At crack-o'-day Kenneth rode out of his stable-yard on Brandy Boy, and went cantering away, followed on foot by the excited Zachariah, bound for the parade ground where the "soldiers" were to concentrate.

The rider turned in his saddle to wave farewell to the little group huddled at Rachel's gate,—three tall women who waved back to him. Rounding the bend, he sent a swift glance over his shoulder. There was but one figure at the gate now; she blew a kiss to him.

Nearly three hundred horsemen moved out of Lafayette that forenoon amidst the greatest excitement and enthusiasm. Most of them swam their horses across the river, too eager to wait for the snail-like ferry to transport them to the opposite bank. They were fearfully and wonderfully armed and equipped for the expedition. Guns of all descriptions and ages; pistols, axes, knives and diligently scoured swords; pots and pans and kettles; blankets, knapsacks and parcels of varying sizes; in all a strange and motley assortment that would have caused a troop of regulars to die of laughter. But the valiant spirit was there. Even the provident and far-sighted gentlemen who strapped cumbersome and in some cases voluptuous umbrellas (because of their extraneous contents) across their backs alongside the guns, were no more timorous than their swashbuckling neighbours who scorned the tempest even as they scoffed at the bloodthirsty red-skins. Four heavily laden wagons brought up the rear.

Kenneth Gwynne rode beside the ubiquitous "Judge" Billings, who cheerfully and persuasively sought to "swap" horses with him when not otherwise employed in discoursing upon the vast inefficiency of certain specifically named officers who rode in all their plump glory at or near the head of the column. He was particularly out of sympathy with a loud-mouthed lieutenant.

"Why," said he, "if the captain was to say 'halt' suddenly that feller'd lose his mind tryin' to think what to do. No more head on him than a grasshopper. And him up there givin' orders to a lot of bright fellers like you an' me an' the rest of us! By gosh, I'd like to be hidin' around where I could see the look on the Indian's face that scalps him. The minute he got through scrapin' a little hide an' hair off of the top o' that feller's head he'd be able to see clear down to the back of his Adam's Apple."

Historians have recorded the experiences and achievements of this gallant troop of horse. It is not the intention of the present chronicler to digress. Suffice to say, the expedition moved sturdily westward and northward for five or six days without encountering a single Indian. Then they were ordered to return home. There were two casualties. One man was accidentally shot in the arm while cleaning his own rifle, and another was shot in the foot by a comrade who was aiming at a rattlesnake. Nine or ten days after they rode out from Lafayette, the majority of the company rode back again and were received with acclaim. Two score of the more adventurous, however, separated from the main body on Sugar Creek and, electing their own officers, proceeded to Hickory Creek and on to the River O'Plein in Northern Illinois, without finding a hostile redskin.

As a matter of fact, Black Hawk was at no time near the Indiana border. His operations were confined to Northwestern Illinois in the region of the Mississippi River. Subsequently a series of sanguinary battles took place between the Indians and strong Illinois militia forces supported by detachments of United States troops under General Brady. It was not until the beginning of August that Black Hawk was finally defeated, his dwindling horde almost annihilated, and the old chieftain, betrayed into the hands of the whites by the Winnebagos, was made a prisoner of war. And so, summarily, the present chronicler disposes of the "great Black Hawk war," and returns to his narrative and the people related thereto.

Kenneth Gwynne did not go back to Lafayette with the main body of troops; he decided to join Captain McGeorge and his undaunted little band of adventurers. Gwynne's purpose in remaining with McGeorge was twofold. Not only was he keenly eager to meet the Indians but somewhere back in his mind was the struggling hope that, given time, Rachel Carter's reserve would crack under the fresh strain put upon it and she would voluntarily, openly break the silence that now stood as an absolutely insurmountable obstacle to his marriage with Viola. Not until Rachel Carter herself cleared the path could they find the way to happiness.

He would have been amazed, even shocked, could he have known all that transpired in Lafayette on the day following his departure. He was not to know for many a day, as it was nearly three weeks after the return of the main body of troops that McGeorge and his little band rode wearily down through the Grand Prairie and entered the town, their approach being heralded by a scout sent on in advance.

Kenneth searched eagerly among the crowd on the river bank, seeking the face that had haunted him throughout all the irksome days and nights; he looked for the beloved one to whom his thoughts had sped each night for communion at the foot of the blessed elm. She was nowhere to be seen. He was bitterly disappointed. As soon as possible he escaped from his comrades and hurried home. There he learned from Rachel Carter herself that Viola had gone away, never to return to Lafayette again.

