September was almost over. Golden-rod and wild asters fringed the low banks of Black River now, and the cardinal flower bent its stately head to peer suspiciously into the still waters, seeing there a line of red so vivid that it might well pass for a rival. The grapevines in their late luxuriance ran riot, climbing over the underbrush that grew down to the river's brink and pushing out across old trees that had been undermined and lay half buried, a menace to the boatman, but a joy—with all this greenery over them—to a nature-loving eye. Here and there a sumach, blood-red, threw in a needed touch of color, or a maple lifted a flaming branch.

They were much upon the river in these days. It was pleasant to get away from the people, though there were not many left. South Haven was very quiet; the boatmen were laying up their boats preparatory to the winter's painting. The crowds were gone. The steamers had taken back to the great city across the lake regretful loads of summer visitors who could not tarry to see the river in its autumn glory. This was hard for those who went, but very pleasant for those who stayed. They had plenty of room and nothing to mar the tranquil quiet of the place. It seemed to Margaret as they rowed through the shadows of the overhanging boughs that the very spirit of Peace was brooding over it all. She almost forgot that there was such a man as Richard De Jarnette living to cast a shadow over her path. Perhaps she would never cross it again.

They always took the same places in the boat—Harcourt rowing, Margaret in the bow, and Bess and Philip in the stern to steer. Mrs. Pennybacker would seldom go. This left her to herself and brought Harcourt face to face with Bess. The girl was wonderfully pretty, with the freshness of a swaying anemone, but he used to wonder sometimes why Margaret never steered now as she did at first.

There was a woman's reason—perhaps rather a woman's intuition—back of it. She and he had been sitting one evening on the sands watching the sun go down, while Bess and Philip wandered up the beach looking for lucky stones. It was a gorgeous sunset. Such an orgy of color as flamed in the sky befitted the ceremonious passing of a king. It seemed as if all the pigments Nature's palette held had been laid upon the canvas, and—endowed with life—were there struggling for mastery. Even to the zenith and beyond the heavens were aglow. Nor was it all overhead. A band of gold stretched across the broad expanse from the sun's disk to the lapping waves at their feet, and on each side the shimmering opalescent waters reflected back the changing tints above. The little fruit boat on its daily trip back from Glen Pier was crossing the golden shaft now, and its smoke line stood out against the yellow sky. It gave the needed touch of life to complete the picture.

They sat in silence. It was not a time for words. Margaret, susceptible to the influence of color as many persons are to that of music, was watching it with a joy that was almost pain.

As they looked the yellow tints merged into the blue of the robin's egg, pinks melted into lilacs and the high lights paled.

"Oh, let us go!" she said. "Let us go before it fades! I want to carry it with me forever. I cannot see it put on the dust and ashes of defeat! It always makes me think then of a life from which the coloring has gone out!"

He caught her by the hand. He too was stirred to the depths.

"Margaret, don't go!" There was a note in his voice that she had never heard there before—that it hurt her to hear now. "It is not always over when the sun goes down. Sometimes the later glory is beyond that of the first. Wait! Wait for the after glow!"

She drew her hand away, saying quickly, "I must go to Philip."

He did not try to detain her, nor did she see him again till the next morning, when he was in his usual mood of hilarity.

In thinking about it afterwards she felt sure that he had had no thought of anything but the sunset—no thought of what she had said about gray lives—but still the next day when they took their places in the boat, she had stepped into the bow, leaving the steering to Bess, who made a pretty picture with Philip beside her grasping with both chubby hands the steering rope as children hold the lines. He felt that it was his right to steer for he had now donned masculine attire, thanks to Mrs. Pennybacker. Divested of his restraining garments he was having a blissful time these days with his mud turtles down at Donahue's dock, his mother watching him, or over at the life-saving station, his hand held close in hers. Never for one moment was he out of her sight.

She was growing to love the place as much as Philip did. From her seat in the bow, her eyes resting upon the child, and the pleasant, healthful nonsense of the young people falling lightly on her ears, Margaret was beginning to put the past behind her and to live in the present. Perhaps it was the conviction, growing stronger as the weeks went by, that they had eluded Smeltzer,—perhaps that the needed companionship of youth was working a cure,—or it may have been only that here she was so close to Nature as to hold communion with her visible forms and that gradually the old mother had

One day they had gone up to Cold Spring in the "Phylidy," as the captain called his launch, with the intention of going on up the North Branch. Mrs. Pennybacker was with them this time. They were out for an all day's jaunt and were to have dinner in the woods.

