So mingled and conflicting were the considerations in Lance's mind, on leaving the Reefes, that he was not sure he would want to see Adela again. But his mood soon changed; he was not able to evade the importance which she had assumed for him.

"I hope you are satisfied now," said Jessie, as they rode homeward together.

"No, I'm not," he answered. "I suspect myself of being very much dissatisfied."

Somehow he did not dare to speak to her, as yet, of the theory he entertained, that Adela was a descendant of Gertrude Wylde. And how could he tell her that he thought they looked alike?

But within a few days, so incessantly did the notion pursue him, that he was forced to make a limited confession of it. Jessie observed that he was preoccupied and thinking of something which he would not tell her. "Do let me know what it is that troubles you, Ned," she whispered to him, laying her arm gently around his neck one evening on the veranda, when she found him brooding there alone.

Thereupon he made his disclosure, and was rewarded by a rather tumultuous dialogue, in which Jessie demonstrated clearly that she was not pleased with the idea which he presented.

"But how can it be any other way, Jessie?" he demanded, reproachfully. "Everything leads up to this conclusion; and, surely, if Adela Reefe represents to-day the line of that poor girl, Gertrude, who would have been your own cousin if you had been living then, how can we be indifferent to the fact that the same blood is in your veins and hers?"

"I won't have it so!" Jessie returned. "I don't care if it is. And, besides, she has Indian blood; that makes all the difference. It is no longer the same."

Lance bethought him of those reported cases in which the stock of negroes and whites had been blended, and he feared that it would be next to hopeless for him to overcome Jessie's aversion. Still he said: "But that is so far off, child. She is so like us now, that I can't help thinking of her as if she might be a kinswoman of yours—can't help taking an interest in her welfare."

"Never say that to me again!" cried Jessie. "No one in that class shall be considered as a kinswoman of mine. If you are going to give yourself up to such fancies as these, you may as well choose between them and me."

Her tone exasperated Lance, but he controlled himself. "Dearest," he said, "I have given myself up only to you. You know it; don't you?"

Then Jessie showed contrition, and humbly, while the tears rose to her eyes, acknowledged her hastiness; and the little quarrel proved to be only a convenient groundwork for new demonstrations of mutual tenderness. But there remained in Lance's mind a residuum of doubt, lest his betrothed should not fully sympathize with all his impulses, his desire to be true to every one who could justly make a claim upon him. He did not abandon the project, which had unconsciously been taking shape, of somehow including Adela in his schemes of improvement.

While this dubious colloquy was fresh in his thoughts, it chanced that Sylvester De Vine, responding to the invitation he had thrown out at the races, trudged up to the manor to see him. Lance's love affair, and the misty problem concerning Adela, had not prevented him from giving a good deal of meditation to his plans, which he had also talked over with Colonel Floyd, regarding investment in new enterprises. Consequently, he was primed for the interview with Sylv.

At that time the process of making paper from the refuse of Louisiana sugar-cane, commonly called "bagasse," had scarcely been thought of; Lance, at any rate, had never heard it suggested; but it had occurred to him that the glutinous reeds, which grew in such unmeasured abundance along this marshy North Carolina coast, might be utilized in paper-manufacture; and he had annexed the idea to his other pet desire of reclaiming Elbow Crook Swamp. He was anxious to enlist Sylv in both these enterprises, having already ascertained that the young fellow was far more receptive and progressive than Colonel Floyd. What he needed was an assistant who would give time and energy to the preliminary steps and experiments, animated by faith and assisted by due compensation in money.

"Would you undertake to explore the swamp for me, and give me a detailed report?" he asked Sylv.

"It would be very difficult," Sylv answered, "and would take time. I might do it for you, though, by and by."

"Oh, there's no immediate hurry. You can wait a while. I shall probably have to go North during the winter on business and to arrange about mobilizing capital to work with here. I want to find out what is practicable before I do anything serious. But, in the meanwhile, we might start in on a trial of the reed-pulp for paper."

