For two days the storm continued, increasing to a gale which whipped the waters of the placid river to a yellow angry flood, and beat the few remaining leaves from their clasp on the trees. During this time Linda and Miss Ri kept indoors as closely as they could, their chief visitor being Mr. Jeffreys. Miss Parthy, to be sure, paddled up the walk to the back door in all the rain, and Bertie Bryan's rosy face peeped in at them one afternoon, but Berkley did not come near, and no one guessed his reason for staying away.

How great a struggle had been going on in the young man's mind none associated with him imagined. Since that night when it was disclosed to him through the papers which Mr. Jeffreys had left in his care, that there was a possibility of Linda's losing her chance to inherit Talbot's Angles, he had fought his giants; one his love for the girl, the other the temptation to withhold the more important papers. He need not destroy them; he would only set them aside, and tell Jeffreys there was not sufficient evidence to warrant a legal claim. At last, however, when he must really face the issue, he laughed at such an idea, and realized that there was but one thing for him to do. He would give up Linda to his rival. Why should Jeffreys not possess the property as well as Grace? So, perhaps, would Linda be given her dearest wish. That day at the postoffice it had been revealed to him what his feeling for the girl really meant, and from that moment his love had grown stronger, deeper, fuller. On that rainy night he had nearly spoken of his feeling for her. Had she spoken less lightly he might have done so, even though at that time his cursory glance at the papers had given him some belief in the justice of Jeffreys' claim. But he had recognized that the girl herself was still heart free, and therefore, though there might be a chance for him he must keep away, must make excuses not to see her. He must assume a great air of one too absorbed in business to spare time for visiting his friends. He could manage all that. But first he must pave the way. He would go and tell them all that to Jeffreys would probably fall the old homestead, and he would say: "Better into the hands of an honest and honorable man, the descendant of the old stock, than to Grace Talbot." He would praise this future owner, and would plant the seeds which should blossom into regard and affection. Jeffreys was a good fellow, a little stiff, maybe, but a man of strict morality and—the fight was bitter—he would make her a good husband.

He shrank from making the revelation which should first suggest to Linda that it was really Talbot's Angles to which the papers referred. He could see her startled look, her fluttering hands, the color coming and going in her cheeks. He bit his lip fiercely and tramped up and down his small office savagely. Why should this ordeal be his to meet? He would turn it over to some other, Miss Ri, perhaps.

"I can't do it," he cried aloud. "I'll fling the whole dog-goned pack of papers into the river first." Her dearest wish! He stopped short. Could he supply it? Was he able to buy Talbot's Angles supposing it were for sale? What nonsense. He laughed mirthlessly. "I am a pretty sort of duffer," he exclaimed. "What am I thinking of?"

He jammed his hat upon his head, slammed the door behind him and strode down the street, passing Uncle Moke without a word and with such a set look on his face as caused the old man to mumble, "Mr. Berk sholy is riled. Look lak he gwine 'res' some o' dese bank robbers, or sumpin."

Berkley's step never faltered as he marched on with head up, as one going to battle. His savage peal of the door-bell brought Miss Ri in haste. Her face cleared when she saw who it was. "Well, Berk," she exclaimed, "what a mighty pull you did give, to be sure. Come in, come in and help us celebrate. We've a great piece of news for you."

He entered the room, where Linda sat, her face all alight, and some distance away, Mr. Jeffreys, with a queer strained expression in his eyes, but a forced smile upon his lips. On the table stood a tray with glasses filled with some of Miss Ri's famous homemade wine. "Here comes another to help us celebrate," cried Miss Ri. "Get another glass, Verlinda." She filled it, when brought, from the heavy old decanter and, holding her own glass aloft, she exclaimed: "Here's to the next owner of Talbot's Angles!"

Berkley's hand shook so that his glass overflowed and a few drops were spilled. His eyes met those of the other man. Neither spoke, nor did either touch the wine.

"You don't understand my toast," cried Miss Ri, looking from one to the other. "Grace Talbot is going to marry Major Forbes, and Linda will have her heart's desire."

"Of course, I'll drink to Linda, if that is what you mean," said Berkley, recovering himself and tossing off the contents of the glass, while Mr. Jeffreys echoed: "Of course, we'll drink to Miss Linda."

Berkley sat down, his head in a whirl. This put an entirely different face on the matter. He would have to think it over. This was no time to force conclusions. He scarcely heard Linda's eager account of the letter she had that day received from her sister-in-law. "It was so like Grace," she told him. "Major Forbes was such an old friend—"

"Quite old," put in Miss Ri. "He must be sixty, if he's a day."

"And she was such a dependent creature," Linda went on. "It seemed only proper that these two starved hearts should be united. She hoped Linda would not think she had been precipitate, but it had been eight months since poor Martin—not darling Martin any more—" Linda commented sadly, "and she would, of course, wait for the full year to pass. She felt that dear Linda would be pleased, not only because of Grace's happiness, but because it would benefit her. She must not think that little Grace was unmindful of that part of it. She had it in mind to do what she could for Martin's sister and, though it was a sacrifice to give up her home to Linda, it was done cheerfully. Linda must feel assured of that."