Mid-morning on the day after the troops rode away, Rachel Carter appeared at the office of her lawyer, Andrew Holman. There, in the course of the next hour, she calmly, unreservedly bared the whole story of her life to the astonished and incredulous gentleman.

She did not consult with her daughter before taking this irrevocable step. She put it beyond her daughter's power to shake the resolution she had made on the eve of Kenneth's departure; she knew that Viola would cry out against the sacrifice and she was sorely afraid of her own strength in the presence of her daughter's anguish. "I shall put it all in the paper," she said, regarding the distressed, perspiring face of the lawyer with a grim, almost taunting smile, as if she actually relished his consternation. "What I want you to do, first off, Andrew, is to prepare some sort of affidavit, setting forth the facts, which I will sign and swear to. It needn't be a long document. The shorter the better, just so it makes everything clear."

"But, my dear Mrs. Gwyn, this—this may dispossess you of everything," remonstrated the agitated man of law. "The fact that you were never the wife of Robert—"

"Your memory needs refreshing," she interrupted. "If you will consult Robert Gwyn's will you will discover that he leaves half of his estate, et cetera, to 'my beloved and faithful companion and helpmate, Rachel, who, with me, has assumed the name of Gwyn for the rest of her life in view of certain circumstances which render the change in the spelling of my name advisable, notwithstanding the fact that in signing this, my last will and testament, I recognize the necessity of affixing my true and legal name.' You and I know the sentence by heart, Andrew. No one can or will dispute my claim to the property. I have thought this all out, you may be sure,—just as he thought it all out when he drew up the paper. I imagine he must have spent a great deal of time and thought over that sentence, and I doubt if you or any other lawyer could have worded it better."

"Of course, if the will reads as you say,—er,—ahem! Yes, yes,—I remember now that it was a—er—somewhat ambiguous. Ahem! But it has just occurred to me, Mrs. Gwyn, that you are going a little farther than is really necessary in the matter. May I suggest that you are not—er—obliged to reveal the fact that you were never married to him? That, it seems to me, is quite unnecessary. If, as you say, your object is merely to set matters straight so that your daughter and Mr. Gwynne may be free to marry, being in no sense related either by blood or by law,—such as would have been the case if you had married Kenneth's father,—why, it seems to me you can avoid a great deal of unpleasant notoriety by—er—leaving out that particular admission."

"No," she said firmly. "Thank you for your kind advice,—but, if you will reflect, it is out of the question. You forget what you have just said. For a lawyer, my dear friend, you are surprisingly simple to-day."

"I see,—I see," mumbled the lawyer, mopping his brow. "Of course,—er,—you are quite right. You are a very level-headed woman. Quite so. I would have thought of it in another moment or two. You can't leave out that part of it without—er—nullifying the whole object and intent of your—er—ahem!—I was about to say confession, but that is a nasty word. In other words, unless you acknowledge that you and Robert were never lawfully married, the—er—"

"Exactly," she broke in crisply. "That is the gist of the matter. Society does not countenance marriage between step-brother and -sister. So we will tell the whole truth,—or nothing at all. Besides, Robert Gwyn put the whole story in writing himself, as I have told you. The hiding-place of that piece of paper is still a mystery, but it will be found some day. I am trying to take the curse off of it, Andrew."

As she was leaving the office, he said to her, with deep feeling: "I suppose you realize the consequences, Mrs. Gwyn? It means ostracism for you. You will not have a friend in this town,—not a person who will speak to you, aside from the storekeepers who value your custom and"—he bowed deeply—"your humble servant."

"I fully appreciate what it means," she responded wearily. "It means that if I continue to hold my head up or dare to look my neighbour in the face I shall be called brazen as well as corrupt," she went on after a moment, a sardonic little twist at the corner of her mouth. "Well, so be it. I have thought of all that. Have no fear for me, my friend. I have never been afraid of the dark,—so why should I fear the light?"

"You're a mighty fine woman, Rachel Gwyn," cried the lawyer warmly.

She frowned as she held out her hand. "None of that, if you please," she remarked tersely. "Will you have the paper ready for me to sign this afternoon?"

"I will submit it to you right after dinner."

"You may expect me here at two o'clock. We will then step over to the Free Press and allow Mr. Semans to copy the document for his paper." She allowed herself a faint smile. "I daresay he can make room for it, even if he has to subtract a little from his account of the stirring events of yesterday."

"Your story will make a great sensation," declared the lawyer, wiping his brow once more. "He can't afford to—er—to leave it out."

