--and as God shows me, I must help you. Gaston has noright to injure your future by playing a game with you that you in nowise understand. It isn't fair--and he knows it, if he stops to think. Perhaps there was no way for him to help you that night, but the way hetook. Perhaps he nobly did the only thing he could--I hope to God thisis true; but there are other ways now, Joyce--he must know and give youa choice. "

"I--I--do not see--what you mean?" A frightened look spread over Joyce'sface, and she shivered even in the full glow of the autumn sunlight. "Ifeel--you make me feel--as if I had been--as if I am--shut in a littleroom, with the doors and windows about to be opened. What is coming in, Mr. Drew? What am I going to see? You--you frighten me. I cannot--I willnot believe--anything dreadful could happen to him or me--when I am sohappy and safe. "

The excitement was wearing upon Drew frightfully. His ghastly faceappealed suddenly to Joyce as she looked at him through her own growingdoubt. 

"I'm going, " she said, starting up; "I've made you worse. What can Ido?"

Drew smiled wanly and held out a trembling hand. 

"Come again, " he whispered. "It's all right, I'm much better--than whenyou came. "

And so he was, spiritually, for he had retained his belief in God'sgoodness, somehow. Just why, he could not have told, but had the girlbeen what he had, for a moment, believed, it would all have seemed souselessly hopeless and crude. 

From the strange confession he had obtained but a blurred impression, but that impression saved his faith in Joyce, at least. She was not abad, ignoble woman. Whatever she had done, had been done from the bestthat was in her, and if Gaston had accepted her sacrifice he had, insome way, managed to keep himself noble in her sight. 

It was a baffling thing all around. A thing that he must approach from anew standpoint; the one, the only comfort was, the girl's own evolution. It was not possible Drew thought, that all was evil which had producedwhat he had just seen. 

CHAPTER XI

Gaston often took a trip to Hillcrest, remaining several days, at times, and Joyce never questioned. Gradually she had accepted the place inGaston's life that he had allotted her without expectation or regret. Tolive in the light and joy of his presence had become enough--almostenough. She studied, and sought to be what he desired. She was, afterthe very first, genuinely happy and full of quaint sweetness. As theblack interval of her life faded, she turned with grateful appreciationto the present and played the part expected of her in an amazing manner. 

Sometimes that disturbing doubt, hardly strong enough to be classified, made her pause, wide-eyed and still, but it fled before Gaston's laughand jest. 

With Drew's coming she grasped the subtle restlessness and comfortedherself with the thought that he who understood so much, he, who was, inkind, like Gaston, he would clear away the elusive doubt forever. 

She had never forgotten that it was Drew who had first set her feet onthe upward path; he, above all others, would be glad of her better life, and sympathize with her happiness. 

When she pondered upon Gaston's possible past, she felt guilty. What hedid not entrust to her, she had no right to consider--so she tried topush the thought away. She was glad of so good an excuse for putting afretting thing aside. But it would not remain hidden. During Gaston'sabsences it reared its hated head--with his return it slunk into shadow. 

Taking advantage of one of Gaston's brief visits from home, Joyce hadgone to Drew, timing her call when she knew his womenkind were away. Shehad an instinctive aversion to her own sex. She had thought it wascontempt for St. Angé womanhood; she did not speculate about theseothers. 

Her talk with the young minister, instead of clearing her sky of thetiny cloud, had resulted in a general atmosphere of doubts and shapelessfears that doomed her days to unhappiness, and her lonely nights toactual misery. 

Things were _not_ right. That was the overpowering conviction that grewapace. If she knew all--all what? Well, if she insisted upon knowingall--what would happen?

She caught her breath sharply, and frantically turned to bodily toil inorder to down the spectre which now confronted her with brazeninsistence. Things must go on as before. Ralph Drew was nothing but aboy--what were his opinions compared to Gaston's? Gaston could do nowrong. She was content to abide by his decree. 

She sang, and turned from one task to another with determined haste. Atone moment she vowed the subject should never be thought of again; thenext, she promised herself that she would put the whole matter beforeGaston as soon as he returned, and, by so doing, prove the unimportanceof the thing. But whichever way she looked at it, she hourly grew todread Gaston's return. Life was never going to be the same. Somethingwas going to happen!

Oh, she had often had these premonitions before. Gaston laughed at them, and called her funny names when she voiced them to him. 

Three days and nights dragged on, after that visit to Drew, beforeGaston came back. 

The house had been cleaned and recleaned until it shone. The fire waskept brilliant, and Joyce donned, in turn, every pretty bit of adornmentthat she owned. She decked the pictures with ground-pine, and, in theact of preparing the dishes for supper that Gaston liked best, he foundher. 

"Hello, little girl, " he called cheerily; "it look like Christmas. It'slucky I have some presents in my pack. I believe you fixed up to catchme, and make me feel like a tight-wad. But I'm one to the good. Don'tpeek. After supper we'll have a lark. Have you a kiss by way ofwelcome?"

Joyce turned from the lamp she was lighting, and put both her hands onhis shoulders. 

"Oh, but it's good to have you back!" she said, and raised her lips tohis. 

This fond response to him was the greatest recompense the change intheir lives had brought to Gaston. It warmed the lonely places of hisheart. 

It was a jovial meal that followed. Gaston was hungry, the food wasexcellent, and Joyce glowed and beamed in the atmosphere of regainedtrust. 

It was, though, a fleeting peace. When the dishes were removed, Gastonnoticed how tired she looked. 

"Happy?" he asked, with a laugh. 

"Perfectly. " Joyce was filling his pipe. 

"Perfectly _nothing!_" he exclaimed, drawing her down to the arm of hischair. "Now own up, my lady, what have you been doing?"

Gaston expected a rehearsal of daily tasks, more energeticallyperformed, perhaps, than was necessary. 

"I went to see Mr. Drew. " The smile fled from Gaston's face. So it wasnot housework!

"How is the young D. D. ?"

"He looks very ill, but they say he is getting better. "

"Did you have a pleasant call?"

Gaston was unreasonably annoyed, but he was curious also. 

Joyce dropped her eyes. In a subtle way Gaston felt a change in her. Shewas never anything but direct and truthful with him, her attitude wasnow, therefore, more significant. He had beaten his life, his personallife, into a monotonous round outlined on that first night when Joycehad been thrust into his care. He had grown to think that emotions weredead and done with; this sudden realization that the first touch fromthe outer world could disturb his calm, irritated him beyond measure. 

"Mr. Drew was very--kind, " Joyce's voice fell dully upon Gaston'simpatience; "he's coming--to see us!"

"The devil he is!" The outburst seemed so childish that Gaston laughed, and his gloom passed. 

By persistent practice he had felled every circumstance to a deadlevel--he would raze this new element, too, to the ground, and thingswould assume the old placidity. 

"We'll welcome him when he comes, Joyce. I'm a selfish brute and don'twant to be disturbed; but of course any one who cares to come will bewelcome. "

She shot a swift glance at him, then her eyes fell. 

Gaston stared at her, and his face flushed. It had not been easy duringthe past year to keep the man in him under control, but he had begun tothink, lately, the victory was assured. So confident was he of himself, that he had planned a final test in order to make sure the future heldno danger for him--and her!

He sometimes wondered, if she were placed in different environment, surrounded by luxuries and admiration, how she would appear; and how shewould affect him. In a way he had educated her and refined her. He hadgrown used to her and taken her for granted, but there were moments whenshe perplexed him. 

His visit to Hillcrest was connected with his little plan to test, in afashion, this woman he had helped to form. 

Her announcement about Drew had diverted his thought, but he returnednow to his own interests. Again he wondered if, after all he had donefor her, she could rise above Jude and St. Angé to a degree that mighttouch him--that part of him that he hoped he had conquered forever. 

If she could--then--but he would not anticipate. Drew's advent hadfocussed his desire to put himself, and her, to the test. Joyce hadprecipitated matters, that was all. 

"Joyce!"

She was bending to place a log upon the fire. 

"None of that! When I'm at home, the big logs are for me. "

She laughed brightly. To be so guarded and cared for never ceased to beexciting. 

"And now for my surprise! It's a corker this time, Joyce. "

Gaston walked to the lean-to room and brought out two boxes. 

"Take them to your room, and put them on, " he said. 

There were always surprises when Gaston returned from Hillcrest. Fromout the Somewhere, somehow there drifted marvellous things--books, pictures, dresses, dainty slippers and home furnishings. Things that St. Angé gaped silently upon. Joyce never asked questions. Like a child sheshielded this fairy-like mystery from her own curiosity. She was happiernot to know. 

But to-night the boxes seemed heavy. Not from what they held, but fromthe weight of her unrest, which was returning with added force. 

She obeyed, however, with that quivering smile still upon her lips. Almost staggering under the load, she turned and entered the chamberthat had once been Gaston's. It was a woman's room now in every sense. Gone were the rough furniture, the pipes and books. In their places werethe white bed, the low rocker, the many trifles that go to meet theendless whims of a woman's fancy and taste. It was an odd room for theshack of a backwoodsman. It had taken Joyce long to settle into itcomfortably. Her brief apprenticeship in the home that Gaston had helpedJude make for her was the only preparation she had had for ease amongthese refinements. 

Once within the shelter now, Joyce almost flung the boxes from her. Itwas dark and cold in the room, and the stillness soothed her. Shegroped her way to the window and looked out at the little mound near thepines, where all that was really her own--her very own--lay. It hadalways been a comfort to have the little body so near her place ofsafety. She had ceased to grieve when once the baby was brought awayfrom the ruin of the former home; but to-night the small oval, under itscrust of glittering snow, made her shudder. It was her own--but oh! itwas cold and dead like all the rest of her hope and joy. She knew itnow. Not even Gaston's coming had cleared the doubt. 

She had believed herself so good and happy--and here it was made plain, horribly plain. Everything was wrong. It had always been wrong. 

But she dared not shrink into her pain. She must obey, and play herpart. Awkwardly she lighted her lamp; tremblingly she untied theboxes--they bore the same mystic signs and the oft-repeated words, "NewYork. " It did not matter. New York or the New Jerusalem, one was asunreal as the other to the backwoods girl. 

Oh, but here was surprise indeed!

Joyce had not, as yet, sunk so far in doubt and apprehension, but thatthe contents of the boxes moved her to interest and delight. 

A gown of golden silk, clinging and long. The daintiest of gloves, silken hose, and satin slippers. Filmy skirts, and bewildering rufflesof cobwebby lace. What wild imagination ever conceived of suchwitcheries; and what power could command their materialization in theNorth Woods?

Joyce sank beside the boxes, gasping with delight. Then suddenly, as theshock of pleasurable surprise passed, the mockery of the gift struckher. Down went the humbled head, and the girl wept as if her heart wouldbreak. 

Gaston was playing with her. She had not been keen enough to understand, but all along he had amused himself at her expense. Having had herthrust upon him by circumstances, he had accepted the situation in hisgood-natured way, but underneath it was as cruel as--all else in herlife. 

She had been an ignorant, blind fool. Never had Gaston been so daringwith her. Other pretty gifts had found a place, and supplied a want, intheir common life; but this--this--oh! the incongruity was crueland--insulting. 

Joyce could not analyze all this--she merely felt it. But when it hadsunk to the depths of her aroused instinct, the reaction took place. Hadthe girl been ugly physically, or had Gaston debased her, her doom wouldhave been fixed; but there was a--chance!

In the death throes of her false position, she retraced the steps of herlife with Gaston. With a sickening shudder she recalled her mad fearthat first awful night when he had shut the door upon Jude and theothers. How he had made her feel, and at once, that from the high placethat was his, he could afford to help her, and only the low and vilewould misunderstand. It was because she was low and vile as Jude hadmade her that she had feared--what?

How the knowledge had stung, then stunned her! She might have known, hadshe remembered, from the first Gaston had always driven her back uponherself when her foolish passion for him reared its head. 

No one of his own kind would ever have been led into a misunderstandingof his motives and goodness. 

Then in the days that followed that first terrible night, she had abasedherself and striven to fill the role Gaston prepared for her!

Later she studied and silently prayed that, in a small way, she mightrepay him for his divine kindness!

But with the patient effort and the marvellous results of quickenedmentality, a clear space was left in the new woman for harrowing doubt. She never again sank to the thought that Gaston could love her; but shecould not utterly blind herself to the fear that he might be hurtinghimself through others _not_ realizing the difference between him andher. Naturally she could not go to Gaston with this doubt--it would seeman insult to him, and a shameless suggestion. 

Therefore she hailed Drew's advent with mingled apprehension and relief. Had he taken for granted that all was well; had he seemed glad thatGaston had saved her from her evil fate; then she would have known thatsuch people as Gaston and Drew would understand and think no evil. Butthe effect of Gaston's training and influence had sunk deep. Joyce hadrisen above the vile thing Jude and St. Angé had tried to make her. Shewas, for all the wide difference between her and Gaston, a woman! Awoman beautiful and alive to the highest degree. She dared not anylonger ignore that. For Gaston's sake she must face the blinding truth. 

Crouching beside the boxes of finery that he had thought she could notunderstand, Joyce clenched her hands in an agony of consecration andrenunciation. Then despair seized her, and for a wild moment she wastempted to use Gaston's own weapon against him. 

Heretofore she had accepted his gifts with a child's delight--what afool she had been! Suppose now she should--well, take what she could getfrom life in spite--yes, in spite of Gaston himself?

Dare she? Could she? Would she be able to do anything when she facedhim, but fall at his feet, beg for mercy, and implore him to tell herwhat her awakened conscience demanded?

She would try. 

The colour rose and fell in the lovely face. She was beautiful, and sheloved him. She had never let him see how much; or how. He should seenow! She would try her meanest and basest weapon--and if--if--itconquered, she would make--terms. She, poor, dependent Joyce of thebackwoods. Old Jared's girl. Jude Lauzoon's discarded wife. If she won avictory, _what_ a victory it would be!

It would prove to Drew--she rose defiantly, and snatched the finery fromthe boxes. Her eyes were blazing and her blood ran hotly. Before herlittle mirror she let the garments of her past life fall from her. Sheunpinned her glorious hair, and thrilled as its convincing beauty gaveadded power to her plans. 

Slowly, carefully, with a pictured ideal in her memory, she fashionedthe wonderful tresses into form. High upon her head the glistening masswas fastened, then cunningly the little curls were pulled loose, andwere permitted to go free about the smooth brow and white neck. 

Then with an instinct that did not play her false, she donned themarvellous garments. 

She was finished at last. The new, palpitating woman. All that belongedto the old Joyce seemed to have fallen, with the discarded garments, tothe floor. 

She did not doubt her power now. She was not afraid. Something was goingto happen--again she experienced the sensation. It had come first inthis very shack, when her childhood had departed, and the woman in herhad been born. A poor, dull woman, to be sure; still, a woman. 

She had felt it, too, the Sunday of her marriage, when Drew had calledto her conscience and spirituality, and set the chords of suffering andhope vibrating. From that hour to this she had been climbing painfullyto what was about to occur. 

Well, she was ready. The bewitching smile played over her face. Tiptoeing across the bedroom floor, she noiselessly unfastened the door, and silently reached Gaston's side. 

He had quite forgotten her. Weary from the day's work, perplexed bylater developments, with closed eyes, and hands clasped behind his head, he was lost in thought. 

Joyce touched him lightly, and he looked up. 

She had taken him off guard. Her bewildering beauty attacked his senseswhile his shield of Purpose was down. 

"Good God!" he exclaimed staring at her. "You--you glorious creature!"

She laughed, and the sound thrilled the man as her beauty did. It wasnew, and wonderful. He staggered to his feet and reached out to her likea man blinded by a sudden glare. 

She evaded his touch, and gave that wild little laugh again. 

"You like it?" she asked, from across the table. 

"Like it? You--are--divine!"

"Why--did--you--do it?"

"I had a mad fancy to see just how great your--beauty was. "

"And--you see?"

"Heavens! I do see. "

"And you think?"

"What any man would think, " Gaston's excitement was rising, "who hadbeen starved for--years--and then finds all he's hungered for--alone inthe North Woods. Think?"

The breaking of a flaming log startled them, and it steadied Gaston fora moment. Joyce had herself well in hand. The victory was hers if onlyshe could command this new power long enough. 

"Please, " she pleaded, "please sit down. I have something to say toyou. "

CHAPTER XII

Gaston sank back in his chair, and Joyce sat down opposite. The tablewas between them, and the light of the fire and lamp flooded over thegirl. 

She was wonderful in that gown, and with her splendid, pale hair framingher face with its fair glory. 

The shock of surprise was passing, but Gaston still looked at the girlas if he had never seen her before. 

"What is it, Joyce?" he asked presently; "what has changed you so?" Thenhe smiled, for the question seemed crude and ill-advised. 

"The dress--isn't that what you wanted?"

"I do not mean the dress--there is something else. "

"So there is--but it came with the dress. Perhaps you--did not orderthat--well, then, it must be _your_ part of the surprise. Don't youremember that story you read to me once--about the mantle of Elijah? Youknow it made the humble wearer--great. Well, these pretty things, "--shetouched them lightly--"they make me--a woman. The sort of woman whomust--ask questions--and get answers--true answers. "

"Why, don't you trust--me?"

The pained question was wrung from Gaston's lips. The steady look fromthe big eyes went strangely to his heart. 

"I--do--not know--you--as you--are now, " she said firmly. 

"It is not I who am changed, Joyce, it is you. Everything is just thesame except that I see you are more--wonderful than I dreamed. "

"Nothing is going to be the same again. I knew it while Mr. Drew wastalking the other day--I have thought it all out since. "

"Curse him!" Gaston broke in; "what did he say? Why did you go to himJoyce? How could you?"

There was pain in the words--pain and a dumb fear. 

"It only happened to be Mr. Drew. Some one would have made me know intime. "

"Joyce;" he was actually pleading with her! The knowledge burnt into thequickening soul. "Joyce, what did you trust in me, before you went toDrew?"

"Your goodness--your--unselfishness. I knew the goodness--I have onlybegun to see the--unselfishness. "

"My unselfishness? Good heavens!" In spite of the strangeness of it all, Gaston laughed. Then an impatience stifled him. A brute instinct drovehim on. Her beauty had captured his senses, and he meant to tear downthe pitiful wall he had upbuilded between her and him, and force her tosee the inevitable. 

He had wondered if she could stir him--well he knew now. What idiotsthey had both been!

He was through with the Past forever. The Past that had held him to afalse ideal. There should be no more imbecile philosophy in the NorthWoods as far as he and she were concerned. 

"See here, " he began, and his voice was almost hard; "don't you knowwhen I shut you away from what you knew as danger--Jude and all the restof the hell that went with him--I shut you away from what people--peoplelike Drew and his set--know as mercy?"

Joyce's eyes widened, but she did not speak. Gaston rushed on--he wantedthe scene over. She was too heavenly beautiful sitting there, he mustbring her closer. 

"They would call you--well, they wouldn't call you a good woman. Theyare very particular about their women. In a way, you must have knownthis, Joyce. You've played the game like a thoroughbred, and when oneconsiders _how_ you've played it, the wonder grows--but they'd neverbelieve that--even if we told them. Great heavens! how could they, ifthey saw you?

"That there was no other way for me to help you then, that you had noother shelter in God's world would not alter the case at all. And I'vebeen a fool, Joyce, a maudlin fool--all along!"

The woman opposite was looking at him through tears, but the sweet mouthwas quivering pitifully. 

"Joyce"; the tone caused the tear-dimmed eyes to close; "let us face themusic--and--dance along to the tune. "

Gaston leaned toward her and when she dared to look at him she saw thatthe future was in her hands!

"You--you thought I knew this all along?"

"In a way--yes!"

Joyce's eyes dropped and a flush rose to her pale, still face. 

"Then those--those people--the good people, what would they have thoughtabout you?"

"Oh! some would have thought me a--damned scoundrel; and they would havebeen right had I ever intended to leave you to their mercy. Others--well, others--"

"Please tell me, you see I want to understand everything and that worldis not mine--you know. "

"The others, "--and now Gaston dropped his own eyes--"the others wouldhave forgotten all about it--had I chosen to go back!"

"But they--would not have forgotten about me?"

"No. That is their imbecile code. "

"And--and men know that and yet--" Her eyes widened in a dumbterror--"why, they are worse than--the people of St. Angé!"

Suddenly Gaston flung his head back and looked full at the beautifulface. It was radiant, but the eyes were overflowing. It seemed to him asif she, coming out from her shadows, were bringing all wronged womanhoodwith her. 

"You know Joyce, you must have known no matter what else you thought, and you must know now, I never meant to leave you to their--mercy?"

He knew that he was speaking truth to her and it gave him courage. 

"Yes; yes!" she cried. "I know that above all and everything. "

Joyce saw that she was gaining power. She knew that, marvellous as itseemed, she was to shape their future lives. But she must have the skyclear. Gaston, she felt, recognized this as well as she. He expected butone outcome; he saw her love, and was willing to show his own, now thatthe barriers were down. 

"We need ask nothing!" he said softly; "and there are deeper woods tothe north, dear. "

"Can you--will you--tell me about yourself before--you came here?"

The question was asked simply and it was proof, if any were needed, thatthe past false position was utterly annihilated. 

Gaston accepted the changed conditions with no sense of surprise. Heacknowledged her right to all that she desired. 

"When I said, a time back"; he began slowly; "that they--those goodpeople we were talking about--would let me into their world if I--leftyou"; his fingers closed firmer over her hands; "I did not tell you thatthere is another reason why they would _not_ let me in. They couldoverlook some things--but not others. Suppose I should tell you that Ihad done a wrong that was worse, in their eyes, than almost anythingelse?"

"I would not believe it!"

"But that is God's truth. "

She grew a little paler, but she did not withdraw her hands. 

With smarting recollection Gaston remembered how, back there in the oldlife, two small hands had slipped from his at a like confession. 

"I've been a weak fellow from the start, Joyce. I haven't even had thecourage to do a big, bad thing for myself. I've let them I loved, useme. I've lost my idea of right in my depraved craving for appreciation. That sort of sin is the worst kind. It damns one's self and makes theone you've tried to serve, hate you. "

He saw that she was trying to follow him, but could not clearly, so hedropped all but brutal facts. 

"When I stepped off the train at St. Angé, a few years back, I took thename of Gaston, because I dared not speak my own name, and I didn'tlike to go by the number that I had been known by for--five years. "

"Number?" she whispered, and her frightened eyes glanced about. She wasnot afraid of him, but _for_ him. Gaston saw that. 

"Never fear, " he reassured her; "it was all worked out. I paid thatdebt, but I wanted to forget the transaction. I thought I could, uphere--but I reckoned without you!"

"Go on, " she said hoarsely. The clock struck eleven, the logs fellapart--she was in a hurry. 

"You know there is an odd little couplet that used to please me when Iwas--paying up. It goes like this:

 Two men looked out of the prison bars, The one saw mud, the other, the stars. 

"There were a lot of us who saw stars, for all the belief to the contrary;and even the mud-seers had their moments of star-vision--behind theprison bars. 

"Birthdays and Christmases played the deuce with them. " Gaston was offthe trail now that he dared voice the memories of the past. They had solong haunted him. They might pass if he could tell them to another. 

"Go on, " Joyce said, impatiently glancing at the clock as if her timewere short. "Please go on. It doesn't matter about that. What wasbefore, and--and what must come, now?"

"It does matter, " Gaston came back. "It was that determination of minenot to be finished by that phase of my life, that left strength in me tobe halfway decent since. I only meant to regain my health up here. Imeant to go back to the life I had deserted and make good before themall--but something happened. "

"Yes. " Gaston's face had clouded, and Joyce had to recall him. 

"You see it was this way. There were a lot of people--but only fourmattered. My mother, my brother, the girl and her father. "

The hands under Gaston's slipped away, but he did not notice. 

"My mother had a heart trouble, she could not bear much--and she alwaysloved my brother best. He had the look and way with him that made iteasy for her to prefer him. I believed the--girl cared most for me--thatwas what kept things going all right for a time--her father liked mebest, I knew. 

"I had a position of trust, the control of much money, and my head gotturned, I suppose--for I felt sure of everything; myself included. Thenthings happened all of a sudden. 

"My brother found that the girl cared for me, not him; it broke him up, and that brought on an attack of sickness for my mother. She never couldbear to see him suffer. My own happiness was twisted out of shape bywhat I saw was to be the result of my gain over his loss. 

"One night he came to me and told me that his investments had gonewrong; our mother's fortune along with the rest. A certain sum of money, right then, would tide over the critical situation. 

"There was no chance but that all would come out right. He had privateinformation that a few days would change the current. He would come outto the good--if only--"

"And you?" Joyce held him with her wide, terrified stare. 

"Oh, yes! I didn't think there was any danger, and it seemed a chance tohelp when everything was about to come clattering around our ears. Ihelped. Good God, I helped!"

Gaston dropped his head on his folded arms. 

"What happened when they all knew? When you explained--couldn't theyhelp you?" Gaston flung his head back and looked at her. 

"But they didn't find out. At least, they found out that I took themoney--there wasn't anything else to tell. That damnable fact wasenough, wasn't it? No amount of whimpering as to why I'd done it wouldhave helped. "

"But your brother?"

"He tried to get me to go away. He said in a few days all would beright. He could then save everything. I could return andrepay--and--well! I wasn't made that way. I stayed. "

"And--the girl?"

"She asked me if I had done it--she would believe no one else. I saidyes; and that ended it. Her father tried to get me to explain--he wasthe Judge who was to have tried me--I refused and he begged to bereleased from sentencing me--that's all he could do for either of us. "

"And--your--mother?" A sob rose in Joyce's throat. 

