It was the evening of the day that the baby had been laid under a slim, tall young pine tree back of the little house.

Jude felt that he had borne himself heroically throughout the trying episode.

Never having cared for the child in life, he considered himself a pretty good father to hide his relief at its early taking off.

As a man of means—what mattered if they were Gaston's means?—he had had a really impressive funeral for his son.

The Methodist minister from Hillcrest had preached for full an hour over the tiny casket. Not often did the clergyman have so good an opportunity to tell the St. Angéans what he thought of them.

He dealt with them along old and approved lines. He had heard of Drew's religious views and he took this occasion to include a warning of the damning influence that was about to enter the vicinity with the young minister's return.

"I warn you now," he thundered over the dead baby, "to make the life of this infidel, this God-hater, a burden to him."

Filmer from his rear corner, winked at Gaston at this. Gaston could see nothing amusing in the service—it was all in the passing show—a pitiful and added agony.

In that the show was a little grimmer than usual he found his resentment rising. So Gaston did not return the pleasantry of Jock's wink.

After the service, Jude had insisted that there should be no unseemly haste, and had instructed his chosen representatives to form a line and walk from the house to the tavern and back twice with the tiny remains, before they were finally laid to rest. This show of respect was talked of in St. Angé for days.

Through all the bitter day Joyce had followed dumbly whatever others did. It was like walking in her sleep, and she was grateful that she felt no sorrow.

She had feared if the baby died it might kill her, and now that it was dead she did not mind at all.

Her arms ached a little at times. She thought that was queer; they had never ached when they bore the baby.

At last she and Jude were back in the awful, quiet house. It was more awful now that Jude was there. For after the burial, and before the evening meal, he had been lessening his tension with some boon companions, down at the Black Cat, and Joyce had had the place to herself.

Jude, having relaxed to the state of geniality, was willing to let bygones be bygones in the broadest sense of the word. He had big plans afoot—he had had them the night he came home and found Gaston and Joyce hanging over the baby. These plans had been set aside while the baby was taking his pitiful leave of life after his one smile, but Jude must hurry his case now. Nothing stood in the way—and, although many a woman might get what she deserved, Jude was going to forgive Joyce again and take her to his bosom in a new life, and they'd both forget what was past.

The hold of youth and beauty clutched the man's inflamed senses. The evening meal, which Joyce had mechanically prepared, had been partaken of—by Jude—until little but fragments was left.

A black shower, which had passed over St. Angé in the late afternoon, had changed the sultry heat to ominous chill. The wind among the pines sobbed dismally as if it were a human thing and could understand.

Jude got up and shut the door. It was quite dark outside, and the lamp flickered in the breeze.

At his action Joyce sprang from the chair, and the dull calm that had possessed her for the past day or so was shattered. Her eyes blazed, and the colour came and went in the stern, white face.

"Don't—do—that!" she panted, springing to the door and flinging it back.

"What in thunder is the matter with you?" Jude stepped aside. Something in this change and fury startled him.

"Don't shut—the—door, Jude. We—we—can't leave him out there alone in the cold. He's so little—our—baby!"

Jude had a moment of doubt as to how he should deal with this foolery. If he were quite sure it was just Joyce's nonsense—but perhaps she had gone crazy. The thought stayed him.

Then he considered that in either case he must get the upper hand, and at once. All depended upon that.

"Go and set down," he commanded, eyeing the girl as she stood in the open doorway. "You don't 'spose we're going to live with open doors, do you?"

There was mastery in the tone, and, to gain her end, the woman resorted to her only course.

"Just—for to-night, Jude—just a little way open. I'd choke if I—shut him away so soon—and he so little and—and—all."

Fear of what he did not understand roused in Jude a brutish desire to overcome this something that threatened. For a moment he decided to rush from the house and leave the thing to work out its own way; but second thought brought with it his plans, which must be set in motion at once.

This attitude of Joyce's was a new obstacle, but if he conquered her, he might overcome it. So by sheer force of weak will he strode over to the woman who defied him, even while she pleaded, and grasped her roughly by the shoulder.

In that touch Joyce recognized what all suppressed and deprived womanhood has always felt, and she recoiled to reconnoitre.

"You do as I tell you, Joyce, and go and set down. The door is going to be shut and you take that in, plain and quick." He drew her away, and slammed the door with a crash.

Joyce went quietly to her chair, but a new and terrible look came into her eyes.

Jude sat on the edge of the table, disregarding the spotless cover and soiled dishes. He wanted to be near Joyce in case of an outbreak, and he had much to say.

