Kenneth's first night in the old Gwyn house was an uneasy, restless one, filled with tormenting doubts as to his strength or even his willingness to continue the battle against the forces of nature.

Viola's night was also disturbed. Some strange, mysterious instinct was at work within her, although she was far from being aware of its significance. She lay awake for a long time thinking of him. She was puzzled. Over and over again she asked herself why she had blushed when he looked down at her as she was tying her bonnet-strings, and why had she felt that queer little thrill of alarm? And why did he look at her like that? She answered this question by attributing its curious intensity to a brotherly interest—which was quite natural—and the awakening of a dutiful affection—but that did not in any sense account for the blood rushing to her face, so that she must have reminded him of a "turkey gobbler." She announced to her mother at breakfast:

"I don't believe I can ever think of Kenny as a brother."

Rachel Gwyn looked up, startled. "What was that you called him?" she asked.

"Kenny. He has always been called that for short. And somehow, mother, it sounds familiar to me. Have I ever heard father speak of him by that name?"

"I—I am sure I do not know," replied her mother uneasily. "I doubt it. It must be a fancy, Viola."

"I can't get over feeling shy and embarrassed when he looks at me," mused the girl. "Don't you think it odd? It doesn't seem natural for a girl to feel that way about a brother."

"It is because you are not used to each other," interrupted Rachel. "You will get over it in time."

"I suppose so. You are sure you don't mind my going to the stores with him, mother?"

Her mother arose from the table. There was a suggestion of fatalism in her reply. "I think I can understand your desire to be with him." She went to the kitchen window and looked over at the house next door. "He is out in his back yard now, Viola," she said, after a long pause, "all dressed and waiting for you. You had better get ready."

"It will not hurt him to wait awhile," said Viola perversely. "In fact, it will do him good. He thinks he is a very high and mighty person, mother." She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. "I shall keep him waiting for just an hour."

Rachel's strong, firm shoulders drooped a little as she passed into the sitting-room. She sat down abruptly in one of the stiff rocking-chairs, and one with sharp ears might have heard her whisper to herself:

"We cannot blindfold the eyes of nature. They see through everything."

It was nine o'clock when Viola stepped out into her front yard, reticule in hand, and sauntered slowly down the walk, stopping now and then to inspect some Maytime shoot. He was waiting for her outside his own gate.

"What a sleepy-head you are," was her greeting as she came up to him.

"I've been up since six o'clock," he said.

"Then, for goodness' sake, why have you kept me waiting all this time?"

"My dear Viola, I was not born yesterday, nor yet the day before," he announced, with aggravating calmness. "Long before you were out of short frocks and pantalettes I was a wise old gentleman."

"I don't know just what you mean by that."

"I learned a great many years ago that it is always best to admit you are in fault when a charming young lady says you are. If you had kept me waiting till noon I should still consider it my duty to apologize. Which I now do."

She laughed merrily. "Come along with you. We have much to do on this fine May day. First, we will go to the hardware store, saving the queensware store till the last,—like float at the end of a Sunday dinner."

And so they advanced upon the town, as fine a pair as you would find in a twelvemonth's search. First she conducted him to Jimmy Munn's feed and wagon-yard, where he contracted to spend the first half-dollar of the expedition by engaging Jimmy to haul his purchases up to the house.

"Put the sideboards on your biggest wagon, Jimmy," was Viola's order, "and meet us at Hinkle's."

She proved to be a very sweet and delightful autocrat. For three short and joyous hours she led him from store to store, graciously leaving to him the privilege of selection but in nine cases out of ten demonstrating that he was entirely wrong in his choice, always with the naive remark after the purchase was completed and the money paid in hand: "Of course, Kenny, if you would rather have the other, don't for the world let me influence you."

"You know more about it than I do," he would invariably declare. "What do I know about carpets?"—or whatever they happened to be considering at the time.

She was greatly dismayed, even appalled, as they wended their way homeward, followed by the first wagonload of possessions, to find that he had spent the stupendous, unparalleled sum of two hundred and forty-two dollars and fifty cents.

"Oh, dear!" she sighed. "We must take a lot of it back, Kenny. Why didn't you keep track of what you were spending? Why, that's nearly a fourth of one thousand dollars."

He grinned cheerfully. "And we haven't begun to paint the house yet, or paper the walls, or set out the flower beds, or—"

"Goodness me!" she cried, aghast. "You are not going to do all that now, are you?"

"Every bit of it," he affirmed. "I am going to rebuild the barn, put in a new well, dig a cistern, build a smoke-house, lay a brick walk down to the front gate and put up a brand new picket fence—"

"You must be made of money," she cried, eyeing him with wonder in her big, violet eyes.

"I am richer now than when we started out this morning," said he, magnificently.

