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Title: The Girl at Bullet Lake
Date of first publication: 1933
Author: H. A. Cody (1872-1948)
Date first posted: August 27 2012
Date last updated: August 27 2012
Faded Page eBook #20120833

This eBook was produced by: David T. Jones, Mary Meehan, Al Haines
& the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




                      THE GIRL AT BULLET LAKE

                          By H. A. CODY

_Author of "The Frontiersman," "The Long Patrol," "The King's Arrow,"
"Glen of the High North," "The River Fury," "The Red Ranger," etc._

        McCLELLAND & STEWART, LIMITED
        PUBLISHERS    TORONTO

        COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1933
        BY
        McCLELLAND & STEWART, LIMITED

        PRINTED IN CANADA
        T. H. BEST PRINTING CO. LIMITED TORONTO





CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                           PAGE

        I. ORDERED AWAY                                1

       II. MORE THAN HE EXPECTED                      10

      III. AT GLENGROW                                21

       IV. THE VISITOR                                28

        V. BULLET HOUSE                               36

       VI. CAUGHT OFF GUARD                           45

      VII. STARTLING NEWS                             55

     VIII. ANXIETY                                    64

       IX. AN ACCIDENT                                72

        X. SUSPICION                                  84

       XI. A WOODLAND MUSICIAN                        93

      XII. WHAT THE STORM BROUGHT                    101

     XIII. REFUGE                                    109

      XIV. MORE VISITORS                             118

       XV. AN OLD SCRAP BOOK                         126

      XVI. SCHEMERS                                  135

     XVII. THE BARGAIN                               142

    XVIII. A CHILD THE VICTIM                        151

      XIX. UNREST                                    159

       XX. THE PICTURE                               169

      XXI. A STREET SCENE                            178

     XXII. THE MYSTERIOUS BOX                        188

    XXIII. GIFTS FOR A CHILD                         196

     XXIV. THE DISCOVERY                             205

      XXV. MENTAL GHOSTS                             216

     XXVI. A GUEST FOR DINNER                        225

    XXVII. A SURE CURE                               236

   XXVIII. A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE                245

     XXIX. MORE THAN SHE EXPECTED                    254

      XXX. HONOR                                     265

     XXXI. THE STORM                                 277

    XXXII. THE LONG LAST VOYAGE                      286

   XXXIII. AND SO IT CAME TO PASS                    295




CHAPTER I

ORDERED AWAY


"You must get away at once. You need a rest."

"Is it as bad as that, doctor?"

"It is. I shall give you a tonic to brace you up. But the best remedy is
fresh air, in the woods, or somewhere else."

As Doctor Bradbury turned to his desk, Robert Rutledge sat staring
straight before him. He did not feel sick, only played out, worn and
fagged. He had lost his appetite. He had little or no ambition, and his
work was becoming a burden. He had to drag himself to the office every
morning, and always left it at the end of the day weary in mind and
body. He had never experienced anything like it before, as his health
had been of the best. His old friend Doctor Bradbury, in whom he had
much confidence, would give him something to build him up, and in a
short time he would be as well as ever. But this order to get away to
the woods was something he had not expected. It seemed too simple.
Perhaps the doctor did not understand him. He was not sick, just a
little run down, and his nerves somewhat unsteady. A tonic would make
him all right again. It was sheer nonsense about fresh air and the
woods.

Presently his eyes rested upon some bottles neatly arranged along a
shelf in an adjoining room. What did they contain? he wondered.
Different kinds of medicine, no doubt. The doctor must know the use of
each. He also noticed several surgical instruments. And those strange
things which looked like tanks. What were they for? The doctor must know
a lot about them. Clever fellow. What a vast amount of knowledge he must
have stored away in his head. And did he know a great deal about the
human body? Most likely.

"Take this three times a day, before meals." The doctor had risen from
his desk and was standing before him. "Stay away for two months, at
least, and then report to me when you come back."

"But where am I to go, doctor?"

"To the woods, the fresh fields, or anywhere else, so long as you live
out of doors all day."

"Do you know any good place?"

"I do. Bullet Lake will suit you fine. And there is a snug house on the
shore, known as 'Bullet House'. It is not a very poetical name, I admit,
but that will make no difference. Si Acres will charge you something,
but it will be more than worth it. There is excellent fishing there,
too."

"Where is this wonderful paradise, doctor?"

"It's not far away, only a few miles back from the river at Glengrow.
You surely must know the place."

"I know Glengrow, for my sister lives there. But I never heard her
mention Bullet Lake."

"That's not surprising. Women, as a rule, do not take much interest in
the woods and fishing. But go there. Old Acres is a queer fellow, and it
will be worth something to see him. He's a wealthy old miser who would
sell his soul for a dollar. He's a cranky cuss, too, and his neighbors
are greatly afraid of him."

Robert Rutledge smiled.

"So you wish me to become the tenant of such a man? What rest shall I
have with that man prowling around?"

"Oh, he'll not trouble you, providing you pay in advance. Money will
keep him quiet."

"But the name of the place has an ominous sound, doctor. Bullet Lake and
Bullet House! Why are they called that?"

"I do not know for sure. There is a story about a shooting racket there
many years ago, so I guess the name must have come from that. I am not
interested in such things. But you are, so you may find something of
value."

"So you give me permission to carry on my writing, doctor?"

"Yes, in moderation. You have been doing double work here, so that is
why I want you to get away. You grind in the office all day, and write
at night. That's caused the trouble. No man can stand such a strain for
any length of time. But, there, I must attend to my other patients. Do
as I say, and good luck. If you are not a new man when you come back, I
will not charge you a cent for my services."

Robert Rutledge walked slowly away from the office in deep thought. He
knew that the doctor was right, so decided to follow his advice. The
idea of living in a little house in the woods by the side of a beautiful
lake was alluring. In his mind he pictured the scene, the birds, and the
shimmering water. Perhaps there was a verandah to the house. If so, how
pleasant it would be to lie in a hammock, read, write, and dream to his
heart's content. There would be nothing to disturb him, no dull office
grind, and no clamor of the busy insistent world. He would attend to a
few matters of importance and then get away as soon as possible. In
fact, he felt better already, and hungry. He suddenly remembered that he
had eaten nothing since morning, and now it was almost two hours past
noon. The White Lily Cafe was near, a familiar resort of his. It would
be quiet there at this time of the day, and there he could think over
his plans for the future.

Reaching the cafe, he sat down at a small table near a window
overlooking a large square, beautiful now with flowers. He had often sat
here watching the people strolling to and fro or sitting upon the
benches along the walks. Now, however, his mind was upon other things,
and he did not even glance out of the window. All he could see was a
little house nestling by the side of a woodland lake. And Nell and the
children would be only a few miles away, so he could visit them whenever
he became too lonely. And they might come to see him. How pleasant it
would be to watch John and Betty playing among the trees and along the
shore. He would make little boats for them, and ramble with them and
Nell through the woods.

So lost did he become in this bright fancy-scene that he hardly noticed
when the waitress arrived with the frugal order he had given her. A new
vision had come to his mind. It was another Nell, and other children he
saw. They were only a dream wife and dream children, but the thought of
them quickened his heart and brought a slight tinge to his overpale
face.

Presently he became aware of someone sitting in front of him, just
three tables away. Had she been there when he came in? he wondered. Why
had he not noticed her before? Forgotten was the woodland cabin and the
little lake as he watched her. Her left arm rested upon the table, and
her slender, well-shaped fingers pressed lightly her cheek as she gazed
dreamily out of the window on her right. Swiftly and with admiring eyes
he noted her strong beautiful face, the graceful poise of her head
crowned with a wealth of jet-black hair, and the quiet neatness of her
dress. Involuntarily he gave a sigh of relief. In outward appearance she
measured up to his ideal standard of perfect womanhood. That she was not
more than nineteen or twenty years of age he felt certain. He longed to
see her full face, but she did not look once in his direction until the
waitress arrived to serve her. She then lowered her hand and looked
straight at him for one fleeting second. If she knew that he had been
observing her she showed no sign as she began eating. Robert knew that
it was rude and ungentlemanly to stare at her. But he could not help it,
so fascinated was he by her charming beauty. Every movement she made was
full of grace and dignity. Who was she, anyway? Was she engaged? He
looked at her hands, but saw no ring. Her fingers were devoid of any
adornment save that which had been bestowed upon her by nature in her
happiest mood. She was free! The thought brought a glad throb to his
heart. He must learn something about her, her name, and where she lived.
But how? He could not very well follow her. Perhaps the waitress might
be able to tell him.

He was aroused by the sound of voices on his right. Two women had come
in, and were seated at a table a short distance away. Their presence and
their words irritated him. They were like discordant notes in a
beautiful symphony. He recognized them at once. One was Mrs. Sylvester
Casham, wife of a local promoter, a man well-known for his connection
with a number of shady business transactions. He had made considerable
money, and his wife was very prominent in the leading social set of
Pretensia. She rode high on her husband's money, and professed a great
interest in art and literature, although she knew little about either,
and could not speak a dozen words of the English language correctly. She
was exceedingly plain, haughty and overbearing to those she considered
her inferiors. She talked much about her illustrious ancestors, although
it was an open secret that the only noted member of her family had been
her grandfather, who had ruined many people when he cleared out of the
country, taking with him money that had been entrusted to him for
investment. But that was years ago, in another city, so Mrs. Casham was
unaware that the affair was known in Pretensia.

Mrs. Augustus Rockbridge was a different type of a woman. She was of
commanding appearance, and agreeable to those who did her bidding. She
was strong-minded and could not tolerate any inferior position. She had
to be the leader in any club to which she belonged, as well as the
social circle of the city. Her husband was editor and chief owner of the
_Daily Echo_, the one newspaper in Pretensia. It was well known that he
was ruled by his wife, and many even suggested that she wrote some of
the editorials and directed the policy of the paper. She was kind and
condescending to her friends, but merciless to her enemies, as a number
had learned to their bitter cost. Mrs. Sylvester Casham was her bosom
friend, for in her she found a woman she could dominate and bend easily
to her imperious will.

It was quite easy for Robert Rutledge to hear nearly every word these
two women uttered. They did not lower their voices, and paid no heed to
those around them. He knew that something out of the ordinary was
disturbing Mrs. Rockbridge, and he was not long in finding out. It was
the question of the new rector for St. Alban's, of which church she was
a prominent member. Robert was well aware what a burning issue it was to
the entire congregation. The rectors of St. Alban's in the past had all
been men of marked ability, fluent speakers, and of high social
standing. This standard had to be maintained, so a thorough search had
been made far and wide for a suitable man. A number of men had come and
preached their best sermons, but the one who had made the most favorable
impression was a young man from a country parish, the Reverend Andrew
Nairn. By his noble appearance, his well-trained voice, and excellent
sermons he had won the hearts of all except Mrs. Rockbridge. The reason
for her dislike was quite apparent. She had a nephew in the ministry, so
she desired that he should be chosen. His chance had been good until the
appearance of Mr. Nairn. Mrs. Rockbridge at once realised that her hope
of having her nephew chosen was doomed. This was hard for her to endure,
as it was her great ambition to see a member of her family rector of
such an important church as St. Alban's.

"I cannot understand all this excitement over Mr. Nairn," she
indignantly declared. "To my mind his sermons were quite ordinary, and
his voice was not at all pleasant."

"I agree with you," Mrs. Casham replied. "Your nephew is a far better
speaker, and a true gentleman, besides. We know nothing about Mr. Nairn.
His parents may be very commonplace, lacking in culture, and uncouth in
speech and manner. Suppose such people should visit their son if he
became our rector, how could we call upon them? We should be greatly
embarrassed and mortified."

"But Mr. Nairn is almost like the Angel Gabriel to the people of St.
Alban's, remember. They were so much impressed with him that I am afraid
they will not change their opinion."

"But what about his wife, my dear? We know nothing about her. And we
should know a great deal before Mr. Nairn becomes our rector."

"Has this Angel Gabriel a wife?" This was a new idea to Mrs. Rockbridge,
and she seized upon it greedily.

"I believe he has. But she may be of little account, and what a calamity
that would be to our church."

"It would be terrible, my dear. We must certainly find out something
about her. If we are to have an Angel Gabriel as rector, we want his
wife to be an angel, too."

"But how can we find out? Who knows anything about her here?"

Mrs. Rockbridge sat for a while in deep silence, and her food remained
untouched before her.

"I am going to find out myself," she at length declared.

"You!"

"Yes. I am going to Glengrow. I have been planning to spend a few weeks
at the new summer hotel there, anyway. Augustus wanted me to go with him
on a trip abroad, but I prefer a quiet place near home. I shall take my
new car which I am learning to drive."

"Won't you be nervous about driving alone? You should take your
chauffeur with you, for a while, at least."

"I am never nervous. I have discharged my chauffeur, and intend to do my
own driving after this. Women are just as capable as men, and in many
ways more so."

Robert Rutledge had heard enough. As he thought of Nell and what she was
like, his heart became hot with anger. The idea of such a heartless
woman as Mrs. Rockbridge spying upon his sister was hard to endure. He
glanced at the girl before him, and he was certain that he saw a faint
semblance of amusement upon her face. How beautiful she was. And what a
difference there was between her and those two schemers nearby! She
reminded him somewhat of Nell. "Angel Gabriel's Wife!" The words kept
ringing through his mind. Then his anger subsided, and he felt like
laughing outright. How his sister would enjoy the joke. But should he
tell her? Would it not be better for him to wait and see what would
happen? If Nell knew, she would be on her guard, and that would spoil
the fun he saw ahead. Yes, Nell must be just her own natural self for
Mrs. Augustus Rockbridge's spying eyes.




CHAPTER II

MORE THAN HE EXPECTED


With his stout blackthorn stick beating the ground Silas Acres strode
along the road. It was a bright warm morning with only a faint breath of
wind astir. Birds darted here and there, and butterflies zig-zagged in
front of him. The air was richly laden with the scent from fields of
clover and nearby gardens. There was much to charm the senses along this
country road which skirted the shore of the noble river in the Parish of
Glengrow. But Silas Acres seemed oblivious to such attractions as he
pressed steadily forward. He was a large towering man, unbent by the
fourscore years that had passed over his head. His clothes were rough,
his boots coarse and heavy, and his slouch hat worn and faded. His face
was bearded, and beneath his craggy brow challenging eyes looked out
over the crest of a strong prominent nose. He resembled a patriarch who
had suddenly stepped out of the past, and was not at all pleased with
his surroundings. He walked with a haughty dignity with his eyes
straight before him, unheeding the curious glances that were cast upon
him from houses and fields along the way. He knew that he was being
watched, and that his appearance upon the road this morning would be
discussed by his neighbors for several days. This thought gave him
considerable satisfaction, and caused him to thump the ground harder
than ever. He liked to arouse people's curiosity. He had been doing it
for years, and he wished to do so as long as he lived.

Peter Pendle saw him, and stayed his hand in the act of raising the
brush to the window-frame he was painting. An expression of concern came
into his faded gray eyes as he laid down his brush and stepped to the
kitchen door.

"Come quick, Sarah," he called. "Si Acres is on the road this mornin'.
What d'ye s'pose he's after?"

"Trouble, no doubt," his wife replied, as she left her washing and came
to the door. "He never leaves home for anything else."

"I guess yer right, Sarah. But who's to be the victim this time, I
wonder. We were the last ones when our cows broke into his meadow.
Hello! he's turnin' into the rectory. Now, what in time is he after
there!"

"Religion, maybe. He was at church last night, remember. Perhaps he has
repented and is going to the parson for advice."

"H'm, when Si Acres repents then there'll be hope for the devil. It's
trouble the old cuss is after an' not religion. I've a good mind to go
over an' help the Nairns in case Si becomes too fractious. An', besides,
I'm curious to know what he's after."

The bang that Mr. Acres gave with his stick upon the front door of the
rectory did not sound like that of a humble and repentant man. It was
the blow of one impatient to be admitted, and who would brook no delay.
He had not long to wait, for the door was soon opened by Hettie Rushton,
the maid, who shrank back when she beheld the towering form standing
before her.

"Is your master in?" the visitor demanded.

"Yes, sir, but he's at breakfast and can't be disturbed."

"Breakfast! Breakfast! You mean dinner, girl."

"Indeed I don't," Hettie retorted, stamping her foot. Her fear had
vanished and she was ready for fight. "We have meals here at genteel
hours, let me tell you that."

Mr. Acres glared at the girl, and was about to speak again when the
dining room door opened and Mrs. Nairn appeared. If surprised at
Hettie's flushed and angry face, and the presence of the visitor, she
showed no outward sign as she stepped forward and held out her hand.

"Come right in, Mr. Acres," she invited. "We are at breakfast, so you
are just in time for a cup of coffee with us."

Astonished and somewhat subdued by this gracious greeting, Mr. Acres
followed Mrs. Nairn into the room. Hettie, still bristling with fight,
made a face at him, and then returned to the kitchen. She was very
curious, however, to know what he wanted, so she kept her ears keenly
alert as she hovered near the partly-opened door leading into the dining
room.

The sight that met Mr. Acres' eyes caused him to hesitate a little,
while a peculiar sensation came into his rebellious heart. He paused
just inside the door and stared around the room. To him it was an
unusual scene of peace and cosiness, a striking contrast to the stern
and bare dining room of his own house. Through the open window on his
right the fresh flower-scented air was drifting softly into the room.
Above, a canary was enjoying its morning bath, and rejoicing in the sun
which fell full upon its cage. The visitor noted all this at a glance.
Then his eyes rested upon the breakfast table with its snowy linen, and
thought of his own table with its cheap red covering. He saw especially
the two little ones seated there looking at him with big wondering eyes.
A feeling of resentment came into his heart. This was a new world to
him, and he felt like an intruder into a holy place. He was out of
harmony with his surroundings. Why should these people have such peace
and comfort while he himself was restless and unhappy? And they could
have breakfast long after their neighbors had begun their day's work.
What a life of ease they must lead.

This feeling of resentment was not lessened when Mr. Nairn rose from the
table, came forward and held out his hand.

"This is the second unusual pleasure you have given me in a short time,
Mr. Acres," he accosted. "The other was last night when you were at
church."

Had Andrew Nairn known his visitor better he would have said nothing
about his attendance at church. He realised his mistake, however, as
soon as he had uttered the words. Mr. Acres straightened quickly up, his
right hand gripped hard upon his stick, and into his narrowed eyes came
a fighting gleam. He was very calm, and when he spoke his voice was cold
and cynical.

"Yes, I was at church last night, Mr. Nairn, fool that I was. And that
is why I am here. You spoke about the heathen, and the importance of
sending missionaries to save their souls. But what about the heathen at
home? And they are right here in this parish, too. People call me a
heathen, and perhaps they are right. But no one would give money to
convert me. I am scorned by all, and looked upon as a heathen because I
seldom go to church. I went last night for the first time in years, and
people stared at me, grinned and nudged one another. Oh, I saw what they
did. And I put a fifty-cent piece upon the plate when it was passed
around. I made a mistake in giving that money, so want it back. A
heathen should not give, but receive."

Mr. and Mrs. Nairn could hardly believe that they had heard aright. The
former's face flushed with anger, and he was about to make an impetuous
reply when a warning glance from his wife checked him. With an effort he
controlled himself and looked his visitor full in the eyes.

"Do you mean what you say, sir? Or are you only joking?"

"Joking! Do I look like a man who makes jokes? Oh, no. I am in dead
earnest and want my money back. I am a heathen to your way of thinking,
and wish to remain so."

"Very well, then, here is your money," the clergyman replied, handing
him a fifty-cent piece he had brought from his pocket. "It is not the
same one you gave last night, but I suppose that does not matter."

"Not at all, not at all," Mr. Acres growled as he took the coin. "One
piece is as good as another."

A feeling of deep disgust for this man swept upon Andrew Nairn. Should
he allow him to leave the house unrebuked? Was it not his duty as a
minister to call him sharply to account?

As he thus reasoned with himself, little Betty stepped forward and stood
before the visitor. There was a shyness in her manner, and the eyes
which looked up at the face of the man towering above her contained an
expression of wonder and awe.

"Are you a heathen?" she simply asked. "I never saw one before."

Mr. Acres looked quickly down at the child, and his brow knitted in
perplexity. He did not know what to reply to this dainty maid. He could
talk and argue with a man, but what could he say to this child? He had
not talked to children for years, as they had always fled from him in
fear. But he had to say something now, for Betty was expectantly waiting
for him to speak.

"Do you think I am a heathen?" he at length asked.

"I hope you are, for I always wanted to see one, oh, so much."

A queer gurgle sounded in Mr. Acres' throat as he struggled with a
peculiar sensation that had come upon him.

"Yes, I suppose I am a heathen," he confessed with a somewhat unsteady
voice. "Are you satisfied now, my child?"

"Oh, I am so glad," Betty eagerly cried, "for I can give you this," and
she held up a bright twenty-five cent piece. "This is for the heathen. I
was going to put it in my Mission box, but I want you to take it now."

"I can't take it, child. Put it in your box. I must go."

"No, no, you must take it," Betty urged. "Please do."

A deep silence now ensued. As Mr. and Mrs. Nairn anxiously watched, they
saw their visitor undergoing a hard struggle. They were wise enough not
to interfere in this little drama. Which would win they could not tell.
It was a battle of gentle, trustful simplicity against an overbearing,
cantankerous nature. Presently, however, Mr. Acres moved his right hand,
his fingers opened as if compelled by some unseen power, and taking the
coin he dropped it into a pocket of his coat. The tension was relieved,
and Mr. and Mrs. Nairn breathed more freely. Betty had won, and she
clapped her hands with delight.

"My money will make you a good man," she cried. "I will give you some
more when you come again."

For a few seconds Mr. Acres stared at the child, and then stepped back.
He was about to leave the room when Mrs. Nairn stopped him.

"Let me make you a cup of coffee," she urged.

"I don't want any," was the curt reply. Mr. Acres was recovering
himself, and the old defiant expression had returned to his eyes. "I
must get home."

He tried to meet the clear friendly eyes of the woman standing before
him. She was very attractive in face and form, and her manner was so
charming that he felt uncomfortable. If she had been cold and haughty,
or had spoken disdainful words it would have been a great relief. But
her friendliness unnerved him and made him feel contemptible. He
determined to leave the room and never enter the place again. His visit
was altogether different from what he had anticipated. He had expected
an excited scene when he demanded the money. That would have given him
much satisfaction, and he would have gloated over it for days. But
this----.

He lifted his head and looked around the room. Why, he did not know,
except that he wished to evade those eyes which were gazing so steadily
upon him. As he did so, he gave a sudden start, and an expression of
surprise overspread his face. Swiftly he strode across the room until he
stood before a picture upon the wall of a full-rigged clipper ship.
Eagerly he drank in the details, entranced by her marvellous beauty.

"Ah, Dana alone could describe her," he muttered. "'Sharp upon the wind,
cutting through the head seas like a knife, with her raking masts and
her sharp bows running up like the head of a greyhound.' Yes, yes, Dana
knew, all right."

He turned impetuously to the curious and interested watchers near the
table.

"Where did that picture come from?"

"It was my grandfather's," Mrs. Nairn explained. "It was his ship."

"What! Captain John Rutledge? Was he your grandfather?"

"He was, and that ship, the _Ida Rutledge_, was named after my
grandmother."

Mr. Acres swung around, stepped forward, and with piercing eyes, studied
keenly the fair face upturned to his. His lips moved as if he wished to
speak, to ask a question. But no word came. Instead, he cast another
glance at the picture, strode across the room, passed out into the
hallway, and left the house, closing the front door after him with a
bang.

Hurrying to the window, Mr. and Mrs. Nairn watched him as he walked
rapidly to the main road. Along this he moved for a short distance when
he suddenly stopped. He fumbled in his pocket, and bringing forth
something, he threw it upon the ground and stamped it furiously into the
dust at his feet.

"Oh, it must be Betty's money he has thrown away!" Mrs. Nairn exclaimed.
"He seems to be very angry. What a strange man."

"He is a savage heathen, all right," the clergyman replied. "He acts
like one, anyway."

"Did he throw my money away?" Betty anxiously asked as she came close to
the window and looked out.

"He did, dear," her mother replied. "But, never mind, we shall get it
when he has gone."

"No, we shall leave it there," Mr. Nairn firmly declared. "He has
tainted it with his touch. I wouldn't lay hand upon it, for it is an
unholy thing now."

Mrs. Nairn looked quizzically at her husband.

"You should refuse much of the money that is given to the church, then,
Andrew. It, too, is tainted."

"Nell! I am surprised to hear you say that."

"But it is true, nevertheless, and you ought to know it. Didn't Sam
Crofter boast how he patched up a spavined horse and sold it as
thoroughly sound? And didn't Ben Skipson tell how he always put big
apples on the top of the barrel and poor little ones at the bottom? I
have heard, too, about the tricks of others, and they are all givers to
the church."

The distressed look that came into Andrew Nairn's eyes caused his wife
to smile. She caught him affectionately by the arm.

"There, there, dear, don't worry about what I have said. We can't help
what people do. I only wanted to remind you that Mr. Acres is not the
only heathen in this parish. And to tell you the truth, I like him."

"Like him! Like that man! You surely are not in earnest."

"Yes, I am very much in earnest. I like him because he is real. He did
not want to give that money and he had the courage to come and say so.
Most of the people who give money to the church would like to get it
back. But they are too cowardly."

"Nell! Nell! I am astonished at you. What has come over you?"

"I suppose you are astonished, and annoyed, too, Andrew," and Mrs. Nairn
gave a deep sigh. "But what I have said is true. Most of the people here
are hypocrites. They don't want to give, and only do it for appearance.
They are afraid of what their neighbors might say. But Mr. Acres has the
courage of his convictions, and that is what I like about him. I wonder,
though, why he took such an interest in that picture. Did you notice how
he looked at me when I told him that the ship was named after my
grandmother?"

Andrew Nairn laughed, and placed his arm lovingly about his wife.

"He considered you a curiosity, no doubt, my dear. It is something,
remember, to be the granddaughter of such a man as John Rutledge, the
once famous captain and shipbuilder. Not likely he ever saw such a
notable person as you before."

"You may be right, Andrew, although I have the feeling that there is
some other reason for his strange behaviour."

"Perhaps he saw something of the rebel in you, Nell. You know what I
mean."

"I do, and I am not ashamed of my rebel spirit, if you persist in
calling it that. I do get impatient at times with the smug,
conventional, and self-satisfied way of living, and long to break away
and be natural. I am tired of the swaddling-bands of society. I was
never cut out for a clergyman's wife, anyway."

"You will find it harder, Nell, should I become Rector of St. Alban's."

"I know it. But I shall do the best I can for your sake. We are not
there yet, remember. In the meantime I want to learn more about Mr.
Acres, and why he was so greatly interested in my grandfather's ship."




CHAPTER III

AT GLENGROW


Reclining in a comfortable chair upon the rectory verandah, Robert
Rutledge was enjoying an after-supper smoke. It was a pleasant change
for him to be away from the city in such a quiet place as this. His
bitterness towards life somewhat subsided as he looked at his sister
Nell close by, and Andrew seated upon the steps watching the children.
Betty was perched upon the lowest step, clasping the beautiful doll
Uncle Bob had brought her. John was playing with his gift, a wonderful
toy tractor that when wound up would climb over almost everything. His
excited shouts caused much amusement to the interested watchers.

"I feel well already," Robert declared. "The fresh air, and the joy of
these children are better than any tonic. This is a glorious place, and
I am so glad I came. How happy you two must be here."

"I am," Mrs. Nairn replied. "It is certainly wonderful, and with that
noble river almost at our door, I am not surprised that the new hotel is
attracting many people. The rooms are all taken, so I understand."

"One room would be vacant, though, but for me," Robert quietly replied.
"Ah, I see you wonder what I mean, Nell. But as I was coming from the
city this afternoon I saved a woman from a serious accident, death, no
doubt."

"In what way, Bob?"

"Oh, it was another case of an inexperienced woman driver. I was
following her up a steep hill, and when near the top she tried to change
gears. She evidently became confused, for the car began to back towards
the steep bank on the right. I was close behind, and seeing the danger,
managed to catch the left wheel of her car with my fender. It was quite
a bump, but my car held, and as soon as I could get out I blocked both
of my back wheels with stones. By that time the woman was standing upon
the road, and she at once began to denounce me for hitting her car. I
was never so surprised in my life. I tried to explain what I had done,
and showed her the steep bank. But nothing would appease her. She
declared that she would have been all right, and if I had not
interferred she would have backed to the foot of the hill without any
trouble. That made me mad.

"Madam," I said, "if I had not stopped your car when I did it would be
down over that bank, and you would now be sprouting wings in the
celestial realm and tuning your sweet voice for the angelic choir!"

Mr. and Mrs. Nairn smiled at these words.

"You couldn't help being poetical, could you, Bob?" his sister queried.

"Well, there wasn't anything to inspire the muse in that woman. My, she
was furious, and called me a fool. She told me it was not safe for a
woman to drive alone on the roads, and I agreed with her. She even
demanded that I should pay her damage. Think of that! Perhaps I should
have let her go over the bank. With Mrs. Augustus Rockbridge among the
angels I could breathe more freely."

"What, not Mrs. Rockbridge, wife of the editor of the _Daily Echo_!" Mr.
Nairn exclaimed.

"The very woman, Andy. And I suppose there will be a big write-up in the
paper about that affair, and the dangers women run from careless
drivers."

"Did Mrs. Rockbridge know you?" his sister asked.

"Oh, yes. She called me 'Fool,' so you see she knew me, all right."

Mrs. Nairn, who had been watching the children, looked quickly around,
for she detected the note of bitterness in her brother's voice.

"Don't say that, Bob. You are not a fool, but a very clever man. Just
think of the wonderful things you write."

"Wonderful! Thank you, Nell, for your compliment. You are the only one
who ever encourages me."

"Not at all, Bob. Others think the same as I do. I am sure the editor of
the _Daily Echo_ is always glad to have your poems and stories. He wrote
a lovely editorial about them last month."

"Oh, talk is cheap, but when it comes to payment, that is a different
thing altogether. I never received a cent from him for anything I wrote,
and when I wanted a few copies of the papers containing my stuff I had
to pay for them at the usual rate."

"And they didn't send you any complimentary copies?" Mr. Nairn asked in
surprise.

"Not one. They never seemed to think about it."

"But you should have protested, Bob," Mrs. Nairn declared. "You should
have demanded payment."

"I have been too easy, I guess. But I got after Mr. Rockbridge
yesterday, and we had a heart-to-heart talk. I told him I was leaving
for the woods, and suggested that I should write several articles for
his paper, and demanded so much for each. He thought I had taken leave
of my senses, and told me so in words that I would not like to repeat
here. He said there is nothing thrilling enough in this province to make
good copy, and advised me to go abroad. I at once bet him the price I
had asked for my articles that I could find an abundance of material
close at home thrilling enough to satisfy him. He was so sure of his
ground that he accepted at once. So here I am ready to begin, and I want
you two to help me."

"Where are you going to get your thrilling material?" Mr. Nairn asked.

"Right here in this parish, of course. I see you are amused, but you
will be greatly surprised later."

"There's nothing of special interest here, Bob, for your purpose. You
should go somewhere else, to the north or the west, for instance."

"That is where so many people make a mistake, Andy. Home things are so
commonplace that there seems to be little really worth while. Now, what
have you in Glengrow that is known and yet unknown?"

"What do you mean?"

"Isn't there some place, house or incident that people have talked about
for years, and yet know very little about it? Think of the old cellar
holes. What stories they might tell if they could only speak, of homes
once there, tragedy and happiness. Then, there must be old buildings
standing in desolate places. What tales they might reveal. I did hear of
one in this parish, called 'Bullet House.' There must be some reason for
such a strange name. Do you know anything about it?"

He looked first at the clergyman and then at his sister, as if expecting
them to give him some valuable information. But they knew nothing.

"That is generally the way," he declared. "And yet that old building is
standing there by the lake of a similar name. Who built it? And why is
it called 'Bullet House?' I hope to find out. I have been told that it
is owned by an old man, Si Acres. He may be able to tell me something.
Do you know him?"

"We know him and don't know him," Mrs. Nairn replied. "Isn't that so,
Andrew?"

"We know him as a brute of a man. He put a fifty-cent piece into the
offertory plate last night, and came this morning to get it back. Did
you ever hear of such a thing?"

"But why did he do that, Andy? What lies back of such an action?"

"Meanness, and a hatred to the Church."

"Are you sure? I should like to know more about that man. The history of
his life may prove of considerable value. What do the neighbors think of
him?"

"They are afraid of him, and leave him alone so far as they can."

"Do you know anything about his past life?"

"I cannot say for sure. Peter Pendle told me once that Mr. Acres built
ships, or went to sea. I have forgotten which."

"You never told me that, Andrew," his wife remarked. "That may explain
his strange interest in the picture of grandfather's vessel."

"Ah, this is getting quite interesting," Robert replied. "We have now
connected him with ship-building days, so that is something. What did he
say about grandfather's ship, Nell?"

"Not much. When he first saw it, he was surprised, walked across the
room and stood staring at it. He then asked me about it, and when I told
him, he turned quickly around and looked at me with such a queer
expression in his eyes. It seemed as if he wanted to say something, for
his lips moved. But he hurried away without a word."

"You have overlooked what he said about Dana," Mr. Nairn reminded.

"What was that?" Robert quickly asked.

"I do not remember his exact words, but as he stood looking at the
vessel he said that Dana alone could describe her, and seemed to be
quoting something about the ship cutting through the water like a knife,
and her sharp bows running up like the head of a greyhound. I do not
know what he meant by Dana."

"Why, he must be the man who wrote _Two Years Before the Mast_, the best
book in the English language about the sea and the life of sailors. So
you don't know it?"

"No, I never heard of it."

"I suppose not. You like something with an ecclesiastical tone. But what
you have told me is another incident which must not be overlooked. I
wonder----."

He ceased abruptly and looked out over the fields. He listened as his
sister told about the money Betty had given to Mr. Acres, and how he had
stamped it into the dust. He remained silent for a while when she had
finished. He then re-filled his pipe, lighted it, and gave a deep sigh
of contentment.

"This is all very interesting, Nell. But where does Bullet House come
in? Why did he get that place back there in the woods?"

"For lumbering purposes, I have been told," Mr. Nairn explained. "It was
well wooded when he bought it, and it is said that he made a fortune out
of the logs, although he has done nothing there during the last few
years."

"Who owned the place before he bought it?"

"I never heard."

"Was it ever called by any other name?"

"I do not know."

"My, my! And you have been living here for a year and were never curious
about that man!"

"I have had more important things to think about, Bob."

"No doubt you have, Andy. With Nell and these fine youngsters, as well
as your parish duties you have had your mind and hands full. But I am
free for several weeks, and with no family care, so I am going to see
what I can find out about Bullet Lake and your strange neighbor, Si
Acres."




CHAPTER IV

THE VISITOR


About the middle of the forenoon Silas Acres was enjoying a cup of tea,
and a slice of bread with a little cheese. This had been his custom for
years. He was in a most thoughtful mood, and his forehead often knitted
in perplexity.

When he had drained his cup and gathered up the last crumbs of bread and
cheese, he placed his hand upon his filled pipe lying upon the table.
Slowly he lifted it to his mouth and struck a match. As the smoke
encircled his head he glanced towards the kitchen door.

"Rachel," he called. "Come here."

At once a woman of middle age and of medium height entered the room.

"Did you call, sir?" she asked.

"I did. Where are the boys?"

"Working at the line fence."

"H'm! Working! They're asleep, most likely, under a tree. Lazy rascals!
Rachel."

"Yes, sir."

"Any news?"

"Nothing of special importance except that you were out unusually late
last night. You should be more careful. The night air is not good for
you."

"Ah, so you heard I was out late! Who told you?"

"No one, sir. But I heard you come in. And, besides, I found the
lantern on the floor this morning, and your coat covered with dust. And
look at your knees. You must have been kneeling upon the road. What in
the world were you doing?"

"Ah, Rachel, you are very observing. Yes, I was out late, hunting for
something I dropped upon the road yesterday."

"Did you find it?"

"No."

"Was it money, sir?"

"It was. And something else I can never find."

He sighed and looked across the room at the model of a fine full-rigged
clipper ship upon the wall over the mantel. There was a wistfulness in
his eyes, and he allowed his pipe to go out.

"Rachel."

"Yes, sir."

"How is Mrs. Nairn getting along?"

"Why do you ask me? I very seldom see her."

"But you hear what the neighbors say about her."

"Sometimes."

"I thought so. They gossip a great deal about what goes on at the
rectory."

"Yes, sir."

"Especially about Mrs. Nairn."

"I suppose they do."

"They say she is giddy and independent."

"They do, sir."

"Yes, yes, I knew it. Do you think they are right?"

"It is not for me to say. I try to attend to my own business."

"And I wish to God others would do the same. How can they understand a
woman like Mrs. Nairn? She has the blood of a great seafaring race in
her veins, and that makes the difference. You may go now, Rachel."

The housekeeper was about to return to the kitchen, when glancing out of
the window she saw a man walking towards the house.

"A stranger is coming from the road, sir," she announced.

"A stranger, eh, Rachel? What does he look like?"

"He is a young man, and walking fast."

"An agent, no doubt, who wants to sell me some farm machinery. But I
have all I need. There he is at the front door. What impudence! He
should have gone to the back door. Don't let him in. Send him away."

Rachel left the room, and returned a few minutes later.

"He is not an agent, sir. He wants to rent Bullet House."

"Ah, that's good. Bring him in at once. I am always ready for business
like that."

He re-filled and lighted his pipe while awaiting his visitor. He was
naturally pleased, as so far this season no applications had been
received for the use of the lake and house. He had begun to fear that
his increase of the rent might keep people away. But here was a man who
wanted the place, so that was encouraging.

As Robert Rutledge entered the room, Mr. Acres rose to meet him, and
held out his hand.

"I am pleased to see you, sir. Sit down. You don't mind, I hope, if I
continue my smoking?"

"Not at all. I am glad you enjoy a pipe. I shall light up, too."

"That's right. Try some of my tobacco. I think you will find it extra
good. It's none of your common stuff, but the best English brand."

"Thanks. Judging by the delicious aroma it certainly must be excellent.
Someone said that 'The smoke of glory is not worth the smoke of a
pipe.'"

"Ho, ho, very good, very good. And you will need the best tobacco to
cheer your loneliness out in the woods. If you like my brand I can
supply you with all you need at a reasonable price. I always keep some
on hand for my friends."

"Do you sell much, sir?"

Mr. Acres glanced quickly at the young man. His eyes narrowed a little,
and his face became grave. He then smiled.

"No, I sell very little. I have no friends here."

"Why do you make an exception of me, then?"

"Because you wish to rent my house at Bullet Lake. Is that so?"

"It is, sir, and I hope we can agree upon the terms."

"Oh, they are quite moderate. Only five dollars a week for the use of
the lake, where there is good fishing, the boat, and the house with
everything in it. And there is the wonderful scenery included. Do you
not call five dollars cheap?"

"It is quite satisfactory to me, and I shall take the place for a month.
You wish payment to be made in advance, I suppose?"

"Yes, I generally request that. But if you prefer to wait for a while it
will be all right."

"I shall pay you now, Mr. Acres, and have it off my mind. I may not have
any money left when holiday is over."

"Do you intend to live alone, young man? You will find it rather lonely
out there, especially at night."

"Oh, I shall stay at the lake during the day, but my sister insists that
I shall sleep at the rectory."

"At the rectory, you say?"

"Yes. Mrs. Nairn is my sister."

Slowly Mr. Acres removed the pipe from his mouth, and looked keenly at
his visitor.

"So you are a Rutledge, then?"

"I am. Robert Rutledge is my name. I should have told you before."

"And Captain John Rutledge was your grandfather?"

"Yes."

"And are you interested in ships, too?"

"I am. I dream of ships, and write about them. The spirit of the sea is
in my blood, and yet I have to spend my days in an office."

"So you are an author, eh? What do you write?"

"Not much; just a little prose and verse."

"About the sea?"

"Mostly. I like to write about the sea, especially in verse. I can best
express myself that way."

"Quite true, quite true, Mr. Rutledge. There is nothing like the sea to
stir the imagination. Can you remember any of your verses? I know
Kipling, Masefield, and Newbolt. They are grand, and I have their books
on the shelf over there. You know Masefield's _Ship Fever_, of course,

    I must down to the sea again,
    To the lonely sea and sky.

"Yes, I know it well. It is great. But I cannot come anywhere near such
a masterpiece as that. The great sea poets are in a class by themselves,
so I only admire at a distance."

"Don't worry about that. What have you written? Give me a sample, I am
hungry for something new about the sea. Anything about captains? They
were great men, even though they were hard-driving devils at times."

Mr. Acres leaned eagerly forward, and Robert was touched by the longing
expression in his eyes. He could not understand why the neighbors were
afraid of such an agreeable man. People must surely misunderstand him.
How surprised Nell and Andrew would be when he told them of this
pleasant conversation.

"I have a poem, sir, named _Bluenose Captains_, which you might like,
although I am somewhat diffident about reciting it to one who has fed so
long upon the masters."

"Don't let that trouble you, young man. Let me hear what you can do, and
then I shall judge."

"Very well," Robert smilingly replied. "If you can endure the agony,
here it is:

        Captains were they in olden days,
        And Captains they are still,
        Though some lie deep where the great waves sweep,
        And some lie under the hill;
        But under the wave or under the sod,
        Their deeds and fame abide,
        For they made a name in the great sea game
        When the clippers rode the tide.

        They all went down to the sea in ships
        With a rollicking devil-may-care,
        And they quested long and they quested far
        In seasons stormy and fair;
        But fair or foul was the same to them,
        And dangers they never did shirk,
        For the gales might blow and the mainsails go,
        It was all in the full day's work.

        Captains were they in olden days,
        Masters of ships and men,
        Whelps of a hardy Bluenose breed,
        Parker and Forbes and Wren.
        Honor to them, bold Captains all!
        Their deeds are their country's pride,
        For they won high fame as they played the game
        When the clippers rode the tide.

Mr. Acres sat for a while lost in thought, with his pipe clutched hard
in his right hand. Robert longed to know what he was thinking about. He
was soon to learn. Slowly Mr. Acres rose from his chair, walked across
the room, and taking down a book from the shelf, came back to the table.

"Young man," he began, "when I come across sea verses which satisfy me,
I always read Dana again. Any poem that can send me to such a
masterpiece as _Two Years Before the Mast_ is worth while. Your verses
have done so, and that is the best compliment I can pay you. Dana is
wonderful. What descriptions you find there, of gales, with ships
scudding under bare poles. Who has ever described the rounding of the
Horn like Dana? He knew what he was writing about, for he had the actual
experience. And so did I. What would I not give for one more trip in a
grand clipper ship! And the captains were great men, even though they
were hard drivers. But they had to be so. Yes, they had to be so, for
they had to deal with hard men. And your grandfather was one of the best
skippers I ever knew."

"What! did you know my grandfather?" Robert asked. "Did you sail with
him?"

A strange startled look came into Mr. Acres' eyes, and he glanced
nervously around. He laid the book upon the table and straightened
himself up to his full height of six feet. For the first time Robert
realised how large he was. In an instant his whole appearance had
changed, and he was now the man his neighbors knew, fierce and defiant.
Robert was astonished at this sudden transformation. And it had come
about through the simple question he had asked. It seemed as if Mr.
Acres had been caught off guard, that he had said too much, and was
angry with himself.

Rising to his feet, Robert picked up his hat.

"I must go now, sir. My sister is waiting for me. Is your house at the
lake locked?"

"It is. Here are the keys to the front and back doors. Keep them locked
when you leave the house. One can never tell who may be prowling around
the place."

