About two in the morning Farwell set out upon his business for Priscilla. He left a safe and roaring fire upon the hearth; the window shades he did not raise, and well he knew that with that signal of desire for privacy his house would be passed by without apparent notice. The smoke might curl from the chimney, the dogs might, or might not, materialize, but with those close-drawn shades the simple courtesy of Kenmore would protect the master.

Priscilla was sleeping when Farwell silently closed the door after him, and, followed by his dogs, provided with food and blankets, he noiselessly took to the shadowy woods. It was a starry, still hour, lying between night and morning, and it partook of both. Dark it was, but with that silvery luminosity which a couple of hours later would be changed to pink glow. The stars shone, and the one great, pulsing planet that hung over the sleeping village seemed more gloriously near than Farwell had ever before noticed it. All nature was waiting for the magic touch of day; soon action and colour and sound would stir; just then the hush and breathlessness were a strange setting for the lonely man moving forward into the deeper shadows followed close by his faithful dogs. This man who, in the mad passion of his blighted youth, had taken life as if it were but one of the many things over which he claimed supremacy, with bowed head and slow steps, was going on an errand of mercy; he was going to claim, for a helpless human creature, assistance from the only man in all God's world upon whom he could call with hope of success.

The program, the next few days, was as clear in Farwell's mind as if he had already followed it from start to finish. By eight Pine would be on his tracks; by noon they would be together, the dogs grumbling and fighting at their heels. Two nights by the fire, smoking in a dull silence, broken now and then, in sheer desperation, by Farwell himself.

In Ledyard's plan there had evidently been but one stipulation: the constant guardianship with explicit reports. Beyond that there seemed to be no exactions. Farwell had tried to make Pine drink more than was good for him on various occasions in order to test the metal of the restraint, but the Indian displayed a wonderful self-control. He knew when and where to begin and stop in any self-indulgence, but having fulfilled his part he showed no interest or curiosity in his companion. Once the trading station was reached, Farwell might buy or seek pleasure as he chose; he might write or receive letters; might sleep or wake. So long as the tangible Farwell was where the guide could locate him at a moment's notice, he was free to think and act to his own satisfaction.

As he plodded on Farwell contemplated, as he never had before, his relations with the Indian; in fact, the Indian himself. A superficial friendliness had sprung up between the two. How deep was it? how much to be depended upon? If Ledyard could buy the fellow, might not a higher price secure his allegiance? This, strange to say, was a new thought to Farwell. Perhaps he had accepted the situation too doggedly; it was his way to cease struggling when the tide turned against him. It was weakness, it was folly, and, after Priscilla went, after the girl opened the doors again into that old life, how could he endure the loneliness, the tugging of her hold upon him from the place he once had called his?

The day came late to the deep woods beyond Kenmore, and Farwell seemed going toward the night instead of facing the morning. At five he paused to feed his dogs and take a bite himself, and, as he sat upon a fallen tree, the mystic stirrings of life thrilled him as they often had before. It was more a sense of rustle and awakening than actual sound. Hidden under the silence of the forest lay the quivering promises, as the rosy light lay just on the border of the woodland. Both were pressing warm and comfortingly close to the lonely man with his patient dogs at his feet. Farwell was a better man, a finer man, than he knew, but only subconsciously did this support him.

It was three of the afternoon before he heard the quick, measured steps on the trail behind him. He did not turn his head, but he called back a genial "Hello!" which was answered by a grunt not devoid of friendliness.

The evening meal was eaten together, and the two arranged their blankets near the fire for the night's rest. Farwell's two dogs and Pine's one faithful henchman lay down in peace a short distance away. It was as it had been for a time back, except that the Indian had become, suddenly, either an obstacle to be overcome or a friend to assist. Not realizing his new importance, the guide grunted a good night and fell into that sleep of his that never seemed to capture his senses entirely.

At the small town, which was reached late the following day, Farwell engaged two rooms at the ramshackle tavern and informed Pine that he was to share the luxuries.

This was unusual. In the past a day at the station sufficed for business transactions, and night found them in the woods again. Pine was confused but alert. However, things progressed comfortably enough. The expected mail was awaiting Farwell, and he greedily bought all the newspapers he could get. His purchases at the store did not interest the Indian and he was not even aware that several garments for a woman were included in Farwell's list. A telegram sent, and another received, did perturb the fellow a good deal, but when Farwell tore the one he got into shreds, the simple mind of the guide concluded that the matter was unimportant, and he forgot it before they reached Kenmore. He could not burden his poor intellect with unnecessary rubbish, and the whole business was getting on to what stood for nerves in the Indian's anatomy.

