Kate, at this juncture, was filling her days to the brim with work, turning to it as to a tried friend, tested in many a crisis. Her recipe for avoiding thought was extreme physical fatigue; a good recipe, but one which was telling upon her physically. Philip's were not the only eyes which noticed the beginning of a change in Mrs. Kildare; a certain lack of buoyancy, an effect of effort in what she accomplished. Jemima, secretly alarmed, had insisted upon having in a doctor after her mother's fainting attack, but he made little of it. He was a bluff, cheerful, young countryman, shrewd but without subtlety, the son and the worthy successor of Jacques Benoix' successful rival, "Doc" Jones.

"She's as sound as a dollar," he pronounced admiringly. "Don't often see such a specimen of perfect health as the Madam. Nerves? Not likely. Probably over-fatigue—she does the work of ten men. Let me see, how old is she? Nearly forty—humph! Looks twenty-five. Make her take a rest. She'll be all right."

But rest, inactivity, was the one thing Kate would not allow herself. She dared not. She threw herself heart and soul into the business of her estate, and tried to feel the same interest, the same sense of large accomplishment, that had buoyed her up through so many years of loneliness.

On the Monday after Mag's child was christened, it happened that she was due to appear at a fair in an adjoining county, where she was exhibiting shorthorn cattle. But before she left, she did not forget to send a peremptory message to the man Henderson.

During her not infrequent absences from home, she had no uneasiness about her daughters, amply protected as they were by the numerous servants in the quarters back of the "great house," to say nothing of the small army of dogs which fattened upon her bounty. The housewoman who had been with her for years slept on such occasions on a pallet outside the girls' door, and Big Liza, the cook, also took up a position in the house, lying across the stairs in the great hall, whence her massive snores would have deterred the most reckless of marauders from entering.

But it chanced that this particular Monday was the occasion of the annual colored picnic in the village, held under the auspices of the Ladies of the Evening Star, of which organization both the housewoman and Big Liza were officials. So from dusk until midnight the young ladies were to be left in the charge of no one but Lige, the stable-boy who had once figured as butler, to whose unhappy lot this honor had fallen because of his known slave-like devotion to Jacqueline. Every other member of the domestic force was off rejoicing with the Ladies of the Evening Star.

This youth was making the rounds of the house with one of the Madam's pistols in his belt, taking some comfort in the dramatization of his unlucky rÔle, when breathless yells were heard approaching, and a small Ethiopian made his appearance over the back fence, yelling for help and the Madam in the same breath.

"The Madam's done gone away fum heah, an' lef me in charge," said Lige, grandly. "Whut kin I do fer you, young chile?"

A window opened in the house. "What's the matter, Lige? What's CÆsar Jackson yelling that way for?" demanded Jacqueline, who knew by name every creature, on two legs or four, in the county.

"Hit's de Riders!" gasped CÆsar Jackson. "De Riders is comin'!"

"Here? Nonsense! Why should Night Riders come to Storm? They wouldn't dare!" But she thought suddenly of Mag Henderson, and her jaw set.

"I yeared 'em, Miss Jacky! I hid behine a tree an' seed 'em pass with dey false-faces on!" The little negro shivered with that superstitious awe which had made the Ku-Klux Klan possible. "Dey 'lowed dey was a-gwine ter git old man Henderson."

Jacqueline gave a quick breath of relief. "Then they're too late. He has gone. Mother sent him word to leave the cabin last night. They won't find him."

"Yes'm, dey will, kase I seed 'im! I snuck erlong 'cross de fiel', an' dey was a light in de winder, an' I calls out, 'Run lak de debbil, kase de Riders is on dey way!' But he can't do it, run—he's too drunk. An' he say, 'Go an' git de Madam. Fo' God's sake git de Madam!' So I run, an' I run, an' I yells fit to bust myse'f—"

"You certainly did, CÆsar Jackson," said Jacqueline, patting his head. "You couldn't have yelled better if you had been a white boy. The Madam shall hear of this. She likes people who keep their wits about them.—What must we do, Jemmy?" The older girl had followed her out. "Do you suppose they mean Henderson any real harm?"