"I shall be careful, sir. But I hope there will be no ghosts to trouble
me. One cannot lock them out, you know. Bullet House is rather a
gruesome and suggestive name. Do you know why it is called that?"

"Why do you want to know?" Mr. Acres fiercely asked. "Have you any
special reason?"

"I have. It is such a peculiar name that I am curious to know if there
is any thrilling story back of it."

"That you might write about it, eh?"

"Perhaps so, if I can get any worth-while material."

"You cannot, Mr. Rutledge, and I advise you not to try. Confine your
writing to the sea and leave that old house alone. If you are wise you
will heed what I say. Come, I shall show you to the door."




CHAPTER V

BULLET HOUSE


A short distance from the main highway Peter Pendle's house stood upon a
gentle elevation surrounded by birch, maple, and elm trees. It was a
well-kept place, the house and barn showing watchful care. A garden of
old-fashioned flowers greeted all who passed, and tourists often stopped
to admire the beautiful sight.

The morning after the conversation at the rectory a van stood near the
front door of the Pendle house. To a stranger it seemed a peculiar
affair, but to the people of Glengrow, and far beyond, it was a most
familiar object. Upon each side it told in big letters the business of
its owner:

    PETER PENDLE'S PANACEA,
    A SURE CURE FOR ACHES, SPRAINS, AND BRUISES
    OF MAN AND BEAST.
    TRY A BOTTLE--ONLY 50 CENTS.

This Panacea was a liniment, with a salve as a side-line. It was known
for its remarkable curing qualities, and was held in high esteem by
farmers and others throughout the country. Peter had received many
testimonials which he carefully preserved in an old scrap-book. Several
were from veterinary surgeons, and these he prized most of all.

The secret of this Panacea remained with the Pendles.

"It was given to my grandmother by an old Indian squaw," Peter often
explained. "She made some use of it, an' so did my parents. But they
didn't fully realise its possibilities. It's queer how some folks will
let fine opportunities slip through their fingers. But Sarah an' me have
turned it to good account, an' we've done well."

This morning, however, Peter was not thinking about his Panacea as he
stood in front of his house with Mrs. Nairn by his side. He was watching
a man walking rapidly up the road.

"It's yer brother, at last," he drawled. "Why, he's been half the
mornin' there. I was beginnin' to fear that Si had eaten him up."

"I was getting somewhat anxious, too," Mrs. Nairn smilingly replied. "I
am afraid that we have been delaying you, Peter. We should have been at
the lake before this."

"Oh, I'm in no hurry. It doesn't matter so long as I'm back in time to
meet the boat. Our visitor is comin' to-night."

"Is everything ready for her? You have made such a nice place out of
your old shed."

"Haven't I, now!" and Peter looked with admiration upon his handiwork.
"She wants to live by herself in a bright, airy place. Sarah's got it
all clean an' the furniture set to rights. The walls are bare, but we
got orders to leave them that way. Miss Rowland will bring her own
pictures with her, so she said, an' she will paint others while here. I
never expected to live so near to a real artist, but one never knows
what will happen next."

"Do you know anything about Miss Rowland, Peter?"

"Nothin', except what my old city friend, Jim Hardy, wrote. He knows
her, an' considers her a very fine girl. But here's yer brother, lookin'
rather serious. We kin get off at once."

Robert was unusually quiet as they drove along the road leading to
Bullet Lake. Their progress was slow, owing to the rough places and the
corduroy bridges where Peter had to be very careful. The van swayed and
bumped a great deal, but it was a strong car and accustomed to bad
roads.

"You are a good driver, Peter," Mrs. Nairn complimented. "It is
wonderful how you manage on this road."

"It's the car, Madam. Why, it's almost human an' knows just what to do.
The other day a tourist read the letters on the sides an' asked me if I
was Peter Pan. I wonder what the feller meant. Who is Peter Pan,
anyway?"

"He's a fairy," Mrs. Nairn explained. "He's a queer little chap, and
does magical things. There is a book about him which tells how he caused
three children to fly away to a strange place. The words 'Peter' and
'Panacea' on your van must have suggested Peter to the tourist."

"Most likely they did, Madam. An' it's a good name, too, fer this car
has been a real fairy to me, an' has carried me to many queer places
which I could not visit with my old horse an' waggon. I must read that
book about Peter Pan some day."

Mrs. Nairn enjoyed the scenery along this back-land road. Most of the
way was through a thick growth of sturdy birch and maple trees, with
here and there a few pines and firs. She wondered about her brother's
silence, as he was usually so full of fun and animation.

"What is the matter, Bob?" she at length asked. "You haven't said a word
since we started. Did Mr. Acres bewitch you?"

Robert aroused himself and laughed good-naturedly.

"Not at all, Nell. I found him very interesting, and we had quite a
chat."

"Ye did!" Peter exclaimed. "What on earth did ye talk about? Money?"

"Ships. Mr. Acres has a fine model of a clipper ship. I was surprised at
the number of books he has about the sea, and he knows them by heart.
But----."

Robert paused and gazed thoughtfully before him.

"But what?" his sister questioned.

"The man is a mystery to me. He was most affable when we were talking
about ships, and I thought the neighbors had misjudged him. But when I
had paid him for four weeks' use of his house at Bullet Lake, I asked
him if he knew how it had received its name. At once his manner changed
and he glared at me most furiously. I realised that I had made a
mistake, so was glad to come away. I am certain that the story of his
life would reveal something worth while, and I must find out what it
is."

"I guess ye'll have some job ahead of ye, Mister," Peter drawled. "If ye
kin learn the real history of that man, ye'll be a wonder."

"Has anyone ever tried?"

"Well, we've all done a lot of wonderin', but it ended at that, fer that
was as far as we could go."

"But I intend to go deeper than wondering and talking."

"Good luck to ye, then, Mister. But here we are right at the lake."

Bullet House was a snug abode, situated in a small clearing among the
trees. Both Mrs. Nairn and Robert were delighted with the place. From
the verandah which faced the water, there was an excellent view of the
lake and the wooded hills beyond.

"Isn't this glorious!" Robert exclaimed.

"It is, and I wish I could stay here a while with you," his sister
replied. "I would then be away from the gossipping tongues which wag
about everything I do and say."

"They'd wag all the more, Madam," Peter declared. "What a choice bit of
news it would be if you should live here. It would certainly be great
fun to hear what folks would say."

"But why should they, Peter? It would be none of their business."

"Maybe not. But they'd make it their business, a'right. An' besides, you
are the parson's wife, so you must expect to be talked about."

"Why should you mind what people say, Nell?" Robert queried. "Let them
talk if they want to. I know it annoys you. But that is the penalty of
having such an independent spirit. Anyway, I am not going to let wagging
tongues interfere with me in this snug retreat. Peter Pan has brought us
here, and I am going to enjoy myself."

"But Peter Pan led those children into great dangers, remember. There
were pirates, Indians, and that terrible crocodile which swallowed a
clock. I hope there will not be such enemies here."

"All I can think about now, Nell, is something to eat. This is the
first time in weeks that I have been really hungry. What have you in
that basket?"

"Something you like, Bob. An old-fashioned strawberry shortcake. I made
two, but left one home for Andrew and the children. I hope they are
making out all right. Suppose we have our luncheon right here on the
verandah. There must be a small table in the house. While you men are
looking for one, I shall unpack the basket."

"What about the tea?" Robert asked. "We'll need a fire to boil some
water."

"I have brought a big thermos bottle full of tea, Bob, so there will be
plenty for the three of us."

"Good fer you, Madam," Peter shouted. "It takes a woman to think of
everything."

A quarter of an hour later they were cosily seated around the table that
had been found, and enjoying the good things Mrs. Nairn had prepared.

"This is life," Robert declared, as he helped himself to a sandwich. "I
know I shall be well in a few days in a place like this, with nothing to
disturb me. Isn't that so, Peter Pan?"

"Don't be too sure, young man. Si Acres might be prowlin' around keepin'
an eye upon ye."

"Oh, I'll soon send him about his business. This place is mine for a
month, so I won't stand any nonsense from him."

"H'm, ye may think so now, Mister, but ye don't know Si as well as I do.
It's not so easy to send him about his business when he gets on the
rampage. An' if Si isn't prowlin' around, maybe ye'll have ghosts
visitin' ye."

"Ghosts!" Mrs. Nairn exclaimed. "Ghosts here?"

"That's what folks say. They've seen old Tom Rayton an' his wife walkin'
around among the trees an' peerin' in through the windows at night. I
guess it was only imagination, though. It's wonderful how some people
get scared an' see strange sights out in the woods."

"Who was Tom Rayton?" Robert inquired, now keenly interested.

"Oh, he was the man who built this house an' cleared the land. He had
quite a farm here at one time, but it's all grown up in trees now. I
didn't know him, but the old people have told me that he was a quiet,
hard-working man an' minded his own affairs. An' so was his wife. They
had one child, an' I have often wondered what became of her. How anyone
could shoot a man such as Tom Rayton must have been is beyond me."

Robert leaned eagerly forward, his eyes glowing with animation.

"What! did someone try to shoot him?" he demanded.

"He tried an' did, so I've been told. It was a wild night in the fall,
an' the Raytons were settin' right in there before an open fire. Mrs.
Rayton had the baby on her lap, an' Tom was seated by her side. Suddenly
there was a bang of a gun outside, a bullet tore through the window sash
an' struck Tom in the shoulder."

"Go on," Robert ordered, as Peter paused. "What happened next?"

"Well, all I know is that Mrs. Rayton had to go all the way to the shore
fer the doctor who lived there."

"Alone!" Mrs. Nairn exclaimed.

"Sure, Madam. Who else was there to go with her? Yes, she went through
the darkness an' the rain. It must have been a terrible trip, especially
for a woman. Anyway, she got the doctor, an' he did what he could fer
Tom. But the poor feller never fully recovered. His arm was always weak,
so he couldn't work as well as before."

"But who shot him?" Robert questioned.

Peter shook his head and gazed thoughtfully out over the lake. He then
filled and lighted his pipe.

"The one who did the shootin' was never found," he at length explained.
"The Raytons didn't have an enemy, so far as anyone could tell, so the
whole affair remains a mystery to this day."

"Perhaps the shooting was accidental," Mrs. Nairn suggested. "Someone
may have been hunting and fired at a moose."

"Perhaps so, an' that was what many thought. But it was a queer night
fer anyone to be huntin'. I could never believe that idea."

"And what happened to the Raytons?"

"What happened? I almost hate to tell ye. That shootin' was just the
beginnin' of their troubles. Tom had a friend, a city man, who visited
him from time to time to fish in the lake an' to hunt. Well, it seems
that the friend got Tom to back his note fer a considerable amount. He
then failed in business, so Tom was called upon to make good. He didn't
have the money, so his place was sold. That broke Tom down completely,
an' he didn't last long after that. He died in less than a year, an'
left his wife an' baby alone in this house."

"Who bought the place?" Robert inquired.

"Si Acres, of course. He was the only one in Glengrow who had enough
money. An' he made a fortune, too, out of the logs he had cut. Just
think of that! An' what good has the money done the old skinflint?"

"What became of Mrs. Rayton and the baby?"

"Si turned them out, an' they went away to the States. What happened to
them I never heard."

"And who was Rayton's false friend?"

"Now, let me see. I have heard his name, and I think it was Tray, but am
not sure. He went away, too, an' I did hear that he set up in business
again, an' did well. But I never saw him. I'm not positive though about
his name. 'Tray' doesn't sound just like it. Maybe it was Gray, although
I think it began with a T."

"Tray will do very well, Peter, for it suggests the word 'traitor,' and
he must have been one, all right. I am going now to have a look at that
window. Is the mark of the bullet there yet?"

"It is, an' that is the way this place got its name."




CHAPTER VI

CAUGHT OFF GUARD


About the middle of the afternoon Andrew Nairn was seated at his study
desk. It was unusual for him to be in the house at this time of the day,
as he was generally visiting throughout his parish. But this morning
Hettie had been attacked with a severe headache, so she said, and had to
go home. It seemed to Mr. Nairn that her headaches were becoming very
common of late. Anyway, it was most annoying to-day when Nell was away,
and he would have to stay home to look after the children.

After he had awkwardly prepared dinner for himself, Betty, and John, and
washed the dishes, he was quite hot. The study was cool, so instead of
putting on his coat and collar he laid them on a chair by his side for
immediate use in case a visitor should arrive. He kept his mind upon the
children as they raced through the house or played upon the verandah. He
could hear their chatter and rippling laughter, so knew they were
enjoying themselves. Once he heard them thumping upon the piano and
listened as they tried to sing a simple hymn they had learned at Sunday
school. The sound was sweet to his ears, and he longed for Nell to be
present to hear them.

Gradually he became absorbed in the work before him. This consisted of
examining a number of sermons he had prepared and delivered in his
parish. He had spent much care and time upon them, and was quite proud
of his productions. He knew that they were far beyond the heads of his
people, but he was determined not to preach down to them, but to lift
them up to his level. Often, however, he longed for a congregation that
would appreciate his ability and scholarly sermons. If he were only in a
city church what a pleasure it would be. The first opportunity had come
when he had preached at St. Alban's. It had been a red-letter day to
him, and he believed that he had made a favorable impression, so he had
a strong hope of being elected. This afternoon he began to examine his
best sermons and to arrange them in the order he would deliver them
should he be chosen for St. Alban's. He dwelt fondly upon several, such
as _Religion and Science_, _The Quest for Truth_, and _Reality and the
World's Needs_. He was firmly convinced that they would make a greater
appeal to intellectual minds than light and homely sermons.

Time sped swiftly by as he sat there. He had not forgotten the children,
and occasionally he lifted his head to listen to their voices, and then
satisfied that they were all right, he turned his attention again to the
task before him.

He had almost finished revising the last sermon when the study door was
flung suddenly open, and Betty danced into the room, her face beaming
with animation.

"Daddy! Daddy!" she cried. "Here's a visitor to see you. I'm bringing
her in."

Mr. Nairn rose quickly to his feet and reached for his coat and collar.
This was a most embarrassing situation, as he had never expected anyone
to catch him off guard in his study. But here was a woman right at the
door. Without looking to see who she was, he struggled to put on his
collar. But his fingers fumbled, a collar button fell to the floor and
rolled around the desk. Dropping upon his hands and knees, he began a
frantic search, and after he had found the button, he regained his feet,
struggled into his coat, became confused and thrust his right arm into
the left sleeve.

And while the Reverend Andrew Nairn was thus performing these desperate
antics, Mrs. Augustus Rockbridge stood in the doorway, with John close
behind. An expression of triumph lighted up her face as she watched the
scene before her. So this was the Rector of Glengrow! How she longed for
the members of St. Alban's to behold their Angel Gabriel in his study.
But they should know about him just as soon as she could get a letter to
her dear friend, Mrs. Casham. Imagine such a man as rector of a
fashionable city church, collarless and coatless when a visitor called!
Why, the church would be scandalized and the laughing-stock of the town.
It would never do to have such a careless man as rector. She was pleased
beyond measure, and as she stood triumphantly there she seemed like a
cat watching a mouse which she had hypnotized.

When his struggles with the coat and collar were at last ended, Mr.
Nairn straightened himself up and looked towards the door. His
embarrassment at once increased when he beheld Mrs. Rockbridge standing
before him. He recognized her, and knew her as one of the most
influential members of St. Alban's. It was certainly most humiliating to
be found in such an awkward predicament. It was the first time in his
ministry that he had been so caught when a visitor arrived. He was
greatly annoyed, and his face flushed.

All this was very gratifying to Mrs. Rockbridge. She could not have
arrived at a more opportune time for her purpose. She could afford to
smile in a most engaging manner as she advanced and held out her hand.

"I hope you will forgive me, Mr. Nairn, for my abrupt entrance. But I
could not resist the invitation of this sweet maiden. What charming
children you have, and how proud you must be of them."

Besides being angry at Betty and John for ushering the visitor into the
study, the clergyman was ashamed of their grimy faces and dirty clothes.
They looked more like waifs of the gutter than the clean, neat tots they
had been that morning. And to think that Mrs. Rockbridge, of all women,
should behold them in such a condition!

"I am sorry you have caught me off guard," he at length found voice to
say. "The fact is, Mrs. Nairn is away from home to-day, and our maid had
to go home on account of a headache, so I have been forced to keep
house. I hope you will excuse me. Please sit down. But, no, not here in
this disorderly place. The sitting-room will be better."

"You need not apologize," Mrs. Rockbridge gurgled. "A parson's study is
his workshop, and what does it matter so long as he produces sermons
such as you gave at St. Alban's when you were there. They were
wonderful, and everyone has been speaking about them."

Quite pleased at this flattery, the clergyman felt greatly relieved as
he led the way into the adjoining room. He longed to hear her speak
more about his sermons. She had evidently forgotten the awkward
predicament in which she had caught him. People of high social standing
could easily overlook such an incident as that, he imagined.

But as he entered the sitting-room he received another shock, for the
place was in great disorder. Books and sheets of music were scattered
about the floor, chairs were upturned, and crusts of bread were lying
upon the centre-table.

"The children!" he gasped. "They were playing in here this afternoon,
but I had no idea they were up to such mischief. I thought they were
playing Sunday school."

"And so we were, Daddy," Betty explained. "I was the teacher and John
was the children. We had great fun."

"You evidently did, my dear," her father replied in a gentle voice. He
was regaining his composure now and remembered the sweet voices to which
he had listened so attentively. "I hope you will excuse this," he added
turning to the visitor. "It was all my fault. I should have paid more
attention to the children."

"It is only natural for the little darlings to enjoy themselves," Mrs.
Rockbridge smilingly replied. "I love children, and their quaint ways
are so charming. We cannot expect them to be quiet and orderly like
grown-up people."

"I am glad you understand children, Mrs. Rockbridge. Some women do. But
it shows how helpless a man is when his wife is away. Now, if Mrs. Nairn
had been at home this would not have happened. Will you please sit down
and rest, that is, if you can find an upright chair."

Mrs. Rockbridge beamed good-naturedly. She could afford to be pleasant
after such interesting incidents which would go a long way towards
furthering her designs.

"I must not stay long," she declared as she seated herself in the only
available chair in the room, while the clergyman sat down upon the piano
stool. "I came merely to find out the hour of service in your church
next Sunday. I could learn nothing at the hotel. I am afraid the people
there are not church-goers."

Mr. Nairn's eyebrows lifted a little as he looked keenly at the woman.

"That is strange," he replied, "for I have several service notices
tacked up in prominent places in the hotel."

"I didn't see them," Mrs. Rockbridge lied. She was feeling somewhat
embarrassed now, an unusual thing for her.

"And some of my people are working at the hotel," the clergyman
continued. "You might have inquired from them."

"I am not in the habit, sir, of asking servants questions."

"Oh, I see." A slight smile lurked about the corners of Mr. Nairn's
mouth. "But the young man in charge of the office is one of my most
faithful church members. He could have told you."

As Mrs. Rockbridge now became visibly confused, Mr. Nairn knew that she
had been lying, and he became suspicious of her visit. Suddenly an idea
flashed into his mind which caused him to understand the meaning of her
abrupt entrance into his study. She had come under the pretext of
learning about the hour of service that she might spy upon him and his
household affairs. As a prominent member of St. Alban's she had either
been sent by the church or she had come upon her own responsibility. He
then remembered that she had a nephew who was a candidate for the
rectorship of the church. Yes, it was as clear to him as day, and he was
thankful that his eyes had been opened to the real object of her visit.
She had caught him off guard, but henceforth he would be on his watch
against her. He noticed that she averted her eyes from his, and that
looked suspicious. He not only suspected her of hypocrisy, but he was
beginning to dislike her, as well. The idea of a woman entering his
house as a spy was repugnant to his nature.

Rising to his feet, he went into the study. When he returned a minute
later, he had a paper in his hand.

"This is the list of my services," he explained. "You might like to have
it."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Nairn. But do you hold services in six places?" Mrs.
Rockbridge asked as she looked at the paper. "How do you manage to do so
much?"

"I have three services every Sunday, besides Sunday school in two
places."

"My! my! how busy you must be. And does your wife go with you on all
your rounds?"

"As often as she can, especially when I go to places where there are no
organists."

"But doesn't she get very tired?"

"Sometimes. But she enjoys playing at the services, and she generally
has short practices afterwards. In this way we are building up several
creditable country choirs."

"How grand!" Mrs. Rockbridge exclaimed, although inwardly she was
disappointed. Mrs. Nairn must be a remarkable woman, and the idea was
not altogether to her liking. "But does not your wife become tired of
country people and rural ways. Does she not long for more congenial
life?"

"Not at all. Mrs. Nairn was brought up in the country, and is very fond
of it."

"That makes a great difference, then."

Mrs. Rockbridge's face brightened, for this was agreeable news to her. A
woman brought up in the country would never suit as the wife of the
Rector of St. Alban's. She would know little or nothing about high
social life, and would, therefore, not understand how to conduct herself
properly among fashionable people.

Mr. Nairn truly surmised her thoughts. He was perfectly at ease now, and
all his embarrassment had disappeared. He waited a little before giving
what he believed would completely confound this impudent woman. His was
the pleasure of anticipation.

"Yes, my wife lived in the country until she went to college," he at
length quietly explained. "After her graduation she travelled and
studied for two years in Europe. She saw much of fashionable life in
some of the large cities, and found it so shallow and artificial that
she longed for the quietness of the country. It was a great relief to
her when we came to this parish."

While thus speaking the clergyman had been closely watching his
visitor. What he saw satisfied him. Her narrowed eyes told plainly her
disappointment. She had evidently not expected to find such a woman in
the wife of the Rector of Glengrow. But Mrs. Rockbridge was well versed
in the art of dissimulation. She smiled sweetly as she rose to her feet
and held out her soft plump hand.

"I am looking forward to meeting your wife, Mr. Nairn. I hope to see her
often during my short stay here."

"We expect to call upon you," the clergyman replied. "We always call
upon guests at the hotel who belong to our Church."

Whether this was intended as a rebuke Mrs. Rockbridge was not certain.
Anyway, she was a very angry woman as she left the house and walked down
the gravel path to the main road. She had been guilty of a serious
breach of etiquette in calling first at the rectory. She knew that such
a thing would not be tolerated among her set in the city. Such action
would have placed the stamp of inferiority upon any newcomer at once.
But she had imagined that such a custom was unknown in the country, so
she could do as she pleased, and none would know the difference. But she
realised now that this was not so. Mr. and Mrs. Nairn evidently knew
what was proper, so that was one of the things which troubled her.

Mrs. Rockbridge was in no pleasant frame of mind as she made her way
back to the hotel. She found some relief to her feelings, however, in
the letter she wrote that night to her dear friend, Mrs. Sylvester
Casham. She said nothing about her own indiscretions, but enlarged upon
the rector's appearance in the study, the dirty children, and the
disorderly condition of the house.

     "A woman, no matter how well educated she may be, who will neglect
     her house and race over the country is not a fit person to be the
     wife of the Rector of St. Alban's, even though he is the Angel
     Gabriel, which Mr. Nairn is certainly not. But I shall remain here
     for a while and find out all I can."

Such were the closing words of the letter to her dear friend. Anyone
acquainted with Mrs. Rockbridge knew that she would go to almost any
length in order to further whatever design she had in her mind.




CHAPTER VII

STARTLING NEWS


The two old henchmen of Silas Acres' household were as opposite as two
human beings could possibly be. Billy Stubbles was talkative, small, and
quick of foot. He was interested in everything, and a great
news-gatherer. He liked the company of men, and a hot argument brought
the glow of satisfaction to his wrinkled, clean-shaven face. He was
liked by everyone in the parish, and whenever the young people met
together for a dance it was Billy who supplied the music upon his old
violin. He had a mouth-organ, as well, and this he always carried with
him, and played it even in the field while resting at times under the
shade of a tree. "Music is the language of heaven," he often told his
fellow workman, Nathan Brown. "But sad to say, Nathan, some have no ears
to hear it, an' that is the trouble with you." This was certainly true,
and it annoyed Nathan to hear Billy talk about music as the language of
heaven. To him the violin was the devil's instrument, and the
mouth-organ was almost as bad. He was a tall, large, sober-faced man. He
seldom smiled, and he looked with sad, reproachful eyes upon the gay and
wicked world. To him the Bible contained the only language of heaven. He
read and studied it regularly. He was a staunch Baptist in belief, while
Billy was an ardent member of the Church of England. Fierce were the
arguments they often held while working in the fields, and sometimes
during the evenings, especially in winter. As Nathan knew his Bible
almost by heart, he could quote book, chapter, and verse to support his
claim. Billy, on the other hand, always fell back upon the Prayer Book,
and what the Church taught. They were both mighty champions in defense
of what they believed, and often their work suffered while they engaged
in some heated discussion.

And in politics they were also opposed to each other. Nathan was a
Liberal, and Billy a Conservative. Each read the paper which favored his
own side, and denounced the other as a "lying sheet" not fit to enter
any decent house. But for all this, they were fond of each other, and
their fierce arguments amounted to nothing more than words. In such
battles they found considerable pleasure, and if parted for a day they
were anxious to be together once more to begin their wrangling all over
again.

In one thing, however, they were united, and that was in their
unswerving loyalty to Silas Acres. So long had they been with him that
they formed an integral part of the place. They also knew that not a
word must be said in the parish about what went on in the Acres'
household. This was a law which had never been broken. News came into
the house, and all were eager to hear the latest about the affairs in
Glengrow, and what the neighbors were saying and doing. But not a word
leaked out beyond the borders of Silas Acres' farm. This annoyed the
people of the parish. They had long since given up questioning Billy
and Nathan when they met them at the store, the post-office, or at
church.

Silas Acres reigned supreme in his little kingdom. Here with his two
workmen and his faithful housekeeper, Rachel, he laid aside the stern
mask of scorn and contrariness which he presented to the outside world
and became an agreeable companion most of the time. But his word was
law, and his servants knew it. Although he talked freely with them when
he felt so inclined, they were really never familiar with him. There was
something about him which they could not understand. This was chiefly
his silent moods when sometimes for days he would have little to say,
and seemed completely lost to what was going on around him. He ate and
moved like a man in a dream, and on such occasions there was always a
peculiar expression in his eyes.

Such was his manner after supper one evening as he sat at the table with
Nathan on his right and Billy on his left. There was an abundance of
well-prepared food, for Rachel was an excellent cook. Whatever Mr. Acres
might be to others he was never mean in his own house. "Good food, and
plenty of it," was his motto. He himself was generally a hearty eater,
and he liked his men to be well fed. But this evening he ate very
little, and seemed to pay no attention to the discussion in which Billy
and Nathan were engaged. They were not as fierce as usual, and several
times they glanced at the grim, silent man at the head of the table.
That something out of the ordinary was disturbing him they were well
aware, but what it was they had no idea.

When Billy and Nathan were at last through with their supper, they
pushed back their chairs and were about to leave the table, when Mr.
Acres stirred to life and motioned them to remain.

"Light your pipe, Billy, and I shall do the same. Nathan can stand the
smoke for a while, I guess."

When their pipes were drawing to their satisfaction, Mr. Acres looked
keenly at Billy.

"You were at the store to-day. Any news?"

A smile overspread the little man's wrinkled face, and his eyes
brightened. He had been eagerly awaiting this question, for he did have
special news to impart.

"Yes, Si, I heard something important this afternoon. The whole parish
is up in arms against Mrs. Nairn."

He glanced at his master and felt quite satisfied at the effect of this
announcement.

"Against Mrs. Nairn!" Mr. Acres exclaimed. "Why is that?"

"Because of what she said about the people in this parish, and about
you."

"About me! Explain what you mean."

"Well, Si, it started the mornin' you visited the rectory. After you had
left, Mrs. Nairn told the parson that she liked you because you are not
a hypocrite like most people in Glengrow."

Mr. Acres' eyes opened wide in amazement, and even Nathan was impressed.

"Why does she like me, Billy?"

"Because you are honest about not givin' to Missions. Others feel the
same as you do, but they only give because they are afraid of what
people might say. You have the courage of your convictions, while others
have not. That's what Mrs. Nairn said."

"Well, well! But how did the people hear about it?"

"Oh, Hettie heard her. She was listenin' at the door, an' she told her
mother. The news soon got around."

"I see, I see," Mr. Acres mused. "So Hettie started it, eh? The hussy!
She should be whipped. Did she tell anything more?"

"Sure she did. She told about the money you demanded back. It's been a
sweet morsel to all the gossips."

"I suppose so. What would folks do if they didn't have someone to talk
about? They've had me for a long time, and now Mrs. Nairn is their new
victim."

"Oh, they've been gossipping about her ever since she came to the
parish," Nathan growled. "She's a good woman, and that's the trouble.
She's kind and pleasant to everyone, and doesn't put on any airs. She's
an exceptional woman, even though she does belong to the wrong Church."

Billy suddenly bristled for fight, but Mr. Acres motioned him with his
hand to be quiet.

"She must be quite exceptional if she likes me," he quietly remarked.
"So she called the people of Glengrow hypocrites, did she? Good for her!
I like her pluck. Any more news?"

"Nothin' of much importance except that Peter's visitor has arrived."

"Who is she?"

"I didn't hear her name. She only came last night. Peter has fixed up
his old store-room for her. She is an artist, an' wants to live by
herself."

Mr. Acres raised his right hand, as was his custom when dismissing his
men.

"That will do, boys. You may go back to your work now, and get the
chores done. See that the bars are put up so the cows can't get out."

When the men had departed, Mr. Acres remained at the table lost in
thought, and drawing steadily at his pipe. Rachel cleared away the
dishes and began to wash them. Several times she glanced into the
dining-room at the silent man and wondered what he was thinking about.
Rachel Stockford was a woman well past middle age, whose back was bowed
from long years of toil. Her hair was white, and her face bore marks of
mental suffering. Her eyes contained an almost hopeless expression, and
she worked more like a machine than a human being. She had been
housekeeper here for many years, and had faithfully and patiently
performed her various duties. No woman ever came to see her, and she
seldom left the farm except for a rare visit to the store or the
post-office. But she had been over to the Pendle's that afternoon, and
this Mr. Acres knew.

"Rachel," he called, looking towards the kitchen. "Come here."

"What is it, sir?" she asked coming towards him with the dishcloth in
her hand.

"How is your rheumatism, Rachel?"

"Very bad, sir. My right shoulder troubles me all the time."

"And so you've decided to try Peter Pendle's Panacea?"

Rachel gave a slight start, and a flush overspread her face.

"Who told you that, sir?"

Mr. Acres smiled as he tapped the table with the fingers of his right
hand.

"Never mind who told me, Rachel. But I know, all right. Have you any
faith in Peter's Panacea?"

"I hardly know, sir. But I have read those big letters on Peter's van so
often that I cannot get them out of my mind. 'Peter Pendle's Panacea'
has been running through my head day and night until at last I decided
to try it. Anything else has failed to give me any relief."

"And so will this fail, Rachel. Peter is a hum-bug, and so is his
Panacea. But he is a good fellow, for all that, and the only real man in
Glengrow. And his wife is a worthy woman, and minds her own business,
which is more than most of the women here do. They have a visitor, I
hear, and she is living in the store-room Peter has fixed up. Did you
meet her?"

"I did. She invited me in, and was very agreeable. She is one of the
most charming girls I have ever met."

"So she is young? How old do you think?"

"I cannot say for sure, though I should judge she is about nineteen or
twenty."

"And what does she intend to do here?"

"Paint pictures, so she said. And she asked me to bring a message to
you."

"To me! Who told her about me?"

"Peter and his wife, I suppose. She wants your permission to use Bullet
Lake and House. She is very much interested in them, and hopes to get
some very fine pictures there. She is quite willing to rent the place
for a few weeks."

Mr. Acres laid his pipe upon the table and looked keenly at his
housekeeper.

"What does she know about that place?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Why didn't she come to see me herself?"

"She didn't say. But I wish she would come, for I am sure you would like
her. No one could help it, for she is so beautiful and bubbling over
with life."

"Is that so? Well, if she does much bubbling in this parish she'll have
the gossiping tongues wagging in no time."

"I don't think she would mind one bit, sir. She seems mighty independent
and well able to take care of herself."

"She'll have use for all the spirit she's got, then. But she'll have to
find something else to paint as I have already rented Bullet House and
Lake."

"She knows that, for Peter told her. But she only wants permission to go
to the lake and paint things. She doesn't want to live in the house."

"That makes no difference. I have rented the place to Mr. Rutledge, so
she will have to see him. And, by the way, Rachel, what is this charming
damsel's name?"

"Miss Joan Rowland, sir."

Rachel was staring at some crumbs lying upon the table which she had
overlooked, so did not see the startled expression that came into Mr.
Acres' eyes. Neither did she notice how erect he was sitting. Presently
his whole body began to tremble, and he clutched the edge of the table
to control his shaking hands.

"Some wine, Rachel. Quick," he gasped.

Glancing at her master, and alarmed by his appearance, the woman
hurried out of the room. In another minute she was back with a glass of
wine which Mr. Acres seized with a trembling hand and drained it to the
last drop.

"Thanks, Rachel. I feel better now. You may go. I wish to be alone for a
while."

"Suppose you lie down on the sofa, sir," the woman suggested.

"No, no. I'm all right now. It was only a weak spell. And, Rachel."

"Yes, sir."

"Did Peter say anything about Mr. Rutledge?"

"Not much. He took him and Mrs. Nairn to Bullet Lake yesterday
afternoon."

"Did he say what Mr. Rutledge intends to do out there?"

"He hopes to do some writing."

"What about?"

"I don't know for sure, but from what Peter said he is anxious to find
out something about Bullet House, and how it got its name. He thinks
there must be a thrilling story connected with it. He was greatly
interested in a bullet hole in the window sash. That is all Peter told
me."

"That is quite enough, Rachel. You may go now."




CHAPTER VIII

ANXIETY


For some time Mr. Acres sat at the table staring straight before him.
Rachel moved quietly about the kitchen, keeping all the while a watchful
eye upon her master. His fainting spell worried her, as this was the
first time she had ever known one to come upon him. He should see the
doctor, she believed, although she knew he would be angry if she even
suggested such a thing. He meant a great deal to her, for should he die,
she would be homeless. The Poor House would be her only refuge, and she
trembled as she thought of it.

When Mr. Acres at length rose from the table and went upstairs, Rachel
felt seriously alarmed. This was a most unusual thing for him to do, as
he always spent the evening strolling about the farm, examining
everything, to find out if Billy and Nathan had done their work
thoroughly. Even in winter he never went to his room until bedtime, but
spent the evening before a large open fire smoking, and reading one of
his books about the sea, ships, and captains. It was but natural,
therefore, that when he departed from his ordinary custom she should be
greatly disturbed.

Waiting until Mr. Acres had entered his room and closed the door, she
went out into the milk-room at the back of the house. The men were
already there with their pails of milk for the separator. They were too
much engaged in a heated discussion to notice that Rachel was late, as
she was generally there ahead of them, and had everything ready.

"You can't prove from the Bible that dancin' is wrong," Billy was saying
as the housekeeper arrived. "But it does tell us to praise the Lord in
the dance."

"In what book is that?" Nathan demanded. "Name the chapter and verse."

"Well, I can't off-hand," Billy confessed, scratching his head in
perplexity. "But I have heard it read in church, so it must be all
right."

"So that is what you hear in church, eh?" Nathan sneered. "I wouldn't go
to a church which teaches that dancing is praising the Lord. Now, what I
hear when I go is that the wicked shall be turned into hell."

"But what has that to do with dancin'? Ye can't prove that the ones who
dance are more wicked than them who don't."

"But they are."

"How d'ye know that?"

"By their fruits ye shall know them. That's what the Bible says."

Before Billy could make any further reply, Rachel appeared. His face
brightened.

"You're just in time, Rachel. You can settle this question between
Nathan an' me. Is it wrong to dance? Nathan says it is, an' I say it
isn't. Can you tell me the place in the Bible where it says we are to
praise the Lord in the dance?"

Rachel, with arms akimbo, looked scornfully at the two men. Their eyes
dropped before her steady gaze, and they shuffled somewhat uneasily.

"You big babies!" she reproved. "Why, you should be thoroughly ashamed
of yourselves. You are always quarrelling over something. For pity's
sake, don't be so silly. Men as old as you are should know better, as I
have often told you before."

"But we get great fun out of it," Billy declared with twinkling eyes. "I
do it fer Nathan's good. He would never read the Bible except to find
some text to floor me in an argument."

"You're wrong," Nathan growled. "I read the Bible for the good of my
soul. I'm sorry you don't do the same, for you need the medicine of Holy
Scripture if any man ever did. I--"

"There, stop that," Rachel sternly ordered. "I want to speak to you
about master. I am afraid he's ill."

These words produced a disturbing effect upon the two men, and at once
they lost all interest in their argument about dancing.

"When did he take sick?" Billy asked. "He was all right when we left
him, wasn't he, Nathan?"

Nathan merely nodded his assent.

"No he wasn't," Rachel declared. "He ate very little, and seemed worried
over something."

"So he did," Billy agreed, fumbling in his pocket for his pipe and
tobacco. "He was interested, though, in the news I gave him."

"And he was curious, too, about Peter's boarder, and asked me several
questions about her. It was just after I told him her name that he took
his weak spell."

"Well, that's queer. I wonder--"

He suddenly stopped, and instead of lighting his pipe, he thrust it
back into his pocket, and brought forth his mouth-organ upon which he
began to play an old familiar air.

"I can always think better when I'm makin' music," he had often said.

"Then, it's more than anyone else can do," Nathan had always retorted.
"I don't see how you can call the noise you make music."

But Billy never cared what anyone said, so lost was he to all outward
things when he was giving expression to his feelings upon one of his
beloved instruments. And so as he played now he paid no attention to
what his companions were saying. Neither did the roar of the separator
which started a few minutes later under Nathan's powerful arms, disturb
him in the least.

In the meantime, Mr. Acres was seated before his desk near the bedroom
window which faced the main highway. From here a clear view could be
obtained of the hotel in the distance, the rectory, and a large stretch
of river to the right. And near the shore was his little yacht, riding
calmly at anchor. He was not looking at them now, however, but at Peter
Pendle's house, especially at the freshly-painted part aglow with the
light of the declining sun. It fascinated him as he sat there with his
right arm resting upon his old oak desk. There was no fierceness in his
eyes now such as he presented to the world. Instead, there was a gentle
expression, almost of longing. It was quite evident that he was deeply
moved, for his hands were clenched hard together, and his body was erect
and rigid. The rich scent of clover drifted in through the open window,
and he heard the faint strains of Billy's mouth-organ. He recognized
the old tune, _The Girl I Left Behind Me_, and it affected him keenly as
he listened with strained attention. He had not heard it for long years,
and he wondered why Billy was playing it now. This was followed by _Auld
Lang Syne_, and as the last notes faded on the calm air, Mr. Acres
lowered his arm from the table and pushed back his chair. Rising to his
feet, he crossed the room and locked the door. Returning to the window,
he drew a bunch of keys from his pocket, and selecting one, he opened
the middle drawer of his desk. With a hand that slightly trembled, he
lifted out a package of papers, neatly arranged, and securely fastened
with elastic bands. There were similar packages in the drawer upon which
he looked but did not touch. He evidently had use for only one now, and
he gazed upon it for some time. This was merely a number of faded
cancelled bank cheques. The top one alone was visible, made payable to
the order of Lucy Rayton, and signed by the Golden Trust Company. A wan
smile overspread Mr. Acres' face, and he sighed. Again he looked out of
the window off towards the house from which the glow of evening had
faded.

"So fade life's joys," he whispered. "Fleeting as the sinking sun, and
leaving behind nothing but darkness, loneliness, and despair."

He ceased and remained lost in thought. Again his lips moved.

"I may be mistaken. The name may be only a coincident. If I could see
her face, I think I should know the truth. I might take the message to
her myself. But, no, Billy had better go. I do not feel equal for such a
thing. I shall write a note instead."

Picking up a pen he wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper. This he
carefully folded, placed it in an envelope and addressed it to Miss Joan
Rowland. He gazed at it for a while, and then rose to his feet. He moved
towards the door, but stopped half way as if undecided what to do.

"Yes, Billy could take this," he muttered. "But what good would that do?
I want to see the girl. I must go myself. I want to find out for
certain, and to-night."

He left the room and began to descend the stairs. When part way down he
changed his mind, stopped and then slowly retraced his steps. Silas
Acres was undergoing a severe mental struggle. If anyone had been
watching his actions he would have been surprised, if not amused. But to
this old man there was nothing amusing in what he was doing. It was one
of the most important events in his life, a crisis, so he believed,
which might mean a great deal to him. Perhaps it would be the end of a
strange undertaking, or only another of the many links in a chain, the
first of which had been formed years before. If the latter, he would
then be satisfied. Hitherto he had been content to wait and hope. But
now he felt that he could endure no longer. He could not let another
night pass without learning the truth. The suspense would be too hard to
endure.

Resolutely now he again descended the stairs, picked up his hat and
stout walking-stick, and left the house by the front door. He glanced
somewhat nervously around lest Rachel or the men might be watching.
Seeing and hearing nothing of them, he walked towards the gate, which he
cautiously opened to prevent its creaking upon its rusty hinges. Then
up the road he moved, striking the ground heavily with his stick as he
advanced. He was now the Silas Acres his neighbors knew. The mask was
once more upon his face with which he confronted the world, not to be
removed until he had returned to the shelter of his own abode.

The sun had gone down, and the long twilight was steadily deepening as
he drew near Peter Pendle's house. To his surprise he saw no one about
the place, although the doors were open, telling plainly that Peter and
his wife were not far away. But it was upon the newly-painted part that
he looked, expecting to find Miss Rowland there. He reached the door and
rapped with his stick upon the right hand casing. Receiving no response,
he looked inside and noticed the neatness and cosiness of the room.
Pictures without frames adorned the walls, one of which was that of a
noble clipper ship under full sail, which brought a glow of pleasure to
his eyes. The room was scantily furnished with a few chairs, and a
centre-table upon which was a vase filled with fresh wild flowers. All
these he observed at a glance. He then stepped back and looked around.
Seeing a rustic chair beneath a big maple tree a short distance away, he
decided to rest there a while and wait. Surely some one would come
shortly.

And it was there that Joan Rowland found him, as she was returning from
the rectory where she had taken Betty and John after a glorious romp in
the grass. She stopped and stared at the man seated under the tree, and
leaning forward with both hands resting heavily upon his stick which was
firmly planted upon the ground. Perhaps he was a tramp! He looked like
one, anyway, with his ragged beard, old felt hat, and worn clothes.

She was about to advance to ask him what he wanted, when Mr. Acres
lifted his head and saw her. And truly Joan Rowland was worth looking
at. Young, buoyant, and cheeks flushed by her exercise with the children
she seemed to the staring man the very embodiment of grace and beauty.
But as he rose to meet her his eyes searched for more than youthful
charm. He was looking for the reflection, no matter how faint, of one
whose image was enshrined in the secret and holy place of his heart.

Startled by the strange piercing expression in the man's eyes, Joan
hesitated and drew back a little. Seeing this, Mr. Acres smiled grimly.

"Excuse me," he began. "Are you Miss Joan Rowland?"

"I am, sir. What can I do for you?"

"Take this," and he held out the letter. "You want the use of Bullet
Lake and House. This letter will explain everything."

"Oh, you are Mr. Acres," Joan replied. "Won't you come in? Mr. and Mrs.
Pendle will be home soon."

For a few seconds the man stood gazing at the animated face before him.
He then slowly shook his head.

"Not now, Miss. Not now. Some other time, maybe."