"Are you listening to me?" he asked slowly, as if he were speaking to a child.

"Oh! yes," Joyce replied, and her tone reassured him; "I'm listening."

"Do you think you've ever taken me in any?"

The man's sullen black eyes held the clear, bluish-gray ones.

"Oh, never, Jude! You're terribly smart. I've always known that—but please—" the strained eyes turned for the last time toward the door.

"Cut that out!" said Jude. "You're just acting. You can't pull me by the nose, but it will pay you to calm down and listen to what I've got to say. I've heard from your father!"

"Have you?" The white impassive face did not change expression.

"Yes; by thunder! I have; and as it concerns you as much as it does me, you better take more interest. I heard from him more'n two weeks ago. I met him, too, in the south woods, a few nights back."

"What's he hiding for?" the monotonous tone jarred Jude more than any outbreak of temper could have done. His recent restraint, and his pent-up plans had worn his nerves to the raw edge. He was in the slow, consuming stage of emotions that was likely to lead him to a desperate move if he were balked.

"Now look here," he blurted out; "you and me has got to get down to business, and that to once! I've kept mum long of the kid's taking-off." Joyce's eyes widened as she stared through the open window over which the rose-vine was being lashed by a new storm.

"I've bided my time, and it was more for you than for me, you can bet.

"This is the big time of our lives, and I ain't going to hold back any facts what can make things clear and reasonable. Me and your father want you, maybe for different reasons, maybe not. You ain't the common sort, and we know you can help us. If you was like most women, him and me wouldn't have no compunctions about cutting, and leaving you to ways what you seem to hanker after. But he's actually pining for a sight of you, and even knowing what I do about you, I can't give you up! That's the plain situation as far as you're concerned, and you can take it for what it's worth. Are you listening?"

"Oh! yes, yes, I'm listening, Jude." And so she was. She was listening to the moan in the tree-tops. It sounded like the last plaintive cry her child had made, and it hurt her cruelly.

"I've got more money in hand, Joyce, than what I ever had—I've got fifteen hundred dollars."

Somehow this had power to reach the listener as nothing before had done. Her aching eyes fell upon Jude, and a new fear contracted them.

"Where did you get it—the money—Jude?"

"That's my business. I'm only dealing with facts."

"Yes, but I must know. It—it isn't yours, Jude."

"Isn't it?" Jude laughed. "Well, then, we'll call it mine for argerment. That pa of yours is a slick one!" The sudden change of subject relaxed the brief interest Joyce had shown in the conversation.

"Leaving here in the sulks about you, what does he do but go down to what he calls civilization, and strikes a rich claim first thing. All that was lacking was ready money. Back he comes, and finds out the lay of the land here, without so much as showing his nose. He says he had several plans to get money—but this plan of mine is the easiest, so we're going to work it. All my life I've dreamed by day and night"—a sudden glow illumined Jude's dark face,—"of the road and where it leads. Always, as true as God hears me, Joyce, always, as boy and man, when I've fancied myself on the road, and beyond the forests, I've always seen you beside me. I don't care what you are, or what temptations beset you—you've always been the one girl for me. We're going to begin a new life now—with no back flings at each other. Give me a kiss on it, girl."

Jude came over to her, and she felt his hot, excited breath on her cheek and throat.

Dazed as she was by what he had said, she was frightened at his manner, and drew back, warding him off with rigid hands.

"Don't!" she cried, hoarsely. "Don't touch me. You're all wrong—I'm not going anywhere with you. I'm going to stay right here—I swear it!"

"You won't go?" Everything swayed and trembled before Jude. "But if I promise to—to—pay it back? You know there was no time set." This was the last concession Jude was to make. His horrible suspicions were choking him.

"I'm not going. I—I couldn't—I—couldn't leave—him." The white face quivered and the big eyes overflowed with tears.

Jude had only one thought—a thought lashed to the fore by his jealous rage, and defeated hopes. And poor Joyce, distraught and grief-crazed, realized not the terrible blunder he was making.

"You're—staying—just—for him?" Jude was close to her now, and his breath came short and hard.

"Yes; I know you won't ever understand. If I was away, I couldn't bear my life—this—this longing would be always tugging at me—and I could never help it. If we stay here, Jude, I'll go on just the—same; it's being—near—that counts!"

"You—tell me this to my face—you fool!"

For an instant Joyce's dull agony wavered, and an inkling of what Jude meant rushed upon her.