"When you say things like that, you almost make me wish you were not my brother," said she, after a moment, and to her annoyance she felt the blood mount to her face.

"And what would you do if I were not your brother?" he inquired, looking straight ahead.

Whereupon she laughed unrestrainedly. "You would be dreadfully shocked if I were to tell you,—but I can't help saying that Barry would be so jealous he wouldn't know what to do."

"You might find yourself playing with fire."

"Well," she said, flippantly, "I've got over wanting to play with dolls. Now don't scold me! I can see by your face that you'd like to shake me good and hard. My, what a frown! I am glad it isn't January. If your face was to freeze—There! That's better. I shouldn't mind at all if it froze now. You look much nicer when you smile, Kenny." Her voice dropped a little and a serious expression came into her eyes. "I don't believe I ever saw father smile. But I've seen him when he looked exactly as you did just then. I—I hope you don't mind my talking that way about your father, Kenny. I wouldn't if he were not mine as well."

"You knew him far better than I," he reminded her. Then he added brightly: "I shall try to do better from now on. I'll smile—if it kills me."

"Don't do that," she protested, with a pretty grimace. "I've been in mourning for ages, it seems, and I'm sure I should hate you if you kept me in black for another year or two."

As they parted at Kenneth's gate,—it seemed to be mutely understood that he was to go no farther,—they observed a tall, black figure cross the little front porch of the house beyond and disappear through the door. Kenneth's eyes hardened. The girl, looking up into those eyes, shook her head and smiled wistfully.

"Will you come over and help me put all these things where they belong?" he asked, after a moment.

"This afternoon, Kenny?"

"If you haven't anything else you would rather—" he began.

"I can't wait to see how the house will look when we get everything in place. I will be over right after dinner,—unless mother needs me for something."

. . . . .

That evening Zachariah was noticeably perturbed. He had prepared a fine supper, and to his distress it was scarcely touched by his preoccupied master. Now, Zachariah was proud of his cooking. He was pleased to call himself, without fear of contradiction, "a natteral bo'n cook, from de bottom up." Moreover, his master was a gentleman whose appetite was known to be absolutely reliable; it could be depended upon at almost any hour of the day or night. Small wonder then that Zachariah was not only mystified but grieved as well. He eyed the solemn looking young man with anxiety.

"Ain't yo' all feelin' well, Marse Kenneth?" he inquired, with a justifiable trace of exasperation in his voice.

"What's that, Zachariah?" asked Kenneth, startled out of a profound reverie.

"Is dey anything wrong wid dat ham er—"

"It is wonderful, Zachariah. I don't believe I have ever tasted better ham,—and certainly none so well broiled."

"Ain't—ain't de co'n-bread fitten to eat, suh?"

"Delicious, Zachariah, delicious. You have performed wonders with the—er—new baking pan and—"

"What's de matteh wid dem b'iled pertaters, suh?"

"Matter with them? Nothing! They are fine."

"Well, den, suh, if dere ain't nothin' de matteh wid de vittels, dere suttinly mus' be somefin de matteh wid you, Marse Kenneth. Yo' all ain't etten enough fo' to fill a grasshoppeh."

"I am not hungry," apologized his master, quite humbly.

"'Cause why? Yas, suh,—'cause why?" retorted Zachariah, exercising a privilege derived from long and faithful service. "'Cause Miss Viola she done got yo' all bewitched. Can't fool dis yere nigger. Wha' fo' is yo' all feelin' dis yere way 'bout yo' own sister? Yas, suh,—Ah done had my eyes open all de time, suh. Yo' all was goin' 'round lookin' like a hongry dog, 'spectin'—Yas, suh! Yas, SUH! Take plenty, suh, Marse Johnson he say to me, he say, 'Dis yere sap come right outen de finest maple tree in de State ob Indianny, day befo' yesterday,' he say. A leetle mo' coffee, suh? Yas, suh! Das right! Yo' suttinly gwine like dat ham soon as ever yo' get a piece in yo' mouth,—yas, SUH!"

Kenneth's abstraction was due to the never-vanishing picture of Viola, the sleeves of her work-dress rolled up to the elbows, her eyes aglow with enthusiasm, her bonny brown hair done up in careless coils, her throat bare, her spirits as gay as the song of a roistering gale. She had come over prepared for toil, an ample apron of blue gingham shielding her frock, her skirts caught up at the sides, revealing the bottom of her white petticoat and a glimpse of trim, shapely ankles.