Without another word he turned and walked slowly away, leaving the girl
staring wonderingly after him. Then an expression of anger flashed into
her eyes.

"So that is Silas Acres! And I was civil to him!"




CHAPTER IX

AN ACCIDENT


Mrs. Rockbridge was not satisfied with her visit to Glengrow. The fact
that Mrs. Nairn was a graduate of a University of high standing, that
she had travelled extensively in Europe, and had attended a number of
large social functions in some of the great cities made Mrs.
Rockbridge's undertaking all the more difficult. So far she had only the
condition of the rectory as an off-set. She was well aware, however,
that such a state of affairs might happen in any family where children
were left alone for a while. No, people would need far more than that to
change their minds and turn them against the Rector of Glengrow and his
wife.

Puzzled, as well as annoyed, she was wondering what to do next when she
was summoned back to the city. As president of the Go-Ahead Club she was
needed at a luncheon to be given to Miss Ramona Blemfield, the noted
authoress and lecturer who was visiting Pretensia. It was necessary that
the president should attend to welcome the famous guest. That her
presence was needed was very gratifying to Mrs. Rockbridge. It showed
that no one else was capable of performing the duties of such an
important occasion. She had little time to prepare an address of
welcome. But this did not worry her in the least. She believed that she
was able to speak in an entertaining and intelligent manner at a
moment's notice.

The luncheon was a brilliant affair, with the leading women of Pretensia
present. Mrs. Rockbridge glowed with pride, and her eyes beamed goodwill
as she talked affably to the guest of honor on her right.

"This is your first visit to this country, Miss Blemfield, I believe."

"It is, and I am delighted with everything I have seen, and the
hospitality I have received. But I was well prepared for this, as
several years ago I travelled in Europe with one of your charming girls.
She told me so much about this wonderful country, that ever since I have
been eager to visit it, but never had the opportunity until this year. I
long to meet my friend again, but have no idea where she is. We
corresponded for some time, but owing to my wandering life I lost track
of her. In her last letter to me she said that she was about to be
married to a clergyman, but I have forgotten his name. I am so sorry
that our correspondence ceased, but it was my fault. I should dearly
love to see Nell Rutledge again, for I always think of her by that name.
I suppose you have never met her? But that is hardly likely, as this is
such a vast country."

"No, I never met her," was the only reply that Mrs. Rockbridge made. She
showed no concern, but tactfully changed the subject to Miss Blemfield's
writings. But her heart was full of bitterness and anger. She was well
aware that Nell Rutledge was Mrs. Nairn, wife of the Rector of Glengrow,
and this thought was hard for her to endure. When she at length rose to
speak she was ill at ease, and her words were halting. Her fluency of
expression had vanished, and all in the room wondered what was the
matter with their president. She made a desperate effort to rally her
forces, but all in vain. She said a few ineffective words, and groped
wildly in her mind for something of importance to say. She was compelled
to end abruptly, and merely introduced the guest as "Our distinguished
visitor of whom we have heard so much."

When the luncheon was over, Mrs. Rockbridge hastened to the office of
the _Daily Echo_, and gave her husband a very bad half hour. She told
him what Miss Blemfield had said about her acquaintance with Nell
Rutledge in Europe and of her regret at losing track of her.

"I am certain that she is Mrs. Nairn, wife of the Rector of Glengrow,
and don't you dare to say anything about her in the paper."

"It will be a pity to leave such an important item out, my dear. It
would bring credit upon our--"

"I won't have it," and Mrs. Rockbridge stamped her foot in rage. "You
know what that would mean to the people of St. Alban's. Why, it would
make them all the more eager to elect Mr. Nairn. If you put anything
about what I have told you into the paper you will regret it."

Mr. Rockbridge knew only too well, so meekly submitted. He breathed a
sigh of relief when his wife had departed and he was left in peace. But
he remained lost in thought, and his eyes bore a worried expression.

"Have I come to this!" he murmured. "That woman rules me soul and body.
She is becoming more overbearing every day, and there is only one way I
could curb her. If she knew what I know, it might have some effect, but
I have not the courage to tell her."

He sighed as he turned to his desk and continued his work.

In the meantime Mrs. Rockbridge was speeding recklessly on her way to
Glengrow. She was an erratic driver, and several times she had barely
escaped serious accidents with other cars. But she was such a headstrong
woman that she did not blame herself in the least. She seemed to think
that the road belonged to her, and that all drivers should give her the
right of way. And they generally did, glad to escape without harm from
such a whirlwind of a woman. In fact, several letters of complaint had
reached the office of the _Daily Echo_, but they had never been
published. The Editor saw to that.

Mrs. Rockbridge was also reckless at sharp turns in the road, and took
them at times with such speed that those who happened to be watching
gasped with horror. This evening, however, she did it once too often at
a place in Glengrow where the road was narrow. Coming to a sharp turn,
she did not slow up until quite near. Realising her danger, she applied
the brakes with all her strength. She was too late, for the car left the
road, plunged into a thicket of hazel bushes and turned over on its
side.

At this moment Jim Broadbent was eating his supper in his house nearby.
Hearing the crash, he rushed out to see what had happened, followed by
his wife and children. He had just extricated Mrs. Rockbridge from the
car and was placing her upon the grass when Peter Pendle drove up.

"Hello, what's the matter?" he inquired.

"A fool of a woman," Jim growled. "I expected something like this. Give
me a hand."

Peter climbed out of his car, crossed the road, and looked down at the
unconscious woman.

"H'm! Mrs. Gusty Rockbridge, eh? She passed me like a whirlwind a few
minutes ago. Is she dead?"

"I don't think so. Just a faint."

"Is that it? Well, I'll soon bring her out of that."

Going to his van, Peter returned a minute later with a bottle in his
hand.

"This'll bring her to, if anything will," he declared as he drew out the
cork and applied some of the liquid to the woman's forehead. He then
held the bottle to her nose. Mrs. Rockbridge stirred, gasped, groaned,
opened her eyes and sat suddenly up.

"Where am I? What has happened?"

"Yer right here on the ground, an' yer car is restin' comfortably over
there," Peter replied.

"But what are you doing with that bottle? Are you robbers, trying to
poison me?"

"Do we look like robbers, Madam? Maybe ye've mistaken us fer devils. But
they didn't get ye this time. We are honest men, tryin' to help a woman
in trouble. This is merely Peter Pendle's Panacea which will cure
anything from a spavined hoss to a faintin' female."

Mrs. Rockbridge stared at her car, and then struggled to her feet.

"Why don't you get my car out of that?" she demanded. "And why do you
permit such a bad turn as that in this road. It's a regular death-trap."


"It is, Madam, an' it's a wonder yer not now in the celestial city--or
somewhere else," he added after a short pause.

"What do you mean? That I might have been killed?"

"Well, it looks that way. You can't expect to travel like a whirlwind on
this road an' get off with it, let me tell ye that."

"But I wasn't travelling fast. How dare you say that I was?"

"There's the evidence, Madam," and Peter pointed to the car. "That thing
couldn't stand the pace, 'specially round this curve, so it took to the
bushes. Now, it might have hit that tree there, just a few feet away.
But it had some sense, even though its driver didn't."

"Do you dare to insult me?" Mrs. Rockbridge demanded. "Do you know who I
am?"

"Oh, yes, I know, a'right. But it doesn't make any difference to me
whether yer Mrs. Gusty Rockbridge or the King of England. I'm only
speakin' fer yer good. But, there, you'd better go into the house while
we get the car out that mess. Come, Jim, let's get busy."

Mrs. Broadbent now came forward.

"Yes, come with me," she invited. "You need a rest."

Reluctantly Mrs. Rockbridge allowed herself to be led away from the
road. She walked unsteadily and was very glad to lie down upon the sofa
in the sitting-room when she reached the house. Mrs. Broadbent brought
her a cup of hot tea, and urged her to drink.

"You'll be all right in a few minutes," she comforted. "I am so thankful
you were not killed or seriously injured. That is a bad turn and
several accidents have happened there."

"It is a terrible place," Mrs. Rockbridge replied. "The government
should not allow it. I shall get my husband to write a strong article
about it, an editorial, perhaps."

"The road is to be repaired, I believe," Mrs. Broadbent explained. "The
surveyors have been over it, and work will begin this summer. Now, won't
you have something to eat? I have some nice fresh rolls. Let me bring
you one, and a little jelly which I made myself."

"No, thanks. I am not hungry. How could I eat after that terrible
experience! Are these your children?" she languidly asked, noticing for
the first time a boy and a girl standing in the doorway.

"They are," Mrs. Broadbent proudly acknowledged.

"They go to school, I suppose?"

"They go regularly during school term, but they are having their
holidays now."

"And they go to Sunday school?"

"They always have, but it is hardly likely they will go any more."

"Why? Is the Sunday school closed too?"

"Oh, no. It's because of Mrs. Nairn, the parson's wife."

These words aroused the reclining woman, and a new interest appeared in
her eyes.

"What about Mrs. Nairn? Has she offended them in any way?"

"No, I can't say that. But she has offended us, and that is just the
same."

"What has she done?"

"It isn't what she has done, but what she has said. Haven't you heard?"

"Not a word. What was it?"

Mrs. Broadbent sat down in a nearby chair, pleased to have such an
interested listener.

"Well, she said that the church people in this parish are hypocrites."

"She did!" Mrs. Rockbridge forgot her weakness, and quickly rose to a
sitting position. "Did she really say that?"

"That's what Hettie Rushton, her maid, told her mother. She heard what
Mrs. Nairn said the day Si Acres was at the rectory. After he went away,
the parson and his wife had a set-to about something. It was then that
Mrs. Nairn said some awful things about Sam Crofter and Sam Skipson, and
called all the people in the place hypocrites. We only give our money,
she said, for appearance because we are afraid of what our neighbors
might say."

Mrs. Rockbridge listened eagerly to every word. This was a choice bit of
gossip for her.

"Isn't it strange that your rector's wife should say such things about
the church members?" she queried.

"Strange! Why, it's terrible. But that wasn't all she said."

"No? I should consider that quite enough."

"One would think so. But Mrs. Nairn even said she likes Si Acres because
he has the courage of his convictions."

"Who is Si Acres?"

"An old devil who lives down the road from the hotel. He hates
everybody, and everybody hates him. He's an awful man."

"So Mrs. Nairn likes him?"

"That's what Hettie said. Now, any woman who can see anything to like in
such a brute as Si Acres must have a nasty streak in her."

"Didn't Mrs. Nairn show it by what she said about the church members?"

"She certainly did."

"Were you surprised when you heard what she said?"

"Not altogether. She's been showing signs of what she's like ever since
she came here."

"Has she? In what way?" Mrs. Rockbridge felt sure now that she was on
the verge of some important revelation.

"Oh, I can hardly explain. It's not that she has done anything really
bad. That's not what I mean. But she's too common for a clergyman's
wife."

"Indeed! How common?"

"Well, for one thing, she's too free and easy. Why, she's friendly with
the riff-raff, such as the Stoneys and Buckeyes, people we consider the
lowest of the low, and who never put foot inside the church until she
came."

"So they go now?"

"They do, and send their children to Sunday school to mix with ours.
They should keep by themselves."

"But the Church is for all, remember, the poor as well as the rich, for
the outcasts as well as for the saints." Mrs. Rockbridge remembered an
address she had once given in connection with relief work in the city,
although she neither believed nor practised what she preached.

"I suppose it is," Mrs. Broadbent doubtfully agreed. "But it didn't use
to be so here. The parson and his wife always kept themselves
respectable. They had dignity, and called only upon the ones who
subscribed to the church and attended the services. How well I remember
dear old Mrs. Beckwith, who brought up a large family, and stayed at
home to look after them. She only visited with the parson on special
occasions when invited out to tea. And she was so proper that no one
would think for a moment of being free and easy with her. My, we had to
be on our best behaviour when Mr. and Mrs. Beckwith were at our house.
But dear me, now the parson's wife is racing all over the parish with
her husband, and romping with the children just like a school girl."

"That must please the children," Mrs. Rockbridge remarked as Mrs.
Broadbent paused for breath.

"It does, and they are always delighted to see her. But they don't stand
in awe of her as they should. When old Parson Beckwith and his wife
called we were always put through our Catechism, 'and other things a
Christian ought to know and believe to his soul's health,' as the Prayer
Book says. But now it's nothing but fun, singing, and story-telling when
Mrs. Nairn comes. However, we won't see much of her now, I suppose, as
that brother of hers has arrived. She'll have her hands full looking
after him, from what I hear."

Mrs. Rockbridge was fully alert once more. Her interest had subsided
while Mrs. Broadbent had been talking, and she was becoming impatient.
She was anxious to hear something of real importance against Mrs. Nairn
instead of in her favor. That she was free and easy, and fond of
children did not suit her. She had risen to her feet to go back to her
car when Mrs. Broadbent's words caused her to resume her seat.

"What about Mrs. Nairn's brother?" she asked.

"I only know what Peter Pendle told me this morning on his way by. It
seems that Mrs. Nairn's brother has rented Bullet House from Si Acres
for several weeks."

"Well, there's nothing wrong about that, is there?" Mrs. Rockbridge
somewhat sternly inquired.

"Maybe not. But it makes a great difference when a girl has rented the
same place."

"It certainly does. And who is the girl?"

"A Miss Rowland, I think her name is. Peter fixed up that shed of his
for her. She's a painter, you see, and says she wants to paint Bullet
House and Lake. But that looks to me as only an excuse for getting out
there with that young man."

"Are you sure that Mr. Acres rented it to both of them?"

"Peter says so, and he thinks it's a great joke. But to me it is
scandalous."

"It is. And what does Mrs. Nairn think about it?"

"She doesn't seem to mind, for she went with her brother to the lake
this very week. Peter took them out."

"Where is Bullet House?"

"About two miles back from the river."

"Is there a good road?"

"Not very. But cars go over it, all right."

Mrs. Rockbridge had risen to her feet. She had forgotten all about her
accident in the face of this important piece of news.

"I want to go to Bullet Lake," she announced. "Do you think your husband
will go with me to show me the way? I shall pay him well."

"I think he will go. But you can ask him yourself. There he is now
coming to the house. Your car is on the road and seems to be all right."





CHAPTER X

SUSPICION


The _Daily Echo_ reached the rectory about the middle of the forenoon.
As Andrew Nairn sat upon the verandah reading a letter he had received,
his wife picked up the paper lying on a chair by his side. She had not
much time to spare, as she was needed in the kitchen. Hettie knew very
little about cooking, and was slow to learn. She was also forgetful and
had to be reminded over and over again about the simplest matter. But
she was the only girl the Nairns could obtain, for all the others were
working at the hotel except those who were needed at home. Hettie was
too incompetent to find employment there, and she had been dismissed the
previous summer. Mrs. Nairn, however, found her of considerable use,
such as washing the dishes, and other household duties. She was also
agreeable and fond of the children which meant a great deal.

Mr. Nairn was interrupted in his reading by an exclamation from his
wife. Looking up, he noticed the flush of excitement upon her face.

"What is it, Nell? Something important?"

"Oh, Andrew! It's wonderful! Just think, Mona is in town!"

"Mona who?"

"Mona Blemfield, of course, the girl I met in Europe. Her picture is
here in the paper with an account of her lecture yesterday before the
Go-Ahead Club at which Mrs. Rockbridge presided. It must have been a
great affair, and I wish I had been there. I might have gone if I had
known."

"But you are not a member of the Club, Nell."

"That would have made no difference. I would have called upon Mona at
the hotel and she would have taken me with her. Oh, Andrew, I have a
good mind to call her on the 'phone and ask her to come to visit us."

"That's a grand idea. I am anxious to see the wonderful Ramona of whom
you have talked so much. But dare we presume to entertain such a notable
person here?"

"Mona will be delighted with everything, I am sure. And if she can come,
we must take her to Bullet Lake. She will like it there."

"Out in that lonely place!"

Mrs. Nairn laughed at the expression upon her husband's face.

"Just wait until you see her and then you will understand. Read what
this paper says about her while I go and look after my cake. I forgot
all about it, and hope it is not burnt."

When she returned a few minutes later, Mr. Nairn was still reading.

"Well, what do you think of Mona now?" she asked.

"I can't judge very well from this account, Nell. It is mostly about
Mrs. Augustus Rockbridge, what she said, and the names of others who
were present. It says that Miss Blemfield was charming, and that she
gave a graphic description of her travels in Europe. But for one line
about what she said there are five given to the remarks of the
president. Listen to this: 'Mrs. Augustus Rockbridge presided, and in
her usual pleasing manner introduced the noted lecturer. She explained
the purpose of the Club and the many famous speakers who had been
entertained. She believed that the Club was doing a most valuable work
along true educational and constructive lines. Her words were received
with hearty approval.' Now, what do you think of that?"

"I am not one bit surprised, Andrew. I have noticed that when Mrs.
Rockbridge presides at any affair a great deal is reported about what
she says and very little about the chief speaker. It is too bad, for I
am sure that Mona must have given a wonderful address. She is clever
enough, anyway."

"I am getting nervous, Nell, about meeting her. I shall be as dumb as an
oyster in her presence."

"No, you won't. You will make out, all right. But we are not sure yet
that she can come. You look after things here while I go over to the
store and 'phone. It may take me some time to get her."

"What about the cake, Nell?"

"It is done, and Hettie is preparing the vegetables for dinner. Keep an
eye on the children. They are playing at the back of the house."

When Mrs. Nairn returned from the store, her sparkling eyes told of her
success.

"Mona can come," she announced, as she entered the study where her
husband was seated at his desk. "I got her in a few minutes. And, my,
wasn't she surprised to hear my voice! She has been thinking so much
about me. And you are to meet her at the Blue Rock Hotel at 5 o'clock."

"Why so late, Nell?"

"She has an engagement, an address, I think, to give during the
afternoon."

"Why can't you go with me, Nell? It makes me shiver to think of meeting
the great Ramona Blemfield and driving home with her."

"I can't go very well, Andrew. I must do some extra cooking and get the
house set to rights. You will make out, all right, and fall in love with
Mona as soon as you see her."

"Are you not afraid to let me go alone?"

"Not at all. You may fall in love with her all you like and I won't
mind. But I don't think Mona will fall in love with a staid parson like
you. She said she was surprised that I ever did. And, in fact, I am of
the same mind myself."

Mr. Nairn smiled as he turned his attention once more to the sermon he
was preparing for Sunday. He was pleased that his wife was so happy, and
he really looked forward to meeting the famous lecturer. Should the
members of St. Alban's hear of her visit to Glengrow rectory it might
mean much in his favor.

Mrs. Nairn had another reason for staying at home besides cooking and
looking after the house. She had already planned to visit Mrs.
Rockbridge that very afternoon that she might hear what she had to say
about Ramona Blemfield. She said nothing to her husband, however, for
she was quite sure that he would insist upon her waiting until he could
go with her. But Mrs. Nairn preferred to make her visit alone, for with
her quick womanly intuition she believed that Mrs. Rockbridge had more
than one reason for coming to Glengrow. She had been suspicious of this
society leader of Pretensia ever since that afternoon she had called at
the rectory. There was something more in that visit, she surmised, than
appeared on the surface. She had come as a spy, so it seemed to her, and
the thought was most annoying. Then there was the casual remark Robert
had made when he had jokingly warned her to be on her best behaviour
because Mrs. Rockbridge was at the hotel. She had asked him what he
meant, but he had only laughed in reply. She had thought over these
things a great deal, and wondered if they signified anything. But that
morning a chance remark made by Miss Blemfield over the 'phone convinced
her that she was right in her suspicion.

"I have been inquiring for you everywhere," Mona had said. "I even asked
Mrs. Rockbridge, but she said she knew nothing about you."

But perhaps Mrs. Rockbridge had spoken the truth. Why should she know
who Mrs. Nairn was before her marriage? This idea came to her as she
busied herself about the house. She might be wrong, after all. Why
should such a woman as Mrs. Rockbridge spy upon her? That it was in
connection with St. Alban's had entered her mind, but she had banished
it as ridiculous. Anyway, if there was any reason she hoped to learn
something definite during the afternoon.

Mrs. Rockbridge received her visitor in a cordial and unconventional
manner at the hotel. She was out upon the verandah, reclining in a large
comfortable hammock with a copy of the _Daily Echo_ by her side. She
did not rise, but extended a hand of welcome to her visitor, and
motioned her to a chair.

"You will pardon my not rising," she began, "but I met with an accident
yesterday, so feel quite used up to-day. These roads are very dangerous,
especially at the turns. You drive a great deal with your husband, I
suppose, so know what they are like."

"The shore road is good compared with the ones back from the river,"
Mrs. Nairn replied. "Some of them are terrible. We have had the springs
of our car broken several times, besides other damages."

"And do you go to such places with your husband?"

"Oh, yes, as often as I can, especially where there are no organists."

"My, what a busy life you must lead. Mr. Nairn must find the work in a
country parish most trying and difficult."

"He thinks it very pleasant except in winter when the roads are bad.
Sometimes they are almost impassable."

"But don't you both find life somewhat uncongenial here? Do you not miss
the social and intellectual stimulus of the city?"

"In a way we do," Mrs. Nairn smilingly replied. "But we have great times
reading together during the long winter evenings when my husband is at
home. You would be surprised should I tell you of the many books we have
read since we have been here."

"Mostly novels, I suppose?"

"We read a novel occasionally, although we prefer something more solid,
such as history, biography, essays, plays, and poetry. Last winter we
read and studied several of Shakespeare's and Ibsen's Plays, and had a
glorious feast upon Browning, Shelley, and Masefield, the new Poet
Laureate. You have read them all, of course, and can readily understand
our enjoyment."

A mischievous twinkle appeared in Mrs. Nairn's eyes as she noticed the
surprised expression upon Mrs. Rockbridge's face. Although a society
leader, this woman knew very little about the great writers and only
made a pretence of being well versed in literary matters. But she was
always quite equal to any occasion. Ignorance never daunted her, and the
less she knew about a subject the more voluble she became.

"You must indeed get great pleasure from such reading," she replied. "My
husband and I are very fond of the Masters, and have such beautiful sets
of their works. But for all that, we like to mingle with intellectual
people, to exchange views and to keep abreast of the times. Lectures by
prominent people are also stimulating, and we attend as many as
possible."

"I see by to-day's paper that you had a noted woman to lecture before
your Club yesterday afternoon. Judging from the account, she must have
been very delightful."

Mrs. Rockbridge cast a swift glance at her visitor. But Mrs. Nairn was
gazing out upon the river with a far-away look in her eyes.

"It was a rare treat, I assure you, Mrs. Nairn. Miss Blemfield was
wonderful. And she charmed everybody by her gracious manner."

"She has travelled extensively, so the paper says."

"She has, and her word pictures were so graphic that you could almost
see the places she described."

"It must be wonderful to hear about distant countries. That is what we
miss here."

Mrs. Nairn gave such a deep sigh that Mrs. Rockbridge was surprised. If
this woman had travelled in Europe, and had visited some of the great
cities why did she not say so? Mr. Nairn had told her that his wife had
studied abroad, and had seen much of high social life. Such silence,
then, on the part of this woman was puzzling. And why did not Mrs. Nairn
mention her acquaintance with Miss Blemfield? But, perhaps, she did not
know her. It might be some other Miss Rutledge the noted lecturer had
met. She hoped so, anyway, but hesitated about asking any questions.

When Mrs. Nairn at length rose to go, Mrs. Rockbridge urged to her to
stay a while longer.

"It is very good of you to come to see me," she purred. "I had the
pleasure of meeting your husband and lovely children when I called at
the rectory."

"I am so sorry I was not at home. John and Betty had everything
topsy-turvy, and my husband was almost in despair when I returned. A man
is quite helpless as a housekeeper. Mine is, anyway."

"Your brother must be quite an exception, then, from what I hear."

This was just the opening Mrs. Nairn needed, and she was determined to
make the most of it.

"My brother!"

"Why, Mr. Rutledge, of course, who has rented Bullet House. He is your
brother, is he not?"

"Oh, you mean Bob. You see, he gets nothing else from us. Yes, he will
make out fairly well with what I cook for him. We are so pleased to have
him with us, and I do hope his health will soon be improved. You have
never met him, I suppose?"

"No, but I have heard my husband speak of him as a most promising
author. He has written some very fine articles for the _Echo_, and his
poetry is wonderful. You must be very proud of him."

Mrs. Nairn had now learned all she needed. As she left the hotel and
walked slowly back to the rectory, she wondered more than ever about
Mrs. Rockbridge's strange behaviour.




CHAPTER XI

A WOODLAND MUSICIAN


The morning sun glinted gently down upon the little brook at the back of
Bullet House. It was a small brook, its banks lined with birch trees and
alders. The water was low, as was generally the case during the summer
months. But there were deep clear pools under the roots of old trees and
near big rough boulders which lifted their heads out of the bed of the
stream. These formed excellent retreats for trout, and near one of these
Robert Rutledge sat upon the bank with several speckled beauties upon a
twig by his side. He had been fishing for over an hour, and was quite
satisfied with his catch. He would take the fish to the rectory and get
his sister to cook them for breakfast.

"We shall have a feast," he mused, "and I must give a couple to Peter
and his wife. But, perhaps, they should have three. Their lodger might
like one. She is an artist, so Peter said. I wonder who she is."

Leaning back against a large tree, whose cooling shade was most
refreshing, he dreamed of the girl he had seen for such a short time at
the White Lily Cafe. The image of her beautiful face was as fresh as
when he had then seen her. But he did not know her name. He had asked
the waitress, but she could not enlighten him. It was the first time she
had observed her at the White Lily, she had told him. Should he ever
see her again? he asked himself. It was hardly likely. He had not the
slightest clue to guide him, and now that he was marooned here in the
wilderness he would have no opportunity of searching for her. In another
month it would be too late. She was merely a visitor in Pretensia, no
doubt, and even now she might be miles away with no thought of him in
her mind.

But Robert Rutledge could not forget her. And although he believed he
should never see her again, he gave himself up to bright visions. This
sylvan retreat was a beautiful place, yet it needed the presence of the
girl he had seen at the White Lily to make it a real heaven on earth. He
pictured her seated by his side on the mossy brook bank, walking with
him through the woodland ways, or sitting before the open fire on chilly
evenings. That such a girl was endowed with a keen mind and a charming
manner he never for an instant doubted. She would understand and
sympathize with his literary aspirations, and how much work of an
outstanding nature they would accomplish together. Such was his
day-dream which gave him so much pleasure.

He was aroused by the sound of music in the direction of the lake.
Listening attentively, he recognized what seemed to be the strains of a
mouth-organ. It was strange to hear such music in this lonely place. Who
could it be? He did not know the tune, but it was a lively one, and
played with considerable zest. He decided to find out who the musician
might be, and what he was doing here.

Picking up his rod and fish, he rose to his feet and walked cautiously
down the brook. He did not have to go far, however, for through an
opening among the trees he saw a little man seated at the foot of a big
birch with a mouth-organ to his lips playing as if his life depended
upon his exertions. He seemed to Robert like some spirit of the woods
clothed in human form that might vanish in an instant. He had not
expected to find such a being here, and a slight sense of awe stole into
his heart. As he stepped forward for a closer inspection, the music
suddenly ceased, and the little man looked around and saw him. He did
not appear surprised at the presence of the stranger, and his face
wrinkled into a smile.

"Do you like music?" he asked.

"I do," Robert replied, moving to his side and looking down upon him.
"Are you enjoying an outing, too?"

"Sure. I am Billy Stubbles an' like to get alone at times."

"It must be pleasant playing here with the harmony of the birds and the
rippling brook to accompany you. You have chosen a most ideal spot."

"Haven't I, now!" The musician's eyes glowed with animation. "I am glad
you understand. Not many do. Nathan makes fun of me when I talk about
music bein' one of Nature's greatest gifts. Why, there is music
everywhere if we have the souls to hear it. I can't help playin', no
matter where I am, but I am always at my best in a place like this.
Nathan says my mouth-organ an' fiddle are the devil's instruments to
lead souls to destruction. You don't believe that, do you, sir? You are
an educated man an' should know."

"They certainly are not. They are very beautiful instruments when
properly used."

"I'm mighty glad to hear ye say that. I shall tell Nathan."

"Who is Nathan?"

"Oh, he's an old sour-krout who works with me at Si Acres. He's a great
reader of the Bible, an' hunts up all the verses he can find about the
wicked goin' to hell. He's always yangin' an' complainin' about the
badness of the world."

"That is a great mistake, my friend. Can he not see the beauty around
him?"

"No, he never thinks about such things, an' he hates music like poison.
I like to play to tease him. We're opposites, ye see. Nathan is a Grit
an' I'm a Tory. We also differ about religion, an' we have great
arguments."

"So you enjoy it?"

"I should say so. Why, it's meat an' drink to us."

"And you keep good friends?"

"The very best. We understand each other, so that makes all the
difference, ye see."

"I suppose so. But you must spend a great deal of your time arguing. How
does Mr. Acres like that? And what are you doing out here at this time
of the day?"

"Lookin' fer a cow that strayed away last night. She must have a calf
somewhere."

"And do you expect to find her by sitting under a tree playing your
mouth-organ?"

"Sure I do. The cows know my music an' come when I play a lively jig.
I've got 'em trained that way. It saves me much trampin' after 'em at
milkin'-time. But Bess can't be anywhere near or she'd have answered
before this. Guess I'll have to go somewhere else an' play. It's too
bad, fer it's tarnation hot this mornin'."

"Is this a part of Mr. Acres' pasture?" Robert asked, beginning to doubt
the truth of this little man's words. He had a suspicion that he had
come for some other purpose. What he said about cows coming at the sound
of music seemed to him like a fairy-tale.

"Oh, no, this is not a part of Si's pasture, sir. But Bess broke through
the fence last night. Ye can't keep that cow in when she has a calf on
her mind."

"But would she stray this far?"

"Sure. Distance means nothin' to her. She came here last year, an' I
found her an' the calf amongst some bushes just back of that old house
up yonder. It's queer how animals like to get off by themselves when
they're in trouble."

"Isn't that the way with people, too?" Robert queried.

"I guess yer right, sir, when I come to think of it. Old Rayton, who
built that house, was like that. Why, after his trouble he didn't leave
this place until he was carried away a dead man."

"What trouble?"

"His broken shoulder, of course, an' the note he backed fer that false
friend of his."

"What happened to his shoulder?"

"He was shot one night while settin' before the fire with his wife an'
little baby by his side."

"Who shot him?"

"It never was learned. Whoever fired that shot got scott free."

"And who was the false friend? What became of him?"

"He cleared out, set up business elsewhere, an' did well, so I've heard.
But I never met him, an' can't remember his name, though I knew it
once."

"Did you know the Raytons?"

"Knew 'em well. They were quiet, hard-workin' people, who minded their
own business. An' Mrs. Rayton was as pretty a lass as ever walked God's
earth. How she could be happy in this lonely place was always a mystery
to me."

"Was she happy?"

"She seemed so. I was a young man when she came here, an' I used to
visit the Raytons at times, an' she always gave me a hearty welcome. She
was fond of music, beautiful pictures, an' liked to talk about the
wonderful things of Nature. She had a soul that understood, an' eyes to
see what others couldn't."

"Who was she before she married Rayton?"

"I don't remember her name. But she was from the city, an' her father
worked in the ship-yards. It's queer why such a lovely girl married a
poor man like Tom Rayton when she might have had the pick of any of the
rich fellers in the city. They were crazy about her, so I heard. But I
guess she followed where her heart led. It's wonderful what a woman will
do fer the man she loves."

During this conversation Robert had been standing near Billy. He now sat
down by his side and drew a cigar from his pocket.

"You smoke, I suppose?"

"I sure do, but mostly me old pipe. Nathan says smokin' is a great sin
an' a filthy habit. But Si likes his pipe, an' so do I. It's been a
great comfort to me."

"Have you lived all your life in this parish?"

"Most of it. I've worked fer Si ever since I was a young man, an' guess
I'll work fer him now to the end of me days."

"How long has Mr. Acres lived here?"

"He came shortly after the Raytons. He was a sea captain before that."

"Why did he come here?"

Instead of replying, Billy laid his right hand upon his companion's arm,
and looked off to the left. He then placed his mouth-organ to his lips
and played a lively dancing air. When he at length ceased, he rose to
his feet.

"Bess is over there," he announced. "I heard her. Listen."

Robert did so, but heard nothing like the sound of a cow's call.

"Your ears must be better than mine, my friend."

"Maybe yours are not trained to hear the voice of a cow, sir. You've
lived in the city most of yer life, I suppose?"

"I have."

"That makes the difference, then. You are used to the sounds of the
streets, steam-whistles, an' such things. You don't have to depend upon
yer hearin' there. But here in the country we learn to listen an'
understand different sounds, even that of a cow's voice. I must go now
an' take Bess home."

He had taken a couple of steps when he stopped, turned and looked at
Robert.

"How d'ye like Bullet House?" he asked with a grin.

"Very much. It's a comfortable place."

"An' you are really Mrs. Nairn's brother?"

"I am. Do you know her?"

"Should say I do. She plays in church, an' I sing in the choir. She says
she couldn't get along without me. If you're as good a man as she is a
woman you're all right. An' ..."

He paused abruptly while a serious expression came into his eyes. Robert
waited for him to continue.

"An' if the folks in this parish have the least bit of sense left in
their heads they'll let her alone."

"What do you mean?"

"Ye'll have to find that out fer yourself. Good mornin', sir."

With that Billy glided swiftly away and disappeared among the trees,
leaving Robert in a most thoughtful mood.




CHAPTER XII

WHAT THE STORM BROUGHT


Stretched full-length upon the rustic sofa at the north-east end of the
verandah Robert gazed out dreamily at the tops of the many trees in
front of Bullet House. It was pleasant to lie there amid such peaceful
surroundings with nothing to do. And this would be his life for a whole
month, and longer, perhaps. The city with all its noise and confusion
was far away. He did not wish to think about it. But he could not help
pitying the unfortunate mortals who were cooped up in stores and offices
on such a sweltering day. He knew what it was like, and now he was free
from it all. Why did people have to toil and struggle so hard to make a
living? he mused. Why could not life be just like this he was now
enjoying, with few needs and nothing to worry about? He had no ambition
to work since coming here. He had not written a line of poetry or prose,
and he had not even removed the cover from his typewriter. When he felt
stronger and the urge was upon him he would produce something of
importance, so he believed. But now he wished only to rest and dream, or
not dream, just as he desired.

He looked at his watch and was surprised to find that it was about the
middle of the afternoon. It seemed but a short time since he had eaten
his lunch. He must have been asleep. He laughed, and the sound of his
voice appeared strange and startling.

"I am getting to be a hermit already, for I am losing count of time. And
what shall I be like in a few weeks? But what does time signify in a
place like this? Time is only for people who toil. I am thankful that it
means nothing to me now. I suppose Rayton and his wife slaved here to
build this house and clear the land which is now all grown up in trees.
That's what time does. In a few years it blots out our work, leaving
little or nothing behind to tell of our efforts. But this house remains,
and it is in good repair, thanks to Mr. Acres' care. And he turned Mrs.
Rayton and her baby off this place and made a fortune out of the lumber!
What a merciless creature he must be. Yet he has kept this house in good
condition. I wonder why. Who is that strange man anyway? He was once a
sea captain and made money. Why did he give it up and settle in
Glengrow? I should like to introduce him into a story and allow my
imagination free play. He is a bachelor, and I could weave a thrilling
love-story about him and explain why he never married. I would have him
in love with a girl when he was young, and he lost her when she married
another. Why, I believe in time I could work out quite a yarn with Si
Acres and some beautiful damsel as the principal characters. But that
would be only fiction, and I want facts about this old house. If Si
Acres comes into the story, all the better. But how in the world am I to
find out?"

He was aroused by the distant rumble of thunder. So absorbed had he been
in thought that he had not noticed the disappearance of the sun and the
approaching storm. The sky in the west was heavy with big angry clouds,
which were rolling steadily towards him. Ere long he could hear the
wind whipping the tops of the trees on the hills, and he knew that the
storm would not be long delayed. The thunder increased in intensity, and
the lightning flashes grew brighter and more frequent. To Robert this
was an interesting experience. A thunder storm in the city seemed
different from one in the country. There it affected him but little.
Now, however, a sense of awe stole into his heart. The steady and
irresistible approach of the storm appeared like a monster about to
spring upon him with fury and destruction. The increasing wind sounded
to his ears like a hissing breath, and the massive clouds assumed the
form of a huge black body of the onrushing demon. He longed for human
companionship. If Billy Stubbles would only appear, what a relief it
would be. But the cheeping birds which had taken shelter among the
branches of the trees, and a scolding squirrel nearby were the only
living creatures around him. Except for them, the silence was ominous.
Not a leaf stirred, and the lake was like a mirror. Nature seemed to be
holding its breath for the attack of the charging battalions of the
heavens rolling down from the hills.

A slight sound in the direction of the lake attracted his attention. As
he looked, he started and sat quickly up. Speeding over the water was a
small row-boat driven by a girl who was swaying to the oars with a
beautifully rhythmical motion. He could see her quite distinctly, and
noticed that she was hatless and that her arms were bare to the elbows.
Who could she be? he wondered. And where had she come from? What in the
world could a girl be doing alone in such a place! That she was heading
for the shore near the house was evident. But would she make it before
the storm burst? Once he saw her turn and look at the rain on the hills,
and then glance towards the shore as if to see how far it was away.

Robert became intensely interested now, almost excited, as he watched
the race between the girl and the approaching tempest. Which would win?
And as he looked, the lake became ruffled as the wind swept its surface
with eddying flurries. Then came the rain, a few vagrant drops at first,
which soon increased in intensity. The storm had now struck, and the
sound of the rain upon the leaves mingled with the crashing of the
thunder. The girl had now reached the shore, and in another minute she
was hurrying up the narrow path. Robert rose to his feet, and walked
along the verandah to receive her. It took the girl but a few seconds to
reach the steps, and as she lifted her face to his Robert recognized
her. She was the girl he had seen at the White Lily Cafe! So great was
his surprise that he stared as if stricken dumb. She looked more
beautiful than when he had first seen her. No longer was she the calm,
sedate person of the city cafe, but a girl with flushed cheeks, and the
very embodiment of youthful health and animation. As she stepped upon
the verandah, she brushed back a few whisps of hair from her cheeks and
forehead. Her eyes sparkled with a mischievous light as she turned them
upon the face of the staring young man.

"What a storm!" she exclaimed, as she shook the rain from her dress.

These words brought Robert out of his trance.

"Are you w--wet?" he stammered.

"Oh, not at all. I am very dry, as you can plainly see. I'm almost
scorched with the sun."

Robert laughed outright, and his embarrassment vanished.

"I am glad you think so. I was going to offer you a comb and a towel,
but you won't need them."

"I do not need them, thank you. My handkerchief will serve as a towel,
and my fingers as a comb."

"It is good to be so independent. Anyway, I bid you welcome to my humble
abode, although it's not as up-to-date as the White Lily Cafe."

"I think it is great, Mr. Rutledge."

"So you know me, then?"

"Only your name, and that you have rented this house for several weeks.
Mr. and Mrs. Pendle told me. I am their lodger."

"So you are Miss Rowland. My sister, Mrs. Nairn, told me that there was
some one at the Pendles, but I didn't know it was you. Why do you want
this house, then?"

"I don't want it. I only desire the privilege of coming here to do some
sketching. Mr. Acres told me that I would have to ask your permission."

"Why didn't you?"

"I came this afternoon for that very purpose, but found you asleep, so I
did not wish to disturb your peaceful slumber."

"That was too bad. I am sorry I missed such a pleasure."

"Didn't you miss the boat? I took it without your permission."

During this conversation Joan had been wiping her face with her
handkerchief and brushing her hair with her fingers.

"There, I guess that will do. I am quite dry now. My dress didn't get
very wet."

"Suppose we sit down," Robert suggested. "That sofa over there is quite
comfortable."

"It seemed so to you a while ago," the girl smilingly replied as she
followed him across the verandah. "My, what a storm! It is the worst I
ever experienced. I hope nothing will happen. Mr. Acres warned me
against coming here."

"He did! Why?"

"He didn't explain. But in his brief letter he advised me to stay away
from Bullet House. He said it might not be safe for me to be here."

"H'm, did the old fellow think I would harm you? Why, I am as innocent
as a lamb."

Joan smiled as she looked out over the lake.

"I don't think he meant that, Mr. Rutledge. He must have had something
else in his mind."

"Have you any idea what it was?"

"I am not sure. But he may be superstitious about this place, and so
gave his warning."

"He didn't warn me. But, yes he did. He told me to confine my writing to
the sea and leave this old house alone. And he also said that if I were
wise I would heed his words. Surely that was a warning, and I forgot all
about it."

"He must have some reason, Mr. Rutledge. And so you are an author? What
do you write about?"

"Oh, various things, especially short stories about the sea. I am now
trying to work up an article for the _Daily Echo_. The editor believes
there is nothing of importance in this province to make a thrilling
story, so I hope to prove that he is wrong."

"And do you expect to get any material in such a lonely place as this?"

"I do. Why, I am already on the track of something very unusual. It is a
mystery connected with this old house."

The girl gave a slight start, but Robert considered this due to a vivid
flash of lightning, followed instantly by a terrific crash of thunder.

"That's pretty close," he declared. "A tree was struck, no doubt. One
gets all kinds of excitement here from a thunder storm to the mystery of
an attempted murder."

"A murder! Here?"

"Oh, it happened years ago when the Raytons owned this place, so there
is nothing to worry about. There is no danger now."

"I am glad," and the girl gave a sigh of relief. "But what about their
spirits?"

"Spirits! What do you mean?"

"Ghosts, then," and Joan laughed. "Are you not afraid that their ghosts
will appear?"

"Not at all. I do not believe in such nonsense. Do you?"

"Not in the way some people do. But I like to think that the spirit of
the brave and the true dwells in old places, even in this very house.
Every writer or artist should try to capture that spirit in his book or
picture. Isn't that what you are trying to do?"

"I suppose so," Robert somewhat doubtfully replied. "But I am trying
first of all to unravel the mystery connected with this house. When I
accomplish that, perhaps the spirits of old Rayton and his wife will
help me. In fact, I have already been inspired by what I have heard."

With hands clasped upon her lap Joan gazed at the dripping and swaying
trees. Robert thought her face the most beautiful he had ever beheld.
And her manner was so charming and unaffected. There was an easy grace
in her every movement, and her voice was rich and musical. What a
wonderful girl! And to think that the storm had brought her to him!

"Isn't it strange that both of us came here almost at the same time," he
remarked. "I knew nothing about this place until a few days ago."

"Who told you?"

"Dr. Bradbury. He sent me here for my health. That was the day I saw you
at the White Lily Cafe. You didn't notice me, though."

"Don't be too sure, sir. How could I help it? You stared hard enough at
me."

"I couldn't do otherwise, Miss Rowland. I had to do something to
counteract that odious Mrs. Rockbridge. As you were the only person in
sight, you had to be the victim of my observation."

"I see," and a faint smile overspread the girl's face. "So you heard
what that woman said?"

"I certainly did. And to think that she had the impudence to talk in
public about my sister. Some day I hope ..."

Robert did not finish his sentence, for at that instant he saw a woman
hurrying through the rain towards the house. Rising to his feet he
hastened forward. And then he recognized her. It was Mrs. Augustus
Rockbridge!




CHAPTER XIII

REFUGE


Dripping with rain and hair in disorder, Mrs. Augustus Rockbridge
presented a woe-begone appearance as she stumbled up the verandah steps.
Her face was white as death, and her eyes were filled with terror. No
longer was she the calm and dignified president of the Go-Ahead Club,
but a badly-frightened woman.

