The May number of "Journey's End" containing Phil's veracious account of the dogs of Main Street created almost as much of a sensation as the consolidation of the First National with Montgomery's Bank. The "Evening Star" did not neglect its duty to Indiana literature. A new planet blazed in the Hoosier heavens, and it was the business of Montgomery's enterprising afternoon daily to note its appearance and speculate upon its course and destiny. The "Evening Star's" "local" wrote a two-column "story" about Phil for the Sunday supplement of the Indianapolis "Advertiser." The fact that Miss Kirkwood belonged to one of the oldest and most distinguished families in central Indiana was not overlooked; but this was merely the prelude to a breezy description of her many adventures, her athletic prowess, her broad democracy. The "Evening Star's" "local" was under obligations to Phil for many quiet news tips; and beyond question he fully balanced the account. The pastor of Center Church made "The Dogs of Main Street" the text of a sermon on the humane treatment of dumb animals—a sermon that Phil heard perforce, as she sat, blushing furiously, beside Amzi in the Montgomery pew.

Amzi nearly perished with pride. Busy as he was with the remodeling of the old bank, made necessary by the consolidation (he scorned the idea of moving his bank into the Holton property!), he found time to stand on the bank steps and invite comments on "Phil's latest";—there hadn't been a time since Phil was six when her "latest" wasn't a subject of spirited conversation. Phil's own happiness was mitigated somewhat by the fact that "Journey's End" had lately refused two other manuscripts. Still the editor wrote explaining why her stories were not available and urged her to try again. "Stick to the local flavor," he said, "and don't read Stevenson so much. Anybody can write stories about the French Revolution; not many are able to catch the character and life of Main Street." While she pondered this, she resolved to be a poet and sold a jingle to "Life."

Kirkwood wired his congratulations from Chicago. He had not fully recovered from the shock of Lois's declaration of her belief in Phil's genius. Reading Phil's sketch over a lonely dinner in a Chicago hotel, he was pricked anew by the consciousness that he had never fully appreciated Phil's qualities. What Lois had said made a difference. He would have chuckled over the Philesque touches in "The Dogs of Main Street" in any circumstances, but he remembered enough of the commencement essay to value her changes, and to note the mark of the file on certain sentences. The thing had form and something akin to style. While he had been counseling Nan Bartlett as to "The Gray Knight," writing that was quite as individual as hers had been done without his guidance under his own roof!

In spite of his professional successes, Fate still played pranks with him. Nan had set herself determinedly against the idea of marrying him, and his assurance that Lois had rejected the idea of remarriage, even for Phil's sake, had not shaken her resolution. Lois's return had dimmed the glow of his second romance. And Nan and Rose had gone to call on her—an act whose finality was not wasted on Kirkwood.

The authorship of "The Gray Knight of Picardy" was now generally known, and when the Bartletts called on Phil's mother the talk ran naturally upon books and writers; and as Nan would not talk of herself, Phil's ambitions were thoroughly discussed. Phil, knowing that the Bartletts were coming, had discreetly taken herself off. Lois's account of the visit, given before Amzi at the dinner-table, lacked all those emotional elements which Phil had assumed to be inevitable where a man's former wife describes a call from a woman whom that man has been at the point of marrying. Phil had not lost her feeling that the world is a queer place.

"They are splendid women, Amzi," Lois declared. "If you don't marry Rose pretty soon, I shall have to take the matter into my own hands."

"Thunder! Rose marry me!" Amzi ejaculated.

"Why not!" Lois answered, composedly dropping a lump of sugar into his coffee. "Nan can't marry you; I should never have chosen you for Nan!"

The ice cracked ominously and Amzi began talking about the furniture he was buying for the new bank. Of course Lois knew! Phil had no doubts on that point. That astonishing mother of hers had a marvelous gift of penetration. Phil's adoration was increasing as the days passed. It was little wonder that following Mrs. John Newman King's courageous example, people seemed to be in haste to leave cards at Amzi's for Mrs. Holton. The gossip touching Lois's return lost its scandalous tinge and became amiable, as her three sisters were painfully aware. The "stand" they had taken in support of their private dignity and virtue and in the interest of public morals had not won the applause they had counted on. People to whom they went for sympathy politely changed the subject when they attempted to explain themselves. Mrs. John Newman King told the pastor of Center Church, who had sought her advice as to his own duty, that she hoped he wouldn't make a fool of himself. These were shocking words from a woman who had known Abraham Lincoln, and who was a greater power in Center Church than the ruling elders.