"Oh!" she gasped, and put her hands out to him. But it was too late. The hot blood was surging in the weak brain. With a violence he had never shown before, the man flung the outstretched hands from him, then he struck viciously the white terrified face twice, leaving dull, red marks to bear witness.

His rage fed upon the brutality. Now that he had let himself loose, he gave full rein to his hate and revenge.

He gripped the slim, childish arm, and pushed the shrinking form before him.

"Go—you!" With one hand he drew the door back, and hurled the girl out into the black storm. "Go to him!"

Joyce kept her feet, but she staggered on until a tree stopped her course. The contact was another hurt, but she gave small heed to it.

Like a burning flash she seemed to see two things: Jude's true understanding of her blundering words; and her possible future, after she had made him understand. For, of course, she must go back and make him understand, and then—well, after such a scene, a woman's life was never safe in St. Angé. It was like a taste of blood to a wild animal. Still she must go back. In all the world there was nothing else for her to do.

Her face stung and throbbed, her arm ached where Jude had crushed the tender flesh. She leaned against the tree that had added to her pain, and wept miserably for very self-pity. She was downed and beaten. After all she was to be like the rest of St. Angé women.

Sounds roused her. Strange, terrific sounds.

What was Jude doing?

Trembling in every limb, she went forward and peered through the rose-vine into the room.

The rain was cooling her face and the wind was clearing the agonized brain.

Inside, the scene struck terror to the watcher's heart.

Jude was crashing the furniture to pieces in a frenzy of revenge.

The chairs were dashed against the chimney; the books hurled near and far. One almost hit the white face among the vines, as it went crashing outward.

Then Jude attacked the pictures—her beautiful pictures!

The mountain peak was shattered by a blow from the remnant of the little rocker, then the ocean picture fell with the sound of splintered glass. Last the Madonna! Joyce clutched her heart as the heavenly face was obliterated by the savage blow. Then, maddened still further by his own excesses, Jude laughed and struck with mighty force, the lamp from the table—and the world was in blackness!

How long Joyce stood clinging to the vine in abject terror, she was never to know.

Consciousness of the live, vivid sort, was mercifully spared her for a space. She knew, but did not comprehend, the true horror of her situation.

No thought of explaining now to Jude occurred to her as she stood cringing and trembling against the house in the darkness. Only one thought possessed her vitally—Jude must never see her again. If he did, he would kill her. Kill her as Pierre was said to have killed poor little Lola, long, long ago.

Joyce's teeth chattered and she gripped her shaking hands over them. When her heart did beat—and minutes seemed to pass when it made no motion—it hurt her cruelly.

What was he doing in there? The storm was gaining power, and no other sound rose in the blackness. Then suddenly Jude rushed from the house. He passed so close to Joyce that his coat touched her. By some power entirely outside of ordinary hearing or seeing, Joyce knew that he was making for the Black Cat with the tale of his wrongs. They all did that. It was the finishing stroke for the woman.

Alone, in the blackness and storm, reason reasserted itself in Joyce's mind. It brought no comfort with its restored poise; rather, it brought a realization of her true position. Her life was as utterly shattered and devastated as was the little home. Everything was gone. The future, with pitiful choice, was as densely black as the night that shut her in with her dull misery. With Jude, there could be no possible understanding. To confront him, even with the powers of the Black Cat at call, would be the wildest folly. There was nothing to say—nothing.

Still, Jude had money. It was quite plain to the keen mind now—it was Gaston's money! Ralph Drew had probably sent the money in payment and instead of passing the amount on to Gaston, who had advanced the different sums, Jude was making off with it. She must stop that. For herself, what did it matter? But still, if Gaston, who had such power, could hold Jude and claim the money, he might find a way out of this awful trouble. She must go to Gaston, and at once.

Aching in every limb, and soaked to the skin, Joyce turned toward the North Woods. The howling wind was with her, and it was the only help she had. So she came at last to the lonely little shack among the pines.

Gaston had built a roaring piney fire upon the hearth of his outer room. He was luxuriating before this with a long-stemmed pipe between his lips.

The day had perplexed and touched him deeply. Never before in all his St. Angé life had he seemed to get so close to the heart, the human heart, of things. Joyce's white, still anguish over the death of her baby had tugged at his feelings.

So that was what mother-love meant the world over?

A sharp, quick knock startled him. Gaston rose at once. He knew upon the instant who it was. He knew that from some dire necessity Joyce was calling for his aid.

There was no time nor inclination for him to fall back upon that inner sense of his and seek to peer beyond the present and its need. He strode to the door, flung it open, and Joyce and the terrific storm burst into the room together!