She seemed on the verge of collapse when Robert placed his arms around
her trembling form and helped her to the sofa. There he was assisted by
Joan who induced the distressed visitor to lie down. Thus stretched full
length upon the sofa, with a pillow under her head, she resembled a
woman in the last stage of complete exhaustion. Robert was much
disturbed.

"Is she dying?" he whispered. "What can we do for her?"

"Bring me a towel and a comb," Joan ordered. "We shall need a fire, too,
for her clothes are wet. There is a stove in the house, I suppose."

"There is. But I shall light a fire in the fireplace. That will be
better. There is plenty of dry wood handy."

As Robert busied himself in the house he could not help wondering what
would happen next. When he had been expecting a peaceful and lonely life
in the forest, surprises and disturbances had come upon him in rapid
succession. And now Mrs. Rockbridge had arrived! What in the world was
she doing here? What was there for her to spy upon at Bullet Lake? He
paused as he was about to strike a match and held it suspended in his
right hand. Had her visit anything to do with Nell? He smiled at such a
foolish idea, struck the match and applied it to a piece of birch bark.
But he could not get the thought out of his mind. Mrs. Rockbridge had
come to Glengrow chiefly to spy upon Nell. Why she had come to Bullet
Lake he did not know. But there must be some purpose other than
pleasure, he felt sure. Perhaps she would explain when she had recovered
from her fright. Anyway, he decided to be on his guard, and, if
possible, find out something.

Through a small window he could see Joan bending over Mrs. Rockbridge.
From where he stood he had a good view of her face. How beautiful it
seemed to him, and her eyes were expressive of deep concern for the
troubled woman. He almost envied the latter, and wished himself in her
place. If something had only happened to him what a joy it would be to
have the girl bending over him in an effort to do what she could for his
welfare.

And as he thus watched, Joan lifted her head and looked towards the
door. Feeling certain that he was needed, he went at once to her side.
Mrs. Rockbridge was lying with closed eyes, apparently asleep.

"We must get her to the fire," the girl whispered. "Her clothes must be
dried."

Arousing the prostrate woman, they assisted her into the house. The fire
was burning brightly, and before this they placed her in the only
armchair the room contained.

"There, you will be more comfortable now," Joan declared. "This nice
fire will soon dry your dress. You must have had a terrible experience."

"It was awful!" the woman moaned. "The lightning struck a tree close to
my car, and I saw the blaze among the branches."

"Where is your car?" Robert inquired.

"Out there just in sight of the house. I got that far when gas gave out.
Mr. Broadbent was with me, so he started to walk back to the store for a
supply. I was waiting for him to return when the storm came on. Oh,
dear! I shall never recover from this shock. And my heart is weak, too.
My doctor advised me to be careful and to let nothing disturb or excite
me."

Robert smiled a little as he stooped and placed another stick upon the
fire.

"You took a bad road to-day for your outing, Mrs. Rockbridge. This is
the second time lately that I have been able to assist you."

"When was the first, sir? I don't remember having met you before," she
lied.

"Perhaps not. But you will recall, no doubt, an incident on a steep hill
a few days ago when another car bumped into yours, and you called the
driver a fool."

"I do now very well. So that was you? I did not recognize you. I fear I
was very hasty that day and lost my temper."

"And you nearly lost your life, Madam. You did not realize your danger,
but if I had not checked your car when I did it would have gone down
over that steep bank, and ..."

"I don't want to think of that, sir. I understood later what a narrow
escape I had, and wish to apologize now for my rudeness to you. I was
very much excited. You saved me then, and now to-day you are doing me a
good service. Do you live here? And is this your wife?"

"Unfortunately, no. This is Miss Rowland, who like yourself was driven
in here by the rain. I am very grateful to the storm for sending me such
pleasant visitors."

"And what are you doing out here?" Mrs. Rockbridge impudently asked
turning her head and looking sternly at Joan.

"I was merely looking for a man," was the quiet and unexpected reply.

"Looking for a man!" Mrs. Rockbridge gasped.

"Certainly. Isn't that the chief aim of women? And I was fortunate in
finding mine sooner than some. There he is. What do you think of him?"

Robert stared at Joan in amazement. What did she mean by such words?
Then the light of understanding dawned upon his mind, and he longed to
laugh outright. This girl knew what she was about, and there was a
definite purpose in her banter.

Mrs. Rockbridge suddenly revived. Her weakness and fright vanished, and
she was her imperious self again. Joan's words satisfied her, for such a
statement could only come from a girl devoid of all modesty. And the
young man of whom she so flippantly spoke was Mrs. Nairn's brother! And
he, no doubt, was the girl's lover, and they were planning to live
together here. Surely Mrs. Nairn must know all about it. Anyway, the
people of St. Alban's would know just as soon as she could get a letter
to her dear Mrs. Casham. She showed no sign of elation, however, but
assumed a languid and indifferent attitude as she looked towards the
door.

"I hope Mr. Broadbent will soon be here with the gas. I must get back in
time for dinner."

"Why not stay and have a bite with us," Robert invited. "I have enough
for the three of us."

"No, no, I couldn't think of staying. I want to get away from this place
as soon as possible. After my terrible experience I never want to come
here again."

"Your experience is only in keeping with the record of this house,
Madam. Miss Rowland and I were both advised not to come here."

"Why was that?"

"There seems to be an evil spell upon this house. It is supposed to be
haunted, and ghosts have been seen here."

"Ghosts!" Mrs. Rockbridge started and looked anxiously around. "Are you
not afraid, then, to remain here?"

"I do have a creepy feeling at times. But I would not mind seeing the
ghosts if they would only tell me what I want to know."

"What is that?"

"The mystery about old Thomas Rayton who built this house. He was shot
one wild night while sitting just where you are now."

"Was he killed?" Mrs. Rockbridge gasped.

"No, but he might as well have been, for he didn't live long after
that."

"Who tried to kill him?"

"No one seems to know, and that is what I want to learn. You may see
the bullet hole in that window sash over there."

"But didn't the police do anything?"

"I suppose they tried, but that affair happened so many years ago that
hardly anybody remembers it. And to think that his wife left her baby
here with her injured husband and walked all the way through the
darkness and the storm for a doctor. That was true heroism, all right."

"Mr. Rayton recovered, I suppose?"

"Not altogether, for he never regained the use of his wounded arm. And
in addition, he had another trouble, for he lost this place through a
false friend."

"Dear me! That was too bad. Who was the false friend, and what did he
do?"

"I do not know his name, but I hope to find out. He induced Rayton to
back a note for a considerable amount, and then failed. He became
wealthy later, so I have heard, though where he is I have no idea."

"And he didn't do anything to help Mr. Rayton? He didn't pay him?"

"Evidently not, for this place was sold, and poor Rayton died of a
broken heart."

"What a sad story! And what became of his family?"

"His wife and baby were turned out by Mr. Acres, who bought this place."

"Did he really turn them out!"

"He did, and made a fortune out of the lumber he had cut here."

"The brute!"

"But that false friend was the greater brute, Madam."

"You are quite right, sir. And you say he became wealthy later?"

"So I have been told."

"Dear me! Too often fortunes have been made that way. They have been
built upon the ruins of unfortunate people. That old villain's family
are strutting around, no doubt, upon his ill-gotten gains, and looked up
to as leaders in society. I should certainly like to expose such
people."

"Why not do it, Madam? You are gifted with the pen, for I have read
several of your articles in the _Daily Echo_."

"Yes, I am fond of writing," Mrs. Rockbridge replied, flattered by these
words. "But I have never taken up writing seriously, only as a pastime
when the mood was upon me."

"Why not do something more, then, when this new mood is upon you? Here
is a great opportunity. The story of this old house might make a
thrilling article. If you cannot unravel all the mystery about the
shooting-affair, you might show up old Acres' infamous deed in turning a
helpless mother and babe out of house and home."

"But that would be a risky thing to do, Mr. Rutledge. Mr. Acres would
naturally resent such action, and might sue for defamation of character.
One has to be careful when writing about family histories."

Robert smiled and glanced at Joan.

"And it would be the same with others, Mrs. Rockbridge. If you begin
hunting up family records you are in danger of disturbing musty
skeletons, and getting yourself into no end of trouble, especially when
the descendants are living and prominent in the social and business
world. And even the most unlikely persons would object, for as a poet
said, 'There's a deal o' solid kicking in the meanest-looking mule.' No,
it is better to leave such things alone and write about other matters."

"I believe you are quite right, sir. But there should be no risk in
writing about Mr. Rayton, how he was shot, and the heroism of his wife.
That would make a thrilling article, and would offend no one."

"It would if properly handled. But you could not very well leave out
that false friend. The story would be incomplete without him."

"But I do not know his name."

"All the better, Madam, for then you would run no risk."

During this conversation Joan had been sitting silently nearby. There
was a peculiar expression, almost of indignation in her eyes, which the
others did not notice. With hands clasped before her, she listened
intently to every word, and once a slight tremor shook her body. It was
hard for her to hear such talk about the Raytons. What to her companions
was merely material for an interesting article, to her was of vital
importance, and touched the very quick of her being. How could she
explain what that old house meant to her? She could not admit strangers
into the deep recesses of her heart. She had heard enough, more, in fact
than she desired, so longed to get away by herself to be alone with her
thoughts.

Just when she felt that she could endure no more of the conversation,
the honk of a car horn sounded outside. Mrs. Rockbridge rose quickly to
her feet.

"It must be Mr. Broadbent," she declared. "I am so glad he has come."

Without a word of thanks, she hurried out of the house. She stopped
suddenly, however, upon reaching the verandah at the sight which met her
eyes a short distance away.




CHAPTER XIV

MORE VISITORS


It was then that Mrs. Rockbridge received one of the surprises of her
life. It was also sufficient evidence that her doctor had been mistaken
about the condition of her heart, otherwise the shock would certainly
have proven fatal. Instead of seeing Mr. Broadbent with a supply of
gasoline, she stared in amazement upon Peter Pendle's van, the big
letters upon the side gleaming bright beneath the sun's rays which were
once more streaming forth after the rain. And standing by the car were
two women and two children. The former she recognized at once, and her
face grew ashy pale. They were Mrs. Nairn and Miss Ramona Blemfield! At
first she thought she must be dreaming. But, no, it was only too true.
Inwardly she groaned at the awkward predicament in which she had been
caught. Those two women before her were the last persons she wished to
meet together. Only too well she remembered her conversation with Miss
Blemfield at the Go-Ahead Club lecture. What could she say? How explain?
For a few seconds a sickening feeling came upon her, and she was sure
that she was about to faint. It would have been a relief, at any rate.
Her heart, however, did not give out, but stood up nobly to its duty
during this trying ordeal.

It was Peter who relieved the situation. Alighting from his car, he came
towards the house.

"I've brought ye some gas, Madam," he announced. "Jim asked me to fetch
it, an' I'll fix ye up in a jiffy."

These words aroused Mrs. Rockbridge. Her heart was hot with anger, and
she needed a victim.

"Why didn't Mr. Broadbent come himself?" she demanded. "I paid him well
for his service, and now he has deserted me."

"I don't know why he didn't come, Madam. But I can fix ye up just as
well as Jim, so ye'd better come along."

Mrs. Rockbridge was now regaining her courage and self-possession. This
was not by any means the first ordeal she had been through. Although
caught off her guard and placed in very embarrassing situations at
times, she had generally been able to extricate herself with
considerable cleverness. As the leader of Pretensia's social circle this
was absolutely essential, otherwise it would have been difficult for her
to have maintained her position. So now as she stepped from the verandah
and followed Peter, her manner underwent a sudden and remarkable
transformation. Once again she was the affable and beaming president of
the Go-Ahead Club. She expressed her surprise and delight at meeting
Miss Blemfield in such a romantic place. As she held out her hand she
said how pleased she was to find her in the company of her dear friend,
Mrs. Nairn.

"I have had such a wonderful visit here that it has made up much for my
nerve-wracking experience in the storm," she told them. "I must go now,
as I have an important engagement at the hotel. But I hope to see both
of you again soon."

With that she was away, leaving the two women staring after her in
amazement.

Mrs. Nairn was the first to recover. A smile overspread her face, and
her eyes twinkled with amusement.

"What a woman! We didn't catch her, after all. How neatly she escaped."

"It is just as well, Nell," Miss Blemfield replied. "Let us forget her.
I don't want anything to disturb my visit to such a charming spot as
this. I have come across too many people of her kind during my travels,
so wish to be free of them for a while."

"But poor Peter Pan isn't free. Just look at him struggling along with
that can of gasoline. He will have something interesting to tell us when
he comes back."

"I like him, Nell, and his van is such a curiosity, with those big
letters 'Peter Pendle's Panacea' upon the sides. I am going to take a
snap of it and have a lantern-slide made to use in one of my illustrated
lectures."

"And you must get a picture, too, of that old house, Mona. It has an
interesting history. Bob will tell you all about it. There he is now
coming with the children. They soon found him out, for he is a great
favorite of theirs."

It took Peter some time to get Mrs. Rockbridge started on her way. When
he at length came to the house, he found supper almost ready upon the
verandah. A table, covered with a white cloth, was adorned with
appetizing food Mrs. Nairn had brought with her. When Peter appeared,
all turned expectantly towards him. His hands were dirty, and a doleful
expression was depicted upon his face.

"I am glad you escaped without any serious injuries," Robert accosted.
"I was just thinking about going to your assistance."

"It was just as well ye didn't, young man. I got off, a'right, but you
might not have been so fortunate."

"Was she angry?" Mrs. Nairn asked as she placed a well-frosted cake upon
the table.

"Oh, no. She was very sweet, called me a darlin', an' other pretty
names. My! I'm thankful I'm not her husband. What a life he must lead."

"Perhaps he thinks she's the finest woman on earth, Peter."

"He's welcome to his thinks, then, fer all I care. But I want nothin'
more to do with her. She's too bossy, an' if she doesn't watch out
she'll kill herself in that car some day. It was terrible the way she
started. I advised her to be careful on the slippery road, an' you
should have seen the look she gave me. That big thunder cloud wasn't a
patch to it. But, there, I must get me hands washed, fer I see supper is
about ready."

It was a happy group that a little later gathered around the table. The
children were delighted with this unusual picnic. And to add to their
enjoyment Betty was allowed to sit on Uncle Bob's right and John on his
left. The sun was now shining brightly, and the birds were again
chirping among the branches of the trees. It was a scene of peace and
contentment, a striking contrast to the storm which was raging but a
short time before.

"Well, well!" Robert exclaimed. "Little did I imagine this morning what
the day held in store for me. When I expected to be left entirely alone
with my thoughts, the world has sought me out. The first visitor was
Billy Stubbles with his mouth-organ, and now you are here."

"What did Billy want?" Peter quickly asked.

"He was looking for a cow. He said that he always brought in the cows
with his music."

"He did! The liar! Billy wasn't lookin' fer a cow. He was after
something else. Now, what in time could it have been!"

"That is what I should like to know, too. I was suspicious of him from
the first."

"I believe Si Acres sent him to spy upon ye."

"Why?"

"Dear knows. One can never tell what Si has in his mind."

In the general conversation that followed Joan took very little part.
All were so friendly and agreeable that whatever feeling that she was
intruding soon passed away. Miss Blemfield was delightful, and Mrs.
Nairn bright and animated. This little world was most refreshing after
the confusion of the city. It was one of nature's simple cures for the
restless heart and mind. She tried to listen and to appear interested in
the conversation, but her thoughts would wander to other things. There
was so much to attract the attention of her artistic soul. The lake was
calm now, resting like a tired child after its brief turbulence. The
dripping trees gleamed golden beneath the lowering sun, their slender
network of branches forming a beautiful tracery against the shimmering
water beyond. Some of the trees were large, especially one great pine
which stood close to the narrow path leading to the lake. It must have
been a fair-sized tree when the Raytons built their house, she thought.
How often they must have looked upon it. Under it, perhaps, the man
lurked that dark wild night when he had tried to kill Mr. Rayton. Why
did he want to do that? It must have been revenge. But why? Her face
became very serious, and Robert watching her from the opposite side of
the table longed to know what she was thinking about. Joan, however, was
not looking at him. She had drifted off to the past, and in imagination
she beheld the Raytons, husband and wife, living here, rejoicing in
their little baby girl, and looking forward to years of peace and
happiness until ...

Something brought her out of her reverie. What it was she did not know.
Miss Blemfield was speaking, and her words arrested Joan's attention.

"I have noticed that many in this country think too little of their
writers," she was saying. "They often acclaim foreign authors and
disparage their own. That should not be so. It is not good to have the
inferiority complex. People who consider themselves and their
productions, no matter what they might be, inferior to others are not
likely to make the progress that they should."

"I am pleased to hear you say that," Mrs. Nairn replied. "Why, some
people consider our manner of pronunciation entirely wrong, and think
that the English alone speak correctly. Once I heard a noted English
lecturer talk of 'dinnah,' 'lectchah,' and 'cultchah.' He didn't say
'Oh, no,' but 'Oo-noo.' When he was through a woman said to me, 'What a
delightful speakah. And wasn't his pronunciation cha'ming?' I didn't
agree with her, so she gave me a look which plainly said, 'What an
ignorant woman!'"

"You are quite right, Nell," Robert agreed. "Although we sometimes
overwork the letter 'r', we show, at any rate, that it is in the
alphabet. Why should we be considered inferior or lacking in proper
pronunciation because we sound that letter? If the English prefer their
way of speaking, that is their business. We have our own, so why should
we be ashamed of it?"

"In my lectures which I am giving in this country," Miss Blemfield
remarked, "I try to emphasize the value of your own possessions,
especially your writers. For some time I have been much interested in
several of your poets, and consider that they have produced some very
fine work. But I have been surprised to learn how little they are known
here. Of course, there are a few who are almost household names, but the
majority are almost unknown. Poets of other lands, however, are held in
high regard, and generally appreciated. While lecturing this week before
the Go-Ahead Club I quoted two short poems. One was by an English
author, and it was received with marked approval. The other, and
superior in my opinion, as I explained, by one of their own poets, was
received in almost dead silence. And the name of that poem is _Sea Born_
by Robert Rutledge."

The startled expression, almost of consternation, which came into
Robert's eyes caused Miss Blemfield to smile.

"W--where did you get it?" he gasped.

"From the magazine in which it was published, of course. It appealed to
me when I first read it. I was also attracted by the author's name, for
I had met a charming girl by the name of Nell Rutledge several years
ago."

"But how did you know that I wrote _Sea Born_?"

"I didn't until your sister told me last night. I was very much
surprised that the _Daily Echo_ didn't mention what I said about that
poem. But I understand now."




CHAPTER XV

AN OLD SCRAP-BOOK


Twilight was steadily deepening over the land as Silas Acres sat in his
vine-covered porch at the front door of his home. This was his favorite
place of meditation during the long summer evenings, and here he was
seldom disturbed. From this retreat he could look out over his broad
fields which stretched from the main road down to the river on the
right. It was a pleasant sight, for the well-cultivated land was robed
with various shades of oats, buckwheat, corn, and rich meadow grass. He
always enjoyed sitting here gazing upon his valuable possessions. They
were his own, and no one could take them from him. This was his kingdom
which he had built up through long years of care and labor. Here he
could live as he pleased and bid defiance to the envious eyes cast upon
him, and the gossiping tongues which wagged about his affairs. He knew
what his neighbors said about him. "Odd Acres" they called him, and this
gave him a grim satisfaction.

This evening, however, he was in a different mood. He was not thinking
so much about his fields as formerly. His eyes were fixed more upon the
main highway than upon the sloping expanse of meadow and grain. He was
watching for some one who was long in coming. Mr. Acres twisted uneasily
in his splint-bottom armchair. He was becoming impatient. He could
faintly hear the sound of the separator in the milk-house where Rachel
and Nathan were busy. This was Billy's evening off, so Nathan had to do
the milking alone, which was not at all to his liking. This always made
him grimmer than usual, and Mr. Acres chuckled a little at the thought
of Rachel's ordeal with the Bible-reading man.

"I can see where Billy will get consigned to the hot place to-night," he
mused. "And he really deserves it for not coming home sooner. The choir
practice must have been over before this. I wonder what can be keeping
him."

Mr. Acres' patience had reached the breaking-point, however, before
Billy arrived. It was quite dark as he opened the gate and sauntered
towards the house. He knew that his master would be waiting for him in
the porch, so braced himself for the lecture that was sure to be
forthcoming. Mr. Acres saw his dim form and straightened himself up in
his chair.

"That you, Billy?"

"Yes, it's me, Si. Been waitin' long?"

"Waiting! I've been sitting here for over two hours. What in the world
kept you so late? Didn't I tell you to come home early?"

"It's not late," Billy replied as he sat down upon the porch step. "An'
this is my night off."

"I know it is, Billy. But I want to hear the news. What's the latest
about the rectory folks?"

"The whole parish is up in arms against them."

"I know that. It's because of what Mrs. Nairn said about me. How does
she take it?"

"I can't say, Si. Mrs. Nairn never mentioned it."

"Perhaps she doesn't know what people are saying."

"Oh, I guess she does. I didn't see the parson, as he was away
somewhere. But there were only two at the practice to-night, an' Mrs.
Nairn said nothin' about the trouble."

"Didn't she seem surprised?"

"She didn't show it."

"And who was the other one besides you?"

"Miss Rowland."

"Ah, so she was there? Can she sing?"

"Like a bird, Si. She's got a sweet voice, though it's not very strong.
I didn't sing much, as I liked to listen to her."

"When the nightingale sings, it is as well for the crow to be silent."

"What's that you say, Si? I don't understand your words."

"It is just as well, Billy. The practice didn't last long, I suppose?"

"No, just a short time. When we were through we went over to the rectory
and had a grand time. Mrs. Nairn played some good old tunes and I
accompanied her on me mouth-organ."

"That must have been very pleasant. What did Miss Rowland do?"

"She sat an' listened, though once she did sing two verses of one of the
songs. She said she liked my playin'. When I told her I did better on
the fiddle, she asked me to bring it over to her place some evenin' an'
play fer her. She has a nice cosy house."

"Were you there?"

"I was. After Mrs. Nairn had served tea an' cake, I walked home with
Miss Rowland. She invited me in an' showed me some of her pictures. I
wish you could see them, Si. She has a lot on the walls, an' some that
are not finished. There is one of Bullet House, an' another of the lake.
They look great."

"Was she out there to-day?"

"I think she was."

"Did she say anything about Mr. Rutledge?"

"Not that I remember."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, Si, I can't swear to it, but as far as I can recollect she didn't
mention him. She talked mostly about the lake, how beautiful it is, the
trees, flowers, an' such things."

"And you like her, Billy?"

"Like her! Say, Si, if I had a daughter like her I'd be the happiest man
on earth. Just think what it would mean to have such a girl to care for
you in yer old age, an' to love ye. Why, it would be heaven on earth."

"Be careful, Billy, and don't get too sentimental. You must not let your
heart run away with your head, remember."

"There's no danger of that, Si. I'm old enough to have a little
horse-sense, an' know what's what. But if I was young an' good-lookin'
as that Rutledge feller, I know what I'd do. An' if he doesn't get a
hustle on an' make up to that girl in good right style he's a darn fool.
I'd use a stronger word if I wasn't a member of the choir."

Owing to the darkness Billy did not see the smile that overspread his
master's face.

"It is unusual for you to be so taken with a woman, Billy," Mr. Acres
remarked. "She must be somewhat out of the ordinary run of females. You
make me quite curious about her."

"She is out of the ordinary, Si. She's the only woman in this place,
except Mrs. Nairn, of course, that I've taken a real shine to. She
doesn't poke fun at me an' ask silly questions like some of the other
girls. She talks to me straight an' makes me feel I'm a man. But, hang
it all, why can't people leave her alone? They've started a scandal
about her already."

"A scandal!" Mr. Acres leaned suddenly forward. "What kind of a scandal?
And who started it?"

"All I know is what Peter told me. I met him on the way home. He'd been
to the city, an' my, wasn't he mad. He was ragin' hot. I've been boilin'
over ever since I heard it, an'--ouch!"

This exclamation was caused by a sharp grip of fingers upon his
shoulder.

"Stop your chatter, man, an' come to the point at once," Mr. Acres
growled. "What about that scandal?"

"All I know is what Peter told me," Billy replied, rubbing his smarting
shoulder. "He said it's all around the city that they're livin' together
at Bullet House."

"Who?"

"Miss Rowland an' Mr. Rutledge, of course. It's a rare morsel fer the
evil-minded, so Peter said. He heard men chucklin' about it in shops an'
on street corners."

"Is there any truth in it, Billy?"

"None, Si. I'd stake me life on it. You know how I've watched that house
an' lake ever since Mr. Rutledge went there. He believed my yarn about
the cow an' the music, ho! ho! But he's a nice young feller, an' I'm
sorry that such a nasty report has got afloat."

"But did you ever see him and Miss Rowland at the house together,
Billy?"

"Only that day she was driven in by the storm, as I told ye. Her an' Mr.
Rutledge sat upon the verandah until Mrs. Rockbridge arrived. She--"

"Yes, yes, you told me about her," Mr. Acres impatiently interrupted. "I
have wondered, though, what she was doing out there that day."

"So have I, Si, until Peter told me that she was the one who set that
scandal goin' in the city."

"What! Mrs. Rockbridge!"

"So Peter said."

"How did he find out?"

"I don't know, but Peter generally knows what he's talkin' about."

To these words Mr. Acres made no reply. A silence of such an unusual
length ensued that Billy wondered what had come over his master. He
twisted, shuffled his feet, and even coughed a little, but all in vain.
No movement came from the form nearby. Perhaps he was asleep. But, no,
that was hardly likely. Ere long Billy became alarmed, and laid a hand
upon his master's knee.

"Are ye asleep, Si?"

"Why, no," was the quiet response. "What made you think I was?"

"Well, if ye wasn't asleep, ye must have been darned near it, fer ye
haven't said a word fer the last fifteen minutes or more. The bed's the
place fer you, I guess."

"I'm not sleepy. But it's getting damp out here, so I'd better go in.
Take a good look around the barn, Billy, and see that everything is all
right. In the morning you and Nathan attend to the potatoes. The bugs
are getting bad again. Give them a good dose this time. Is there enough
poison?"

"Plenty, I guess."

"That's good. It's a pity we can't sometimes get clear of human pests as
easily as we can potato bugs. Are you sure it was Mrs. Rockbridge who
started that scandal?"

"So Peter said, an' he's a man we--"

"That will do. Good night."

Billy made his way through the darkness to the barn in a most thoughtful
mood.

"I can't understand Si nohow," he mused. "Something's troublin' him,
that's certain. Why he keeps me spyin' upon that feller at Bullet House
is more'n I can understand. An' he's mighty curious, too, about that
girl. He's changed a lot since she came to this place. I never saw him
so gentle as he is to-night. I wonder why he was so still after I told
him about Mrs. Rockbridge. An' he said 'Good night' to me. I never knew
him to do such a thing before. Hope t'goodness he's not really sick. If
anything happens to Si, it'll be hard on the rest of us here."

Going at once to his room, Mr. Acres took down a scrap-book from a shelf
over his desk. This he opened and as he turned the pages, ships of
various designs, as well as newspaper clippings of prose and verse were
exposed to view. Not until he came to a page almost at the middle of the
book did he stay his hand. He then sat down, and drawing the lamp he had
lighted up close, he fixed his eyes upon a clipping he had pasted there
years before. It was the description of a fashionable wedding in a
distant city. The bride was Josephine Agatha, only daughter of Mr. and
Mrs. Thomas Trayturn, and the groom was Augustus Rockbridge, a prominent
journalist of Pretensia. The wedding took place in the church, and the
reception was held at the beautiful residence of the bride's parents.
Among the guests were most of the leading citizens, and the presents
were numerous and costly. The gift of the bride's father was a very
substantial cheque.

All this and much more Mr. Acres read, as he had read it many times
before. Again his fingers turned over the pages to more recent dates.
Several times he paused where large headlines told of Mrs. Rockbridge's
doings in Pretensia as leader of society. There was a clipping about the
welcome she had received upon first coming to the city. Another of her
election as president of the Go-Ahead Club, and many more. They were all
pasted in the book with considerable neatness, the dates being marked
with ink. It was quite evident that Mr. Acres had followed with more
than a passing interest the actions of Mrs. Augustus Rockbridge since
her marriage.

At length he came to a page well towards the end of the book, and there
he stopped. It was not necessary for him to turn further, as he had
found what he had been seeking. There were several clippings here which
filled three pages, telling of the lamented death of Thomas Trayturn.
His picture was there, as well, and upon this Mr. Acres gazed for some
time. It was not a pleasing face, for the great jaws, low forehead,
small fiery eyes, and short upturned nose presented a bull-dog
appearance. Yet this was the foremost business man of Flintville over
whose sudden death such an ado had been made. As Mr. Acres read the
fulsome account of the man, a stern expression overspread his face, and
an angry light glowed in his eyes. He had read it often before, but it
had never affected him so keenly as now.

"In the sudden passing of Thomas Trayturn, Flintville loses one of its
most highly-respected and prominent citizens," so ran the article. "Ever
since he came to our city he has taken an active interest in its
welfare. As a business man of marked success he always set a shining
example of integrity and fair dealing. His benevolent generosity is well
known, and his liberal contributions to our charitable institutions were
always made in a most unassuming manner. He never let his left hand know
what his right hand did. As a church member--"

A slight ironical groan came from Mr. Acres' lips, and he read no more.
He knew the rest of that account almost by heart. "'He never let his
left hand know what his right hand did'," he repeated. "That's quite
true. And it was well for him that he didn't. And his daughter is Mrs.
Augustus Rockbridge! And to think that she is the woman who spread that
vile scandal in the city about those young people! And Trayturn escaped
what was coming to him! But by heavens, his daughter won't! And she has
only herself to blame. If she had minded her own business it would have
been different. But she'll pay for it. Yes, she'll pay, all right, for
her own deviltry and her father's, too."




CHAPTER XVI

SCHEMERS


For some time it had been a mystery to the people of Glengrow why Mr.
Acres would not sell Bullet Lake. It abounded with such excellent fish,
that it was greatly desired by sportsmen. Several very tempting offers
had been made, but all in vain. Then the proprietors of the new summer
hotel had exerted every effort to induce Mr. Acres either to sell the
lake or lease it to them for a number of years. It was just what they
needed in connection with their hotel project, and would prove a
valuable attraction for tourists. To their repeated requests, however,
Mr. Acres was adamant. When at last they became too insistent, he turned
angrily upon them, ordered them off his place, and threatened to take
legal action against them if they did not leave him alone. After that he
was not troubled. He was willing and even anxious to rent the house and
lake to individuals for a limited length of time, but he would have
nothing to do with the owners of the hotel nor wealthy sportsmen.

When Mrs. Rockbridge returned to the hotel from her visit to Bullet Lake
she was in no enviable frame of mind. Outwardly she was calm, as
befitted a woman of her social position, but inwardly she was consumed
with burning anger and bitter hatred. Mrs. Nairn had outwitted her, and
what was more, she had humiliated her before Miss Ramona Blemfield. And
in addition, there was a feeling of fear for the very woman upon whom
she had come to spy. How cleverly Mrs. Nairn had arranged matters. But
why? Did she suspect anything? She recalled her visit to the hotel, and
when Miss Blemfield's name was mentioned, why did not Mrs. Nairn speak
of her acquaintance with the noted lecturer? This was not only annoying,
but puzzling. And suppose this story should reach Pretensia! How much
would be made of it? Mrs. Rockbridge was well aware that she had
enemies, and bitter ones, at that. What if they should hear of her
humiliating defeat! The story would soon spread, and she would be the
laughing-stock of all. That would never do. She must act first, and the
most effective way would be to start the news about Mrs. Nairn's brother
living with a girl in a lone house back in the woods. She might write to
her dear friend Mrs. Casham. But that would mean committing herself to
the written word which she did not care to do. Something might happen,
and should her letter be produced as evidence it might prove very
embarrassing. No, that was too risky. The spoken word was safer, and she
was certain that Mrs. Casham and others of her kind would do the rest.
Thus the story would receive rapid circulation, and it would be
difficult for anyone to trace it to its source.

Mrs. Rockbridge was quite pleased with her scheme, and decided to go to
the city the very next day. She longed to start off at once, but was too
tired after her experience that afternoon. She would rest and feel
fresher in the morning for her important undertaking. She would need to
be in good form lest she should make some serious blunder.

She was about to leave the hotel the next morning when she received a
telephone call from her husband. He wanted her to come to the city at
once as he had something of importance to tell her which he could not
mention by phone. Mrs. Rockbridge's curiosity was much aroused, and she
made a record trip to Pretensia where she found her husband in his
office. She decided to say nothing to him at present about her discovery
at Bullet Lake, but wait until she had seen Mrs. Casham. It would be
better, so she considered, for her husband not to know that she had
started the story. He could then, if necessary, truthfully say that his
wife had not said a word to him about it. Deeper and deeper now was she
becoming entangled in her scheme. On the surface it seemed quite a
harmless thing to learn what she could about the wife of the Rector of
Glengrow. It was absolutely necessary for the welfare of St. Alban's
that the woman in the rectory should measure up to the social and other
standards of the church. And, besides, her nephew desired the position,
and she was very anxious for him to have it. There was no harm in that,
as it was quite reasonable. If Mrs. Rockbridge had stopped in time no
harm would have been done. But to find that Mrs. Nairn was superior to
many women in culture, social attainments, and personal charm was most
annoying. And in addition, Mrs. Nairn had outwitted her. Such an insult
she could not endure. It was revenge she now desired, and with such a
passion burning in her heart she was ready for almost any undertaking to
injure a noble woman. And the only way she believed she could
accomplish her design was to strike at her through her brother and Joan
Rowland. Such conscience as she had left, condemned her. And she well
knew that her husband would do the same if he knew of her scheme.

The editor of the _Daily Echo_ was so much interested in the plan he had
in his own mind that he paid no attention to his wife's excited manner.
If he had thought of it at all he would have attributed it, no doubt, to
the mysterious phone call she had received from him. He at once
explained why he had sent for her.

"It is in connection with Bullet Lake. I want to get possession of it,
and you must help me."

"Why do you want the place?" Mrs. Rockbridge sharply asked. "You surely
don't want it as a summer resort. I wouldn't live there for any
consideration. The house is haunted, and has a bad reputation."

"That doesn't make any difference, my dear. I want it merely as a
business proposition. I have had a letter from a wealthy New York man
who wishes to buy such a lake, which is near the river, and where there
is good fishing. Bullet Lake should be just what he needs. Money is no
object, so he says."

"Do you know the man, Augustus?"

"Quite well. I met him last fall when he was here on a hunting trip.
Now, if I can get that lake, we should be able to make a considerable
sum out of the transaction."

"But how are we to get it?"

"That's just the point. It belongs to old Si Acres, an odd man, and
much feared by his neighbors. Have you met him?"

"I have not, but I am anxious to have a talk with him about Bullet
House. It has an interesting history, and I am quite anxious to write an
article for our paper. Mr. Acres should be able to supply me with
valuable information, as he is the oldest man in Glengrow."

"Well, then, he is the one I want you to see, and, if possible, induce
him to sell Bullet Lake. You may find it a difficult undertaking, as he
has refused time and time again to sell to the Glengrow Hotel Company.
They are very anxious to get the place, and are willing to pay a big
price for it. It is valuable property, and if we can get possession of
it, we can sell it to the highest bidder, although I think the Hotel
Company would have no chance against the New York millionaire."

"Why do you think that I can succeed when others have failed?" Mrs.
Rockbridge asked.

"Because you are such a clever woman. You have the ability and
determination to carry through anything you undertake."

Mrs. Rockbridge made no reply to these words of praise, as she was
thinking of her recent defeat by Mrs. Nairn.

"When are you going back to Glengrow?" her husband inquired.

"This afternoon, maybe. I want to see Mrs. Casham. Has anything been
done about St. Alban's?"

"Nothing, so far as I have heard."

"Who took the services last Sunday?"

"Oh, a young fellow from Greatburn. He was not much from all accounts.
The favorite seems to be the Rector of Glengrow. Have you met him?"

"I have."

"Judging by the tone of your voice you do not think much of him."

"I don't. A clergyman who receives a visitor in his shirt-sleeves is no
man for St. Alban's."

"Was that the way he received you?"

"It was, and he did not seem one bit embarrassed."

"And what about his wife?"

"Absolutely impossible. Her house was in a most disorderly condition
when I called, and her two little brats of children were running wild.
They were dirty, too, and looked much neglected."

"Was she at home?"

"No. She was off somewhere gallivanting with her brother. I met him
later, and he said he knows you."

"He did! What's his name?"

"Rutledge. He has written for our paper, so he said."

"Oh, yes, I know the fellow quite well. He is a clever writer, and we
have used several of his articles. They have been most favorably
received and copied by other papers. But confound him, he had the
impudence to ask me to pay him for his stuff."

"He did! Isn't that unusual?"

"Quite. To have his articles published in the _Echo_ should be pay
enough. It gives a young writer a publicity he could not otherwise
obtain. I told him so, and he was quite indignant. He contended that if
his stuff was worthy of publication it should be paid for. He seemed to
think that we are running our paper for charity. Is his sister anything
like him?"

"I told you, Augustus, that she is impossible. I might use a stronger
word, but that will have to do."

"So you wouldn't care to have her as your rector's wife?"

"Decidedly not. The sooner the people of St. Alban's get their eyes
open, the better it will be."

"So you intend to do what you can to open their eyes?"

"I feel it is my duty to do so."

Mrs. Rockbridge glanced at her wrist-watch and rose to her feet.

"I must go now, Augustus. Meet me at the White Lily. We shall dine
there."

"Very well, dear. And, by the way, what is that man Rutledge doing in
Glengrow?"

"Nothing, so far as I know. He is living in Bullet House."

"In Bullet House! Why did he go there?"

"For his health, so it is reported. But there seemed nothing the matter
with him when I saw him."

With considerable difficulty Mrs. Rockbridge refrained from telling her
husband what she knew about Robert Rutledge. Lest she should be further
tempted to do so, she hurried away to her very dear friend, Mrs.
Sylvester Casham.

The editor of the _Daily Echo_ remained for some time in deep thought
after his wife's departure. His mind was upon Bullet Lake and how much
it would mean to him if Mr. Acres could be induced to sell. His sole
hope lay in his wife, and in her he had unbounded confidence.




CHAPTER XVII

THE BARGAIN


The morning was fine and Silas Acres had spent some time walking about
his place. This was his usual custom, and nothing ever escaped his keen
eyes. He always knew exactly what Billy and Nathan were doing, how the
vegetables were growing, if the peas were properly bushed, the beans
staked, and the potatoes hoed. When he found any omission he seemed to
take pleasure in speaking about it, although seldom a word of praise
passed his lips for work well done. In this respect he was like many
people, and was, therefore, quite human.

This morning, however, Mr. Acres was very absent-minded, and to all
appearance made his rounds merely from force of habit. This his men
noticed, and discussed it as they weeded and thinned the long rows of
turnips back of the barn.

"Si's got something on his mind," Billy declared as he paused and looked
over at his master who was moving slowly towards the house. "He's
changed much these last two weeks. I wonder if he's goin' to die."

"He's old enough," Nathan replied as he stooped and jerked out an
extra-thick bunch of turnips. "I hope he'll get religion, though, before
the end comes. It would be terrible for him to die in his sin."

"What sin?" Billy was all for fight now.

"The sin of unconversion. He needs a change of heart."

"God help you, then, Nathan, if he does. He wouldn't keep a whinin'
hypocrite like you a day if he had a change of heart. I often wonder why
he's put up with you so long."

"You're just as bad as he is, Billy. You need a change of heart, too.
Religion means little to you. It's all a matter of going to church,
while all the time your heart is cold and bare."

"H'm, an' what has your religion done fer you, Nathan?"

"It gives me a joy past all understanding. It lifts me like Paul the
Apostle up into the third heaven to see and hear things which it is not
lawful to utter."

"Well, don't try to utter 'em, Nathan. If they are anything like the
groans an' yelps I've heard from you at times, I don't want to hear any
more of them. Maybe that's the way you express yer joy."

"Billy, you are too ungodly to understand such things. When you get
religion, you'll groan and wail over your past sins the same as I do.
And you'll have great joy, too, in the thought that your sins are all
forgiven and blotted out."

"And do you think your sins are blotted out, Nathan?"

"I am sure they are, Billy."

"Well, all I can say, then, is that I'm not much struck on the job.
You're too poor a sample to suit me. An', besides, yer too dang proud of
what ye call conversion. But, hello, who's that drivin' in at the
gate?"

Mr. Acres was standing half way between the house and the road looking
out upon the river. He was leaning heavily upon his stick, like a man
wearied with a long journey. He was seeing more this morning than his
broad, well-cultivated acres and thriving crop. His eyes had a far-away
expression, and an insatiable desire was burning in his soul. The
present was obliterated. Only the past was with him in all its fulness
and clearness.

And standing there, he unheeded the cars that sped along the road. He
paid no attention to the curious eyes that were cast in his direction.
The world of to-day was as nothing to this lonely man whose hopes had
long since been buried, and for whom there seemed no light to cheer the
darkness of his soul.

Presently he was aware of a car drawing up close to his side, and a
woman speaking to him. He turned swiftly, angrily, at this intrusion,
and looked into the smiling face of Mrs. Augustus Rockbridge. He
recognized her at once, although he had never seen her so close. But he
knew just how this woman looked from what he had heard. That she was
beautiful there was no mistake, and for an instant his heart quickened
with an almost youthful admiration. This vanished in an instant,
however, for behind those smiling lips, glowing cheeks, and animated
eyes appeared the heavy swinish face of Thomas Trayturn. This banished
everything else and stirred his soul with anger. And here was Trayturn's
daughter with her expensive car, smiling upon him! And she was the woman
who had circulated that report about Joan Rowland and Robert Rutledge,
and had come here to spy upon Mrs. Nairn! He was tempted to turn his
back upon her in disgust, when her voice stayed him.

"You are Mr. Acres, I believe," she began as she held out her hand. "I
have been so anxious to meet you."

Leaning forward upon his cane, Mr. Acres ignored the out-stretched hand
and looked keenly into her face.

"Yes, that's my name. 'Odd' Acres, so people say, and maybe they're
right."

"I am sure they are not," Mrs. Rockbridge gushingly replied. "Men who do
great things are often called odd by others. Perhaps they are jealous of
your wonderful farm. I have often admired it as I passed up and down the
road. I wish to introduce myself. I am Mrs. Augustus Rockbridge. My
husband is the editor of the _Daily Echo_. Perhaps you have heard of
him."

"Yes, I know him through his paper. I take it."

"And you like it?"

"It is very readable, and the editorials are well written."

"I am so glad to hear you say that, sir. Augustus works very hard upon
that paper. He is wearing himself out, and I have been trying to
persuade him to take a rest, and to come to this beautiful place for a
few weeks. But he doesn't like hotel life, so that is why I have come to
see you this morning. Augustus is fond of the woods, and I have found
such a lovely place which I know would suit him to perfection. It is
Bullet Lake, and I have been told that you own it."

At these words Mr. Acres' body stiffened, a fierce gleam appeared in
his eyes, and his hands gripped hard upon his stick.

"Yes, I own Bullet Lake, but it is rented at present."

"Oh, I don't want to rent it. I wish to buy the place and make it our
summer home. The house on the shore is most attractive, and there
Augustus would have the rest and quietness he needs."

"But it is not for sale, Madam."

"You would sell, though, if you were made a large enough offer? We are
willing to pay well."

"Do you want it for your own private use?"

Mrs. Rockbridge hesitated, and shot a swift glance at Mr. Acres. She
wondered why he had asked that question.

