"We've been expecting you, Mr. Gwynne," he said in his most genial manner. "Step right in. Dinner'll soon be ready, and I reckon you must be hungry. Take the hosses around to the stable, nigger, and put 'em up. I allowed you'd be delayed some by the bad roads, but I guess you must have got a late start this mornin' from Phin Striker's. Mrs.—er—ahem! I mean your step-mother sent word that you were on the way and to have accommodations ready for you. Say, I'd like to make you acquainted with—"

"My step-mother sent word to you?" demanded Kenneth, incredulously.

"She did. What would you expect her to do, long as she knew you were headed this way? I admit she isn't specially given to worryin' about other people's comforts, but, when you get right down to it, I guess she considers you a sort of connection of hers, spite of everything, and so she lays herself out a little. But I want to tell you one thing, Mr. Gwynne, you're not going to find her particularly cordial, as the sayin' is. She's about as stand-offish and unneighbourly as a Kickapoo Indian. But, as I was sayin', I'd like to make you acquainted with some of our leadin' citizens. This is Daniel Bugher, the recorder, and Doctor Davis, Matt Scudder, Tom Benbridge and John McCormick. It was moved and seconded, soon as you heaved in sight, that we repair at once to Sol Hamer's grocery for a little—"

"Excuse me," broke in Kenneth, laughing; "I have heard of that grocery, and I think it would be wise for me to become a little better acquainted with my surroundings before I begin trading there."

The landlord rubbed his chin and the other gentlemen laughed uproariously.

"Well," said the former, "I can see one thing mighty plain. You're going to be popular with my wife and all the other women in town. They'll point to you and say to practically nine-tenths of the married men in Lafayette: 'There's a man that don't drink, and goodness knows HE isn't a preacher!'"

"I am hardly what you would call a teetotaler, gentlemen," said Gwynne, still smiling.

"Wait till you get down with a spell of the Wabash shakes," said Mr. McCormick. "That'll make a new man of him, won't it, Doc?"

"Depends somewhat on his constitution and the way he was brought up," said the doctor, with a professional frown which slowly relaxed into an unprofessional smile.

"I was brought up by my grandmother," explained Kenneth, vastly amused.

"That settles it," groaned Mr. Johnson. "You're not long for this world. Before we go in I wish you'd take a look at the new courthouse. We're mighty proud of that building. There isn't a finer courthouse in the state of Indiana,—or maybe I'd better say there won't be if it's ever finished." "I noticed it as I came by," said the newcomer, dismissing the structure with a glance. "If you will conduct me to my room, Mr. Johnson, I—"

"Just a second," broke in the landlord, his gaze fixed on a horseman who had turned into the street some distance below. "Here comes Barry Lapelle,—down there by that clump of sugar trees. He's the most elegant fellow we've got in town, and you'll want to know him. Makes Lafayette his headquarters most of the—"

"I have met Mr. Lapelle," interrupted Kenneth. "This morning, out in the country."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Johnson. The citizens exchanged a general look of surprise.

"Thought you said he went down the river on yesterday's boat," said Scudder.

"That's just what he did," said Johnson, puzzled. "Packed some of his things and said he'd be gone a week or so. He must have got off at Attica,—but, no, he couldn't have got here this soon by road. By glory, I hope the boat didn't strike a snag or a rock, or run ashore somewhere. Looks kind of serious, boys."

"Couldn't he have landed almost anywhere in a skiff?" inquired Gwynne, his eyes on the approaching horseman.

"Certainly he could,—but why? He had business down at Covington, he said."

"He told me this morning he had very important business here. That is why he could not ride in with me," said Kenneth, affecting indifference. "By the way, is he riding his own horse?"

"Yes," said Benbridge. "That's his mare Fancy,—thoroughbred filly by King Philip out of Shawnee Belle. He sent her down to Joe Fell's to stud yesterday and—Say, that accounts for him being on her now. You made a good guess, Mr. Gwynne. He must have landed at La Grange, rowed across the river, and hoofed it up to Fell's farm. But what do you suppose made him change his mind so suddenly?"

"He'll probably tell you to go to thunder if you ask him," said the landlord.

"I'm not going to ask him anything," retorted Benbridge.

"He's working tooth and nail against the Wabash and Erie Canal that's projected to run from Lake Erie to the mouth of the Tippecanoe, Mr. Gwynne," said one of the citizens. "But it's coming through in spite of him and all the rest of the river hogs."