"He—he's driven me from the house." The girl's wild face made unnecessary the idle question that Gaston spoke.

"Who?"

"Jude." Then Gaston shut and barred the heavy door. He could at least exclude the rain and wind.

"Look here! and here!" the girl pointed to her bruised face upon which the storm's moisture rested, and the slender arm with its brutal mark.

"Good God!" ejaculated Gaston, as he gazed in horror, "and on this day!"

Rage against Jude, tenderness for Jude's victim, struggled hotly in Gaston's mind; but presently a divine pity for the girl alone consumed him.

Her misery was appalling. Now that she was comparatively safe, bodily weakness overpowered her. She swayed, and put her hands out childishly for support—any support that might steady her as her world went black.

Gaston caught her and placed her gently in his deep, low chair.

"Poor girl!" he murmured, "Poor Joyce! You're as wet as a leaf. Here!" He quickly brought one of the red blankets from the inner room. "Here, let me at least wrap you in something dry. And now drink this, it will do you good."

He poured some wine into a glass and held it to her blue, cold lips.

"Come, Joyce! We'll straighten things out. Trust me."

She gulped the warming wine, and shivered in the blanket's muffling comfort.

"And now," Gaston was flinging logs on the blazing embers, "you're coming around. Whatever it is, Joyce, it isn't worth all this agony of yours."

"I'm—I'm afraid they'll come and kill us." Joyce's eyes widened and the old fear seized her again. The momentary comfort and thought of safety lost their hold.

"In God's name, Joyce, hush! You're safe and I'm not afraid. Come, don't you see if you want me to help you, you must pull yourself together?"

"Yes; yes; and we—I must hurry."

Now that he had time to think, Gaston knew pretty well what had occurred. The vulgar details did not matter. The one important and hideous fact was, that for some reason, Jude, with the crazy brutality that had long been gathering, had flung his young wife from his protection on to Gaston's.

Well, he would accept the responsibility. He was quite calm, and his blood was up. A pleasurable excitement possessed him, and he laughed to calm the fear he saw in Joyce's eyes.

The clock struck nine. All that was respectable and innocent in St. Angé was in bed at that hour.

Gaston wondered what he was going to do with the girl. The thought did not disturb him; but, of course, he must make arrangements.

Long ago he had so shut out his own world that he could not, now, call upon it for Joyce's protection. St. Angé was impossible as a working basis—his thoughts flew to Filmer. Yes; as soon as Joyce could explain, he would go for Filmer and together they would solve this riddle for the poor, battered soul, shrinking before him.

He must hurry her a little. St. Angé and nine o'clock must be considered.

The wine had brought life and colour into the white face. The glorious hair, now rapidly drying in the warm room, was curling in childish fashion above the wide eyes.

She was certainly too young and pretty to run the risk that the night might bring.

A complication arose. Divine pity made way for a sense of the girl's beauty and helplessness. The bruise upon the soft cheek cried out for tenderness and protection. Gaston strove to detach himself from the personal element. He strove to feel old and fatherly but he was still young; Fate was tempting him in the subtlest manner. The best and the worst of the man came to the fore.

The wind howled outside; the warmth and comfort held them close—together, and alone.

What did anything matter? They had both done their parts. They had tried to be what the world called good—and here they were tossed back upon each other, and not a hope beyond.

Then Gaston found himself speaking quite outside of the consciousness that was almost stifling him with its allurement.

"Joyce, I must take you home as soon as you can walk. I can straighten this out. It shall not happen again. You forget I have a certain hold over Jude."

"There is no home." The words fell dully from the girl. "He—he broke and destroyed everything before—he went to the Black Cat."

Gaston started.

"But he—did not know you came here? You see it will be in your favour, if they find you there among the ruins. I'll see to it—that they go and find you there. Can you walk now?"

"Yes, but—but you do not understand. The money—it was that I came to tell you about—Jude has a great deal of money—I think Mr. Drew has just sent it. He's going to—get away—with my—father."

Gaston now saw that no time must be wasted. If necessary he must carry Joyce, and set her down near her fallen shrine—then he must stop Jude. The money did not matter; but a frenzy of self-preservation, mingled with his desire to save Joyce, rose within him. The money was his hold on Jude; it was the only salvation for this critical moment.

Now that he faced the grim possibility, he found that he was as eager to preserve a clean future for himself as for her.

He must get her back. He must find Filmer, and he must lay hold of Jude.

"Come, Joyce, trust me, I swear to you that it will be all right."

He took her hand and led her toward the door. Then a confused noise outside stayed them.