What really had occurred was this: Farwell had reached across the desolate stretches that divided him from his one friend and got a response. He had impressed upon John Boswell that he could not come in person to Kenmore, but he could meet a certain needy young person and convey her to safety in the States. And he had asked a question that for months had never risen to the surface—he had been too crushed to give it place.

"Is Joan Moss still alive?"

Boswell was ready to aid him in any way, would even deny himself the longing of seeing his old friend face to face, since that seemed desirable. He would meet the young woman at a place called Little Corners and would do what he could for her.

"Joan Moss is still alive."

A strong light and a new hope came into Farwell's sad eyes. He had a hold on the future! With the possibility of supplanting Ledyard in Pine's ideas of loyalty and economics what might not happen?

And so they started back.

It was midnight, four days after Farwell had left home, that he entered his own door again. The return trip had been rushed, much to Pine's approbation. Priscilla was quietly sewing at the table when Farwell, having loudly bidden the Indian good night, came into the living-room.

The girl's alarmed glance turned to one of relieved welcome when she saw Farwell. She had some food ready for him—every night she had been prepared—and he ate it ravenously. She noted how white and weary he looked, but the triumphant expression in his sad eyes did not escape her, either.

"You have good news?" she asked as soon as Farwell had rested a bit by his fireside.

"Yes. And you?"

"Oh! I have done famously. Only two knocks at the door, and I was well hidden. Once it was Mrs. McAdam and once old Jerry. They did not try to enter."

"They would not. And there was food and fuel enough?"

"Food—yes; I went out three times for wood, and I took one wild, mad walk. I ran, while all the world slept, to Lonely Farm. I looked in at my father's window; he was dozing by the fire, and—my mother——"

"Well, Priscilla?"

"My mother—was crying! I shall always remember her—crying. I did not know there were so many tears in the world!"

"You—you still insist upon going away?"

"Yes. There is no other way for me. Already I seem a stranger, a passerby. Not even for my mother can I stay; it could work no good for her or me. Perhaps, by and by——" Priscilla paused. Now that she was about to turn her back on all that was familiar to her, she became serious and intense, but she knew no shadow of wavering.

Then Farwell told her the arrangements he had made.

"I have a hundred dollars for you, Priscilla. I wish it were more. My friend Boswell will meet you at Little Corners. This is Friday; he will be there on Sunday and will wait for you at the inn; there is only one. Ask for it and go straight to it. From here to Little Corners is the hardest part. I will go as far as I dare with you; the rest you must make alone. Halfway, there is a deserted shanty near the old factory; there you can make yourself comfortable for the night. Are you afraid?"

Priscilla was white and intent, but she answered:

"No, I shall not be afraid."

"You ought to cover the distance in a couple of days and a night; the walking is not hard, and the woods are fairly well cleared. Once you reach Boswell you are safe. He will not question you, but you can trust him. He's a strange man—younger than I; he stands, has always stood, for all that is noble and good in my life. I have told him that you are some one in whom I am interested."

The feeling of adventure closed in and clutched the girl. Now that the hour had actually come, the hour up to which all her preparations tended, she quivered with excitement tinged with sadness.

"This way of leaving Kenmore is safer," Farwell was saying. "If any one were to see you and know you, your father would find you out and bring you back. No one will know you at Little Corners. That's a place which most honest people let alone. You'll like Boswell—every one does—after the first. He'll put you in the way of helping yourself, and your people may still hold their belief about you and Jerry-Jo, since it makes things easier for them."

"Yes; they must believe that until——" But Priscilla did not finish the sentence.

The two sat silent for a few minutes while the tired dogs upon the hearth breathed loud and evenly. Then at last Priscilla asked:

"When do we start, Master Farwell?"

"Start? Oh, to be sure. I had forgotten." Farwell roused himself from his lethargy. "We start at once; in an hour or two at the latest. I will nap here on the couch; you must rest as best you can. There's a long coat and a hat in yonder bundle. They must serve you until you meet Boswell. He'll rig you out in some town before you reach civilization. Here's the money; take wallet and all. Hide it somewhere, Priscilla." Farwell was on his feet and active once more.

"Go in an hour or two?" gasped Priscilla absentmindedly, following Farwell's words and accepting the money with a long, tender look of gratitude. "In an hour or two? Why, you've only just come in, Master Farwell!"

"What matters? After to-morrow I shall have time to rest and sleep to my fill."

"You will—miss me, Master Farwell?" Priscilla's eyes were dim. "I would like to have some one—miss me!"