"I think, even in her misery, she thanked God, since it had to be, thatit was not my brother. "

The room was growing cold. Joyce shivered. 

"And then?" she faltered. 

"Oh! then--" Gaston's face twitched, and his voice was bitter, "thencame the star-gazing through the bars--and all the rest, until I came uphere. Only one stuck to me through thick and thin. "

"Your brother?" Joyce interrupted. 

"My brother? No! Just a plain friend. I told him I did not want to heara thing while I was shut away. I knew it would hold me back from gettingwhat I could out of the experience. It's like hell to have the outsidetroubles and joys brought to you while you are bound hand and foot. Isaw enough of that--it did more to keep men in the mud than anythingelse. I just kept that space of my life clear for expiation. When thegates opened for me one day--my friend was there with all the news in abudget. 

"You see the lash that had cut deepest when I went away was something mymother said; 'You've broken the hearts of them who loved and trustedyou. '

"Nothing had mattered so much as those words--and out of the disgrace, the loneliness, the misery and deadly labour, I had worked out a plan tomake up to them for the wrong I had done. It was going to be about thebiggest job a fellow ever undertook; but, do you know, I had hoped thatI could do it?

"Well, my friend's words drove me back upon myself. There was nothingfor me to do. "

"Why?"

"The hearts were all mended--after a fashion, without my aid. "

"Your mother?"

"She had died soon after I went away. "

"And your--brother--he surely--"

"Oh! he had gone booming ahead like a rocket. The tide turned a bit toolate for me--but it carried him to a safe harbour. In a generous andhighly moral way he stood ready to repay me--but conditions had changed;I must accept certain terms. "

"The--the--girl?"

"She'd married my brother. She it was who changed the conditions, yousee. It had been a noble sacrifice for her to marry into _such_ afamily--so, of course, due consideration must be shown her. Would I liveabroad on an ample allowance?"

Joyce flinched before the tone. Gaston stood up and flung his arms out. "No! by God, I would not live abroad. I chose my own place of hiding. Hepaid, though--I saw to that--he named no allowance, it was I; but hepaid and paid and paid all that _I_ thought he should. He bought me offat my price--not his. I left all in the hands of the only friend I hadon earth--I never wanted to hear of the others again until I was readyto go back--and I haven't. I wanted time to think out my way. I wantedstrength to go back, take my name and fortune, ask nothing of theworld--but a chance to defy it. I got as far as that--" He dropped backinto the chair and bowed his head. 

The hands of the clock were past midnight, the fire was nothing butglowing embers; a chill was creeping through the room. Presently Gastonwas aware of a nearness--not merely bodily, but spiritually. He lookedup. He had forgotten Joyce and his thought of comfort in knowing thatshe would stand by him. To see her close now, to gaze up into herglorious face was like an awakening from a hideous dream to a safereality. 

"You got as far as that, " she said in the saddest, softest tone that awoman's voice ever held; "and then I came into your life. Oh! how hardyou tried to set me aside with Jude--but again and again I returnedto--hold you back. "

"Why, Joyce, what is the matter?"

A paralyzing fear drove anguish before it. Gaston strove to recallpassion, but that, too, had deserted. He and Joyce were standing in abarren place alone--nothing behind, nothing before!

"Can't you see what is the matter?"

The coquetry had left the girl, she stood fair, cold and passive likesome wonderful goddess. 

"Don't you think I see it all now?

"When I came out of that room I was a--bad woman! You were mistaken, Inever understood before--about us!

"You see when--when I came to you that night--after Jude--" shestruggled with her trembling--"I did not know such men as you--lived. Iwas what Jude and St. Angé had made me. I was afraid of you--but, " shebent over him in divine pity pressing her wet cheek to his bowed head;"but I grew to know! You were far, far above me, I soon saw how far. Younever thought about it, but it made it safe for you to help me. I cansee it all so plain now. 

"Then the evil that was in me, the evil that some might have made sovile, slipped away. I tried hard to be what you wanted me to be for myown sake. You did not think of the past and I tried to forget it, too;and so we came along to this night. 

"In that room"--she looked quiveringly at the closed door--"for amoment, I misunderstood again. I thought you were trifling with me. Ithink I felt for the first time that perhaps I was _not_ what I hadbeen--when I came out of the old life! I wanted to make sure, and Istooped to the meanest way. "

Gaston drew her close. Vaguely he feared that she was slipping fartherand farther from him for all her sweetness and nearness. 

"Joyce!" he cried wildly. "_You_ are not going to desert me--now?"

She dropped beside him and clasped her hands over his knee. There was noneed of reserve, she knew that better than he. 

"Can you not see what sort of man you are?" she asked fiercely; whilethe tears fell thick and fast. 

"Oh! I love you many, many ways. I can tell you this now and you mustnot stop me. I love you for them who left you alone to suffer. I loveyou just for myself, and I love you as I would have loved my poor babyhad God let me keep him. And that is the best way of all, for it holdsall other loves. 

"Oh, you must see! You shall see! The men out in your world--could anyof them have done what you have done--for me? Even Mr. Drew could notunderstand. Even _he_ thought you must have harmed me--he felt sorry for_me_! And knowing what _I_ know, do you, could any of those others, think I would let you harm--yourself?

"You have made me a stronger woman than even you tried to make me, and Ithank God for that--for you need me so very, very much!"

The deep sobs choked her, and she buried her head against his arm. Outof a desolation her words were creating, Gaston spoke desperately. 

"I do need you, and by heaven, I mean to have you!"

"You're right. I did not know what you meant to me; I know now, andsince Fate has played us false, we'll--we'll turn our backs on her. "

"Joyce, are you willing to--trust me?"

Almost roughly he raised her face and forced her to look at him. 

"I--trust you! You could never be anything but good and noble. I knowthat. You never have been--but, there are going to be other days andnights--just plain days and long black nights--and--I think we havealmost forgotten--but there is always--Jude!"

Then like a bewildering flash the words lightened the dark place ofGaston's character. 

This woman whom--he saw the fearful truth--this woman whom he had helpedto form, had outgrown him and left him far behind!

Now that she understood; now that her womanhood could stand alone, sherose pure and strong above his passion and the thing he called love. She only thought he had forgotten, when God knew he did not even carefor the rough fellow who had all but strangled the life out of her. 

"Besides"--he heard her as from a distance--"besides, you must go back!"

"Go back--good God! to what?"

"To all that you had to go back to--when you turned to help me!"

Then Gaston bent and raised the shrinking woman beside him. Face to facethey stood in the cold, still room. "Joyce, " he said thickly, "what I amgoing to say--you may never be able to forgive--but I must say it. 

"It is quite true, I gave no thought to what I was doing when I shieldedyou from Jude. St. Angé did not matter; there seemed no other way--and Inever considered others coming to complicate things. 

"I was miserable and lonely; but I felt sure of myself and in helpingyou I found an interest in life. Lately, almost unconsciously, I've feltthe change in you--the new meaning. I wanted to make sure and then beguided, since others had entered this--this fool's paradise of mine. Youare very beautiful--the most beautiful woman, I think, that I have everseen--and I know now that you are--the best!

"Joyce--your beauty crazed me, and I had not forgotten Jude; I did notcare!"

"Stop!" The little cold hand was pressed against his lips, "you shallnot! It was I who tempted you--you would have remembered--everything. Itis you who must forgive me--I am going--now!"

The slow, pitiful words fell lingeringly. 

"Going--where can you go?" Gaston stared dumbly at her. 

"I think Mr. Drew will help me. I am going to tell him everything--andhe will--find a way. "

"You shall not!" Gaston drew her to his breast. The primitive rosewithin him. 

"There is another way. The only way. Drew shall not meddle in myaffairs--nor yours. You will stay right here in your home until Ireturn. I'm going to Filmer; he's the only one we need, he'll act for usboth. "

"But--what then?" Joyce felt her heart stand still. 

"Then? why I'm going to find Jude. I'm going to buy him off--ifnecessary. He shall free you--and then--then!"

Gaston held the pale face off from him and searched the wide, startledeyes. 

"And then?" The words fell into a question. 

"But how"--Joyce panted; "how could I feel sure this great thing youplan is not another--unselfish act? Suppose, oh! suppose--_she_, that--that other girl--should come back--what then?"

"Hear me, Joyce. There is never going to be any one else. We are goingback together--into that other life. Why, the possibility almost blindsme. 

"They shall see what I've brought out of my experience. We'll make aplace for ourselves and redeem the past. They shall seek us, my darling, and they shall see at last that I am master of my life!"

His enthusiasm and exaltation carried Joyce along with him. 

"Dare I trust--not you--but myself?" she whispered. "After everything issaid--I am--what I am!"

"Yes--you are what you are!" Gaston pressed his lips against hertrembling mouth. "And now, good-bye!" he released her, and led hertoward her door. "I must make a few preparations--then get to Filmer. It's all very wonderful, but it is more true than wonderful. Until Icome, then--and it may take time, dear--you will remember?"

"Always--until you come--and after!"

Gaston bent again, but this time he only pressed his lips to the soft, pale hair. 

When the door closed behind her; he stood for a moment dazed andbewildered. Mechanically he turned to the first task that lay at hand. He rebuilt the dead fire. It seemed symbolic, somehow, and he smiled. Then holding to the fancy that touched him, he piled on log after log. 

There should be no lack of warmth and glow in the new reincarnation. 

An hour later he left the house, with the needful things for hispossible, long absence packed in a grip and flung across his shoulder. 

He had attended to so many small comforts for Joyce--the fire, thewriting out of directions, where to find money, etc. --that he had beenhurried in the details of his own affairs; he had forgotten to take thekey from the lock of the chest!

CHAPTER XIII

Jock Filmer was coming to the belief that there was a Destiny shaping_his_ ends _roughly_, smooth-hew them as he had ever tried to do. Jockwas pursued, there was no doubt of that. For reasons of his own he haddrifted into St. Angé when very young. Most conveniently and soothinglymemory and old habits dropped from him--they had clung tenaciously toGaston. Jock adapted himself to circumstances and new environment withflattering promptness. 

The Black Cat felt no resentment toward him after the first few months. His English became blurred with regard to grammar; the local speech wasgood enough for him. When Jock's Past became troublesome, as it had donefrom the very first, the Black Cat had consolation for its latestrecruit; and, while he did not sink quite so far as some of the natives, the shortcoming was attributed more to youth than to the putting on ofairifications, as Tate said. 

In a boyish, off-hand way, Filmer had always regarded Gaston as asign-board in an unexplored country. If things ever pressed too close, Filmer believed Gaston would point him to safety. 

A mystic something held them together. A common interest, consciouslycast into oblivion, but perfectly tangible and not to be denied, was theunspoken passport in their intercourse. 

Later, during the building of Drew's bungalow and their joint sympathyfor, and with, Joyce, Filmer had acknowledged Gaston, as a superior and, spiritually, regarded him as a leader in an interesting adventure. 

Gaston, the night when he faced Jude and him with the pointed question, "What you going to do about it?" had fallen from Jock's high opinion, and the crash had affected him to a painful extent. 

"Oh! what's the good?" he had finally concluded. 

Another friendship that had been formed in the lonely woods yet remainedto him, and he made the most of that. Drew's personality had stirredJock's emotions from the start. To look forward to a renewal of thecompanionship was a distinct pleasure in the time when the dust ofGaston's fallen image was blinding his eyes and smarting his heart. 

Drew came, sick but unconquered. All the chivalry in Filmer rose to thecall. He gave his time to the young minister. Using up the little moneyhe had earned as builder, resigning his chance to go into camp, hedevoted himself to Drew day and night. He became one of the family atthe bungalow and a jocose familiarity was as much a part of Jock'sliking for a person, as were his tireless patience and capacity forsingle-minded service. 

Drew's maiden aunt, prim, proper and worldly-wise, was as much AuntSally to Filmer as she was to her niece and nephew. Jock jollied thearistocratic lady as freely as he did Drew, toward whom he held thetolerant admiration that he had given him from the beginning. But poorJock was not to have his own easy planning of the new situation in alldirections. Constance Drew took a hand in the game, and Jock, withtrailing plume, plodded on behind her. 

If _he_ could gibe and tease, she could bring him about with her coolaudacity and comical dignity. 

The girl's splendid physique, her athletic tendencies, her endurance andpluck, compelled Jock's masculine admiration. Her love for her brother, her tenderness and cheerfulness toward him, won his heart; but hermental make-up, her strange seriousness where her own private interestswere concerned, caused the young fellow no end of amusement and delight. He had never seen any one in the least like her, and the new sensationheld him captive. 

Poor Jock! He was never again to walk through life without a chain andball; but little he heeded that while he had strength and spirit to dragthem. 

With Drew's partial recovery the bungalow household lost its head alittle. Aunt Sally's gratitude overflowed into every house in St. Angé. She felt as if the natives, not the pine-laded air, had beeninstrumental in this regained health and joyousness. 

"I can never thank you enough, " was her constant greeting; and sosincere was her gratitude that eventually the back doors of the squalidhouses opened to her unconsciously--and of true friendship there is nogreater proof in a primitive village. Sitting in their kitchens, it waseasy for her to reach down into their hearts, and many a St. Angé womanpoured her troubles into Aunt Sally's ears, and went forever after withuplifted head. 

"Why, my dear, " the old lady said to Ralph, after Peggy Falstar hadtaken her into her confidence, "these people are much like others, onlythey have the rough bark on. They are a great deal more vital--the barkhas, somehow, kept the sap richer. "

Drew laughed heartily. 

"The polishing takes something away, Auntie, " he replied. "The bark ishard to get through; it's tough and prickly and not always lovely, butit's the sap that counts in every case, and that's what I used to tellyou and Connie. Every time I tapped these people up here, I saw and feltthe rich possibilities. "

"Now, you go straight to sleep, " his aunt always commanded at thatjuncture. 

She was not yet able to face the probability of a final settlement inthese backwoods, but she saw with alarm that her nephew was planting hishopes deep and accepting the inevitable. 

"It's all such a horrible sacrifice of his young life, " she confided toConstance. 

"His young life!" the girl had returned with a straight, clear look. "Why, I begin to think the only life he has, Auntie, is what St. Angéoffers--he must take that or nothing. Oh! if only that little beast downthere in New York had had the courage of a mouse, and the imagination ofa mole, she might have made Ralph's life--this life--a thing to gothundering down into history! It's splendid up here! It's the sort ofthing that makes your soul feel like something tangible. My!" And withthat, on a certain mid-winter day, the young woman strode forth. 

A long fur-lined coat protected her from the deceiving cold. The drynessof the air was misleading to a coast-bred girl. A dark red hood coveredthe ruddy, curly hair, and skin gloves gave warm shelter to the slim, white hands. 

Down the snow-covered road Constance walked. She was tingling with thejoy of her life--her life and the dear, new life given to her brother. 

The pines pointed darkly to a sky so faultlessly blue that it seemed aJune heirloom to a white winter. 

The snow was crisp and smooth; a durable snow that must last untilspring. It knew its business and what was expected of it, so it was notto be impressed by mere footsteps, or the touch of prowling beast. 

Constance slid and tripped along. She sang snatches of old, rememberedsongs, and talked aloud for very fulness of heart and the sense of herMission rising strong within her. 

Since coming to St. Angé she had not, until now, had time to think ofher Mission--her last Mission;--for Constance Drew was a connoisseur inMissions. But now she must waste no more time. 

She patted her long pocket on the right-hand side--yes, the book and anassorted lot of pencils were there. She preferred pencils to fountainpens. The points were nicer to bite on, and she wasn't sure, in thisclimate, but that ink might freeze just when a soul-flight was about toland genius on a mountain-top. 

There was a beautiful log halfway between the bungalow and Gaston'sshack. It was a sheltered log, with a delectable hump on it where onecould rest the base of one's spinal column when victory, in the form ofinspiration, was about to perch. 

Constance sought this log when long, ambitious thoughts possessed her. The snow had been removed, and a cushion of moss, also bare of snow, made a resting place for two small feet, warmly incased in woollen-lined"arctics. "

Constance sat down and drew the red-covered book from her pocket, andplaced the seven sharply-pointed pencils, side by side and near at hand. 

A sound startled the girl. Her brow puckered. Even in the deep woodsinspiration was not safe from intrusion. 

Well, since some bothering person must take this time for appearing, Constance hoped it would be Joyce, for she wanted to see her and talkwith her. Joyce did not invite intimacy. Up there alone in her shack, waiting for Gaston's return, she was grappling with matters too sacredand agonizing to permit of curious interruption. That Drew's familyshould overlook any little social shortcoming in her and seek to meether on an equal footing, did not interest her in the least--she wantedto be alone, and for the most part she was. 

But it was not Joyce who appeared on the road. It was Jock Filmer and hecame, without invitation, to the log and put his foot on the end nearestthe girl. 

"Pleasant summer weather, hey?"

Constance raised her eyes from the little book in which she had beenwriting, and gave Jock the benefit of her honest inspection. 

"If you had ever lived where winter was meted out to you in the form offrozen moisture, " she said, "you'd know how to appreciate this nice, clean, undisguised cold. "

"I know the other kind. " Jock nodded reminiscently. "It is like beingslapped in the face with a sheet wet with ice water, isn't it?"

"Ha! ha! so you haven't always lived here? I thought as much. Indeed Ihave a note to that effect--here. " The girl tapped the red-covered book. 

"No; I've travelled some, " Jock confessed, "I've been to Hillcrestseveral times. "

"I believe you are masquerading. " Constance viewed him keenly. "I'vewritten to my married sister about you all up here; I call you andthat--that Mr. Gaston, the Masqueraders. "

"So!" Jock smoothed his chin with his heavily gloved hand. "That sisterof yours, doubtlessly, could spot us all on sight just by yourdescription. It ain't safe. How's your aunt and the Reverend Kid?" Jockgrinned amiably. The past weeks had given him time and opportunity forbroadening his views of life and enjoyment. 

"Ralph is fine"; the clear, gray eyes shone with the joy of the fact;"and Auntie is having the time of her life. You know she never had herlighter vein developed. Our city connection is awfully proper andcultivated. I always knew auntie was a Bohemian, and up here--she'splunging!"

"Umph! And you?"

"Oh! I'm getting--material. "

"Excuse me. " Jock passed his hand over his mouth. "There are times whenI think you're a comicaller little cuss than your brother!"

"Mr. Filmer!"

"Oh, come down! Mr. Filmer don't go in the woods in the middle ofwinter. What do you want for your Christmas?"

"When you make fun of me"--the girl was trying hard not to laugh--"youanger me beyond--expression. "

A guffaw greeted this. Then:

"What was you making in your little book when I came up?"

"Character sketches. "

"Sho! Let's have a look. I like pictures. "

"They're pen-pictures. "

"All the same to me. Pencil, pen, or paint-brush. "

"But you do not understand. They are _word_ pictures. Descriptions, youknow. "

"Well, now you have got me! Show up, anyhow. "

Constance opened the little book, and spread it out on her knee. 

"I am getting material for a novel, " she said impressively. "The greatAmerican novel has yet to be written. I do not want you to think meconceited, Jock, but I have had exceptional advantages--I may be thechosen one to write this--this great novel. "

"Who knows?" Jock's serious gaze was a perfect disguise for his trueinward state. 

"Yes; who knows? You see I can speak freely to you. "

"Sure thing, " assented Jock. "Dumb animals can't blab, and once you turnyour back on St. Angé I'll be a dumb beast all right!"

"My back will never be turned permanently on St. Angé, I think!" thegirl spoke slowly. "I agree with Ralph that for the future his home willprobably be here; and where Ralph is----"

"The lamb will surely come. Go on, child, and hang up your pictures. "They both laughed now. 

"First, " Constance folded her hands over the open pages of her book, "Iwonder, Jock, if you would like to hear--something of my life? It wouldexplain this--this--great ambition of mine. "

"Well, " Jock drawled, "if you don't think me too young and innocent forsuch excitement, fire away. Histories have always had a hold on me. Mostof 'em ain't true, but they tickle your imagination. "

"Jock! But I'm in earnest. I have felt that I must have a confidant. Some one who will--sympathize. I'm going to have a woman friend in a dayor so--but a man--one who is disinterested, so to speak, is always sucha comfort to a girl when she faces a great epoch in her life. "

Jock swallowed his rising mirth and his face became a blank so far asexpression was concerned. 

"I have had wonderful advantages, " Constance began, "that is what makesme dare to hope. Advantages of wealth, society and--and a deep insightinto people's innermost souls. "

"Gosh!" Jock exploded; "excuse me; I always burst out that way whenI'm--moved. " He sat down on the end of the log, and clutched his kneesin his strong arms. "Somehow you don't look like such a desperatecharacter, " he added blandly, "known sin and conquered it, and all therest?"

Constance sniffed, but a little jocularity was not going to deter herfrom the luxury of confession. 

"Money should only be regarded, " she went on, "as a sacred trust, and ameans of enriching one's life. And as for Society--that is a bore!Dances, theatres, dinners and luncheons. Chaperons tagging around afteryou, suggesting by their mere presence that, unless you're watched, you'll do something desperate in the wild desire to break the monotony. Well, I drank deep of _that_ life, " Constance looked dreamily over thestretch of meadow and pine-edged woods, all dazzling with a shimmer oficy snow, "before I took to----"

"Crime?" Jock suggested. "It would seem that that was the naturalsequence to such a career. "

"Jock Filmer--I took to philanthropy. "

"As bad as that?" Jock roared with laughter. 

"I only tell you this to explain my present position. " Constance drewher fur-clad shoulders up. "I became a Settlement worker; but, "confidently, "that was worse than Society. It _was_ Society withanother setting. 'Thanks be!' as Auntie says, I have a sense of humourand a remnant of Scotch canniness. It made me laugh--when it didn't makeme ashamed--to put on a sort of livery--plain frock, you know, and godown to the Settlement in the most businesslike way to 'do' for thosepoor people. It cost an awful lot to run our Settlement, abouttwo-thirds of all the money. One-third went to the poor. We had plentyof fun down there. All slummy outside and lovely things inside, youknow. It was like making believe. You see, " she paused impressively, "when you have a Mission like Settlement work, you don't have to have achaperon. "

"Ten to one, they're needed, though. " Jock was keenly interested. "Cutting loose from familiar ties and acting up sort of detached thatway, must have a queer effect upon some. "

"Well, I just got enough of it. Why, one Christmas, we at the SettlementHouse had a tree and gifts that cost hundreds of dollars. We had a bigdance. Evening dress and all the rest. Young men and women who, had theybeen in their own homes, would have been under some one's watchful eye, were having a jolly, good fling down there that Christmas Eve, I cantell you. 

"Right in the middle of the evening, a call came from a family in atenement around the corner. I knew all about them--or I thought Idid--so I went. I just flung a cloak about me and ran off alone. SomehowI did not want any one with me. "

Constance's eyes grew dim, and her under lip quivered. 

"It was awful. " Her voice sank low. "You see, with all the preparationsgoing on at the Settlement House, we had sort of forgotten this--thisfamily. They were not the noisy, begging kind, but there was a pitiful, little sick girl whom I had taken a liking to and to _think_ that Ishould have forgotten her--and at that time, too! There was no tree inthat home, Jock, there was nothing much, but the little dying girl andher mother. 

"They didn't even blame me--oh, if they only had!" The honest tears randown Constance's cheeks. "But they didn't. The mother said--and sheapologized for troubling me, think of that!--that the baby wanted me totell her a Christmas story. She just wouldn't go to sleep until I did, and she had been ailing all day. I--I forgot my dress, and tore off mycloak in that cold, empty room and I took that poor baby in my arms. Then--then the hardest part came--she--she didn't know me. She got thequeerest little notion in her baby head--she--she thought I wasan--angel. Oh! oh! and I wanted her to know me. "

Down went the girlish head in the open pages of the character sketches. 

"Well of all gol-durned nonsense!" Jock blurted out. "The whole blamedshow oughter been exposed. I reckon the best job the company ever had toits credit was that happening of yours--the dress and the--the--rest ofthe picter. Lord!" Jock's feelings were running over as he looked uponthe bowed head. The story had got hold of his tender heart. "Lord above!Just think of that sort of rum suffering going on back there. It's worsethan what happens here. We've got wood to keep the kids warm in winter, and there's clean air and coolness in summer. I'm durned glad I cut itwhen"--he stopped short. Constance was looking at him with wide, questioning eyes. 

"When I did, " Jock added helplessly. "And now go on with that poorlittle child what you took to your bosom. "

"That's all. " Constance choked painfully. "The baby--died while I wastelling her about the wonderful tree, and Santa Claus and the other joysshe should have had, and never did have. I can see that hideous emptyroom, and--and that poor baby every time I shut my eyes. "

"Here, look up now, " Jock commanded, his feelings getting the best ofhim. "When life's so empty that you can't find things to do by openingyour eyes, you better keep your eyes shut to all eternity. Calling upthe past is the rottenest kind of folly in a world where things ishappening. "

Constance rallied to the stern call. 

"And now, " she said briskly, "I've given myself, heart and soulto--literature. I'll _write_ of what I have seen, and lived!

"Listen, I'll read you a sketch or so. But first I'll explain. The localcolour of my novel is drawn from--here. "

Jock pulled himself together. 

"Well, I'll be blowed!" he sympathetically ejaculated, "Here where thereain't, what you might say, enough local color to more than touch up thenoses of the Black Catters. "

"Jock! Now, see if you'd know it. " She read a scrappy description of thevillage. "Would you recognize it?"

"With a footnote, it would go. " Jock was all attention. "But I have mydoubts as to whether Pete Falstar will take kindly to his place ofresidence being classified as a human pig-sty. That's laying the localcolour on, with a whitewash brush, don't you think? A little dirt anddisorder don't seem to call for such language. "

"That is artistic license. " Constance explained. 