"Yes, for our own use," she confessed. She left the word "private" out,
and this Mr. Acres noted. He believed now that she was lying, and he was
anxious to learn more. He became suspicious of this scheming woman.

"So you want the place for your husband's benefit, Madam?"

"It would do him much good, and a few weeks there during the summer
should make a new man of him."

"But he might not find the rest he desires. Bullet Lake and House have
an evil reputation, as, no doubt, you have heard. It is a haunted place,
to be exact, and that might be rather unpleasant."

"Yes, I have heard that, Mr. Acres. But surely you do not believe in
ghosts! Only weak, silly people have such notions."

"Perhaps so, Madam. Anyway, you would have to run the risk."

"Oh, we would be quite willing to do that. We are not afraid of ghosts.
And should we get the place, I would like to know the story of Bullet
House. It has an interesting history, I have been told, and that makes
it very romantic. It would be interesting to tell our friends about it
when they visited us. Do you know anything about it? I should like to
write an article for our paper. It would make excellent reading."

"Yes, it certainly would, especially for the _Daily Echo_."

"And you will tell me about it, sir?"

Mr. Acres did not at once reply, for an idea had flashed into his mind
which gave him a savage delight. Again he saw the face of Thomas
Trayturn, heavy and swinish. He recalled the laudatory things that had
been said about him after his death, and then thought of the misery he
had brought upon a hard-working man and his wife. It was of the
suffering of the latter he chiefly thought. And here was Trayturn's
daughter, haughty, self-satisfied, and carrying on her father's business
of injuring innocent people.

As Mrs. Rockbridge watched him she became impatient at his silence. She
could not endure delays, but was all for action. She liked people to
decide swiftly, and come to the point at once. She believed that Mr.
Acres was really anxious to sell. She remained outwardly calm, however,
and began to draw on her driving-gloves.

"I don't want to urge you, sir, unless you wish to sell the place. We
are quite willing to buy, but if you do not desire to sell we shall have
to seek for some other place. I would like, though, to know the story of
Bullet House."

Just then Rachel sounded the dinner horn, and Mrs. Rockbridge glanced at
her wrist-watch.

"Dear me! I did not know it was so late. I must not detain you any
longer, as your dinner is waiting."

"Let it wait," Mr. Acres growled. "And don't go just yet. I have been
thinking. Yes, it would be quite a surprise to have an article in the
_Daily Echo_ about Bullet House, and I can give you the information you
want."

"Oh, how delightful!" Mrs. Rockbridge was all smiles now. She was
accomplishing something, anyway.

"And I am willing to let you have the place," Mr. Acres slowly
continued.

"Ah, that is better still. My husband will be so pleased. But I would
like to know your price."

"I am afraid it will be very large." A peculiar expression came into Mr.
Acres' eyes which the woman did not notice. "Yes, it will be very large.
I have had tempting offers already, but always refused to sell. Now,
however, it is different."

"Well, how much?" Mrs. Rockbridge was again becoming impatient.

"I will not sell for money, Madam. My price is of another kind
altogether."

"Not sell for money! What do you mean, sir?"

"I see you are surprised, and not without reason. Although money cannot
buy that place, there is something that can. Just a minute, please," he
ordered as Mrs. Rockbridge started to interrupt him. "Yes, there is
something, and that is the written and published story of Bullet House.
If you write the account just as I tell it to you, and have it printed
in full in the _Daily Echo_, the place is yours."

At this strange statement, a fear came into Mrs. Rockbridge's mind that
this man was mentally unbalanced. She had heard of his peculiar actions,
and this seemed to be a definite proof that something was wrong with
him. Who else but a crazy man would make such an offer?

"Are you in earnest, Mr. Acres?" she asked. "Are you really willing to
sell your place for such a trifle?"

"I am. Bullet Lake is of little use to me now. I am an old man and would
like to see the story in print before I die. It is a duty I owe to the
world."

With considerable difficulty Mrs. Rockbridge concealed her triumph. It
was a tribute to the fascination she had exerted over this peculiar man.
How pleased and surprised her husband would be.

"Your offer is very attractive, Mr. Acres, and I shall write the story
to the best of my ability. I have written several articles for our
paper, so am not altogether a novice. When can we begin?"

"There is no special hurry. I shall need a week or two to get my
thoughts into shape."

"And will you tell me about that wretched man who ruined the Raytons?"

"What man?"

"The one, of course, who proved a false friend, and who induced Mr.
Rayton to sign his note. I have often thought about his treachery, and
longed to expose him. Most likely his descendants are now living upon
his ill-gotten gains."

"Yes, I shall tell you everything. You shall know all about him."

"That will be good. But I can hardly wait, as I am so anxious to get the
article written. But I must not keep you any longer from your dinner."

With a graceful movement she started the car, and confident and
self-possessed, she smiled upon the old man as she sped through the
gateway to the road beyond.

Mr. Acres stood and watched until the car was lost to view around a bend
in the distance. A gleam of triumph shone in his faded eyes as he turned
and walked slowly towards the house.

"That woman's a speeder, all right," he mused. "But she's speeding into
something that will give her the jolt of her life. Yes, Mrs. Rockbridge,
you are headed straight for something that will cut down your speed and
take the cussed impudence out of your make-up. And it's been coming to
you for a long time. It's a pity, though, that your skunk of a father
isn't alive to share some of it. But 'the sins of the fathers,' yes,
yes, the children must bear them. That's Scripture, and it's true in
this case, all right."




CHAPTER XVIII

A CHILD THE VICTIM


At dinner Billy and Nathan were discussing the eternal problem of the
inequality of life. They had started it out of doors, and continued it
as they sat down at the table. Mr. Acres listened to them with more
interest than usual, and even smiled a little from time to time. He
could afford to be good-natured now, for things were coming his way in a
most unexpected manner. Yes, he was being borne on a top wave to
triumph, and the thought thrilled his soul.

"It isn't fair fer some people to have so much while others have
nuthin'," Billy declared, as he helped himself to a liberal slice of
roast beef. "Some have more'n is good fer 'em, an' some can't make a
livin', no matter how hard they scratch."

"But what does all their money amount to, anyway?" Nathan asked. "It
doesn't make them contented. They're running from one thing to another
to find happiness, while all the time true happiness is within. When a
man has peace in his heart, nothing else matters. It's a pity they can't
see it."

"That may be all right, Nathan, as far as it goes. But why can't a man
have peace in his heart, an' enough to live upon, as well, an' be
decently buried when he dies?"

"Oh, the Lord is giving the rich their good time now, like the rich man
in the Bible. The poor will get their reward some day when they are
carried by the angels into Abraham's bosom."

"I don't like such reasonin', Nathan, even though it is in the Bible.
Look at Mrs. Rockbridge, fer instance. Why should such a stuck-up
snookin' woman have so much now, with nothin' to do but live on the fat
of the land, drive a big car, an' make trouble fer good people? She may
never get into old Abraham's bosom, an' I'm mighty sure he wouldn't want
her, but why she has such an easy time here is more'n I can fathom."

"You are too ungodly," Nathan reproved. "The ways of the Lord are
wonderful and beyond our understanding. Don't you remember how it says
in the Bible about the rebellious Children of Israel, that the Lord gave
them their hearts' desire, and sent leanness withal into their souls?
That's what He is doing to-day. Those rich people hanker after the flesh
pots, and the Lord gives them their desire, but they have leanness of
soul. And I am afraid you are much the same, Billy. You hanker after
dancing, smoking, and card-playing, but your soul is very lean in
spiritual things."

"An' do you think your soul is fat, Nathan?" Billy retorted.

"I hope so. It is full of grace, for the Lord has given me the more
abundant life."

"Well, it may be so, but no one would ever suspect it, Nathan. When the
brindle cow kicked over your pail of milk the other night, where was yer
grace of heart then? Ye didn't show much of it, let me tell ye that."

"I was caught off guard, Billy. The devil gripped me for a few seconds.
But I have repented, and have received forgiveness."

"Ye have! An' what about last night when ye jammed yer finger in the
barn door? Judgin' by what ye said an' the way ye acted, the grace in
yer heart wasn't very fat."

Nathan had no ready reply to this charge. He nearly choked in his anger.
His face grew very red, and he tried to say something which ended in a
fit of coughing. And to add to his discomfort, Billy was smiling in a
most tantalizing manner. Even Mr. Acres was amused. He had listened to
this conversation with Mrs. Rockbridge in his mind. When his henchmen
were at last through with their supper, he dismissed them with a warning
to keep busy at the turnips, as haying would soon be on.

After the men had gone, he filled and lighted his pipe while Rachel
cleared away the dishes. He settled himself comfortably in his big
armchair, as was his wont, and gave himself up to meditation, which on
this day was very enjoyable. In the wreathes of smoke circling up from
his pipe he could see the whirling form of Mrs. Rockbridge as she vainly
tried to extricate herself from the net into which she had become
enmeshed. In the wisps of smoke he saw her hair flying in wild disorder,
as with out-stretched hands she pleaded for mercy in her downward rush
to disgrace. This was all very pleasant to him as he sat there and
dreamed.

When he was through with his smoke, he went upstairs to his room, opened
the old scrap-book, and studied it for some time. He did not need to
have his memory refreshed, but merely wished to gloat over the
laudatory articles about Thomas Trayturn, and the effusive descriptions
of Mrs. Augustus Rockbridge's wedding, as well as other accounts of her
doings in Pretensia.

He was aroused by the sound of hurried footsteps upon the stairs, and
then Billy stood at the open door. His eyes were bulging, he was panting
hard, and his whole manner expressed intense excitement.

"Si, Si," he cried, "the parson's little girl's been hurt, killed,
maybe!"

With a bound Mr. Acres left his chair and advanced towards Billy.

"Hurt! Killed!" he gasped. "How? When?"

"Mrs. Rockbridge ran her down when she was drivin' from here."

Fiercely Mr. Acres stared at his informant, and the expression in his
eyes frightened Billy. He backed up a few steps, afraid lest his master
was going to strike him for bringing such news. But he had no need for
fear. Mr. Acres hardly noticed him, for his mind was elsewhere. So that
woman had run down the little Nairn girl, the child who had given him
that twenty-five cent piece! She rose before him now in her sweet
simplicity as he had seen her that morning at the rectory. And it was
Mrs. Rockbridge who had crushed such a delicate flower! His hands
clenched hard, and his heart grew hot within him. He then looked at
Billy.

"How did it happen?" he asked in a more quiet voice. "Tell me, quick."

"I only know what Jed Davis told me as he drove by a few minutes ago.
There was a cow on one side of the road, an' the parson's two little
ones on the other. Mrs. Rockbridge was drivin' fast, an' tryin' to go
between the cow an' the children, she got confused an' the front fender
of her car hit the little girl."

"Is she dead, Billy?"

"Not when they carried her into the house, so Jed told me. But he
wouldn't be surprised if she's dead now. He heard the news at the store.
They sent fer the doctor at once. It's just what I've been expectin',
Si. I knew that woman would kill or hurt somebody sooner or later by the
wild way she drives."

"That will do, Billy," Mr. Acres ordered. "You may go back to your work
now. I am going over to the rectory."

Slowly, like a man in a dream, Mr. Acres closed his scrap-book and
returned it to its place on the shelf. He then went downstairs, and
picking up his hat and stick, left the house. Once upon the road, his
pace quickened, and like the giant Antaeus of Grecian fable, he seemed
to grow stronger at every step. His speed denoted his anxiety, and for
all his fourscore years he would have tested the endurance of a much
younger man.

Reaching the rectory door he did not rap with his stick as on his former
visit. He gave a gentle tap, opened the door and entered. Hettie met
him. Her face was pale, and her eyes red. Mr. Acres glared at her.

"Where is your mistress, girl?"

"Hush, don't speak so loud," Hettie whispered, holding up a warning
finger. "Mrs. Nairn is upstairs with Betty. The house must be kept very
quiet."

An eager expression came into the visitor's eyes.

"The child is living, then? She wasn't killed?"

"Oh, no, but she was hurt bad. The doctor was here, and he'll be back
again soon."

Before Mr. Acres could say anything more, Mrs. Nairn came down the
stairs. Her face showed the strain and anxiety she was undergoing. But
she was calm as she held out a hand of welcome.

"I came to find out about your little girl, Madam," Mr. Acres began. "I
am sorry, very sorry."

"Thank you, Mr. Acres. You are very kind. Come into the sitting-room and
rest. You must be tired."

Surprised at her thoughtfulness for him, Mr. Acres sat down in a big
chair and leaned forward upon his stick. He looked at Mrs. Nairn as she
seated herself nearby. Her courage and self-control appealed to him. If
she had cried, wrung her hands, and uttered words of reproach against
Mrs. Rockbridge he would not have been surprised. But to see her sitting
there, even smiling a little, was out of the ordinary. It's the Rutledge
blood, he mentally decided. Her grandfather was like that. Great stock!

Briefly Mrs. Nairn related what had happened so far as she knew. The
children had been out of the house but a short time, and had gone out
upon the road to see a stray cow when Mrs. Rockbridge arrived. She
slowed down and tried to pass between the cow and the children. But just
then the cow decided to cross the road, and to keep from hitting it,
Mrs. Rockbridge had swerved her car to the left, and the fender had
struck Betty, knocking her into the ditch and breaking her right arm.
How serious were her other injuries the doctor could not tell at
present. Anyway, the child was resting as comfortably as could be
expected, and was conscious.

Mrs. Nairn's eyes were moist when she finished. Mr. Acres was watching
her closely, and had not missed a word she said.

"Where is Mrs. Rockbridge now?" he sternly asked.

"At the hotel, I suppose. She carried Betty into the house, and felt
greatly concerned about the accident."

"And well she might be," Mr. Acres growled. "What right has she to drive
like Jehu along these roads, endangering people's lives? She blamed the
cow, no doubt?"

"She did, and blamed me, too, for allowing the children out on the
road."

"She did!" Mr. Acres rose suddenly to his feet. He was in a fighting
mood, and looked fierce.

"I must not keep you any longer now, Madam," he said. "But if I can be
of any use to you, let me know. You are a Rutledge, and that's enough
for me."

He picked up his hat which he had placed upon the floor, and then
paused.

"Could I have one look at the child, Madam?" he asked. "I won't make the
least noise, and I won't stay more than a second. Just one peek will
do."

Mrs. Nairn was surprised. She glanced quickly at the old man and noticed
the eager look in his eyes. How could she refuse such a request?

"The doctor has ordered--"

"I know, I know what he said, Madam," Mr. Acres interrupted. "The child
must be kept very quiet, and no visitors allowed to see her. But I won't
disturb her. She'll never know I'm in the room."

Only for an instant did Mrs. Nairn hesitate. Then she took matters into
her own hands.

"Come," she said in a low voice. "You shall see Betty."

Upstairs Mr. Nairn and Joan Rowland were on guard by the injured child.
The former was sitting by the cot watching with strained attention the
face of his little daughter. Joan was seated on the opposite side,
waiting and ready for anything she might do. As Mr. Acres entered, he
paused just inside the door and glanced for an instant around the dainty
room. Then his eyes fell upon the curly head upon the pillow. Without a
sound he moved to the cot and looked down. Slowly he reached out a
trembling hand and touched the child's head. That was all. Not a word
was spoken, and he seemed unconscious of anyone else in the room. In
another second he was gone, leaving Mr. Nairn and Joan staring in
wide-eyed wonder at the open door through which he had passed.




CHAPTER XIX

UNREST


For several days Betty's life hung in the balance. The shock to her
delicate system had been so great that for a while the doctor feared the
worst. She took no notice of anything, and all efforts to arouse her
proved in vain. It was an anxious time for the ceaseless watchers by her
side, and as she lay there so white and ethereal in appearance they had
the feeling that she was gradually slipping away from them.

On the fourth day after the accident, a change took place. It was
towards evening and Mrs. Nairn was alone with the child. Betty, who had
been lying as if asleep, suddenly opened her eyes and looked around.
Seeing her mother, she gave a faint smile.

"Where is he, Mummy?" she asked in a feeble voice.

"Who, dear?" Mrs. Nairn questioned, bending over the cot.

"That heathen man. He was right here talking to me. Has he gone?"

"You have been dreaming, darling."

"Have I? But I want to see him, and give him some more money. It's in my
box downstairs."

"All right, dear, you shall give it to him when he comes again."

"Has he been here, Mummy?"

"Yes, he came to see you. He was right in this room."

"Oh, I am so glad. I was hoping he'd come to see me."

The child gave a deep sigh, closed her eyes, and dropped off into a
peaceful sleep. That was the beginning of the change for the better, and
a great thankfulness filled the hearts of all.

During this anxious time the people in the parish expressed their
sympathy for Mr. and Mrs. Nairn. They seemed to have forgotten their
grievance, and did what they could. Some brought butter and eggs to the
rectory, and even Mrs. Broadbent came all the way to bring a cake she
had made.

"I wanted to do something," she explained to Mrs. Nairn. "I have
children of my own, so can feel for you in your trouble."

Mrs. Nairn was deeply moved by these words, and tears came into her eyes
as she tried to express her thanks.

"Everybody is so kind and thoughtful," she said. "I did not realise
until this trouble came how many good neighbors we really have. I am
afraid I have misjudged them, and hope they will forgive me for any
hasty and uncharitable words I have said."

"Indeed they will," the visitor declared. "And they have forgiven you
already. We're not people to hold a grudge. Just let us know if there is
anything we can do, for we are anxious to help."

When Mrs. Nairn told her husband that evening about Mrs. Broadbent's
visit and what she had said, he remained silent for a few seconds. Then
he looked at his wife.

"Good may come out of this, Nell. The people here were up in arms
against us, and I really believed we should be forced to leave. That
would have greatly interfered with my future career. Our failure here
would soon be known far and wide. Oh, I know how it would be, for I have
heard about others and what people have said. Yes, it would pass from
place to place, 'Mr. Nairn? Oh, he's the clergyman who made a mess of
things in Glengrow.' Perhaps the Lord is overruling all for good."

"But at what a terrible price, Andrew. Why should our darling child
suffer that good might come? I may be rebellious, but it does not seem
right that Betty should be sacrificed to bring peace in this parish,
especially among people who are supposed to be Christians."

"It does not seem just, Nell. But remember a Greater than Betty suffered
for the sins of the world and to bring peace. But, there, we shall not
discuss that any more now. And besides, it is too deep a problem for us
to try to solve."

Twice a day Mr. Acres came to the rectory to inquire after the injured
child. It was always in the morning, just before noon, and early in the
evening. He never varied his time of calling, and stayed only a few
minutes. These visits touched both Mr. and Mrs. Nairn, for it showed his
keen interest in the child. He never again asked to go upstairs, but in
a gruff voice requested to know how the little one was getting along.
Then he was gone, thumping his stick hard upon the ground.

The evening of Betty's change for the better, Mrs. Nairn met him at the
door, and his face brightened at the news.

"Come in," she invited. "I have something to tell you."

As Mr. Acres seated himself, with his hands firmly placed upon his
upright stick, Mrs. Nairn sat down facing him. She wished to look into
his eyes that she might see again the fleeting expression she had caught
the day he had asked to see Betty. She had wondered at it then, and so
had Joan. It seemed to express a great desire of the soul, hidden behind
a rough and forbidding exterior.

"Yes, Betty's condition is improved," she told him. "The doctor was here
a few minutes ago, and he is much pleased. And I want to tell you that
the first question she asked was about you."

"Ah! About me?" Mr. Acres leaned eagerly forward. "And what did she call
me?"

A slight flush came into Mrs. Nairn's cheeks, as she hesitated.

"You needn't mind telling me, Madam, for I know. She called me the
'heathen man.'"

"She did, and I hope you don't mind. She had just awakened from a dream,
so was not herself."

"Mind! Do I mind? I should say not."

For the first time Mrs. Nairn saw Mr. Acres smile. It was a wonderful
smile, like a beam of sunshine through dark heavy clouds. But it
satisfied her. She knew now that she had not been mistaken in the man.

"I think Betty would like to see you, Mr. Acres," she said. "You might
come up to her room just for a minute."

"Not to-night, thank you kindly, Madam. I shall come again, as I have
something of importance to attend to this evening and to-morrow."

The one who was deeply concerned about Betty, although in an altogether
different way, was Mrs. Rockbridge. The accident had upset her
"terribly" she confessed, and she was afraid that her heart would not
stand the shock. Anyway, she was able to drive her car to the city the
afternoon of the accident to consult her husband. That the Nairns would
sue for damages was uppermost in her mind. They would demand a large
sum, and if the case should go to Court she knew how many would be
brought to witness against her as a most reckless driver.

"This must be settled out of Court," she declared after she had told her
husband what had happened. "I could not stand the strain, as my heart is
in such a bad condition. We must offer the Nairns a price to settle."

"Let us not be in too great a hurry, Josephine," Mr. Rockbridge advised.
"The Nairns may not take action, and, besides, you were not altogether
to blame for the accident. That cow should not have been on the road.
And what were those children doing there alone?"

"But I was on the wrong side of the road, Augustus. The children were
really in the ditch. I became confused when that cow started to cross
the road. You see, I had been talking to old Mr. Acres, and was so
excited over my success that I was driving faster than I should. I fear
I was to blame."

"So you saw Odd Acres, did you?" Mr. Rockbridge asked. "And you
succeeded?"

"I did, beyond my fondest expectation. He will let us have the place for
almost nothing."

Mr. Rockbridge rose to his feet, his eyes aglow with eagerness. The
accident to the little child was forgotten in the prospect of an
important business deal.

"How much?"

"Nothing in money. Mr. Acres merely wants me to write the story of
Bullet House. He has agreed to give me the full account, and if we
publish it in our paper just as he tells it to me, the place is ours. It
seems strange, but that is what he said. I wonder if that old man is in
his right mind. His neighbors think there is something mentally wrong
with him."

At these words Mr. Rockbridge stared at his wife for a few seconds, and
then resumed his seat. In fact, he slumped down in his chair like a
tired man. This his wife noticed.

"What is the matter, Augustus? You look sick."

"I am all right. But you must not write that story, Josephine."

"And why not?"

"Because it will bring trouble upon you. Bullet House has a bad
reputation. It is haunted, and whoever tries to meddle with its unsavory
history will meet with disaster. I don't want you to get mixed up with
it, so you must leave it alone."

"Must! No one, not even you, should mention such a word to me. I have a
mind superior to all superstitious ideas. I am surprised at you,
Augustus, for I considered you above such foolish notions. Have I not
gone to great trouble to get that place for you? And when I have
succeeded so far, you order me to have nothing more to do with it merely
because the place is haunted. When I begin a thing I always carry it
through, and I shall do the same now, ghosts or no ghosts."

"Very well, then, Josephine. I have warned you, remember, so if you take
matters into your own hands you will have to pay the penalty."

"I am quite capable of doing that, as you should know by this time. We
are going to have that place, and just as soon as I can get this
unfortunate Nairn trouble settled, I shall visit Mr. Acres again and get
the full story of Bullet House. I am so anxious to begin."

"All right, have your own way, as you always do. When are you going back
to Glengrow?"

"This afternoon. I shall see the Nairns, and get that matter off my
mind. I cannot write when anything is troubling me."

Mr. and Mrs. Nairn were with Betty that evening when Hettie came to the
door and whispered that Mrs. Rockbridge was downstairs. At once Mr.
Nairn rose to his feet, but his wife motioned him to sit down.

"Let me go, Andrew. You watch here."

"But I must see that woman, Nell. There is something I want to say to
her, and the sooner the better. She needs to be told a few straight
things."

"No, no, not now, Andrew. You are too excited. Wait for a day of two. It
is better for me to go."

"But, Nell--"

"Hush, Andrew. Remember Betty. Please let me have my way this time, and
I am sure you will never regret it."

"Very well, then, Nell," was the reluctant assent. "You always get your
own way. And, perhaps, you are right. Maybe I am too much worked up to
meet that woman now. Go and see what she wants."

Mrs. Rockbridge was seated in the sitting-room whither Hettie had
conducted her. She was weary and irritable, for the day had been a most
trying one. She wished to get through with this interview and return to
the hotel. With a sigh she leaned back in the comfortable chair. It was
restful here, and a feeling of peace pervaded the room. She glanced
around and noted its neatness, a striking contrast to the first time she
had visited it. It soothed her tired nerves. She closed her eyes and
meditated upon the events of the day. Nothing but worry, excitement, and
rushing from place to place. And she had been doing that all her life.
And what had she gained? No peace of mind or body had come to her, but a
restlessness which nothing could satisfy. She had been chasing after
happiness, but it had always eluded her. Now she was disgusted with it
all.

Opening her eyes, they rested upon a picture over the mantel. It
fascinated her, and held her spellbound by something she could not
explain. It was a beautiful picture by a famous artist of the Master of
Galilee standing with arms out-stretched to a crowd of people
surrounding Him. The old and the young, the sick, the lame, the blind,
and the halt, all were there, their faces eagerly upturned to Him who
was standing before them.

The watching woman rose quickly to her feet and went close to the
picture to read the title. "Peace I leave with you." Yes, that was its
name, and she knew the meaning. Those people gathered there had found
the source of true peace. She could tell it by their faces. But it was
at the Master Himself that she looked, and His eyes seemed to enter her
very soul. A strange feeling came over her such as she had never before
experienced.

In another minute Mrs. Nairn entered the room and stood by her side.
Turning, Mrs. Rockbridge saw her, and immediately she was her former
self again.

"I have been admiring this picture," she explained. "It is very
beautiful. And how is the child now?"

"About the same, so far as we can tell," Mrs. Nairn quietly replied.
"The doctor is still hopeful."

"I am glad of that. It was an unfortunate affair, and I have come to see
about a settlement. I was talking to my husband this afternoon, and as
we do not wish the matter to go to Court, we are willing to pay what is
reasonable. Perhaps you will tell me what you will take to settle."

Mrs. Nairn could hardly believe that she heard aright. She looked at her
visitor in amazement.

"I do not understand what you mean, Mrs. Rockbridge."

"You don't! You see, we are willing to pay you something for what I did
to your child. It is always customary for people to take legal action in
such cases. But we do not wish that, so prefer to settle out of Court."

"Oh, I understand now. But we never thought of doing such a thing. And
do you think that money could compensate us for the loss of our darling
child?"

"Of course not. But we thought--"

"We want nothing," Mrs. Nairn interrupted. "The very idea of taking
anything is terrible. Please do not mention it again."

Mrs. Rockbridge looked keenly at Mrs. Nairn, and a peculiar feeling
stole into her heart, such as she had felt when looking at the picture
on the wall. For once she was at a loss what to say. Her self-confidence
had vanished, leaving her almost helpless in the presence of this calm
woman. She wanted to be away by herself--to think.

"Very well, then, Mrs. Nairn, I shall accede to your wish. But if there
is anything I can do, please let me know."

Impulsively Mrs. Nairn seized Mrs. Rockbridge's hand in hers.

"Yes, there is something you can do. You can remember Betty in your
prayers."

Mrs. Rockbridge walked slowly back to the hotel. She was much disturbed,
and her thoughts were of a deep, searching nature. Her former life of
social activity and striving after position seemed shallow and
distasteful. She had caught a brief glimpse of another life, and desired
to know more of it. She could not get Mrs. Nairn out of her mind, try as
she might. And that night as she lay awake she was ever before her.
"Remember Betty in your prayers," kept ringing in her ears. And in
addition, there was that picture on the wall, with the Master's calm,
loving eyes, and out-stretched arms, giving forth His blessed message of
peace to troubled souls. All this was quite new to Mrs. Rockbridge. For
a time she tried to combat the strange feeling that was gradually
stealing over her. At length, however, she gave up the struggle, and
allowed herself to be borne by some mysterious power into another world
so wonderfully new and real.




CHAPTER XX

THE PICTURE


Since the accident Joan Rowland had spent most of her time at the
rectory helping Mrs. Nairn. But when Betty's condition began to improve,
she sought the refuge of her snug abode to sketch a picture that was
uppermost in her mind. And that was the face of Mr. Acres as she had
seen it the morning that strange man had visited the room where the
injured child was lying. She could not forget the expression in his
eyes. It haunted her, so remarkable did it seem. She tried to imagine
the cause of it. What was lying behind that fleeting look. From memory
she sketched that stern, rugged, defiant face, and then endeavored to
capture the expression she had seen. But she was baffled. Try as she
might, it eluded her.

She was seated with her back to the door where the glow of departing day
fell upon the sketch on her easel. She was quite satisfied with the face
she had drawn, the rough beard, shaggy eyebrows. Roman-like nose, and
deep wrinkles. But the eyes! They were not right. Her hand ceased as she
studied her work. It seemed strange to her that she should be so much
interested in the face of the man she so strongly despised, the man who
had been so heartless to her mother and grandmother in turning them out
of their home into the cold and cruel world. He might have let them
remain in that little house by the lake. What difference would it have
made to him? He had acquired a fortune from the lumber he had taken off
the place, and surely that should have satisfied him. And what a
wonderful farm he had, worth considerable money. It was strange that
such a heartless man should have prospered. And yet why had he been so
anxious to see Betty that morning? And what was the meaning of that
strange expression in his eyes? It was more than she could understand,
and she gave a slight sigh. She could not finish the picture. She would
wait until she saw Mr. Acres again. She might then see the look and
capture it for her sketch.

Not wishing that any one should see it, she drew a cloth over the easel,
and was about to leave the house to go over to the rectory, when a step
outside arrested her attention. Looking quickly around, she was
surprised to see Mr. Acres but a few feet away. She was startled. So
here was the man whose face she had been sketching, the very one she was
longing to meet that she might tell him what she thought of him. And now
he was right before her! She nerved herself for the ordeal which she
dreaded, although she felt that it had to be performed. He should know
who she was, at any rate. It was not right that such a creature should
escape. Anyway, it would relieve her feelings to give expression to what
had been so long in her mind.

Mr. Acres had stopped just outside the door, and was leaning heavily
upon his stick as he peered keenly at the girl from under the rim of his
old faded hat.

"Good evening, Miss. Where is Peter?"

"He and Mrs. Pendle left in the van about an hour ago," Joan explained.
"They said they would not be long."

"H'm, they're always gallivanting around somewhere. I've come all the
way to see Peter on important business, and he's not at home."

"Come in and rest until they return," Joan invited. "You must be tired."

"Thank you, Miss, I guess I will. That walk has puffed me a great deal.
I can't stand much these days, and that hill seems to be getting steeper
every year."

He seated himself in a chair, took off his hat, and placed his hands
upon his upright stick. He then looked critically around the room, and
his eyes brightened as they rested upon the pictures of several ships
upon the walls.

"You have a cosy place here, Miss. And what fine pictures. And what
great clipper ships you have there. Where did you get them?"

"I painted them, and I am glad you like them."

"You painted them! That is your work!"

Mr. Acres' eyes turned in admiration from the ships to the face of the
girl standing before him.

"Certainly I painted them. I am very fond of ships, especially the old
sailing vessels."

"You are right, Miss; you surely are. Ah, those were great days when the
clipper ships sailed the seas. They have nothing now but iron tubs. No
life. No romance."

Joan noticed the animation that kindled the old man's eyes. He was young
again, living in the past. She smiled a little sadly.

"Yes, I like old things," she quietly remarked. "They appeal to me,
especially if they have a personal interest. That is why I am so greatly
interested in Bullet House. Perhaps you would like to see some of my
sketches of it."

She glanced at her visitor as she moved across the room, but his face
revealed nothing. He evidently didn't know who she was.

"Here is one I made a few days ago," she remarked, holding up a sketch
of the house by the lake. "I like it."

"Ah, it is very good, Miss, and quite natural. So you have a personal
interest in that old house? In what way?"

The critical moment had now arrived, and Joan's heart beat fast. She
laid aside the sketch and stood before the old man.

"Yes, I have a personal interest because my mother was born in that
house."

She waited for some word of surprise, but none came. Mr. Acres was not
looking at her, but staring straight before him.

"Yes," the girl continued, "my mother was born there, so that is why the
house is of such special interest to me."

"So you are old Jim Rayton's granddaughter, then?" Mr. Acres questioned,
as if unaware of the fact.

"I am, and from that house my grandmother was turned out when my mother
was a mere baby."

"Is that so? And who turned them out?"

Joan looked at the man in astonishment. What did he mean by asking her
that? He should surely know.

"The man who bought the place, of course."

"And who was he?"

Joan's only reply was to reach out, draw the cloth from the sketch upon
the easel, and turn it towards Mr. Acres. He looked at it,
indifferently, for a few seconds.

"So that's the man, eh? But where are his horns?"

"Horns!"

"Yes, the devil is always pictured with horns and hoofs. But as you show
only his face, I can't tell what his feet are like."

Joan was forced to smile in spite of herself. This man was a puzzle to
her.

"I didn't think it necessary to add the horns," she explained. "His face
is evidence enough."

"Quite right, Miss. Yes, quite right. That face shows what a devil he
is."

"But do you know him?" Joan asked in astonishment.

"Certainly I know. It's supposed to be me--yes, it's me, all right,
except the eyes. You haven't got them right. But why on earth have you
taken the trouble to sketch me, Miss? Couldn't you find a better
subject?"

"I suppose so, but I want to have your face before me lest I waver in my
purpose."

"And what is that?"

"To tell you what I think of you for turning my mother and grandmother
out of that house."

"Ah, so you have been bottling up your wrath, have you? But tell me why
you are afraid of wavering in your purpose."

"Because of the look I saw in your eyes the day you went to the rectory
to see Betty."

At these words Mr. Acres gave a slight start, while an expression of
anger overspread his face.

"And what did you see there?" he sternly demanded.

"I don't know. But it was something I should like to capture for that
picture. I can't finish it unless I do."

Mr. Acres stared at the girl, and a slight tremor shook his body. He
then slumped down into his chair.

"You must have sharp eyes, Miss," he growled. "Your imagination is too
vivid. You didn't see anything unusual. You merely thought so."

"Oh, no I didn't. I saw it very plainly, and it was caused by the
accident to that little child. Am I not right?"

"Why should that child give me such a look, Miss?"

"You know better than I do, sir. You must be greatly interested in her,
or you would not go twice a day to inquire about her."

"Well, why shouldn't I be interested? It isn't often we have an accident
in this place."

"Is that the only reason, Mr. Acres? Isn't there something about that
child which appeals to you? Perhaps it is her prayers, for she has
prayed for you every night since the morning she gave you some money."

"Is that so? But I'm not at all surprised. She thinks I'm a heathen, and
the Church teaches the duty of praying for the heathen."

Mr. Acres chuckled as he glanced at Joan. He evidently did not mind what
he was called.

"But you are not a heathen," the girl declared.

"Perhaps not, Miss. A heathen might be quite a good fellow. But I am not
according to you. I'm a villain, almost a deep-dyed criminal because I
turned your mother and grandmother out of Bullet House. And what wrong
was there in that, let me ask? I bought the place with my hard-earned
money, and surely I had a right to my own property. Isn't that
reasonable?"

Joan stared hard at her visitor, and became somewhat confused. She had
never thought of this before. Mr. Acres, seeing her embarrassment,
smiled.

"But you might have let them remain there for a while," Joan at length
found voice to say. "What harm could they have done? But, no, you turned
them out to shift for themselves. Was that right?"

"Perhaps not. But they didn't find the world so cold and cruel, after
all, did they? They got along all right, I suppose?"

"They did, but no thanks to you. If my grandmother had not fallen heir
to considerable money, she and her little babe would have starved."

"So your grandmother got some money left to her, eh? From a relative?"

"I do not know. My mother, who was a baby at the time, never knew where
it came from, as my grandmother never told her."

"Do you get it now, Miss?"

"I do. Ever since my mother died the money has come to me every month."

"Who sends it to you?"

"It comes through the Golden Trust Company."

"And you have never made inquiry as to the legacy, Miss?"

"No, because I knew it was no use. My mother tried, but to no purpose.
Anyway, the money comes regularly, so why should I worry?"

"Quite true, Miss, quite true. But doesn't it seem strange that you know
nothing about the legacy, not even how much it is?"

"Perhaps so. But, you see, it has been coming so regularly for such a
long time that I have taken it as a matter of course."

Mr. Acres rose slowly to his feet, stepped over to the easel, and looked
down upon the sketch.

"Is that the best you can do, Miss?" he asked.

"Oh, no. That is just a rough sketch, a mere outline of what I hope to
do."

"So you intend to finish it?"

"I was planning to do so, if you don't mind. Perhaps you would come and
sit for me. I might then be able to get your eyes right."

Mr. Acres stood silently, lost in thought. He then looked curiously at
the girl.

"I will do so, providing you will make another sketch. I have a picture
of the man who was the false friend to your grandfather. He was
responsible for much of the trouble. Yes, he was the one who really
broke Jim Rayton's heart, ruined him, and undoubtedly caused his death."

Into Joan's eyes came an expression of intense eagerness.

"What is his name? I long to know."

"What! didn't your mother tell you?"

"Perhaps she did, but I have forgotten."

"It is not necessary for you to know just now. Make the picture first,
study his face, and let me know what you see in it. Anyway, I shall
bring the one I have as soon as I can. I expect to be busy to-morrow.
But there is no immediate hurry."

Joan was about to question him further, for she was anxious to learn
more, when Peter's van drew up in the yard. Mr. Acres at once bade her
good evening, cast a swift glance at the sketch, and left the house.




CHAPTER XXI

A STREET SCENE


An unheard of thing happened in Glengrow. It was nothing less than Silas
Acres riding with Peter Pendle in the big van. It was about the middle
of the forenoon when he started from Peter's house, so it was reported,
and the news soon spread. Where in the world were they going? everybody
asked, although no one could give a satisfactory answer. The Broadbents
had seen them pass their place, and Peter had waved his hand to Jim. Tim
Cardin had met them on his way down the road.

"It was just at the covered bridge," he explained to several who were
gathered at the store. "Si was starin' straight before him and never
seemed to notice me. But Peter grinned and gave me a funny wink. I
believe they're headed for town."

"Why didn't Si go by boat, then?" Jerry Perkins asked. "He has always
gone that way. He has no use for cars, and I never knew him to ride in
one before."

"And he never had any use for Peter," Tim laughingly declared. "And now
he's made up with both him and the car. There's something out of the
ordinary in the wind, mark my word. We'll find out, though, when they
come back."

"Don't be too sure about that," Tom Adams, the storekeeper, reminded.
"Peter can be as close as a clam at times. Look how he holds on to the
secret of his Panacea. He won't give that away."

"Because there's money in it, that's why," Jerry replied. "And most
likely Si has paid him well to take him in his van to the city, so he'll
keep mighty mum about it."

And while the neighbors talked and wondered, the big van lurched on its
way. It was one of the surprises of Peter's life when the evening before
Mr. Acres had asked him to take him to town the next morning.

"I shall pay you well, Peter, for your work. I have always gone by boat,
but I have a reason now for going by car, and your van will suit my
purpose well. But, remember, Peter, you are not to say a word to anyone
about this trip. I want to keep people guessing. Their tongues will wag,
and they will have a grand time surmising why I have gone with you. We
shall have some fun out of it, anyway."

And fun Peter certainly did have that morning as he drove through the
parish. Not only did he enjoy the staring looks of all they met, but he
knew also that this was his passenger's first trip in an auto. He had
heard him denounce cars in the most vigorous terms, calling them the
invention of the devil for the ruin of mankind. He had vowed, too, that
he would never ride in such a contraption, but that the waggon and boat
were good enough for him. So Peter smiled to himself this morning and
put on extra speed. As a rule he was not a fast driver, and was always
most careful. Now, however, he could not resist the temptation of doing
some exceptional stunts. Where the road was straight, he stepped on the
gas, and experienced a special thrill when he heard Mr. Acres gasp as he
clutched the side of the car. It was the same when rounding turns.
Although he slowed up, yet the speed was enough to cause his companion
considerable concern.

"Say, Peter, is this thing running away?" he gasped.

"Runnin' away! Why, no, she's just joggin' along. D'ye want me to let
her out to show you what she can really do when she gets worked up?"

"Heavens, no, man! She's worked up too much now to suit me, so be
careful. My, how this thing sways! Do you suppose it will upset?"

"She never has yet, but, then, one can never tell what she might do.
This car is almost human, Si. She knows this road like a book, every
hill an' turn. An' she's always so glad fer a run that she cuts up a few
capers now an' then like a frisky colt."

"Well, don't let her do too much frisking now, Peter. I'm human,
remember, and my frisking days are over."

"Afraid of gettin' sea-sick, Si?"

"Sea-sick! I was never sea-sick in my life. But road-sickness is a
different thing, and that's what I have now. I'd rather walk than be
shaken up this way."

"Worse than a storm at sea, eh?"

"Far worse, Peter. At sea one has a chance for his life when anything
goes wrong. But this thing is a death-trap."

Peter had all the fun he needed, so when he saw that his passenger was
badly frightened, he slowed down to a steady and reasonable speed.

"That's better, Peter," Mr. Acres remarked with a sigh of relief. "Just
keep her at that."

"I'll do the best I can, Si. But if this car takes another frisky spell
I can't help it. She's got sense, though, fer she knows how frightened
you are when she starts out fer a little fun."

It took them about an hour and a half to reach the city.

"Drive me to the Zilph Department Store," Mr. Acres ordered. "And I want
you to call for me there this afternoon at 5 o'clock sharp. I shall not
need you until then."

They were driving slowly along a street which ran through a poor section
of the city. Cars were coming and going, and Mr. Acres was very nervous
as Peter threaded his way through the traffic with much care. And on the
sidewalks children were playing, unheeding the speeding autos but a few
feet away. Sometimes several could be seen watching an opening to dart
to the other side. They ran great risks, but experience had made them
skilful at this dodging game. To Mr. Acres, however, it was
nerve-wracking.

"This is terrible, Peter," he exclaimed. "It's a wonder to me how those
youngsters escape."

"Oh, they're used to it, Si. They're just like rabbits."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when a frantic shout of
warning was heard, then a harsh squealing of brakes, followed instantly
by a child's wild shriek of pain. Peter brought his car to a
standstill, and looked around. Just across the street a crowd was
gathering around some object lying upon the pavement.

"A child's been run over!" He gasped. "I expected it."

Mr. Acres made no reply. He stepped out of the van as fast as his age
would permit, and walked cautiously among the cars. He reached the spot,
and towering head and shoulders above most of the people he was able to
see quite clearly what had happened. And what he saw filled his soul
with horror, for lying where the wheel had crushed her was the limp body
of a little girl. A policeman was bending over her, with a couple of men
by his side. Presently several other policemen arrived, who forced the
crowd back to give more room around the injured child. Then the clang of
the ambulance bell was heard, the crowd parted as by magic, the little
girl was carefully lifted from the ground, placed on board, and the car
moved swiftly away towards the hospital. It was all done in a short
space of time. Then the people soon dispersed, and the traffic went on
as usual. Various comments were made. It was a wonder that more children
were not killed or injured, and parents were to blame for not looking
after their little ones, so some said. Others declared that the city was
at fault for not providing proper play grounds. But it all ended in
talk, and soon they forgot all about the accident.

With Mr. Acres, however, it was different. He had caught a fleeting
glimpse of the injured child's face, and what he saw there stirred his
soul to its very depth. And her wild cry of pain rang in his ears. He
stood there like a statue watching the ambulance until it was out of
sight. He then looked around upon the children who were now scurrying
away like rats. The excitement was over, and they were anxious to go
back to their games. They were all dirty, and most of them barefooted.
One little fellow limped bravely after the others, and dodged skilfully
between the moving cars.

"Heavens, what a swarm!"

The words came involuntarily from Mr. Acres' lips as he watched the
scurrying youngsters.