There was a crushing of underbrush as if a light wagon was being driven over the narrow path; a mingling of voices rose excitedly.

"You damned scoundrel!" It was Filmer's voice. "Don't you utter that lie again until he's had a chance to fling it back in your teeth. Whatever your cursed row has been, he's got nothing to do with it. Shut up!"

"Hold on there, Filmer." It was Tate speaking. "This here wagon's got wedged in the trees. I want to see this thing settled square. If she's—" a bristling string of epithets followed, then Tate apparently freed the vehicle he was in, for he jumped to the ground and joined the knockers at the door.

So the morality of St. Angé was at stake! Gaston showed his teeth in a hard smile. There was but one conclusion for them all to come to, of course.

"Say, Gaston, old man!" Filmer shouted; "open up. I thought maybe you'd like to bid Jude an affectionate farewell before he skipped. If he owes you—anything, here's your chance!" Another knock shook the door.

The two inside looked at each other—man and woman! They both knew with what they had to deal. A dare-devil expression rose to Gaston's face. He tossed precaution to the winds.

Abject terror possessed Joyce and she reeled as she stood, clutching the blanket closer. Gaston put an arm about her, strode to the door, unbarred it, and flung it back.

"Well," he said to the men on the threshold, "what are you going to do about it?"

Filmer staggered as if Gaston had struck him, and the look in his eyes went scathingly to Gaston's heart. But while it hurt, it aroused resentment. What right had Filmer to judge—Who knew his past? But Gaston knew Filmer was not judging. He knew he was only bidding farewell to his one friend of the Solitudes. The friend he had trusted and revered.

The effect upon Jude was quite different. No doubt swayed him—he was merely debating in his mind whether he could now get away with the money and the wagon he had hired.

"Since you've got her—" he stammered, "how about—the—the money?"

The question nerved Gaston.

"Money?" he cried; "get out with it, you thief and would-be murderer. Use it to get as far from here as you can, for as true as there is a heaven above us, if you ever interfere with me or—mine—again, I'll shoot you at sight. Get out—all of you!"

He slammed the door violently shut, and with clenched hands and blazing eyes, he faced his companion.

He and she were the only ones in the new world. Stung by the memory of the look of lost faith in the eyes of the one friend to whom he had planned to turn in this emergency; recalling Jude's glance of triumph as he turned away, Gaston's moral sense reeled, and the elemental passions rose.

Joyce stood shrinking before him. Beaten, bruised and trapped, she awaited her doom.

Her primitive love for this man held no part in her present condition. Whatever he consigned her to, that must she accept. St. Angé standards were well known to her. The people would be quick enough to spurn personal responsibility for her, but if she were independent of them—well, they were not the ones to hold resentment!

No moral training had ever had part in this girl's life; nothing held her now but a fear, born of her past experience with man's authority, as to her future fate.

She was abandoned and disowned. Her recent loss and grief had bereft her of any personal pride and hope—like a slave before its master, she faced Gaston—and mutely waited.

The unexpected happened. Gaston laughed. Laughed in the old, unconcerned way; but presently the rising awe and question in the lovely eyes looking into his own, sobered him. He began to understand and to get her point of view. He stood straighter, and a new expression passed over his face.

"Sit down, Joyce," he said, urging her gently toward the chair, "I must mend the fire. Things look as if they had fallen to pieces, but they have not. Believe me—they have not. For heaven's sake stop trembling; every shudder you give is an insult to me. There, there, you don't understand, but, it's coming out all right. It was only when others were meddling that we got on the rocks. I've got the rudder in my hand now, and by God's help," he was fiercely flinging on the logs, "we'll sail out into the open with colours flying. When did you eat last?"

She was watching him with alert, feverish eyes. Like an ensnared animal she felt a frenzied eagerness to be ready for the snarer's next move.

"Eat?" she faltered, "why, why, I have forgotten. Yesterday—to-day—oh! does it matter? I'm not hungry."

"Well, I am. I always wanted a snatch after the play."

"The—the play?" Joyce leaned forward.

"After an infernal row, if you like that better. They both play the dickens with your digestion."

Bringing out the food, and making coffee eased the tension of the situation and after they had eaten, for Joyce struggled to follow his example, the atmosphere was less electrical.

The hands of the clock got around to ten-thirty; it was of no consequence, however, and then Gaston cleared the table, kicked a rebellious log back to its duty, and drew a chair beside Joyce.

The little bruised arm lay stretched pitifully along the arm of the chair. Gaston winced as he saw it, and he laid his strong, warm hand over the cold fingers that did not draw away.