"Well, you ought to pay high for that kind of license--but maybe you do. Go on. "

"I handle my subject without gloves, " Constance began again. 

"By gosh! I'd keep 'em on when I was tackling pig-stys and such; butdon't mind me. "

"And here; see if you can guess who this is?

"'The sleek, fat proprietor looked oily within and oily without. Heoozed oil on the community that he was demoralizing with his poisonouswhiskey and doctored beer. '"

"God bless and save us!" Jock rolled from side to side. "If you don'tbeat all for gol-durned sass. Why, Tate will sue you for damages if thatgreat American novel ever strikes his vision. Oil! Thunderation; andpoisonous whiskey, and doctored beer. Was it Society or Settlement whatlet light in on you, about such terms?"

"Neither. It's--inspiration. "

"It's just plain imperdence, and it'll get you in trouble. Are you goingto use names in that novel of yours?"

"Certainly not. Do you think I do not know my art? But you recognizeTate? Then he lives!"

"Good Lord! Know him? How under the everlasting firmament could I helpknowing him? What other proprietor is there in St. Angé, you comicallittle bag of words? specially one as demoralizes the community withpoisoned whiskey and doctored beer? Balls of fire! but this beats theband. Go on; go on. "

When a man of thirty steps out of a starved exile and comes in contactwith a girl like Constance Drew, it may be dangerous to "go on, " but theexile will certainly _want_ to. 

Nothing loath; all sparkling and radiant, Constance swept along. 

"And I've got--you, but maybe you will never forgive me. I took you atyour--your worst--for don't you see when I use you--later--I'm going toredeem you and have you come out truly splendid. "

Jock's jaw dropped, and the laugh fled from his overflowing eyes. 

"Me?" he gasped. Constance nodded, and waved a pointed pencil towardhim. 

"Wait!" she ran her eye down the page. "'Beautiful woman--witha--Past'--that's the girl up in the other Masquerader's shack, that girlJoyce, you know, and Gaston--and here's Peggy Falstar--'woman sunk toman's level and reproducing her kind'--brief note of Billy Falstar as'impish child'--oh! here you are!

"'Village Bacchus. Tall, handsome, but lost, apparently, to shame. Swaggering criss-cross down the road, laughing senselessly and shoutingsongs. Slave to appetite. Controlled by his brutal passions. When spokento in this state, assumes manner of gentleman. Subconscious self--studyin heredity. --Let a strong influence enter his life--handsome noblegirl--redemption at end--splendid character. '"

"Good God!"

Constance dropped the book. The eyes that met her own had a look inthem that drove the cold, which she had not felt before, to her veryheart. 

"What--what--is the matter?" she gasped. 

"Did you--ever see me--like that?" The words came hoarsely. 

"Yes. One day a few weeks ago. Ralph wanted you. I went to findyou--and"--the girl's eyes dropped. She felt a sudden humiliation as ifhe had detected her reading his private letters. 

"And I talked--rot and all the rest?"

"Yes. I never told Ralph; I knew it would hurt him--I had--no right totell you this--it is only--copy for me. "

"Copy?"

"Yes; stuff to work into the--novel. "

"The novel? Ah, I remember. I'm going to be stuffed in with Tateand--and the others?"

"Yes; but don't you recall, _you_ are to be redeemed--you are to bemy--my hero--in the end you are to be--splendid. "

A deep groan was the only reply to this; the groan and the look ofgrowing misery on the man's face. 

"You're to go back--you see I feel you once belonged somewhere else--andtake up your life-work with----"

"With?" Jock repeated the word hopelessly. 

"With her--the girl. "

"What girl?"

"Why the girl I'm going to create. First I thought I'd have her--Joyce;but that doesn't stand clear in my thought--I cannot quite see just thesort of girl--that could rouse you to--to great things. "

Filmer was staring at the speaker with dazed and pitiful eyes. ThenConstance beheld a miracle. The stony misery melted as an infinitesadness and pity overflowed. 

Jock stood up, plunged his hands in his pockets and looked down at thedissecter who had bared every sensitive nerve in his heart and soul. 

"When--you write that book, " the words drawled out the bitter thought, "just omit--me--please--if you have any mercy. "

"Jock!" Constance sprang to her feet. "Jock--how could I know that youwould care?"

"You--couldn't, of course. "

"Is it because I saw you so?"

"No. "

"You know of course--that I'd never speak of that to any one--I onlyused it for my book. "

"If that will help your book--take it; but leave out----"

"What?"

"The girl--the redemption--and----"

"Why?"

"Can't you--guess?"

"No. " But as the word passed her lips, she did guess--and what shesurmised sent the blood rushing through her body. 

"Don't be frightened, Miss Drew, " Filmer was getting command of himself;"there isn't going to be any redemption; nor any girl--that's all; don'tyou see? There never is in such cases, and you want to be true to lifein that first, great American novel. You got your brush in the wrong potof local colour when you daubed me. No offence intended, or taken, Ihope. God bless you! strike your pencil through all that came after thespree part. You're welcome to that, but I decline to let you ruin yourreputation by offering up the rest to the public. "

He was laughing again, and the agony had passed from his careless face. 

"And now?" he asked, "which way?"

"I'm going--home. "

"Well, well, come along. I'm bound for the Reverend Kid myself. I've gothis mail in my pockets--and yours, too by thunder! You're too diverting, Miss Drew, you took my thoughts off business. Come on. "

CHAPTER XIV

Joyce, waiting in the solitude of the shack under the pines, heard andsaw little of what was going on in St. Angé. She was living at highpressure, and she had not even the relief of companionship to divert herfrom her lonely vigils. 

Naturally the exhilaration of the night that Gaston left her, passed andthe dull monotony of the daily tasks performed perfunctorily with nocharm of another's approbation and sharing, lost the power of holdingher thoughts. 

She ate, and made tidy the little house in quite the old way, but thelarge dreaming eyes looked beyond the narrow confines, and grew patheticas they searched the white fields and hidden trails off toward theNorthern and Southern Solitudes. 

Which way had he gone? From which direction would he return? Everythingwas ready for him--it always had been since the night he left--and she, herself, once the daily routine was over, donned her prettiest garments, not the golden gown! and waited either by the glowing fire or by thelittle windows. 

Early in the day following Gaston's departure, she had discovered thekey in the lock of the chest! The sight for a moment, made her tremble. 

Had he left it by mistake? Had he left it designedly, now that he hadtaken her completely into his confidence?

But had he? Joyce flushed and paled at the thought. After all, what hadhe really told her? She did not know, even, his true name nor the placefrom which he had come. 

No; she knew very little. Shaken from his indifference by her beauty andcharm into a realizing sense of the woman he had helped to form, Gastonhad indeed broken his silence and voiced the one great tragedy of hislife to her--and she had superbly stood the test; but that was all!

In the chest lay, perhaps the rest! His name; the name of those who hadtaken part in all that had gone before the terrible time of his trouble. For a moment a paralyzing temptation came to Joyce to solve for herself, by the means at hand, the mystery which still surrounded the man sheloved with a completeness and abandon that controlled every thought andact of her life. But it was only a momentary weakness. Her love shieldedher from any shortcoming that could possibly lower her. 

Bravely she walked up to the chest, and proved herself by trying the lidto see if the chest were unlocked. It was. Gaston had not even takenthat precaution. 

Joyce smiled--all was now safe with her. She would never feel temptedagain. It became a comfort to sit near the chest. She deserted theliving room and made a huge fire upon Gaston's hearth. Evenings she tookher book or sewing there, and the chest with its secrets seemed like afriend who, from very nearness of comradeship, had no need to speak itshidden thoughts. 

In the desolation of the mid-winter loneliness, the pale woman grew tofeel, when in Gaston's room, a high courage and strength. Everythingwould come out right. Details were not to be considered. Gaston hadalways been all-powerful; he would conquer now. What did the waitingcount? He, meanwhile, was tracing Jude. Soon he would return, havingfreed her from every evil thing of the past. He would find her as he hadleft her--a woman fitted by a great love to follow whither he led. 

And then--as the long evenings pressed silently cold and dark around theshack, her fancy ran riot. All that she had yearned for; all, all thatthe books had suggested, she was to see. Mountain peaks and roaringocean; strange people like, yet so unlike, Gaston. To think that allthis was going to happen to her--old Jared's little Joyce. 

A few days after Gaston's departure Jock Filmer walked into the shackquite as easily as if months had not passed without a sight of him; hecame almost daily afterward. It was like Jock to assume the newrelation in this easy, companionable way. 

Joyce was grateful. This was but another proof of Gaston's greatness. 

"Everything going straight, Joyce?" The question came one day while thekeen eyes were taking in the store of wood, water and other necessaries. 

"Everything, Jock; and the store-room is stocked. Sit down--and tell methe news. "

Joyce was not particularly interested, but it would put Jock at ease. 

Jock gracefully flung himself into Gaston's chair. The two were, ofcourse, in the living room. 

"There's company up to the bungalow, " he spoke from the fullness of hisheart; "a widder girl. "

"A--a widow?" Joyce was for a moment perplexed. 

"Yes. She don't look a day older than Drew's sister, and she's powerfulcheerful for an afflicted person. But maybe she ain't afflicted. Theyain't, always. She looks as if she was dressing up in them togs for fun, and at first glimpse it strikes one as sacrilegious. Something like akid using holy words in its play. "

Joyce smiled. After all it was good to have the dear human touch, evenif the vital spark were lacking. 

"Is--the widow-girl pretty, Jock?" she asked in order to detain Filmer. 

"Well, " a line came between Jock's eyes, "that's the puzzler. Now Drew'ssister--" Jock spoke in this detached way of Constance Drew forself-defense--"Drew's sister stands for what she is; a good, honest, handsome girl. You own up to that and that's the end of it. This onesets you thinking. Is she, or ain't she pretty? you keep putting toyourself. Do you like her, or don't you? Is she thinking about whatyou're saying, or ain't she? That's the way your mind works when you arewith her, till it seems a plain waste of time, and riles you way down tothe ground. I like a woman what, having passed up her personality, letsyou alone as to further guessing 'less you have a mind to guess. Joyce!"

"Yes, Jock. "

"They want you up to the bungalow to help along with the Christmasdoings. I never saw such happenings in all my life. All St. Angé isgoing to see what's what for once. Presents for everybody; big party atthe bungalow Christmas night; the overflow is going even to reach up tothe camps. Boxes and barrels arriving every day from down the State. Lord, but you should see Tom Smith's curiosity! There are big doings. They call it a kind of thanksgiving for the Reverend Kid's recovery; andthey want you. "

Joyce started back. She was interested, but only as it was apart fromherself. 

"Oh, Jock!" she cried. "I couldn't. I just couldn't. "

"I thought you couldn't, " Jock returned calmly; "and you shan't if youdon't want to. "

"Thank you. Don't let them feel hurt, but I could not go. "

Jock cast a sympathetic glance toward her; and changed the subject. 

"It's wonderful the grip that weak little Reverend has already got onthis town, " he went on. "He's a sly one. Preaching ain't in it with theundercurrent he's let loose here. It's just sapping the foundations ofsociety. It's setting free a lot of good stuff, but it's striking Tatean all-fired blow. "

"Tell me about it, Jock. It seems as if I had been asleep a--longwhile. "

"Well there are sermons _and_ sermons. " Jock was flattered by the lookin Joyce's large eyes. "If the Reverend Kid had opened shop in theregular way, Tate and his pals would have downed him in no time; butwhat you going to do about sermons that are slipped in with talks towomen over their wash-tubs, and what not?

"Him and me was going by Falstar's the other day, and Peggy was washinguncommon hard. Drew, he steps close to the tubs and says he, 'I tellyou, Mrs. Falstar, I don't know no better religion than getting thespots out instead of slighting them. It's like the little Scotch girlwho said she knew when she got religion, for she had to sweep under themats. ' Peggy was all a-grin, and Lord! how she went at it. Later, sheattacked the mats. It had set her thinking. I saw 'em hanging out, andshe beating them as she must often feel like beating Pete. " A real laughgreeted this, and Jock glowed with approval. 

"And then what does that young lunger do, but gather in all the floatingpopulation in the kid line, and play games with 'em, and read thrillersto 'em up at the bungalow every evening. He's teaching them as wants tolearn, too. He's got Tate flamgasted. You see, the old man depended, forthe future, on them youngsters that haunted the tavern and got thedrippings that fell from within. The Black Cat Tavern Kindergarten isbusted, and the Bungalow stock is going up. "

"Kindergarten? What's that, Jock?"

"Oh, it's a new-fangled idea in the way of schools. Sort of breaking upthe ground for later planting. "

"Who told you about it?"

"Why--Drew's sister. " Jock's face looked stern and he gazed into space. 

"It's a splendid idea, Jock. " Joyce's interest was keen enough now. "Some one, even St. Angé's folks, should have seen how fine it is tokeep the children away from the tavern. How we have let everythingdrift! Why Jock, if the boys and girls learn to hate the Black Cat; ifthey are given something good, why of course St. Angé is going to beanother kind of place. Does Miss Drew help in teaching?"

"Does she?" Poor Jock smiled pitifully in his effort to appearunconcerned. "They sit at her feet lost to everything but what she tells'em. Billy Falstar, before he left to be a camp fiddler, was a reformedbrat. She had smote him hip and thigh, and finished him, as far as acareer of crime is concerned. Do you know, he went up to see her withhis red hair plastered down with lard until it was a dull maroon colour;his square cotton handkercher was perfumed with kerosene, and I tell youhe was a sight and a smell to remember; but Drew's sister stood itwithout a word. She told me afterward that it was a proofconclusive--them's her words--of Billy's redemption. 

"I saw the brat the day he started for camp. I tell you the ginger wasall out of Billy. When he was obliged to swear he did it in whispers. "

"Poor Billy! He's pretty young to begin camp life. There's good inBilly. I wish Mr. Drew would make Peter send him to school. "

"That's what he's planning to do. "

Soon after this, when Jock started to go, he said: "So everything's fitfor a spell?"

"Everything Jock, until--"

They looked at each other mutely. Then Jock put his hand out awkwardlyand took Joyce's. 

"Good-bye, " he said quietly. His manner puzzled the girl. 

"Life's a queer jamboree, " he laughed lightly. "It's a heap easier tostand it if you give yourself the hope of cutting it if you find thepace too fast. So 'good-bye' is always in order even if you're going todrop in to-morrow. Good-bye. "

Joyce walked with him to the door. "Good-bye, " she said with a growingdoubt in her heart; "good-bye, Jock--and I can never tell you how Ithank you. "

It was many a long day before Joyce was to see Filmer again, and shealways felt that she knew it as she saw him pass beyond the pines afterthat "good-bye. "

 * * * * *

Perhaps it was the boyish longing for Christmas cheer that struck such adeadly blow at the heart of Billy, the fiddler, in Camp 7. Perhaps itwas the arrow that smites all, sooner or later. Be that as it may, asChristmas drew near the mournful tunes Billy managed to saw from hisfiddle got on to the nerves of the men. 

From remarks aimed at his efforts, pieces of wood and articles ofclothing were aimed at him, and Billy's life became a burden in thedull, deep woods. 

"I can't make jigs come, " he whined one evening, "when I'm chock full ofhymn tunes. "

"You'll be chock full of cold lead if you fill this hull camp with themdeath dirges, " warned one man who was bearing about all he could anyway. 

"I wish to--I just wish I was plugged full of lead--and done for, " wasBilly's unlooked-for reply; and then, to the surprise of all, he benthis red curls over the fiddle and wept as only a homesick youngster canweep when the barriers of his fourteen years are down, and the flood hasits way. 

That night, Billy in his bunk, sleepless and consumed with longing forhome and the excitement of the bungalow element, planned desertion. Atmidnight he crept to the larder and packed enough food to last for acouple of days, at four o'clock he stole from the sleeping-shed, and, cheered by the unanimous snores that rang in his ears, he turned hisfreckled, determined face toward St. Angé and the one absorbing passionof his life. 

The outlook of the Solitude at four in the morning was not an altogethercheerful one even to ambitious youth. Indeed there was little, if any, outlook. 

Blackness around; cold starlight overhead. Snow and ice everywhereexcept on the trail that a "V" plow had made through the forest. 

It was cruelly still and lonely. "Gawd, " said Billy raising his eyes tothe emptiness above him, "you see me to the end of this, and, by gosh!I'll swear to go to Hillcrest to school. "

From irreligious depravity, Billy had risen to reverent heights, andHillcrest restraint was beautiful in his thought, as a method ofpreparing him for--Her. 

A fear he had never known had birth in Billy's heart then as he slippedand slid down the icy trail that had been flooded and frozen for thepassage of the logs. Even his unprotected boyhood had been shielded fromfour-o'clock journeys in the wintry woods heretofore. 

The only help Billy could draw from the situation was, that so far hecould refrain from whistling. When in this tense state a boy is reducedto whistling all hope for strength is gone. 

A distant groan; swish! ah! ah! and crash! rent the stillness. The boydrew his breath in sharp. 

"D---- blast that tree!" gurgled he, "what did it have to fall for now?"

Suddenly a deer darted across the trail and turned its wondering eyes onthe small brother of the woods. Billy's spirits rose. The wild thingswere friends. The boy's depravity had always been redeemed by a lack ofcruelty. 

A little farther on the way, Billy seated himself on a fallen log, andcheered his inner man by a "bite of breakfast. " Presently a shy, wildcreature drew near; took note and courage and scurried to Billy's feet. With generous hand the boy shared his early meal, and made a familiarnoise that further won the little animal's confidence. 

Billy had his plans well laid. There was a lumberman's hut a day's walkfrom the camp; he must make that by night. There would be a rough bedand chopped wood; he could sleep and rest and then, if all went well, heought to make St. Angé by the end of the following day, particularly ifhe got a "lift, " which was not impossible. 

Just then, for the morning was beginning to show through the gaunttrees, a bird-note sounded. Billy rose quickly--there was no time towaste. Sometimes a bird sounded that warning when a storm was near. Itwould never do for him to face a storm so far from shelter. 

All that day Billy trudged on. Fortunately it was a constant, thoughgradual, decline and the journey was made easier. He ate occasionally, and gained courage and strength, but it was nearly nine o'clock--thoughBilly was not aware of it--before the landmarks proved his hopetrue--the woodman's hut was near at hand. 

The boy had all the keenness of his age and environment. He knew thatothers besides himself might avail themselves of the shelter, and he hadreason for choosing his company; so, before he reached the house, hetook to tip-toeing, and keeping clear of the underbrush. 

The hut had one small window, before which hung a dilapidated shutter bya rusty hinge. The door opened, Billy knew, into a little passage fromwhich the room door opened, and from which a rickety ladder led up to aloft, unused and apparently useless. 

As the boy neared the house his trained senses detected the smell offire and the sound of muffled voices. He crept to the window, andthrough the broken shutter saw two figures crouching by the blazinglogs, but the faces were turned away, and the gloom of the room made itimpossible for Billy to decide whether the men were familiars orstrangers. 

Meanwhile the wind was rising with a storm in its keeping; there wasnothing to do but seek refuge, for, until he could determine his furthercourse, Billy decided to take to the loft in order to reconnoitre. 

Cautiously he made his way to the door, lifted the latch and gained theentry. There he paused, for the voices had ceased speaking and the boyfeared that he had been heard. After a moment he concluded it was saferto be in the loft in case the men were suspicious, so he hurriedlymounted the ladder and crawled along the dusty floor of the spaceoverhead. 

Gratefully, to his half-frozen form, the heat from below rose, and withit came the odour of frying bacon, and the sound of sizzling fat. 

Fortune was still further with Billy. There was a pile of discardedbedding and clothing on the floor. If worst came he could stay where hewas and be partially comfortable. 

As he reached this conclusion a voice from below caused his heart tostand still. 

"I thought I'd seen the last of yer. You got all I had--what more do youwant with me?"

It was Jude Lauzoon who spoke. 

"See here, son"; and the smooth tones filled Billy with an old fear;"that was all a big mistake. My hand was out of the game. St. Angé hadtaken the nerve out of me. I've got my steam up now. " It was JaredBirkdale! and Billy had hoped he was never to see the man again. Fromhis babyhood up, a look from Jared had had power to quell him when ablow from another might fail. 

"Well, I ain't got nothing more to give you. " Jude sounded sullen andugly. 

Through a crack in the floor Billy could see that it was Jude who waspreparing the evening meal, while Jared, as usual, was taking his ease, and discoursing at his leisure. 

"You've got more to give than what you know Jude, my boy. What you doinghere, anyway?"

"You see what I'm doing. Here, take this hunk of bread, and come nearerso I can flip the bacon on. "

The sight and smell made Billy's mouth water, even while something inhim foretold danger. 

"Now, see here, Jude. " Jared spoke through a full mouth. "You and mecan't afford to work at cross purposes. Where we failed once, we aregoing to succeed next time. "

"You darsn't show your face down there beyond the woods again, and youknow it. " Jude spoke doggedly. "They was after us both. Besides I can'tstand transplanting. It would be the death of me. It nearly was. "

"Don't be white-livered, Jude. You see the laws have changed more thanany one could have thought, while I was browsing away in St. Angé. That's where I made my mistake. I ought to have taken time and got thelay of the land 'fore I beckoned to you; but it looked safe enough, andI had to take, or leave the Joint, sudden. How could any man know it wasspotted, and so had to be got rid of? It was one on us and no mistake. 

"Fill up my cup, Jude, you're a tasty one with cooking. "

Jude obeyed and muttered as he did so: "Luck or no luck, I ain't gotnothing, nor ever will have again, so that's an end of it. "

"Jude, where you going to?"

"Where be you?"

Up aloft Billy waited. 

"I'm going to St. Angé. " There was defiance in Jude's tone--defiance anda sort of shame; Jude had again lost his grip. 

"I've just come from there, " said Jared. 

And now Billy could see through his peephole that Jude started intolife. 

"You been there?"

Jared gurgled assent. 

"How is--she?"

"That's it, Jude. Now let's get down to business. Having to hidesomewhere after that little unpleasantness down State, I ran up to St. Angé. Knowing the way about, it was a better place than some others, andI could keep from sight and find things out. I stopped at Laval'shaunted shack. " Billy shivered. "I kept clear of my place. "

"Guess you wasn't disturbed none at Laval's, " sneered Jude and he gavean unpleasant laugh. 

"'Twas blasted cold, and I had the devil's time getting enough at nightto keep me going by day; but I learned a heap, and I struck your goldmine all right, sonny. "

"What you mean? Spit it out. "

Billy crouched closer, and his breath came thick and fast. 

"He's--left her!"

"Gaston?" An ugly oath escaped Jude. 

"Gaston. But not for what you think. Jude, he's after you. " Jared pausedfor effect. 

"After me?" The ugliness gave place to a dull fear. 

"You, my son. He wants you to free Joyce. " Evidently this announcementfailed to reach Jude's intelligence. 

"Free her? Me? What's got you, old man? Didn't she cut, herself?"

"You don't catch on, Jude. He wants to do the big, white thing by thegirl--marry her out of hand clean and particular, and he wants to getyour word that you won't make any trouble. "

A silence followed this. Jude was struggling to digest it; but theresult was simple. 

"Well, by thunder! Won't he have to pay high for it?"

There was excitement and feverish energy in Jude's voice now. 

"Maybe he'll fling a bone to you--but don't you see, son, you can holdoff and make him pay, and pay and pay?

"Now tell me, so true as you live, what was _you_ going down to St. Angéfor?"

"I was going down to"--Jude hesitated. "Well, I was tired of beinghounded, and having to hide and starve. I was going down to get--what--Icould--and no questions asked. " A foolish laugh followed. Beside Jared'ssubtlety, Jude seemed a babbling infant with feeble aims. 

Jared was contemptuous. 

"Gosh darn it, Jude! It's good I fell across your path again. You mighthave thrown away the one, great, shining opportunity of your life. Listen to _my_ plans. You better stay where you are, and let me run thishere show. I got the tracks all laid out. I'm sort o' inspired where itcomes to plotting for them I love. I'm going to write a touching letterto her. It's going to state that Gaston is laid up from an accident in ahut, further up to the north. A lumberman is going to write theletter--catch on? and she's wanted up to Gaston's dying bedside. Thelumberman is going to meet her at Laval's. When she's caught safe andsure, Jock Filmer--he's the go-between in all this--will get thatinformation, or the part about her going away, to Gaston; then thegame's in our hands. If Gaston means business, he'll pay what _we_ say. If he ain't sharp set as to a big figger, we've got Joyce; and bythunder! who's got a better right? Then we'll make tracks, after thespring freshet, to another place I know of where laws is stationary andfolks ain't over keen, and where a handsome woman like Joyce will help. I've got money enough left from the wreck to tide us over, myson--unless Gaston planks down. "

All this completed Billy's demoralization. His teeth chattered louder, and for the life of him he could not control an audible sound, half sob, half sigh. But Jude was evidently as much overpowered as Billy, for theboy suddenly heard him emit an oath, and then a volley of questionsdesigned to clear the air after Jared's storm of eloquence. 

"She'll come, all right. " Jared had his answers ready. "It's anall-fired queer state of things down there to St. Angé. You and me ain'tnever struck Gaston's kind before. Joyce'll go when he calls, and don'tyou forget it--all I've got to do is to make the lumberman's letter realconvincing. 

"Sure! I'm the lumberman, all right. Camp up north? Nothing. I'll landher here where her rightful and loving husband will be waiting for hertill further developments. How did I find out the lay of the land? Gosh!that was a tight squeeze. I found out he was over to Hillcrest, Gastonyou know; and I run up, after dark to his shack, planning to get a haulfrom Joyce. I got into the back kitchen while she was outside, andbefore I could get away--in walks Gaston. What I saw and heard thatevening, Jude, ain't necessary here, but it blazed our trail, boy, and Icut later--taking more than I planned for. " Birkdale breathed hard. "Youleave Gaston to me, curse 'im!