"You are right, sir," came a voice at his side. He looked quickly around
and saw a policeman standing nearby. "This is my beat, and those kids
give me no end of trouble. This is the third accident that has happened
on this street this month."

"But why is it allowed?" Mr. Acres demanded. "Can't the children be kept
off the streets?"

The policeman shrugged his shoulder and looked keenly at the old man.

"Where are they to be kept, sir? There is no place for them but here.
Now, if they could be out in the country on a hot day like this instead
of playing on this sweltering street, what a great thing it would be.
But who wants them?"

"Isn't anything being done for such children?" Mr. Acres asked.

"Oh, yes, the Family Welfare and the Children's Aid are doing what they
can. Then the Gyro, the Boy Scouts and the Girl Guides have camps. But
it is impossible to provide for all, so hundreds have to play on the
streets just as these youngsters are doing."

The policeman left, and as Mr. Acres stood there he realized for the
first time how hot it was. The heat was almost unbearable, and he longed
for the coolness of his own home in the country, with the shade of the
great trees. And yet these children had to undergo this day after day.
And what must their homes be like!

Then all at once he had a vision. It came to him so suddenly that it was
startling. It was a picture of the coolness and the beauty of Bullet
Lake, the brook at the back of the house, and the shade of the large
sheltering trees. And in this picture he saw a swarm of happy healthy
children, playing among the trees, wading in the cool water, and
enjoying themselves in various ways.

And he saw, too, the sandy shore of his own fine farm, the great
spreading trees there, and almost felt the refreshing breeze drifting in
from the sea. What a place for children! What a world of good it would
do them to spend a few weeks in such a place. What a blessing to lift
them out of this noisy, dirty, sweltering hell and give them a taste of
God's grand fresh open. It would be like heaven on earth to poor little
beings.

He was aroused from his dream by the approach of Peter.

"Guess it's time fer us to be movin', Si. The traffic law won't allow me
to keep the car here any longer."

"Quite true, Peter, quite true. I had forgotten. You go on, but be at
the Department store at 5 o'clock. I want to stay here a while. I'm
interested in something."

"All right, Si, I'll do as ye say. But don't stop here too long or
ye'll have a sunstroke. I'm nearly cooked."

When Peter had gone, Mr. Acres walked slowly along the street towards
the business section of the city. He paid no attention to the curious
looks cast at him, for his mind was intent upon his surroundings. He
studied the houses, noting their decayed condition, and glanced into
windows that he might obtain a view of their interiors. But the children
were his chief attraction, and he watched them keenly until he had
reached the upper end of the street.

Coming at length to a restaurant, he entered and ordered a light dinner.
He was not very hungry, but he wished to rest and think. He was
strangely stirred, and the vision of that little crushed child stood out
vividly in his mind.

He was part way through with his meal when two men entered and sat down
at a small table next to him. It was quite easy for him to hear what
they said.

"Another child run over on Surrey Street," one of them casually
remarked.

"So I hear," the other replied. "Bad street, that, for children.
Something should be done."

"That's just it, Ves. Something should be done, but who should do it?"

"The city, of course. Kids should not be allowed to play in such
dangerous places."

"Where are they to play, then? They can't be kept penned up in houses
all day. And, after all, the streets are not much better on a sweltering
day like this. I wish they could go to some cool place in the country.
What lovely spots there are along the river where children could be so
happy. The church I attend has a camp at Long Point, and about thirty
children are under canvas there. They go for ten days, and then other
children take their place. It is doing so much good to those little
tots, and the leading women in our church are greatly interested. They
have forgotten all about their social engagements and jealousies in this
good work."

"That's great, Tom. I wish the women of St. Alban's would do the same. I
go there, and what a blessing it would be if my wife and her bosom
friend, Mrs. Rockbridge would undertake such a work. It would take their
minds from that new Rector affair. I am sick and tired of the strife
that is now going on."

"But what are the men doing, Ves? Now, in our church the men are backing
up the women, supplying the money, and helping in every way they can. I
haven't the time to do much, but my wife is up to her ears in the work,
and she enjoys it, too. It's made a new woman of her."

"I wish to goodness all of our society-crazed women would do the same,
Tom. I shall speak to my wife, and she may be able to induce Mrs.
Rockbridge to do something. They make a strong team when they get
started. 'Rockbridge & Casham, Limited' they have been called, and not
without good reason."

Mr. Acres smiled to himself at the thought of Mrs. Rockbridge taking an
interest in poor children. She was too much concerned with other
matters, such as making trouble for worthy people, and scheming to get
possession of Bullet Lake. But she would have something else to think
about before long, and the thought of the article she was planning to
write for the _Daily Echo_ gave him considerable satisfaction. As the
men nearby had now turned their attention to business affairs, Mr. Acres
rose from the table, paid for his dinner and left the building.




CHAPTER XXII

THE MYSTERIOUS BOX


It was evening as Peter's van lurched homeward through Glengrow. Mr.
Acres was in a thoughtful mood, and not inclined to talk. But Peter was
of a different mind, and did what he could to keep up a conversation,
although, as he afterwards said, it was a mighty hard job.

"Did ye hear anything about the girl who was run over, Si?"

"No."

"It's too bad them kids have no other place to play on a swelterin' day
like this."

"It is."

"It would be nice to have 'em out in the country under the shade of some
of our big trees, or wadin' in the water along the shore. It would do
'em a world of good."

"Better than your Panacea, eh?"

Peter chuckled a little at his companion's sly thrust.

"Well, I wasn't thinkin' about that, Si. But since ye've mentioned it, a
notion's come to me mind. Now, s'pose we had a bunch of them kids in
Glengrow on your shore, fer instance, they'd need a lot of attention,
wouldn't they?"

Mr. Acres gave a slight start, for he had been thinking of the same
thing.

"Yes, Peter, they would."

"An' they'd git so sunburnt wadin' an' swimmin' in the water, that the
skin would peel from their bodies. An' that's where my ointment would
come in mighty handy. An' they'd climb trees, bruise their shins, an'
hurt themselves in no end of ways. Then there'd be a great rush fer
Peter Pendle's Panacea to mend the little critters. Yes, it would be a
great thing fer me if they'd come."

"There would be no money in it, Peter."

"An' why not?"

"You would have to do it for charity's sake."

"H'm! Would I? I don't know about that."

"I shall have to leave you out, then, Peter. I was hoping that we might
be partners in the undertaking."

These words uttered so quietly, and yet with the assurance of a man who
has firmly made up his mind, caused Peter to stop the car, so great was
his amazement. He turned and stared at his companion.

"What's the matter, Peter?"

"You, Si. I don't understand ye."

"Perhaps not. But drive on. I hope my words have not injured the car."

This was the nearest Peter had ever known Mr. Acres to approach the
making of a joke.

"Oh, the car's a'right, Si, though I'm not sure about you. D'ye mean to
tell me that you are plannin' to bring a bunch of city kids to yer
place?"

"I am more than planning. I am going to do it, and I want you to help. I
have had my eyes opened to-day, and I see some things in a new light. We
must do something to help those poor children. Are you with me or not?"

"Sure I'm with ye, Si. I'll do all I can, even to givin' out gallons of
me precious Panacea."

"That's good, Peter. But be careful how you drive. You nearly went into
the ditch."

"Did I? Well, I'm a bit rattled over what ye've jist told me. An' so is
this car. She's terribly frisky when she gits excited, an' there's no
knowin' what she'll do next."

Mr. Acres smiled somewhat grimly and lapsed into silence. Peter tried to
continue the conversation, but all in vain, and except for an occasional
growl of "yes" or "no" he said nothing. He was in Glengrow now, and the
atmosphere of the parish seemed to be affecting him, making him the
surly Odd Acres his neighbors knew.

Billy and Nathan had just finished their supper as the van drew up at
the back door. They were arguing as usual, but ceased and stared in
amazement as Peter lifted a big wooden box from the back of the car.

"Carry it up to my room, boys," Mr. Acres ordered, "and be careful how
you handle it." When they had disappeared into the house, he turned to
Peter. "I'll be up to settle with you. But don't mention to anyone what
I said to you on the way from the city. I hope I can trust you."

"Trust me, Si! Why, ye could trust me to all yer worth an' I wouldn't
tell a soul. An' what's more, I'm with ye on that scheme fer helpin' the
kids. We're pardners, an' we'll stick together, by jiminey, we will."

After Billy and Nathan had carried the box upstairs, they hung around
hoping to hear something of importance. Their curiosity amused Mr.
Acres, and as he ate his supper he occasionally smiled. He was in a
happier mood than he had been for years. He had some aim in life now,
something to think about instead of brooding always upon the past.
Rachel noticed the change that had come over her master, and wondered.
When he was through with his supper, he looked towards the kitchen.

"Rachel."

"Yes, sir," she responded, coming into the room.

"Here is something I have brought for you." It was a dress he had taken
from a parcel by his side.

"For me!" Rachel's eyes opened wide in surprise, as she took the dress
in her trembling hands. Such a present from her master was an unheard of
thing.

"Certainly it's for you, Rachel. Did you think I bought it for Billy or
Nathan? Oh, no, I have something else for each of those lazy rascals.
Here, give them these."

For Billy there was a new pipe, with a can of choice tobacco, and for
Nathan a Bible with large print. Nathan had been complaining for some
time that his eyes were getting so poor that he could hardly read the
words in his old Bible.

Rachel tried to express her thanks, but words failed, and tears came
into her eyes. Mr. Acres did not like scenes; they annoyed him.

"There, there, that will do. I want no blubbering here. Get along with
you and take those things to the boys. Pipe, tobacco, and Bible, a
strange combination."

Billy and Nathan stared at the presents which Rachel handed to them.
They were sitting under the big tree at the back of the house.

"Did Si really buy these fer me?" Billy asked.

"He did. Have you any doubt about it?"

"No, not if you say so, Rachel. But what's come over him? He never did
anything like this before. He always gave us a scoldin' when he came
from the city. An' he bought Nathan a Bible! Well, well! wonders'll
never cease."

"I wish he'd bought one for you," Nathan retorted. "It would do you more
good than that vile tobacco."

"I want to see it improve you first, ye old grouch. If it cheers you up
an' makes ye more agreeable I may borrow it an' do some readin' myself.
But I've got me Prayer Book, an' that's enough fer me."

"Prayer Book!" Nathan growled. "I wouldn't be caught reading prayers out
of a book. I want to pray as the spirit moves me."

"It must be a darn queer spirit, then, which moves ye to make the awful
groans an' yelps I've heard when yer prayin'."

"Stop this nonsense," Rachel sternly ordered. "I am sick and tired of
your everlasting wrangling. You ought to be thankful that you have such
a good master, and who thought of us all when he was in town. I am,
anyway, for just see the nice dress he brought me."

She held it up for their inspection, and they felt the material and
pronounced it excellent.

"When will you wear it, Rachel?" Nathan asked.

"At your funeral, me boy," Billy replied. "I think you're goin' to die
soon, so Si wants to get ready fer the great occasion."

"You'll die before me, and in your sins, at that, Billy. You better
hurry up and get religion before it is too late."

Billy made no reply, but gazed thoughtfully at his pipe and tobacco.

"Now, I wonder what's come over Si to give me these. I hope he's not
goin' to die soon. D'ye s'pose he's feelin' his end is near, an' his
heart is gettin' tender. I've heard of rich men givin' a lot of money
before dyin' to ease their conscience. Dyin' men, so I've heard, often
have an admonition of their end."

"Premonition," Rachel corrected. "No, I don't think master has any
notion of dying. He's as smart as he ever was. He never complains of an
ache nor a pain."

"But I wonder what's in the box he brought from the city, Rachel."

"Was it heavy?"

"Not very, an' that's what makes me curious. Now, a box of that size
should be heavy."

"Why should it?" Nathan growled. "I've seen big boxes that were quite
light."

"Your head, fer instance, Nathan. It's big an' light, an' wooden, too."

"Don't judge me by yourself, Billy. If I had a head like you, I'd ..."

"There you two are at it again," Rachel interrupted. "No matter what we
talk about, you always start wrangling."

"But Billy started it," Nathan declared.

"I didn't. You spoke about big an' light things, so I couldn't think of
anything else but your head."

Rachel looked scornfully at the two belligerent men.

"We were talking about master's box, so never mind about your heads. The
less said about them, perhaps, the better. Did anything rattle in the
box?"

Billy scratched his head in an effort to remember.

"No, Rachel, I didn't hear anything rattle except Nathan's joints. They
always rattle when he's carryin' anything upstairs."

"They don't rattle half as much as your tongue, Billy," Rachel reproved.
"I wish you would keep to that box. What kind was it?"

"Wooden, of course."

"Yes, yes, but did it look as if it contained groceries or clothing?"

"Not groceries, Rachel, fer Nathan would have smelled them in a jiffy.
He's got a great nose fer such things."

"How could I smell groceries or anything else with you near?" Nathan
retorted.

Billy suddenly gave a yelp and slapped his sides.

"I've got it!" he shouted. "I know what's in that box."

"Ye do? What?" Nathan asked, now quite excited.

"It's, it's--no, I won't tell ye. It's a secret, an' will keep."

Billy grinned with delight at the expression of eager curiosity upon
Nathan's face. He pulled his mouth-organ from his pocket, and wiped his
lips with the sleeve of his coat.

"You can read yer Bible, Nathan, fer yer soul's good. This is your night
to turn the separator, so ye'll need much spiritual help to keep ye
from fallin' from grace."

With that parting thrust, he began to play, _Annie Laurie_, and
continued on to _Old Black Joe_, ending up finally with _We won't go
Home 'Till Morning_.

"Billy's the most hopeless and ungodly man I ever met," Nathan confided
to Rachel as he started for the pails to do the milking.




CHAPTER XXIII

GIFTS FOR A CHILD


After he had finished his smoke, Mr. Acres went up to his room, carrying
a hammer in his hand. He locked the door, walked over to the box and
stood gazing down upon it for several minutes. In his eyes was an
expression of satisfaction, almost of joy. It was not of the box he was
thinking, but of an injured girl at the rectory. He had a vision of her
delight when he visited her that evening. Although old in years, he was
young again in heart, for it was the unconscious influence of a little
child that had worked the subtle transformation in this bitter-minded
man. The wheel of time had turned back to that point in his life when he
had loved children, and his greatest pleasure had been in having them
around him and doing something to make them happy. It was then that his
dreams had been bright of little ones of his own, looking to him for
everything, and clinging to him with simple faith and love. Then the
great change had come into his life, and he had banished, or believed
that he had done so, all the affections of the heart, and had turned
against the world as it had turned against him. And since that time he
had worn a mask, and seldom had he lifted it from his face. But as
waters checked by a barrier become all the stronger, and at last burst
their bonds with irresistible force, so had the long-pent-up affections
of this lonely man. He had found again something he had lost, and in
finding that, he had found a wonderful relief. A new feeling possessed
his soul, and he was like a man suddenly freed from the gripping
shackles of bondage. The past seemed like a terrible nightmare from
which he had suddenly awakened.

And with this came another vision, so startling that it appeared
intensely real. He raised his eyes from the box and glanced around the
room. He had the feeling that some one was with him, and whose presence
was affecting him in a most remarkable manner. He had never experienced
anything like it before, and a sense of awe came into his soul. He
raised his right hand to his forehead, wondering if there was anything
the matter with him. He even felt his face, and looked at his hands. No,
there was nothing wrong with him. He was the same man outwardly. But
that mysterious presence! What did it mean? And who was it?

All at once a great illumination swept upon him, and he knew. His body
trembled at the idea. With a swift step he crossed the room to a shelf
upon the wall. Reaching up, he brought down a small iron box and placed
it on his desk. Bringing forth a bunch of keys from his pocket, he chose
one, and unlocked the box. Within were papers of various kinds, and a
package of letters tied with a string. These he lifted out, and
underneath a young and beautiful face was exposed to view. It was that
of a girl, about eighteen years of age, with smiling eyes which seemed
to look straight into those of the old man standing there. For many
years he had not beheld that picture, so now memories of the long ago
came upon him like a flood.

"Lucy! My God, you're the same! You haven't changed. And are you with me
now in this room? Is it your presence I feel?"

Again he glanced around as if expecting to see some one. He then lifted
the picture from the box, and gazed longingly upon it.

"Yes, Lucy, you chose Tom instead of me. You followed where your heart
led, and I suppose you were right. But it was hard for me, and I guess
you never knew what it really meant. But you'll never be dead, Lucy,
while your grandchild lives. She has your eyes, mouth, and forehead. And
she does not know what you meant to me, Lucy, and I suppose she never
will. But it's just as well. The young are not interested in love
affairs of the past. They have their own to take their attention. Yet
she might be my granddaughter but for ..."

He suddenly checked his meditation, dropped the picture back into the
box, replaced the papers, shut down the cover, and turned the key. He
did this almost savagely.

"Fool! I'm a fool," he muttered, "and getting sentimental. I must stop
this nonsense. What has love to do with a man of my age and experience?"

He picked up the hammer, and in another minute he had the box open. And
there lying securely packed were several things to delight the heart of
a little girl. Lifting out one, carefully wrapped, he removed the paper
and exposed a big doll, fully dressed. This he placed upon the floor,
and then brought forth a cradle, a set of dishes, kitchen utensils, a
bedroom suite, a broom and dust-pan, and a funny jumping-jack. These he
strewed around him, and kneeling in their midst he seemed like a
veritable Santa Claus getting ready to start forth upon his mission of
goodwill. If the neighbors could have seen Mr. Acres as he knelt there,
what a delicious morsel of gossip it would have been for their wagging
tongues. "Odd Acres is crazy," they would have declared. "We are certain
of it now." And in a way they would have been right, for this old man
was almost beside himself with rapturous joy over the purchases he had
made.

After he had viewed his possessions to his heart's content, he placed
all back in the box except the doll and the cradle. These he wrapped up
with much care so that it was impossible for anyone to tell what they
really were. He then nailed down the cover on the box and laid the
hammer upon the shelf. As he did so, his hand touched the scrap-book
lying there. It was only a little incident, that touch, and yet it
stirred up memories he could not easily forget. He hesitated for a few
seconds. Why not let Thomas Trayturn and his deeds rest? But for the
thought of Mrs. Rockbridge he might have done so. And that decided him.
So long as she was in the flesh, haughty and overbearing, and making
trouble for innocent people he could not do so. She wanted the story of
Bullet House, and she could only have that by including the tale of her
father's despicable deed. It would be necessary to resurrect him to
teach his daughter a lesson.

Lifting down the book, it took him but a minute to turn over the leaves
until he came to the swinish face of Thomas Trayturn. It was the picture
accompanying the eulogistic article which appeared after his death. With
his knife Mr. Acres cut this out, folded it up and placed it in an
inside pocket of his coat. He wanted Miss Rowland to sketch that face.
It might be well for her to know what the man looked like who did so
much to ruin her grandparents. If that face would not convince her as to
his nature, then nothing else would.

With the parcel under his arm, he left the room, locked the door and
went downstairs. No one was to be seen, although he heard Billy's
mouth-organ near the milk house. He surmised how curious the men and
Rachel, too, would be over the box, and he smiled. But the smile faded
as he strode up the road, and the mask of years once more shrouded his
face. He met two of his neighbors, and they saw only the stern, fierce
man they had known for years. To their words of greeting, he returned a
mere grunt and a jerk of the head.

"What's Odd Acres got under his arm?" one of the men asked. "It's quite
a parcel, whatever it is."

"It's hard to tell," the other replied. "Si's been to town to-day. Maybe
Peter's forgot something, and Si's taking it to him. I'd like to know
what Peter brought back in his van."

The men stood and watched Mr. Acres until they saw him turn in at the
rectory.

"He's taking something to the parson," the first speaker declared.
"Books, most likely. The parson's a great reader."

"Guess yer right, Sam. Si's been at the rectory a lot since that little
girl was hurt. He's taken quite a fancy to her, so I've heard. And he
thinks a lot of Mrs. Nairn, too. It's queer for Odd Acres to like
anybody."

Mrs. Nairn and Joan were with Betty when Mr. Acres arrived. John was in
bed, and Mr. Nairn was in his study working at his Sunday's sermon.
Robert had not yet come in from Bullet Lake. Betty had not been so well
during the afternoon, and when the doctor called he was puzzled about
her condition.

"She doesn't take an interest in anything," Mrs. Nairn had explained.
"She did ask, though, why the heathen man didn't come to see her, as she
had some more money to give him."

"Has she slept any?" the doctor inquired.

"A little this morning, just after you were here. But it is hard to
arouse her. She lies there with her eyes fixed upon nothing."

"Now, I wonder what we can do to arouse her. If she could get the blood
stirred up in her body I believe it would do a world of good. But I
guess that will take time. Anyway, let me know at once if there is any
change. I shall drop in again in the morning."

When the doctor had left the room, Betty looked at her mother.

"I'm glad he's gone, Mummy," she said.

"Why, darling? He is a good man, and came to make you better."

"Did he? But why doesn't that heathen man come? I have my money right
here to give him."

She turned her head and looked at a twenty-five cent piece lying on the
little table near the bed. Tears came into Mrs. Nairn's eyes, as she
took the child's free hand in hers. Joan went to the window to hide her
emotion. As she looked out, she saw a man coming to the rectory.

"Here is Mr. Acres now," she announced.

"The heathen man?" Betty asked.

"Yes, dear. And I am sure he wants to see you."

"Oh, I am so glad," and the child gave a sigh of relief. "I can give him
my money, and that will make him good."

In a few minutes voices were heard downstairs, and soon Mr. Nairn
ushered the visitor into the room. Betty's eyes brightened, and she
reached out her uninjured hand. Mr. Acres saw the expression, and his
heart quickened as he went to her side.

"Betty has been asking for you," Mrs. Nairn told him. "She wants to give
you something."

"Eh? Give me something? And what is it?"

"Some more money," the child explained. "I've saved it for you. It is
there on the table, so you can take it."

Mr. Acres looked at the coin, and then at the child. The anxious
watchers wondered what he would do and say. For a few seconds he himself
seemed to be uncertain. Then his right hand moved slowly to the table.
He picked up the money and placed it in his pocket. This satisfied the
girl, and a slight color appeared in her cheeks.

"You're not a heathen man any more, are you?" she asked. "My money will
make you good."

Mr. Acres made no reply. He hesitated just for an instant, and then
began to unwrap his parcel. Betty watched him, and when at last she saw
the doll, she gave a cry of delight.

"It's for you, Miss," Mr. Acres explained, as he placed it by her side.
"I am glad you like it."

A deep silence reigned in the room, and the eyes of all watched Betty as
she examined her treasure, its hair, eyes, clothes, and then hugged it
tight.

"Lovely doll. Pretty doll," she murmured.

When, however, Mr. Acres unwrapped the cradle and laid it upon the bed,
she remained transfixed with wonder and joy.

"Is that for me, too?" she asked.

"It's for the doll. I guess it's big enough. Here, let me see."

With clumsy hands Mr. Acres took the doll and laid it carefully in the
cradle. It was then that Betty laughed for the first time since her
accident, and her parents' hearts thrilled with a great joy. The doll
and the cradle had worked the marvellous transformation.

"You funny man," Betty exclaimed. "Let me fix the doll. You don't know
how."

Mr. Acres straightened up, stepped back and watched her as with one hand
she deftly did what he had vainly tried to do. The mask was now removed
from his face, and he was almost like a child in his eagerness and
delight. Joan had been watching him closely, and many strange thoughts
passed through her mind. The man she had learned to hate, the man she
had always considered a harsh, unfeeling brute was now before her, doing
what he could to please a little child! She studied his face, especially
his eyes. More than ever she now wished to sketch him, and catch that
expression which had eluded her the first time she had tried to capture
it. This man was a mystery to her. Did he possess two natures, one harsh
and cruel; the other kind and tender to little children? It seemed so.
And yet she could not forget what he had done years before.

Leaving Betty with her treasures, Mr. Acres cast one lingering look upon
the child, and moved towards the door. Mr. and Mrs. Nairn followed him
downstairs, leaving Joan on guard. Their hearts were full of gratitude
to their strange neighbor.

"How can we ever repay you for your kindness?" Mrs. Nairn impulsively
asked.

"Don't try to, Madam. I have been more than paid already. You don't know
what ..."

He ceased abruptly and stared hard at the woman.

"I want to have a talk with you and Mr. Nairn. I have something very
important to say."

"Come into this room, then. It is quiet there."

"Not now, no, not to-night. To-morrow, maybe. But before I go, I wish to
see Miss Rowland for a minute. But, no, that will not be necessary. Give
her this," and he drew the paper containing Thomas Trayturn's picture
from his pocket. "She will know what to do with it. Good evening to you
both."




CHAPTER XXIV

THE DISCOVERY


Mr. Acres had been gone but a short time when Robert arrived from Bullet
Lake. He was later than usual, and as he entered the house it was at
once evident that something out of the ordinary had taken place. He was
generally whistling or humming a tune in a careless, light-hearted
manner. Now, however, he was quite excited. Although he made an effort
to be calm, the glow in his eyes and the flush upon his face betrayed
him. Mr. and Mrs. Nairn were in the study talking about Mr. Acres and
his interest in Betty as Robert entered. His sister rose to meet him.

"You are late, Bob. We were getting anxious about you. Have you had your
supper?"

"I think I have, Nell, although I am not sure. Yes, I believe I did eat
something a while ago. Where's Joan?"

"With Betty."

"May I go up? I want to see her."

"Certainly. And Betty will be glad to see you."

Taking two steps at a time, Robert bounded up the stairs like a great
overgrown boy. Mr. and Mrs. Nairn looked at each other and smiled.

"Bob has improved very much since he came here," Mr. Nairn remarked.
"The life in the woods agrees with him. I never saw him look better."

"But he is excited now about something, Andy. I wonder what has
happened."

"It is hard to tell. One never knows what to expect next. Since Bob came
here we have had no end of excitement. And the strangest of all is the
way Mr. Acres is acting. He is a changed man. I am curious to know what
he wants to say to us. When do you suppose he will come again?"

"To-morrow, most likely. His heart seems to be set upon Betty. I believe
it is her unconscious influence that is affecting him. Did you notice
his face, especially his eyes, when he was near her?"

"I did, and that is what puzzles me. He seems like a man who has been
wearing a horrible mask, and as he stood by Betty it was suddenly
removed and his real face was revealed. He is worth studying, for there
is more in him than I imagined."

"Perhaps I have not been altogether wrong in my opinion of him," Mrs.
Nairn reminded. "You remember what I said that morning he came here to
demand the money he had given?"

"Indeed I do, and your words got you into a great deal of trouble. I did
not agree with you then, Nell, but I do now. The more I see of Mr.
Acres, the more I like him. He is the most peculiar character I have
ever met."

"Peculiar, yes. And grand, too. I like his ruggedness. He reminds me of
those great sea captains of the famous clipper-ship days of which my
grandfather used to tell me when I was a child. The spirit of the sea
was in their blood."

"And it's in yours, too, Nell," Mr. Nairn smilingly replied. "I believe
that is the reason why that strange man appeals so strongly to you."

"Most likely, Andy. And Mr. Acres was a sea captain himself, remember,
and he knew my grandfather. You know how excited he became when he saw
the picture of the _Ida Rutledge_ in the dining-room, and learned that I
am a Rutledge."

"I did, and I have never forgotten his quotation from Dana, 'Sharp upon
the wind, cutting through the water like a knife, with her raking masts
and her sharp bows running up like the head of a greyhound.' That's what
he said."

"Your memory is remarkably good, Andy."

"Oh, I have been reading Dana's great book, which I bought, and learned
that quotation by heart. It has been an inspiration to me. 'Sharp upon
the wind, cutting through the water like a knife.' What vigor in those
words, and what a reminder of how one should face life. And 'running up
like a greyhound.' Why, that is enough to thrill one's very soul with
courage. It has mine, anyway."

At that minute Joan and Robert entered the room.

"Betty is asleep," the girl explained, "so she is all right for a while.
She has her doll in her arms."

Mrs. Nairn rose to her feet, and offered her chair to Joan.

"I think some one should be with her, for she might wake at any minute.
We have never left her alone since the accident."

"I would like for you to stay, Nell," Robert replied. "There is
something I have to say, so I wish all to be present. We can hear Betty
if she makes the least sound. I am sure she'll be all right."

Mrs. Nairn hesitated, but seeing the eager look in her brother's eyes,
she resumed her seat. Joan and Robert sat down near the table where the
lighted lamp cast its soft glow upon the girl's face, and glinted upon
her dark hair. She looked very beautiful to Robert, and Mr. and Mrs.
Nairn were of the same opinion. They hoped that the friendship between
her and Robert would continue and develop into a more enduring bond.
Nothing would please them better, for they had become fond of this girl
who had come so recently into their lives.

"Yes, I have something to tell you," Robert began, "which I think you
all should know. It may not amount to much, but I hope it will. It is of
a discovery I made at Bullet House, and which kept me late in coming
home."

He paused, drew a small packet of letters from his pocket, and laid it
upon the table. He smiled at the interest and curiosity he had aroused
in his listeners.

"I had been having a wonderful time during the afternoon, first on the
lake and then upon the verandah, lying on the sofa reading a ghost
story. It is not very often I read such a yarn, but it was in one of
those magazines I took along with me. Well, just at the most thrilling
place, and when the cold chills were scuttling up and down my spine, and
my hair seemed to be lifting from my head, I heard a peculiar noise in
the house. At first I thought it was only imagination, but soon knew
that it was real. It was a muffled sound, something beating and
flapping in a box. At once I remembered the stories I had heard about
that old house, and although not superstitious, I began to wonder if the
ghosts of old Rayton and his wife had returned. I wish you had been
there, Andy."

"Misery likes company, eh, Bob?"

"I longed for company then, and no mistake. I would have even welcomed
Billy or Si Acres. Anyway, I had to brace myself for the ordeal and try
to find out what it was. My knees were shaking when I went into the
house, but not a blessed thing could I see. The noise still continued,
and it came from the chimney above the fireplace. The ghost was in
there, I was certain, and at once I realized what it was. It was a bird,
beating itself against the boards in an effort to get out. You can
imagine my feeling of relief. It was no ghost, after all, but a living
creature in need of help.

"Then I noticed something that had hitherto escaped my attention. On one
side of the chimney from which the noise came I saw what looked like a
small door, although there was no knob or latch of any kind to be seen.
Standing upon a chair, I forced open the door, and at once a bird darted
out, circled around the room and then flew out the door. Examining the
place from which the bird had come, I found it empty. Feeling sure that
there must be an opening in the chimney by which the bird had entered, I
felt as far up as I could reach, but found nothing. I then ripped off
one of the boards, determined to find the hole. If a brick had fallen
out, a spark might escape and set the building on fire, so I wished to
guard against any trouble during my stay there.

"When the board had been removed, I found a hole just below the floor. A
brick had crumbled away, and there was an opening as large as my hand.
Through this the bird had evidently come. In fact, I found many feathers
and tiny bones lying around, showing that other birds had been entrapped
and died there. The sounds that they made in their death struggles,
perhaps, account for the idea of ghosts in that house. The only thing
left was for me to fill up the hole, so I went in search of some clay
near the shore. I am not a mason, but common sense told me what to do in
such an emergency.

"Finding some clay I plugged up the hole with broken pieces of brick I
found at the back of the house, and plastered the clay over it, making a
mighty good job. Then when about to replace the board I had torn off, I
noticed something lying on the narrow piece of scantling just above the
little door. Thinking it was merely a piece of plaster that had dropped
there, I paid no attention to it, but replaced the board, pounding the
nails in with an axe. I must have hit unusually hard, for I heard
something drop inside the small cupboard. Then to my surprise I saw that
packet of letters lying there where it had fallen. The pounding had
knocked it off the narrow scantling. In my excitement I forgot
everything else, for I was certain that I had come upon something of
considerable value. Neither was I mistaken, for in those letters I have
found a clue which I believe will lead to the unravelling of the mystery
connected with that old house."

Joan had listened with rapt attention to every word that Robert had
said. Anything connected with that house by the lake was of great
importance to her. Often her eyes wandered to the letters lying upon the
table. She could hardly wait, so anxious was she to know what they
contained. Then when Robert spoke of finding them in that little
cupboard, she leaned eagerly forward. Was the mystery at last to be
solved? she asked herself. Why had Robert been so deliberate in telling
his story? What to him was merely material for an article he hoped to
write was to her of vital interest. She longed to clutch the letters,
tear them open, and find out their meaning. With an effort, however, she
controlled herself and waited.

"I am going to read you two of these letters," Robert continued. "They
are, I believe, the first and the last that were written, although there
is no date to any of them."

Slowly he untied the string, altogether too slowly, so Joan thought. Why
didn't he cut it with a knife?

"Now, this one," Robert went on, separating a faded paper from the
others, "was written on board the ship, the _Ocean Queen_, lying at
Bombay. It was evidently written in a hurry, but every word shows the
deep heart-feeling of the writer. I have thought over his words, and
tried to picture him sitting in his cabin writing to his sweet-heart so
far away. It's a good subject for a poem."

"Suppose you leave the imagination and the poem for some other time,
Bob, and get on with the letter," Mr. Nairn suggested.

"Oh, yes, please do," Joan urged.

Robert noticed the excited tone of her voice, and as he glanced at her
he saw that her face was unusually flushed. He made no comment, however,
but turned at once to the letter, and began to read.

     Bombay

     Dearest Lucy,

     I have just arrived here, and find that the _Ida Rutledge_ is to
     sail for home in a few minutes. Her captain, John Rutledge, is one
     of my best friends, and he has promised to deliver this letter to
     you. It is the first time in two months that I have had any
     opportunity of sending any word direct to you. But you have never
     been out of my mind. My heart calls out for you, as I believe yours
     does for me. It is hard that we must be parted for such a length of
     time. But we must be patient a while longer. I have been making
     money fast, and soon I shall be able to give up the sea, and we can
     then settle in some nice country place where we shall be always
     together. I know a farm along our beautiful home river, and there
     free from care, we shall be so happy.

     I can write no more now, except to say that by next summer I hope
     to be home. From here I shall sail for South Africa, and from there
     I may have a chance to write to you again.

     Good bye now, my darling Lucy. I have your picture always with me.
     But I do not really need it, for you are enshrined in my heart, and
     I feel your presence ever with me.

     Ever your loving and faithful,
     Si.

There was deep silence as Robert finished. Joan was breathing hard, and
her hands were clenched firmly together upon her lap.

"Well, what do you think of that?" Robert asked, looking around at his
listeners.

"Very interesting," Mr. Nairn replied. "But who is 'Si'?"

"I don't know for sure, Andy, although I imagine he is none other than
our quaint neighbor, Si Acres. He was a sea captain, and his ship was
the _Ocean Queen_. He also speaks of my grandfather, Captain John
Rutledge, as one of his best friends. I don't think there is any doubt
at all."

"Do the other letters tell anything more?" Mrs. Nairn asked.

"Only one, Nell. The rest were written from various places, and are much
like the one I have just read. And they are all signed in the same way,
and with no date. But this one," and he held it up, "must have been the
last one written, and a sad letter it is. I almost hate to read it, for
it tells of a heart-broken man who lost the girl he loved. No place is
given, and it begins very abruptly. Listen.

     Lucy,

     I can't believe it's true. I have just arrived in port and learn
     that you are married to Tom Rayton, and have gone to the woods to
     live. And yet you said you loved me and would wait for me until I
     came home. I understand now why I didn't get any letters from you
     for the last six months. I never for an instant imagined that you
     were untrue to me, but thought your letters had gone astray. Now I
     know. Tom had taken my place in your heart. I am nearly crazy. To
     come home and find you married to another is terrible! Why, oh why
     didn't you tell me, and not keep me buoyed up with such hope? I
     have worked for you alone, and have made money that you might have
     plenty. And yet you have gone to the woods to live a life of
     poverty and hardships! I can't understand it. This is my last
     letter to you. I don't know what to do, for my world is turned
     upside down all of a sudden. I can't believe it is all your doing,
     Lucy. It's Tom who has betrayed me, and, by God--But what's the use
     of writing any more? You've done the deed, and made your own nest,
     so you'll have to put up with the consequences. I shall see that
     you get this letter without Tom's knowledge.

     Good bye forever,
     Si.

When Robert had finished, he folded the letter, thrust it back into its
stained envelope and looked around. He glanced at his sister and noticed
tears in her eyes.

"Pathetic, eh, Nell?"

"Very. And to think that after so many years those old letters should
come so strangely to light! And what a place to hide them!"

"A very safe place, I should say. Mrs. Rayton must have put them there
so her husband wouldn't see them, and then forgot all about them."

"I understand now why Mr. Acres is so odd," Mr. Nairn quietly remarked.
"What a tragedy that was to him. It is strange, though, that he should
have settled so near the girl he loved and lost. I wonder if they ever
met again."

Joan had heard all that she could endure. Her brain was in a whirl, and
she wished to be by herself that she might think over all she had heard.
But she was very calm outwardly as she rose to her feet and turned to
Mrs. Nairn.

"I must go now," she said. "I hope Betty will have a good night."

"We shall see you in the morning, I suppose? Betty will be sure to ask
for you."

"Perhaps so. I have some work to do which may keep me later than usual.
But I shall come as soon as I can."

She then looked at the letters lying upon the table.

"May I have them just for to-night?" she asked. "They have interested me
very much, and I should like to read them slowly by myself."

"You are welcome to them," Robert replied, although he was somewhat
surprised at her request. "Let me carry them for you."

"Not to-night, thank you. I wish to be alone--to think."

"Oh, that reminds me of something I have for you, Joan," Mrs. Nairn
exclaimed. "It's a paper Mr. Acres gave me. Now, what did I do with it?
Oh, here it is on the floor. I must have dropped it in my excitement
over those letters."

As she handed it to Joan she noticed that something was troubling the
girl. She could see it in her eyes and the strained look upon her face.
The men noted it, too, especially Robert, and he longed to know the
meaning. Why had those old letters affected her so strangely? Was she
related in any way to those Raytons? Was that the reason why she was so
greatly interested in Bullet House? It seemed so.

Robert was unusually quiet the rest of the evening. He sat and smoked
alone out upon the verandah until quite late. Mr. and Mrs. Nairn
believed his quietness was due to Joan's refusal to allow him to
accompany her home. But Robert was not worrying about that. He was
seeing other things, and what he saw gave him considerable satisfaction.
The mystery of that old house by the lake was being revealed, so he
believed, and he was very eager to find the entire solution. He had come
across a remarkable clue which he hoped would lead to most important
results. How surprised the editor of the _Daily Echo_ would be at the
discovery he had made.




CHAPTER XXV

MENTAL GHOSTS


Strange thoughts kept pounding through Joan's brain as she walked from
the rectory back to her own house. She followed the little path which
led across a small tree-embowered brook and through a field of tall
grass. It was a beautiful evening and the moon was riding high above the
far-off eastern hills. The river, lying like a great mirror, caught its
glow in a long straight silver gleam from shore to shore. On any other
night Joan would have stood entranced by the alluring scenes around her.
Now, however, she could think of nothing but those old letters she
clutched in her hot hand.

Reaching the house, she found Mrs. Pendle seated by her front door,
looking out over the meadow to the river beyond. The sight of this quiet
woman somewhat soothed the girl's agitated heart and mind. During the
short time she had known Mrs. Pendle she had found her a pleasant woman,
hard-working, and who minded her own affairs. She had never heard her
speak a harsh or unkind word about anyone.

"All alone to-night?" she asked, as she stood before her.

"Oh, no, I am never alone, especially on such a night as this. I have
excellent company, for the moon and the river are smiling at me. And,
besides, night has so many lovely voices which I hear and try to
interpret. Listen to that little bird, for instance. What a sleepy cheep
it has. When I was a child my mother used to talk to me about the many
beautiful things we can hear in nature if we have the ears to listen
aright."

A longing came into Joan's heart to confide her trouble to this woman.
It would be a relief to speak to some one. She resisted this desire,
however, for she was anxious to go over those old letters. She wished to
do some more serious thinking before taking anyone into her confidence.

"Where is your husband to-night, Mrs. Pendle?" she inquired, as she was
about to turn away towards her own abode.

"He's over at Mr. Acres', and he's been there for some time. I never
knew him to go there at night before. But Mr. Acres sent for him, so he
said. It must be something important, for Peter won't tell me what it
is. Perhaps Mr. Acres wants to make his will. Peter is quite a hand at
that, and has done it often for others. Yes, it must be a will he is
writing, but it must be a long one to keep Peter such a length of time."

When in her own room, Joan lighted the lamp, drew down the blinds, and
seated herself at the little table. Eagerly she opened the letters and
read every word. In fact, she did more than read, for she saw behind the
words, and pictured the one who had written them. And that man was Mr.
Acres, living such a short distance away! And it was her grandmother who
had acted so shamefully! It was little wonder that her face burned as
she thought of this. There was good reason why he had turned her mother
and grandmother out of that house by the Lake. And could anyone blame
him? Yet she had always considered him a mean man, a scoundrel, for
what he had done. Did her mother know how he had been treated? It was
hardly likely, as her mother would have kept the secret hidden within
her own heart. Perhaps she was ashamed of the way she had acted. And did
she ever regret marrying Thomas Rayton?

All this, and much more, passed through Joan's mind as she sat there
staring upon those letters. Twice she read the one written from Bombay,
and the last which told of the writer's astonishment and grief. What a
shock it must have been when Mr. Acres arrived home to learn that the
girl he loved so dearly was married to another. It was no wonder that he
was so odd. Anyone would be who had suffered such a heart blow. And he
had given up the sea and settled in Glengrow. Why did he do that? Was it
to be near the girl he loved? And did he continue to love her,
notwithstanding the way she had treated him? That was hardly likely when
he had turned her and the baby out of the house. It was all very
puzzling to Joan. She longed to know more, and how could she find out?
Mr. Acres could tell her, but she shrank from the thought of asking him.
Anyway, he did not seem such a monster to her now. Instead, a sense of
pity stole into her heart. He had never married, but lived his lonely
life, with only his hired help as companions. She longed to do something
for him. If the girl he loved had treated him so badly, perhaps her
granddaughter might do something to atone for the past.

As she gathered up the letters, placing them carefully and almost
reverently in their envelopes, she noticed the piece of paper Mrs.
Nairn had given her. She had forgotten all about it. Quickly unfolding
it, her eyes rested upon the face of Thomas Trayturn. Then she recalled
her conversation with Mr. Acres and his promise to her. So this was the
face of the man who had done her grandfather such a great injury. Why
did Mr. Acres wish her to make a sketch of him? There was nothing that
she could see in such a face that was worth while the effort.

She read the fulsome account, how charitable he was, and how he had
never let his left hand know what his right hand did. And this was the
man who had ruined her grandfather! He had become wealthy, and yet he
had made no effort to repay what he had stolen. And what had become of
his family? His sons and daughters, if he had any, were living, no
doubt, upon the money he had made, and were leaders in society. And who
were they? Ah, the paper told. She had hardly noticed their names
before, but now she read with deep interest. Mrs. Rockbridge was a
daughter. Why, she must be the same woman who was staying at the hotel,
and who had taken refuge in Bullet House during the thunder storm. But
there might be some mistake. No, that could not be, for the paper said
she was the wife of the editor of the _Daily Echo_ of Pretensia.

"Yes, she must be that haughty, overbearing woman who has come here to
spy upon Mrs. Nairn," Joan mused. "And to think that she is the very one
who has circulated that scandalous report about Robert and me! And she
is the daughter, too, of the man who ruined my grandfather! I can tell
by his face that he was capable of almost any deed of infamy. What a
discovery this is. I shall surely sketch his face, for I may need it. I
wonder if Mrs. Rockbridge knows what her father did. If not, she should
know. Perhaps it might check her, and teach her to leave other people
alone."