Sylv pulled his tangled beard meditatively, and replied: "That won't help me much with my law studies."

"Yes, it will, indirectly," Lance declared. Then, after reflecting, he added: "I'll tell you what I'll do! I'll give you some assistance for the present, so that you can go on reading. It won't do you any harm. Afterward, you can undertake my job."

It was not to be wondered at that, from this beginning, they should go on to speak of Adela. "She astonishes me," said Lance. "I did not expect to find any one like her here. It's a pity that she can't have a chance to develop, too."

Sylv cast a sharp glance at the young philanthropist. It may have been that the remark threw a new light for him upon Lance, or upon Adela.

"Yes, it would be a good thing for her," he replied, with moderate enthusiasm. "She's engaged to marry my brother—Dennie."

This was news to Lance, and it took him by surprise. Somehow, his first sensation was one of disappointment, though he could not have explained to himself or anyone else why. In Sylv's accent, also, there was a vague hint of despondency, as he made his announcement. Possibly it was the first sign of a sentiment which he had not, up to that time, suspected. The two men dropped into silence for a moment.

"Well," said Lance, with abrupt energy, "that's all right, I suppose. And I'm engaged to Miss Jessie. It will be all the pleasanter to have you and Dennie and Adela working with us for a common end."

It was taking a sanguine view, to suppose that such a harmony could be maintained; but it gave Sylv great pleasure, although he saw the difficulties in the way. His face lighted with surprise, which gradually changed to quiet satisfaction.

The two men talked long and earnestly, and by the time Sylv set out for home they had agreed that they would try to persuade Adela to go to school at Newbern, Lance undertaking the expenses.

"I'm not main certain Dennie'll let her," Sylv warned him, as they parted.

"But he ought to be very glad to have her go," Lance replied. He had no misgivings on that score.

Sylv was brimming with eagerness and anticipation for Adela's future as it expanded before his vision, in the light of his friend's generous offer; and it was a new experience to him to be treated as an equal, almost a companion, by one so much above him in position and fortune. Altogether, he felt very happy. His desire for intellectual improvement was so single and controlling, that he was able to extend to another the same congratulation he gave himself; and the prospect just opened for Adela filled him with keen, unselfish delight. As he had told Dennie, his regard for her was simply that of a brother; and it was only in the opportunity as presented to a sister that he rejoiced. Yet he found, when he came to mention the matter to Dennie, that it threatened to renew in some measure the trouble which had recently come between them.

"I'm glad for your luck, Sylv," said Dennie, in a cordial tone, "But 'pears to me you uns might kinder be satisfied with polishin' and rubbin' on your own brains and makin' 'em all smooth and shiny, 'thout interferin' with Deely. 'Pears to me like she ar' good enough the way she ar' now. That's what."

"So she is," Sylv assented. "But it would make her happier, and she'd have a heap more real pleasure in life, if she could be educated. She was very glad to learn to read, you know. Now, this is one chance out of a thousand; she may never get another."

Dennie, however, was not open to argument. He looked with favor on the scheme of Sylv's receiving money and employment from Lance, partly because it would gratify his brother and partly because it would lighten his own cares and bring him nearer to marriage with Deely; but if Deely was to be included in the abstract movement for unnecessary culture, he would be as badly off as before.

In spite of Dennie's opposition, Sylv could not relinquish the plan; and he had the imprudence to broach it with Deely on his own account. She did not manifest any pronounced desire to enter into it, but they talked of it several times, and it was evident that she was considering it.

Dennie heard of these consultations, of course, and reproached his brother. He exerted great force of self-command, and avoided any outbreak of temper; he was resolved never to be jealous again. But Sylv saw that the subject was a dangerous one, and he promised not to urge it upon Deely any further. Sorrowfully and apologetically he conveyed to Lance the information of this obstacle to Deely's acceptance of his proposal, and said that he feared she could do nothing about it.

It was reserved for Dennie himself to bring about, unwillingly, the consummation of Lance's philanthropic design.

