When the group at Aunty Losh's cabin had finished what they had to say, Adela Reefe rose to go; and Dennis, taking his gun from a corner of the room, prepared as a matter of course to accompany her.

"Sun'll be goin' down," he remarked, languidly, "by the time I'm a-comin' back, and I'll have a right smart call to get a few birds."

"I wish ye was goin' t'other way," Aunty Losh said, fretfully. "Ye mout see suthin' o' Sylv. It's quare he don't come 'long when he knows his old aunty's a-waitin' for him."

"Oh, he's young, aunty. You got to give him some play," said Dennis, with fine sarcasm, though he knew well enough that his younger brother was more mature and better balanced than he.

But his demeanor underwent a change as soon as he had passed out of the doorway with Adela. The air of lazy jesting disappeared; his face became earnest, and he walked with a kind of meekness beside the girl, looking at her guardedly with a devotion that did not lose the grace of a single motion of her lithe figure. Leaving the headland, they took the direction of Hunting Quarters, a fishing village several miles distant, where Adela lived alone with her father, a nondescript personage depending for his livelihood upon equally nondescript and fragmentary lore of a supposed medical character. Old Reefe, to say truth, was held in awe by some of the simple neighborhood folk, as a man possessed of mysterious and magical powers.

The two had gone some distance without speaking, when Dennis began abruptly: "I got somethin' to say to ye, Deely, what I was waitin' to say till aunty come back. It didn't seem everyways fair to say it afore."

"What in time is it wouldn't be fair for you to say to me, Dennie?" she asked, turning her face quickly toward him, her lips parted in a smile, or perhaps only in eagerness.

"Why, when you was comin' over, tendin' me and Sylv and the cabin, it didn't look like it was right," Dennis said. "But now there's a free course, and I want to lay for home."

"That's a good word," Adela threw in, seeing him pause.

"Yes, and you know what I'm after. I want ye to say when you'll marry me."

Deely, at this, was quick to avert her glance. She remained silent.

"Well, what's in the wind now?" he persisted. "Ain't ye goin' to pass me an answer?"

"What can I say to you?" she returned, earnestly. "I love you, Dennie, as I told you long ago; and I want to be your wife. But where are we to go? What have we got to live on?"

Adela's speech varied from the customary manner of the locality to a more precise and refined utterance, according to her mood; for she had shared in Sylv's progress to the extent of taking lessons from him in reading. This had caused her to observe Miss Jessie Floyd's pronunciation, and that of the few other cultivated persons whom she occasionally saw, so that she had learned to copy it. The instant she found herself in opposition to Dennis, she unconsciously assumed that superior accent, the effect of which upon him was by no means mollifying.

"Oh, don't go for to go on that tack now!" he exclaimed. "I've hearn enough on it a'ready. I mean squar' talk now, and I ain't goin' to be fooled, neither."

"Answer my question, then," said the girl, peremptorily. "That's no more than fair."

"Why, there ain't no trouble," Dennis assured her, becoming amiable again. "I reckon we can make out to live together as well as we can separate one from t'other."

"How?"

"Just like we do now. 'Pears to me the fish 'll bite as easy when they know they've got to make a dinner for we uns, stead o' for Aunty and Sylv, and the tarrapin 'll walk up to be cotched, and ground-nuts and rice 'll allays be plenty."

"Yes, yes, Dennie; but who's goin' to take keer of Aunty Losh?" said Adela, dropping back into the easier way of talking.

The young man's face fell, and he wrinkled his forehead. "That's a fact; that's a fact," he murmured, sadly. "Poor ole aunty! She's been a true mammy to we uns, and it ain't nachul to leave her be by herself. But Sylv mout take keer on her, Deely."

"Sylv's younger than you," she objected. "'Tain't his portion to do that."

"Mebbe he ar young," said Dennis; "but he's got a darn'd sight cuter head, some ways, than I have. And you mind now what I say, Deely, this hyar thing has got to stop one o' these hyar days. If it hadn't been for Sylv's mopin' over them books, and a-glowerin' and tryin' to make his self too wise, I'd a-been a heap better fixed."

"But Sylv wouldn't a-been," was the answer; "and he's worth thinkin' on a little."