Next morning after Joan had prepared and eaten her breakfast, she went
over to the rectory. She wished to find out how Betty had passed the
night, and also to return the letters.

"Betty slept well," Mrs. Nairn informed her. "She is very bright this
morning, and is now playing with her doll and cradle. I am so thankful.
You must go up to see her."

When Joan at length came downstairs, she found Robert waiting for her.
After she had given him the letters, he walked back home with her. She
looked very beautiful to him this morning, and his heart thrilled at
being so close to her. He had not seen much of her of late, as she had
spent most of her time with Betty. But he had dreamed of her during the
long peaceful hours at Bullet Lake.

"Did you sleep well last night?" he asked after they had gone a short
distance.

"Great. I always do."

"You didn't see any ghosts, I suppose?"

Joan laughed as she stepped across the little brook.

"No. Why should I?"

"Oh, I thought perhaps those old letters might have affected you. Such
things sometimes do."

"Did they trouble you?"

"They did. I was late going to bed, and then I couldn't sleep. I saw
ghosts, all right."

"What kind? Good or bad?"

"I can hardly tell. Everything seemed so confused. I couldn't get Mr.
Acres and Lucy out of my mind. I have a vivid imagination, anyway, and
those letters started it working at top speed last night. I thought of
all sorts of things, especially about that lover who had been so
shamefully treated. It was enough to break any man's heart. Mr. Acres
must have been about crazy and ready to do almost any desperate deed.
Now, what would such a person really do? He would brood and brood for
days, weeks, months. His heart would become hard, bitter and revengeful.
He would think of the girl he loved, and of the man who had taken her
from him. At last, full of jealousy and hatred, he would visit the house
where they were living. He would watch them through the window, and
seeing how happy they were, he would go away more bitter than ever. Then
the devil would take possession of him and drive him to kill the man he
hated. A wild night and darkness would cover the deed. With gun in hand,
he would creep up to the building, he would see the man and his wife
with their little babe before the fire. That scene would add more fuel
to his passion, and he would shoot."

"Stop!" Joan cried, clutching Robert by the arm. "I can't stand any
more. It is terrible what you say. Your imagination has carried you too
far."

"Do you think so? But who fired that shot? Who else had any reason for
killing Mr. Rayton but the man from whom he had taken the girl he loved?
And what about that threat in the letter? I remember every word, 'It's
Tom who betrayed me, and by God--' Now, if that isn't a threat of
vengeance, I don't know what it is."

"And do you really believe that Mr. Acres did the shooting?" Joan asked
in a voice that trembled with emotion. "The very idea is terrible."

"I know it is. But suppose it is true? That is one of the ghosts I saw
last night. And the other was that of Lucy, living her lonely life in
the woods, and thinking, perhaps, of the lover she had cast off."

"Perhaps she never thought any more about him," Joan quietly remarked.
"She may have been perfectly happy with the man she had chosen."

"That may be so. But I can't help thinking about those old letters. She
hid them in a remarkable place where her husband would not find them. I
wonder if she ever took them down and read them when alone."

"Most likely she forgot all about them, for she left them there when she
was turned out of the house."

"Quite true. But that may have been due to her excitement and worry. But
I believe she remembered them when it was too late to get them."

"What are you going to do with them, Robert?"

"Keep them, of course, until I learn more. I am anxious to find out what
happened to Mrs. Rayton. It is hardly likely that she is alive after so
many years. But her daughter must be living somewhere, so if I could
only find her I might learn something of much importance."

"Perhaps Mr. Acres knows. Why not ask him?"

"No, no, I would not dare to do that. And there is no telling what he
might do if he knew I have those letters. I must think of some other
way."

"And when you do, you will write the story for the _Daily Echo_?"

"Certainly. And what a story it will be! It should make a great hit."

They had already reached the house and were standing just outside the
door. Joan did not ask Robert to enter, as she had work to do, so wished
to be alone. There was much she might tell him, but she did not care to
enlighten him just now. But he should be warned, lest carried away by
his enthusiasm he might do something which would cause great trouble.

"It might be as well to say little about those letters for the present,"
she advised. "Suppose Mr. Acres should hear of your discovery?"

"What difference would that make?"

"It might not, and again, it might. Although it is quite evident that
Mr. Acres wrote them, yet it is only surmise on your part that he did
the shooting. I do not see how you can write that article and connect
him with that terrible deed. You have no definite proof, and you might
get yourself into serious trouble."

Robert stared at the girl as the truth of her words dawned upon his
mind. Joan smiled at his crest-fallen appearance, although she felt
sorry for him.

"I never thought of that," he confessed, "so taken up have I been with
the unravelling of the mystery and writing about it."

"And allowing your imagination to run wild."

"Not altogether, for I am sure that I am not far astray. But I see how
necessary it is to be careful what I write with Mr. Acres still alive."

"And there may be others," Joan reminded. "You will have to find out
about that false friend, mention his name, and tell what he did. If he
has relatives living, they, too, might make trouble."

"More snags, eh? But the truth should be told, no matter how it might
offend. Perhaps that man's descendants are living to-day upon the money
he gained in such a dishonest manner. They may be strutting around,
haughty, overbearing, and looking down upon everybody else. Oh, I have
seen such people, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to
bring down their high feathers and make them bow their heads in shame.
So it may be with the relatives of that man who ruined the Raytons."

"How are you to find out?" Joan asked.

"I don't know now. But I shall keep on searching, and something will
turn up to help me. But, there, I am going, as you wish to be alone."




CHAPTER XXVI

A GUEST FOR DINNER


For some time Joan sat at her easel, and under her skilful fingers the
face of Thomas Trayturn took definite shape. It was not a pleasing
subject, for she could find no inspiration in that low forehead, swinish
eyes, and pug-like nose. Several times she stayed her hand, feeling that
she could not finish the drawing. But the desire to possess a likeness
of the features of the man who had ruined her grandparents urged her to
continue.

And as she worked, Mrs. Rockbridge was much in her mind. There was no
resemblance at all between the father and the daughter, so far as she
could see. The latter must have inherited her good looks from her
mother. What would that haughty woman think if she knew what her father
had done? Would it affect her in any way, or was she indifferent to such
a thing? She might say it was all a malicious lie, concocted to injure
her. But how would she ever know? Who would tell her?

When Joan had the work about done, and was giving it a few finishing
touches, a loud rap upon the screen door startled her. Looking quickly
around, she saw Mr. Acres standing there, his stick in his hand.

"Good morning, Miss," he accosted. "Hope I haven't frightened you. Sorry
to disturb you at such a pleasant task."

Joan smiled as she rose to her feet.

"Come in, Mr. Acres. I was so absorbed in my subject that I didn't hear
you until you knocked."

"Absorbed, eh?" Mr. Acres queried as he entered and glared at the face
upon the easel. "And well you might be. That face would absorb anything.
It did poor old Tom Rayton of money, anyway. But you've done it well,
Miss, except the eyes. You haven't got them quite right."

"I know it," Joan agreed. "But please sit down and tell me something
more about the man. I may then be able to get his eyes right."

"You couldn't," Mr. Acres declared as he seated himself heavily in a
chair nearby. "There was something about Trayturn's eyes which no artist
could catch. They were too cunning and shifty. Yes, I guess you've done
all anyone could do. Now, the eyes in that picture from which you
copied, are not correct. The photographer must have touched them up a
great deal. But he couldn't do much with the nose and forehead. They
tell their own tale, so just leave it as it is, Miss."

"Does Mrs. Rockbridge know what her father did?" Joan asked.

"How do you know that she is his daughter?" Mr. Acres demanded in
surprise.

"Why, it's in the newspaper clipping you gave me."

"So it is. So it is. I forgot about that. Yes, Mrs. Rockbridge is Tom
Trayturn's daughter. But I don't think she knows what a skunk of a man
her father was when he was young. If she did, she would not carry so
much sail."

"But will she ever know?"

"Oh, yes, she'll know," Mr. Acres chuckled. "She'll find out, all right,
never fear. She's headed straight for the breakers now, and it's her own
doings."

"You knew my grandmother, I suppose?" Joan inquired as casually as
possible.

Mr. Acres gave a slight start, and looked keenly at the girl.

"I thought I did, Miss. But when she married Tom Rayton, she puzzled me.
Why such a girl was willing to spend her life in a lonely cabin in the
woods was more than I could understand. No, I never really knew Lucy
Benton."

"But a cabin may become a palace when love is there, so I have heard,"
Joan quietly reminded, as she carefully studied the old man's averted
face. "She was quite contented there, was she not?"

"She seemed to be, so far as I know."

"Until her husband was shot. How could anyone do such a thing? And she
walked all the way to the shore for the doctor through the darkness and
the wild storm. She must have been very brave."

"Did you know your grandmother, Miss?" Mr. Acres questioned.

"Oh, no. She died before I was born. But my mother often told me what a
wonderful woman she was."

"She never wanted for anything, I suppose?"

"No. She had enough."

"And you and your mother never wanted? You always had sufficient?"

"Yes. The money always came regularly."

Mr. Acres rose abruptly to his feet, and looked keenly at the girl.

"I didn't come here this morning, Miss, to talk about such things. I
came to get you to help me. I want your advice. I am going to bring some
poor children from the city and give them an outing on my shore. It will
do them a world of good, and I need your assistance."

A sudden glow came into Joan's eyes. This Mr. Acres noticed, and it
pleased him.

"I shall do anything I can to help you, sir. I think it is splendid of
you to do this for the children. I have often wished I could do
something like that myself."

"You have! So you have seen children playing on the dirty, stifling
streets and longed to help them?"

"Indeed I have. My heart has often ached as I watched them. And I have
been thinking of them while living in this beautiful place, with the
trees, flowers, grass, and cooling air all about me."

"And the water, Miss. Think of those little ones wading in the water and
playing along the shore. How much good it should do them. Suppose we go
over to my place, for I want to explain what I hope to do, and where the
tents will be pitched."

"I shall gladly go," Joan replied. "I wish Mr. and Mrs. Nairn could go,
too, for I am sure they would be greatly interested in your
undertaking."

"They know about it, Miss, for I told them this morning. They will go
over this afternoon if you will stay with Betty."

The people of Glengrow had another topic of conversation this day. Word
soon spread that Odd Acres and Miss Rowland had been seen walking
together along the road. In fact, it was almost a sensation, and tongues
wagged in the most excited manner. What did it mean? was the question
many asked. Had the old man taken a fancy to the girl? Some even
suggested that she had cast a spell over him, and that, perhaps, she was
willing to marry him for the sake of his money.

Mr. Acres was quite aware how his neighbors would talk, and he smiled
grimly as he strode along by Joan's side. He knew how curious all would
be. But this would be nothing compared to their astonishment when trucks
arrived, the tents were erected, and the cookhouse built. He did not
mention this, however, and Joan was totally unaware of the excitement
this walk would make throughout the parish.

When they reached the house, Mr. Acres asked the girl to wait a minute,
as he wished to speak to Rachel. When he returned there was a twinkle in
his eyes.

"I told Rachel that you would have dinner with us, Miss, and she nearly
fainted. I should have been more careful, for she is not used to such a
shock."

"She is evidently not accustomed to visitors, then, Mr. Acres."

"She is not. We have never had any person to dine with us, so that is
what is disturbing Rachel. But I told her if she made any change for
dinner I would discharge her."

"You surely wouldn't do that."

"Oh, no. I did it merely to keep her from getting flustered and making
herself too much extra work. I also ordered her to warn Billy and
Nathan."

"Why, what about them?"

Mr. Acres smiled, and thumped his stick harder upon the grass over which
they were walking.

"Those lazy rascals are forever arguing about something. They never
agree, and even at their meals they keep up their everlasting wrangle. I
left word for them to stop their nonsense to-day."

"I am sorry, Mr. Acres, for I should like to hear them. I have never met
Nathan."

"You haven't missed much, then. Anyway, you'll see him at dinner, so you
can judge for yourself."

Mr. Acres explained to Joan his plan for entertaining the children,
pointing out where the tents would be pitched, and the sandy shore where
the water was shallow and safe for wading and bathing.

"We shall begin work to-morrow, Miss Rowland. Trucks will bring tents,
bedding, provisions, and all other necessary things from the city. I
shall get workmen here to build the cookhouse, and erect tables and
swings."

"But who will look after the children?" Joan inquired. "It will be quite
an undertaking."

"Oh, the Family Welfare Bureau is looking after that. Enough trained
workers will be sent out to handle the bunch."

"It will cost a great deal, will it not?"

"Oh, that doesn't matter, so long as the children are benefited."

"And you intend to pay for everything?"

"I do, although I don't want the people in this parish to know that. You
must keep it a secret, Miss. I am just letting the Family Welfare have
my shore, remember."

Joan smiled. She was surprised at this old man's enthusiasm. He was like
a child with a new toy. This plan of his had transformed him from the
surly man of a few days ago to a most genial companion. When at last the
dinner horn sounded, she had a clear idea of what he intended to do, and
that he wanted her advice and help.

The dinner that day was a new and an interesting experience to Joan. It
was quite thrilling to think that she was the first guest who had ever
sat at that table. Rachel had not obeyed her master's orders, for the
table was spread with a snow-white linen cloth instead of the old red
covering which had done noble service for years. There were also
neatly-folded napkins, as well as silverware which had never been used
before. And Billy and Nathan were dressed in their best suits, and their
hair had been brushed with extra care. Rachel had seen that they were as
presentable as possible.

Mr. Acres presided at the head of the table like a lord. Although he
made no comment, he was pleased at what Rachel had done, and the
neatness of his two henchmen. He placed Joan at his right, with Nathan
next to her. Billy was on the opposite side of the table, and at first a
feeling of jealousy came into his heart. This soon vanished, however,
and he presently grinned with delight when he noticed Nathan's
embarrassment at being so near the fair guest, and how he wriggled
uncomfortably whenever Joan spoke to him. And his opponent's grinning
face added to his discomfort. But when the girl called him "Mr. Brown"
it was more than Billy could stand, and he gave a sudden yelp. Mr. Acres
glared at him in surprise.

"What's the matter, Billy?"

"Nothin' much, Si. It's gone now, whatever it was. Guess it was me
heart. It takes a queer kink at times."

"It must if it makes you yelp like that."

Joan was watching Billy, and surmised the cause of his agitation. It was
great fun to see the little man trying to suppress his merriment. She
glanced at Nathan and caught a glimpse of his grave face. She had not
yet heard him utter a word, and wondered how she could start a
conversation. A sudden idea came into her mind. Again she looked over at
Billy.

"What hymns are we to have next Sunday, Mr. Stubbles?" she unexpectedly
asked.

At these words Nathan became galvanized into life. He straightened up,
and in turn grinned at Billy. The latter, however, was equal to the
occasion.

"I have not consulted with Mister Brown yet," he replied.

"You never consult me," Nathan growled, feeling once more very
uncomfortable.

"There, there, boys, that will do," Mr. Acres ordered, knowing full well
that this was merely a prelude to another wrangle. "Our guest is not
interested in your discussion, remember."

"I do not mind," Joan smilingly replied. "It has been a long time since
I have heard a real live argument. I am enjoying it here with you men
very much. And I like your pictures, Mr. Acres, especially that one of
the great ship over there. Did you sail it?"

"Yes, the _Ocean Queen_ was a fine vessel, and I was master and owner.
She could outstrip any ship on the Seven Seas except one, and that was
the _Ida Rutledge_, owned and sailed by my best friend, John Rutledge. I
did not mind being beaten by him, for he and his ship well deserved the
honor."

"What great days they must have been, Mr. Acres. How often have I longed
to go to sea, but never had the opportunity."

"You paint pictures of ships, though, Miss, and that means a great deal.
You have the spirit of the sea."

"Perhaps so, and it may be that which makes me love ships. How you must
miss the ocean, Mr. Acres."

"Miss it! It is never out of my mind. I dream of it day and night,
especially when there is a gale abroad. Then I long to be on the _Ocean
Queen_, and feel her leaping and quivering under my feet. Just look at
her. What a beauty! My, it was great the way she could stand up to the
fiercest wind that blew, and as Dana wrote, 'cutting through the head
seas like a knife, with her raking masts and sharp bows running up like
a greyhound'. Yes, Dana certainly knew what he was writing about. You
never read him, I suppose?"

"No, I never had the pleasure, although I intend to do so just as soon
as I can get a copy of his great book."

"I shall let you have mine, Miss," Mr. Acres declared as he rose to his
feet and crossed the room to his bookshelf. "Here it is, _Two Years
Before the Mast_, the greatest sea story ever written. Take it home
with you. I am sorry it is so worn, but that won't make any difference.
I know it almost by heart."

Joan was deeply moved by her host's excitement. She noticed how his hand
trembled as he gave her the volume, and his eyes glowed with enthusiasm.
Billy and Nathan stared at their master in amazement, and even Rachel
paused to listen. She, too, was impressed, and this was unusual for her.

"It must have been hard for you to give up the sea," Joan remarked as
she took the book. "Did you miss it much?"

"Not at first. I was tired of the rough life and wished to forget all
about it. I wouldn't let anyone call me 'Captain', for I wanted to get
rid of everything that would remind me of the past. In time, though, the
longing for the sea returned, and it is stronger now than ever. But it
is too late, and I am too old ever to go to sea again."

He suddenly ceased, and his manner changed. He seemed like a man roused
from a dream. He glared hard at Billy and Nathan.

"I have been talking like a fool," he sternly declared. "Get away to
your work, boys, and never repeat a word of what I have just said. Yes,
get away with you, and keep busy." He then turned to Joan. "I bid you
good day, Miss. You are expected at the rectory, so I shall not detain
you any longer."

Billy and Nathan hurried out of the room, glad to be away from their
strange master. Joan also rose from the table and looked straight into
the eyes of the towering man before her.

"Mr. Acres, I wish to thank you for the pleasure you have given me
to-day. I have always had a great admiration for the old Bluenose
captains, but my admiration has been greatly increased since I have met
you. Captain Acres, I bid you good day."

Mr. Acres followed the girl with his eyes as she left the room. He then
went to the window and watched her as she walked from the house to the
main highway. A gentler expression dwelt now in his eyes, and his right
hand which rested upon the window sill trembled a little. He sighed, as
he turned and went slowly upstairs to his room. The man who was once
master and owner of the famous _Ocean Queen_ was living again in the
past. It was not of his ship, however, that he was now thinking, but of
a girl, young and beautiful, and who very much resembled the one who had
just left his house.




CHAPTER XXVII

A SURE CURE


The morning after her visit to the rectory Mrs. Rockbridge awoke late.
She had not slept well, for many things disturbed her mind. She had
thought much about Mrs. Nairn, and the picture she had seen upon the
wall. A sense of her own unworthiness had come to her, and with it a
longing to live a different life. She had chased after happiness and had
not found it. She had striven to be first, and when she had obtained her
desire she had not found the satisfaction she had expected. Always there
was something to mar her enjoyment. Yes, she would make a change, so she
decided as she tossed restlessly through the slow hours of the night.

Now, however, she was in a different mood. Her head was aching, and she
was suffering from an annoying pain in her left shoulder. This
frightened her, for she had never experienced anything like it before.
Perhaps it was her heart. She had heard of people with heart trouble
suffering from pain in their left arms. It was all due to her excitement
the previous evening and her restless night, so she believed. Anyway,
she was a very ill-tempered woman when she at length entered the
dining-room. She was once again the haughty and overbearing Mrs.
Augustus Rockbridge, and the order she gave to the waitress was curt and
imperative. But she ate a hearty breakfast, and then went to the hotel
desk for her mail, which consisted of several letters, and the _Daily
Echo_. She inquired of the young man there about a doctor.

"The nearest is Dr. Westburn, at Crestville, ten miles away. Shall I
'phone for him?"

"Oh, no, I would not think of bringing a doctor all that distance. It's
only a pain in my shoulder. Perhaps it will soon pass away."

"Why not try Peter Pendle, Madam? He might be able to help you. His
Panacea will cure almost anything, judging by the sign on his van."

"You mean the Mr. Pendle who lives near the rectory?"

"Yes, Madam. I can send over for a bottle of his Panacea, if you wish."

"That will not be necessary. I employ only regular medical men, and not
quacks."

The deskman smiled as Mrs. Rockbridge moved haughtily away. That was a
good one on Peter, and he decided to tell him when he saw him again.

With her mail in her hand, Mrs. Rockbridge went out upon the wide
verandah and settled herself in a large comfortable chair. She was all
alone here, as the other guests were either down by the shore, or
playing tennis or golf. One letter was from her husband, inquiring about
her health, and how the Nairn child was getting along. Another was from
the secretary of the Go-Ahead Club, and was merely a matter of business.
The third was from Mrs. Sylvester Casham, giving her the latest news
about St. Alban's.

     The Reverend Henry Nesbitt took the services last Sunday, she
     wrote. He is a young man, and of fairly good personal appearance.
     But his sermons were most commonplace, not at all intellectual,
     and he has a slight hesitation in his speech which is quite
     annoying at times. He would not do for St. Alban's. He has several
     children, and his wife is a very ordinary woman, of no culture. I
     have been doing what I can on behalf of your nephew, but so far Mr.
     Nairn seems to be the favorite. When you come home and make your
     report about the Rector of Glengrow and his wife, it will, no
     doubt, make a great difference. The election will take place soon.
     In the meantime we are getting along very well. As we have no
     rector, and do not have to pay the special clergymen who are taking
     the services during the summer, we are saving money.

When Mrs. Rockbridge had finished the letter, she leaned back in her
chair and gave herself up to serious thought. Strange to say, she had
suddenly lost interest in the choice of a rector for St. Alban's. She
did not try to account for this feeling. But it did seem as if the
scales had been removed from her eyes and she saw things in a new light.
And this was largely due to her own restlessness and unhappy state of
mind. What had all her striving for prominence amounted to? she asked
herself. The thought of the bickerings and jealousies of her social set
appeared so silly, futile, and even wicked. She recalled the faces of
the women she knew so well. How worried they were, and their eyes
expressed such dissatisfaction. And she herself was the same. Life
seemed very unreal to her this morning, and she felt unusually old and
ineffective.

All at once Mrs. Nairn came into her mind as she had seen her the
previous evening. What a humble life she led, and yet what peace and
repose she possessed. She had noticed this even when Betty was in such a
critical condition. No outcry, no wild flurry, but a serenity which she
could not understand. To be in Mrs. Nairn's presence was soothing and
inspiring. What was the cause of it?

With a start Mrs. Rockbridge sat up very erect in her chair. Vividly
there appeared before her that picture she had seen upon the wall, of
the Master of life stretching out his arms to all. Why should she think
of Him now? she wondered. Was it a message for her? In fact, she had
never thought much about Him before. Although very active in Church
work, she had left the Master out. What she had done had been merely for
her own satisfaction, and her desire to lead and shine. And what had it
all amounted to, anyway? Wearily she leaned back in her chair, and as
she did so, she felt a sharp twinge of pain in her shoulder. Could it be
that her heart was affected by her excitement? She should really see her
doctor. But he was in the city, and she did not feel like sending for
the one at Crestville. His charge would be large, and, besides, it might
be only a touch of rheumatism. Peter Pendle's Panacea might help her.
Perhaps it was worth trying.

And thinking of Peter, Joan Rowland came into her mind. Who was she,
anyway? The remembrance that she had started the slanderous story about
this girl and Robert Rutledge was not at all pleasant to Mrs. Rockbridge
now. For the first time the meanness of her act swept upon her. Perhaps
she should not have been so hasty. Again that face of the Man of Galilee
rose before her. It haunted her, and gave her no peace. Was it rebuking
her for what she had done? It seemed so, and this was hard to endure.
Her old spirit revived, and once more she was the haughty and
overbearing woman that she had been for years. The thoughts and habits
of a lifetime are difficult to change, and this was true of Mrs.
Rockbridge. She was not well, she told herself, and that was the cause
of her strange mood. She would go for a walk, and shake herself free of
her depression. She must not allow herself to be carried away by a
sentimental whim.

She rose to her feet, and the movement brought back the pain in her
shoulder. But the old time determination was upon her. She would fight
it, as she had fought other enemies and conquered. Her will would
overcome the trouble. It had always done so in the past, and she
believed it would now.

Her walk led her to the Pendle house, and there she found Peter at home,
arranging some bottles in his van.

"You are very busy, I see," she accosted. "I hope I have not disturbed
you."

"Not at all, Madam. I am used to bein' disturbed. In fact, I like it."

"You do!" Mrs. Rockbridge's eyes opened wide in surprise.

"Sure, fer when folks disturb me I know they want my help. People only
come to me when they are troubled with aches, sprains or something
else."

Mrs. Rockbridge smiled in spite of herself. This man amused her.

"Well, that is why I have come to you, Mr. Pendle. I am suffering from a
severe pain in my shoulder. I hope it is not my heart. It may be a
warning."

"Your heart, Madam! Why, you've got a heart as strong as an ox. I can
tell that by lookin' at you. Your heart's all right, what there is of
it."

"But my doctor said it is weak, so I must be careful."

"Fiddlesticks! He only told ye that to get you to run to him every once
in a while so he could send in a big bill. Now, I have something that
will cure your pain in a jiffy. Two applications of Peter Pendle's
Panacea will give you immediate relief. One may do it, but for a
stubborn case it sometimes takes two."

Peter reached into the van and brought forth a small bottle.

"This is it, Madam. It's very strong, so ye must not apply it too
liberally. Rub it on gently an' let it soak in. It may hurt a little,
but that will be all the better. I know a man who had a pain in his left
shoulder. An' would ye believe me, when he reached home the pain was all
gone, an' it never came back again. That Panacea was so effective that
it cured his pain right through his coat, shirt an' skin without
touchin' his flesh. Ye see, he had put the bottle in his pocket next to
his troubled shoulder. Yes, this is certainly great stuff."

"I shall take a bottle of it, then, Mr. Pendle. How much is it?"

"Only fifty cents, an' dirt cheap, at that. But I don't care to charge
any more, as I like to do what I can fer humanity's sake."

After Mrs. Rockbridge had paid the money and received the bottle, she
was in no hurry to leave. She glanced towards the house.

"Does Miss Rowland live in a part of your house?" she asked in a casual
manner, as if the thought had just entered her mind.

"Yes, she lives in that place adjoinin' mine."

"Is she at home?"

"No, she's over at the rectory lookin' after Betty. The Nairns are over
at Si Acres."

"So they are friends of his, then?"

"They seem to be this mornin'. Anyway, that's where they are."

"Miss Rowland is quite an artist, is she not?"

"Indeed she is. You should see the pictures she's painted. My! her ships
are wonderful. I never get tired of lookin' at 'em."

"I should like to see them, Mr. Pendle, as I am very fond of good
pictures. Do you suppose Miss Rowland would mind my looking at them?"

"Not at all, Madam. She's very friendly, an' she would appreciate anyone
lookin' at her work. She told me so herself. I only wish she was here
now so she could show 'em to ye herself. But the door is open, so yer're
welcome to go in an' make yerself at home."

This was very agreeable to Mrs. Rockbridge, so leaving Peter, she opened
the screen door and entered. It was a cosy place, where everything was
arranged with simple artistic taste. The pictures on the walls at once
attracted her attention, especially those of the great clipper ships.
There were also sketches of Bullet House, and scenes of the lake. She
looked at these rather languidly and indifferently, for her interest in
art was only superficial, and she could not tell the difference between
a mere daub and a masterpiece.

Turning at length from the pictures on the walls, she began to examine
the room. And as she did so, her eyes rested upon the sketch on the
easel. Amazed beyond measure, she stepped swiftly forward and stared
down upon the face she knew so well. It was startling, so bestial did it
appear to her. It seemed as if the artist had taken a delight in giving
full expression to the small swinish eyes, low forehead, pug nose, and
protruding lips. And that man was her father! A feeling of disgust swept
upon her as she stood there. This was only for an instant, however, as
it was succeeded by intense anger. Why had Miss Rowland done that? What
right had she to do such a thing? And where had she obtained a copy? Ah,
there it was lying right by the easel, the clipping from a paper she had
seen before. But why? That was the question which caused Mrs.
Rockbridge's heart to beat fast and her hands to clench hard together.
Miss Rowland must have some sinister purpose in view. If not, why should
she wish to sketch such a face? It was not a subject an artist would
naturally choose. Almost anyone would turn from it in disgust.

Suddenly an idea flashed into her mind. Perhaps Miss Rowland had heard
the tale she had told about her and Robert Rutledge, and in this way she
was seeking revenge. But how had she obtained that clipping?

As Mrs. Rockbridge thus stared at the picture, her anger increased, and
she longed to tear it to pieces. In fact, she did reach out a hand, and
her fingers curved tensely. They almost touched the sketch, and were
only checked by fear. With an effort she restrained herself, turned
away, and walked out of the room. Peter was still at the van, and she
hoped to get away without speaking to him. She was in no mood for
conversation just now. But Peter saw her.

"Hello! How's the pain now?"

"Much better," was the curt reply.

"Ah, that's good. Wonderful stuff, that. It'll cure whether ye use it or
not."

But Mrs. Rockbridge did not seem to hear. She was moving swiftly and
haughtily along the path leading to the rectory.

"Well, I'll be jiggered!" Peter muttered, as he gazed after her.
"Something's upset her ladyship, an' I wonder what it is. Why she's as
mad as a hornet, an' a human hornet, 'specially a female, is a mighty
nasty insect to meet. It'll take more'n my Panacea to cure her sting, by
jingo it will."




CHAPTER XXVIII

A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE


When Robert Rutledge went to Bullet Lake he believed that he could live
there in perfect contentment. Away from the busy world he imagined he
could invite his soul, spend the long quiet hours in meditation, and
desire nothing more than to be alone in the wilderness. But from the
first day of his arrival he learned that this was impossible. He found
that he could not get clear of the things of the world. They pressed in
upon him, and instead of being a separate unit he was mysteriously bound
in the bundle of life with others. And in truth he was glad that this
was so, for it brought him a new and inspiring interest in those around
him, especially in one who was constantly in his mind.

So on this beautiful morning he thought much about Joan Rowland as he
had seen her the evening before at the door of her house. Every
expression of her face was vividly clear to him as he lay stretched out
upon the rustic sofa, lost in a golden realm of fancy and romance. Never
had he known such a girl, so he believed, and different from all he had
ever met. Not only was it her beauty that appealed to him, but an
indefinable charm of voice and manner. No one could be more pleasant,
and yet there was a strange reserve about her which he could not
understand. And she was very sensitive, too, for since the circulation
of that slander by Mrs. Rockbridge she had not been to Bullet Lake. And
he missed her so much. The charm had somewhat vanished from the place
since she came no more. He knew that she was busy at the rectory helping
to take care of Betty. Perhaps she would come again when the child was
fully recovered. He hoped so, anyway, and in the meantime he would
continue the work he had laid aside. The desire for activity had now
returned. There were several poems he wished to finish, and two or three
short stories were taking shape in his brain. But that mystery about
Bullet House was still uppermost in his mind. Not until he had
unravelled that would he feel satisfied. He had come unexpectedly upon
one clue through those old letters, but how could he give what he had
discovered to the world? He recalled Joan's words of warning, and knew
their truth. To reveal their contents would undoubtedly involve him in
no end of trouble. He must learn more about Si Acres, and how was that
to be accomplished? It was certainly a puzzling question.

Then the desire came upon him to copy those letters. They would be
easier to read, and it would be a beginning, at least, of the article he
hoped to write. As soon as he had finished his dinner, he brought his
typewriter and table out upon the verandah and set at once to work. It
was pleasant to feel again his fingers upon the keys, and his old
creative spirit stirred within him. In a place such as this, so quiet
and refreshing, he believed that he could accomplish something of real
value. His rest had done him good, and his mind was keen and active.

When he had finished, he gathered up the old letters and placed them in
a pocket of his coat lying near. Stretching himself out upon the sofa,
and with pipe in his mouth, he read over what he had written. He then
gave himself up to thought. How little did the writer realize that his
words would so strangely come to light and prove of such interest.
Suppose Mr. Acres should learn about them, what would he do? And Robert
wanted him to know. But who would tell him?

Laying the sheets of paper by his side, his eyes wandered off to the
hills, and also to the lake which could be discerned through the trees.
Everything told of peace. There was nothing to disturb the harmony of
the place. And for the present he was in full possession of it all.

Ere long a new and pleasant fancy came to his mind upon which he let his
imagination wander at will. This humble cabin was a castle and he was
the ruler of a vast domain. The time was long ago when robber bands
roamed the forest. But here in this stronghold he was safe. And now his
men were off on various raids, and they would soon return laden with
spoils. And in the castle there was one who ruled with him, more
beautiful than any queen who had ever walked the earth. And this fair
one had the form and features of Joan Rowland. What a story he might
work out of this fancy. He would have the queen stolen from him by a
stern and cruel enemy, and he would lead forth his band of men to her
rescue. He pictured them riding through the forest, along deep valleys,
and over high hills until at last the enemy was overtaken and his loved
one saved. Then with what joy and triumph they would return with the
enemy put to rout.

From this pleasant dream he was suddenly awakened by a heavy splash in
the water on his right. Lifting himself to a sitting position, he caught
a glimpse of a great moose that had entered the lake and was striking
out strongly for the other side. This was the first time he had ever
seen a moose so near, and a thrill of excitement swept upon him. Leaping
to his feet, and unheeding the sheets of paper, several of which had
fallen to the floor, he rushed down to the landing where the boat was
tied. In another minute he was in full pursuit of the noble animal. He
wished to watch it swimming, to examine its wide-spreading antlers, and
to view it when it lifted itself out of the water on the opposite shore.
He kept at a safe distance, however, and studied to his heart's content
the great form as it surged on its way. He had no desire to kill such a
magnificent animal. He merely wished to study its every movement and to
enjoy the unusual scene. This experience might serve him in good stead
for some adventure story.

Steadily the moose kept on its way, and when its feet at length touched
ground it rose slowly from the lake, scrambled up the steep bank, and
with water dripping from its heaving sides, turned and looked at the
strange object that had been following him. He did not seem at all
afraid nor in any hurry to bury himself among the trees. He stood there,
a monarch of the wild, with his great antlers uplifted, viewing the
intruder into his rightful domain, and yet offering no harm.

Thoughtfully Robert rowed back to the landing. He had seen something of
special interest. What a sketch Joan might have made of the noble
creature. He pictured her eyes alight with interest, and her face aglow
with animation as she sketched. Too bad she had missed such an
opportunity. He would tell her about it, though, and that would be some
satisfaction.

Reaching the house, he stepped upon the verandah. After his adventure he
was in no mood for writing. A sudden desire came upon him to go back to
the rectory. He was anxious to see Joan, as he had something to tell
her. He could make the moose the excuse for leaving the lake so early.
He smiled to himself at this idea, and wondered if the girl would
understand. She was quick and keen, and if she had the least idea of
what she meant to him, she might suspect his ruse.

Taking the typewriter and table into the house, Robert returned for the
letters. He knew where he had left them, but to his surprise they were
not there. He looked around, thinking they might have been blown away.
There was no wind, so that idea was ridiculous. He searched carefully,
but not a sheet could he find. All had mysteriously vanished.

"Well, this is queer," he exclaimed. "I am sure I left them here when I
went after that moose. What could have happened to them! They were not
able to walk away themselves, that's certain. Somebody must have taken
them!"

As this idea came into his mind, he turned swiftly and examined the
pocket of his coat where he had placed the letters. They were still
there, and he gave a sigh of relief.

"I was afraid they had walked off, too," he muttered. "Perhaps the
ghosts took the others. I may not be so much alone as I imagined."

Seating himself upon the sofa, he filled and lighted his pipe. He was
more excited than he had been while chasing the moose. He felt now that
he was being watched, and most likely this had been going on ever since
he came to this place. But who in the world would want to keep an eye
upon a lone man in the wilderness? What object could any one have for
doing such a thing?

The next instant he removed his pipe from his mouth, and held it so long
in his hand that the fire died out in the bowl. Who but Si Acres would
be interested in what he was trying to do? He recalled Billy's visit
under the pretext of searching for a stray cow. He had suspected the
truth of his statement then, but had almost forgotten about it. Now,
however, he was certain that his suspicion had been correct. Si Acres
had sent him, and most likely he had been lurking around every day
since. This thought annoyed him at first. Why could he not be left
alone? But soon a feeling of satisfaction stole into his mind. Mr. Acres
must be uneasy. Was he afraid that his tenant at Bullet Lake might
unearth something of vital importance to him, and that his connection
with Thomas Rayton might be revealed? This was only a surmise on
Robert's part, but how else could he explain the loss of those sheets of
paper? Had Billy been hiding among the trees, waiting to learn what he
could? And the presence of the moose had given him the opportunity to
steal those papers.

"I may be wrong," Robert mused, "but it is interesting, anyway. That
queer old fellow warned me to confine myself to stories about the sea,
and not to bother with this old house. And if he is now in possession of
the copies of those letters he will wonder where the originals are. He
will be puzzled. But what will he do? He may prove a very dangerous man
when deeply aroused. He will naturally wonder how I obtained those
letters, and how much more I know. If after so many years his attempt to
shoot Thomas Rayton should come to light it will be most serious for
him. And what might he not do to avert such a thing? If he tried to
commit a terrible deed long ago, he might do the same now when he seems
more of a devil than ever."

This was not a pleasant thought, and Robert glanced somewhat
apprehensively around. He then laughed.

"I am getting afraid of a shadow. Nevertheless, it makes me nervous to
think of a revengeful man lurking among the trees with a rifle in hand
watching me. But would he be silly enough to shoot? It is hard to tell,
though, what that man might do. He is different from all men I have ever
met. Now, I wonder how I am going to find out the full story of his
life. And those papers. Let me see. Joan might be able to help me.
Perhaps she will have some suggestion. Yes, I shall go to see her at
once."

It did not take Robert long to reach the rectory. Alighting from his
car, he entered the house. In the hallway he heard the sound of voices
upstairs, mingled with children's laughter. He then recognized Joan's
voice. So up the stairs he went, taking two steps at a bound, stopped at
the bedroom door and looked in. There was Betty propped up in bed with
the toys Mr. Acres had given her strewn before her. On one side was John
with wide eager eyes watching Joan opposite as she manipulated a funny
little monkey dancing up and down a long string fastened to a stick.
Robert had eyes only for the girl. How wonderful she looked, as with
eyes aglow and cheeks flushed with interest she amused the children. To
the ardent young man her thoughts seemed to be entirely upon what she
was doing. As the monkey made a complete somersault, Betty shrieked with
delight and raised her eyes. As she did so, she caught sight of the man
standing in the doorway. The expression of joy upon her face increased,
and her eyes sparkled more then ever.

"Uncle Bob!" she cried. "Come and see the funny monkey."

At once Robert stepped forward. John rushed to meet him and dragged him
to the side of the bed.

"See, see, Uncle Bob, what the monkey can do. Make him jump again,
Joan."

The girl was about to rise from her knees, but Robert motioned her to
remain where she was.

"I am sorry to disturb your play," he apologized. "But I could not help
stealing in upon you to see what all the fun was about."

"We have been having a grand time," Joan smilingly replied. "But we are
glad that you have come, for you can tell us a story. The monkey is
tired and needs a rest."

"And let another monkey do the talking, eh? Well, I don't mind, so long
as I please Betty and John."

He seated himself upon the side of the bed, and to the delight of the
little ones told the story of the moose. It held them spellbound, and
their eyes were big with wonder.

"And did it have great horns?" Betty inquired when he was through.

"Yes, as big as that," and Robert stretched out his arms full length.

"Oh! And did it swim all the way across the lake?"

"All the way, Betty, and I followed it in the boat. I wish you had been
there, Joan, for it would have made a splendid sketch."

"I am sure it would," was the quiet reply. "I have missed something I
always wanted to see."

Just then Hettie appeared at the door, and announced that Mrs.
Rockbridge was downstairs and wished to see Miss Rowland.




CHAPTER XXIX

MORE THAN SHE EXPECTED


The quietness of the sitting room was a striking contrast to Mrs.
Rockbridge's agitated state of mind. It was so restful here, a little
world shut off from the disturbing elements of life. The flower-scented
air drifted softly in through the open window on her left and gently
swayed the muslin curtains. The murmur of bees in the garden mingled
with the sweet chirping of a bird in a nearby tree. The woman leaning
back in the large comfortable chair was soothed by such surroundings.
She was hot, tired, restless, and unhappy. Here she was experiencing a
peace such as she had seldom known. It was the same that had come to her
the evening before when she had talked with Mrs. Nairn. The very
atmosphere of the room seemed to possess a magical influence. Why was
that? She lifted her eyes and looked at the picture upon the wall. She
had not forgotten it, for it had appeared to her over and over again
through the long tedious hours of the night. The beauty of the face of
the Man standing there, the expression of love in His eyes, the strength
which emanated from his very appearance, and the appeal of those
out-stretched arms were almost more than she could endure. They reminded
her of her own unworthiness, and brought to her heart the bitter sting
of remorse. They told her of how much she had missed in life of all that
was best.

Suddenly there flashed into her mind that picture she had seen upon the
easel in Joan's room. What a contrast! The woman's hands clenched hard
and her body trembled. Never had her father's face appeared so
repulsive. She closed her eyes as if to shut out the image. All the
beast nature in that face stood out clear and distinct. She had always
known that he was a selfish man, that money was his god, and that
whatever good he had done was merely to win the praise and approval of
others. She recalled the life in her old home before her marriage, the
talk about money, success, social ambition, and other worldly things.
But never any word about the Great Master who had come to give the more
abundant life. It was true they had always gone to church, but only as a
matter of duty and for appearance sake. That was all. Religion meant
nothing more. It was not a sustaining power, a sweet influence to give
peace and comfort. It was like a garment to be used only on Sunday and
then laid aside for the rest of the week.

The bitterness of it all came upon her now. How much she had missed! How
she had been misled! And now after years of church work and social
activity she was an unhappy and disappointed woman. What had all her
efforts amounted to, anyway? she asked herself. Oh, to retrace her steps
and begin life all over again.

She was in the midst of this serious meditation as Joan entered the
room. Mrs. Rockbridge rose to meet her, and as she took the girl's hand
in hers she noticed the beauty of her face, her bright smile, and the
charm of her manner.

"Excuse me for keeping you waiting," Joan apologized. "But I was
playing with the children, so had to make myself presentable before
coming downstairs. I am nurse-maid this afternoon."

"And how is Betty getting along?" Mrs. Rockbridge inquired as she
resumed her seat.

"Very nicely now, and is taking an interest in everything. We were
playing this afternoon with the toys Mr. Acres gave her, and she is
delighted with them."

"Mr. Acres!" Mrs. Rockbridge's eyes opened wide in surprise. "Did he
give her toys?"

"He did, and went to the city for them, and brought them here himself."

"You astonish me, Miss Rowland. Mr. Acres, of all men, to do such a
thing!"

"I am afraid people have misjudged him, Mrs. Rockbridge. It may have
been partly his own fault, for he has a very stern manner. But just
think what he is going to do for poor city children."

"What is that?"

"He is going to bring a number out to his place and give them a glorious
time. They will live in tents down by the shore, and there will be
attendants supplied by the Family Welfare Bureau to look after them. But
he wants us here to help, and I hope you will join us, for we must all
assist."

"Why, what could I do?" the visitor demanded. "I might give money."

"Give yourself, Mrs. Rockbridge," Joan quietly replied. "You can help to
keep them busy. Games must be arranged, as well as little picnics up the
brook. Oh, there are so many things I have in mind."

"It will take a great deal of your time, will it not, Miss Rowland?"

"I hope it will take every minute while the children are here. I can
hardly wait until they come. It will be something worth while."

"And what about your painting, Miss Rowland? Will not this new work
interfere with that?"

