Bright and early the next morning Kenneth gave orders to have his new home put in order for immediate occupancy. Having made up his mind to remain in Lafayette and face the consequences that had seemed insurmountable the night before, he lost no time in committing himself to the final resolve. Zachariah was despatched with instructions to lay in the necessary supplies, while two women were engaged to sweep, scrub and furbish up the long uninhabited house. He had decided to move in that very afternoon.

Meanwhile he rented an "office" on the north side of the public square, a small room at the back of a furniture store, pending the completion of the two story brick block on the south side. With commendable enterprise he lost no time in outfitting the temporary office from the furniture dealer's stock. His scanty library of law books,—a half dozen volumes in all,—Coke, Kent and Chitty, among them,—had been packed with other things in the cumbersome saddle bags, coming all the way from Kentucky with him.

Of necessity he had travelled light, but he had come well provided with the means to purchase all that was required in the event that he decided to make Lafayette his abiding place.

As he was hurrying away from the tavern shortly after breakfast, he encountered Lapelle coming up from the stable-yard. The young Louisianian appeared to be none the worse for his night's dissipation. In fact, he was in a singularly amiable frame of mind.

"Hello," he called out. Kenneth stopped and waited for him to come up. "I'm off pretty soon for my place below town. Would you care to come along? It's only about eight miles. I want to arrange with Martin Hawk for a duck shooting trip the end of the week. He looks after my lean-to down there, and he is the keenest duck hunter in these parts. Better come along."

"Sorry I can't make it," returned Kenneth. "I am moving into my house to-day and that's going to keep me pretty busy."

"Well, how would you like to go out with us a little later on for ducks?"

"I'd like to, very much. That is, after I've got thoroughly settled in my new office, shingles painted, and so forth. Mighty good of you to ask me."

Barry was regarding him somewhat narrowly.

"So you are moving up to your house to-day, are you? That will be news to Viola. She's got the whim that you don't intend to live there."

"I was rather undecided about it myself,—at least for the present. I am quite comfortable here at Mr. Johnson's."

"It isn't bad here,—and he certainly sets a good table. Say, I guess I owe you a sort of apology, Kenny. I hope you will overlook the way I spoke last night when you said you couldn't go to Jack Trentman's. I guess I was a—well, a little sarcastic, wasn't I?"

There was nothing apologetic in his voice or bearing. On the contrary, he spoke in a lofty, casual manner, quite as if this perfunctory concession to the civilities were a matter of form, and was to be so regarded by Gwynne.

"I make it a rule to overlook, if possible, anything a man may say when he is drinking," said Kenneth, smiling.

Barry's pallid cheeks took on a faint red tinge; his hard eyes seemed suddenly to become even harder than before.

"Meaning, I suppose, that you considered me a trifle tipsy, eh?" he said, the corner of his mouth going up in mirthless simulation of a grin.

"Well, you had taken something aboard, hadn't you?"

"A drink or two, that was all," said the other, shrugging his shoulders. "Anyhow, I have apologized for jeering at you, Gwynne, so I've done all that a sober man should be expected to do," he went on carelessly. "You missed it by not going down there with me last night. I cleaned 'em out."

"You did, eh?"

"A cool two thousand," said the other, with a satisfaction that bordered on exultation. "By the way, changing the subject, I'd like to ask you a question. Has a mother the legal right to disinherit a son in case said son marries contrary to her wishes?"

Kenneth looked at him sharply. Could it be possible that Lapelle's mother objected to his marriage with Viola, and was prepared to take drastic action in case he did so?

"Different states have different laws," he answered. "I should have to look it up in the statutes, Barry."

"Well, what is your own opinion?" insisted the other, impatiently. "You fellows always have to look things up in a book before you can say one thing or another."

"Well, it would depend largely on circumstances," said Kenneth, judicially. "A parent can disinherit a child if he so desires, provided there is satisfactory cause for doing so. I doubt whether a will would stand in case a parent attempted to deprive a child of his or her share of an estate descending from another parent who was deceased. For example, if your father left his estate to his widow in its entirety, I don't believe she would have the right to dispose of it in her will without leaving you your full and legal share under the statutes of this or any other state. Of course, you understand, there is nothing to prevent her making such a will. But you could contest it and break it, I am sure."