Dennis laughed scornfully. "A little! He's a heap too much wuth thinkin' on."

Adela ceased walking, and faced round upon him, at the same time brushing away with one hand a tress of her crispy black hair, which the wind had blown across her eyes. She wanted to meet his gaze directly. "What do you mean by that?" she demanded.

Dennis was her match for belligerency. "I mean," he said, "that that ar youngster takes up too much 'tention. Thar ar'n't no time for considerin' on no one else. It's allays Sylv's ways and Sylv's idees, and he can't do nothin' for himself, but some one else hev got to do it for him. An' here am I, one month arter another, findin' the ways for him and aunty to live, lettin' alone myself; whiles he goes smellin' arter them old books what's made o' yaller hide that ain't no better than the skin off'n our Sukey's back. An' that's whar the bits and the dollars go, that you and I might be enjoyin' if 'twarn't for his dog-goned concayt of lawyer's jawin' and politics and parlaments. That's what! An' I'm tired on it, I tell ye. What I mean?" Here the young fellow's handsome, free-colored face became clouded with passion that darkened it as with the shadows of a thunder-cloud. "I mean, Deely, that if you are a-goin' to put Sylv up agin me, every chance comes along, thinkin' o' his good and not o' mine, ye're not nigh so lovin' o' me as ye are o' him. D'ye un'stan' me, now?"

Adela shrank back slightly, as if he had levelled a sudden blow at her. Then she replied: "If that's all ye got to say to me, Dennie De Vine, ye can just go back on your tracks to the cabin, and I'll go to the Quarters alone."

Dennis forgot his anger in anxiety. "But there's the tide-way ye can't cross," he said.

"I've done it afore now, by myself," replied the girl. "'Twant for nothin' you learned me to row and sail. Ah, Dennie"—her under-lip trembled as she spoke—"it ar'n't right in you to treat me so. If you'd only remember those times when we were children! You was always good to me, then. Why ar'n't you good to me now? I feel just the same about you as I did in those way-off days. I never loved any but you—and old dad."

The poor child's head was drooping, as she finished; and, but for pride, she would have wept.

"All right, then, Deely," began Dennis. "If that's so, I'm sorry—I started for to say, I'm glad. Only, give me your squar' promise that you won't let him stand in the way no more. I've kept my hand to the helm, and I've waited. I've been waitin' a long time. Sylv won't never be no 'count, if he go on as he ar', and we won't be no 'count, nuther. Only say the word that you'll marry me soon, and that you ain't goin' to let Sylv stand in the way."

"But you said I cared more for him than I do for you," Adela objected, less inclined to make peace than before.

"Well then, you can say you don't," he suggested.

"No, I'll never tell you so!" she cried, her eyes flashing. She laid a hand upon her bosom, which was heaving. "There's somethin' here, Dennie, makes it hard to say it. I can't! I can't!"

What she intended by this was no more than that, if he could not trust her without such assurance, it was impossible for her to speak. But Dennis took it quite otherwise.

"By God, it's true, all an' all!" he stormed. He paused an instant, seemingly dazed, and then went on: "I didn't fairly believe it afore, but a little black devil come allays whisperin' it into my ear, when I was alone, and I couldn't get him out'n my mind. It was Sylv, Sylv, Sylv—my own brother! Oh yes, you can bet I began to see it, then! I done my best, and I've waited; but it's him you love, and now I'm to be throwed over, I am. I'm the one that don't count nary fip. An' now I believe it, you needn't be afeared. I believe it, and I know it."

Adela was stung by his doubt, and, recoiling from it, made her next move in precisely the opposite direction to that which her heart prompted her to take.

"You've done your best?" she echoed, tauntingly. "And what's that? Mighty little. You can't read, like—like Sylv."

"Sylv be d—d!" shouted her lover. "If ye say another word, I'll kill him!"

Adela Reefe stood before him, quite calm and unshaken. However she might fear his violence toward others, she felt no alarm for herself. She knew her power.

"No, you won't kill him, Dennie," she said. "You're not wicked: you can't do that wrong. But I'm goin' to tell you what you'll do. You're to leave me here, and go back by yourself, as I said."