"I see," said the young man, a grim smile playing about his lips.

He knew that the mare Fancy had been in waiting for her master when he clambered ashore on the river bank opposite La Grange, and he also suspected that the little steamboat had remained tied up at the landing all night long and well into the morning, expecting two passengers who failed to come aboard. He could not suppress a chuckle of satisfaction.

Lapelle rode up at this instant and, throwing the bridle rein to a boy who had come running up from the stable, dismounted quickly. He came straight to Gwynne, smiling cordially.

"I see you beat me in. After we parted I decided to cut through the woods to have a look at Jack Moxley's keel boat, stuck in the mud on this side of the river. You'd think the blame fool would have sense enough to keep well out in mid stream at a time like this. Happy to have you here with us, and I hope you will like us well enough to stay."

"Thank you. I shall like you all better after I have had something to eat," said Kenneth.

"And drink," added Lapelle. It was then that Kenneth noticed that his eyes were slightly blurred and his voice a trifle thick. He had been drinking.

"What turned you back, Barry?" inquired McCormick. "Thought you were to be gone a week or—"

"Changed my mind," said Lapelle curtly, and then, apparently on second thought, added: "I got off the boat at La Grange and crossed over to spend the night at Martin Hawk's, the man you saw with me this morning, Mr. Gwynne. He is a hunter down Middleton way. I fish and hunt with him a good deal. Well, I reckon I'd better go in and get out of these muddy boots and pants."

Without another word, he strode up the steps, across the porch and into the tavern, his head high, his gait noticeably unsteady.

"Martin Hawk!" growled the landlord. "The orneriest cuss this side of hell. Plain no-good scalawag. Barry'll find it out some day, and then maybe he'll wish he had paid some attention to what I've been tellin' him."

"Wouldn't surprise me a bit if Mart knows a whole lot more about what became of some mighty good yearlin' colts that used to belong to honest men down on the Wea," said one of the group, darkly.

"I wouldn't trust Mart Hawk as far as I could throw a thousand pound rock," observed Mr. Johnson, compressing his lips. "Well, come on in, Mr. Gwynne, and slick up a bit. The dinner bell will be ringin' in a few minutes, and I want you to meet the cook before you risk eatin' any of her victuals. My wife's the cook, so you needn't look scared. Governor Noble almost died of over-feedin' the last time he was here,—but that wasn't her fault. And my daughters, big and little, seem anxious to get acquainted with the celebrated Kenneth Gwynne. People have been talkin' so much about you for the last six months that nearly everybody calls you by your first name, and Jim Crouch's wife is so taken with it that she has made up her mind to call her baby Kenneth,—that is, providing nature does the right thing. Next week some time, ain't it, Doc?"

"That's what most everybody in town says, Bob," replied the doctor solemnly, "so I guess it must be true."

"We begin counting the inhabitants of the town as far as a month ahead sometimes," explained Mr. McCormick drily. "I don't know as we've been out of the way more than a day or a day-and-a-half on any baby that's been born here in the last two years. Hope to see you in my store down there, Mr. Gwynne—any time you're passing that way. You can't miss it. It's just across the street from that white frame building with the green stripes running criss-cross on the front door,—Joe Hanna's store."

"Robert Gwyn's son is always welcome at my store and my home," said another cordially. "We didn't know till last fall that he had a son, and—well, I hope you don't mind my saying we couldn't believe it at first."

"You spell the name different from the way he spelled it," answered Bugher, the recorder. "I noticed it in your letters, and it struck me as queer."

"My father appears to have reverted to the original way of spelling the name," said Kenneth, from the upper step. "My forebears were Welsh, you see. The manner of spelling it was changed when they came to America, over a hundred years ago."

His bedroom was in the small wing off the dining-room. Its one window looked out upon the courthouse, the view being somewhat restricted by the presence of a pair of low-branched oak trees in the side-yard, almost within arm's length of the wall,—they were so close, in fact, that their limbs stretched out over the rough shingle roof, producing in the wind an everlasting sound of scratching and scraping. There was a huge four-poster feather bed of mountainous proportions, leaving the occupant scant space in which to move about the room.