"That's all I want to know," said the other, drawing a deep breath as of relief. "A close friend of mine is likely to be mixed up in just that sort of unpleasantness, and I was a little curious to find out whether such a will would stand the test."

"Your friend should consult his own lawyer, if he has one, Lapelle. That is to say, he should go to some one who knows all the circumstances. If you want my advice, there it is. Don't take my word for it. It is too serious a matter to be settled off-hand,—and my opinion in the premises may be absolutely worthless."

"I was only asking for my own satisfaction, Gwynne. No doubt my friend has already consulted a lawyer and has been advised. I must be off. Sorry you can't come with me."

Kenneth would have been surprised and disturbed if he could have known all that lay behind these casual questions. But it was not for him to know that Viola had repeated Mrs. Gwyn's threat to her impatient, arrogant lover, nor was it for him to connect a simple question of law with the ugly plot that had been revealed to Isaac Stain by Moll Hawk.

After two nights of troubled thought, Barry Lapelle had hit upon an extraordinary means to circumvent Rachel Gwyn. With Machiavellian cunning he had devised a way to make Viola his wife without jeopardizing her or his own prospects for the future. No mother, he argued, could be so unreasonable as to disinherit a daughter who had been carried away by force and was compelled to wed her captor rather than submit to a more sinister alternative.

Shortly after the noon meal, Kenneth rode up to the old Gwyn house. He found Zachariah beaming on the front door step.

"Yas, suh,—yas, suh!" was the servant's greeting. "Right aroun' dis way, Marse Kenny. Watch out, suh, ailse yo' scrape yo' hat off on dem branches."

He grasped the bit, after his master had dismounted in the weed-covered little roadway at the side of the house, and ceremoniously waved his hand toward the open door.

"Step right in, suh,—yas, suh,—an' make yo'self to home, suh. Sit right down front of de fiah, Marse Kenny. Ah won't be more'n two shakes, suh, stablin'—yas, suh! Come on hyar, yo' Brandy Boy! Ise gwine show yo' whar yo's gwine to be de happies' hoss in—yas, suh,—yas, suh!"

The young man looked long and searchingly through the trees before entering the house, but saw no sign of his neighbours. He thought he detected a slight movement of a curtain in one of the windows,—the parlor window, if his memory served him right.

It was late in the afternoon before he saw either of his relatives. He had had occasional glimpses of the negro servant-girl and also of a gaunt stable-man, both of whom favoured his partially obscured abode with frank interest and curiosity. A clumsy, silent hound came up to the intervening fence several times during the afternoon and inspected the newcomers with seeming indifference, an attitude which misled Zachariah into making advances that were received with alarming ill-temper.

Kenneth was on his front doorstep, contemplating with secret despair the jungle of weeds and shrubbery that lay before him, completely obliterating the ancient path down to the gate. The whole place was overgrown with long, broken weeds, battered into tangled masses by the blasts of winter; at his feet were heaps of smitten burdocks and the dead, smothered stems of hollyhocks, geraniums and other garden plants set out and nurtured with tender care by Rachel Gwyn during her years of occupancy. The house needed painting, the roof required attention, the front gate was half open and immovably imbedded in the earth.

He was not aware of Viola's presence on the other side of the fence dividing the two yards until her voice fell upon his ears. It was clear and sweet and bantering.

"I suppose you are wondering why we haven't weeded the yard for you, brother Kenny."

As he made his way through the weeds to the fence, upon which she rested her elbows while she gazed upon him with a mocking smile in the eyes that lay far back in the shovel-like hood of her black quaker bonnet, he experienced a sudden riotous tumult in the region of his heart. Shaded by the dark, extended wings of the bonnet, her face was like a dusky rose possessed of the human power to smile. The ribbon, drawn close under her chin, was tied in a huge bow-knot, while at the back of her head the soft, loose cap of the bonnet fitted snugly over hair that he knew would gleam with tints of bronze if exposed to the rays of the sinking sun.

"Not at all," he rejoined. "I am wondering just where I'd better begin."

"Did you find the house all right?"

"Yes. You have saved me a lot of trouble, Viola."