"Joyce." His voice was almost solemn in its intensity. "I don't believe there is anything I can say that you would understand now. God knows, I pity you from the bottom of my soul and, God helping me, I'm going to help you in the best way I can. You need rest more than any other little woman in the world to-night, I reckon, go in there," he nodded toward his own chamber, "and try your best to sleep. I want to smoke and think it all out here by the fire. Remember, you are safe."

She rose stiffly and stood before him. Fear was gone from her; weakness remained; a horrible, sickening weakness, but no fear. Vaguely, gropingly, she tried to understand what lay behind his slow, solemn words, but the effort was too great. She sighed and looked down upon him as if he had suddenly become a stranger to her, then, stepping backward, with uncertain faltering movement, she gained the door of that room where no foot but Gaston's had ever before stepped.

It was mid-October when Ralph Drew, his pretty sister Constance and his devoted maiden aunt—Miss Sally Drew—arrived in St. Angé and took up their new life in the bungalow which, under Jude Lauzoon's contractorship, had been made ready.

During his first short stay in St. Angé young Drew had regained not only his lost strength, but he had gained an insight into the needs of the men and women of the small place. He had always intended doing something for the village and its inhabitants after his return to town for they had appealed strongly to his emotional and sympathetic nature. But what St. Angé had vouchsafed in the way of restored health, she had begrudgingly bestowed. To have and to hold what she had given, the recipient must, in return, vow allegiance to her, and, forsaking all others, cling to her pines and silent places. He must forswear old habits and environment—he must give up all else and fling himself upon her mercy.

It had been hard. Back there in the town, where the pulse of things beat high, he had fought the knowledge inch by inch.

"Would a year be enough?" It would be useless. "If winters were spent there—several winters?" The big specialist shook his head.

High, dry mountains, somewhere, were the only hope. St. Angé was comparatively near, she had given a hint as to what she could do—better trust her.

One after another the outposts of lingering hope were taken by the grim, white Spectre. He must abdicate, and accept what terms the enemy offered.

Wan, and defeated, but still with the high courage that was his only possession, Drew tried to get the new outlook.

If there were to be—life, then there must be work, God's work; he was no coward, he would do his part.

Mingled with the many, dear, familiar things of the life that no longer was to be his, was a slim, pretty, little girl whom he had enshrined in his college days, and before whom he had laid his heart's sacredest offerings since. She, and his splendid courage would make even St. Angé a Paradise.

Raising his eyes to her face, as she sat beside his bed the day the specialist had given his final command, Drew whispered his hope to her.

The soft, saintly eyes fell before the trusting, pitiful ones.

"Dear," he said, a new doubt faced him—one he had never believed possible; "they say I will be well—quite well, there if I stay. And you and I—" but that drooping face drove him back among the shadows.

"We—must—think of others." It was the voice of a self-sacrificing saint, but the heart-touch was lacking, and Drew received his sentence then and there.

For a few, weak days he decided to remain and finish it all and forever.

Then his manly faith bade him sternly to gather the poor remnant of his strength together; grasp the broken blade that was his only weapon, and finish the fight how and where he could.

"We'll go with you, laddie," Aunt Sally whispered, hanging over this boy whom she loved as her own.

"And, dear," Constance sobbed on his pillow, "she wasn't worth your love. I just knew it from the start. She's a selfish—egotistical—" a thin, feverish hand stayed the girlish outburst.

"Never mind, Connie, we'll fly to the woods, and try to forget all about it." And taking advantage of the golden October calm, they came to St. Angé.

Lying upon his bed in the bungalow chamber, looking out over the hills and meadows, gorgeous in autumn tints, Drew began slowly, interruptedly to be sure, but perceptibly, to gain strength.

Having relinquished finally the old ideal of life, it was wonderful, even to Drew himself, to find how much seemed unimportant and trivial. It was rather shocking, in a mild way, for him to realize that a certain girl's face was growing less and less vivid. At first he attributed this to bodily weakness; then to weakness of character; finally, thank God! to common sense. With that conclusion reached, the present began feebly to be vital and full of meaning.

Had perfect health been his, a call to serve the cause to which he had dedicated himself might have taken him farther than St. Angé from his old life. It was the finality of the decree that had put him in that panic. Well, he would not permit finality to hold part in his plans. He would live as if all things might come to him, as to other men. It should be, day by day, and he would accept these people—if they would accept him—not as minister and parishioners, but in the larger, deeper sense—as brothers. With this outlook determined upon, a change for the better began. Before it, while the old weakness possessed him, Jock Filmer, sitting daily by his bed, was merely some one who was helping nurse the fever-racked body; afterward, Jock materialized into the most important and satisfying personality to be imagined. He was untiring in his devotion and gentleness. Caught on the rebound from the shock Gaston had caused him, Filmer went over to the new call to his friendship with an abandon that proved his own sore need of sympathy.