At two o'clock she was in his office again. He read the carefully prepared document to her.

"This is like signing your own death warrant, Rachel Gwyn," he said painfully, as she affixed her signature and held up her hand to be sworn.

"No. I am signing a pardon for two guiltless people who are suffering for the sins of others."

"That reminds me," he began, pursing his lips. "I have been reflecting during your absence. Has it occurred to you that this act of yours is certain to react with grave consequences upon the very people you would—er—befriend? I am forced to remind you that the finger of scorn will not be pointed at you alone. Your daughter will not escape the—er—ignominy of being—ahem!—of being your daughter, in fact. Young Gwynne will find his position here very greatly affected by the—er—"

"I quite understand all that, Andrew. I am not thinking of the present so much as I am considering the future. The past, so far as we all are concerned, is easily disposed of, but these two young people have a long life ahead of them. It is not my idea that they shall spend it here in this town,—or even in this State."

"You mean you will urge them to leave Lafayette forever?"

"Certainly."

"But if I know Viola,—and I think I do,—she will refuse to desert you. As for Gwynne, he strikes me as a fellow who would not turn tail under fire."

"In any case, Andrew, it will be for them to decide. Kenneth had already established himself as a lawyer back in the old home town. I shall urge him to return to that place with Viola as soon as they are married. His mother was a Blythe. There is no blot upon the name of Blythe. My daughter was born there. Her father was an honest, God-fearing, highly respected man. His name and his memory are untarnished. No man can say aught against the half of Kenneth that is Blythe, nor the half of Viola that is Carter. I should like the daughter of Owen Carter to go back and live among his people as the wife of the son of Laura Blythe, and to honourably bear the name that was denied me by a Gwynne."

He looked at her shrewdly for a moment and then, as the full significance of her plan grew upon him, revealing in a flash the motive behind it, he exclaimed:

"Well, by gosh, you certainly have done an almighty lot of calculating."

"And why shouldn't I? She is my child. Is it likely that I would give myself the worst of everything without seeing to it that she gets the best of everything? No, my friend; you must not underrate my intelligence. I will speak plainly to you,—but in confidence. This is between you and me. There is no love lost between Kenneth Gwynne and me. He hates me and always will, no matter how hard he may try to overcome it. In a different way I hate him. We must not be where we can see each other. I am sorely afraid that the tender love he now has for Viola would fail to outlast the hatred he feels toward me. I leave you to imagine what that would mean to her. He has it in his power to give her a place among his people. He can force them to honour and respect her, and her children will be THEIR children. Do you see? Need I say more?"

"You need say nothing more. I understand what you want, Mrs. Gwyn,—and I must say that you are in a sense justified. What is to become of young Gwynne's property here in this county?"

"I think I can be trusted to look after it satisfactorily," she said quietly; "perhaps even better than he could do for himself. I am a farm woman."

"I thought maybe you had some notion of buying him out."

"He would not sell to me. His farm is being properly handled by the present tenant. His lots here in town cannot run away. The time will come when they will be very valuable, or I am no prophetess. There is nothing to keep him here, Andrew, and his interests and my daughter's will be as carefully looked after as my own."

"We will be sorry to lose him as a citizen."

"If you are ready, we will step over to the Free Press office," she said, without a sign that she had heard his remark.

They crossed the square and turned up the first street to the left. "This will be a terrible shock to your daughter," said he, breaking a long silence.

"She will survive it," replied Rachel Gwyn sententiously.

He laid his hand on her arm. "Will you accept a bit of advice from me?"

They stopped. "I am not above listening to it," she replied.

"My advice is to postpone this action until you are sure of one thing."

"And what may that be?"

"Kenneth Gwynne's safe return from this foray against the Indians. He may not come back alive."

"He will come back alive," said she, in a cool, matter-of-fact tone. "It is so ordained. I know. Come, we are wasting time. I have much to do between now and nightfall. Bright and early to-morrow morning my daughter and I are leaving town."

"Leaving town?" he cried, astonished.

"I am taking her out in the country,—to the farm. If I can prevent it she shall never put foot in this town again. You know Phineas Striker? An honest, loyal man, with a wife as good as gold. When Kenneth Gwynne marches back to town again he will find me here to greet him. I will tell him where to find Viola. Out at Striker's farm, my friend, she will be waiting for him to come and claim his own."

A smile he did not understand and never was to understand played about her lips as she continued drily, for such was the manner of this amazing woman:

"He will even find that her wedding gown is quite as much to his fancy as it was the day he met her."

THE END