There was a sobbing cry from Mag behind them. "They'll kill him, that's what they'll do! Oh, pore Pappy! They'll beat him up, an' it'll kill him, he's so puny. Oh, my Gawd! Cain't nobody stop 'em? They'll kill my Pappy!"

The two girls exchanged startled glances.

"What ef dey does? Nuffin but po' w'ite trash nohow," murmured Lige scornfully. He knew what he knew.

Jemima hushed him, sternly. "Poor white or not, we can't have tenants on our property murdered. I'll get help!" She started for the telephone.

"No time for that. They must be at the cabin already. We are the only neighbors, Jemmy. It's up to us. I wonder what mother would do if she were here?"

Even as she spoke she was running toward the stable. She knew that at least her mother would not be standing idle.

Mag cried after her, "Miss Jacky, whar you goin'? Don't you try it, honey, don't you! How could you stop 'em all by yourself? They might whip you, too, ef you was to make 'em mad."

"Whip me? Whip me?" Jacqueline threw up her head and laughed. Her purpose had not been clear in her mind, but Mag's plea settled it.

She jerked the pistol out of Lige's belt—an able, well-conditioned weapon it was, in whose use both girls were as proficient as their mother. Lige and the breathless pickaninny trotted faithfully beside her. Jemima's voice could be heard at the telephone, resolute and distinct, rousing the countryside to the rescue of Henderson. Number after number she called, gave her brief message, and rang again.

"But I bet we get there first!" murmured Jacqueline, with an excited giggle. "Three horses out, Lige. Don't stop to saddle. I suppose you can ride, CÆsar Jackson?" She laughed at her own question. Was there ever a country-born darky, or a city-born one, for that matter, unable to straddle a horse from the moment he left his cradle?

"Laws, Miss Jacky, what we-all up to dis time?" murmured Lige, apprehensively. It was not the first time he had followed his divinity into reckless adventure.

He led out the three horses, amid soft nickering from other stalls.

"They all want to come, the dears! What a pity there's nobody to ride them! We'd be quite a troop—Storm cavalry to the rescue!" Inspiration came to her. "Lige, it's awfully dark! Do you suppose it would be seen that they were riderless?"

"My golly!" chuckled Lige, grasping the situation.

"Fetch 'em all out!"

Herding the riderless horses before them, a feat in which both had had experience, they took a short cut across back fields to the road that ran behind Storm hill toward the Henderson cabin. The first of these fields was known as the hospital pasture, where grazed several mules recovering from stone-bruises, harness galls, and the like. Mrs. Kildare always kept invalided stock under her own eyes.

"Suppose," said Jacqueline, suddenly, "that we were to add a few mules to the regiment?"

Lige and the pickaninny CÆsar Jackson responded to this suggestion with a pleased alacrity. Eleven strong, they galloped into the lower pasture, where steers were being fattened for market.

"Lige," cried out Jacqueline, "can steers gallop?"

"Dey kin wid me behine 'em. Whee-ow!" yelled her faithful henchman.

CÆsar Jackson rushed ahead and opened the gate, and the cavalry from Storm swept out into the road.

The girl had planned her sortie with the lightning instinct of a born general, an inheritance, perhaps, from various Kildares who had played their parts in the wars of the world. The road behind Storm resembled the fateful sunken lane of Waterloo, hidden between higher land on either side, topped by fences which made scattering of forces impossible. Nothing was to be heard in the darkness except the dull thudding of hoofs, an occasional startled bellow, the choked laughter of the two lieutenants as they herded their forces along at a smart trot.

Where a side road branched toward the Henderson cabin, Jacqueline gave her final instructions. "Silence till I shoot off the pistol, then yell, yell for all you're worth! and drive 'em in at a gallop."

"My golly!" gasped Lige, in an ecstasy that almost lost him his seat.