She directed the placing of all the furniture carried in by the grunting Jimmy Munn and Zachariah; she put the china safe and pantry in order; she superintended the erection of the big four poster bed, measured the windows for the new curtains, issued irrevocable commands concerning the hanging of several gay English hunting prints (the actual hanging to be done by Kenneth and his servant in a less crowded hour,—after supper, she suggested); ordered Zachariah to remove to the attic such of the discarded articles of furniture as could be carried up the pole ladder, the remainder to go to the barn; left instructions not to touch the rolls of carpet until she could measure and cut them into sections, and then went away with the promise to return early in the morning not only with shears and needle but with Hattie as well, to sew and lay the carpets,—a "Brussels" of bewildering design and an "ingrain" for the bedroom.

"When you come home from the office at noon, Kenny, don't fail to bring tacks and a hammer with you," she instructed, as she fanned her flushed face with her apron.

"But I am not going to the office," he expostulated. "I have too much to see to here."

"It isn't customary for the man of the house to be anywhere around at a time like this," she informed him, firmly. "Besides you ought to be down town looking for customers. How do you know that some one may not be in a great hurry for a lawyer and you not there to—"

"There are plenty of other lawyers if one is needed in a hurry," he protested. "And what's more, I can't begin to practise law in this State without going through certain formalities. You don't understand all these things, Viola."

"Perhaps not," she admitted calmly; "but I do understand moving and house-cleaning, and I know that a man is generally in the way at such times. Oh, don't look so hurt. You have been fine this afternoon. I don't know how I should have got along without you. But to-morrow it will be different. Hattie and I will be busy sewing carpets and—and—well, you really will not be of any use at all, Kenny. So please stay away."

He was sorely disgruntled at the time and so disconsolate later on that it required Zachariah's startling comment to lift him out of the slough of despond. Spurred by the desire to convince his servant that his speculations were groundless, he made a great to-do over the imposed task of hanging the pictures, jesting merrily about the possibility of their heads being snapped off by Mistress Viola if she popped in the next morning to find that they had bungled the job.

Four or five days passed, each with its measure of bitter and sweet. By the end of the week the carpets were down and the house in perfect order. He invited her over for Sunday dinner. A pained, embarrassed look came into her eyes.

"I was afraid you would ask me to come," she said gently. "I don't think it would be right or fair for me to accept your hospitality. Wait! I know what you are going to say. But it isn't quite the same, you see. Mother has been very kind and generous about letting me come over to help you with the house,—and I suppose she would not object if I were to come as your guest at dinner,—but I have a feeling in here somewhere that it would hurt her if I came here as your guest. So I sha'n't come. You understand, don't you?" "Yes," he said gravely,—and reluctantly. "I understand, Viola."

Earlier in the week he had ridden out to Isaac Stain's. The hunter had no additional news to give him, except that Barry, after spending a day with Martin Hawk, had gone down to Attica by flat-boat and was expected to return to Lafayette on the packet Paul Revere, due on Monday or Tuesday.

Lapelle's extended absence from the town was full of meaning. Stain advanced the opinion that he had gone down the river for the purpose of seeing a Williamsport justice of the peace whose record was none too good and who could be depended upon to perform the contemplated marriage ceremony without compunction if his "palm was satisfactorily greased."

"If we could only obtain some clear and definite idea as to their manner of carrying out this plan," said Kenneth, "I would be the happiest man on earth. But we will be compelled to work in the dark,—simply waiting for them to act."

"Well, Moll Hawk hain't been able to find out just yet when er how they're goin' to do it," said Stain. "All she knows is that two or three men air comin' up from Attica on the Paul Revere and air goin' to get off the boat when it reaches her pa's place. Like as not this scalawag of a justice will be one of 'em, but that's guesswork. That reminds me to ask, did you ever run acrosst a feller in the town you come from named Jasper Suggs?"

"Jasper Suggs? I don't recall the name."

"Well, she says this feller Suggs that's been stayin' at Martin's cabin fer a week er two claims to have lived there some twenty odd years ago. Guess you must ha' been too small to recollect him. She says he sort of brags about bein' a renegade durin' the war an' fightin' on the side of the Injins up along the Lakes. He's a nasty customer, she says. Claims to be a relation of old Simon Girty's,—nephew er something like that."

"Does he claim to have known any of my family down there?" inquired Kenneth, apprehensively.

"From what Moll says he must have knowed your pa. Leastwise, he says the name's familiar. He was sayin' only a day or two ago that he'd like to see a picter of your pa. He'd know if it was the same feller he used to know soon as he laid eyes on it."

Kenneth pondered a moment and then said: "Do you suppose you could get a letter to Moll Hawk if I were to write it, Stain?"

"I could," said the other, "but it wouldn't do any good. She cain't read er write. Besides, if I was you, I wouldn't risk anything like that. It might fall into Hawk's hands, and the fust thing he would do would be to turn it over to Lapelle,—'cause Martin cain't read himself."

"I was only wondering if she could find out a little more about this man Suggs,—just when he lived there and—and all that."