The family, grateful for the signs of returning health in the sick man, thankful for Jock's assistance and enlivening humour, disregarded conventions, and admitted the new friend to the holy of holies in their bungalow life.

Jock had not been so supremely happy in years. The companionship healed the wound Gaston had given his faith, and he found himself shielding and defending both Gaston and Joyce against his own crude judgments.

Before coming to St. Angé, Drew had been kept in touch with all that the men who were working for him considered his legitimate business. Anything pertaining to his house was fully explained; village scandal, however, had been ignored, and when Drew was able to be moved in a steamer-chair to his broad porch facing the west, he had many astounding things to learn.

One morning, lying luxuriously back among his cushions and inhaling the pine-filled air with relish, Drew electrified Filmer, who sat near him on the porch railing, by observing calmly:

"Filmer, I've a load of questions I want to ask."

"Heave 'em out." Jock sighed resignedly. Of course, he had anticipated this hour, and he knew that he must be the high priest. "Heave 'em out, and then settle down 'mong facts."

"Where is Jude Lauzoon?" This was hitting the bull's eye with a vengeance.

"Gone off for change of air and scene—somewhere." Jock presented a stolid, blank face to his inquisitor.

"Gone where?"

"Now how in—how do you expect I know? Just gone."

"Taken that pretty little wife of his to new scenes, eh? Well, she never seemed to me to belong here rightfully. I hope they'll do well."

Jock hitched uncomfortably.

"Well," he broke in, feeling it was inevitable, "Joyce didn't, as you might say, go with Jude. She's stopping on here."

"With the baby? There was a baby, I recall. My sister talked of it a good deal. She was interested in Joyce Lauzoon from what I told her."

"Well," Filmer felt his way, "there was, as you say, a—a baby, at least a kind of—a—baby. It was about as near a failure as I ever saw; but Joyce was plain crazy about it."

"Was? Is—the child dead?" Drew's big eyes were full of sympathy.

"Well, I should say so! And women is queer creatures, Drew. Now any one with an open mind would have been blamed glad when that poor little cuss cut loose. It never would have had a show in life; it was a big mistake from the beginning, but after it went, and was comfortably planted behind the shack, what do you think? Why, she came back one night and dug him up and put him—" In his endeavour to keep Drew from more unsafe topics, Filmer had plunged straight into an abyss.

"Put him where?" Drew felt the gripping of life. It hurt, but it stimulated him. He was suffering with his people—his people! Joyce's lovely face, as he remembered it, pleaded with him for sympathy. It was her face that had first given him assurance. She should not call in vain.

"Oh! back of where she is stopping now. They've made the spot quite a little garden plot, and—"

"Filmer, see here, tell me all about it!"

"Well, by thunder, then, here is the yarn. You see in the first place, you didn't marry Jude and Joyce as tight as an older and more experienced hand would have done. I ain't blaming you, but I've used the thought to help me to be more Christian in my views about what happened. The knot you tied was a slipknot all right."

A shadow passed over the sick man's face.

"You mean—" he began.

"I certainly do. There was a hell of a—excuse me—there was a rumpus of some sort the night the kid was buried. It ended up with a general smash-a-reen of furniture, pictures and such—and I guess Joyce came in for a share of bruises, from what has leaked out since. But the outcome was, she walked up to Gaston's shack that same evening, and what happened there hasn't got into the society news yet; but when Jude and me and Tate went up to straighten out what I thought was a drunken lie of Lauzoon's, there she was all right, wrapped up in Gaston's red blanket, his arm around her, and him asking what we was going to do about it?"

"What have you—done?" the even words came slowly.

"Nothing. Jude evaporated. I got a bit of a jog about Gaston; I ain't over virtuous, but Gaston was a sort of pattern to me, and I'd got him into my system while we was working on your house. He made me—believe in something clean and big—and I didn't enjoy seeing him spattered with mud of his own kicking up. But Lord! It ain't any of my business."

"And the others here? Do they make her and him—feel it?"

Filmer laughed.