There was to be a wedding-party at a house in the woods, near Hunting Quarters, to which the young people were invited. Dennie came to Reefe's early, in order to escort Deely to the scene of the ceremony; and on their way to the wedding he spoke of the school idea.

"We ought to be goin' to the parson, 'stead of your goin' to that thar school," he said. He urged her again to fix the time for their marriage.

Deely still demurred. "I'm only nineteen," she answered. "I reckon I won't be too old if I do wait a while."

Dennie was very much put out by her obduracy. "I don't know what to make out'n the way you go on," he complained. "Mebbe you're goin' to that thar school, after all."

"'Twouldn't be strange if I did," said she, although she had in reality abandoned the thought.

He persisted in urging his wishes; she continued in a contrary mood; and Dennie at last refused to talk. They completed their walk to the house of the hymeneal merrymaking in a bitter silence, both very miserable. But Deely possessed the advantage of expressing her unhappiness by means of the greatest gayety, while Dennie had to fall back upon the more ordinary masculine resource of looking glum and morose.

There was an abundance of corn-whiskey and of "common doin's," as well as of "chicken fixin's" with other delicacies, at the supper and dance which followed the brief formality of the wedding-service. The simple-hearted and jolly guests proceeded to have a very good time; and while the bride and groom remained in one corner, happy at being ignored, the rest shuffled to and fro in a lively jig, stamping their heels, indulging in sundry gratuitous capers, and shouting with laughter. Dennie, meanwhile, devoted a much closer attention than was needful to the corn-whiskey, the forcible quality of which he could have ascertained by a single drink.

It may have been due to his diligence in reducing the supply of the beverage that, as the hilarity of the others increased, and as Deely grew more and more excited with the dance, his depression and gloom deepened portentously. He had taken no part in the dancing, and had begun by affecting to watch Deely's energetic share in it with indifference. But it was impossible for him to keep up this pretence, and the climax came when he saw his betrothed giving her hand for the third or fourth time to Dan Billings, a handsome young fisherman against whom she knew that Dennie cherished a special grudge.

Dennie stepped forth upon the floor that trembled with the heavy tread of the athletic revellers, and, shoving his way between the astonished pairs of youths and maidens, struck a commanding posture.

"This hyar's enough!" he screamed, confronting Deely. "It's time to go home; and I'm goin' to take ye with me right now. D'ye hear?"

Tho old fiddler, mounted on a box at one side of the room, stopped the frantic discord he had been sawing from the strings, and began mechanically to rosin his bow with a lump of the best virgin-pine rosin.

"I could ha' heard you if you'd stayed over t'other side," Deely retorted, her dark cheeks flaming angrily; "if you war goin' to shout out so, what do you want to come so close?"

"I say," repeated Dennie, in a more subdued voice, "I'm goin' along, and I mean for to take you with me. Dan Billings ain't goin' to dance with you no more this night."

Upon this Billings, who was a vigorous young fellow, asserted his rights, and gave Dennie to understand roundly that no one should dictate to him his choice of partners, "when the lady was willin'."

A serious result was imminent; for Billings, elated by his apparent success with Deely, became increasingly noisy and bumptious, and retorts flew hotly from one man to the other, until Billings raised his fist to strike a blow at Dennie. When it came to that, Deely stepped between the wranglers, and prevented their fighting.

"Now you're wrong, Dan!" she exclaimed, "You both ought to be ashamed, making me so much trouble. But there sha'n't be a fight, whatever. I'm goin' home this minute, along with Dennie."

The other girls had drawn aside, dumb and frightened, and the men were disposed in a group around the chief actors, feeling that they ought to interfere, but restrained by a respect for the privilege of fighting, which they might some time wish to exercise on their own account. Billings relaxed his clinched fingers, quite abashed at being so abruptly robbed of his dignity as Deely's champion; but it took a few moments to cool Dennie's wrath. He insisted that the fisherman had "told him insults," and must be punished.