Dennis tossed out a little defiant laugh. "No, I ain't a-goin', nuther. You'll see me walkin' right alongside o' you till we get to old man Reefe's, and then I'm a-goin' to tell him the whole yarn, and we'll fix the weddin'."

"You will go straight back to aunty's," she reaffirmed, quietly.

Dennis's features softened into a pleading expression. "You'll let me go as far as the tide-way?" he petitioned.

"No."

He hesitated, but presently turned and walked a few steps over the ground they had just traversed. His gun was slung in the bend of his right arm. Once more he reverted to her, appealingly, but without a word.

"You must go," said Adela, gently, standing on one of the little hummocks into which the land was broken, with the glow of the sinking sun irradiating her brown and rosy cheeks, her dark gray eyes, and wild black hair.

Dennis obeyed. She remained stationary, watching him as he withdrew.

But before he had gone out of earshot, he called out to her, defiantly, like a truant schoolboy: "I'm not goin' back to aunty's. Some o' those birds yonder got to smell powder, fust."

Accordingly, he sauntered along over the uneven ground, scanning the narrow territory, the stretches of adjacent marsh, and the clear, pink-illumined air around him, for snipe or plover. He was the picture, outwardly, of careless ease and confident health; but, inwardly, he was far from being placid. There was a turmoil of clashing sentiments and impulses within him, which he did not understand. He was not sure as to what he thought, nor could he have told what he felt: he knew only that he was thwarted, miserable, and angry. He was hurt and helpless, and drifting on toward some fresh injury, the nature of which he could not foresee and did not so much as try to guess; for he had no more control over the passions that tossed his soul than if they had been a raging sea. Yet, all the while, his gunner's instinct was alert, and the winged creatures doomed for his prey could not, even had they been gifted with understanding, have guessed that he was about to avenge his own wounds by those he would inflict on them.

Adela waited a few moments where she stood; for she, too, was distressed, and hardly knew which way to turn. The thought of the dreary home of the herb-doctor, to which she must return, was not alluring; but she could not go after Dennis, either, to make up with him. Suddenly she heard a short, hollow report, that was lost immediately in the echoless spaces over land and water. She started; an indescribable dread seized her. Why, at that instant, did she think of the foolish threat—empty as his gun-barrel—which Dennis had made against his brother?

It was nothing but a flying plover that he had knocked out of existence; she could guess that well enough. But she did not stay to reflect. Like a frightened thing seeking shelter, she sprang from her place, along the open stretch, taking the opposite edge of the open ground to that which Dennis had chosen, and ran lightly on under shelter of the low hillocks, so as to reach some spot abreast of him.

A strange sight—this maiden running so featly under the sunset-light on one side, while her unconscious lover strolled along the other! She glided over the sod with a swiftness and an intuitive caution worthy of an Indian. Then all at once she halted, so promptly that it might have been with a premonition of the shock of sound that came almost simultaneously from a second discharge of the gun—nearer, this time; much nearer; so near that Adela, standing still, quivering but not breathless, heard the faint rush of several shot that fell with a sharp "pat" on the ground, close by her. Glancing up, she saw a small bird driving through the sky, with dropped feet and frantic little wings, which seemed to melt away out of sight in a moment, as if by magic. Dennis had tried too high a shot and missed his aim.

Adela did not flinch, but she continued on her way more slowly.

Dennis also proceeded, popping at the feathered game now and then. He did not fire again toward the quarter where Adela was lurking; she half wished that he would. The dangerous greeting of those leaden pellets would be better than no message at all. She longed to cross over and speak to Dennis, but could not persuade herself to. He, meanwhile, gathered only two small birds; the rest that came in his way either escaped or fell out of reach among the sedges. Slinging the little creatures into his pocket, indifferently, he went on; and when he reached the point where he should have diverged toward the cabin, he resolved to strike into the pine-woods and meet the Beaufort road.

Moody and dissatisfied, he was not inclined to shut himself up in solitude at this hour with Aunty Losh; for he knew that Sylv, though he had set out for Beaufort before sunrise, was not likely to have accomplished the return journey before now. It was a distance of more than fifteen miles; Sylv had taken his load of fish on a borrowed wagon which must be left at the town, and therefore would be obliged to foot the whole way back. Dennis preferred to wait on the road and meet him there.