"You forget," he replied; "Gaston's got about all the floating capital there is around here. Where he gets it, is his own affair, and him and Joyce don't ask no favours. The whole thing has settled into shape. You needn't get excited over it. Of course, the women folks have warned your aunt and sister off. I believe they call Joyce the worst woman in the place—when they're whispering—but they don't take any chances of giving offence by speaking out loud."

"Poor little girl!" Drew's eyes were misty. He shivered slightly and pulled his fur coat closer about his chin. "How does she look, Filmer?"

"As handsome as—well, a queen would give her back teeth to look like Joyce. I never seen the like. Head up, back as straight as a pine sapling, eyes shining and hair like—like mist with sunlight in it. Gaston has taught her to speak like he does. You know he always kept his language up-to-date and stylish? Well, she's caught the trick now. You'd think she'd travelled the way she hugs her g's and d's. She trips over the grammar rules occasionally—but I always said they had to be born in your blood to make you sure, and even then—you have to exercise them daily."

"Poor little Joyce! I always felt she was only half awake, as she stood that day before me. If I had it to do now—I would wake her up, before I made the tie fast."

"Lord help us!" Jock felt the relief of an unburdened mind; "is it in your religion to tie anything fast?"

"Yes; yes." Drew was looking over the sunlighted hills and thinking of that lovely, dreaming face of a year ago.

"And now," Filmer was drawling on, "while you and me are on this sort of house-cleaning spell, let me drop another item of interest into your think-tank. We-all up here ain't going to stand for any preaching business. I say this outspoken and friendly, meaning no ill feeling; just plain, what's what. You see them ideas of yours what you handed out last year set folks thinking. They sounded so blasted innercent and easy that we all chewed on 'em for a time, and some of us got stung. Now them as is native here can't think without suffering; and them as came here, came to get rid of thinking, and so you see none of us want to be riled along that line. See?"

"I see." Drew smiled, and stretched his thin white hand out to Filmer. "Thanks. But if they'll let me live—that's all I want. It's my only way of preaching, anyhow—and Filmer, I am going to live. I feel the blood running to my heart and brain. I feel it bringing back hope and interest—a man can make a place for himself anywhere if there are men and women about. I thought first—back there—when I dropped everything, that there never could be anything else worth while, but I tell you old man, if you take even a remnant of life and love to Death's portal you're always mighty glad to get the chance to come back and see the game out. It's when you go empty-handed, that you long to slip in and have done with it. Filmer, there's something yet left for me to do."

Jock was holding the boyish hand in a grim grip. He tried to speak, but could not. He stared silently at the muffled figure in the long chair, then with an impatient grunt, dropped his hold and actually fled in order to hide the feelings that surged in his heart.

Left alone, Drew sank wearily back and closed his eyes. The lately-acquired strength proved often a deserter when it was tested, and for the moment the sick man felt all the depression and inertia of the past. He felt, and that was his only gain. Before, he had been too indifferent to feel or care.

"Poor, little, pretty thing!" he thought, with Joyce's face before him against the closed eyelids. "She couldn't stand it. She didn't look as if she could. I'm sorry she had to find her way out by such a commonplace path. What was Gaston thinking of to let her? He knew—he should have kept his hands off and not blasted what little hope might have been hers."

Half dreamily he recalled what Filmer had just told him. His weakened body held no firm clutch on his imagination at that time of his life—it ran riot, often giving him abnormal pleasure by its vivid touches; occasionally causing him excruciating pain as he suffered, in an exaggerated way, with suffering.

He saw Joyce, bruised and shuddering as a result of Jude's cruelty; he saw her poor little idols dashed to pieces before her eyes; he felt her grief for the dead baby, and when he remembered Jock's account of her taking the small casket to the only spot where she herself was safe, the weak tears rolled down his cold, thin face. He was too exhausted and full of pain to wipe them away.

He heard his aunt and sister come out of the house.

"Asleep!" whispered the older woman in a glad tone.

"I'll go for a walk," Constance added, tip-toeing away. "Have the milk and egg ready when he wakes, auntie. Did you ever see such a day? I feel as if I had just been made, and placed in a world that hadn't been used up by millions of people."

They were gone, and Drew sighed relievedly.

Presently he opened his eyes, if he had slept he was not conscious of it, and there sat the girl of his dreams near him.

"Mrs.—" he faltered, "Mrs. Lauzoon, how good of you to come and see me. I hope you know I would have come to you as soon as I was able?"

Joyce had been studying his face—nothing had escaped her: its wanness, the sharp outline, and the tears congealed in the hollows of his cheeks. She pulled her chair nearer, and took his extended hand.

"I'm sorry you've been sick," she said simply.

Then they smiled at each other.