"I'm waiting," Deely reminded him. "You said you was going, and now I'm ready."

The bride and groom remained oblivious of all this stir, but the bride's mother came forward, urging Deely not to leave them. The girl, however, would not yield. Every one could see that she was greatly incensed at Dennie's conduct, but there was a decisive calm about her that made persuasion useless. She had, in fact, arrived at a conclusion much more far-reaching, which she lost no time in imparting to Dennie when they had left the house.

"My mind's made up," she said to him, without heat. "I've borne your tantrums as long as I can, and it's no use. By and by it'll get so that I can't have any will or way of my own, and I don't think you'll ever be any better, Dennie, until I'm far away where you can't tease me. Yes; I've made up my mind. I'm goin' to that school."

To Dennie the announcement was like a knell. His burst of temper had left him much quieter and, as usual, rather ashamed; and he felt that Deely's intention of punishing him was quite justifiable. Still, he could not as yet believe that she would carry it out.

"You won't treat me so hard as that," he protested. "Think it over another time, Deely. Everything'd be all right if you'd only marry me."

"I don't want to talk about it," was her answer. "I've decided, now, and I'm goin' away."

In the course of the next few days her lover was forced to recognize that she was in earnest, and her resolve irrevocable. An extra session at the small academy for young ladies which Lance had selected was about to begin; and, through Sylv, Adela obtained a conference with him on the subject of going thither. Old Reefe put in some objections; but as Adela was determined he gave way, and the final arrangements were soon made.

The conference just referred to took place near the manor. Lance met Sylv and Adela in the grounds, by appointment, and talked over the details with them. But just as they were bidding him good-by Colonel Floyd came strolling along; and Lance, in walking back to the house with him, told him, full of enthusiasm, what he had done. The colonel seemed to think it rather strange.

"My dear fellow, what has put this into your head?" he asked.

"Why, it seems to me the most natural thing in the world," Lance replied. "It grew out of my plans, when I was consulting young De Vine. Besides"—he hesitated an instant—"something leads me to feel a peculiar interest in this young woman."

"Evidently," said the colonel, "or you never would become her benefactor." But he volunteered no criticism further than to say: "I'm not altogether sure, Lance, that you are doing wisely."

"If you think," said his prospective son-in-law, "that there's any good reason why I shouldn't befriend her, I suppose I could abandon the thing, though I've committed myself now."

The colonel devoted a few moments to reflection, under cover of his spectacles. Then he said: "No, I am not clear that there is any sufficient reason. It struck me as odd, and may seem so to others. But then, in your character—You see, you are something of a professed philanthropist, and people will learn to understand it on that ground. Otherwise—" Once more he broke off, and resumed: "You are the next thing to a married man, now, which makes it proper enough for you to take the poor girl under your wing. Perhaps you had better talk with Jessie about it."

Somehow the phrase "poor girl" grated slightly upon Lance's ear. Nor did he relish the prospect of debating with Jessie the wisdom of his proceeding; but it was plain that he would have to do so. It was true there had been no trace of the clandestine in his undertaking, and he had asked Sylv to bring Adela to the garden only because he considered the whole transaction as a side-issue, in which he was separately concerned; hence he preferred not to thrust it upon the colonel or his daughter. But it was also true that Jessie's vigorous rejection of his theory about Adela had made him less sure of her approval than he would have liked to be.

By one of the surprises frequent in the moods of women, even though one supposes their views to be settled on a particular point, it turned out that Jessie, when consulted, did not oppose his design.

"I have been thinking over what you said, dear, about educating people," she announced to him, "and perhaps you are right. If you're wrong, you'll find it out by an experiment. So all I have to say is, 'Go ahead.' That's the way you'd like to have me put it, isn't it?"

Her whole manner was sweet and trustful; she wanted to make amends to him. But, unless I am mistaken, Lance's effort on behalf of Adela was not entirely to her taste.

Thus, while they endeavored to keep up a good understanding, an entering wedge of doubt and possible division had been put in place.