The Presbyterians were just then canvassing the town in the interest of a projected hospital, and the "Evening Star" printed the subscriptions from day to day. Amzi's name led all the rest with one thousand dollars; and immediately below his modest "A. Montgomery," "Cash" was credited with a like sum. It was whispered that Lois Montgomery Holton was the anonymous contributor. Lois's three sisters were appalled by the increasing rumors that their erring sister had come back with money. It was a sinful thing, if true; they vacillated between demanding an inquiry as to the source of the unknown contributor's cash or boldly suing for peace with Lois and Amzi. And to add to their rage, they knew that neither Lois nor Amzi cared a picayune whether peace was restored or not. Lois's sisters were not the first among humankind to conclude that there is a difference between Sin begging bread and Sin with cake to throw away.

Lois's automobile dazzled Main Street at this juncture. The William Holton car, splendid as it had been in its day, was a junk-pile compared to it. The accompanying chauffeur received, it was said, a salary of seventy-five dollars a month. Public interest fastened upon this person. A crowd that gathered in front of the old bank to inspect the car on the day that Lois and Phil brought it home from Indianapolis heard Mrs. Holton address him in a strange tongue. By nightfall every one in Montgomery knew that Lois had bought the most expensive car in town; that her chauffeur was French, and that she gave him orders in his own language just as though she had spoken it all her life. Main Street was impressed; all Montgomery felt the thrill of these departures from its usual, normal life.

Lawrence Hastings carried home details as to the "make," horse-power and finish of the machine that caused his wife and two sisters-in-law indescribable anguish. Still the French chauffeur was a consoling feature; a vulnerable target for their arrows. No woman who valued her reputation would go gallivanting over the country with a foreign chauffeur, when it was the duty of Montgomery people to employ worthy college boys to run their machines whenever possible. The sight of Phil at the wheel, receiving instructions in the management of the big car on the day after its arrival, did not greatly add to their joy in life. The exposure of Phil to the malign influences of a French chauffeur was another of Lois's sins that did not pass unremarked. Still the stars would not always fight against righteousness; Phil would be killed, or she would elope with the Frenchman, and Amzi would be sorry he had brought Lois home and set her up brazenly in the house of her fathers.

Amzi, rolling home to luncheon in the new car and rolling off again with his cigar at a provoking angle, was not unobserved from behind the shutters of his sisters' houses. In the bank merger he had acquired various slips of paper that bore the names of his sisters and their husbands, aggregating something like seven thousand dollars, which the drawers and indorsers thereof were severally unable to pay. The payment of the April interest and the general bright outlook in Sycamore affairs had induced a local sentiment friendly to the company that had already lost Waterman one damage suit. Fosdick thought he saw a way of making his abandoned brickyard pay if he could only command a little ready cash. Hastings had not forgotten Phil's suggestion that he transform his theater into a moving-picture house: there were indications that the highbrows were about to make the "reel" respectable in New York, and a few thousand dollars would hitch Montgomery to the new "movement" for dramatic uplift. And here was Amzi soaring high in the financial heavens, with a sister who gave a thousand dollars to a hospital without even taking credit for her munificence!

Amzi and Lois enjoyed themselves without let or hindrance from their neighboring sisters. Packages arrived by express; decorators from Indianapolis came and went; furniture was unpacked in the front yard; and a long stone bench and a sundial appeared in Amzi's lawn, together with a pool, in the center of which an impudent little god piped joyfully in a cloud of spray. Such trifles as these testified to the prevailing cheer of Amzi's establishment.

The fact that Fred Holton had turned his farm over to Kirkwood was public property now; and people were saying that it was fine of Amzi to give Fred employment. The way in which the Holtons crossed and recrossed the trail of the Montgomerys had been the subject of much discussion. But the situation was clearing in so far as the Holtons were concerned. William had removed to Chicago to begin life anew; and Jack had vanished utterly, the day following the collapse of the panic. Charles, too, had disappeared. It was believed that Kirkwood had recovered enough from Samuel's associates in the construction company to balance the deficiencies occasioned by fraudulent construction and that he was not particularly interested in Charles's whereabouts.