Everything was propitious. An obliging moon came suddenly from the clouds and showed them a group of horses tethered about the cabin; showed them also men tying a struggling figure to a tree in the front yard. Then came a sound that drove the mirth out of the girl's face, and left it white and stern—the cry of a man in mortal terror.

"Brutes, beasts!" she muttered. "Now then, you boys—"

Off went the pistol. Out of three pairs of young and vigorous lungs burst such a rebel yell as might have startled Grant's army in its long sleep, let alone twelve or fourteen nervous and uneasy "Possum Hunters."

They did not stop to see what was upon them. They heard the yell, the shot, the soft thunder of many galloping feet, and they made for their horses. Some got away straddling the crupper, some embracing their steeds about the neck. After them galloped the regiment from Storm, bellowing and braying, with its rearguard of two boys and a girl quite helpless with laughter.

Where the lane debouched into the highroad the rout became sheer panic, for there pursued and pursuers ran full tilt into the glare of a large automobile, from which a voice called "Halt!"

"The Sheriff, the Sheriff!" cried somebody.

Night Riders were to be seen scattering in all directions, leaping into cornfields, scurrying into the woods. In a moment there was nothing left of the raid except a few sweating, quivering thoroughbreds, and many steers and mules that fell at once to cropping the wayside grass with the composure of true philosophy.

Then from the darkness behind (for the moon, her work done, had retired again) came guffaws, and gurgles, and wails of laughter. The three men in the automobile eyed each other inquiringly. The laughter drew nearer. They could distinguish, amid mirth unmistakably negroid, a beautiful contralto voice demanding. "Did you see 'em skedaddle, Lige? Oh, wasn't it glorious! Riding on their stomachs, their ears, any old way. Holding on with their toe-nails—Oh, Lord!"

One of the men jumped out of the machine. He had recognized that voice. "Jacqueline Kildare, you wild hoodlum! What have you been up to?"

Into the lamplight rode a disheveled figure straddling a horse bareback, her pink gingham skirts well up above her knees, hair flowing in a cascade of splendor about her shoulders.

"Oh, Reverend Flip, were you in time for the fun?" she asked, weakly. "'The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold.' Those bold, bad 'Possum Hunters' will never be able to hold up their heads in this county again! Routed by a girl with a troop of cattle!" (It may be added that she spoke no less than prophecy.)

"The 'Possum Hunters'! Do you mean to say you've been mixed up in this performance? My dear girl," said Philip, sternly, "what will your mother say."

"She'll kick herself to think of missing it!" cried Kate Kildare's daughter, and was off on another peal of laughter in which the three men joined with a will.

"I should have been sorry to miss it myself," said a voice which Jacqueline recognized, behind the headlight. "Better one night of Kentucky than a cycle of Cathay."

Jacqueline made ineffectual attempts upon her skirts, blushing, but she said demurely enough, "Why, if it isn't the author, just in time for some more local color! Where did you come from, Mr. Channing?"

"From Holiday Hill, where I am visiting my friend Farwell. Your sister telephoned for help, and we were on our way to the rescue. Farwell," continued Channing, "is now nudging me in the ribs and demanding to be properly introduced. Do you mind? Mr. Farwell, Miss Kildare."

Jacqueline's eyes were sparkling. "One ahead of Jemmy," she thought, triumphantly. The owner of the great new house five miles away which made Kate Kildare feel crowded, was an object of no small interest to her daughters.

"We've been so anxious to see you, Mr. Farwell! I wish it weren't dark," she said with her usual frankness. "We've been so afraid you would be old, or fat, or married, or something like that."

"What have I done," murmured a plaintive voice, "to deserve such unkind suspicions? Why old and fat?"

"Because rich. They usually go together—in books, at any rate. And it would be just our luck to have you married, when we're so dreadfully in need of beaux. Are you married?"

"Alas, yes! But does marriage bar one absolutely?"

Jacqueline considered. "Well, no, I don't suppose it does—except for marrying purposes. Not unless you're old and fat, too," she added, gravely.