"Make trouble for us? How in thunder is a man to make trouble for ahusband who is taking his own wife to his dishonoured bosom? Lord! Jude, you've got about as much backbone as an angle worm. 

"What?" Some muttered words followed that Billy could not catch. Then--

"Trust me! Does any one know to this day, you blamed fool, who shot thatgovernment detective that was snooping into that clearing you and memade--five years back? Gaston'll pay or you'll take one of themnever-failing shots of yours, and----"

It had been a hard day for Billy, and he was only fourteen. 

The low, smoke-filled loft seemed to draw close about him, and itsmothered the life out of him. He thought he screamed, but instead, anunseen power laid a kindly hand upon his trembling mouth, and a pausecame in his troubled life. It was not sleep, nor was it faintness thatstruck like death the frightened boy--but an oblivion, from which heissued clear-headed and strengthened. 

When he again realized his surroundings he was cramped and cold, andhungry as a wolf. From below two deep, unmusical snores rosecomfortingly. There was but one thing to do--and Billy must prepare forit. 

He ate every crumb of food that remained in his bag; then he rubbedhimself until his numbness lessened. At last he was ready to set forthfor St. Angé, and, be it forever to his glory, Billy the Redeemed, hadonly Joyce in mind when his grim little freckled face once more turnedtoward home!

Christmas, the joys of the bungalow, all, all were forgotten. It was abig and an awful thing he had on hand, but he must carry it out to theend. Floating gossip gained strength in Billy's memory as he trudgedthrough the black morning of that second hard day. 

Childhood was not much considered in St. Angé, but childhood protectsitself to a certain degree, and Billy had never fully understood whatthe gossip about Joyce had meant. All at once he seemed to have become aman; and, oh! thank God, a man with a warm heart. A kinship of sufferingand hope with Joyce made him wondrous tender. He'd stand by her. Theyshould all see what he could do. And that hated Jared Birkdale should bedriven forever from St. Angé. 

It was a long, dreary journey which Billy took that day. The plentifulmorning meal had beggared the future, but it had given the boy power tostart well. 

With daylight and home in view, although at a dim distance, Billy feltthat he controlled Fate. 

It would be some days before Jared could possibly get the letter toJoyce. Long before it came he, Billy, would be on the spot, and nothingcould pass unnoticed before his eyes. 

At eight o'clock of that second day, the boy, worn to the verge ofexhaustion, staggered into his mother's kitchen, and almost frightenedPeggy to death by simply announcing:

"I've cut, and I'll be eternally busted if I ever go back, so there! AndI'm starved. "

With the latter information Peggy could deal; the former was beyond her. She prepared a satisfying repast for her son; noting, as she hoveredover him, the change that had come. He was no longer a child, thereforehe was to be respected. An awe possessed Peggy. The awe of Man as shehad ever known him. Her Billy was a man! Then she noticed how thin hewas, and how his mouth drooped, and how black the circles were under hisbig eyes. 

Had they been cruel to him in camp? They could be so cruel; but then, Billy was a favourite. 

What had happened?

It was proof of Billy's spiritual and physical change that Peggy did notcuff him and demand an explanation. 

CHAPTER XV

Billy ate long and uninterruptedly. Peggy supplied his demands beforethey were voiced, and Maggie, the small and unimpressed sister, eyed himfrom across the table with keen, unsympathetic stare. Occasionally shemade known her opinions with a calm, sisterly detachment that roused noresentment in the new being who had hurled himself upon them. 

"You eat like a real pig, " Maggie remarked with a sniff. She was beingtrained for the bungalow fête, and she had suffered in the process. 

Billy eyed her indifferently. 

"Push them 'taters nearer, " was all he replied. 

"Your father'll kill you, " Peggy ventured timidly, as she filled Billy'scup for the fourth time with a concoction which passed in St. Angé forcoffee, because Leon Tate so declared it. 

"No, he won't, neither, " Billy said; "nobody ain't ever going to killme, never!"

He turned a tense, defiant face to his mother, but there was somethingin his eyes that drew tears to Peggy's. She came behind his chair and, half afraid, let her hand rest upon his thin shoulder. 

Wonder of wonders! Billy did not shake off the unfamiliar caress. Onthe contrary he smiled into the work-worn face above him. 

"Ain't Billy terrible speckled when the tan's off?" Maggie broke in, "and his hair's as red as my flannel petticoat. "

Peggy cast a threatening glance at her daughter. 

"Clear off the table!" she commanded, for Billy was at last finished. 

Maggie set about the task with relief. Something was afoot that shecould not understand. Maggie was not spiritually constructed, but shewas going to be a woman some day!

"Mother!" Generally Billy addressed her as "say!" "Mother, I'm goingover to Hillcrest to school. I'm going to work when I can, and--makesomewhat of myself. "

Maggie dropped a cup, and, because she happened to be near her mother, Peggy relieved her own feelings by boxing the girl's ears. Then sheturned again to her man-child and stared stupidly. 

Poor downtrodden Peggy! She was at a crisis of motherhood that is commonto high and low. Since Mary of Galilee found her son in the Templequestioning Wisdom, and with awe beheld that he was no longer her littlechild, the paralyzing question, "What have I to do with thee?" has setmaternity back upon itself over and over again, in order that thesuddenly arrived Man might be upon "his Father's business. "

"Going to--make--something of yourself?"

Peggy's trembling hands groped feebly, and then, thank heaven! Billydrew near and glorified this new, but lonely place of his own creation. 

"You've done your best, mother; I see it now, but I was--I ain't goingto say what I was--but I'm going to be something different; and you'regoing to help me now, like you always have. "

A pain gripped Peggy's throat, and the room whirled about. Then the mistcleared from the dim eyes and Hope lighted them. 

"Son, " she said solemnly, "I am. I don't quite see how, but the way willbe opened. Go in, now, and rest; you look clean done for. "

It was humiliating, but Billy had to feel his way to the door of thebedchamber beyond. 

Alone with her daughter, Peggy's Vision on the Mount faded. 

"Billy's aged terrible, " she said to Maggie, who was still sulkingbecause of the boxed ear. 

"I know what's the matter with him. " Maggie's lynx-eyes glittered. "Ifound some po'try he writ on the back of the wood-shed door. He thoughtnobody but him ever went there. It's grand po'try. "

Maggie struck an attitude, and drawled:

 My heart feels like a chunk of rock When I am far from you, But when you trip acrost my vision My heart melts same as du. 

"I learned that in one morning!" Maggie proudly declared. "I don't careif he is my brother, that's grand. "

Peggy dropped helplessly in her chair. She had never looked for glory inher modest dream. That Billy should escape the degradation of the BlackCat, and that Maggie might have a lighter cross than her own to carry, had been the most she had plead for when she had had time to pray; andnow--why God had crowned her lot by children who were undoubtedlygeniuses! Maggie, too, had a circle of light about her head. And it hadall dawned upon Peggy in a flash of an eye. 

"You ain't sick to your stomach, are you, mother?"

Peggy repudiated this with scorn. 

"Maggie, " she said softly, "I want that you should write that out realplain for me, in print. I'm going to take it up to the bungalow. "

"Billy'll cuss us. " Maggie turned coward. 

"Oh! I ain't going to let Mr. Drew think Billy done it. " Peggy waswaxing bold. "I'm going to tell him it was writ by a noted po'try-maker, and I want to find out what his views is as to its fineness. "

Maggie looked dubious. 

"He might guess, " she said. 

"How _could_ he?" Peggy raised her face ecstatically. Then Maggie cameclose to her mother. 

"Ma, " she whispered, "don't you know why Billy writ that, and why hewants to get learning, and what not?"

"No, " gasped Peggy, and she felt that the heavens were about to open. 

"He wants to be different so he can spark--her!"

"Spark?" Peggy panted inanely as if the word were of foreign tongue. 

"Yep, spark. "

"Her?"

"Yep. Her. Miss Drew. "

Peggy's jaw dropped. 

Since the sudden opening of the door, and Billy's unlooked-for entrance, events had crowded upon Peggy Falstar's horizon. 

Her children had been translated. She felt desolate and stricken, although her heart glowed with pride as she viewed them from afar. In alast attempt to cling to her familiar attitude toward Maggie at least, Peggy vaguely remarked:

"I wonder if your being a girl makes you such a plain fool?"

"I 'spose it might, " Maggie returned indifferently. 

"Well, " her mother continued, "don't you go upsetting Billy with any ofyour fool ideas. "

"I ain't going to hurt 'im. " Maggie tossed her head. 

"Hurt him!" Peggy sniffed. "You lay this up for future hatching, MaggieFalstar. You, me, nor nobody ain't ever going to hurt him again and_know_ it. What hurts he gets, from now on, he ain't going to howlabout. "

Just then the supposedly slumbering Billy came out of the inner room. Mother and sister eyed him critically. He was magnificently attired inall the meagre finery he could call into service. What he lacked inattire he made up in the grooming. Billy shone. Billy was plastered. Billy smelled to high heaven of soap and kerosene. But there was thatabout Billy which checked Maggie's ribald jeers, and the mother'squestion as to where he was going. 

However, Billy was magnanimous in his power. He turned at the outer doorand satisfied his mother's curiosity. 

"Anything you want sent up to Joyce's?"

"Joyce's?" gasped Maggie. "Joyce's?"

Billy held her with a glance. 

"Joyce's, " he repeated. Then receiving no reply, he went out into thestill, cold night. 

Billy felt like a man who held the fortune of many in the hollow of hishand. 

Knowing the ways of St. Angé men he felt sure the letter from "thebackwoodsman" to Joyce would be several days, or a week, inmaterializing, perhaps much longer. It was for him to be ready andwatchful; but there was no immediate call for action. His sympathieswere so largely aroused for Joyce, that he meant to overcome hisyearning to be with the object of his passion, and on that first nighthe intended going to Gaston's shack and setting Joyce right about thefuture and his own part in the drama. 

Billy realized that he must shield himself. Birkdale and Lauzoon mustnever know of his presence in the hut. Joyce, Billy felt sure, wouldcoöperate with him. If he and she could find Gaston, all might be safeand well; but while Gaston was absent, danger lurked. However, Joycemust refuse to meet "the backwoodsman"; after that they two, Billy andJoyce, must find a path that connected Gaston with them, and make himsecure from the plots of the evil Birkdale and the weak, foolish Jude ofthe unerring shot. 

All this Billy thought upon as he strode forward whistling comfortably, and his chest swelling proudly. 

It was one thing to whistle on the highway of St. Angé, and quiteanother to whistle in the wilds of the North Solitude. 

Billy was full of creature comfort, and the scattered lights of thehouses gave cheer and a feeling of security to the boy. 

The Black Cat's twinkling eyes had no charm for Billy. They were neverto have a charm for him; but as he neared the bungalow his whistle grewintermittent and his legs had an inclination in one direction while hisheart sternly bade him follow another. Then, without really being awareof his weakness, Billy found himself knocking on the bungalow door, andhis heart thumped wildly beneath the old vest of his father's which hewore closely buttoned under the coat he had painfully outgrown. 

In response to his knock, the wide, hospitable door was flung open, andBilly faced a stranger who quite unnerved him, by the direct and pointedquestion:

"Why, good evening, little boy; what do _you_ want?"

The glow from within set Billy's senses in a mad whirl, but the "littleboy" was like a dash of cold water to his pride and egotism. 

"I--I--want--her!" Poor Billy was in a lost state. 

"It is--I do believe it is my delectable Billy. "

It was _her_ voice, and it floated down to the boy at the gate ofParadise, from the top of a step-ladder. Halfway up the ladder JockFilmer stood with his hands full of greens and his eyes full oflaughter. 

"Billy, come up and be welcomed. Get down Jock, you've had your turn. "

His turn! A fierce hate rose in Billy's heart; but the stranger closedthe door behind him; Aunt Sally and the minister were saying kind thingsto him, and informing him that the angel who had admitted him was Mrs. Dale, the Fairy of Christmas, and a great admirer of little boys. 

Little boys! Were they bent on insulting him?

Jock descended with that laugh of his that always disturbed Billy'spreconceived ideas. Then Billy was facing _Her_ as she bent to meet himhalfway. 

The glad smile passed slowly from Constance Drew's face. The others, below, were talking and forgetting the two upon the ladder. 

"Why--Billy--have you--been sick?"

"No, ma'am. "

"Did they let you come home for Christmas?"

"No, ma'am. I jest cum. "

Constance looked long at him, and at last the laugh was gone even fromher dear eyes. 

"Billy, " she said softly, laying her hands on his shoulders, "you'vebeen keeping your word to me, about swearing, and--and all the rest?"

"Yes'm. "

"It's been hard, too, dear, I know; but it has made you intosomething--better. " And then with a shining look on her face she bentand kissed him. 

The heat rushed all over Billy's body, following a cold perspiration. His mouth twitched, and a maddening feeling of tears rose to hissmarting eyes. 

"I'm--going--over--to--Hillcrest school!" He whispered feebly, "I'mgoing--to get--learnin', an' things. "

"Oh! Billy!"

"Yes'm. "

"Oh! my dear Billy. "

But such moments in life are brief. They are only permitted aspropellers for all the other plain moments which are the common lot. Billy and Constance came down from the heights morally, spiritually andphysically and joined the commonplace things below. 

There was corn to pop, and candy to make. There were boxes to unpack, and goodies to eat; so was it any wonder that Joyce and her poor affairsshould be relegated to a place outside this Eden?

Then, too, Jock complicated matters. He was shameless in his mirth andjokes. Even the stranger-lady with her wonderful aloofness could notdaunt him, but Billy fiercely resented his attentions to the girl forwhom he, Billy, had forsaken all else. 

To leave the field to Jock was beyond the strength of mere man, so theystayed it out together, and left the bungalow in company just as theclock struck twelve. 

It was then that the events of the past forty-eight hours began most totell upon Billy. His exhausted nerves played him false, and cried outtheir desperate state. 

As he and Jock left the warm, scented room behind them, and facedthe white, still cold of an apparently dead St. Angé, the boy turneda drawn face upon Jock, and cried tremblingly, "Say, youbetter--keep--yer--hands--off!" Jock stood still, and returned Billy'sagonized stare with one equally grim. 

"I've just reached that conclusion myself, Billy, " he said, with everytrace of his past mirth gone. 

Billy was hoisted on his own petard. 

Hatred fled before the sympathy he felt flowing from Jock to him. Hewanted to cry; wanted to fling himself upon his companion and "own up, "but Jock anticipated all his emotions. 

"See here, kid, " he said in a voice new to St. Angé's knowledge of Jock;"you're not the fellow to grudge a poor devil an hour or so of heaven. There's the hope of an eternity of it for you; but for me there's goingto be only--the memory of this hour. Shake hands, old man, and take thisfrom me, straight. Keep yourself _fit_ to touch. Lay hold of that andnever let go. The more you care, the more you'll curse yourself, if youdon't. It's the only decent offering a man can take to a woman. Everything else he can hope to gain afterward. A place for her, money, and all the rest; but if he goes to her with dirty hands and a heartfull of shame, nothing can make up for it--nothing!

"Billy--I'd give you all I ever hoped to have here or hereafter if Icould begin to-night where you are--and with the power to _want_ to keepstraight. "

Billy shivered and looked dumbly, pathetically into the sad face abovehim. He had nothing to say. When Jock next spoke he was more likehimself. 

"Billy, will you see to a little business for me, and keep mum?"

This was quite in the line of the over-burdened Billy, and he acceptedoff-hand. 

"I may--go--into camp before Christmas. "

"Don't yer!" advised the boy magnanimously. "I ain't ever going to careagain. You can stay here. " Jock forbore to smile, but he laid his handon Billy's shoulder. 

"There's two big stacks of young pine trees up to my shack done round inbagging and ticketed to a place down the State. They're Christmas treesfor poor kids, and I want you to see to getting them off for meto-morrow or next day, and if Tom Smith airs any remarks, you let on ashow they hailed from the bungalow; for that's God's truth, when all'stold. "

"They'll go, Jock, you bet!" Billy gulped. 

Curiosity was dead within him. Human suffering gave him an insight thatsoared above idle questioning. 

"And Billy, there's another thing. I want you to go to Gaston's shack;tote water and wood for Joyce--and keep your mouth shut. And lay this byin your constitution. Gaston is a man so far above anything God evercreated round here, that you can't understand him, but you _can_ try tochase off the dirty insects that want to sting him. Catch on?"

"Yes"; murmured Billy, while unfulfilled duty clutched his vitals withremorse. 

"I'm--I'm going up to Gaston's to-morrow, " he said. 

"And now, you old rip, " Filmer shook off his strange mood, "walk up to afellow's bunk with him. It's good to keep clean company when youcan--and for as long as you can. "

"Shall--shall I stay all night with you?"

Billy asked this doubtfully from the new instinct that was stirringwithin him. For an instant a gleam of pleasure lighted Filmer's face. Italmost seemed like a yearning, then he said roughly:

"No, get home! You're afraid? If you are I'll turn back. "

"What you take me for?" Billy sniffed scornfully, and then they partedcompany. 

 * * * * *

It was just when the hands of the clock in Drew's study pointed tohalf-past twelve, that the young master, sitting before the glowinglogs, bestirred himself preparatory to turning in for the night. 

A satisfied feeling had kept him up after the others had bade goodnight. He always enjoyed the anticlimax of pleasure, and the day hadbeen a happy one. 

He felt well. The companionship of the widowed wife of his closestfriend, added interest to the new life in the woods. She had broughtnews and had awakened memories, but she had timed the Past and thePresent to perfect measure. At last he could hope that the old wound washealed and that he could live among his people--his people! the thoughtthrilled him--with purpose and content. The rough men and women abouthim were drawing closer. He knew it in the innermost places of hisheart. He was brightening their lives. He was holding their children forthem, and opening a way for them to seek higher paths. It would all comeout as he desired. It was a splendid field of work that had been givenhim--and he had rebelled so in his ignorance!

How he wished that Philip Dale could have lived to see and know. Of allthe men whom he had known, Dale was the one man who could havecomprehended this opening for service. What a noble fellow he had been!How his personality and charm struck one at the first glance. He hadbeen one of those men who claimed friends as they came his way, withoutpledge of time or intimacy. He knew what was his own in life, andgripped it without question or explanation. He had been the first tounderstand Drew's ambition, so different from the ones of the social setin which they both moved. 

"You'll always find me at your elbow, Drew, " he had said, "in any schemeyou start. " But when the time came--Dale had slipped out of life asbravely and cheerfully as he had always lived. "And he had his own deeptrouble, " Drew mused as he prepared to bank the fire; "he never talkedabout it; but it made him what he was. One must go through some sort offire to be of real service. "

A light tap on the door startled him. He had been, in thought, far, farfrom St. Angé. 

"Come!"

The door opened slowly and Ruth Dale entered. 

She was all in white--a soft, long, trailing gown. Her hair had beenloosened from the coronet, and fell in two shining braids over hershoulders. She looked very girlish as she came to the fire and droppedinto a deep chair. 

"Please put on more logs, " she said softly. "Father Confessor, I've cometo confess. " There was something under the playfulness that touchedDrew. "I told Connie that I wanted to talk to you about a plan of mine;well, so it is, but I want you to put the stamp of your sage approvalupon it. "

Drew shook his head. 

"Hardly that, " he said with a laugh, "but I'm willing to plot with you. "

"I always think of you now, " Ruth Dale continued, leaning toward thecrackling logs, and holding her little benumbed hands open to the heat, "as 'the man who lives in his house by the side of the road, and is afriend to man'. Ralph, I need a friend! I must have one or I shall failin that which I have set myself to do. "

There was no lightness in the woman's manner now. She looked tragic;almost desperate. 

Ralph Drew waited for her to go on. He was prepared to follow, but hecould not lead. 

Her youthfulness of appearance struck him now as it often had before;but the worn look in the eyes emphasized it to-night. 

"You look tired, Ruth, " he said kindly; "won't to-morrow--or"--for hesaw it was well on toward one o'clock--"later in the day do?"

"Unless you are too weary to bide with me one little hour?" she repliedwistfully; "it had better be now. "

"You know what an owl I am, Ruth. With returning health my old habitsseem to gain strength. I sleep more satisfactorily if I do it aftermidnight. " He settled back comfortably in his chair, and the fire, encouraged by several small logs, rose to the occasion. 

"I've been thinking about--Philip to-night. "

"Poor girl. It was a year ago! To remember Phil best, we should becheerful, but the subconscious sadness ran through all the evening's funfor you--and me, Ruth. "

"Yes. Ralph, you only knew Phil a few years--never before he wasmarried?"

"No, but he was one of those men who do not belong to time limit norletters of introduction. His own knew him at a glance. There was no timeto be lost with Phil. I've often noticed that faculty for deep andready friendship among people who are here for only a short life. Otherscan afford to weigh and consider; they must garner quickly, and theMaster seems to have equipped them. "

"Ralph, was Phil a man that you felt you knew, really knew, I mean?"

"Yes; as to essentials. I never saw any one so positive as to the highlights. Honesty, truth, good faith, and a broad humanity. I always knewhe had trouble that he did not talk about; he hinted that much to meonce or twice, but the silence regarding it only intensified his ownpersonality, of which he gave lavishly. "

The woman bending toward the fire, shivered, and as her head sank lower, one shining braid of hair dropped forward, shielding her face. 

"Ralph--I sometimes think the thing I have to do is the--hardest thatever woman had to do. " The words were uttered with a moan that droveDrew into a silence more eloquent than any question he could have put. He realized that the woman beside him must tread the rough path ofconfession alone, and as she could. In his heart he prayed for strengthto be beside her when all was done. 

"If ever a sin saved, Philip's sin saved him, and yet he counted it asnothing at the last. He bade me do for him what he could not do forhimself--I have never been able to begin until--to-night. He said--hehad no right to friends nor the trust and favour of love. But he neverwas able to renounce them; I must strike them down one by one--now he isgone. 

"I must do as he would have me do--I see the justice, if the end is tobe obtained, but thank God, I, who loved him--can still love him--and hehas been dead a year!"

The pain-racked eyes looked straight into Drew's with a sort ofchallenge. But Drew was too sincere a man to give, even to friendship, ablind comfort and assurance. He merely smiled at the troubled glance, and said quietly:

"I am sure where you loved, there was much to love. "

"Yes; yes; that is true; and I begin to think the nobility of it all layin his unconsciousness of the splendid character he builded so patientlyand laboriously out of all the wreck. 

"Philip had a brother, Ralph! His name was never spoken. He was twoyears older than Philip, and as different as it was possible for abrother to be. 

"John was all strength and concentration; Philip all brightness andcharm--in the beginning! Their mother adored Philip; she neverunderstood John, and yet he was a good son, brave and faithful. But hecould not show his nature--it lay so far below the surface. It wasalways easy for Philip. His charm attracted nearly everyone. My fatheralways liked John better. He said there was splendid power in him, and--I must keep nothing from you, Ralph--I loved John--loved him, oh!how I loved him. I pitied him because he could not win what should havebeen his--I loved him for myself, and for all the others who were toodull to realize his worth. It was like mother love and all the rest, inone. "

"Yes; the most God-like love of all. Only women know it, I fancy, " Drewmurmured. 

"And then"; the agonized eyes seemed to plead even while they confessed, "then the awful thing happened. John took--he stole many thousands ofdollars from men who trusted and honoured him. "

"Ruth!"

"I could never have believed it, but he told me so himself. To the dayof his death my father believed the half had never been told, but howcould I think that, when John told me himself that he was guilty? Fatherwas a judge--he was to have been the judge before whom John Dale wastried, but they relieved him of that horrible duty. John Dale wassentenced to five years--in prison! They said it was a light sentence. "

"My God! Poor Phil! How terrible for you all!"

"Don't! don't!" Ruth Dale put out her hands as if warding off a blow. "Haven't you guessed? Can you not think?"

Drew shook his head slowly. He did not seem to be able to think at all. 

"Mrs. Dale died soon after. She had a weak heart--it killed her. Philipwas everything to her--he was heavenly good in his attention anddevotion. Somehow, I wonder what you will think of me, but suddenly Ibecame possessed with a passion for making happier them whom John hadblighted. I grappled with my own love--I knew it would kill me if I letit gain power over me. I knew I never could be anything to John--I wasnot the sort of woman, Ralph, who could love the sinner--forgetting thesin. I could forgive--I thought I could--but I remembered all the moresharply. 

"Philip had always loved me. I saw my way. I would ignore the stigma onthe family, I would marry Philip and carry what joy I could to him andhis mother. My father tried to restrain me. He called me martyr, sacrifice, and all the rest, but I married--and I know I took comfortinto poor Mrs. Dale's life, and--I never doubted what I did for Philip. But--" Ruth whispered the horrible secret--"John Dale _took_ the moneyfor--Philip! He never wanted it for himself. He never used one dollar ofit. It was Philip who ran the family honour, and his own, intodanger--he made it seem to John that to tide him over the critical hourwould be to save them all and bring no harm. But he was wrong. Thecrash came. John never cringed under the blow. To his simple nature themere act was enough. He did not try to shield himself by one word ofexplanation--he went away!"

Drew's throat and eyes burned. He seemed to know all this like anoft-told tale that still had power to awe and control him. 

"Then the years of agonized consecration began for Philip. I never knewuntil a week before his death, but the memory scorches into my soul dayby day now. 