"How about taking a look at the farm?" asked Amzi one Saturday afternoon. "Fred's planting corn and we'll see how the country looks."

Lois and Phil agreed that this was a capital idea and they set off in high spirits.

As they approached the farm, Jack Whittlesey, the sheriff, passed on horseback.

"Looks bad for somebody," said Phil.

"What does?" asked Amzi.

"When Jack goes out on his horse, it's a sign somebody's going to jail."

"Only serving subpoenas, I reckon," said Amzi.

They espied Fred driving a corn-planter across a long level field, and stopped the car. He ran to the fence to talk to them, and they all alighted. It was a warm afternoon and he mopped his face with a big bandanna as he talked to them. He rested his arms on the top rail of the fence, playing with his cap—not the disreputable old coonskin with which Phil had become familiar that winter, but the regular Madison College cap with a scarlet "M" above the visor.

"In the words of the poet," began Phil, "where did you get that hat?"

"This? Oh, the day of the Main Street rumpus I lost mine and one of the boys lent me his. I meant to get him another, but I haven't been to town since. And besides, I've forgotten his name.""That's George Nesbit's cap," Phil answered, after eyeing it critically. "I know because it's an old style nobody else wore this year. George lives at the Phi Gam house, if you care for his address."

"I hope you don't know them all as well as that, Phil," remarked Lois.

"She does," chuckled Amzi; "she does, indeed."

Amzi and Fred dealt in technicalities. The green of young wheat caught the eye in the distances. These were Amzi's acres; the Holton farm lay beyond—the land that had been Fred's. In February, Phil and Amzi had driven out one afternoon and had found Fred sowing clover seed over the snow-covered wheat in his own field. Her imagination took fire at all these processes. "A calendar might be laid out in great squares upon the earth," she had written in her notebook, "and the months would tell their own stories." It was all a great wonder, that man had learned so perfectly how to draw from the mute soil its sweetness and vigor. Nothing man did seemed more interesting than this tilling and sowing. She noted how even snow had its use in catching and holding seed against the wind, and watched the sower marking his own progress and regulating the distribution by his tracks. Ultimately the clover would give its own life to nourish and strengthen the wheat—these things kindled her fancy. Here was poetry in the making, with suns and frosts, rains and snows taking their part in it. And Fred felt it too; she knew that. In his shy, guarded way he had spoken of it. But to-day he was not a dreamer but a man of action.

"Got all the help you want, Fred?" Amzi was asking.

"Yes, sir. No troubles. I'm using my old place for a boarding-house for the hands. Suppose you won't stay for supper?" he suggested, a little perfunctorily.

"Just because you're so enthusiastic, we will! But we've brought our own fodder—Phil packed the hamper; enough for a couple of regiments. We'll meet you at my house at supper-time and have an indoors picnic."

They waited to watch him start the team. Phil took the wheel, and as they rolled away Lois and Amzi exchanged a glance.

"You trust him?" she asked, glancing meaningly at Phil's back.

"Thunder!" said Amzi; "I don't know about that."

"It might be worse," Lois replied, and her brother looked at her in surprise.

"He's a straightforward, manly fellow; seems to have escaped the family curse. It must be this"—Lois indicated the fields—"that makes the difference. There's a moral influence in it; and," she added with a smile, "there's always a market for corn."

"He's as square a chap as they make 'em, but as for that—" and he nodded towards Phil.

"It isn't for us to say, brother, but I believe I should trust him; and they seem to understand each other. He's far from stupid, and the kind of man to watch over her and protect her."

These utterances greatly astonished Amzi. He wondered whether Lois's own experiences were responsible for her feeling that Phil needed a protector, and her frankly expressed liking for Fred in that connection. He was surprised but not displeased though the thought of Phil's marrying gave him a distinct shock when considered concretely. He never dissociated it from the remembrance of Lois's tragedies.