The day having come for Adela's departure, difficulty arose as to her escort, if she was to have any. Aunty Losh was not precisely the person to introduce her at a Young Ladies' Academy; and Dennis also felt himself to be inadequate for that duty. Sylv, as was natural, refrained from offering his services. Neither was it possible for Lance to accompany her. The end of it was that Aunty Losh and Dennis went with her by wagon as far as Beaufort, and there she took the train alone for Newbern. Lance had been to the city and prepared the way for her, so that she might be received by the principal of the school, at the station.

But the time which followed was a dreary period to poor Dennis. Knowing his own faults, and that his loss in Adela's exile had been brought on by himself, he made no remonstrance after he saw that her purpose could not be altered. But his wonted cheeriness and energy forsook him as soon as she had gone; he performed his daily tasks in a listless and perfunctory way; he talked little, and did not forget his misery long enough to smile. On the other hand, he abstained from complaint; but occasionally, when alone with Aunty Losh, he would confer with her briefly about Adela and the change that had occurred. The jealousy that took root with such ease in his uncultivated mind, and sprang up there like a weed at the slightest encouragement, soon began to flourish again on a suspicion that Lance must have some interested motive in helping Adela. Aunty Losh, it must be said, was not a good counsellor. Much as Dennis tried to conceal this new source of trouble, it was perfectly apparent to her; and, because Dennis was her favorite and she instinctively aided against all innovations, she fanned the flame instead of quenching it.

"I reckon Deely may be your wife one o' these hyar days," she said, when they had been discussing his affairs and Lance's connection with them over a cup of yaupon. "Who would ha' thout you wouldn't been her husband now? But there's an old sayin' what's in my head, that the man as has got his hand on the back o' the chair is mighty often the one as sits down in it."

Dennis saw the application, and was filled with alarm. Possibly it had its effect in prompting him to seek assistance from Sylv; but his loneliness, and the harassing thought that Adela might also be lonely, or that something might go amiss in her new surroundings, where he could not be present to help her, had a great deal to do with his impulse. Besides, in contrition both for his jealousy of Sylv and his general disagreeableness toward his betrothed, he fancied that it would be a fine thing to show that he cared for her at a distance, and that he trusted his brother.

"Sylv," said he, one evening, while they were finishing the bestowment of the day's catch in the shed at one side of the cabin, where they kept the fish cool by means of spring water—"Sylv, I'd like right well to have you do somethin' for me."

"Say the word, Dennie," Sylv returned.

"I—I want you to go up thar to the city and stay thar, whar ye can see Deely and make her feel like she had a real, true friend—some one to 'tend on her as I mout, if I was fit—and to help her if she want any help. Dog-gone it! Mebbe it's foolish, and I reckon she ar' happy enough and won't need nothin', but 'pears like I couldn't stand it, the way 'tis now. I want ye to go, Sylv—for me."

"You ask me to do this, Dennie?" said Sylv. "Why did you think of my going? Why not go yourself?"

"'Cause I'm not fit for't. An' what's more, she don't want me. She said she war a-goin' away, so's she could be alone, and I could be alone. An' I couldn't do nothin' if I was thar, Sylv."

"I see. It would be some comfort to you if I were to go. If you're sure you want it, Dennie, I reckon I can manage."

"There ain't no more doubt on it," answered Dennie, "than when I put my helm down to starboard to get the east breeze, steerin' north'ard. There ain't no one else I can count on, Sylv, 'less it be you. An', Sylv, I—I trust you; I got faith in you!"

He held out his rough hand, and Sylv grasped it firmly. There were tears in Dennie's eyes, seeing which Sylv pressed his brother's weather-beaten palm the harder.

"All right, Dennie. I won't fail you."

And so the compact was made.

Sylv was absolutely honest in what he said. He knew but one ambition, and the gaining of any woman's love had never formed a part of it. Why was it, then, that his spirits rose so at the thought of being near Adela once more?