"You see I thought it was love for his brother, and the shame, that hadchanged Philip--and _that_ endeared him to me. All the lightness andcarelessness of manner departed. A great, strong, tenderness took theirplace. But you know, it was so that he came into your life. He had awide sympathy and charity, for all--oh! how it drew people to him. Butthink of his suffering--alone and through all those years!

"The money that was John's ruin was the force that brought success toPhilip. You see--he could not explain--at least he thought he could not, he was too cowardly--and the knowledge spurred him on. Wealth flowed inand in. He paid, and with interest, all that had been taken. How theworld praised him--and how he suffered as they applauded him! He gavegreat sums to charity--mostly to those charities that mitigate themisery of--the outcasts. Men and women who come under the law. Can youunderstand?"

"Yes! yes!" Drew's head was buried in his thin hands. His voice was fullof anguish. 

"They used to come to him, those sad creatures, --and he never turnedthem away. I have seen and heard them bless him as they knelt besidehim. He helped them so wisely because--oh! because he was--one of them, and they never knew! Then the disease came--the cancer. I think hewelcomed it--it was so sure to open the door for him--and I think heeven loved the suffering as a kind of expiation. 

"Never once did a murmur escape him of impatience or regret. It was hewho cheered us. It was he who stood by my father's death-bed andcomforted him, and strengthened me. Always cheerful, always helpfuluntil--just before he went. When he knew the days were few--when thecoward in him--his last enemy--died, he told me everything. 

"He said--" a sob choked the words--"that I must find--John. I must laywaste the beautiful memory of him. Show the _coward_ who had not beenable to stand before men! I must redeem the past as best I could. I mustbegin with you--the friend he most loved--for you must help mefind--John. "

Ralph Drew rose weakly to his feet. Something had gone out of him. Something that he groped after, but could not grasp. He felt as if heand the stricken woman before him were lost upon a black and dangerousroad. Their only salvation was to cling together spiritually and bodily. He caught the back of her chair for support, and bent over her. 

"Is there no one, who kept in touch with--the brother? Was he utterlyforsaken? God help him!"

"They said it was his desire. But there was one--I never knew who itwas; that was part of the mystery--but some one claimed and claimedmoney for him, for John. I knew sums of money were paid regularly, Iused to think it was another of Philip's charities--but I know now thatthere was a constant lash laid upon him. Oh! if they had only known all. 

"Ralph, Philip left nearly all his fortune to his brother. There is onlymy portion reserved for me. So you see I must find him. I was left soleexecutor. "

"I will help you, Ruth. "

"I was sure you would. Philip spoke your name last; he said you couldsee the man he tried to be, even in the man he was. "

"Yes! yes, a thousand times more than he ever hoped. What was the poorcrumbling shell compared to the splendid soul that he builded throughthose horrible years? Years when he could not quite free himself fromthe craven thing that was his curse--the fear! fear! fear!"

The two were silent for a moment while the red glow showed them haggardand worn. Then it was the woman who spoke. 

"Ralph--do you think a woman can love--really love--two men?"

He stared at her. 

"Perhaps, " he faltered; "perhaps, but in different ways. "

"I loved them both. When--when I find John--if he wants me--if he asksme--I shall marry him. " She shuddered. 

"Ruth!"

"Yes; I think Philip would give him even--me. His renunciation was wideand deep. He, the great, strong soul of him, went on--alone. It had noreal part with his weakness and all that was bound up in hisweakness--he wanted John to have everything of which he had deprivedhim. You can understand, can you not? At the last, when fear had nofurther power, he was almost mad in his abandon of recompense. 

"He did not tell me this, that awful night when he told me--the rest;but I felt it. I saw that I, with all else that had meant anything tohim, was included in his shame; and the new nature that had evolved fromthe agony and remorse--had nothing to do with us any more!"

A deep sob shook the slim form. For a moment Ruth Dale rocked to and froin her misery, then she let the wild confession again have its way. 

"For myself--" the haunted eyes fixed themselves upon Drew's rigidface--"for myself--in a strange fashion--and oh! you shall _not_misunderstand me, I want to give to him that which I withheld from himwhen he needed it most. I want to bring back the gladness of life tohim--if I can, " she gasped; "it has all been such a hideous nightmare. If he wants me--if he wants me, he shall have me!" The words were flungout defiantly, fiercely. 

Drew started to his feet, and went quickly to her. In all his life hehad never seen on a woman's face such desperation and remorse. 

As his friend's wife he had loved her as a sister. Her beauty had alwaysfascinated and charmed him. To see her now, cast adrift on this troubledsea of love and fear, was a bitter, almost a terrifying sight. 

He bent over her, and raised her face firmly and gently with onetrembling hand. He felt that he must calm and steady her by physicalcontrol. 

"Ruth, " he said gently, but distinctly, "why do you look as you do? Tellme, what is in your heart?"

The woman tried to shrink from the hold he had upon her. He saw that thevital point of her confession she would keep from him unless hecommanded, and, if the future were to be saved from the grip of themiserable past, he and she must thoroughly understand each other. 

"Ruth, you must tell me everything. "

She panted, but no longer struggled mentally or bodily. 

"Because, " she said, "even now, I could accept the man who was the truesinner easier than the man who was sinned against! Not because of agreater love; but because of the slime of the punishment that the onewas doomed to suffer. 

"That's what life has done for him--and me!" Again she shuddered. "Don'tyou see, even when my heart is breaking with love for him--and the oldlove is growing stronger as--as Philip seems to be going further fromme--I shall always think of the hideous--detail that--he suffered. Itwas what Philip could not face--it is what I--must!"

The words came pantingly, grudgingly and full of soul-terror. 

Drew sought for comfort to give to this poor, distracted woman whosewhite, still face rested in the hollow of his hand, like a dead thing. 

"Ruth, you shall not lash yourself unnecessarily. God knows you haveborne the scourge of others bravely enough. It is not the detail alonethat rises before you, and keeps you from what you have set up as yourduty--it is the weakness of the man. That is the pitiful difference. Thesin is the sin--but the man who _planned_ was more the master, than hewho became the slave. Do not blame yourself entirely--can you not see, it is the instinctive homage humanity pays to even an evilinterpretation of the Creator!"

A blur, for an instant, shimmered over the beautiful, solemn eyes. 

"No. " The woman would not shield herself in this hour. "No; for youforget Philip's cowardice--and weakness. But he was not--smirched withsociety's remedy for wrong-doing. No; even if I found John had come outof the--the detail, strong and purified, I know, as God hears me, Ishould always, when most he needed me, see the _prisoner_ insteadof--him. Oh! Oh! Oh!"

She closed her eyes, and the great tears were pressed from under thequivering lids. 

Drew for very pity released the suffering face, but his hand rested onthe bent shoulder. Then out of the strain of the black hour, he asked aquestion that seemed to have no part in the present trouble; no meaning. 

"Ruth have you ever loved just for yourself--just because _you_ wantedwhat you loved?"

"Just for myself? Who ever does in this world, I wonder?"

She sighed deeply, and sank back in the chair. 

It was over at last. There was nothing now to do but to take up hercross and follow as she could; there was no more to be said. 

Drew waited for her a moment, still standing behind the chair. Then hespoke clearly and firmly:

"Ruth, in Phil's going he left our love to us; for we are permitted toremember the splendid man in spite of the weakness which crippled him. We must carry out every wish of his. I think when this is done--hisbrave soul will be free from every earthly stain. The good he did; theman he was, must claim recognition as well as the sin that stamped him. Both are actual and real. 

"We'll find John Dale if he is to be found. We'll give him all that ishis own--his own. But I pray God he is still man enough to claim nomore. 

"And now, go to bed. You may sleep safely, for you have made yourselfready even for--sacrifice. "

"No! no! Ralph. "

"Yes! yes!"

He opened the door of the study, and with bowed head she passed out. Then Drew turned and mechanically banked the fire, and left the roomorderly, as was his habit. 

As he followed a few moments later, the little clock struck thehalf-hour of one. Much had been lost and gained in an hour's time. 

CHAPTER XVI

Billy arose the morning after his eventful evening, with a feeling ofphysical discomfort. He attributed it to his neglected duty, when inreality it was merely a disordered stomach. 

The past day or two, ending in a feast of unwonted dainties, had createdhavoc with Billy's newly acquired, higher nature. 

He was sulkily belligerent with Maggie, but Maggie viewed the lapse withconsiderable relief. Billy of the night before awed her in spite ofherself. Billy of the morning after cast no reflections on her owninferiority. 

Poor Peggy wondered, in her dull way, if she had been dreaming theastonishing things that had set her heart beating. To reassure herselfshe took a candle and went out to the wood-shed. No; there, in the dimshadows of the cobwebby place, was the stanza that was proof of herson's genius. Then Peggy reflected with a glad heart that it was theaccepted belief of the world that geniuses were always cranky anduncomfortable, and, womanlike, Peggy gave thanks that it was permittedher to have a genius for her own. 

Soon after breakfast Billy began his life work with a dull pain in theregion of his heart. 

He went up to Filmer's shack and found him out; he then hauled andpulled the tagged bundles of pine trees, which Jock had left standing bythe door, down to the Station. 

"What in the name"--Tom Smith paused to expectorate--"of all, " (it isneedless to enumerate the name of the gods by which Tom swore) "yerdoing with them sapling pines?"

"Mind yer business, " Billy returned, panting under the last load. "Put'em on the train; that's you're lookout; and here's the money to pay fortheir ticket down State. " Billy had found the money in an envelope tiedto the trees. 

"Well, I'll--be--blowed. " Tom spelled out the address and took themoney. 

"Where does these hail from?" he asked. 

"From the bungalow, " Billy replied with unlooked-for promptness. 

Tom had nothing more to say. The bungalow people had the right of way onthe branch road. To and from the Junction the name of Drew was one toconjure with. 

"I guess, " Tom spat wide and far, "I guess she's aiming to decorate thehull blamed town, back there, with greens. She don't mind slashing, shedon't. "

"Shut up!" Billy commanded. Tom turned to look at the boy, who in therecent past had been his legitimate property, in common with others, tokick and swear at. 

"Well by--" But he neither kicked nor swore at Billy. He relievedhimself by expressing his feelings to inanimate objects. 

Then Billy went up to the tavern. The dull pain was relaxing. The fine, cold air was clearing his muddled wits, and he felt the milk of humankindness reasserting itself in his new-born nature. 

"Mr. Tate, " he asked boldly, stepping behind the screen to the men'sside. "Any letters here for Joyce?"

Tate, bending over a cask of beer, raised himself, and gave Billy thecompliment of a long, hard stare. 

"Your voice changing, Billy?" he asked blandly. "Gosh! you've growed upterrible suddint. What you doing home in the middle of the season?"

"Got--sick, " Billy muttered quite truthfully. "Any letters for Joyce?"

"I don't keep letters on _this_ side, son. "

Tate felt compelled to cater to what he recognized in Billy. "Andwhoever heard of Joyce having letters? If you mean Gaston's mail she'ssent for, then I reply straight and honest, and you can tell her--I know_my_ business!

"When Gaston calls for his mail, he gets it. When he wants Joyce to haveit--he's got to send order for same. The Government down to Washington, D. C. , knowed who it was selecting when it chose Leon Tate forPostmaster. 

"Billy, you've changed more in a few months than any one I ever seed. You--" he hesitated, and grinned foolishly--"you feel--like a drink o'anything?"

The subtle compliment to his manhood thrilled Billy; but oh! if Tate hadonly known to what that manhood was due. 

"No, thank you, " Billy replied, pulling his trousers up ecstatically. "Idon't want nothing to drink--to-day. But won't you please look and seeif there ain't a letter for Joyce--with her name to it?"

Tate walked around the screen, followed by Billy, and began fumbling inthe row of slits that answered for letter-boxes. 

"Bet she's expecting word from Gaston. "

Tate moistened his dirty fingers, and shuffled the envelopes. 

"Here's five or six for Gaston hisself--one done up with a broad streakof black round it. It's got a dreadful thick envelope! Well, if I ain'tblowed. Here _is_ one for Joyce, and did you ever?" Billy was beside himnow. "Done in printing. Well, if that don't beat the Injuns. Mis' JoyceLauzoon--that's good, Lauzoon! No wonder it didn't strike me first; Iguess I read it Jude Lauzoon. Here, you want to tote it up the hill?Shouldn't wonder if it was _from_ Jude. If he's got over his sulks, andfinds no one to do for him, it's just like him to wheedle his womaninto coming back and--beginning all over. "

Billy had grasped the letter with trembling hands. He was breathingshort and hard. Jared had evidently written the letter before talking toJude. 

"Do you know who that's from?" Tate eyed the boy suspiciously. 

"How should I?" Billy impudently turned away, "_I_ ain't Postmaster, amI?"

Tate glared after the fleeing figure. He did not like the sense ofinsecurity that pervaded St. Angé. If coming events cast their shadowsbefore, then Tate's future looked as if it might be one encompassed bydarkness. 

When Billy reached Gaston's shack a silence of desolation pervaded it. Had all reputable St. Angé gone a-visiting?

Jock's absence, and now Joyce's, gave Billy a creepy feeling such as acat must feel who has been deserted by them he trusted. 

But there had been no fire in Filmer's shack; on Gaston's hearth aroaring, recently builded fire gave evidence of late companionship. 

"Joyce!" called Billy. There was no reply. Then the boy opened the doorleading into the lean-to. He had no reverence for retreats. If any dooropened to Billy's hand, Billy's feet carried him further. 

A fresh fire also blazed on the hearth of Gaston's sanctuary. 

All at once Billy's childhood rose supreme over his recently gainedmoral viewpoint. Ever since he and the other St. Angé children had spiedupon Gaston as a stranger, Gaston's possessions had filled their soulswith curious wonder. 

Maggie was responsible for the story about a certain chest. 

"It's as big"--here Maggie had stretched truth to the snappingpoint--"as this! And it's all thick with iron strips, and it has a lockas big as my head. Once I saw him open it--I was in the next room--"

"What was in it?" St. Angé youth whispered. 

"That's telling, " Maggie had sniffed. 

But after all the earthly wealth that St. Angé greed then held in theway of strings, old postage stamps, etc. , had been laid at her feet, Maggie revealed what she had _not_ seen. 

"There's hundreds of dollars of gold. Umph! And candyand--and"--Maggie's imagination in those days had been awakened byGaston's fairy-lore--"and a box tied up with a blood-stained cord! And agun, and a knife, with queer spots on it, and things that made me turnsick as I looked!"

As Billy viewed the chest now--somewhat dwindled as to size--the oldstory moved him. 

There was no low curiosity of a thieving kind in his feverish longingto test the truth of that old story of Maggie's. Money had no lure forhim, candy he was surfeited with, but he'd chance much to get a glimpseof the box tied with the blood-stained cord, and the knife with thequeer spots. 

Joyce had apparently gone on an errand. Billy stepped back into theliving room, then went to the wood-shed, and all around the house. 

Perhaps she had gone to the store by a back path--she had a love forunfrequented places. 

Billy returned to the shack, laid the letter on the table of the outerroom, and tiptoed back to the lean-to. 

The particular kind of thrill he experienced then was delicious. Quitedifferent was it from the one that had driven him almost mad with fearas he listened to Jude and Birkdale a time back. This was a thrillerthat appealed to the familiar in him, --the impishness that died hard. 

He went across to the chest and leaned over it. The fire crackled--andhe leaped back! Then, loathing himself for his weakness, he knelt beforethe treasure trove and tried the key in the lock. 

It turned easily, and the lid flew back; for the chest was filled to thebrim. Several small articles, like letters, pictures and books, fellonto the floor; but Billy heeded them not. He was after bigger game. Hetossed the contents hurriedly out. Maggie had lied foully--not a bloodstain anywhere, nor knife, string, nor box! Not even a gun, nor candynor gold dollars. 

Billy's contempt for Maggie at that moment was too deep for expression. 

Disappointedly he began to replace the poor trash that Gaston evidentlyprized--the last thing to put back was a photograph--and from sheerdisappointment Billy was about to vent his disgust by tearing this intwo, when the face riveted his attention. It was a face that once seencould never be forgotten. Pale and sweet it looked up at him. It waspart of the clean, better life that he was trying to lead. It made him, all in the flash of an eye, see what a mean, low scamp he was to--

The outer door of the shack opened and shut! Hurrying feet ran acrossthe floor of the living room, the lean-to door was flung back, and, allpalpitating and wide-eyed, Joyce confronted the boy. 

"You--Billy!" The glorious light died out of the big eyes, the pale, expectant face set into lines of hopeless disappointment. "I thought--"the mouth quivered pitifully, and Billy felt the added sting ofdiscovered shame. 

In a moment things steadied themselves, Joyce was mistress of thesituation. 

"What have you there?" she asked sharply. In the distraction she had notnoticed that the chest was open. 

"Her picture!"

"Her! Who?" Joyce came over to Billy, and looked at the face he held atarm's length. 

Something numbed every sense but sight. That sense must convey the imageof the girl-face to Joyce's brain, and implant it there so effectuallythat it could never be forgotten. And that very morning Joyce had seenits counterpart on the highway!

"Who--is--that?" she demanded. 

"It's her up to the bungalow. They call her--Ruth. See! here it is writon the back--'Ruth'; her other name is Mis' Dale. "

The face was burned in now for all time; and the other faculties beganto throb into life. 

"Billy, where did you get that?"

Then both boy and woman looked at the desecrated chest--and all wastold. 

Even while she was wildly pushing facts from her, Joyce saw, risingbefore her, a completed structure of John Gaston's past. 

That exquisite girl was she who had held his love before--and she hadmarried the brother! Then Gaston's name was Dale. Oh! how vividly, hideously clear it was. It seemed as if she had always known it. Eventhe pictured face was as familiar now as Gaston's own. But Joyce's coldlips were forming the words:

"Billy you lie! You brought that over to show me. Tell me the truth. "She had him by the shoulder, and her fierce eyes frightened him. 

"I have told you the truth; so help me! There she is now; look!"

Joyce turned as Billy pointed to the window. 

Outside, near the grave of _her_ baby, stood Constance Drew and the girlwhose picture Billy held limply in his hand. 

Constance Drew was talking, but the stranger's sweet face was turnedtoward the house, and Joyce saw that her eyes were full of tears. 

"Billy"; Joyce clutched the thin shoulder; "put that back! Now lock thechest, and listen. If you ever tell a living soul what you havedone--Mr. Gaston will--kill you!"

Billy obeyed with dumb fear. 

"Now, go out of the shed door. Go--don't let them see you!"

Billy was gone, forgetting even to mention the letter lying on theliving-room table. 

Then Joyce waited. Out in front, they two--Miss Drew and thatgirl--seemed rooted to the spot near the baby's grave. 

Feeling had departed from Joyce--she simply waited. 

Finally they, outside, turned. They walked directly to the house, andknocked. They knocked again. 

"It's etiquette to go in, if the house is empty. " It was ConstanceDrew's voice. "St. Angé and New York have different ideas. Leave thingsas you find them, that's the only social commandment here. " A hand wason the latch. 

"Connie, I cannot! It does not seem decent. " _That_ voice sank deep intothe listening heart behind the barrier. 

"Well, then, I'll write her a letter. I'm sorry I asked Jock Filmer totake a verbal invitation. She might think--"

"That's better, Connie, and while you and Ralph drive over to Hillcrestthis afternoon, I'll bring it here; perhaps she will be at home then. "

Joyce heard them turn. She watched them until the pine trees hid them;then her heart beat feebly. 

Presently she went to the table, and there her eyes fell on the letterBilly had brought. Quietly she took it up, opened it, and read it once, twice, then the third time. 

Finally it dropped to her feet, and, with hands groping before her, Joyce staggered to Gaston's deep chair and fell heavily into it. 

CHAPTER XVII

Joyce did not faint, nor did she lose consciousness. A dull quietpossessed her, and, had she tried to explain her state of mind, shewould have said she was thinking things out. 

In reality Destiny, or whatever we choose to call that power whichcontrols things that _must be_, had the woman completely in its grip. Whatever she was to do would be done without any actual forethought orpreparation; she would realize that afterward as we all do when we havepassed through a crisis and have done better, perhaps, than our poor, unassisted thought might have accomplished for us. 

Joyce was on the wheel, and the wheel was going at a tremendous speed. There was no time for plotting or planning, with all the strength thatwas in her, the girl was clinging, clinging to some unseen, centraltruth, while she was being whirled through a still place crowded withmore or less distinguishable facts that she dared not close her eyes to. 

One cruel thing made her cringe in the deep chair. She was losing herclear, sweet vision of that blessed night when Gaston and she had stoodtransfigured! If only she could have held to that, all would have beenso simple--but with that fading glory gone she would be alone in abarren, cheerless place to act not merely for herself, but for Gastonalso. 

She was no longer the beautiful woman in the golden dress; nor he theman of the illumined face and pleading arms. No; she was old Jared'swild little daughter; Jude Lauzoon's brutalized and dishonoured wife. Nothing, nothing could do away with those awful facts. 

He, the man she loved--who thought in one wild hour that he lovedher--was not of her world nor of her kind. He had given, given, given toher of his best and purest. God! how he had given. He had cast a glamourover her crudeness by his power and goodness, but underneathwas--Jared's daughter and Jude's wife. 

If he took her courageously back to his world they, those others like, yet unlike him, would see easily through the disguise, and would bequick enough to make both him and her feel it. 

Without her, they would accept him. The past would be as if it had notbeen; but if he brought her to them from his past, it would be like aninsult to them--an insult they would never forgive. And then--he wouldhave no life; no place. He would have to go on being kind and good toher in a greater loneliness and desolation than St. Angé had ever known. 

She could not escape the responsibility of her part in his life. Shemight keep on taking, taking, taking. On the other hand his old life hadcome back to him, not even waiting for his choice. 

The woman who had misunderstood, had failed him in that hour of hisneed, had been sent by an all-powerful Force into the heart of theNorthern Solitude to reclaim him, now that he had accomplished thatwhich he had set himself to do. 

Every barrier was removed. Even Death had been kind to that sweet, palegirl--she was ready to perform the glorious act of returning Gaston'sown to him, if only she, Joyce, would let go her selfish, ignoble hold. 

Now, if she were as noble as Gaston had striven to make her, there wasbut one thing to do. Go to that woman up at the bungalow, tell her allthat she did _not_ know. All about the heavy penalty weakness had paidfor the crime committed by another. Tell of the splendid expiation andthe hard-won victory, and then--let go her hold and, in Love's supremerenunciation, prove her worthiness to what God withheld. 

The little living room of Gaston's shack was the battle-ground ofJoyce's soul-conflict that winter day. 

Pale and rigid, she crouched in the deep chair, her head buried on thearm where so often his dear hand had lain. 

No; she could not! She would not! Then after a moment--"I must! or inall the future I shall hate myself. " Then she grew calmer, andinstinctively she began to plan about--going. She would leave both firesready to light--he might come now at any time. 

The letter Billy had brought had not for a moment deceived her. Shecounted it now as but one of the links in the chain that was draggingher away from Gaston. 

It was either Jude or her father who had sent the note. Well, it did notmatter, it was the best possible escape that could have been conceived. 

Then her plans ran on. She would pack her own pretty things--out ofsight! They must not confuse, or call for pity. There would be no note. She, that woman at the bungalow would explain, and would tell him thatthere could be no reconsideration, for she, Joyce, had gone toher--husband!

At that point Joyce sprang up, and her eyes blazed feverishly. 

No; she was going to do no such thing. She was going to wait just whereshe was with folded hands and eager love. When Gaston came he shoulddecide things. She would not interfere with her future. She would hidenothing; neither would she disclose anything. Why should she strangleher own life, with the knowledge she had neither sought nor desired?

The brilliant afternoon sun crept toward the west, and it shone intothe side window and through the screen of splendid fuchsias whichclambered from sill to top of casement. 

Gaston might come--now! Perhaps he had failed to locate Jude, and wouldreturn to consider. Well, then, she could put him on Jude's trail. Gaston, not she, should meet the "woodsman" in Lola Laval's desertedhouse. 

In the sudden up-springing of this hope, Joyce quite forgot the face ofthe woman at the bungalow. 

A freakish yearning to reproduce the one crowning moment of her lifepossessed the girl. 

She would build a great fire upon the hearth, and make the roombeautiful. She would don--the yellow gown, and, if he came, he shouldfind her as he had left her. 

If he still loved her--and she saw it in his eyes--then nothing, nothingshould part them. 

She would go with him to Lola's house and together they would finish thedreary search. She would beg him never to return to St. Angé. What didthe world matter, the people of the world? Nothing mattered but him andher. 

So Joyce flew to the bidding of her mad fancy. She drew the shades andflung on log after log. She swept and dusted the room. Put Gaston'sslippers and house-coat close to the warmth. She lighted the lamp tokeep up the delusion, then stole to her room and made ready. 

Again, as the garments of the daily task fell from her, Joyce felt thesordidness and fearsomeness depart. 

The lovely hair lent itself to the pretty design, and the golden gowntransfigured the wearer. 

She felt sure Gaston was coming. The premonition grew and grew. He wouldnever leave her to bear the Christmas alone. He might return later tosearch for Jude but, remembering her in the shack, he would come to herfor that one, holy day. 

He would surprise her. And she?--why, she would surprise him. 

How he would laugh and take her in his arms!--for it was all clear aheadof them now. She would lead him to Jude!

A knock at the outer door startled her. She was about to leave herbedchamber complete and beautiful--but the summons stayed the littlesatin-shod feet, and the colour left the quivering face. 

Perhaps Gaston had knocked to keep up the conceit of his home-comingsurprise!

Tiptoeing across the living room, Joyce took her stand by the table andcalled timidly, expectantly and awesomely:

"Come. "

The latch lifted and some one pressed against the door, and then, inwalked Ruth Dale. 