"Don't give me credit for it. Mother did everything. I suppose you know that the furniture and other things belong to you by rights. She didn't give them to you out of charity."

"The last thing in the world I should expect would be charity from your mother," he said, stung by the obvious jibe.

She smiled tolerantly. "She is more charitable than you imagine. It was only last night that she said she wished Barry Lapelle was half as good and upright as you are."

"That was very kind of her. But if such were the case, I dare say it never would have occurred to you to fall in love with him."

He had come up to the fence and was standing with his hand on the top rail. She met his ironic gaze for a moment and then lowered her eyes.

"I wish it were possible for us to be friends, Kenny," she surprised him by saying. "It doesn't seem right for us to hate each other," she went on, looking up at him again. "It's not our fault that we are who and what we are. I can understand mother's attitude toward you. You are the son of another woman, and I suppose it is only natural for her to be jealous. But you and I had the same father. It—it ought to be different with us, oughtn't it?"

"It ought to be,—and it shall be, Viola, if you are willing. It rests entirely with you."

"It is so hard to think of you as a brother. Somehow I wish you were not."

"It is pretty hard luck, isn't it? You may be sure of one thing. If I were not your brother I would be Barry Lapelle's most determined rival."

She did not laugh at this. On the contrary, her eyes clouded.

"The funny part of it is, Kenny, I have been wondering what would have happened if you had come here as a total stranger and not as my relation." Then she smiled whimsically. "Goodness knows poor Barry is having a hard enough time of it as it is, but what a time he would be having if you were some one else. You see, you are very good-looking, Kenny, and I am a very silly, frivolous, susceptible little goose."

"You are nothing of the kind," he exclaimed warmly, adding in some embarrassment, "except when you say that I am good-looking."

"And I have also been wondering how many girls have been in love with you," she went on archly; "and whether you have a sweetheart now,—some one you are engaged to. You needn't be afraid to tell me. I can keep a secret. Is there some one back in Kentucky or in the east who—"

"No such luck," whispered simple, honest Kenneth. "No one will have me."

"Have you ever asked anybody?" she persisted.

"No,—I haven't."

"Then, how do you know that no one will have you?"

"Well, of course, I—I mean to say I can't imagine any one caring for me in that way."

"Don't you expect ever to get married?"

"Why,—er,—naturally I—" he stammered, bewildered at this astonishing attack.

"Because if you want to remain a bachelor, I would advise you not to ask any one of half a dozen girls in this town that I could mention. They would take you so quick your head would swim."

By this time he had recovered himself. Affecting grave solicitude, he inquired:

"Is there any one here that you would particularly desire as a sister-in-law?"

She shook her head, almost pensively. "I don't want you to bring any more trouble into the family than you've already brought, and goodness knows THAT would be doing it. But I shouldn't have said that, Kenny. There are lots of fine, lovely girls here. I wouldn't know which one to pick out for you if you were to ask me to do your choosing."

"I will leave it entirely in your hands," said he, grinning boyishly. "Pick me out a nice, amiable, rather docile young lady,—some one who will come the nearest to being a perfect sister-in-law, and I will begin sparking her at once. By the way, I hope matters are going more smoothly for you and Barry."

Her face clouded. She shot a suspicious, questioning look at him.

"I—I want to talk to you about Barry some day," she said seriously.

"You seemed to resent it most bitterly the last time I attempted to talk to you about him," said he, somewhat pointedly.

"You were horrid that day," said she. "I have a good deal to forgive. You said some very mean, nasty things to me that day over there," indicating the thicket with a jerk of her head.

"I am glad to see that you took them to heart and have profited," he ventured boldly.

She hesitated, and then spoke with a frankness that shamed him. "Yes, I did take them to heart, Kenny. I will not say that I have profited, but I'll never make the same kind of a fool of myself again. I hated you with all my soul that day,—and for a long time afterward,—but I guess you took the right way with me, after all. If I was fair and square, I would say that I am grateful to you. But, you see, I am not fair and square. I am as stubborn as a mule."

"The best thing about a mule is that he takes his whalings without complaining."

She sighed. "I often wonder what a mule thinks about when he stands there without budging while some angry, infuriated man beats him until his arm gets tired."