They found Amzi's house in order. Phil lighted the open fire to take the chill from the living-room, which had been closed since the Perrys' departure. Amzi ran off in the machine to pay a visit to one of the county commissioners who lived near by: Lois with her usual adaptability produced a novel and made herself comfortable on a couch. She was absorbed in her book before Phil left the room. Her mother's ready detachment never ceased to astonish her. Sometimes in the midst of a lively conversation, Lois would abruptly take up a book, or turn away humming to look out of the nearest window. Her ways had been disconcerting at first, but Phil had grown used to them. It argued for the completeness of their understanding that these dismissals were possible. Her mother's love of ease and luxury; the pretty knick-knacks she kept about her; her deftness in self-adornment—the little touches she gave to a hat that utterly re-created it—never failed to fascinate Phil.

Having disposed of her mother, or rather, that lady having forgotten her existence, Phil climbed the blossomy orchard slope and looked off toward Listening Hill. How many things had happened since that fall afternoon when she had talked there with Fred! Life that had seemed simple just then had since shown her its complexities. She watched Fred's slow progress with the corn-planter in the field below.

Glancing again at Listening Hill road her wandering gaze fell upon a horse and rider. Her eye, delighting in the picturesque at all times, was alive to the strong, vigorous lines in which man and horse were drawn against the blue May sky. They gained the crest of the road, and the man turned in his saddle and swept the surrounding fields in a prolonged inspection. She looked away and then sought the figures again, but they had disappeared. A little cloud of dust rose in the hollow toward Turkey Run. It was undoubtedly big Jack Whittlesey, the sheriff. The idea of one man hunting another was repugnant to Phil to-day, in this bright, wakened world of green fields, cheery bird song and laughing waters. She ran down the hill to escape from the very thought of sheriffs and prisons, and set off for the creek, following the Montgomery-Holton fence toward the Holton barn, whither the music had lured her that night of the change o' the year when she had danced among the corn shocks. The laborers were all off at work and no one was in sight.

It was a very respectable-looking barn now that Fred had patched its weather-beaten sides and painted it. She flung back the door to revisualize her recollection of the dance. The bang of the sliding door roused a hen to noisy protest, and it sought the open with a wild beating of wings. The hen had emerged from the manger of an unused stall, and in feeling under the corn-trough for eggs, Phil touched some alien object. She gave a tug that brought to light a corner of brown leather, found handles, and drew out a suit-case. She was about to thrust it back when "C. H." in small black letters arrested her eye. It was an odd place for the storing of luggage and her curiosity was keenly aroused. She had seen and heard nothing of Charles Holton since the night he had taken her to the lecture, and barns were not likely camping-places for gentlemen of his fastidious tastes.

A step on the planked approach to the barn caused her to thrust the case back under the corn-box. She sprang toward the door, and faced Jack Whittlesey, who grinned and took off his hat.

"'Lo, Phil!"

"'Lo, Jack!"

"Stealing eggs, Phil?"

"The hen deceived me; nothing doing."

"Passed you on the way out. Hardly know your old friends now you've set up a machine, I reckon."

"Cut that out, Jack, and feed it to the larks. You had only ten votes to spare when you were elected and I landed seven of them for you, so don't be gay with me."

"I'm not gay; I'm tired. I'm looking for a party."

"What's your friend's name?" asked Phil, picking up a straw and chewing it.

"That would be telling. You haven't seen a man chasing over the country with a brown suit-case, have you?"

"Nope; nor with a black, pink, or green one. Where does the story begin?"

"Well, not in my county. They send all the hard jobs out to us farmers. Suppose there's anybody in this barn?"

"There was a hen; but she went off mad when I came in. You'd better go back and pose on Listening Hill again; you looked rather well there—a lone picket on an Alp watching for Napoleon's advance.

"He saw afar
The coming host, but thought the glint of arms,
Betokened milk-cans in some peasant's cart,"—Phil added, bending forward and shading her eyes with her hand.

Whittlesey, knowing Phil well, laughed his appreciation absently.

"He's been dodgin' up and down the creek here for two days, trying to muster nerve enough to hit the trolley and clear out. There's a nice bunch of plunder in his suit-case."

"Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief?" Phil repeated—touching the buttons on her shirt-waist.

"That would be tellin'."

"Well, don't tell, then. But not mentioning any names that particular person wouldn't be likely to hang around here," suggested Phil meditatively.

The sheriff eyed her critically.

"You know who I mean? Sure you ain't seen him?"

"No, I haven't, Jack," replied Phil truthfully.

"If you spot a gent with a suit-case, hop for a telephone and call the jail, and mebbe I'll whack the reward."

"It doesn't sound like such easy money," Phil replied.

"Charlie and Fred ain't so terribly chummy, I guess," remarked the sheriff leadingly. "That's why I thought I'd take a look around here. A fellow as smart as Charlie would pick the unlikeliest place to hide in. I'll have a word with Fred as I go back. I got a deputy at Stop 7, watching the cars. If Charlie's in the neighborhood we'll pinch him all right. So long, Phil."

Whittlesey moved across the barn-lot toward his horse. Phil's mind had been working busily. Beyond doubt Charles Holton was lurking in the neighborhood, waiting for a chance to escape. The suit-case pointed to this clearly. It was undeniably her duty to tell the sheriff of her discovery, and it had been on the tip of her tongue to do so half a dozen times during their colloquy at the barn door. Whittlesey was an old friend and one of her admirations, and it was only the part of good comradeship to help him.

The remembrance of her last meeting with Charles still flamed angrily in her heart when she thought of him. There was certainly no reason why she should shield him from the outstretched arm of the law; yet she had first hesitated, then rejected the idea of communicating to the sheriff her knowledge that the plunder with which Charles was seeking to escape was hidden in the barn. Contemptible as Charles was and doubtless deserving of his impending punishment, she would not aid in his apprehension. She did not believe that Fred in like circumstances would do so; and there was Ethel, their sister, on whom the disgrace of Charles's arrest would fall heavily.

Whittlesey swung himself into his saddle and rode slowly toward the highway. Phil returned to the barn, considering whether she should tell Fred of her discovery of the suit-case.

She stopped short on the threshold, all her senses alert. The rear door of the barn had been opened during her brief absence. She saw across the fields the trees that marked the Turkey Run defile, and she was confident that this long vista had not been visible when she first entered. She took a step toward the stall where she had found the suit-case, looked round cautiously before bending down to draw it out again, and a pair of eyes met hers, unmistakably Charles Holton's eyes, fear-struck, as he peered across a farm wagon behind which he had concealed himself. While she had been talking to Whittlesey in the barn-lot, he had stolen in by the rear door to be nearer his booty.

Phil walked to the door and glanced toward Listening Hill. A quarter of a mile away she saw Whittlesey and Fred conversing earnestly at the edge of the cornfield. No one else was in sight. The farm hands were scattered over the fields, and were not likely to visit the barn until they brought home their teams. Phil, standing in the door, spoke in a low tone.

"You can get away, by the back door. The sheriff's talking to Fred down the lane; his man's watching Stop 7. Go back to the Run and follow it to the red covered bridge. Keep away from the trolley line; they're watching it. Better make for Gaston's and take the Chicago train there—it comes along a little before five."He was furtively creeping round the wagon while Phil spoke. She heard the creaking of the planks and turned to see him tiptoeing toward the stall. His clothing was soiled and crumpled. His bent, slinking figure as he stole toward his booty affected her disagreeably. She took a step toward him.

"You can't do that; you can't have that."

"It's all the baggage I've got; just a few clothes," he muttered huskily. "I crawled in here last night to sleep. I've got to see Fred before I go. I've been waiting two days for a chance to get to him."

He watched her with fearful intentness as he continued his cautious advance upon the stall.

"You can't have that suit-case," said Phil in a sharper tone. "Go out by the rear door, and keep close to the fence. There's nobody in those fields, and I'll watch till you get to the creek."

"I want my things; I've got to have them," he blurted hoarsely, his hand on the stall-post.

"You can't have it. If you don't go at once I'll call the sheriff back. There's nothing in that suit-case you need. Quick! Whittlesey knows you're around here somewhere, and if it hadn't been for me he'd have searched the barn."