They secured a large boat at Cold Spring, piled their hampers and hammocks in and started off in high spirits, Mrs. Pennybacker's trenchant comments on all they encountered making fun for the company.

Margaret from her post in the bow looked back upon the track they made as they turned into the North Branch. The place stood out ever afterward in her memory,—the lily pads at the river's fork, and the towering elms on the south shore; in the distance the sloping grounds of the hotel they had left behind, with the drooping willow over the spring; just before her as she looked back the railroad bridge across the South Branch and two lovers in a row boat gliding under it into the shadows beyond. It was such a tranquil scene. It took her out into the clear sunlight.

It stood out in John Harcourt's memory, too, for it was just here that she had said only two days before when he had taken her alone for a row.

"Some day you will find a sweet woodland flower that has never been trampled on. Plant it in your garden. And then tend it. Oh, tend it carefully! It will not need much to make it grow—only the sunshine and a little care, a little tender handling, a little shielding from the blast or from the heat. No, it will not take much. Only—let it be constant! It is neglect that kills a plant—the doing for it to-day and forgetting it to-morrow." It was as near as she had ever come to a confidence about her own married life.

One "winds about and in and out" on the North Branch. There are many, many turns, particularly as one gets farther up. They were rounding one of these points when Margaret, still looking back over their tortuous track, saw a boat in the distance. It was only for a moment and then another bend took it from view. In it were two men. She could not help feeling disturbed though she said nothing. She would not be constantly obtruding her specter upon others. But she found herself watching for the boat at every turn. Sometimes she could see only a white hat against the green of the bank.

They rowed on and on. They were going to the head of navigation, Harcourt said, and there was all day to do it in. All the pay he claimed was his dinner, but by the time he got this "floating scow of old Virginny" to a landing place he rather thought he should need it. And he rested on his oars.

"Mr. Harcourt," said Margaret in a low tone, "have you noticed those men—in the boat, I mean. They've stopped now. They always slow up when you do."

The shadow was upon her again.

"I've noticed them," he replied quietly. "They are probably coming up here to fish. They say there are bass in the North Branch." But he took up his oars.

They landed at last and climbed up the bank, the ladies going toward the woods to find a place for hammocks and the dinner for which Philip was clamoring. Harcourt stayed behind to make his "scow" fast. He had hardly done so when the other boat pulled around the bend and drew up beside him. There were two men in it; one was the light-house keeper—the other Smeltzer.

"Hello, Smeltzer!" was Harcourt's off-hand greeting as the other sprang out of the boat and stood confronting him. He spoke with a jaunty good fellowship that he was far from feeling. The women were out of sight, but his strained ear could detect sounds coming from their direction. He knew that Philip was likely to appear at any moment on the bank above them. "You after bass too?"

He rather ostentatiously displayed his fishing tackle.

Smeltzer came directly to the point.

"No, sir, I'm not after bass to-day unless you might call it calico bass. I'm after the woman you've been spiriting around the country. I guess she'll not give me the slip this time."

"My good man," said Harcourt, a little haughtily, "I think you are suffering under a misapprehension. We are innocent tourists out for a picnic."

"You'll get your picnic all right, before you get through, but you may not be able to run it to suit you. Where is she? You may as well stand aside now, Mr. Harcourt. I mean business."

At this moment the thing that Harcourt had been fearing happened. Philip appeared on the bank just beyond them. Harcourt motioned him back with a quick gesture, but in the meantime Mr. Smeltzer had sprung nimbly up the bank and was close behind the frightened child. Harcourt and the man who had done the rowing followed. When they reached the spot that had been selected for the picnic, the terror-stricken women were huddled together and Margaret had Philip in her arms. Smeltzer was explaining his business.

"I am sorry to interrupt this party, ladies, but I have an order here authorizing me to take Mrs. De Jarnette and child into custody and bring them to the City of Washington, D. C."

"An order from whom?" demanded Margaret.

"From the guardian of this child, Mr. Richard De Jarnette."

"You may go back to Mr. Richard De Jarnette and tell him that I do not acknowledge his right to control either me or my child. I refuse to go."

When Mr. Smeltzer replied to this it was in a tone so reasonable and conciliatory and withal so earnest that it alarmed Mrs. Pennybacker more than bluster would have done.

"I hope you will not persist in that decision, Mrs. De Jarnette. It will be far better for you in the end to go back peaceably with me. Mr. De Jarnette has had men on the search for this child for nearly five years. You can depend upon it that he will not give him up now that he is found. But—it may be that when you see him and talk it over with him you may be able to come to some sort of a compromise about it."