"That's very simple. He just goes on thinking what a fool the man is for licking a mule."

"Good! I hope you will remember that the next time you try to reason with me."

"What is it you want to say to me about Barry?" he asked, abruptly.

"Oh, there is plenty of time for that," she replied, frowning. "It will keep. How are you getting along with the house?"

"Splendidly. It was in very good order. I will be settled in a day or two and as comfortable as anything. To-night Zachariah and I are going to make a list of everything we need and to-morrow I shall start out on a purchasing tour. I intend to buy quite a lot of new furniture, things for the kitchen, carpets and—"

Viola interrupted him with an exclamation. Her eyes were shining, sparkling with eagerness.

"Oh, won't you take me along with you? Mr. Hanna has just received a wonderful lot of things from down the river, and at Benbridge & Foster's they have a new stock of—"

"Hurrah!" he broke in jubilantly. "It's just what I wanted, Viola. Now you are being a real sister to me. We will start early in the morning and—and buy out the town. Bless your heart, you've taken a great load off my mind. I haven't the intelligence of a snipe when it comes to fitting up a—why, say, I tell you what I'll do. I will let you choose everything I need, just as if you were setting up housekeeping for yourself. Curtains, table cloths, carpets, counterpanes, china, Queensware, chairs, chests—"

"Brooms, clothes-pins, rolling-pins, skillets, dough-bowls, cutlery—"

"Bureaus, looking-glasses, wardrobe, antimacassar tidies, bedspreads, towels—"

"Oh, Kenny, what fun we'll have," she cried. "And, first of all, you must let me come over right now and help you with your list. I know much better than you do what you really need,—and what you don't need. We must not spend too much money, you see."

"'Gad," he gulped, "you—you talk just as if you and I were a poor, struggling young couple planning to get married."

"No, it only proves how mean and selfish I am. I am depriving your future bride of the pleasure of furnishing her own house, and that's what all brides like better than anything. But I promise to pick out things that I know she will like. In the meantime, you will be happy in knowing that you have something handsome to tempt her with when the time comes. As soon as you are all fixed up, you must give a party. That will settle everything. They'll all want to marry you,—and they'll have something to remember me by when I'm gone. Come on, Kenny, let's go in and start making the list."

She started off toward her own gate, but stopped as he called out to her.

"Wait! Are you sure your mother will approve of your—"

"Of course she will!" she flung back at him. "She doesn't mind our being friendly. Only,"—and she came back a few steps, "I am afraid she will never be friends with you, Kenny. I am sorry."

He was silent. She waited for a moment before turning away, shaking her head slightly as if attempting to dismiss something that perplexed her sorely. There was a yearning in his eyes as they followed her down to the gate; then he shot a quick, accusing glance at the house in which his enemy lived. He saw the white curtains in the north parlor window drop into place, flutter for a second or two, and then hang perfectly still. Rachel Gwyn had been watching them. He made no effort to hide the scowl that darkened his brow as he continued to stare resentfully at the window.

He met Viola at his own disabled gate, which cracked and shivered precariously on its rusty hinges as he jerked it open.

"I lived for nearly three years in this house, Kenny," she said as she picked her way through the weeds. "I slept on a very hard straw tick up in the attic. It was dreadfully cold in the winter time. I used to shiver all night long curled up with my knees up to my chin. And in the summer time it was so hot I slept with absolutely nothing,—" She broke off in sudden confusion. "Our new house is only about a year old," she went after a moment. Pointing, she added: "That is my bedroom window up there. You can get a glimpse of it through the trees but when the leaves are out you can't see it at all from here."

"I shall keep an eye on that window," said he, with mock severity, "and if ever I catch you climbing down on a ladder to run away with—well, I'll wake the dead for miles around with my yells. See to it, my dear sister, that you attempt nothing rash at the dead hour of night."

She laughed. "Have you seen our dog? I pity the valiant knight who tries to put a ladder up to my window."

They spent the better part of an hour going over the house. She was in an adorable mood. Once she paused in the middle of a sentence to ask why he was so solemn.

"Goodness me, Kenny, you look as if you had lost your very best friend. Aren't you interested? Shall we stop?"