She wore the heavy crimson cloak of Constance's, the fur-trimmed hood ofwhich encircled her face. 

Coming from the outer sunlight into the lamp-lighted room, Ruth Dalestood for a moment, dazzled and confused. Then her grave, kindly eyeswere riveted upon the splendid, straight young form confronting her. 

Never in her life had Ruth Dale been so utterly confounded and takenaback. For a full moment the two faced each other in solemn silence. Itwas Joyce who spoke. 

"I heard you say you were coming. I was in when you and Miss Drew calledbefore, but I wasn't ready for company then. Won't you sit down?"

Mrs. Dale sank into the nearest chair from sheer helplessness. 

"Please take off your cloak. The room is very warm. "

It was stifling, and Ruth Dale unfastened and let fall the heavyfur-lined wrap. 

Joyce took Gaston's chair. The contact seemed to strengthen her. 

"Miss Drew--has--sent--this note. " Ruth held it out helplessly. 

"Thank you. I know what is in it; but I cannot come. I am going away. "The proffered note fluttered to the floor. 

"Going away?"

"Yes. " The word was almost agonizing in its intensity. "Yes!"

"Please--Mrs. Lauzoon, " Ruth Dale stammered the name; "please may Ihear where you are going? My friends are so interested in you. I--I--amsorry for you. We could not bear to have you lonely and sad here--onChristmas--but if you are going away to be--happy, we will all be soglad. "

"Please tell Mr. Drew, " Joyce clutched the arms of the chair, and RuthDale continued to stare helplessly at the exquisite beauty of thismountain girl, "tell Mr. Drew--I am--going--to my husband. "

"Your husband!"

"Yes; he will be so glad, Mr. Drew will. He has always been so--good. Tell him, please--and I think he will understand--that he made itpossible for me--to do this--thing. "

The human agony contained in these words carried all before it. RuthDale got up from her chair, and almost ran across the room to Joyce'sside. She leaned over her and a wave of pity seemed to bear the twowomen along to a point where words--words from the heart--were possible. 

"I--I have heard your story, dear. Ralph Drew is such a kind_gentleman_, and he--we, all of us--pity you from the bottom of ourhearts. Believe me, you are doing the right thing, hard and cruel as itmay seem now. When God sets you free--then alone can you really be free. I think every good woman knows this. Man can only give freedom withinlimitations. I know I am right. Have you heard from--your husband?"

"Yes. He has sent for me. "

"Have you any message to leave? I will tell Mr. Drew anything you careto entrust to me--he will deliver the message to--any one. "

"Please--sit down. " Joyce motioned stiffly to a chair across the table. "I have a great deal to say to you. "

Ruth obeyed with a dull foreboding in her heart. She felt constrainedand awkward. The unusual and expensive gown Joyce wore acted as anirritant upon her, now that she considered it. It seemed so vulgar, sotheatrical for the girl to deck herself in this fashion; and the verygown itself spoke volumes against any such lofty ideals as Ralph Drewhad depicted in the woman. Evidently Joyce was expecting Gaston back;the statement as to her going to her husband was either false, or asubterfuge. 

With Ruth Dale's discomfort, too, was mingled a fear that Gaston mightreturn and find her there. From Drew's description of Gaston she knew hewas a person above the ordinary St. Angé type, and might naturally, andrightly, resent her visit. But Joyce, more mistress of the situationthan the other knew, was feeling her way through the densest thicket oftrouble that had ever surrounded her. Here was her chance, inwoman-fashion, to test that strange double code of honour about whichGaston had spoken, and Drew had hinted. Here, woman to woman, she couldquestion and probe, and so have clearer vision. 

This woman visitor was from his world. She was kind and was, perhaps, the best that existed down beyond the Southern Solitude. If she bore thetest, then Joyce would relinquish her rights absolutely--but only afterthat woman knew why she did so. 

"I--I suppose you think I have been a very bad woman?" Joyce turned sad, yet childlike eyes upon her companion. 

"I think you have acted unwisely. " Ruth Dale crimsoned under the steadyglance. "You see, Mr. Drew has always had a deep interest in you. Hissister and I heard about you long before we came up here. He says youhad grave provocation. What you have done was done--in ignorance. Itwould only be sin--after you knew the difference. "

"I see. But what--what would you think about Mr. Gaston?"

The colour died from Ruth's face, only to return more vivid. 

"I think he has treated you--shamefully. He knew how such things areviewed. He took advantage of your weakness and innocence. I hate to saythis to you--but I have no two opinions about such things. I think thisMr. Gaston must be a very wicked man. "

A sudden resolve had sprung up in Ruth's mind. If she could rescue thispoor, ignorant girl from the toils of the man who had misled her, shewould befriend her. She might even save her from the depraved husbandwho was now her only apparent safety. The girl was lovely beyondexpression. It would be a splendid thing to do. 

With this in sight, her interference took on an appearance of dignifiedphilanthropy. 

"Will you let me help you?" she asked wistfully; "be your friend? I havemoney; I would love to do what I can. I have deep sympathy with youand--I am very lonely and sad myself. I have recently lost my husband--Ihave no one. "

Joyce continued to hold her visitor with that solemn, intense glance. 

"You loved your--husband--very much?" Ruth winced. She could hardlyresent the curiosity, but she stiffened. 

"Of course. But if I had not, I should have been--lonely and sad. It isa relationship that cannot be dissolved either by death or in any waywithout causing pain and a deep sense of loss. "

"Oh, yes, it can. " Joyce spoke rapidly. "The loss may mean--life to you. It may take fear away and a hideous loathing. It may let you beyourself, the self that can breathe and learn to love goodness. "

This outburst surprised and confused Ruth Dale. The expression of face, voice and language swept away the sense of unreality and detachment. Here was a vital trouble. A tangible human call. It might be that she, instead of Ralph Drew or Constance, or any other person, might touch andrescue this girl who was finding herself among the ruins of her life. 

Ruth Dale was no common egotist, but her charm and magnetism had oftentaken her close to others' needs, and she was eager, always, to answerany demand made upon her. 

"Joyce, " she said softly, "please let me call you that. You see, by thatname I have always heard you called, and Constance Drew and I felt weknew you before we saw you. I believe you have suffered horribly. Allwomen suffer in an unhappy marriage--but you suffered doubly because youhave always been capable of better things, perhaps, than you have everhad. You do not mind my speaking very plainly?"

"No. I want you to. "

"But you cannot find happiness--I know I am right about this--by takingfrom life what does not really belong to you. Do you see what I mean?"

"No, but go on; I may see soon. " The quiet face opposite made Ruth Dalemore and more uncomfortable. She had, for a moment, forgotten thepossibility of Gaston's return; the yellow gown was losing itsirritating power; she truly had a great and consuming desire to be ofservice to this woman who was following her words with feverishintensity, but she was ill at ease as she proceeded. 

"If we have bungled our lives, made grave mistakes, it's better to abideby them courageously than defy--well, the accepted laws. 

"Perhaps you ought not go back to your husband; I would not dare decidethat; Ralph Drew would know, but this I know, you should not stay here. I will befriend you, Joyce, in whatever other course you choose. Pleaselet me help you; it would help me. "

She stretched her pretty, pleading hands across the table, and her eyeswere full of tears. She felt old, and worldly-wise beside this mountaingirl, and she was adrift on the alluring sea of personal service. 

Joyce took no heed of the waiting hands, the inspired face held her. 

"Don't you see, Joyce, even if this is love that controls you, you wouldnot want it to be selfish?"

"No. Oh! No. "

"What do you know of this man Gaston, really? Mr. Drew says he is quitedifferent from the people hereabout. You do not even know the true man, his name, nor antecedents. The time may come when he will return to hisformer life, whatever it was; can you not see how you would--interferewith such a plan? If he left you--what would he leave you to? And if hewere one of a thousand and took you with him--what then? In either caseit would mean your unhappiness and his--shame. "

Joyce winced, and Ruth Dale saw the hands clutch the arms of the chair. She felt that she was making an impression, and her ardour grew. 

"I do not know Gaston, " she went on, "but I do know the world; and forwomen placed as you are, Joyce, there is no alternative. Your very loveshould urge you to accept the situation, hard as it may seem. "

"It does. " For a moment the lovely head drooped and the white lidsquivered over the pain-filled eyes. 

"No matter how--good a man--this Mr. Gaston has been to you--he knew theprice you would have to pay some day. He has been either wilfullyweak--or worse. A man takes a mean advantage of a woman in all suchmatters. It is not a question of right or wrong altogether--it isn'tfair. 

"I have burned over such things ever since I was a girl--I am ready nowto prove to you my desire to help you. Will you let me, Joyce?"

"You are very, very good. I can see you are better and kinder than anyother woman I ever knew. I believe all that you say is true. If I didnot think that, I could not do what I am going to do. "

Joyce spoke very quietly, very simply. She was not even confused whenshe poured out the deepest secrets of her heart. She was worn and spent;loneliness, conflict and soul-torture had torn down all her defenses. 

"You are right in all that you have said--but you don't know all!" Theflame rose in the pallid face; "but if you did, the truth of what youhave said would be all the deeper. 

"My love has been a selfish one because I never thought it lay in mypower to do anything for--him. I see there is something now that I cando--and I mean to do it so thoroughly that even his goodness cannotprevent. He is so very, very good; oh! if you could only know him as Iknow him!

"I am--going to my husband, then--that will finish it! But I must tellyou something--first. "

Joyce caught her breath, and she sat up straight and rigid. 

"I suppose in your life you could not believe that a man like Mr. Gastoncould be just good to me--and nothing else?"

Woman looked at woman. The world's woman noted the beauty and tendergrace of the unworldly woman, and her eyes fell. 

"It would be difficult to believe that. I have heard of such cases--Inever knew one--and for that very reason of unbelief, it does notgreatly matter--the outcome would be the same--for the woman and theman. "

"Yes; but they would know, and God would know; might that not beenough?"

"No. Believe me--it would not be enough. "

"Do you believe me when I tell you that, in this case, it is true?"

Again the two held each other in a long challenge. Then:

"Joyce, as God hears me, I _do_ believe you. Now I am more eager thanever to be your friend. "

"You--cannot be mine--but you must be his!"

"His?" Ruth started back. 

"Yes. I do know--something of his life. He belonged--to your world. Hehad a great, a terrible trouble--but through it all he saw the stars, not the mud, and he came out of it--a strong, tender, brave man. "

A dull sob shook the low, sweet voice. 

"All the shameful sorrow served as a purpose to make him noble--andsplendid; but his soul was sad and hurt. He never blamed any one, thoughthere were others who should have suffered more than he. He just gavehimself up to the chance of gaining good out of all the evil. Then hecame here--to rest. But he could not help being kind and helpful. Hefound--me. He taught me, he gave me hope and showed me--how to live. Oh!you can never understand. You have always had life--I never had ituntil he took the blindness from me. 

"He tried to do the best for me--he wanted me to marry Jude Lauzoon. Hetried to make Jude good, too--but that was more than even _he_ couldaccomplish. Then I'm--afraid I cannot tell you--this it might--soil yoursoul. "

"Go on. " Ruth spoke hoarsely. She was spellbound and a deathly coldnesscrept over her. 

"Well, Jude dragged all of me down, down, down--all of me but the partthat--Mr. Gaston had made. That part clung to him as if he were itsGod. "

"I see, I see. Go on!"

"It was all low--and evil, that life with Jude, except the poor baby. That had a soul, too, but the dreadful body could not hold it. It had togo--and oh! I am so glad. 

"Then, in all the world, there was nowhere for me to go but--here. Idid not mean to fling myself upon him. I came to save him. There wasmoney Jude had--oh! it doesn't matter, but anyway, things happened, andI was left--on Mr. Gaston's mercy. 

"I had only one idea of men--then. You see Jude had almost made a beastof me, too. " The great eyes shone until they burned into Ruth Dale'sbrain. 

"But Mr. Gaston rose high and far above my low fear and thought. How Ihated myself then for daring to judge him by--Jude. No, he made a clean, holy place for me to live in. He saw no other way to help me--perhaps hedid not look far enough in the future, it did not matter--but he nevercame down from his high place except to make me better by his heavenlygoodness. 

"After a while it grew easy--after I comprehended his thought forme--and we were very happy--just as we might have been had we beenbrother and sister. I grew to think his own kind would know andunderstand how impossible it would be for him to be other than what hewas; and for what the lower people thought I had no care. I was--justhappy!

"But something happened. Perhaps being near such goodness made me alittle better; and a great happiness and lack of fear helped--I think Igot nearer to his high place. He loved to give me pretty things. He gaveme this"--the fumbling fingers touched the yellow gown; "and I suppose Ilooked--different, and then he saw that I had--changed and--andhe--loved me! I know he loved me; women can tell. I could not be wrongabout that. You see I had always loved him--and had once hungeredso for his love that when it came I could not be deceived. It--was--that--last--night he told me--about--the past! Then he wentaway to find Jude--to get Jude to set me free--and we were--goingto--be--" the words trailed into a faint moan. "But I see, I see! Evenif it had come out right--I'd always be, for all his goodness, old JaredBirkdale's daughter, and Jude Lauzoon's wife. That, he would have tobear and suffer for me--and his world would never forgive him--nor me!

"No; I do love him too well for that. I give him back to his place, andyou. "

"To me?" And Ruth Dale, haggard and trembling, came slowly around thetable, clinging to it for support. When she reached Joyce, she put outcold, groping hands and clutched her by the shoulders. 

"You--give him back to me--why? Who is he?"

"John Gaston is--John Dale. It has all come to me so suddenly, I cannotexplain, but there is no mistake. I am going to Jude Lauzoon, so thatneither you nor he can keep me--from what alone is mine; but be--good tohim--or God will never forgive you! Please go now. I must hurry. Good-bye. "

"Joyce!" Ruth Dale was crouching at her feet. 

"I am--so tired. " A long sigh broke from Joyce's lips. "Please do notmake it harder. It _must_ be; and I have much to do. "

"But--there may be some mistake. " A horrible fear shook Ruth Dale. Joycerose and confronted the woman who knelt on the floor. 

"Do you believe there is?" she flung the question madly. "Do you?" Therewas no faltering, only a stern command. 

"No, " shuddered Ruth Dale. 

"Then please, go. My part is all--over! But--be--oh! be heavenly good tohim. "

Blinded and staggering under the blow, Ruth Dale got to her feet andwent from the house. The outer cold steadied her somewhat, but when, ahalf-hour later, she entered Ralph Drew's study, the man by the firegazed upon her as if she were a stranger. 

"What has happened?" he asked affrightedly, springing to her side. 

She let him take her icy hands in his. "I've found--John!" she gaspedhoarsely. 

"John--who? Sit down, Ruth. You have had a terrible fright. " He put herfirmly, but gently in his own arm-chair. "Tell me all about it, " heurged quietly. 

"John Dale. Philip's brother. "

"In heaven's name, where!"

"Up at Gaston's shack. Gaston--is--John Dale. "

Ralph drew back and repeated dully:

"Gaston--is John Dale? Gaston--is John Dale?" Presently the wonderbecame affirmation. "Yes, " he almost groaned, "Gaston is--John Dale. "

A lurking familiarity of feature gained power in Drew's memory ofGaston. It linked itself into other details. He had always known Gastonhad a hidden cause for being in St. Angé. Yes; he _was_ John Dale. 

For Drew to become convinced was for him to act upon the impulse of hiswarm heart. 

"Ruth, dear, " he whispered, "make yourself comfortable. I will go tohim. "

Then Ruth raised her hands to hold him back. Her voice was deep andawed. 

"No!" she commanded "neither you nor I, Ralph, is fit to enter--there. Amiracle has been performed up among the pines. A man and woman have beencreated--that we are not worthy to--touch!"

"Ruth what madness is this? What has occurred? You must explain to meclearly. "

Then the story rushed out in a flood. Tears checked it at times; ahysterical laugh now and again threatened; but Drew controlled theexcitement by word and touch. 

"And now, " Ruth was panting and exhausted; "she, that--wonderful woman, has given him back--to me. Can't you see? She loves the soul of him--thegreat, strong man of him--but I--why even _now_, I cannot forget theevil thing--that befell--the _body_ of him while he was--in--"

"Ruth! You shall not so degrade yourself. "

"Yes! Yes! it is quite true. That is what I meant. I am not fit totouch--her nor him, and yet I shall shudder all my life--when Iremember. "

Drew saw that reason was tottering in Ruth. 

"He may--not--wish--to claim you, dear, " he comforted. 

"But he must; he must! Now that she is going to her own; there isnothing left for me to do--but to go to mine. "

"This can go no further, Ruth. " Drew rose hastily. "I am going to sendAunt Sally to you, and I must think things out. Calm yourself, dear. Inall such times as these, a greater power than is in us, controls andgives strength. Let go--Ruth! Let the Power that is, take you in itskeeping. "

He touched her cold face with reassuring sympathy, and then went to findMiss Sally. 

His next impulse was to rush to Gaston's shack; his second thoughtrestrained him. If Gaston had returned, he would rightfully resent anyoutside interference with this crucial time of his life. If Joyce weredecided in the course she had laid out for herself--how dared he, howcould he, divert her from it without involving them all in a deeperperplexity?

So Drew resigned _himself_ to the Power that is. 

CHAPTER XVIII

It was Billy Falstar who broke upon Joyce's solitude after Ruth Dale hadleft her. 

Worn beyond the point where conscious suffering held strong part, Joycewas completing her final arrangements mechanically and laboriously whenBilly presented himself. 

"Say, Joyce, " the boy faltered, standing in the doorway and kicking hisheels together, "I'm blamed sorry I done that sneak job. "

"It doesn't matter much, Billy. But now that you are here, will you helpme pack food and things? I'm going--away. "

Then Billy recalled the letter, and fear rose sharply to the fore. 

"You ain't going to go--no such thing!" he cried, coming in and slammingthe door behind him. "That's a--that's a fake letter. "

"Yes, I know. It doesn't make any difference. But tell me, Billy, is itfather or Jude down at the Laval place?"

Billy was stricken with surprise. 

"How d' yer know?" he gasped. 

"Oh! it was all so foolish!" she answered smiling feebly. "If he--if Mr. Gaston had sent it, don't you see that there would have been no need ofthis mystery? But is it Jude or father, Billy?"

"It's old Birkdale, " Billy burst out, and then between fear and reliefhe related what had happened in the hut in the woods. 

"Then it's a longer way I must go. " Joyce sighed wearily. "Do you thinkI could get there--walking, Billy?"

The boy eyed her as if she had gone crazy. 

"'Course not. But what you want to go for, anyway?"

Joyce came close to him. He seemed the only human thing left for her tocling to, the only one to call upon in her sore need. 

"Billy, I'm going to Jude because--he's mine, and I belong to him--andit never pays in this world to take what doesn't belong to you. "

"But--Gaston--you belong to him--and I want--you--to have him!" Billyfelt a mad inclination to cry, but struggled against it. 

"No, I never belonged to him, Billy. Believe that all your life--it willmake a better man of you. He was heavenly good to me because he wassorry for me--and wanted to see me happy. But happiness doesn'tcome--that way. Sometimes it seems as if it did--sometimes it seems asif God meant it so--perhaps He did--but the people out--in theworld--the people that should have known how--the people who had timeand money and learning, they've muddled things so--that we can't evensee what God meant for right or wrong. 

"Why, Billy, they punish the wrong people, and then when they findout--they do not know the way to set it straight; but it doesn't matter, Billy, we have to go on, on, on, the best we can!"

Joyce put her arms around the boy, and bent her head on his thin, shaking shoulder. 

She no longer wore the yellow gown. She was plain, commonplace Joyce, familiar to Billy's unregenerated youth. 

But Billy did not fail her. Awkwardly, but with wonderful understanding, he put his arms around her, and whispered:

"I just wisht, Joyce, I was God for a minute--and it would all be rightor I'd be----"

"Billy!"

"I'd be gol-swizzled, " Billy tamely ended. 

He could not master details. He only knew something had happened. Joycewas going to leave Gaston and go to Jude, and he, Billy, must make theway easy, and stand by her as a gentleman should. He patted her armreassuringly as he thought it out. 

"It's 'most night, " he said; "I'll hitch up old Tate's mare to the sled. He won't know! It's going to be a big night down to the Black Cat. I'lldrive you over to Jude--and wait for yer, if yer say so. If yer don't, then I'll cut back--and I don't care after that. "

"Billy!"

"When will you be ready?"

Joyce glanced at the clock. 

"It's after six now. I'll be ready when you get back, Billy!"

A moment later Billy had set forth in the black coldness. 

It was eight o'clock that evening when the revellers at the Black Catheard a crunching of the snow as a sled rapidly passed the tavern. 

Leon Tate was mixing drinks, with a practised and obliging hand, whenthe unaccustomed sound struck his ear; he paused, but when theunappreciative driver passed, he lost interest. 

"Thought some one was coming?" Tom Smith suggested. 

"No; going, " Murphy, the engineer, slowly answered. 

"Where to, do you suppose?" asked Smith. Any new topic of conversationearly in the evening was welcome. 

"Like as not, " Tate came forward with his brew, "like as not it's themfolks up to the bungerler. I heard Mr. Drew had a cutter an' horse overfrom Hillcrest; and going out nights skylarking seems part of hisreligion. "

"Religion!" sniffed Smith; "they're a rum lot, all right!"

"I wish they was!" Tate put in gloomily, but grinned as the otherslaughed. 

"It's a durned shame to take an animile out nights for fun, " Murphyinterrupted; "I'd hate to run even the injine 'less 'twas important. Gosh! Tate, you must have let your hand slip when you mixed this. "

"Christmas comes but once a year. " Tate beamed radiantly. It was good tosee that his Black Cat still had charms to compete successfully with thebungalow. 

"That piece up to the minister's, " Smith glowed inwardly and outwardly, "is the nervy one, all right, " he remarked. 

"Which one?" asked Tate; "the fixture or the transient?"

"The steady. I was setting here musing late this afternoon, when in shecome over there, " Tom indicated the woman's side of the screen; "andfirst thing I knowed if she wasn't standing on a cracker-box on herside, and a-looking _over_ the screen. "

"Well, I'll be--" Tate stood straighter. 

"'Smith, ' says the young woman, 'what does Mr. Tate have screens for?'Then, with her blamed, sassy little nose all crinkled up; 'my! how itdoes smell. I should think if Mr. Tate had _anything_, he'd have anair-tight and smell-proof partition. '"

A roar greeted this. 

"Like as not. " Tate was crimson, "the sentiments you're rehashing ain'tgot constitootion enough, Smith, to stand much more airing. Something'sgot to be done in this here place to set matters on a proper footing. You let a woman come nosing around where she don't belong, specially onewith a loose-jointed tongue, and there's hell to pay. Our women isgetting heady. You men will learn too late, maybe, that you'd better putthe screw on while there's something to hold to. "

"It's sapping the juice, some. " Murphy was beginning to relax. "But, Lord! have you seen the duds for the kids, and the costumes for thewomen? Mis' Falster had me in to show off hers. Every woman's to have anew frock for the jamboree Christmas night; not to mention the trappingsfor the kids. The old lady up to the bungerler give 'em. "

Tate scowled. 

Just then the door opened and Jock Filmer entered. He looked spent andhaggard; and his handsome, careless face did not wear its usual happysmile. 

"Hello!" he said, slamming the door after him, and walking up to thestove. "I thought I saw your Brown Betty kiting over toward the north, Tate. I was afraid something had happened. "

"No; Brown Betty's safe in the barn. " Tate's gloom passed as he greetedJock. "The Reverend's got a new horse. What'll you have, Filmer?"

"Plain soda, " Jock replied and walked up to the bar. 

Tate almost reeled under the blow. 

"Plain--thunder!" he gasped, thinking Jock was joking. But Filmer fixedhim with a mirthless stare. 

"Plain soda, and no monkeying with it. "

The air became electrical. 

"Been away?" Murphy tried to break the spell. 

"Over to Hillcrest--on business. " Jock was gulping down the soda. Histhroat was dry and burning; and the unaccustomed beverage went againstall his desire. "I'm off--to-morrow--for a spell. Won't you join me in adrink, boys?"

The invitation was accepted with alacrity, and Smith asked cordially:

"Where are you bound to, Filmer?"

"Got a job?" Tate gave each man his choice of drinks and lookeddubiously at the treater. 

"What'll you have now, Filmer?" he asked, "maybe plain water?"

Jock's eyes grew glassy. 

"No, " he muttered; "make it another soda, Tate. Yes; I've got a job. Such a thundering big one that it's going to take about all the nerveI've got lying around loose. "

"Bossing--maybe?" Tate cast a keen glance upon Filmer. Jock returned thelook. The gleam had departed from his eyes--he was Tate's master now. 

"That's about the size of it, " he answered. "Bossing, and it's going tobe a go, or you'll never see me again. Here's to you!"

Something of the old dash returned as Jock held his soda aloft. 

"Anything happened up to Camp 7?" Tate was uneasy. 

"Lord! It's further back than 7. " Filmer set his glass down. "It's a newcut--started late, but it's worth trying. So long!"

The others stared after him. 

When the door had closed upon the tall, swinging figure, the companyturned upon themselves. 

"Things are going to--" Tate did not designate the locality. After all, it was needless for him to go into particulars. 

An hour later Jock, sitting in his own shack before the warm fire, eyedwith satisfaction the preparations for his journey. They consisted ofcertain comforts in the way of sleeping-bag, provisions, gun and a bagof necessary clothing; and a general mass of débris, in the form ofsmashed bottles and jugs. A vile smell of liquor filled the room, andthere were little streams of fluid running down any available slopeleading away from the rubbish. Jock, sitting before the fire, his longlegs stretched out and his hands clasped behind his head, eyed theserivulets in a dazed, helpless way, while the foul odour made him halfmad with longing. His face was terrible to see, and his form was rigid. 

