James did not fail to make a report to his father of the outrage which he had received at the hands of Harry Raymond. Over the trick which Tom and he had played upon our hero he passed rather lightly.

“It seems there were two of you,” said the squire. “Why didn’t you give him such a lesson as he would have remembered?”

“I would if Tom had stood by me.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“Oh, he pretended to be very much hurt!” said James.

“Couldn’t you manage young Raymond alone?”

“No; he’s as strong as a bull. He’s had to work for a living, and that has given him muscle.”

“Then you and Tom had better watch your chance, and give him a sound thrashing. I am perfectly willing.”

This was not quite what James wanted. The result of the first contest had not been such as to encourage him much to renew it, even with Tom’s assistance, and this might fail him at a critical moment as on a former occasion.

“Haven’t you got a mortgage on his mother’s place?” he asked, hesitating.

“Well, what of it?” said the squire.

“Can’t you call for the money, and if she can’t pay it turn her out of the house?”

“I don’t care to do it at present,” said the squire. “You must settle your quarrel in some other way.”

“Are you going to pay for the broken eggs?”

“As long as you broke them, I can’t very well refuse.”

“It wasn’t me. It was Tom.”

“There’s little difference.”

James was rather astonished at the moderate view which his father took of the matter. He had been fully convinced that the squire would sympathize with him in the affair, and be ready to join in any scheme to punish Harry Raymond for his insolence. Under ordinary circumstances, this was precisely what his father would have done. But there was a secret cause for his present conduct, and this shall at once be explained.

It has been said that Squire Turner had offered himself in marriage to Mrs. Raymond in early life, and that she had seen fit to decline his proposal. Both she and the squire had married, but now, by the dispensation of Providence, she was a widow and he a widower. Though now thirty-six, Mrs. Raymond was still a handsome woman, and, if surrounded by the appliances of wealth, she would make a wife of whom any man might be proud. Certainly she presented a very favorable contrast to the late Mrs. Turner, who had a sour, acid visage, and a temper to match, as her husband had often experienced to his cost. There is reason to believe that when that amiable lady was removed by death her husband was not disconsolate, but consoled himself with the fact that she could not carry away the property which she had brought him, and without which she would never have become Mrs. Turner.

Now the squire had had some vague thoughts that he might marry again, but no one in particular had occurred to him as worthy to fill the place of the late Mrs. Turner. But when Mrs. Raymond was suddenly left a widow, and the report of the lawyer in Milwaukie rendered it likely that she might come into possession of a considerable sum of money, it set the squire to thinking.

Mrs. Raymond was still a young woman, and he had never got over the fancy he had felt for her in earlier years. Indeed, she was the only one that had ever touched the squire’s rather flinty heart. He had not even liked the late Mrs. Turner, which was not much to be wondered at, for it is doubtful whether the warmest-hearted person could have felt much affection for so disagreeable a woman. He was rather pleased with the idea of offering his hand to his first love, especially if she could bring him a handsome addition to his present property. The chances of this he thought very fair. The lawyer had written very encouragingly, and he knew how rapidly real estate advanced at the West.

There was one important question, Would Mrs. Raymond smile upon his suit, or would she repulse him as before? The squire thought with proper management he might secure her consent. She had outlived the period of romance; there was no rival in the way, and for the sake of her children she would find it advisable to accept a proposal which would at once remove all pecuniary anxiety. Of course, if she knew of the probable value of the land warrant, that would make a great difference. But Squire Turner resolved to keep her in ignorance of this, until he had time to settle his matrimonial plans.

It will now be understood why James failed to win his father’s co-operation in his schemes of retaliation upon Harry. It was the squire’s cue to be friendly and conciliatory, even to our hero, who he suspected had considerable influence over his mother, and might use that influence to defeat his plans. In his secret heart, however, Squire Turner disliked Harry not a little, and would have been very glad of any little disaster which might come to our hero. Should he receive a beating at the hands of Tom Barton and James, the squire would not be likely to censure either very much.

That very evening something happened, which went far to increase the dislike and aversion of the squire to our hero, and in the end had considerable influence upon Harry’s career.

It was between eleven and twelve o’clock that Mrs. Raymond came suddenly into Harry’s room, and waked him up.

“Harry,” she said, in a tone of excitement, “Katy is taken sick, and is in great pain. I want you to put on your clothes at once, and go as fast as you can to Dr. Lamson’s.”

Harry needed no second bidding. He could hear Katy moaning, and shared in his mother’s alarm. He dressed in “double quick time,” and set off by the nearest route for the house of Dr. Lamson.

The doctor lived at a considerable distance. By the road it was full a mile and a quarter. But there was a way of cutting off from a quarter to a third of a mile by “cutting across lots.” This made the journey rather a dark and lonely one, especially as there was no moon, and there were but few stars out. Harry had a stout heart and a clear conscience, and was not easily daunted. Besides, he had his little sister to think of, and this was enough to fill his mind to the exclusion of anything else.

In due time he reached the doctor’s door, and knocked. He had to repeat his knock. Upon doing so the doctor put out his head from an upper window.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

“It’s I,—Harry Raymond.”

“Oh, it’s you, Harry. Anybody sick at home?”

“Yes, my sister Katy. She is in a good deal of pain. Can you come right off?”

“I’ll get ready at once. Will you stop and ride with me?”

“No, thank you, doctor. I’ll run home and tell mother you’re coming.”

“I may be there first, Harry. However, perhaps you will feel better to go.”

The doctor knew that when a friend or relative is in danger, nothing is harder to bear than passive suspense, and that action is a relief. So he interposed no objections to Harry’s wish.

Harry naturally decided to return by the same short cut by which he had come. On the way was a lonely old building, aloof from the road, but very near his path, which had recently fallen into possession of Squire Turner. It was not tenanted, and would require considerable repairs before it would be in order to receive tenants. Ten years before, it had been insured with a fire insurance company for an amount below its value at that time. The insurance had been kept up, but the value had so depreciated that it would be a profitable thing for the proprietor if it should be consumed by fire.

Squire Turner was aware of this, and in an evil hour, under the influence of cupidity, determined to set fire to his own building, in order to realize the insurance money.

Being in a lonely situation, he thought he should be able to set fire to the house, and return home before the village awoke to the fact that there was a fire, while there was not much chance of the wheezy old engine getting to the spot in time to arrest the conflagration.

Harry was a few rods from the house when his attention was arrested by a sight which struck him with dismay. A man muffled in an overcoat was stooping over a basket of shavings. In a moment there was a tiny light, proceeding from a match. This was communicated to the shavings, which caught at once. The man threw the basket with its combustible contents into the house through a broken sash, and, after pausing a moment to judge whether it was likely to accomplish his purpose, turned swiftly away. His coat-collar was up, and his hat was drawn down over his face as he turned round. His amazement may be imagined when he found that the midnight incendiary was no other than Squire Turner himself!

“What can it mean?” he thought, bewildered.

Fifteen minutes later the house, which was a mere tinder-box, was in flames, and the startled villagers, aroused from their slumbers, saw a bright flame reflected against the dark midnight sky.