"He's purty close-mouthed, she says. Got to be, I reckon. He fell in with Martin ten er twelve years ago, an' there was a price on his head then. Martin hid him for awhile an' helped him to git safe away. Like as not Suggs ain't his real name anyhow."

Kenneth was a long time in deciding to speak to Rachel Gwyn about the man Suggs. He found an opportunity to accost her on the day that the Paul Revere came puffing up to the little log-built landing near the ferry. Viola had left the house upon learning that the boat had turned the bend in the river two or three miles below town, and had made no secret of her intention to greet Lapelle when he came ashore. This was Gwynne's first intimation that she was aware of her lover's plan to return by the Paul Revere. He was distinctly annoyed by the discovery.

Rachel was in her back yard, feeding the chickens, when he came up to the fence and waited for her to look in his direction. All week,—in fact, ever since he had come up there to live,—he had been uncomfortably conscious of peering eyes behind the curtains in the parlor window. Time and again he had observed a slight flutter when he chanced to glance that way, as of a sudden release of the curtains held slightly apart by one who furtively watched from within. On the other hand, she never so much as looked toward his house when she was out in her own yard or while passing by on the road. Always she was the straight, stern, unfriendly figure in black, wrapped in her own thoughts, apparently ignorant of all that went on about her.

She turned at last and saw him standing there.

"May I have a word with you?" he said.

She did not move nor did she speak for many seconds, but stood staring hard at him from the shade of her deep black bonnet.

"What is it you want, Kenneth Gwynne?"

"No favour, you may be sure, Rachel Carter."

She seemed to wince a little. After a moment's hesitation, she walked slowly over to the fence and faced him.

"Well?" she said curtly.

"Do you remember a man at home named Jasper Suggs?"

"Are you speaking of my old home in Salem or of—of another place?"

"The place where I was born," he said, succinctly.

"I have never heard the name before," she said. "Why do you ask?"

"There is a man in this neighbourhood,—a rascal, I am told,—who says he lived there twenty years ago."

She eyed him narrowly. "Well,—go on! What has he to say about me?"

"Nothing, so far as I know. I have not talked with him. It came to me in a roundabout way. He is staying with a man named Hawk, down near the Wea." "He keeps pretty company," was all she said in response to this.

"I have been told that he would like to see a daguerreotype of my father some time, just to make sure whether he was the Gwynne he used to know."

"Has he ever seen you, Kenneth Gwynne?" She appeared to be absolutely unconcerned.

"No."

"One look at you would be sufficient," she said. "If you are both so curious, why not arrange a meeting?"

"I am in no way concerned," he retorted. "On the other hand, I should think you would be vitally interested, Rachel Carter. If he knew my father, he certainly must have known you."

"Very likely. What would you have me do?" she went on ironically. "Go to him and beg him to be merciful? Or, if it comes to the worst, hire some one to assassinate him?"

"I am not thinking of your peace of mind. I am thinking of Viola's. We have agreed, you and I, to spare her the knowledge of—"

"Quite true," she interrupted. "You and I have agreed upon that, but there it ends. We cannot include the rest of the world. Chance sends this man, whoever he may be, to this country. I must likewise depend upon Chance to escape the harm he may be in a position to do me. Is it not possible that he may have left before I came there to live? That chance remains, doesn't it?"

"Yes," he admitted. "It is possible. I can tell you something about him. He is related to Simon Girty, and he was a renegade who fought with the Indians up north during the war. Does that throw any light upon his identity?"

"He says his name is Suggs?" she inquired.

He was rewarded by a sharp catch in her breath and a passing flicker of her eyes.

"Jasper Suggs."

She was silent for a moment. "I know him," she said calmly. "His name is Simon Braley. At any rate, there was a connection of Girty's who went by that name and who lived down there on the river for a year or two. He killed the man he was working for and escaped. That was before I—before I left the place. I don't believe he ever dared to go back. So, you see, Chance favours us again, Kenneth Gwynne."

"You forget that he will no doubt remember you as Rachel Carter. He will also remember that you had a little girl."

"Let me remind you that I remember the cold-blooded murder of John Hendricks and that nobody has been hung for it yet," she said. "My memory is as good as his if it should come to pass that we are forced to exchange compliments. Thank you for the information. The sheriff of this county is a friend of mine. He will be pleased to know that Simon Braley, murderer and renegade, is in his bailiwick. From what I know of Simon Girty's nephew, he is not the kind of man who will be taken alive."

He started. "You mean,—that you will send the sheriff out to arrest him?"

She shook her head. "Not exactly," she replied. "Did you not hear me say that Simon Braley would never be taken alive?"

With that, she turned and walked away, leaving him to stare after her until she entered the kitchen door. He was conscious of a sense of horror that began to send a chill through his veins.