"He's a fool. I heard his talk through the cracks, and there's nothing in that case but a suit of clothes, and I've got to have it. It's all I've got in the world."

"Then you won't miss it much! I'm giving you a chance to get away. If you don't take it and clear out in ten seconds, I'll call Whittlesey. He's still talking to Fred just a little way down the lane."

As she turned to reassure herself of the fact, he made a dive for the suit-case, brought it out and rushed toward the rear door. His foot caught on the edge of a rough plank and he fell headlong, the case flying from his hand. Phil pounced upon it, flung it with all her strength into the farthest corner of the barn, pulled him to his feet, and pushed him through the door. She drew it shut, jerked the bar into place, and ran through the front door into the barn-lot. She continued running until she had gained the mound on which the house stood. She reasoned that the fugitive would hardly venture to reËnter the barn, as this would bring him into the open lot with a possibility of encountering new foes. She saw him presently stealing along the edge of the field toward the creek, dodging along the stake-and-rider fence and pausing frequently to rest or make sure that he was not followed. She saw Whittlesey bid Fred good-bye, watched the young farmer return to his corn-planting, and heard his voice as he called cheerily to the horses.

Charles gained the edge of the ravine, clambered over the fence, and disappeared. Then Phil sighed deeply and shuddered; the fear in the man's eyes had not been good to see; and yet she had been touched with pity for him. The night he had taunted her about her mother she had taken the measure of his baseness; but she was glad she had helped him to escape. If there was really anything of value in the suit-case, as Whittlesey had said, the law might have it and welcome; and she was already wondering just how to dispose of it. If Charles followed her instructions, he would strike across country and catch the northbound evening train. His fate was out of her hands, and it was wholly unlikely that he would make any further effort to regain his property now that Phil had seen it. She doubted whether he had had any real errand with Fred. It was much more probable that chance alone had directed his steps to this neighborhood, and that all he wanted was to beg his brother's protection and aid. Now that the excitement of the episode had passed, Phil hid the bag in a dark corner of the corn-crib and continued her tramp.

Fred, having gone for a shower and change of raiment, was late to the supper that Phil spread in the dining-room of the Montgomery farmhouse. He seemed unusually grave when they met at the table, and Phil surmised that Whittlesey had discussed Charles's plight with him fully. Amzi had spent an enjoyable afternoon cruising in the neighborhood among his farmer friends, and was in the best of humor. Lois, who had taken her ease, reading and napping, declared that she must cultivate a closer acquaintance with farm life. She pronounced it immensely interesting, feigning to ignore the ironical glances exchanged by Phil and Amzi. She exclaimed in a mockery of rapture over a bowl of scentless wild violets which Phil had gathered. They were amazingly fragrant, she said, waving her hand lately splashed with toilet water.

"The fraud! She hasn't been out of the house," Phil remarked to Amzi.

"Why should I go out and walk over the clods in my best slippers? I don't return to Nature; Nature returns to me. It's much pleasanter that way." She nibbled a sandwich, elbows on table, and asked if Montgomery still indulged itself in picnics, a form of recreation which she associated only with a youthful horror of chigres.

"Met Jack Whittlesey again, on my way back," said Amzi. "What's he hanging round here for?"

Fred looked up suddenly, the color deepening in his face.

"Jack's always looking for somebody," said Phil lamely, seeking to turn the talk. "He must dream that he's looking for people. I shouldn't like his job."

"He's looking for Charlie," said Fred, raising his head squarely and speaking directly across the table to Amzi. "Jack thinks he's hiding about here somewhere."

Amzi blew out his cheeks to hide his embarrassment. It was not his way to cause pain, and there was a hurt, unhappy look in Fred's eyes. And Amzi liked Fred—liked his simplicity and earnestness, and stubborn pluck, his manly attitude in adversity.

"How absurd," murmured Lois, regarding critically one of Phil's deviled eggs, made, by the way, after Rose Bartlett's recipe.

"I thought that was all a bluff about dragging Charlie into the traction business," remarked Amzi, who had not thought anything of the kind.

"He never surrendered the bonds he got from father," said Fred, relieved, now that the matter had been broached, that he could speak of Charlie's plight to friendly hearers. "Jack said he was trying to get away with them, and there's an indictment against him at Indianapolis."