"See here, Smeltzer," said Harcourt, "you can't bulldoze us in any such way as this! You haven't the power to take Mrs. De Jarnette or her child back to Washington on an order from any private individual, and you know it. If you propose to arrest her you'll have to show a warrant for it. Isn't that right, Captain?"

"That's right, sir," replied the captain, who was an interested spectator.

"I haven't said anything about arresting her, have I?" demanded Smeltzer. "I am trying to persuade her to go peaceably without any such humiliation."

"You may as well give it up," she said, "for I shall never go."

"I hope you will think better of that, Mrs. De Jarnette. Because—" he was drawing from his pocket a yellow envelope marked 'Western Union Telegraph'—"if you don't it will force upon me a very painful duty."

He took a dispatch from the envelope and unfolded it slowly. "I located you last night—saw you first as you and the child were coming down from the light-house." They had been there as they had often gone before to see the light-house keeper light the big lantern. The captain was very fond of the child. "I followed you and found out where you were staying. Then I wired Mr. De Jarnette for instructions. Here they are."

He handed her the dispatch and they gathered around her to read. It said:

"Bring her back peaceably if possible. If she refuses to come, swear out a warrant for her arrest on charge of kidnapping.

"De Jarnette."

"You see," said the man, quietly, "I am given no discretion in the matter. If you refuse to go with me I must swear out this warrant—and then—"

"Then what?" asked Margaret with white lips.

"When once this prosecution is begun even Mr. De Jarnette cannot stop it. It will then be out of his hands and the law will have to take its course."

Margaret drew a quick sharp breath. "If I could only talk with Judge Kirtley!"

"Why can't you telegraph him?" suggested Mrs. Pennybacker. Then, turning to the detective, "You would, of course, allow her to do that?"

"Certainly. I will wait any reasonable length of time or do anything you suggest that will further the peaceful settlement of this case. In the meantime, I shall have to keep her in sight."

As they were preparing to take to the boats the captain came up to Margaret.

"I just want to say to you, madam," he said, wrathfully, "that if I had known what that cuss was up to he—he wouldn't have got me to row him." Then raising his voice a little to insure its carrying as far as the detective, "I lost a leg, madam, fighting men. But I've never got down yet to hunting women and children!"

"Oh, Captain, I know you wouldn't have done anything to harm him if you had known. You have always been so good to Philip."

"Mama," said Philip, anxiously, as they packed the baskets for their return, "can't we eat the picnic on the way home?"

It was a sad and thoughtful little party that rowed slowly back, the detective discreetly following in his own boat. For Margaret, at the first appearance of Smeltzer, there had been a moment of absolute terror. That had now given place to dull despondency; and the anguish in her eyes was piteous to see.

Mrs. Pennybacker from the first counseled returning to Washington with Smeltzer. "If that man has been hunting you for four years and a half, he will not give the thing up now that you are found—the detective is undoubtedly right about that. But it may be as he says that you can make terms with Mr. De Jarnette when you see him."

"Oh, I can't. I know I can't," said Margaret.

"There is no telling where a determined man will stop," Harcourt said. "And—Smeltzer is not going to lose you again." Then they fell to wording the telegram.

When the party reached Donohue's dock Mr. Smeltzer followed them at a respectful distance up the street to the Oakland.

"You will excuse my going with you to your boarding-house," he said to Harcourt, who dropped behind to ask him some question. "I stayed there last night."

"You did?"

"Yes, sir, I did! You wouldn't suppose I would risk another Detour slip, would you?"

"Say! I want to find out some time how you found us."

"All right. After we get up to the Oakland I'll tell you."

It was several hours after the telegram was sent to Judge Kirtley before his answer was received. Much of the time was spent in earnest consultation in Miss Crosby's little parlor—and a part of it by Margaret in throes of anguish upstairs as she made plan after plan only to be brought up always at the last by the impossibility of eluding Smeltzer. A poignant recollection of Mammy Cely's "beating her head ag'in' a stone wall" rose before her. That was what she was doing.... Whichever way she turned there was the stone wall!... What must she do? What could she do?... Nothing. She was powerless. Richard De Jarnette had run her to earth at last.... She clenched her hands in impotent rage until the nails sank into the delicate flesh.

"If she goes," John Harcourt was saying to Mrs. Pennybacker downstairs, "I shall go with her." Bess looked startled. "It is time I am getting back anyway.... Oh, yes, I hope she will consent to go. It wouldn't do for her to risk prosecution on a criminal charge at the hands of a man like that."