"I do assure you!" Mr. Farwell leaped nimbly out of the car and struck an attitude in the full glare of the headlight, as one who would say, "Take a look at me. Gaze your fill."

Jacqueline did so with full and unqualified approval. Mr. Farwell was distinctly worth looking at.

"What a pity you are married!" she said sadly. "It will be a great blow to Jemima.—I must go home and break it to her. I suppose she's still at the telephone assembling the clans. Did she telephone you too, Philip, man of peace?"

"Naturally, sensible girl that she is, instead of charging about in the dark like an avenging fury in pink gingham."

She made a face at him. "Just the same, it was me and not Jemmy who saved Henderson a whipping!" she remarked, with more satisfaction than grammar.

"And where is Henderson now?"

Her face went blank. "Good gracious, I forgot all about him! He's tied to a tree in front of the cabin."

"I'm not surprised. Perhaps we'd better go and untie him," suggested Benoix. "Thanks for the lift, Mr. Farwell. It saved me a long walk. My old horse was too done to take out this evening. Are you ready, Jacqueline?"

He caught one of the grazing thoroughbreds and straddled it with an ease that filled the author's soul with envy. Channing was no horseman.

"Do you mean to say you are going to ride that prancing beast without either bit or bridle?" he murmured.

The clergyman smiled. "It doesn't take much riding to persuade a horse to go home. Besides, Mrs. Kildare's horses know me. Come, Jacqueline."

Farwell protested. "Why not let me run Miss Kildare home in the machine, while you go and liberate the late victim? She must be tired after such an experience."

Benoix answered for her, rather brusquely. "Jacqueline is too young to know what it is to be tired. I'll go home with her, thanks. Good night."

He turned up the lane, and the girl followed, leaving her scattered cavalry to be herded home by the two negro boys. It would have been pleasant, she thought, to have appeared at Storm in an automobile, with not only the author in tow, but the interesting stranger as well, to the confounding of Jemima. Her voice came back through the darkness rather wistfully.

"Good-by. Wasn't it lucky you happened along in time?"

"It was indeed!" they replied with one voice.

"I hope," she called sweetly, "that you will think it necessary to come and inquire about my health. That would be only polite, don't you think?"

They agreed with her.

"There!" she said to Philip. "Didn't I do that nicely? Jemmy herself couldn't have been more young lady-like. Do tell me how you happened to know Mr. Farwell, and why you haven't introduced him to us? Didn't you know we were wild to see him?"

Benoix did not answer. His silence gave an effect of displeasure.

She put her horse closer to his, and laid a coaxing hand on his arm. "Why, Reverend Flip, I believe you are cross with me! What about—not because I came to Henderson's rescue, surely? I couldn't let those men get poor Mag's father! She said they would have killed him."

Philip murmured, "Not such a bad thing if they did."

"Philip! What did you say?"

"I said," he replied mendaciously, "that you have behaved foolishly and riskily, and with no dignity whatever. 'Young lady-like' indeed! Riding about the country bareback, with your hair down, and your skirts above your knees! What do you suppose those strange men thought of that?"

"I think they liked it," she said candidly. "They looked as if they did. You see neither of them is my spiritual pastor and master, so they don't have to be shocked by me." She gave him a demure, sidelong glance.

"I am not shocked either, you know that. Only—" said Philip.

"Only you wish I were more like Jemmy," she pouted. "Stiff, and proper, and prim—"

"I don't want you to be like any one but yourself," he said warmly, and paused. Suddenly he realized the change that was coming over this little playmate of his, half child and half woman as she was. The woman was beginning to predominate. He remembered her with Mag's baby, her almost passionate tenderness, her precocious knowledge of the child's needs. He remembered her manner with the two men they had just left, coquettish, innocently provocative. It had startled him. Evidently, Jacqueline was becoming aware of certain powers in herself which she was not averse to practising upon whatever victims came to hand; even upon her spiritual pastor and master.

"Jacqueline," he said gravely, "you are growing up. You must remember it. Why did you talk to a strange man like that?"

She chuckled. "Like what?"