"Now, isn't it like that woman to take such an attitude," sneered Miss Ri. "Give it up? She can't help herself, as I see it."

"Major Forbes is abundantly able to keep me in the style to which I have been accustomed," Linda read—another sneer from Miss Ri—" and I am sure I shall be happier than living a lonely and forlorn widowhood," and so on and so on.

As Linda's soft slow tones ceased, Berkley roused himself to say, "I only dropped in for a minute. I am terribly busy these days. I must run right back to the office." He did not look at Mr. Jeffreys, but shook hands with Miss Ri. "Sorry I can't stay," he said nervously. "I'll come again as soon as I get time, Miss Ri."

Linda followed him to the door. "Aren't you glad, Berk?" she asked wistfully.

He looked past her down the street. "Glad? Of course, I'm glad," he said, then he ran down the steps, Linda looking after him with a quivering lip.

She returned to find that Mr. Jeffreys, too, had gone. "By the side door," explained Miss Ri.

Linda went over to the fireplace and put her foot on the fender, her back to Miss Ri, that the latter might not see the tears which filled her eyes. "They weren't a bit glad, either of them," she said presently. "I thought Berk would be, anyhow. Don't you think he acted queerly, Aunt Ri?"

"I think they both did; but it may have been that they were completely bowled over with surprise. You know we could scarcely believe it at first, ourselves, and men are much slower to grasp things than women. They were dumbfounded, that was all and, no doubt, Berk is busy. I hope he is. So much the better for him, my dear."

Linda made no response. She was not aware that Berkley had gone back to his office to wage another battle. What a turn of fate, to be sure, and now what was to be done? It would be Linda, Linda who was to be deprived of her own, and his must be the hand to deal the blow. Those papers! He struck them with his clenched fist, as he stood over his desk, and if a smothered oath escaped him, it is to be hoped the recording angel failed to register it against him. "There is one thing certain," he told himself; "if the thing is to be carried on, I'll throw up the case. I'll be hanged if I have anything to do with it."

He picked up a letter which he had laid aside, sat down, and began to read it over. It was from Cyrus Talbot to his brother Madison, and it read:

"You say that your property Addition has not suffered as much as some others, but that on account of hard times, you do not feel it possible at this time to rebuild the house burnt some months ago; therefore, since evil times have befallen you by reason of the ravages of war, I am quite willing that you should continue to occupy the house at Talbot's Angles; but as soon as peace visits our land, I would esteem it a favor, if you would find someone to take the plantation itself, paying me a yearly rental, which shall be fixed as circumstances allow. My own affairs here continue to prosper, and I do not think I shall return to Maryland, having found me a wife whose relatives live in close proximity and are a God-fearing and industrious people. I shall be glad to hear from you as occasion permits, and subscribe myself

"Your aff. brother,

"Cyrus."

This letter appeared never to have been sent, but there were others bearing upon the subject from Madison to his brother. It seemed from them that Madison was able to find a tenant for the Angles, but in time he proved unsatisfactory, as there were many reports of his thriftlessness, and at the time of Cyrus's death the place lay idle.

That this place was Talbot's Angles appeared evident from references to certain fields lying next the old church, and in an account of some disaster befalling the old windmill in a heavy storm. There were, too, old receipts and bills which identified the property and proved that, at least during the life of Cyrus Talbot, it had been in his possession, whatever may have happened afterward. Owing to the fact that many deeds and records had been destroyed during the War of 1812 and later during the Civil War, when neglect and indifference caused many legal papers to be lost, it promised to be a difficult thing to trace the ownership through succeeding years, unless further proof could be found.

At last Berkley happened upon a letter dated much later, a letter from Linda's own father to Charles Jeffreys. It said: "I have looked into the matter you bring to my notice, and I find that you are right in most of your surmises; but, as the place lay idle and neglected for a number of years, tenantless and abandoned, it was in no condition to bring in any return when I took it in hand. I have spent a good deal on it, and if you are willing to consider this outlay as rental for the time being, I shall be glad to be considered as your tenant, otherwise I must give up the place. Since the slaves were freed, labor is difficult to get, and I cannot afford to bring up so neglected a place at my own expense and pay rent besides. We have continued to live in the old house, which has been kept in good repair. Later on, we may be able to come to a different arrangement; but at present it seems to me it would be to your better advantage if you allow matters to remain as they are. If you take the property into your own hands, much money will have to be spent on it before it can bring you any appreciable return."

"Twenty-five years ago," mused Berkley. "I wonder if Martin knew, or whether a different arrangement was at last made. I imagine not and that the place was allowed to remain in James Talbot's hands in return for what he might do for it. That is the latest information to be had, that I can see, and there is really nothing more to be found out from these papers."