A knock on the outer door made no impression upon him, but a second, louder, more insistent one brought a, "Why in thunder don't you come in, and stop your infernal racket?" from his overwrought nerves. 

Drew entered. His fur coat had snow flakes on it. A coming storm hadsent its messengers. 

For a moment Filmer looked at his visitor with unseeing eyes, then hisconsciousness travelled back from its far place, and a soft welcomespread over the drawn face. So glad was he to see Drew that he forgot tobe patronizing. He was weakly overjoyed. 

Drew, with a keen, comprehensive glance, took in the scene and somethingof what it meant. He smiled kindly, and pulled a chair up before thehearth. 

"Been away Filmer, or going?" he asked as he sat down and flung off hiscoat and fur hat. 

"Both, " Filmer returned, and although his voice was hard and strained, Drew detected a welcome to him in the tone. 

"I wanted you up at the bungalow, " he said quietly; "the girls cannotget along without you. It's Christmas Eve, " he added quietly, "to-morrow's the big day, you know. "

"I shan't be here. " The words came harshly. "See here, Drew, " Jock flunghimself about and leaned toward his guest, his long, thin hands claspedclosely and outstretched. "I wanted you to-night more than any one, butGod, could know. I couldn't come to you--but you've come to me at theright moment. "

"I'm glad of that, Filmer. "

"I'm not much of a hand for holding back what I want to give out, " Jockrushed on, "and I ain't much of an orator. What I'm going to tell you, Drew, has been corked up for over ten years--it's ripe for opening--willyou share it?"

"Can you ask that, Filmer?" The two men looked steadily at each other. 

"Did you ever hear of Jasper Filmer on the Pacific Coast?" Jock askedsuddenly. 

"Yes; he died a week ago. The papers were full of it. We noticed thename--" Drew bent forward--"and wondered. "

"I'm his son. There ain't much to tell. It's a common enough yarn. Theworld's full of the like. It's only when you tackle the separate onesthat they seem to differ. The old man--made himself. That kind is eitherhard as nails or soft as mush. My governor had the iron in his. Hebanked everything on--me--and I wasn't up to the expectation. I wasmade out of the odds and ends that were left out of hisconstitution--and we didn't get on. My mother--" Jock pulled himselftogether; "she was the sort those self-made men generally hanker after, all lady, and pretty and dainty. You know the kind?"

Drew nodded. His face was ashen. 

"I wish you could have seen her, Drew, I've seen a good many, but none, no, not _one_, who ever came up to her for softness, and fetching ways. Lord! how I loved her. The old man might have known that if I could havegone straight I'd have done it for--mother. She never lost faith in me. Every time I went wrong--she just stopped singing for a time. " Filmergulped. "Then when I pulled myself together, after a while she'd beginagain, singing as she went about, and smiling and laughing a laugh thatkeeps ringing, even now. 

"At last the governor got tired of the lapses. I don't blame him; justremember that. He thought if I went off and nibbled--what is it--husks?that I'd come around. He didn't understand that it was the _motivepower_ that was lacking in me. 

"Good God, Drew! I've been hungry and cold and homesick until I'vethought death was the next step; but I couldn't _stick_ to anything longenough to make good. Such men as my father never know whathell-suffering men like me go through--before they fall, and fall, andfall!

"I wrote--lies, home. I wanted to keep mother singing and laughing. Iwas always doing fine, you know. Coming home in a year or so. I was inChicago, then New York; but I was getting lower all the time. I put upin those haunted houses--the lodging dives, but I kept those lettersgoing to her, always cheerful. 

"Then I made another struggle. I cut for the woods. I got toHillcrest--when word came--that she had--died!" A dumb suffering stoppedthe words. Drew laid his hot hand over Filmer's, which were clenched, until the finger-tips were white. 

"It was the hope--of making myself fit to go home and hear her sing andlaugh that had brought me to Hillcrest. Well, I wrote the old man--thatI was going further north. You see, he blamed me. Said the longing forme, the disappointment and the rest, had weakened her heart. I couldn'tbear the thought of ever going back--then; so I tramped over the hilland--St. Angé adopted me. It's been a tame plot since then, but it'snever been as bad as it was before. I dropped into their speech andways, and things sank to a dead level. I got word from Hillcrest theother day. " Filmer looked blankly into the red embers. "The governor hasleft--it all to me with this saving clause: if I have any honour I amnot to take the money until I can use it as my parents would desire. Yousee, the old man had what I never suspected--a soft place in his heartfor me, and a glimmer of hope. It might not have made anydifference--but I wish to God I had known it before. "

Drew could not stand the misery of the convulsed face. He turned hiseyes away. 

"Drew!" Filmer had risen suddenly and now confronted his companion withdeep, flashing eyes. "Drew, I'm not going to take the fortuneunless--I'm fit to handle it. I've been a tramp long enough to know thatI can keep on being a tramp, but I'm going to make one more almighty trybefore I succumb. I may be all wrong, but lately I've thought the--themotive power has--come to me. " A strange, uplifting dignity seemed tofall upon Filmer. Drew tried to speak; to say the right thing, but hemerely smiled feebly and rose unsteadily to his feet. 

"I wouldn't blame you if you--cut me after this, Drew, but it's got tobe said. It's--your--sister. "

"My--sister? Connie?" Drew was never so surprised and astounded in hislife before. 

"Connie?" he gasped again. "Connie?"

"If--if--I was what I might be? If I come into my own, Drew, do youthink she--could care--for me?"

"How under heaven can I tell?" Drew said slowly; "she has never--howcould she? shown--" he paused. 

"How indeed, could she?" Filmer laughed a hard, bitter laugh. 

"It would be a poor sort of reformation, Jock--" Drew was gettingcommand of himself--"if it were only to get--her! You've got to getyourself, old man, before you'd dare ask any woman to care for you. Ioften think the best of us ask a good deal--on trust; but at least a manmust know himself before he has a right to expect even--faith. "

"Oh! I've worked all that out, Drew, I've been to Hillcrest to talk thebeginnings over with a little lawyer fellow who's had my confidence allalong. I'm going back where I fell, Drew, in the start. I'm going backthere where the loss of her--the mother's laugh and song--will grip thehardest and where the antidote will be the easiest to get. I'm going totake only enough of the governor's money to keep me out of the filth ofthe gutter until I can climb on to the curb or--go to the sewer, see?But always there is going to be your sister above me. Just rememberthat--and if you can help her to think of me, once in--a while--"

"Filmer, until you climb up, you must not ask me to hold even onethought of my sister's for you; except--" and here Drew looked franklyin the anxious face--"except as the good fellow of--our Solitude. "

"Thank you! That's all I meant. And if I pull up--and stay up--she, notI, will know how to use the money. She's got the heart that can reachdown to the suffering, and hold little dying kids on her breast. If I gounder, Drew, the money is going to her--anyway. "

"Filmer!"

"That's all right, Drew. I know what I'm about. She'll brighten up allthe dark places--and remember me in that way if in no other. "

Long the two men looked at each other; then Drew extended his hand. Jocktook it in a firm grip. 

"Good night, Filmer, and God be with you!"

"I'm ready to start, I'll tramp back with you as far as the bungalow. "

Jock dashed the crumbling, glowing logs with his foot, and left the firedying, but safe. Then, gathering his travelling things together, he wentout with Drew, closing the door behind him. 

It was a snowy night now, white and dry. In silence the two trudged onto the bungalow, then Drew said, "and you won't come in, Filmer, justfor a word?"

"Thanks; no. "

"Where are you going now?"

"To Hillcrest. I start from there to-morrow morning, after another talkwith the little fellow I mentioned. I'm going to keep to the woods for afew days--they always brace me--then I'm going to make a break--for thecoast. "

"You'll--write--to--me--Jock?"

For a moment Filmer hesitated; then he said eagerly:

"Yes; as long as I'm fighting, I'll keep in touch. If I get down--you'llknow by my--not writing. And Drew, I want to tell you something. Thatreligion of yours is all right. It was the first kind that ever got intomy system and--stayed there. It's got iron, red-hot iron in it, but it'sgot a homelike kind of friendliness about it that gives you heart tohope in this life, and let the next life take care of itself. "

"Thank you, Filmer. That's going to make me--fight. "

Another quick, strong handclasp--and then Drew turned toward the glowingwindows of his home. 

Filmer stood with uncovered head in the driving storm, and looked, witha great, hungry craving, up to the house that held the motive-power ofhis new life, and then, with a dull pain he grimly set his facetoward--the coast. 

CHAPTER XIX

Drew waited until after Christmas before he took a decided part in theaffairs of Gaston and Joyce. Indeed he purposely avoided any informationregarding what was going on at the shack among the pines. He wasdetermined that St. Angé's first, true Christmas should be, as far as hecould make it, a perfect one; and it was one never to be forgotten. Itset a high standard; one from which the place was never again to fallfar below. 

The snowstorm raged furiously for hours, and then the weather clearedsuddenly and gloriously. 

Blue was the sky, and white the world. A stillness held all Nature, andthe intense cold was so disguised that even the wisest native wasmisled. 

Early on Christmas morning, right after the jolly family breakfast, Drewcalled to Constance as she passed his study door:

"Connie, we cannot have Filmer with us, after all. He's gone away. "

The girl stopped suddenly. Her arms were full of gifts, and her brightface grew still. 

"Where has he gone?" The question was put calmly, but with effort. 

"It's quite a yarn, Con; can you come in?"

"I can hear from here, Ralph; go on. "

"You know that rich old fellow on the Pacific Coast who has just died, Jasper Filmer, the mining magnate?"

"Yes. "

"He's was Jock's--father. "

Drew heard a package drop from his sister's arms. She stooped and pickedit up. From his chair Drew saw that her face never changed expression. 

"So then, Filmer did not take the trouble to change even his name?"

The voice was completely under control now. 

"No. I imagine this was no case of the town-crier being sent out. Whenthe prodigal got ready to return, under prescribed conditions--the calfwas there. "

"I see. And has he--has Jock accepted the--conditions?"

"He's gone to make--a big fight, Con. He will not take the fortuneunless he wins. Filmer's got some of the old man in him, I bet. "

"Yes. Is--is his mother living? Has he any one to go to--out there?"

"No one, Con. From what he told me, I gathered that it was to be a fightwith the odds--against him. "

There was a long pause. A package again dropped to the floor. The girloutside stooped to gather it up; dropped two or three more, thenstraightened herself with an impatient exclamation. 

"He'll win out!" The words sounded like a rally call. With that the girlfled down the hall, trilling the merriest sort of a Christmas tune. 

At three o'clock St. Angé turned out in force, and set its face towardthe bungalow. 

Leon Tate had decided that to put a cheerful front to the foe was thewiser thing to do, so he closed the Black Cat and arrayed his oilyperson in his best raiment, kept heretofore for the Government Inspectorand Hillcrest potentates, and drove his wife himself up to Drew's fête. 

"Do you know, " he said, as they started, "Brown Betty looks as playedout as if she had been druv instead of loafing in the stable. "

"She do look beat, " Isa agreed. "What's that in the bottom of the sled, Tate?" she suddenly asked. 

Tate picked it up. 

"Now what do you think of that?" he grunted, and held the object out atarm's length. 

It was a baby's tiny sock; unworn, unsoiled. The little twisted footthat had found shelter in it for so brief a time had not been a restlessfoot. 

"Give that to me, " Isa said hoarsely, and tears stood in her grim eyes. 

"What the--what does that--mean?"

"How should I know, Tate? But it set me thinking. Things often let looseideas, you know. This being Christmas--and the stable and the mangerand--and--the baby. It all fits in. "

Tate looked at his wife in an almost frightened way. 

"You mean"--he tried awkwardly to follow her confused words; "youmean--a baby has been borned in--our manger?"

"Lord! Tate what are you thinking of? St. Angé may be wilder thanBethlehem in some ways, but there ain't never been no baby borned in_my_ manger. "

"Then what in thunder do you mean?"

"Nothing, Tate"; and now the tears were actually falling from Isa'seyes. 

"I guess"--she strangled over her emotions--"I guess--it's more like--aflight inter Egypt--than--than--a birthday party. "

"Get up, Bet!" Tate was routed by the event. Finally he said slowly, "See here, old woman, I'm going to look inter that--baby boot, and don'tyou forget it. This ain't no time and place maybe, but Tate's going tohave his senses onter any job that takes his possessions for granted. Give me--that flannel boot. "

"Tate--I can't. "

"Can't, hey?"

"Well then"--and the declaration of independence rang out--"I won't!"

"What!" Brown Betty leaped under the lash. 

"It don't belong to me. "

"Do you know who owns it?"

"I can--guess. "

"Guess then, by thunder!"

"It--belonged--to--Joyce's poor little dead young-un. "

"How in"--then Tate blanched, for superstition held his dull wits. "Howyou 'spose it got there?"

"How can I tell, Tate? But I'll ask Joyce, to-morrer. "

With that Leon had to be content. 

The feast began at five. Long, long did the youth of St. Angé recall itwith fulness of heart and stomach. Yearningly did St. Angé womankindhark back to it. It was the first time in their lives that they had notprepared, and were not expected themselves to serve, a meal. Theyforgot, in the rapture of repose, their new and splendid gowns--thecomfort wrapped their every sense. 

"I was borned, " poor Peggy confided to her neighbour, "to be aconstitootional setter, I think; but circumstances prevented. It'scurious enough how naterally I take the chance to set and set and enjoysetting. "

Mrs. Murphy smoothed her dark-green cashmere with reverent and caressinghand. 

"There's more than you, Mis' Falster, " she said, "as is borned to whatthey don't get, sure! Now me, fur instant, I find it easier nor what youmight think, to chew without my front teeth. "

This made Billy Falstar laugh. It was the first genuine laugh the poorboy had had for many an hour. Constance Drew heard it, and it did herheart good. For Billy, pale, wide-eyed and laughless, was not in theorder of things as they should be. She looked at Ruth Dale andwhispered, "Billy is reviving with proper nourishment. "

Ruth gave her a sympathetic smile. Ruth was, herself, working underpressure, but she was successfully playing her part. 

"His face was the only grim one here, " she said. "Just look at Maggie, Con!" To view Maggie was to forget any unpleasant thing. 

Maggie Falstar was laying up for the future as a camel does for thedesert. Food and drink passed from sight under Maggie's manipulationlike a slight-of-hand performance, and through the effort, and above it, the girl's expressionless face was bent over her plate. 

The Christmas tree, later, was in the hall. The party staggered to itfrom the dining room with anticipation befogged by a too, too heavymeal. But St. Angé digestions were of sturdy fibre, and fulfilled joybrought about quick relief. 

Aunt Sally looked into the grateful eyes upturned toward the glitteringtree, and her own kind eyes were like stars. 

It was Ruth Dale who had taught the children to sing, "There's aWonderful Tree, " and the Christmas anthem now surprised and charmed theolder people. 

Above the shrill, exultant voices, Ruth's clear tones rang firm andtrue. Drew watched her from his place beside the tree, and his heartached for her. And yet--what strength and power she had. She so slightand girlish. She had lost faith, and had had love wrenched from her. Shewas bent upon a martyr's course, and yet she sang, with apparent abandonof joy, the old Christmas song. 

Constance Drew was an adept at prolonging pleasure and therebyintensifying it. With the tree bowed with fruit, standing glorifiedbefore them, the rapt company listened with amaze to Maggie Falstar asshe sniffled and hitched through a poem so distorted that the onlysemi-intelligible words were: "An--snow--they--snelt--at--the manger, lost in--reverent--raw. "

This part of the programme affected Leon Tate in a most unlooked-formanner. 

"Say, Smith, " he remarked to the station-agent, who was gazing atConstance Drew with his lower jaw hanging, "that beats anything I everheard in the natural artistic line. Blood's bound to colour itsvictims--do you remember Pete's mother?"

Tom Smith had forgotten the old lady. 

"Well, as sure as I'm setting here, old Mis' Falster uster come interthe Black Cat when she'd had more than was good for her out of thetea-pot, and recite yards of poetry standing on a chair and holding tothe top of the screen. There hasn't been a hint of such a thing sincethen till--"

But _the_ moment had come. The moment when the heart leaped to meet itsdesire. The moment when the desire materialized, and the soul asked nomore. 

Workworn faces quivered with happiness. Things that vanity had yearnedfor, but stern necessity had denied, were held now in trembling hands:precious gifts that one _could_ do without, but were all the more sacredfor that reason. Jewelry and pretty bits of useless neckwear, and gauzyhandkerchiefs. 

Useless? No. For they were to win admiration that was all but dead, andgive sodden women an incentive to live up to them. 

Little hungry-hearted children hugged dolls so beautiful, yet so human, that nothing more could be asked. Boys, awkward and red, shook likeleaves as they fumbled with "buzzum pins" and gorgeous ties and fancyvests. 

Sleds, skates and books abounded, and St. Angé, on that sacred day, revelled in the superfluous and the long-denied. 

Constance Drew came upon Billy later, while games were in wild progressin the hall and study, seated in a dark corner of the dining roomweeping as if his heart would break over a be-flowered vest and a richred tie. 

"Billy!"

"Yes'm. " Billy was too far gone to make pretence. 

"Don't you like--what you have?"

"Gosh! Yes. "

"Are you happy, dear?" The gentlest of hands touched the red head. 

"Happy?" Billy blubbered; "I'm busting with it. "

"Billy!" and now Constance spoke slowly, impressively, "I want to tellyou--something. It's something we have all thought out. It is, perhaps, another Christmas gift for you, dear. I--am--going--away!"

"Going away?" Poor Billy accepted this Christmas offering with horrifiedanguish. 

"Going--"

"Wait, Billy, boy. When Christmas is all over and done with, I am--goingback to my other--home until next--summer. But Billy--I want a part ofSt. Angé with me"--her eyes shone--"I have--been--so happy here--soglad--and so different. I want something to make me remember--if I ever_could_ forget. Billy, I want you to come with me. There are schoolsthere, dear. Hard work, and a bigger life--but it will make a man ofyou, Billy, if the thing is in you, that I believe _is_ in you. It'syour chance down there, Billy, your best chance, I think, dear--and I'llbe there to help you--and to have you help me. Billy, will you come?"

Then Billy dropped the red tie and the be-flowered vest. Everythingseemed to fall from him, but a radiance that grew and grew. He tried tospeak, but failed. He put his hands out, but they trembled shamefully. Then all in a heap Billy sank at Constance Drew's feet and hid histhrobbing head in the folds of her white silk gown. 

The pale moon peeped through the wide window, and cast a strange gleamover the tousled red head snuggled under the little, caressing hand. Ittransformed a girlish face that was looking far, far beyond St. Angé'scalm and peace. The vision the girl saw was battle. Life's battle. Notlittle Billy's alone, though God knew that was to be no light matter. Not even Filmer's lonely struggle, but her own. Her fight againstConvention and Preconceived Ideas. Against all that Always Had Been withWhat Was Now To Be. 

But as the far-seeing eyes gazed into the future, they softened untilthe tears mingled with Billy's on the already much-stained silken gown. 

"Billy-boy, we're crying. I wonder--what for?"

"Because, " Billy's mouth was full of that silken gown; "because you andme is so plum chuck-full of happiness we're nigh to busting. "

"Oh! Billy, is that really it, really?"

Billy looked up from his shrine. 

"Ain't we?" he said solemnly. 

"Billy--I--believe--we--are. "

Late that night, standing alone by his study window, Drew's tired eyestravelled over his parish. His people had gone. They were his people atlast. God-given, as he had been God-sent. He would work with them andfor them. He would live day by day, and not look to the eventide. Hewould--then he looked down the moonlighted road to the stretch on beyondthe house, where the snow lay unbroken on the way up to Gaston's shack. A tall, strong figure was striding into the emptiness. A man's form, swinging and full of purpose. It was--John Dale himself going up to meethis fate. 

There was no light of welcome in the shack among the pines. All was darkand lifeless. Drew started back. Humanity seemed to urge him to followthat lonely figure and be within call should his help be needed. Secondthought killed the desire. 

The man plunging ahead in the night was a strong man. A man who throughsorrow, sin and shame, had hewed his way to his own place. No one couldhelp him in this hour that awaited him. He must go up to the Mountbearing his own cross--and accept the outcome according as hispreparation for the ordeal had fitted him. 

It was ten o'clock of the following day, when Drew was roused from hisreading beside the study fire by a sharp knock on the door. 

He was beginning, lately, to regard this room of his as a kind ofConfessional, and every knock interested him. 

"Come!" he called. 

Gaston strode in. Whatever the night had meant to him, his face borelittle trace of anything but stern purpose. 

"Good morning, Drew, " he said quietly. "Joyce Lauzoon has left my house. Can you tell me anything about her?"

"Very little, Gaston. " The onslaught, so direct and unerring, rathertook Drew's breath, but he caught himself in time. "Lay off your coat, "he said cordially, "and draw up to the fire. The cold seems to beincreasing. "

Gaston flung hat and coat from him, and pulled a chair nearer the blaze. 

"It will continue to grow colder from now on until the break-up. Drew, Icannot waste time, nor have I any inclination to mince matters. I knowthat you have, in no small measure, influenced Joyce Lauzoon's thought. I know she has spoken of the effect of your words upon her life and, finding her gone upon my return, I naturally come to you thinking thatperhaps--and from the highest motives--you may have said something toher that has led her to take this step. 

"Whatever has been said, has been said by some one who could affect heras one speaking, if you can understand, from my side of the question. Noone else could have any power over her. "

"Gaston, I have not seen, nor have I had any communication with JoyceLauzoon, since you left this last time. While you were away before, shecame to me, and I talked with her as I felt should, under thecircumstances. "

"I know all about that"; a sharp line formed on Gaston's forehead; "itwas indirectly on account of that conversation between you that I leftso abruptly again. Pardon me, Drew, but don't you think your aunt oryour sister--might have followed up your line of argument by--theirown?"

Drew flushed scarlet. 

"I am quite sure they did not, " he said emphatically. 

"I've got to find her, Drew"; Gaston breathed hard; "none of youunderstand the situation in the least. "

"Perhaps we do, Gaston. " The minister-instinct rose within the weak man, and gave him the sudden dignity that had always impressed Jock Filmer. 

For the life of him Gaston could not despise the young fellow. Therewas courage of purpose and conviction that ennobled his frail body. Itwas no easy thing, Gaston felt sure, for him to place himself and hisyouth in this attitude toward a man older than he. It was undeniableDrew lost sight of himself every time he accepted the demands of hisprofession, --and the renunciation won respect. 

"See here Drew, I do not often give my confidence. It does not oftenappear necessary, and I think nine times out of ten it complicatesmatters instead of solving mysteries, but I'm going to speak quiteopenly to you--for Joyce's sake. It would not make any difference toothers--they think she deserves punishment for appearing to deserve it, but I believe you will be able to comprehend the difference and perhapshelp me to help her. 

"Up to the night when she told me that she had seen you, and that yourconversation had emphasized some doubts of her own--she had been to me, first a poor hounded creature, then, a striving, high-minded girlendeavouring to free herself from the bondage of evil that had been herinheritance. I'm not going to speak of myself in the matter, only so faras to say that my own life, under different environment, has beensuch--that I understood; I undertook the--task of helping her! Whateverof temptation cropped up now and then, was strangled for her sakealways, --sometimes for my own, too--it died at last, and I was enabledto serve her with single purpose. 

"What that task has meant to me--I cannot expect any living soul tounderstand. I was very lonely. I never looked for reward nor recompense. It was--I thought it was--enough in itself. But something had been goingon that was no part of my plan. Like a revelation it came to me, thatlast evening I spent at home--that she was a splendid woman; and I knewthat I loved her!

"That was why I went away. I went to find Jude Lauzoon. I meant to freeher, and marry her. Her love has always been mine. This may make nodifference--perhaps you cannot believe it--but it's God's truth, and nowyou see why I must have her. "

Drew had never shifted his gaze from the speaker's face. Conflictingemotions tore him--but there was no doubt in his heart, now, of Gaston. 

"In your profession, Drew, " Gaston saw that he had gained his point, "you do not want to condone sin, but you want to understand the sinneras well as possible; and, Drew, you may take my word for it--I'm not inan overwhelming minority. "

For a moment Drew tried to speak and failed. Every expression of histrue thought seemed inadequate and futile. Presently he stretched hishand across the little space that divided him from his companion. 

"Gaston, " he said, "I thank you. It does make a difference. Itmakes--all the difference in the world. "

His thin, blue-veined hand fell upon Gaston's strong, brown one, whichlay spread upon the chairarm. 

Gaston did not flinch under the touch. He did not seem to notice it. 

"Drew, " he continued after a long pause, "it will help me--to find her, perhaps, if you tell me the little that you know. I am not going to lether slip if I have to hunt every inch of the woods for her. You must seethat there is danger in every moment's delay. 

"Can you tell me if any one has seen her and talked with her who mightinfluence her from an--outside point of view?"

Drew was sorely perplexed. He realized that Ruth's wild description ofher encounter with Joyce had left many unexplained points. EvidentlyJoyce herself had, in some way, learned more of Gaston's past than Drewhad at first supposed. Then, to tell Gaston, even in his trouble, that aguest of his, Drew's, had gone into the other's home and caused thiscalamity, was too cold-blooded a thing to do, without due consideration. 

He knew, better than his companion did, that if Joyce had carried outher intention, there was no need of haste. 

Gaston was looking keenly at him. 

"You are keeping something from me, Drew, " he said slowly, "and you havea reason for doing so?"