Possibly Adela had suspected that he would do this. At all events, on arriving where she could see him if he had been going toward the hut, she discovered that he must have taken the other course, and she, too, protected by the trees which now were frequent enough to afford a cover, slipped cautiously into the piny woods.

Dennis had not gone far along the rough thoroughfare when a second figure appeared, moving toward him in the gradual twilight, between the ranks of long-leaved pines. It was the figure of a man, young and of vigorous frame, but slightly bent; though that may have been due only to fatigue or revery. His face was darkened, rendered still more serious in its thoughtful expression by a straggling beard, which, however, grew in a picturesque entanglement that added character, instead of obscuring it. He was dressed with a modest style and care that made an outward difference between him and the ordinary dwellers on that shore, but his clothes were of simple "sheep's gray." Under his arms he carried two books, heavy tomes, the smoky yellow of which, discernible even in that fading light, showed that they were the ripe husks in which the fruits of the law are stored.

This was Sylvester.

Dennis waited in the shadow of the trees until Sylv came nearly abreast of him.

"Hullo, Sylv," he said.

The younger brother gave a start, and stopped abruptly in the rutty roadway, looking toward the speaker. Then, with a smile of singular frankness and sweetness, he said in a low, unperturbed voice: "Why, Dennie, I wasn't looking to find you here. Seems queer, but I was thinking so hard, all alone, that you almost frightened me."

He spoke with great precision, as was natural in a person of his studious turn, but without the least primness or affectation. Carefully transferring a ponderous volume from its place under his right arm-pit to his left hand, he held the other hand out for a greeting. "Seems as if I'd been away a week," he said, wearily. "Has aunty come?"

Dennis made no motion to take the proffered hand. "Yes," he said, "she's thar, and she's waitin' for ye."

His manner was so unusual, so withdrawn, that Sylv was surprised, and let his right arm fall to his side.

"Why, what's the trouble?" he asked. "You're not like yourself, Dennie. You are dispirited."

"Anybody could see that," answered the senior in a surly tone, "without those thar long words. Yes, I am sort o' down; I'm out o' gear. That's the fact."

"Well, let's go along to the cabin," Sylv proposed, throwing into his words a soothing tenderness as unconscious as that of a woman's voice. "Whatever's ailing, we'll consult over it there."

"No," said his brother, refusing to stir. "I want to talk to you hyar."

"I'm downright tired," Sylv objected, mildly. "I've been walking so long. I made a good trade, though, Dennie. See here."

He laid his books down in the road, and put his hand into his pocket. Then he withdrew it suddenly, looking alarmed, and began to search another pocket. Dennis waxed visibly impatient. Finally, plunging into a third receptacle, Sylv brought to light five silver dollars. "That's what I got!" he exclaimed, triumphantly.

"That all!" cried Dennis. "Oh, I knowed it, I knowed it! And those thar books—you worked shares on 'em."

"Yes, I found I could get those, too," said Sylv, with honest exultation.

Dennis emitted a groan. "Ye've done it agin," he muttered, gloomily. "Now look hyar, Sylv, ye wisht a second; I'm goin' to give ye my mind. You're a-takin' the life right out'n me and ruinin' my hopes, and I ain't stood out about it afore; but dog-gone me if I don't stand out now. I wouldn't 'a' keered if it hadn't been none but me and aunty, but—" Here the unhappy man's voice broke. His right arm was occupied with holding his gun, but he raised his left and wiped away upon the sleeve the moisture which had gathered in his eyes. "But when it comes to Deely," he continued, "I ain't a-goin' to let things run as they hev."

With the instinct of the collector, Sylv stooped and picked up his books; but, as he rose, he offered to Dennis the money which he held. "I don't understand," he said, looking puzzled. "What are you talking about?"

Dennis remained immobile in the shadow of the pines, ignoring the younger man's gesture. "Keep your money," he said. "D'ye think I'm a highway robber, to stop ye for what ye've got? It's bad enough that ye barter away our livin'; but 'tain't that I'm a-thinkin' on. Ye've took Deely away from me. That's worse; a heap sight worse!"