A feeling of utter desolation had stricken him. He was sick at heart. Every drop of blood in his body was crying out for her. Small wonder that despair filled his soul and lurked in his gloomy, disconsolate eyes. She had removed her bonnet. If he had thought her beautiful on that memorable night at Striker's he now realized that his first impression was hopelessly inadequate. Her eyes, dancing with eagerness, no longer reflected the disdain and suspicion with which she had regarded him on that former occasion. Her smile was frank and warm and joyous. He saw her now as she really was, incomparably sweet and charming—and so his heart was sick.

"I wouldn't stop for the world," he exclaimed, making a determined effort to banish the tell-tale misery from his eyes.

"I know!" she cried, after a searching look into his eyes. "You are in love with some one, Kenny, and you are wishing that she were here in my place, helping you to plan the—"

"Nonsense," he broke in gruffly. "Put that out of your head, Viola. I tell you there is no—er—no such girl."

"Then," she said darkly, "it must be the dreadful extravagance I am leading you into. Goodness, when I look at this list, I realize what a lot of money it is going to take to—"

"We're not half through," he said, "and I am not thinking of the expense. I am delighted with everything you have suggested. I shudder when I think how helpless I should have been without you. Didn't I tell you in the beginning that I wanted you to fix this house up just as if you were planning to live in it yourself? Put down all the things you would most like to have, Viola, and—and—well, confound the expense. Come along! We're losing time. Did you jot down that last thing we were talking about? That—er—that—" He paused, wrinkling his forehead.

"I don't believe you have been paying any attention to what—Now, tell me, what WAS the last thing we were talking about?"

He squinted hard at the little blank book in her hand. She closed it with a snap.

"Have you got it down?" he demanded severely.

"I have."

"Then, there's no use worrying about it," he said, with great satisfaction. "Now, let me see: don't you think I ought to have a clock for the mantelpiece?"

"I put that down half an hour ago," she said. "The big gold French clock I was telling you about."

"That's so. The one you like so well down at Currie's."

They proceeded. He had followed about, carrying the ink pot into which she frequently dipped the big quill pen. She overlooked nothing in the scantily furnished house. She even went so far as to timidly suggest that certain articles of furniture might well be replaced by more attractive ones, and he had promptly agreed. At last she announced that she must go home.

"If you buy all the things we have put down here, Kenny, you will have the loveliest house in Lafayette. My, how I shall envy you!"

"I have a feeling I shall be very lonely—amidst all this splendour," he said.

"Oh, no, you won't. I shall run in to see you every whipstitch. You will get awfully sick of having me around."

"I am thinking of the time when you are married, Viola, and,—and have gone away from Lafayette."

"Well," she began, her brow clouding, "you seem to have got along without me for a good many years,—so I guess you won't miss me as much as you think. Besides, we are supposed to be enemies, aren't we?"

"It doesn't look much like it now, does it?"

"No," she said dubiously, "but I—I must not do anything that will make mother feel unhappy or—"

He broke in a little harshly. "Are you forgetting how unhappy it will make her if you marry Barry Lapelle?"

"Oh, that may be a long way off," she replied calmly. "You see, Barry and I quarrelled yesterday. We both have vile tempers,—perfectly detestable tempers. Of course, we will make up again—we always do—but there may come a time when he will say, 'Oh, what's the use trying to put up with you any longer?' and then it will all be over."

She was tying her bonnet strings as she made this astonishing statement. Her chin being tilted upward, she looked straight up into his eyes the while her long, shapely fingers busied themselves with the ribbons.

"I guess you have found out what kind of a temper I have, haven't you?" she added genially. As he said nothing (being unable to trust his voice): "I know I shall lead poor Barry a dog's life. If he knew what was good for him he would avoid me as he would the plague."

He swallowed hard. "You—you will not fail to come with me to-morrow morning on the purchasing tour," he said, rather gruffly. "I'll be helpless without you."

"I wouldn't miss it for anything," she cried.

As they walked down to the gate she turned to him and abruptly said:

"Barry is going down the river next week. He expects to be away for nearly a fortnight. Has he said anything to you about it?"

Kenneth started. Next week? The dark of the moon.

"Not a word," he replied grimly.