He rested his head on his hand and remained lost in deep thought. For all Miss Ri's decided announcement that he might even perjure himself for one he loved, that was something Berkley Matthews would never do. No, there was no help for it; facts were facts, and he must let them be known. Could he ever expect to win Linda's love and respect, if he had won her by such unworthy means? Would he not always be playing a false part, and would not the result fail of good to him and to her? No, a dishonorable transaction, no matter what its motive, would never do to base true love upon. Let things take their course, and let the best man win. It might be, after all, that she would not marry Jeffreys, in spite of his prospects. But this hope he dared not cherish. He pressed his hand over his eyes, as if he would shut out too bright a vision, and just then the door of his office opened and in walked Mr. Jeffreys.

Berkley turned sharply at the sudden entrance. "Ah," he exclaimed, "you are just the man I was thinking of. I've been going over these papers again, Jeffreys, and so far as I can judge, it looks like a pretty good case. Sit down and we'll talk it over."

Jeffreys drew up a chair. Berkley wheeled around and the two sat facing one another. "Of course," Berkley began, "you realize that the property referred to is Miss Talbot's old home, Talbot's Angles."

Mr. Jeffreys looked down. "Yes, I inferred so, although at first I was uncertain, not knowing as much as I do now."

"The records will have to be searched, of course, and we can find out who has been paying taxes and all that, you understand. I don't know that I shall have time to attend to it myself; I am pretty busy just now."

"That is too bad; I depended on you, Matthews."

"I know you did, but—"

Wyatt Jeffreys leaned forward. "Is it only because you are busy? Is that the only reason?"

Berkley did not answer at once; then he parried the question.

"What other reason could there be?"

"Your interest in Miss Talbot. I realize, Matthews, that I have come down here a perfect stranger to deprive a very lovely young woman of her property, and that you should in all reason feel antagonistic is not to be wondered at. I think you have known for some time that it was her property that I claimed."

"I have known it only since I made a closer examination of these papers."

"Very well; that does not alter the fact that you have been uniformly kind and considerate so far as I was concerned, and therefore I feel that I can speak as man to man." He paused. "Unless you have a prior claim, there is no need of Miss Talbot's losing her property if—"

"She will take you with it," Berkley filled the pause. "I understand." The crucial moment had come. Berkley suddenly swung his chair around, his face, turned from the other, was white and set, but he said steadily, "That would certainly be the best way out of the difficulty. I have no prior claim, Jeffreys, and I wish you success." He swung himself back again and held out his hand.

The other took it in a firm grip. "That is good of you, Matthews. I appreciate your kindness more than I can say." There was silence, broken by Mr. Jeffreys, who went on: "If it is only the matter of delay then, Matthews, I can wait your good pleasure, if you will take up my case."

Berkley gave himself time before he answered. Why shouldn't he take the case? What odds, now, what Linda thought? He had relinquished all rights to her consideration. If he did not hunt up the evidence, someone else would, and she be no better off. If he must disregard her, he could at least be true to Jeffreys. "I'll not go back on my word. I'll take it," he said shortly.

"I've kept a busy man too long," said Jeffreys rising, "but I hope some day I can show my appreciation of what you are doing for me, in more ways than one," he added with a smile. He held out his hand. Berkley took it mechanically, saying, "Good-night."

"Good-evening," returned Mr. Jeffreys, and he went out.

It was not late, though growing dark, but to Berkley it had become darkest night. Never, till that moment, had he realized how strong a hold upon him his affection for Linda had taken. She was so sweet, so gentle, one whose presence always brought calm and peace, yet she could be very droll and merry, very bright and entertaining, with a blessed grace of humor. With all her poetic fancy there was the domestic side, too, which had made her the successful housekeeper when yet but a school girl. And how dainty she always was, how womanly her little frills and simple ornaments. Even the way her dark hair grew around her pretty low forehead, and was worn parted above it, made her distinctive from other girls, whose monstrous puffs and braids gave them a top-heavy look. What a woman for a man to come home to after a day of stress. She, who had striven for her daily bread, how well she would understand what a man's battle of life meant. His first impulse was to throw everything to the winds, to snatch up his hat and rush off to her, beg her to listen to him, tell her he would work for her, live for her, die for her. He stood for a moment, trembling with intensity of feeling, then he sat heavily down again. "I can't do it," he whispered. "I must think of her, of what is best for her."

Moments passed. The street lamps shone out, footsteps echoed and reËchoed. Some boys went by singing. In the darkness Berkley sat very quietly, only once in a while he whispered, "Oh, God! oh, God!" as one who has found his Gethsemane. The hours wore on, the street grew very quiet, the rumbling of wagons, the tread of passers-by ceased. Lights in the lower stories of the houses began to be extinguished, while those above showed in first one room and then another. Berkley finally arose, stumbled uncertainly across the street and up to his room, where he threw himself across his bed, face down, and lay there all night wrestling with himself.