His brother gazed blankly at him, apparently not understanding. "Deely?" he said. "I didn't take her. What d' you mean. Where is she?"

"Coward!" cried Dennis, growing violent.

At that word Sylv quivered visibly, and drew himself up, with a pride he had not shown before.

Dennis, after pausing, went on: "D'ye dar' to tell me ye don't know what I mean? Deely's home, but I've been a-talkin' with her, and I know it's so and ain't no other way. She sees how you been a-playin' it on me, but 'tain't no 'count to her. She wants you to go right on, the same way. 'Tain't nothin' to her that you hold us off from bein' married, by that foolishness and studyin' o' yourn. It's cl'ar as day she thinks a heap more on you than she does on me. An' I tell ye ye're the one that's to blame. Ye done it, and ye knowed it. Ye took her heart away from me."

A new perception broke upon Sylv. He contemplated Dennis with a sort of curiosity, and a smile stirred the loose dark beard about his lips. Any one but his angry brother might have seen that he regarded the idea of his being enamored of a woman with a disdain curbed only by a sense of the comic.

"So you stand up here and tell me that, do you?" he retorted. "Well, all I've got to say, Dennie, is that you're acting like a fool."

Dennis's hand clutched the stock of the gun, nervously, under the strain of the effort he made to control himself. "No, I ain't," he declared. "I been a fool afore, but I ain't one now. I see the whole thing, I tell ye. She's set her heart on you, and you've set yourn on her."

Sylv braced himself a little, and looked resolute. "Now I give you fair warning," he said. "I tell you square that I don't care about Adela Reefe more than as a sister—my sister and your wife that is to be. Are you going to deny my word?"

"Yes, I am," the other asserted, doggedly.

"And you're going on, after that, to assert that I took her love away from you?"

"Yes, I am."

"Then I say, you lie!" Sylv returned, hotly. The same passionateness that ruled Dennis was present in him, also, though well concealed under his habitual calm; but it had broken loose now.

In an instant Dennis lifted his gun to an aim. "No man can say that to me," he thundered.

His finger slid down to the trigger, and he drew the hammer back.

Sylv stood in the road, unmoved, the books under his arms. "It's too easy a shot," he said, quickly, but in a low voice. "Besides, I can't fire back."

"You won't have any call for that," Dennis assured him, grimly. He spoke coolly, but his rage completely mastered him.

"Stop!" cried Sylv, when the gun-mouth seemed about to burst into flame.

"Stop!"

The syllable was repeated from the woods close by them. Was it an echo? No; that was impossible; there was no echo in that place, and both men knew it. Besides, there was a different tone in the voice which seemed to ring out from the shadow of the pines—an accent of alarm and agony, unlike the peremptory cry which Sylv had uttered.

Dennis brought down his gun, instantly. "What's that?" he exclaimed, thoroughly unnerved. He felt as if some supernatural warning had been given him.

"It sounded," said Sylv, "like—" Here he checked himself, and stared across the road, trying to make out something among the trees.

Dennis turned in the same direction, and in a moment they had both moved thither, and were straining their eyes to discover the source of the sound. But their scrutiny was in vain: nothing appeared. It is true, they fancied a noise as of some one stirring, some one making a hasty retreat; but that might have been only the wind that came with stealthy swiftness from the ocean side and set all the murmurous branches in movement. Was there a figure flying through the piny arcade? Of that, also, they could not be sure; for the twilight had increased more and more, and darkness seemed to ooze through the air like a palpable exudation from the gummy trees.

The brothers faced half around and exchanged a peculiar glance that was tinged with awe. But Dennis fell to trembling.

"Hyar! Take it!" he said, in a voice of horror. "Take the gun, Sylv. I was crazy. What was I a-doin' just now? Oh, take it away from me; don't let me touch it!"

Sylv, on the point of complying, paused and said slowly: "No, Dennie, I won't take it. You didn't think what you were doing. I trust you."

Still shaking, Dennis looked at him with a dumb, bewildered gratitude.

"Come," said his brother, stepping again into the path.

Dennis followed him, but as they left the spot he said: "It war like Deely's voice, Sylv. She saved me, this time."