"Last people to occupy this room," said Mr. Johnson, standing in the doorway, "were George Ripley and Edna Cole, three weeks ago last night. They came in from the Grand Prairie and only stayed the one night. Had to get back to the farm next day on account of it bein' wash-day. I guess I forgot to say they were on their weddin'-trip. Generally speaking, it takes about three years for people to get over callin' a girl by her maiden name,—so you needn't think there was anything wrong about George and Edna stayin' here. I wish you could have been here to drive out to the infare at her pa's house two nights after the weddin'. It was the biggest ever held on that side of the river,—and as for the shiveree,—my Lord, it WAS something to talk about. Tin cans, cowbells, shot-guns, tenor-drums,—but I'm keeping you, Mr. Gwynne. You'll find water in that jug over there, and a towel by the lookin' glass. Come out when you're ready."

When Kenneth returned to the dining-room, he found Johnson waiting there with his wife and two of his comely daughters. They were presented to the new guest with due informality, and then the landlord went out upon the front porch to ring the dinner-bell.

"I guess you won't be stayin' here long, Mr. Gwynne," said Mrs. Johnson. "Your mother,—I should say, your step-mother,—has got your house all ready for you to move right in. Job Turner moved out last week, and she took some of the furniture and things over so's you could be sort of at home right away." Observing his start, and the sudden tightening of his lips, she went on complacently: "'Twasn't much trouble for her. Your house isn't more than fifty yards from hers,—just across lots, you might say. She—"

Kenneth, forgetting himself in his agitation, interrupted her with the startling question:

"Where does Rachel Carter live?"

"Rachel who?"

He collected his wits, stammering:

"I believe that was her name before she—before she married my father."

"Oh, I see. Her name is Rachel, of course. Well, her house is up Columbia street,—that's the one on the other side of the square,—almost to the hill where Isaac Edwards has his brickyard, just this side of the swamp."

After dinner, which was eaten at a long table in company with eight or ten "customers," to whom he was introduced by the genial host, he repaired to the office of Recorder Bugher.

"Everything's in good shape," announced Bugher. "There ain't a claim against the property, now that Mrs. Gwyn has given up her idea of contesting the will. The property is in your name now, Mr. Gwynne,—and that reminds me that your father, in his will, spells your name with a double n and an e, while he spells hers with only one n. He took into consideration the fact that you spelled your name in the new-fangled way, as you say he used to spell it in Kentucky. And that also accounts for his signing the will 'Robert Gwyn, formerly known as Robert Gwynne.' It's legal, all right, properly witnessed and attested by two reliable men of this county."

"I have seen a copy of the will."

"Another queer thing about it is that he bequeathed certain property to you as 'my son, Kenneth Gwynne,'—while he fails to mention his daughter Viola at all, except to say that he bequeaths so-and-so to 'Rachel Gwyn, to give, bequeath and devise as she sees fit.' Of course, Viola, by law, is entitled to a share of the estate and it should have been so designated. Judge Wylie says she can contest the will if she so desires, on the ground that she is entitled to as much as you, Mr. Gwynne. But she has decided to let it stand as it is, and I guess she's sensible. All that her mother now has will go to her when said Rachel dies, and as it will be a full half of the estate instead of what might have been only a third, I guess she's had pretty good advice from some one."

"The fact that my half-sister was not mentioned in the will naturally led me to conclude that no such person existed. I did not know till this morning, Mr. Bugher, that I had a half-sister."

"Well," began the recorder, pursing his lips, "for that matter she didn't know she had a half-brother till the will was read, so she was almost as ignorant as you."

"It's all very strange,—exceedingly strange."

"When did your own mother die, if it's a fair question?"

"In the year 1812. My father was away when she died."

"Off to the war, I suppose."

"Yes," said the young man steadily. "Off to the war," he lied, still staring out of the window. "I was left with my grandparents when he went off to make his fortune in this new country. It was not until I was fairly well grown that we heard that he was married to a woman named Rachel Carter."

"Well, I guess it's something you don't like to talk about," said Mr. Bugher, and turned his attention to the records they were consulting.

Later the young man called at the office of Mr. Cornell, the lawyer who had charge of his affairs. He had come to Lafayette prepared to denounce Rachel Carter, to drive her in shame and disgrace from the town, if necessary. Now he found himself confronted by a condition that distressed and perplexed him; his bitter resolve was rudely shaken and he was in a dire state of uncertainty. He was faced by a most unexpected and staggering situation.