"Oh, they won't catch him," said Lois in her spacious fashion. "They never catch anybody."

This was a well-intentioned effort to eliminate Charles and his troubles from the conversation; but Fred, not heeding, spoke again directly to Amzi.

"I think it wasn't altogether Charlie's fault that he got mixed up in this. The temptation to keep the bonds must have been strong. But he ought to have turned them over. I can't defend his not doing it."

Amzi was still annoyed by his unfortunate reference to the sheriff. He fumbled in his breast pocket and drew out a brown envelope.

"I've got something for you, Fred, that ought to cheer you up. Charlie's troubles haven't anything to do with you. Here's the deed you gave Mr. Kirkwood for your farm. It's never been recorded, and it stands as though it had never been made. I told Tom he had got back enough money to straighten up the Sycamore business out of those construction fellows without taking your farm, and here you are. I've been holding it a little while just to see how you would take your troubles. Burn it; and now let's forget about Charlie."

Fred stared, frowning, at the deed which Amzi tossed across the table.

"This isn't right; it isn't square," he began.

"Be careful how you sign papers. You may not get 'em back the next time. They tried to swindle you out of your share in your father's estate—a clean case on Charlie's part, as everybody knows. You needn't worry about Charlie. He got a lot of stuff that never figured in his administrator's inventory. The Sycamore Company's perfectly satisfied with what's been wrung out of the other fellows, and if Charlie really has some of those bonds, they belong to you."

Lois shrugged her shoulders. The subject was distasteful. Discussions of disagreeable business affairs were not to her liking; and she was sincerely sorry for Fred's discomfiture.

"The sheriff's mistaken," remarked Phil. "Charlie hasn't any of those bonds, and Jack won't catch him; not to-day."

At an early age Phil had learned the dramatic value of downright statements. She helped herself to an olive and waited for Amzi to explode. He exploded immediately.

"Charlie hasn't them! Jack won't catch him?"

"Of course not. I have the bonds and Charlie's a long way from here by this time."

She recounted her meeting with Charles in the Holton barn, and when they expressed incredulity, she sprang up and darted from the room. When she reappeared with the suit-case and dumped its contents on the table, Amzi, narrowly averting apoplexy, counted the bonds carefully, and made a calculation of the accrued and unpaid interest.

"Thunder!" he blurted. "Now, look here, Fred, don't you do anything foolish! We'll stack these up in the bank until Kirkwood can pass on this business. He might have them annulled, I suppose; but we'll wait and see."

"You wouldn't have Fred steal them, Amy!"

"Steal them! Thunder! We'll run 'em through the estate and out to Fred again. I guess Charlie took care of his sister in the original whack; but if he didn't we'll give her a slice." He glared at Phil fiercely. "You, Phil!"

"What's the matter, Amy?"

"You lied to the sheriff of this county!"

"If you talk to me like that I'll most certainly muss you; I will, I will!"

"You concealed stolen property! You helped a fugitive to escape from justice! You—you—!" Words failing him, he bent over the table, shaking an accusing finger under her nose.

"Forget it, Amy! If I did I glory in my shame. Put that in your pipe. Incidentally, it occurs to me that it's about time to think of going home."

"I don't know what to say to all this," said Fred as they rose from the table. He looked from one to the other, the deep feeling showing in his face. "It was fine of you, Phil, to help Charlie get away; I appreciate that. I want to say again that I think Charlie means all right. He's the best-hearted fellow in the world."

"Well," said Lois kindly, "we hope he will find another chance and make good." Then after a moment she added: "We most of us need two chances in this world, and some of us three!"

"And about the farm, I didn't expect that: I'm not sure it's right to take it back," said Fred. "I want to do the square thing."

"Thunder!" ejaculated Amzi; and then, seeing that Phil was already engaged in repacking the hamper with the empty dishes he turned upon her with his mock fury and demanded that she give him another pickled peach before the jar was disposed of.

"Get that article at my house, Phil?"

Phil walked close to him and shouted in his ear as to a deaf man:—

"No, you grand old imbecile! Anybody but you would know that they represent the perfection of Rose Bartlett's art! Now, will you be good!"