"You know what I mean."

"Well—because I wanted him to come and see us. He's a neighbor, and we ought to be friends with him. And then—I'll tell you this, Philip, because you're my chum—I wanted that author man to notice me! He treated me like a silly child the last time. He won't again."

"I see,"—Philip smiled in spite of himself. "Nevertheless, you can't be too careful and dignified with strange men, dear."

She recognized the change in his voice; a change that usually came soon or late when people endeavored to scold Jacqueline.

"Now you're nice again," she said with satisfaction, slipping her hand into his. "You don't disapprove of me, anyway, half as much as you think you do. You might kiss me, just to show it."

He resisted gently. "No, my dear, you're getting too old for that."

"Too old for what?" she cried out.

"To kiss men. I told you you must be careful—"

She burst out laughing. "But you're not 'men,' you old goose!" Unexpectedly she jerked his head down to hers, and gave him a resounding smack on the cheek. "There! I'm going to kiss people I love, men or women, till I'm as old as Methuselah—'specially if they're cross with me. You may as well get used to it.—Now kiss me back, nicely."

Philip succumbed to the inevitable with as good grace as possible. He wished, with a sigh, that this child of the woman he loved could remain as she was forever; innocent, frank, unspoiled by the encroachment of womanhood. Jacqueline was particularly dear to him, perhaps because of her resemblance to her mother....

They found the man Henderson in a whimpering heap at the foot of a tree, about which his arms were still tied. Vigorous rubbing restored the circulation to his wrists, and a few drops of whisky from Philip's pocket-flask completed the restoration.

"Now, then, you're able to walk. Go!" said Philip. "Get your things and march. You were told to get out last night."

Jacqueline looked at him in surprise. This sharp, cold voice was quite unlike Philip's usual gentleness with the unfortunate.

The man began to whimper and whine, "How kin I go? I ain't got no money, and I ain't got the stren'th to walk. I'm jes' a pore ole man what don't mean no harm to nobody. Take me along with you-all! I'm afeared the Riders'll git me ag'in. I come back to see my darter, the onliest chile I got in the worl'. I ain't got no other place to go at. The Madam won't let a pore ole man suffer. I wants to see my darter."

"Stop talking about your daughter!" interrupted Benoix, harshly, "I give you five minutes to get your things together and bring me your key."

"Why, Philip!" cried Jacqueline, hot with indignation. "Of course he's in no condition to go now, after the scare he's had. The poor thing! We'll take him home to Storm. Mother'll expect us to."

Henderson fawned upon her eagerly. "Bless yore purty sweet face! You won't let 'em git the ole man. That's right. Take me along with you to see my darter." He put a wheedling hand on her arm.

"You dare to touch that young lady—!" Philip spoke in a voice Jacqueline had never heard, shaken with rage. He had a stout switch in his hand. Suddenly, uncontrollably, he brought it down across the man's shoulders again and again.

Henderson cowered away from him. In less than the five minutes he had been given, he was shuffling down the lane, all his worldly goods slung over his shoulder in a handkerchief.

Then Jacqueline's shocked astonishment burst bounds.

"Why, Philip Benoix, you wicked, cruel man! To turn that poor old thing out of his home without even giving him a chance to see his daughter! And you struck him, too, struck him to hurt—you, a minister of the Gospel! Oh, oh, you 're as bad as those 'Possum Hunters,' kicking a dog when he's down. You, a man of peace!"

"It seems," said Philip, ruefully, "that I am also a man of wrath."

During the ride back to Storm both remained silent, Jacqueline nursing with some difficulty her displeasure against her friend. So this was Philip's famous temper, in which she had never quite believed! In truth, that sudden outburst of inexplicable rage on the part of the grave, quiet, young clergyman had appealed strongly to the love of brute force that is inborn in all women.

But it had frightened Philip himself. He realized for the first time that he was indeed the son of a man who had killed in anger. He touched more than once the little inconspicuous gold cross that hung at his belt, wondering whether he were fitted after all for the vocation he had chosen.