To denounce Rachel Carter would be to deliberately strike a cruel, devastating blow at the happiness and peace of an innocent person,—Viola Gwyn, his own half-sister. A word from him, and that lovely girl, serene in her beliefs, would be crushed for life. The whole scheme of life had been changed for him in the twinkling of an eye, as it were. He could not wreak vengeance upon Rachel Carter without destroying Viola Gwyn,—and the mere thought of that caused him to turn cold with repugnance. How could he publish Rachel Carter's infamy to the world with that innocent girl standing beside her to receive and sustain the worst of the shock? Impossible! Viola must be spared,—and so with her, Rachel Carter!

Then there was the strange message he had received from Viola, through the hunter, Stain. What was back of the earnest request for him to come and see her at her mother's house? Was she in trouble? Was she in need of his help? Was she depending upon him, her blood relation, for counsel in an hour of duress? He was sadly beset by conflicting emotions.

In the course of his interview with the lawyer, from whom he had decided to withhold much that he had meant to divulge, he took occasion to inquire into the present attitude of Rachel Carter,—or Gwyn, as he reluctantly spoke of her,—toward him, an open and admitted antagonist.

"Well," said Cornell, shaking his head, "I don't believe you will catch her asking any favours of you. She has laid down her arms, so to speak, but that doesn't mean she intends to be friendly. As a matter of fact, she simply accepts the situation,—with very bad grace, of course,—but she'll never be able to alter her nature or her feelings. She considers herself cheated, and that's all there is to it. I doubt very much whether she will even speak to you, Mr. Gwynne. She is a strange woman, and a hard one to understand. She fought desperately against your coming here at all. One of her propositions was that she should be allowed to buy your share of the estate, if such a transaction could be arranged, you will remember. You declined to consider it. This was after she withdrew her proposed contest of the will. Then she got certain Crawfordsville men interested in the purchase of your land, and they made you a bona fide offer,—I think they offered more than the property is worth, by the way. I think, back of everything, she could not bear the thought of you, the son of a former wife, living next door to her. Jealousy, I suppose,—but not unnatural, after all, in a second wife, is it? They're usually pretty cantankerous when it comes to the first wife's children. As regards her present attitude, I think she'll let you alone if you let her alone."

"My sister has asked me to come up to the house to see her this afternoon," said Kenneth.

The lawyer looked surprised. "Is that so? Well," with a puzzled frown, "I don't quite understand how she came to do that. I was under the impression that she felt about as bitterly toward you as her mother does. In fact, she has said some rather nasty things about you. Boasted to more than one of her friends that she would slap your face if you ever tried to speak to her."

Kenneth smiled, a reminiscent light in his eyes. "She has done so, figuratively speaking, Mr. Cornell. I am confident she hates me,—but if that's the case, why should she leave word for me to come and see her?"

"Experience has taught me that women have a very definite object in view when they let on as if they had changed their minds," was the judicial opinion of Mr. Cornell. "Maybe they don't realize it, but they are as wily as the devil when they think, and you think, and everybody else thinks, they're behaving like an angel. It's not for me to say whether you should go to see her or not, but I believe I would if I were in your place. Maybe she has made up her mind to be friendly, on the surface at least, and as you are bound to meet each other at people's houses, parties, and all such, perhaps it would be better to bury the hatchet. I think you will be quite safe in going up there to-day, so far as Mrs. Gwyn is concerned. She will not appear on the scene, I am confident. You will not come in contact with her. You say that she has put some of her furniture at your disposal, but she doubtless did so on the advice of her lawyer. You must not forget that your father, in his will, left half of his personal effects to you. She is just smart enough to select in advance the part that she is willing for you to have, feeling that you will not be captious about it."

"I have no desire to exact anything of—"

"Quite so, quite so," broke in the lawyer. "But she could not be expected to know that. She is a long-headed woman, Mr. Gwynne. I suspect she is considerably worried about Viola. Your half-sister is being rather assiduously courted by a young man named Lapelle. Mrs. Gwyn does not approve of him. She is strait-laced and—er—puritanical."

"Puritanical, eh?" said Kenneth, with a short laugh that Mr. Cornell totally misinterpreted.

"Barry isn't exactly what you would call sanctimonious," admitted the lawyer, with a dry smile. "The worst of it is, I'm afraid Viola is in love with him."

His client was silent for a moment, reflecting. Then he arose abruptly and announced:

"I agree with you, Mr. Cornell. I will go up to see her this afternoon. I bear her no grudge,—and after all, she is my sister. Good day, sir. I shall give myself the pleasure of calling in to see you to-morrow."