"That is exactly the way I feel about it. I think I will go up and talk with her again."

Harcourt sauntered out doors to where Smeltzer quietly stood on guard. "Now, then," he said.

"I can't say that this affair redounds much to my glory," Smeltzer began, half quizzically, "except that I've got her. But—"

"The thing that I don't understand is why if you were going to find us at all you didn't do it sooner."

"The old lady threw me off the track, that's why! But we may as well begin at the beginning. I had never connected you with my game till I saw you here. I suppose now you are the one that got her off at Detour."

"You do me too much honor, Smeltzer. My will was good, but my wits were lacking. You may lay that to the charge of Miss Norah Brannigan, of the John A. Paxton."

"Aha! I mistrusted that she had a hand in it anyway. But can't she lie?" He seemed lost in admiration of Norah's talents.

"Go on with your tale. We can all lie when occasion calls for it. You are not an infant at it yourself."

"Well," grinned Smeltzer, "I found at the Soo that the lady had given me the slip. I went through that boat from top to bottom—the stewardess giving me all the help in her power, and assuring me she hadn't seen any such people on board. Then I made for the depot."

"I saw you. You made good time, Smeltzer."

"Yes.... Well, when I found the train gone I sat down and figured it out. She had a good long start, but I knew she couldn't leave the Island till morning and I would take the first train down myself. I telegraphed the ticket agents of the G. R. and I. and the Pere Marquette at Petoskey to be on the lookout for these parties (description following) and note their destination. The Pere Marquette man identified them all right and said he sold them tickets for Chicago. I took the next train for that blooming metropolis, telegraphing ahead for another man to be there when they got off, and hold them. Well, sir, when I reached Chicago and heard report, no such parties had got off! Well, sir, I fooled away a day or two in Chicago. Then all at once it came to me that we had crossed a railroad away back there somewhere and I couldn't get it out of my mind. You know men in my business get into the habit of noticing pretty closely."

"I've observed it!"

"I made some inquiries and went back to Grand Junction. Agent remembered the parties perfectly—had had a good deal of talk with the old lady about roads out of Kalamazoo,—had to show 'em to her on the map."

"Yes. She's from Missouri."

"I took the next train for Kalamazoo, perfectly dead sure I was on their track. I monkeyed around there one week. Nice place. But I tell you I didn't enjoy it! I got a lot of clues there from hackmen and gatemen that were sure they had seen these people, but a pile of good they did me! You see I was so sure they were in Kalamazoo that I made that sort of headquarters and when I had exhausted one lead would go back there to take up another. Well, finally, I made up my mind that I would go back over this little South Haven road and take the boat for Chicago. I got here about half-past four yesterday and while idling away the time at the life-saving station, before the boat left, who should I see across the river but the woman and child I had been scouring the country for!"

"Fool luck!" said Harcourt. "Nothing short of it. I wonder if that isn't the way a lot of you fellows rise to eminence in your profession."

"Say—do you think she is going back without that warrant?"

"Can't tell. I hope so. I think it will depend somewhat on the telegram. And there it comes now."

Mrs. Pennybacker was at the door to receive it. She had been watching for it behind the curtains, and called to Margaret that it had come. They read it on the porch. Smeltzer, with a delicacy that they hardly expected from him, had turned his back upon them and appeared absorbed in the view of the lake.

The telegram ran:

"Come peaceably by all means. Will try to arrange matters.

"Kirtley."

"Tell him I will go." said Margaret, in a voice of despair. She had promised Mrs. Pennybacker that the telegram should decide it.

Mr. Harcourt returned in a moment to say that Mr. Smeltzer would be glad to go by the late afternoon train if they could be ready.

"H-m," said Mrs. Pennybacker, reflectively. "That won't give us much time. Bess, can you be ready? I told you not to unpack all those things!"

"Are we going too?" cried Bess in ecstasy. "To Washington?" Then catching the child's face between her hands and giving a swift sidelong glance beyond, "Oh, Philip Second, son of Margaret, won't—that—be—fine!"

She punctuated the sentence upon the rosy lips but Philip brushed the marks aside, considering such demonstration decidedly beneath a boy.

"Aunt Mary?"

To the mute questioning of Margaret's sorrowful face Mrs. Pennybacker replied by taking the girl into her motherly arms and saying with an odd mixture of Scripture phraseology and Pennybacker pluck, "Yes, child! It is 'Whither thou goest, I will go,' from this time on, if you want me. I'm going to see this thing through! 'Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.'"

"I have no God!" cried Margaret, passionately,—then fell to weeping on her old friend's neck.