"I shall, indeed, miss you! You can never understand what you have meant to me, Priscilla. I cannot make you understand; I shall not try; but in helping you I have perhaps helped myself. I cannot walk out of the In-Place beside you, as I would like to do—not now. Maybe a long time hence, some day, I may follow!"

Farwell's excitement showed in his eyes and voice and wiped out the weariness of his face.

"You mean that, Master Farwell? You are not trying to comfort me?"

"No; I am comforting myself!"

Then, forgetful of the need for sleep, he went on rapidly:

"Out where you are going, Priscilla, there is a—a woman I love; she once loved me. This must seem queer to you who have only known me as—as I now seem. I will seem different to you when you have wakened up—seen other kinds of men and women."

"Is she young—pretty?"

The senseless words escaped Priscilla's lips because quivering interest and a strange embarrassment held her thought.

"I—I do not know—how she is now. She was pretty. Good God! how pretty she was, and young, and kind, too. It was the kindness that mattered most. You see, she thinks me dead; it was best so. I—I had to be dead for a while and then I meant to go to her myself. But—something happened. I was obliged to stay on here, and she might not have understood. I'd like——" Farwell paused and looked pleadingly at the white girl-face across the rude table, where the fragments of food still lay: "I'd like you to go and see her. Boswell could take you. He's done everything for her, God bless him! I'd—I'd like to have you tell her gently, kindly, that I am alive. You might say it so as to spare her shock; you might, better than any one else!"

The longing in the man's eyes was almost more than Priscilla could endure. Crude as she was, wrong and sinful as the man near her may at one time have been, she knew intuitively that the love for that woman in the States had been his consuming and uplifting passion. If he had sinned for her, he had also died for her, and now he pleaded for resurrection in her life.

"I will do anything in all the world for you, Master Farwell; anything!"

And Priscilla stretched her hands out impulsively. Farwell took them in his cold, thin ones and clung to her grimly.

"I'd like to know she'd welcome me!" he whispered. "Unless she could, I'd rather stay—dead!"

Another silence fell between the man and girl while he relived the past and she sought to enter the future.

The clock struck the half-hour of one and Farwell sprang up.

"Get ready!" he said. "No time for napping now. It is—it is Saturday morning! We must be off! I'll go with you as far as I can. For the rest——" He stopped suddenly and looked blankly at Priscilla.

A little after two they started away from the small, darkened house. It was a cloudy morning; day would be long in coming, and the two made the most of the darkness. They were well in the deep woods by six o'clock; at seven they ate some food Farwell had hurriedly prepared, and were on their way again by eight. They did not talk much. Priscilla found that she needed all her strength, now that she must soon depend upon herself, and Farwell had nothing more to say but—good-bye!

Anton Farwell had got ahead of his spy for once! Not even so indefatigable an Indian as Pine could be expected to watch a man who had just returned from a long tramp. But Farwell knew full well that by high noon his guard would have sensed danger and be uncommonly active, so he pushed the march to Priscilla's utmost limit.

At four o'clock they reached the deserted hut near the old factory. A fire was made upon the hearth and a broken-down settle drawn close.

"I'd rest until early morning," advised Farwell in a hard, constrained voice. "Good Lord, Priscilla, it's a cruel place to leave you—alone!"

"I shall not mind, Master Farwell." All that was brave and unselfish in the girl rose now to the fore. She recognized that Farwell, even more than she, needed comfort.

"I shall never forget you," she said, holding her hands out to him; "never forget you or cease to—love you!"

The last words made him wince.

"Good-bye, Priscilla."

"Good-bye, Master Farwell."

When the door closed upon the man, for a moment Priscilla stood with horrified glance following him. The sense of high adventure perished at his going. Alone in the woods, in the ghostly hut, the night to face, and the blank future stretching beyond! It was more than she could bear, and a cry escaped her parted lips. But Farwell did not hear, and the paroxysm passed.

Priscilla slept that night, slept well and safely, and the early light of Sunday morning found her refreshed and full of courage. She never knew that two hours after leaving her Farwell met Pine and found in him—a friend!

They had come face to face on a side trail.

"Here I am!" said Farwell cheerfully; then he took his place in front of the guide. That had always been the unspoken understanding.

"See here, Pine, we've never said much to each other about what—all this means, but I want to say something now. I won't give you much trouble in the future. I shall not go often for my mail, or necessaries. In return, forget this journey. I went to let a—a poor little devil of a creature out of a trap. That is all. I just couldn't—leave it to suffer—and I hadn't time to call you up after our long tramp of yesterday."

"Ugh!" came from behind.

"Pine, can you trust me?"

"Ugh!" But the grunt was affirmative.

"Smoke on it, Tough?"

And they smoked while they plodded wearily back into bondage.