"Yes, Gaston, I am; and I have. "

The further he became involved, the more hopeless the position became toDrew. Gaston was seeking to solve Joyce Lauzoon's problem and his own, without the test of Ruth Dale. Not only Ruth's confession as to Joyce, but Ruth herself must enter into Gaston's future plan of action. 

"You know, Drew, who went to my house?"

"Yes; I know that Joyce had a visitor who might have influenced her totake this step; but I have reason to believe that Joyce did not act uponthis other's initiative entirely. She had certain knowledge of her ownthat--urged the course she has taken. "

"That is impossible!" Gaston's eyes flashed. Recalling that last scenewith Joyce, he could not doubt her simple faithfulness--unless thatfaith of hers had been turned into a channel which she fondly believedwas for his greater good. Nothing could change Joyce Lauzoon. Whateverhad been the cause, Gaston knew, she had forgotten herself in herdecision. 

"I am--sure I am right, Gaston. "

"And you refuse to tell me who has seen her?" A slow anger was mountingin Gaston. 

Before Drew could reply, a merry call from the hall smote both men intodead silence. 

"Ruthie! Ruth Dale, where are you? Come, let's go and see how thingslook the morning after?"

Constance Drew had given Gaston his answer. By the magic of that nameshe had connected the Past and the Present. The shock was tremendous, but Gaston bore it with only a tightening of the lips to show the agonyhe was enduring. 

Presently an aimless question broke the unendurable stillness of theroom. 

"Who--is--that, Drew?"

"Ruth Dale--your brother's widow. "

"So--he is dead?" At such vital times in life, the mind leaps overchasms of events, and takes much for granted. 

"Yes; he died a year ago. "

"How long--have you known, Drew--about him and me?"

"Only a few nights ago. He was my friend for a comparatively fewyears--but he was--a dear friend!" Drew spoke as if defence werenecessary. 

"I wonder--how much you _do_ know, Drew?" Gaston's face quivered. Hebegan to understand Joyce's soul-struggle. 

"Everything, Dale, " the name clung uncertainly upon the speaker's lips;"everything--vital. Philip confessed--the week before he died. "

Both men lowered their eyes. They dared not face each other for amoment. 

The fire crackled and the clock ticked. Every sense was sharpened andquickened in Dale until it was painful. 

Objects in the room stood out clearly to his uncaring sight; the snap ofthe fire, the tick of the clock smote like separate reports upon hishearing; and while he lived he was to recall, when he smelled burningpine, this tense moment. Presently he rose unsteadily and reached outfor his coat and hat like a blind man. 

"Well, Drew, " he said, making an effort to speak evenly, "there doesn'tseem to be anything more to say. I am going. Good-bye. "

"Dale--where are you going?" Drew was beside him. 

"I'm going to try and find--Joyce Lauzoon. "

"She--has--gone--to--her husband! He sent for her--and she went. " Drewspoke with an effort; but before the look on John Dale's face, hestaggered back. Hopeless rage, defeated desire blanched and fired inturn the strong features. Then without a word Dale strode from theroom. 

CHAPTER XX

John Dale went directly to his shack. What else was there for him to dountil he could find another trail through the blank that surrounded him?

When he had entered his home the night before, God knew he had beensorely distressed. He was going back to the woman he loved with herfetters still unloosened. Worn and spent, he had permitted himself therelaxation of spending a few days with her before he started out againon the quest of Jude. He had found the shack deserted, but every pitifulevidence of Joyce's thought for his comfort was apparent. He had lightedthe fire and lamp; had searched for note or other explanation, and, finding none, he had eaten hastily and gone to Filmer's house. Theredesolation again greeted him. 

Finally he had concluded that Joyce had gone to Isa Tate. This was apoor solace, but it stayed him through the long night; an early visit tothe Black Cat proved this last hope vain. 

Now, with the later knowledge searching into his soul, Dale noticed thecareful arrangements Joyce had made, before she slipped back into thehell from which he had once rescued her. 

She had taken only her own poor belongings. The shabby gowns andtrinkets that had been found among the ruins of the home Jude had laidlow. 

One silent token of the flight brought the stinging tears to Dale'seyes. 

At the last, there must have been haste, for near the door of Joyce'sbedroom lay the mate of the baby's sock that Isa Tate was hiding at thatvery moment. 

Poor, dead baby! He was pleading for the pretty mother who in his brieflife had so tenderly pleaded for him. 

Isa had wept over the tiny shoe, and now John Dale picked the mate upreverently, and put it back where he knew Joyce always had kept it. 

Manlike he did not give himself blindly up to his misery. Life must goon somehow--and while he sought a way out of the blackness thatenshrouded him, he must prepare himself. 

He replenished the fire, and then when high noon flooded the living roomwith a pale glow, he set forth a meagre but nourishing meal. 

In the performing of these homely tasks he found a kind of comfort. Itbrought Joyce back to him in a sense. 

During the early afternoon hours he smoked and thought. Things becameclearer, more fixed in his mind. 

Of course Joyce had been driven to Jude by a mistaken idea that she wasproving her deep love. Almost from the first, Dale thought of Ruth Daledetached from the shock of her mere name as it had struck his brain andheart in Drew's study. The old, vital charm of Ruth's personality; hersweet, convincing power, when she chose to exert it, now rose in hismemory. Joyce would be but a baby in the hands of such a woman. 

A fierce indignation swayed the man. Gone was the sweet memory of thecontrol that that same charm had once had over him. Only as it now hadtouched Joyce did he consider it, and every fibre of his being rose inresentment. 

The savage in him gained strength. He would follow Joyce and have heryet--in spite of all that had passed!

When Joyce saw and knew--what would he and she care for the rest? Hecould deal with Jude--there was still money. 

The wild claimed precedence over the innate refinement in Dale, and herose to begin his search. He glanced at the clock. It was four. He couldget--somewhere before dark. 

The prospect of action gave him relief and he was just turning to theinner room, when a timid tap upon the outer door stayed him. 

His heart gave a great throb. Had she come? Had she returned to him? Hadshe found the way back to hell impossible after he--the man she haddeserted--had shown her a path to heaven?

"Come!" he commanded as if defying any other hold that might have powerover her. 

Pale, trembling and enveloped in the fur coat and hood, Ruth Daleentered and closed the door behind her. 

Her eyes were wide and fear-filled, but self-possession was not lost. 

"John!" she cried pleadingly; "as soon as they told me--I came. "

Her outstretched hands recalled Dale to the present. 

"Ruth!" he whispered hoarsely, going to her; "this is--kind of you. Letme take your wraps. Here, sit down. "

It was a relief to have her a little distance from him. He took a chairon the opposite side of the hearth, and struggled to regain hiscomposure. For the life of him he could not fix his identity in theplace where the sudden convulsion of events had cast them all. 

He was an exile from the past of which this lovely woman was a part, andthe present had no space for her. 

In a dazed way he noted how exactly the same Ruth looked. When he haddropped her hands--way back there in time, she appeared precisely thesame to him as she did now, with those same little jewelled hands lyingwhite and soft in her lap. She had worn a bright gown then, Dalerecalled, but even the gloomy raiment that now enfolded her had no powerto change the woman of her. 

Poor Dale could not comprehend in his new birth and life, that suchwomen as Ruth Dale are Accomplished Achievements of heredity and ultrarefinement. Generations ago Ruth's type had been perfected; she andothers of her kind, were but repetitions. 

Her girlhood had been a brief pause before she had entered herfore-ordained womanhood--a mere waiting for the inevitable. Thus, Dalehad _last_ beheld her--so his photograph of her had fixed her in hismind. He saw her now the same, outwardly, and the placidity of theoft-repeated type held her afar from his rugged place. 

Dale himself had been tossed into the fire of temptation, in the rough. He had fallen to the depths but to rise--a better and stronger man withthe dross burned out. The strong, primitiveness of him was as alien toanything that was in Ruth as if the two had never seen each otherbefore. 

Like a man struggling with the recollections of a pre-incarnation, Dalesought to find a semblance of the old passion and fire this woman hadonce roused in him. Not even a reflection of them could he summon. Hadshe entered his life two years before she might still have been able tofan the embers into flame among the ashes; now she was powerless! Love, a great overpowering love, a love having its roots in the life of thewoods and primitive things--held the man for its own. 

Looking into the deep eyes that once had pleaded with hers, Ruth Dale, sitting in the lonely shack, wondered why she could not cope with thiscritical situation. It grieved and perplexed her--but it did not daunther. Sweet and retiring as she was, and _consciously_ self-forgetful asshe believed herself, Ruth was what ages had made her. Had hersubconscious self asserted itself, it would have boldly proclaimed itsabsolute superiority over other women of such make as poor JoyceLauzoon. Not merely in the other's shocking lack of moral sense--but invery essence. 

John Dale had suffered--and had tried, in weak man-fashion, to solacehimself. The world had helped to train Ruth Dale. While not admittingthat there should be any palliation for the double code--or even theappearance of it--such women as she recognized it, and were able, undersufficiently convincing circumstances, to deal with it. There werereasons, heaven knew, why she, Ruth Dale, should be lenient with thissilent man across the hearth. The white-souled innocence in her thankedGod, in this brief silence, that the man was _not_ as evil as many aman, under the circumstances, might have been. She believed Joyce'sstatement. It was wonderful, it was most weirdly romantic--and it couldbe overlooked!

It would have been absolutely impossible for Ruth Dale to conceive thatJohn Dale had so far outgrown her in the great human essentials of life, that he had no further need of her. The life of which she was a part, the life of which she was, she and her detached kind, the shiningcentre, had not enough vitality to hold this man of nature to it. Butthe pause was growing painful. 

"John--I have come to tell you all. "

He overleaped the poor past, and in his hunger to know of her part inthe present, said eagerly:

"Ruth, I am waiting to hear. I might have known you would come. "

Then, to his surprise, the pretty sleek head was bent upon the arm ofthe chair, and Ruth Dale wept, as the man opposite had forgotten women_could_ weep. The sobs shook the slender form until pity for her movedhim to touch and soothe her; while the savage in him held him back. Somehow, in a rough way, it seemed retribution. He was glad she couldsuffer. But presently the flood ceased, Ruth looked up, tear-dimmed andquivering. The torrent had borne away much sentiment; she was able toface reality. 

She told of Philip's dying confession. She delicately and graphicallytold of the broken life--after he, John, had passed out of it--and they, who remained, bravely wound the tangled ends into a noble whole. 

Dale followed her words as if the story were of another--and of a lifehe had never shared. 

"Philip wanted you to have all--everything--of which his weakness haddeprived you!"

Dale started. 

"Oh! Yes, " he said vaguely; "I see. Well, I can understand that. ButRuth--not even God could accomplish that miracle. In all such cases ithas to be what a man himself can get out of the wreck. It has to be_other_ things. New things--or he is--damned. "

It was the word more than the thought that caused the shudder in thecrouching woman. 

"You have never forgiven us, " she whispered. 

"Yes, I have, Ruth. When I got to a place, cleansed by suffering, whereI could forgive myself--everything else was easy. "

"Oh! John, why could you not have trusted me with your--your bravesecret?"

Why, indeed? John Dale could not have told; he only knew he had neverpaused to consider when it came to telling Joyce Lauzoon. The thoughtgripped him hard. 

"It had to be, Ruth, I imagine. All the ugly factors had to be takeninto consideration when the plan for re-making Phil and me wasdesigned. "

A grim smile touched the corners of the stern mouth. 

"He left his fortune to you!"

"I cannot take it. " Dale raised one hand as if pushing aside aninsulting offering. 

"John--I have my share--and my father's money. Think! Philip meant thatyou should prove your forgiveness by--finishing his work. I never sawgreater anguish than in his desire. Can you, dare you, refuse?"

A mist rose in Dale's eyes. Ruth saw it, and it gave her courage. 

Strangely enough, now that she groped toward this new man she saw beforeher, her aversion to the man she once knew was lost sight of. A dim feararose that her sacrifice might escape him and her. Not through anyunwillingness on their parts, but through a misunderstanding. Shebravely strove to down the menace. 

"John--I came to this house a few days ago to help a weak, erring woman, if I could. That is all I knew. Almost at once she made me see thestrange thing that had happened here through the goodness of a strongman, and the simplicity of--a weak, but loving woman. 

"All unknowingly I yearned to help her--save her, but she wanted to saveherself more than I understood at first. She was so brave and direct;once she saw where her weakness had placed her and the man she loved, she was strong in her determination to right the wrong. For her, poorsoul, there was but one way--she returned to her husband!

"John--_she_ told me who you were. In some way she knew who I was. I wasso distressed and surprised at the time that I did not question how sheknew me--but she did and"--Ruth could not bring herself to say, "shegave you back to me. "

"John--let the cruel, cruel past be forgotten. Come back to your own. The world will see you righted. John, say that it shall be as I--asPhilip--desire. "

She looked like a spirit as she bent toward him full of compassion, ofentreaty, and the kinship with that which she believed was still in him, and only waiting for her to call to action. 

The minutes passed--her call brought forth no rush of checked emotionand controlled passion. 

Dale looked at her coldly. He was far too simple a man, intrinsically, to gather the true, inward drift of her thought. He was now seeking tounderstand the change that had overcome him. She, the girl of his Pastwho had held his love, hope and desire; she no longer moved him exceptin wonder and aversion. But he felt that it was due her that he shouldmeet her as far as possible on this new way they were travelling. Heshifted his position. He knew something more was expected of him thanhe could give; but he must give as he could. 

"Ruth, " he began, and, because his inclination was to move away, hepurposely drew nearer; "I am sure you meant nothing but kindness incoming to Joyce Lauzoon; I can see that you mean only great good tome--but you cannot understand. You haven't even touched upon the truth. I suppose some people are born complete in the little; they only have todevelop. Others are--well--thrown together, and they cannot assume formand shape until by blows and chiselling they come through themachine--moulded. You have always been good and true; what you knew ofme, long ago, died and was thrown aside; what little survived, wasnourished apart from, and upon a life you have no conception of. I thinkonly lately have I realized this myself. I'm a bigger and a smaller manthan you knew, Ruth; I'm stronger and weaker; better and worse, " hishand clenched over the arm of her chair, and her eyes dilated. She wasfrightened. She felt his blood rising and she shrank back. It washorrible to be there--with him alone!

"You cannot understand, but that old life seems to me now to be--usedup, colourless and flabby. The people seem small and--all alike. Thislife--is big, free and--in the making. There are souls here that areonly touched by sins that have drifted to them--they are possible ofgreat things. They are new and keen, and they ring true when you strikethem. The woman who left this house--the other day, " Dale's words camehard and quick, "is the most glorious creature that ever lived. The lifeback there could not produce her. Strong, tender, and love itself! Notfor one instant did she pause when she knew who and what I was--sheloved--that was enough! God! how she loved. You--and women like you, Ruth, might lead the men you love toward heaven; she would go her wayalone to perdition to add to the happiness of the man she loved. But itwould be alone, mind you. 

"She's gone back to such a man as your books, even, forbear to portray. Jude is one of the creatures up here who was born without a soul. She'sgone to him to save me, as she thought--but she'll live alone, alone aslong as she lives at all. 

"So you see what trouble comes from such civilization as yours graftedon to the primitive passions of the backwoods. "

"John!"

There was no fear in Ruth Dale now, only a horrible conviction that JohnDale, the man she had come to reclaim and give back to his own, wouldhave none of her!

"John! John!" So he had sunk so low. 

"Do you know where she is?" Dale looked at his companion without notingher pallid astonishment. 

"No; I do not. "

"Then--and you will let me see you back to Drew's? I must go and findher. She shall have the truth, the whole truth, by God! to cool thefires of that hell she has been thrust into. "

Ruth covered her face with her trembling hands. Never before had shebeen so near the bare, throbbing heart of things. 

Oh! from what had she been saved? And yet--he was standing above her andhe was superb in his strength and power. He was holding her cloak forher; helping to rid himself of her. The old half-dead, but vital call ofthe aboriginal woman rose in her, then ebbed away at birth in a feebleflickering jealousy. 

"I do not wish you to go with me. " Ruth felt timidly out for her sweetdignity; the perquisite and recompense of exquisite refinement. "Iprefer going alone. "

"It is quite dark. "

"I shall not be afraid, " Dale walked with her to the door. Just beforethe blackness engulfed her, she turned her little, flower-like face tohim:

"John--I shall always be ready to be--your--friend if you need me. "

"I shall remember. Good night. "

An hour later Dale walked into the Black Cat Tavern and made a ruinousbargain with Tate for the use of his horse and sled for an indefinitetime. "I'm going up into the woods, " he explained, "I may be gone aweek, a month, I cannot tell; when I reach Camp 7, I'll send your rigback. "

"Going to join Filmer, maybe?" Tate's little eyes rolled in theircushions of fat. 

"Perhaps. " And Tate took this as affirmation. Now that Joyce hadrejoined her rightful lord and master--for the story had leaked out--itwas quite natural that Gaston should take to the woods. 

"It's one on 'im, " Tate confided, as Brown Betty and the sled dashed by. 

 * * * * *

When Dale started out his purpose was very vague. If he reasoned at allit was to the effect that Jude, after Joyce rejoined him, would seekemployment as near at hand as possible. It would be like his weak vanityto parade his victory by going to the men who had known of his defeat. Besides, if he had sent for Joyce, he must have been in theneighbourhood. The heavy storm, in any case, would hinder a longjourney, and the men at Camp 7 might perhaps have news of Lauzoon eitherbefore or after Joyce had met him a day or so ago. 

It had been a short time. He and Brown Betty were a better pair thanJude and a heavy-hearted woman. So Dale drove on toward Camp 7. 

He tried to keep to the trail, once he struck the forests, but the snowwas unbroken--the heaviest fall had occurred after Billy's return--andBrown Betty intelligently slackened her speed and felt her way gingerlythrough the darkness. It was still as death. Above the trees the starspricked the sky, and the intense cold fell like a tangible thing uponthe flesh exposed to it. Dale pulled his fur cap lower, and gladly letBetty have her will. 

 * * * * *

Now when Billy had left Joyce at the end of their flight, it was nearthe door of the woodman's hut. 

"Billy, " Joyce had said, lingeringly clinging to him as the lastfamiliar thing in her happy span of life; "Billy, you must turn back, and God bless you, dear. You see Jude must not know anything aboutyou--and it's all right now, Billy. "

Billy made an effort to speak, but ended in a sob. 

"Never mind, Billy, it's _all_ right now. Just remember that. Kiss meBilly. "

And Billy kissed her like the true gentleman he was on the way to being. Then Joyce, with her shabby baggage, and basket of provisions went onalone. 

She was stiff and cold, and her heart was like lead within her. Withsurprise she noticed that the door of the hut was partly open, and thesnow had drifted in. It was dark and lifeless apparently, and for amoment Joyce thought that Jude had gone away, and she turned to recallBilly before it was too late. Then she boldly entered the house. Thelittle entry was covered with snow and the room door, too, stood as theouter one did, ajar. Joyce paused and listened--then a horrible feartook possession of her. The still house overpowered her for a moment, but she knew that death awaited her in the outer cold and loneliness, soby superhuman determination she felt her way toward the fireplace--shehad been in the hut more than once and memory served her now. She forcedherself to think only of lighting the fire. Even when she struck a matchshe would glance nowhere but at the hearth. 

Her teeth were set close, and her breath hardly stirred her bosom. Therehad been a fire recently--but the ashes were cold. There was, however, wood nearby, and Joyce tore the paper from one of her packages and usedit to ignite the smaller wood. 

There was a puff, a flare, and the wood caught. 

With the growing heat and light a semblance of courage returned, stillJoyce kept her eyes rigidly upon her task. She laid on more wood, andyet more. It was past midnight and the terrible stillness Was numbingher reason. Presently she cautiously turned--something compelled her. She did not expect to find--anything, but she had to look! Away from thered glare, the shadows concealed their secrets from the fear-hauntedeyes, but only for a moment. 

Jude was there! He was lying stretched upon the floor. A bottle was nearhis outspread hand. He was asleep. 

Joyce did not try to get upon her feet, but she crept toward the stillform. She touched, with stiff fingers, the hand of the man she had cometo meet--the man who was to save her from her love. 

"Jude!" she whispered hoarsely; "Jude!"

A falling log started the others to a redder glow. The face of the manupon the floor lay exposed. The eyes were open--but unseeing, and Joyceknew that Jude was frozen to death!

She made no cry. Had she been capable of sensation she would have gonemad, but she was conscious of no emotion whatever. 

The room grew hotter and brighter. She drew away from that horribleshape upon the floor. She must forget it or her head would burst. In themorning, and it would soon be morning, she could go for help--but fornow she must forget. 

Still creeping, she regained the fireplace; there she huddled with herback to--that long black shadow. Yes; it was but a shadow. She would notthink of it but as a shadow. 

She braced against the chimney corner, and set her face to the warm, soothing light. Once she stirred and threw on more wood, then shereturned to her corner; and kept her eyes in one direction. 

An hour passed. The slight form by the fire relaxed, and sank graduallyto an easy position far enough away from the fire to be safe. The prettyhead fell upon a bundle that had earlier been dropped carelesslythere--and a great peace rested on the worn face. Suffering, hopelessness and fear fled as the calm gently settled from brow to chin;and all that was conscious of Joyce Lauzoon drifted into the oblivionthat has never been fathomed. 

Behind the sealed doors--the miracle was performed. The spirit freedfrom its suffering body--but not claimed by Death--was strengthened andpurified. Where it fared--who can tell? How near the Source of eternalthings it wandered none may know, but it drank deep and lost itsearth-stain long enough to carry back with it a faith that would enableit to live. 

The rosy light of day was showing ruddily in the window of the hut whenJoyce opened her eyes. The returning spirit came slowly back withstately serenity. There was no shock nor start of wonder; it tookpossession of the refreshed body that was awaiting it, and accepted itsresponsibilities. 

Joyce was lying on her back, her hands crossed upon her bosom. The firestill glowed at heart, and the room was warm. A calmness and sanenessreigned supreme. Joyce wondered what had befallen her? Then slowly, likea wise mother, Nature gave into her conscious thought the knowledge ofthings as they were. 

She turned--yes! there was Jude. But she did not shrink nor shudder now. Young as she was, she had seen death many, many times. She had gone tothe portals, alone, with others beside her poor baby. She rose now, andwalked over to Jude's side. The night had wrought a change in him, seemingly; or perhaps it was Joyce's regained sanity. The man on thefloor looked calm, peaceful and strangely dignified. His helplesspeacefulness appealed to Joyce. She began to take away all signs ofdegradation that remained. The inanimate tokens of poor Jude Lauzoon'sweakness and undoing. 

The empty bottle was hidden from sight; the disordered clothing wasstraightened, and the hands that were never to work harm again, werefolded over the quiet breast. 

God had set Joyce free! and as she did the last, sad service for the manwho had no real place in her life, the words of Ruth Dale recurred toher. 

No; she had never been free before. She never could have been free whileJude and she walked the same earth. There had been an intangible linkthat only death could sever. 

Her freedom had come too late--but no! Sitting beside Jude's body, Joycefelt the convincing truth that, come what might, she could, she wouldlive as John Dale had shown her how. 

Softly, with reverent touch, Joyce covered the grim, white face, andturned away to prepare for her home journey. She must get others to comefor Jude's body. Her part was all past now forever. She must go to faceher new life, whatever it might be. 

As she opened the outer door, the clear, stinging cold brought a senseof freshness and sweetness with it. It was so alive, and it called toall that was awakening in her. Her slow blood tingled and her breathcame quick and deep. 

For very relief she took off her close hood, and flung her arms wide asif in welcome to what awaited her. 

The unbroken snow spread on every side. Like the first-comer in thisnew, pure world she set forth with a high courage and a strange faith. 

So she came upon John Dale's vision, and he started back, fearing thathis weariness and heavy heart were playing havoc with his senses. Havingseen smoke rising from the chimney of the hut, he had left his horse andsled a short distance away, and had come to investigate. 

So absorbed was Joyce that she neither saw nor heard the approach of theman she had put from her life. 

Her pale beauty, as she came quickly toward him, struck Dale as almostunearthly. She was within a few yards of him when she saw him. A richcolour flushed her face as she recognized him and her eyes widened. 

"Jude--is dead!" she said simply. She thought he was still upon hisquest; still ignorant of the happenings that had driven her away fromthe shack. 

The words had the effect of paralyzing Dale. Had this woman taken a lifein self-preservation? Then the sweet, innocent calm of her facereassured him. Jude was dead! Every barrier was removed--every obstacleovercome. 

Dale rushed toward her with outstretched arms. The look on his face awedJoyce--but before she was swept into a bliss that might not berightfully hers, she shrank from him. She put her hands out pleadinglyas if imploring him to withhold what her soul was hungering for. Daleunderstood. 

"Joyce--I have been home. They have told me--all!"

"All?" Joyce panted the one word. "All?"

"Yes. Everything. Now--will you come?"

To his dying day Dale was never to forget the look she cast upon him ashe and she stood alone in the white trackless forest. 

Love, such love as worn-out civilization knows not, took possession ofJoyce Lauzoon. A love that controlled and uplifted. 

Dale waited--then she came to him, glorious and strong in her power ofjoy-giving. She clasped her hands around his neck, and lifted her faceto his; their lips met and their eyes grew wondrously tender. 

"And now, "--it was Joyce who recalled him to duty--"where shall we go?"

His promise to Drew followed close on the question; and Ruth Dale'sfarewell to him as she slipped from his life came with a new meaning. 

"Sweet, " he whispered, "they are waiting for us--Drew, and my sister, Ruth Dale. "

THE END

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Transcriber's Note:

1. Punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards. 

2. The Table of Contents was not present in the original book.