"I know it will, but to do something for poor children is more important
than that."

"So that picture on your easel will have to wait, then?"

Joan gave a slight start, and looked keenly at her visitor.

"Ah, you know what I mean," Mrs. Rockbridge continued. "Yes, I saw the
sketch you are making, and I hope you will forgive me for entering your
cosy studio. But I went over to get some of Mr. Pendle's Panacea for my
rheumatism, and he was kind enough to show me your wonderful pictures.
He said you would not mind."

"Oh, not at all. But it was stupid of me to leave that sketch upon the
easel."

"Why?"

"It is some private work I am doing for Mr. Acres, and perhaps he would
not care for others to see it."

"For Mr. Acres! He asked you to make that sketch for him?"

"He did."

"And why does he want it?"

"You will have to ask him."

"But do you know who the man is you are sketching?"

"I have read the newspaper account, of course, and it says that you are
his daughter."

"I am, but why should Mr. Acres wish to have his picture?"

"He may be able to explain."

"Most likely, and I shall ask him as soon as I see him again. But what
right has he to do such a thing without my permission?"

"He may consider he has a right, Mrs. Rockbridge. He knew your father,
so he told me, and may merely wish to have a picture of him. Surely
there can be no harm in that."

"No, I suppose not," was the somewhat doubtful assent. "But there must
be some other reason. Mr. Acres is a very strange man, and I cannot
believe it is done for friendship sake."

"I believe you are right," Joan replied. She was thinking very keenly
now, and decided that this haughty woman should know the truth, no
matter how hard it might be. "Mr. Acres wishes to have a sketch of your
father for a special reason."

"And what is that?"

"To show the face of the false friend who ruined Thomas Rayton many
years ago."

At these words Mrs. Rockbridge's face turned deathly pale, her body
slumped down into the chair, and she looked at the girl before her with
wide-staring eyes. Joan was moved to pity at her misery, and she almost
regretted what she had said.

"I knew it would shock you, Mrs. Rockbridge, but it is better, perhaps,
that you should learn it from me than from others, especially Mr. Acres.
And I have a right to tell you."

"What right?" the unhappy woman demanded, arousing herself. She was
ready for fight now with this calm and self-possessed young woman.

"It is the right of self defence, and also for the sake of those who
mean a great deal to me. I have their interest at heart, and desire only
to save them as well as myself from the harm you have done."

"Indeed! Your words are very strange, Miss Rowland. Please explain your
meaning."

"I am surprised that you do not understand. You surely have not
forgotten the main purpose of your coming to Glengrow. Was it not to spy
upon my friend, Mrs. Nairn, and to carry back an unfavorable report of
her to the members of St. Alban's?"

Astonished beyond measure, Mrs. Rockbridge rose to her feet and
confronted her accuser. Joan faced her, not the least abashed.

"How dare you make such an accusation?" the angry woman demanded. "Do
you realize the seriousness of your words? I shall take legal action
against you at once for making such a charge."

"You are quite welcome to do so, Mrs. Rockbridge. And why should you
deny it? I overheard your conversation with Mrs. Casham at the White
Lily Cafe several weeks ago. How could I help hearing, for your voice
carried all over the room. And Mr. Rutledge heard you, too, and he will
confirm what I have said. It is no use for you to deny it."

Mrs. Rockbridge stood as if turned to stone. For years she had skilfully
extricated herself from many embarrassing situations in which she had
become involved. But she found it impossible to do so now. The evidence
was too strong against her. She tried to stare Joan out of countenance,
but she soon found her own eyes shifting uneasily before the steady look
of her accuser. She knew that she was beaten, and by a mere slip of a
girl, at that. This was hard for such a haughty woman to endure. But she
would not willingly succumb without another effort.

"So Mr. and Mrs. Nairn have put you up to tell me this," she sneered.
"They were afraid, I suppose, to do it themselves."

"So far as I know they are totally unaware of the main object of your
visit here, Mrs. Rockbridge. They have never mentioned it to me,
anyway."

"So you have taken it entirely upon yourself to defend them, then? Your
hero who is living at Bullet Lake evidently did not have the courage to
face me himself, but left it to his--to a girl."

This partly veiled innuendo caused Joan's cheeks to crimson, but
otherwise, she showed no sign of embarrassment.

"The 'hero' you mention is not lacking in courage, and he would have
exposed you as soon as you came to Glengrow but for one thing."

"And what was that, pray?"

"His keen sense of humor. Mr. Rutledge, and I suppose he is the 'hero'
you mean, considered your spying upon Mrs. Nairn such a joke that he
said nothing to her about it, for he wished to see how far you would go.
He wanted his sister to be unaware of your design that she might be her
own natural self. If you had stopped there no harm, perhaps, would have
been done. But when you could find nothing against Mrs. Nairn
personally you tried to strike at her through her brother."

"Miss Rowland! How dare you say such a thing? This is terrible, and I
shall not permit you to talk like this."

"Oh, yes you will. You shall hear me through. I dare to speak as I have
because your slander about Mr. Rutledge includes me. You spread the
report that we were living together at Bullet House. You cannot deny it,
for you know it is true, and I have definite proof."

"Produce it, then," Mrs. Rockbridge challenged, greatly enraged.

"That will be quite easy. Come with me to Mr. Pendle's, and let him tell
what he heard in the city. He will be glad to do so."

Again Mrs. Rockbridge was entangled in a net from which she knew she
could not escape. A great fear now possessed her, and the helplessness
of her position overwhelmed her. What did Peter know? What had he heard
in the city? She believed that she had so covered her tracks that no one
could possibly connect her with that tale of scandal. And yet Peter
Pendle knew all about it!

"Are you ready?" Joan asked. "Peter is home this afternoon."

But Mrs. Rockbridge did not reply. She stared hard at the girl, and
then, defeated and humiliated, tears came into her eyes. She sank down
into the chair, buried her face in her hands, and sobbed as if her heart
would break. The proud haughty woman had been at last subdued. She had
visited the rectory expecting to bring Joan Rowland to account, but she
herself had been confounded. And she could see no way out of her
difficulty, no matter how hard she thought. But her tears were not
really tears of repentance. It was mostly the sense of defeat which
moved her so deeply.

At length her sobbing ceased, and as she wiped her eyes with her tiny
silk handkerchief, she looked at Joan who was standing waiting for her
to speak.

"I hope you are happy now, Miss Rowland. Are you pleased that you have
seen an old woman in tears through what you have said?"

"Happy? No. You have no idea what it has cost me to tell you this.
Satisfied? Yes, if it will teach you to mind your own business, and
leave innocent people alone. You have done much harm already. That
cannot be undone. You know now what your father did to a poor
hard-working man who was kind to him, and you have been following his
footsteps."

"Stop! Stop! I can't bear to hear any more. And I cannot believe my
father would do such a treacherous thing. It may be a lie. What proof
have you?"

"Mr. Acres has the proof, so he told me. You can ask him."

"So you have been talking to that old man about my father, have you? And
you two planned to crush and humiliate me? Why should a girl such as you
get yourself involved in that deed of the past? Why do you take such an
interest in bringing it now to light after so many years?"

"I would never have done so, Mrs. Rockbridge, if you had not come here
to make trouble. But you might as well know now as at any time that
Thomas Rayton, the man your father ruined, was my grandfather."

"Your grandfather!"

"Yes."

"And my father ruined him!"

"He did, and he built his fortune upon the wreck of my poor
grandparents."

Mrs. Rockbridge made no immediate reply. She gazed unseeingly through
the window, out upon the fields beyond. But something was awaking within
her soul, something that had been suddenly aroused, a nobleness that
seemed entirely foreign to this imperious woman. The great crisis in her
life had now been reached, and the opposing force that had swept upon
her, instead of driving her downward, had lifted her to a higher level.
Swiftly she turned and caught Joan by the hand.

"I am sorry, terribly sorry, Miss Rowland. I did not know. I did not
understand. But now--There, I can say no more. I must leave you. I have
much to think about. Good-bye."

Greatly bewildered, Joan remained standing where Mrs. Rockbridge had
left her. Then her body trembled and she sank down into a chair. The
strain which she had undergone relaxed, and a sudden weakness swept upon
her. She buried her face in her hands and tried to think of all that had
taken place.

And there Robert Rutledge found her as he came into the room. Her
huddled form and bowed head startled him. He came quickly to her side.

"Joan, Joan, what is the matter?" he asked. "What has that woman done to
you?"

Then for the first time a sob escaped the girl's lips as she raised her
face to his. Impulsively Robert bent and placed his arms tenderly around
her. To his supreme joy Joan nestled her head close to his, and with a
sigh of relief, gave herself up to his sustaining strength and comfort.




CHAPTER XXX

HONOR


It had been a great day for Mr. Acres, and as he sat at supper with
Billy and Nathan, his heart was filled with an unusual peace and
happiness. In the morning he had explained to Joan his plans for the
children, and then she had honored him with her presence at dinner. And
during the afternoon the Nairns had been with him, and they had entered
so enthusiastically into his undertaking and promised to help him all
they could. And to-morrow the actual work would begin. Teams would haul
lumber from Kittson's mill, and carpenters would be on hand to erect the
building, part of which would be used for kitchen, and the rest as the
place where the meals would be served. Trucks would also come from the
city bringing tents, bedding, food, cooking utensils, and other things
necessary for camping purposes. Mr. Acres had left the management of
these things with the Family Welfare Bureau, which understood such
matters. And then the children would come, and he pictured their joy at
being in the country. Girls would come first, about twenty in all, and
then boys would have their turn.

For once Billy and Nathan were eating in silence. They had failed to
begin an argument as soon as they sat down at the table. Mr. Acres
surmised the reason, and he was much amused. They were expecting him to
tell them something about his plans, so before the momentous things
that were pending any argument seemed out of place.

"Is the boat all ready, boys?" he inquired when supper was about over.
"I have not done much sailing this summer, so have paid little or no
attention to the condition of the craft."

"She was in good shape when I was on board of her a couple of weeks
ago," Billy replied. "Everything was in apple-pie order then."

"Doesn't leak any?"

"Very little. But the tender needs to be looked after. It's leakin'."

"I'm not surprised. It's been high and dry for months, so you boys get
to work and cork it in the morning. You'll find oakum in the wood-house
over the door, and tar in a pail on the wall. You better touch up the
hull, too. I want to have everything in good order when the children
come. And, by the way, boys, I want you to help all you can, so be handy
when needed. That will do now, so get along with the chores."

Mr. Acres filled and lighted his pipe, and leaned back to enjoy his
smoke. Nathan at once left the room, but Billy lingered at the table. He
was fumbling in his pocket, and at length brought forth several sheets
of crumpled paper.

"I've got something fer ye, Si," he whispered, glancing cautiously
towards the kitchen lest Rachel might hear. "I was out to the lake this
afternoon an' found something at last."

"Eh? What's that you say?" Mr. Acres demanded. His mind had been
dwelling upon other things.

"I found these," and Billy held up the papers. "That young feller was
busy at his typewriter out on the verandah, an' when he was through he
stretched himself out upon the sofa. Pretty soon he saw a moose swimmin'
across the lake, an' he went after it pell-mell. That gave me a chance
to investigate, as you ordered, so I got hold of these, an' here they
are."

"Some poetry, no doubt," Mr. Acres remarked as he held out his hand. "I
shall look over them at my leisure. But did the young man miss these,
Billy, when he returned to the house?"

"He did, Si, an' looked around as if wonderin' what had become of them.
He then got in his car an' went away."

"Have you learned anything about the meaning of that hammering in the
house? Did you see what he had been doing?"

"I did. A board by the fireplace had been torn off an' put back again."

"Ah, where was that?"

"Just above the little cupboard door. Now, what in time d'ye s'pose he
did that for?"

"I have no idea. But you may go now, Billy. You have done very well, and
have been most careful. Mr. Rutledge never suspected that you were
watching him, did he?"

"I guess not. He only saw me once when I told him I was huntin' fer a
cow. Ho, ho, that was funny. He thought I could call the cow with music.
Maybe he'll write some poetry about it."

When Billy had gone, Mr. Acres sat for a while lost in deep thought. He
was not at all satisfied with his tenant at Bullet Lake.

"I should not have rented the place to such a man," he mused. "There is
no telling what he might unearth. He believes that if a man holds an
idea in his mind for any length of time he will receive an answer sooner
or later which will solve any problem. I don't believe such nonsense,
and yet ..."

He rose abruptly from the table and went into the kitchen. Rachel was
busy making pies.

"I did not get time to make these this morning," she explained. "The
boys are fond of pies. The last ones I made lasted only two days."

"H'm, you feed them well, Rachel, in fact, almost too well."

"Perhaps so, but they show their keep, and are always grateful."

"Grateful! I wish they'd show a little to me, then, for all I've done
for the lazy rascals. But, Rachel."

"Yes, sir."

"How do you like Miss Rowland?"

"I have always liked her from the first moment I saw her. She is a very
sweet girl, and so good and kind."

"Ah, I'm glad to hear you say that, Rachel. You gave us a great dinner
to-day."

"That's what Miss Rowland told me."

"Did she?"

"Yes. And she offered to help me with the dishes, but I wouldn't let
her."

"We shall see more of her, Rachel, for she has offered to assist with
the children when they come. I shall invite her here to dinner again
some day. I hope you won't mind."

"I wish she would come every day, sir. It would be something for me to
look forward to. Why, this kitchen seems a brighter place because she
was here for only a few minutes."

Mr. Acres was pleased at these words of praise, and his heart was
unusually light as he ascended the stairs to his room. He was finding a
greater interest in life than he had for many a year. The cloud of gloom
and defiance under which he had been living was lifting and the sunshine
was breaking through. Only a few weeks before life had seemed to him
like a dreary and barren waste with no light ahead. Now he had much to
live for. The children were coming, and he would see Miss Rowland every
day. And the Nairns would come, too, and they had promised to bring
Betty as soon as she was able to leave the house.

Reaching his room, he sat down in a comfortable chair by the window
which was aglow with the light of the westering sun. He liked to sit
here and look out upon the river, especially when a gale was abroad.
Then the longing always came upon him to be out at sea with the wind in
his face, guiding the _Ocean Queen_ as she stormed on her way. But
to-night he was not thinking of this. Other things occupied his mind. He
was wondering why Robert Rutledge had torn off that board out in Bullet
House. What reason could he have for doing such a thing? He then
remembered the sheets of paper Billy had given him. Drawing them swiftly
from his pocket, he unfolded and spread them out before him on his lap.
Then as his eyes rested upon the words written there, a puzzled
expression overspread his face. He began to read, and at the first line
his face turned deathly pale, and his hands trembled so violently that
the words danced before his eyes. But it was not necessary for him to
read, as he knew what those letters contained, although long years had
passed since they had been penned. "Bombay," and "Dearest Lucy." How he
stared at those words. Then when his hands had become steadier he read
it through. "Your loving and faithful, Si." Yes, that was the way it
ended, and it all seemed like a dream to him now. It was hard to realize
that he had written those words.

He read the other letters, as well, and when he had finished, he was
greatly agitated. Where had Robert Rutledge obtained those letters? Who
had given them to him? And they were only copies. Ah, he believed he
knew. There was only one person who would have the originals, and that
was Joan Rowland. This thought made him angry. What right had the girl
to do such a thing? Was she in league with Rutledge in his effort to
unravel the mystery of Bullet House? And what could he do about it? How
could he check any further investigations? He might demand the letters,
but that would be sheer folly. And, besides, he had no right to them.
They belonged to the girl, and most likely they had been handed down to
her from her grandmother.

Mr. Acres slumped down in his chair, his face drawn and haggard. The
appearance of those letters after so many years almost stunned him. He
had never expected such a revelation. What was the meaning of it all? At
once there flashed into his mind words he had often thought about, "For
there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; and hid that shall
not be known." They startled him. Why did they come to him just now? Was
there Something, after all, in religion? And was that same mysterious
Power now working his ruin? It was strange, too, that Joan Rowland and
Robert Rutledge should have come to Glengrow at the same time, and that
both were so greatly interested in Bullet House, one the granddaughter
of the Raytons, and the other anxious to unearth the history of the
place. It seemed more than a mere coincidence. And then those old
letters had come to light! So Lucy had kept them! That was strange. He
imagined that she had destroyed them so her husband would not see them.
Perhaps she had shown them to him. But, no, that was hardly likely.
There were things in them she would not want Tom to see, so he believed
she had kept them hidden.

Hidden! That word brought a new idea to his mind. Had she hidden them,
and then forgot all about them? And had Robert Rutledge discovered those
letters in that little cupboard by the chimney? He straightened up at
the idea, and a sense of relief came into his heart. Perhaps, after all,
Miss Rowland had not given him those letters, but he had found them by
chance. And that might be the meaning of the pounding Billy had heard,
and the cause of the removal of that board. Yes, it did seem reasonable.
And Miss Rowland had not deceived him. He was glad of that. But how much
more did Rutledge know? What else had he found?

Mr. Acres felt very old and lonely as he again slumped down in his
chair. The inspiring joy that had been his through the day had now
vanished. It seemed strange to him that when he was about to launch his
welfare work on behalf of poor children that this trouble should come
upon him. For it was a trouble of a very grave nature. Those old
letters which had so unexpectedly come to light, might involve him in
serious difficulty, especially the last one with its incriminating
threat. Of course, no one could prove anything against him from the
letter, but considering what had happened that wild night at Bullet
House, it would look bad. And, besides, he did not know how much more
Robert Rutledge might have unearthed. If in some unaccountable way he
had found those letters, he might even now be in possession of other
material, and already writing the story for publication. When the mind
is ruled by fear, it is easy for the imagination to become distorted to
an alarming degree. And this was the case with Silas Acres as he sat in
his lone room while the shades of night closed slowly around him.

He was at length aroused by a gentle knock upon the door which startled
him. It was most unusual for anyone to disturb him when he had sought
the quietness of his own room. But it was only Rachel's voice he heard,
which informed him that a gentleman was downstairs who wished to see
him. Mr. Acres was in no mood for receiving a visitor, but thinking that
he might have come in connection with to-morrow's work, he told Rachel
that he would be down in a few minutes.

When he at last entered the sitting room, great was his surprise to see
Robert Rutledge seated there. He stopped suddenly and glared fiercely at
the visitor. Robert did not seem at all concerned by such an attitude,
but rose to his feet and held out his hand.

"Pardon me for disturbing you, Mr. Acres," he apologized, "but I have
called to see if I can be of any assistance to you in your work with the
children you are to bring from the city. It is splendid of you to
undertake this, and I want to do what I can to help."

"Ah, so that is why you have come," Mr. Acres replied, as his face
cleared. He was relieved, for he was afraid that Rutledge had come to
him in connection with the papers Billy had stolen. "Yes, we shall need
help, so it will be easy to find something for you to do. It will be a
change, I suppose? You must find it quite lonesome at Bullet Lake."

"Not at all, sir. There is no end of excitement. Why, to-day a moose
took to the lake and swam to the opposite side. It was a grand sight to
see him when he came out of the water. I followed him in the boat, and
when I returned to the house I found that a ghost had been there and
carried off several typewritten sheets of paper I had left on the sofa.
A moose and a ghost in one afternoon! Wasn't that thrilling enough for
any man?"

"I suppose so, especially the ghost. I warned you, remember, that there
might be ghosts prowling around."

"I know you did, but I thought there was a whole bunch of ghosts in that
house the day a little bird came through a hole in the chimney and made
such a racket in that small cupboard. I had to tear off a board to find
the hole which I plugged up as well as I could. But I was well repaid
for my efforts, as I found several old letters there which interested me
very much."

Robert was keenly watching Mr. Acres' face as he made this
announcement. But no outward sign of concern could he detect in the old
man's immovable features, except a slight expression of sadness in his
faded eyes.

"So you found some letters, eh?" Mr. Acres queried. "And you think that
I wrote them, I suppose?"

Robert started, his face flushed, and he became visibly embarrassed. Mr.
Acres smiled.

"I knew such a question would startle you, Mr. Rutledge. But I see it is
no use for us to beat around the bush any longer. Yes, I wrote those
letters many years ago, and now that you have found them you intend to
have them published. They will make great reading for the curious. How
people will gloat over the love letters of Old Odd Acres. What a choice
tit-bit it will be for them."

Robert was too much confounded to make any reply. He stared at the man
standing so erect before him. He had never imagined that Mr. Acres would
take the discovery of those letters so calmly. If he had raved and
stormed he might have known what to do. But to hear him talk like this
was most disconcerting.

"Come with me, young man," he said, "I want to show you something."

Leading him across the room, he paused before a framed picture upon the
wall.

"See that, Mr. Rutledge, _The Northwest Passage_, by Millais. It is a
great picture. Look at that old sea captain sitting there in his little
cottage by the sea. Watch his face as that young woman, his daughter, no
doubt, reads to him from his old log-books the records of his attempt to
find the northwest passage. He failed, but his clenched hands and the
expression upon his face tell of the longing in his heart to try again.
But he is too old. He has only memory now, and the words he wrote years
before. Those log-books are sacred things, for they tell of high
ambition, courage, and failure."

Mr. Acres ceased abruptly and gazed hard at the picture.

"Young man," he continued, "life, too, has its log-books, and they are
sacred things. And how much more so are love letters written when the
heart was afire, or when great disappointment blotted out all hope. You
are a grandson of one of the finest men who ever sailed the seas. John
Rutledge was my best friend. I never knew him to do anything that would
injure another, and I cannot believe that anyone who bears his name
would be guilty ..."

He paused, for his voice was becoming unsteady, and his body was
trembling. Robert Rutledge was deeply moved. He understood the meaning
of those words. A sense of sincere sympathy came into his heart for this
lonely man. Impulsively he thrust his hand into an inside pocket of his
coat, brought forth the letters he had concealed there, and offered them
to Mr. Acres.

"Take these, sir. I can keep them no longer. Do what you like with them.
May I never do anything unworthy of the name I bear. I have learned a
valuable lesson to-night."

Eagerly Mr. Acres reached out his hand. His face brightened, and his
eyes glowed with a new light.

"Thank you, young man. I know what a sacrifice you have made. But you
will never regret it. You have not found anything more about Bullet
House, I suppose?"

"Nothing of any importance for a story, and I do not intend to seek any
further. There is too much involved. Good evening, sir."




CHAPTER XXXI

THE STORM


Seated upon a rustic chair in front of the house, Nathan was looking
down towards the shore at the happy group of children romping there. It
was evening and his day's work was done. But he was not happy. He had
been much alone during the week, as Billy had been in great demand at
the camp. This did not please Nathan, and he wondered why he had not
been asked to help. And, besides, he had no one to argue with, not even
at the table, for Billy had taken all his meals with the children. As he
now listened to the joyous shouts and laughter his heart was heavy. What
was the world coming to, anyway? he asked himself. And Si Acres must be
crazy to bring such a bunch of youngsters from the city streets to romp
over his place, and to eat up his vegetables.

As he thus mused, Billy suddenly appeared around the corner of the
house. He was panting hard, and seemed in a hurry.

"Oh, here ye are!" he cried, as he caught sight of Nathan. "I've been
lookin' fer ye all over the place."

"Well, what de ye want?"

"That big rope we use fer bindin' hay. I can't find it anywhere."

"What do ye want it for?"

"To make another swing."

"H'm! So ye want to wear out a good rope, eh?"

"Sure. We couldn't put it to better use. Anyway, it's none of my
business, so ye needn't growl about it. Si told me to get it. Do ye know
where it is?"

"I do. It's in the cow stable, coiled up under that pile of potato
boxes. I put it there meself. But, my! my! never did I imagine it would
be used for such nonsense as is going on down by the shore."

"Nonsense! What do ye mean? Isn't this the finest work that's ever been
done in this parish? An' I'm proud of Si. It's wonderful what he's been
doin' all the week, even playin' with the girls an' takin' 'em out fer
sails upon the river. It's makin' a new man of him."

"Yer wrong, Billy," Nathan replied, shaking his head in a mournful
manner. "He'll never be a new man until he has a change of heart, and
only the grace of God will give him that. And the same with you, Billy.
I'm surprised that you are teaching those little girls to dance. You
surely know what the Bible says about people who offend the little
ones."

"What does it say?"

"That it is better for a man if a millstone is hanged about his neck,
and he is drowned in the depth of the sea. I should think that such
words would strike terror into your soul."

"An' do ye think I'm offendin' them little girls by playin' a lively
tune while they hop around upon the grass?"

"But think what it might lead to, Billy. It might teach them to dance."

"Well, s'pose it does, what harm is there in that? Mrs. Nairn an' Miss
Rowland must think it's all right, fer they join in an' think it great
fun."

"They do! Mrs. Nairn dancin', an' her the parson's wife!"

"Sure. An' the parson himself can step as lively as any of 'em. An' so
can Mrs. Rockbridge. Why she an' him did a regl'ar breakdown last night
right on the grass. I tell ye it was great."

Billy pulled his knife and plug of tobacco from his pocket and began to
whittle off several slices. He watched Nathan out of the corner of his
eye, much amused at the shocked expression upon his face. He chuckled as
he struck a match and touched it to his pipe.

"It's nothing to laugh at, remember," Nathan chided. "Sin is a very
serious thing, and when a clergyman takes part in dancing it makes me
tremble."

"Keep on tremblin', then, me boy. It's a wonder to me that yer body
hasn't fallen to pieces, fer ye've been tremblin' ever since I knew ye."

"It's grace that has kept me strong, Billy. But you're too ungodly to
understand spiritual things. And you a church member, too! But what can
one expect when your own parson and his wife are the same."

This aroused Billy. He did not mind what Nathan said about him, but when
he criticized his special friends it was altogether different. He took
his pipe from his mouth and stepped forward.

"You say another word against Mr. an' Mrs. Nairn, if ye dare. I'm just
ichin' to twist that sanctimonious mug of yours. An' I'll do it if I
hear another peep out of ye."

Nathan drew back in fright, for he had never seen Billy so aroused.

"Keep cool, keep cool. It's no use getting so excited. I was only
speaking for your good. If you and the Nairns go to the devil, it won't
be because I haven't warned you. Teaching little girls to dance! I
suppose ye'll be showing them how to play cards, too."

"Oh, we haven't had time for that yet, Nathan. We've been too busy with
other things. This afternoon we had a picnic up the brook, an' what a
great time we had. We all went, an' Si was the life of the party. Ye
should have been along, me boy. It would have done ye a world of good."

"I was never asked," Nathan growled. "I wonder why."

"Oh, that's easy to explain. Si didn't want you around with yer groans
an' gloomy mug. He wanted the children to have a good time, but one
sight of you would have spoiled the whole show. Them Welfare people are
fine an' know how to handle children. An' really they are a great bunch
of youngsters, ready fer anything, an' they certainly are enjoyin'
themselves. I'd like to have some of them little girls as me own. It
must be wonderful, Nathan, to have a family around ye. We've missed a
lot in life. I heard Si talkin' to Miss Rowland an' he said the same
thing."

"I'm very glad you haven't any children, Billy. They'd be sure to follow
your example, and grow up bad weeds."

"An' it's mighty lucky you haven't any, either, me boy, fer you'd have
made them so sick of religion that they'd have gone to the devil in no
time. But, there, I must get that rope. I've stayed here too long. Ye
better come an' show me where it is."

Nathan rose slowly to his feet and followed Billy to the barn. When he
had dragged the rope from under the pile of boxes, he threw it down upon
the floor.

"There it is," he growled. "But be careful of it, for it's quite new."

"Oh, don't ye worry," Billy grinned, as he shouldered the rope and
started off. "But, say, why not come along with me an' see the fun? It'd
do ye a world of good. Think what a change has come over Mrs.
Rockbridge. She's a new woman. The same might happen to you."

"She needed it, Billy. But with me it's different. I'm saved, so I don't
need any change."

"Is that so? Well, ye don't look it. But that's yer own business, so if
yer satisfied, I am."

Mr. Acres was greatly pleased at the success of his undertaking. But the
excitement and the special exertions he was making tired him. He missed
the quietness of his house, and his after-dinner nap. And so on the
fourth evening he was exceptionally weary. He knew that he should not
have gone up the brook that afternoon. It had been too much for him. But
the children had dragged him along, and he did not wish to disappoint
them. When he returned he was very weak, and glad to sit under the shade
of a tree to rest. From there he could watch all that was going on, the
preparations for supper, the children on the swings, and tumbling about
on the grass. He longed to be young again, to be full of abounding
strength. He also watched the earnest helpers, especially Joan and
Robert, and a feeling of satisfaction came into his heart as he noticed
how much they were together, and seemed so happy. The Nairns, too, had
done what they could to help, and Betty and John had been over several
times.

But what puzzled Mr. Acres was the remarkable change that had come over
Mrs. Rockbridge. She was an altogether different woman from what she was
a week or so before. Her former haughty and overbearing manner had
vanished, and now she was a capable and an agreeable helper. She played
with the little ones, and thought of new games to amuse them. And she
was so pleasant to Mrs. Nairn, and he had seen the two working
harmoniously together on several occasions.

The interest and curiosity of the people of Glengrow amused and
gratified Mr. Acres. Most of them came to see the strange things that
were going on, and he knew that they would have a choice topic of
conversation for a long time. They would decide that Odd Acres had gone
absolutely crazy in bringing a lot of riff-raff children from the city
and entertaining them on his place. Oh, he knew what they would say, but
that did not worry him in the least. He was happy in his efforts to help
the children, so that was all he desired. And there would be others to
come when these went away. Boys might not be as easy to manage as girls,
but he had perfect confidence in his workers.

As he sat there, he noticed that a change was taking place in the
atmosphere. The wind had veered, and was winging in from the south. For
several days the weather had been ideal for camping, but now a storm
was threatening. If the wind should develop into a gale, it would be
very uncomfortable for the campers. He believed that the tents would
stand, as they were pitched in a place sheltered by big trees and a high
sand bank. But if the gale became too severe there might be trouble. At
this season of the year, however, he did not expect anything of a very
serious nature.

After supper Mr. Acres took the girls for a sail in his boat. Out upon
the river his weariness left him, and he was young again in spirit.
Robert and Joan had come along, too. A sail such as this thrilled the
children, and they shouted and laughed in high glee, especially when a
light spray of water swept upon them. Mr. Acres' face expressed his
pleasure as he guided the _Ocean Queen_ on her way. It brought back
memories of other days, and of a great ship, another _Ocean Queen_,
storming through turbulent seas. This was mere child's play, and yet it
brought him considerable satisfaction. He lingered longer than usual
upon the water this evening, for a strange feeling was upon him. It was
a sense of parting forever with his old familiar friend. He could not
tell what it meant, but when he at length rounded up the boat to its
mooring place, he gave a slight sigh. Even when the children had gone
ashore, he remained for a while, a lonely figure, lost to the world
around him. When at last he landed, and made the tender fast to a stake,
his tired feeling returned. He would go to the house, so he decided, go
at once to bed, and get a good night's sleep.

During the night Mr. Acres woke with a start. The wind was driving the
rain in fierce gusts against the window. Instantly he thought of the
children. He must go and see how they were making out. Lighting his
lamp, he found that it was a little past midnight. Dressing as quickly
as possible, he went downstairs and lighted the lantern. Then out into
the night he hurried, bending his head to the storm which beat upon him.
He saw lights down by the shore, and knew that the campers were in
trouble. Neither was he mistaken, for when he reached the place he found
that two tents had been blown down, and the children were gathered in
the kitchen where a fire was burning in the stove. Outside, the workers
were endeavoring to rescue the blankets and clothes from under the
canvas. Mr. Acres assisted them, and ere long beds were made upon the
floor where the children were quite comfortable.

Joan noticed Mr. Acres' dripping clothes and woe-begone appearance, and
felt anxious. Once she saw him shiver.

"You should not stay here," she told him. "You are wet and cold. We can
get along very well now."

"But the other tents may blow down, Miss, and you might need me."

"Oh, we can manage, all right. This place will hold all the girls, if
necessary. Please go at once, for you are shivering."

"I think I will, for I do feel cold. This is one of the worst summer
storms I have seen for years. Yes, I guess I'll go."

Joan watched him as he picked up his lantern and disappeared into the
night. He looked so grey and feeble that she felt uneasy. And he had
come out into the storm for the sake of the children! And he was the man
who had held such bitter feelings in his heart for long years! How could
she ever forgive herself for her own evil thoughts about him? What could
she do to atone for her mistake?

Such were some of Joan's musings as she busied herself making the girls
as comfortable as possible, and soothing their fears when an extra
fierce gust shook the building.




CHAPTER XXXII

THE LAST LONG VOYAGE


Seated upon the rectory verandah Mr. and Mrs. Nairn and Robert Rutledge
were engaged in earnest conversation. Breakfast was just over, and here
they gathered for a short time as was their usual custom. The storm of
the night had passed, although heavy clouds were still sweeping across
the sky, through which the sun occasionally glinted. The men were
discussing their visit to the children's camp during the night.

"We got there just after Mr. Acres had left," Mr. Nairn explained to his
wife. "The girls were all right and quite comfortable, especially the
ones in the cookhouse. They were greatly excited over the collapse of
their tents, and some were badly frightened. We wanted to stay, but Joan
wouldn't let us. She is certainly a great girl. You agree with me, don't
you, Bob?"

"I do, Andy. I have always thought her wonderful from the first time I
saw her at the White Lily Cafe. But I am puzzled as to why she came to
this place, and why she is so much interested in Bullet House. You
remember how those old letters affected her so keenly that evening I
read them. Something was troubling her that night. Do you suppose she is
in any way related to those Raytons?"

"Why, Bob, I never thought of such a thing," Mrs. Nairn exclaimed in
surprise. "Perhaps it is only your imagination that makes you think she
is."

"It may be so, Nell," and Robert gave a deep sigh. "I have let my
imagination have free rein of late, and have come upon valuable
information which I cannot use. I told you of my conversation with Mr.
Acres, and how he confessed that he had written those old letters I gave
him. I wonder if he knows anything about Joan. I have a good mind to ask
him when I see him again."

"It is strange that Joan hasn't told us who she really is," Mr. Nairn
remarked. "I have noticed a certain reserve about her which I have never
been able to understand. She has never told us anything about her past
life."

"You are quite right, Andrew," Mrs. Nairn replied. "Several times when
we were talking she seemed on the point of telling something of
importance she had on her mind, but always paused and became unusually
silent. I never asked her, hoping that some day she would confide in
me."

This conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Peter Pendle. He
appeared suddenly, and in great haste, around the corner of the
verandah, and it was at once apparent that he was unusually excited.

"Si Acres is very sick," he announced. "Billy has gone to phone fer the
doctor. Si didn't come down fer breakfast, an' when Rachel went to his
room she found him in a bad shape."

"What is the matter with him?" Mr. Nairn asked, rising to his feet and
stepping forward.

"Billy wasn't certain, but thought he got cold last night when he went
down to the camp. The night air always affected him, anyway. I'm goin'
over now to see if there is anything I can do. Joan is there, but she
may need a man to help. Billy said he left Nathan out in the barn
prayin', an' he was shoutin' to the Lord at the top of his voice."

"Let me go, Peter," Robert replied. "You have work to do, while I am
free. I can send for you later, if necessary."

"You are right, Bob," Mr. Nairn agreed. "I shall go over with you. We
may be able to do something until the doctor arrives."

Mr. Acres had taken a bad turn towards morning. His exposure during the
night had brought on a fever, and he had tossed restlessly on his bed
until Rachel arrived. He was so hoarse that he could hardly speak. And
this increased during the day. When the doctor arrived and examined the
patient he looked grave.

"He must be kept very quiet," he told Joan when he had left the room. "I
am afraid it's pneumonia, but I shall be back again this afternoon and I
may be able to tell then for sure. In the meantime, give him two of
these tablets every three hours."

All through the day and night Mr. Acres seemed to take little notice of
what was going on around him. He was in a stupor, and had to be aroused
to take the tablets. Robert remained with Joan, and through the long
hours the two kept watch. When the doctor returned, his worst fears were
confirmed, and he pronounced it a serious case of pneumonia.

"He should be in the hospital," he whispered, "but he could not be moved
now. Perhaps we should send to the city for a nurse."

At these words, low though they were, Mr. Acres lifted his head, and
glared fiercely at the doctor.

"I won't have a nurse from the city," he croaked. "I won't, I tell you.
Lucy will do, and she's right there."

"Very well, then," Joan replied, as she placed her hand upon his hot
forehead. "I shall stay with you, so don't worry."

Like a tired child Mr. Acres dropped his head back upon the pillow.

"I knew you'd come, Lucy. I've been waiting a long time for you."

Joan glanced at Robert. Both understood the meaning of those words, for
they recalled those old letters. The patient had gone back to other
days, and as they listened they caught broken sentences which they tried
to piece together. At times it was about the sea. He was on board the
_Ocean Queen_, driving her through a storm, and giving stern orders to
his men. He then wandered off into a strange jargon in which only the
word "Lucy" could be distinguished.

Thus for two days and nights Mr. Acres tossed, moaned, and raved. Joan
was on guard most of the day, while Robert and Mr. Nairn kept watch
through the night, the latter taking duty until midnight, and the former
until morning. Rachel helped all she could, but as she had her household
duties to perform, Joan called upon her as little as possible. Billy and
Nathan were greatly depressed by their master's illness. The former was
needed at the camp to amuse the children. It was considered advisable to
continue the work for the little ones as Mr. Acres had planned. Joan
longed to be down at the camp, but knew that her right place now was in
the sick room. For a couple of hours one afternoon Mrs. Nairn took her
place, and she was able to go down to the shore. But apart from that,
she remained faithfully on duty.

Early the third morning Joan and Robert were together by the bedside.
They liked this time when the watch was changed, and Robert was never in
any hurry to leave. To be with the girl he loved so dearly meant more to
him than anything else in the world. Her very presence inspired him, and
he was never tired of watching her as she waited upon the invalid or sat
silently by his side. This morning, just as Robert was about to leave
the room, Mr. Acres opened his eyes and looked around. Then as he saw
Joan near him, a slight smile flitted across his face.

"Ah, I had a wonderful dream," he began. "But what has happened to me?"

"You have been very ill," the girl explained. "You caught cold the night
of the storm."

"So I did. Now I remember."

He lay very still for a minute or two, as if lost in thought. He then
looked at the girl.

"Yes, I am sick, and there is something I wish to tell you while I have
a little strength left. Go and bring me that picture of Bullet House you
painted, the one with the big pine tree in the foreground. Don't be
long."

These words tired him. He coughed, and it caused him much distress. Joan
realised that there was no time to lose, so she at once left the room.
Mr. Acres did not speak again, but remained very still. Robert watched
him anxiously. He looked so frail and weak that he was afraid he might
not live until Joan returned. That he had something important to say he
was quite sure. Perhaps he wished to explain the mystery connected with
his life. It seemed to Robert that Joan would never return. But, in
fact, it was not long before she was back with the picture. At sight of
her, the invalid's face brightened.

"You've got it? That's good. Now get my keys from the pocket of my
trousers there. Bring them here."

When Joan had complied with this request, Mr. Acres motioned to one of
the keys.

"That's it. Unlock the middle drawer of my desk and bring me some
packages you will find there."

His eyes eagerly followed the girl, and when she again came to his side
with the packages in her hands, he was satisfied.

"Put them on the bed, in front of me. That's right. Now, sit down and
listen."

He paused, and his breathing was hard. Several times he tried to speak,
but his coughing interrupted him.

"Suppose you wait," Joan suggested. "You are very tired now."

"No, no, I must not wait. I must speak. Show me that picture. Yes, it's
Bullet House, all right. And there is that window through which I fired
the bullet that night of the storm. I want to tell you the truth, and it
is right that you should know it. I tried to kill Tom Rayton, your
grandfather. May God forgive me! But he stole Lucy from me. He took the
only girl I ever loved, and I tried to kill him. I was mad, I guess.
But, there, enough of that. You didn't know about it, and no one did.
But you hated me for turning your grandmother and mother off the place.
See that great pine. The place was covered with such trees, and I had
them cut. People said I made a fortune, and perhaps I did. But why did I
turn them out? Why? Hand me those packages, the old ones first there at
the bottom. They are cancelled cheques. Look at that name on the top
one. Read it."

Excited beyond measure, and trembling, Joan did as she was ordered.

"Ah, you know the name, 'Lucy Rayton', your grandmother. And she
received the amount of that cheque every month while she lived. Now look
at that other package, the one near the top. See the name there,
'Priscilla Rowland.' She was your mother, was she not?"

"She was." Joan merely whispered the words, for she could hardly trust
herself to speak. Light was now dawning upon her mind, leaving her
bewildered.

"And she received the same amount after her mother's death. Look now at
those new ones on top. Ah, I see you are astonished. Yes, the money went
to Joan Rowland, and it all came from those trees on that place at
Bullet Lake. That was what I did with it."

With a cry Joan slipped from her chair and knelt by the bed. Impulsively
she reached out and placed her arms around the dying man. Tears coursed
down her cheeks.

"Forgive me, oh, please forgive me," she sobbed. "I did not know. I did
not understand."

Feebly Mr. Acres raised his right hand and placed it gently upon the
girl's head. There was a wonderful expression in his eyes, such as
Robert, who was watching almost breathlessly, had never seen before.

"There is nothing for you to forgive," the invalid murmured. "I am the
one to ask forgiveness, and not you. But you know it all now, and it is
well."

"Did my mother understand?" Joan anxiously asked, lifting her eyes to
his. "Did she know it was you who sent that money so regularly?"

"I believe not. Your grandmother did, though, but I made her promise
that she would never tell anyone, not even your mother. Yes, I guess
Lucy was true to her word. At first she was unwilling to accept the
money, but when she knew I did it to atone for my sin, and the love I
had for her, she--"

He ceased abruptly, and tears came into his eyes. Then another coughing
spell swept upon him. When it was over, Joan urged him to say no more,
as the effort to talk was telling so severely upon him. The doctor would
be angry.

"No, no, I must speak. What do I care for the doctor? He can do nothing
for me. I am beyond his power, or the power of any man. The law cannot
touch me now."

For a few seconds he was once more the defiant man, with the challenging
expression he had always presented to his neighbors. This soon passed,
however, and a softer look came into his eyes.

"For long years I lived in hell," he at length confessed. "My sin made
me an outcast, and I faced the world with hatred in my heart. The brand
of Cain was upon me. At last I met a little child, and it was she who
broke me down. My eyes were opened, and I found--I found God and peace.
I fought long and hard, but it was no use. That little girl was ever
before me. And I want to see her again before I go--yes, before I
go--before I--"

He suddenly paused. His eyes opened very wide, and he was once more lost
to the world around him. He was upon the _Ocean Queen_, giving stern
orders to his crew. He tried to rise, but fell back upon his pillow,
exhausted. The anxious watchers could do nothing, only await the
outcome, which they felt could not be long delayed. Once he called for
his old friend, John Rutledge. But it was Lucy he last mentioned. As he
uttered her name, he looked up, and his face brightened into a radiant
smile.

"I see you, Lucy. I'm coming."

His right hand began to grope over the quilt, as if seeking for
something. At once Joan seized it in her own, and held it firm.

"Ah, I have found you, Lucy--you and God."

Down by the shore the children shouted and played, unconscious that the
man who had given them such pleasure had launched forth upon his long,
last voyage from which there would be no return.




CHAPTER XXXIII

AND SO IT CAME TO PASS


It was the evening after the funeral, calm and warm. Billy and Nathan
were in the kitchen, the former pulling steadily at his pipe. Rachel was
washing the supper dishes. At the table they had discussed the funeral,
the large attendance, and what the parson had said. They could not bear
to be separated for any length of time. The house seemed so lonely now
that their master had gone. The men, especially, were quite bewildered.
No longer did they receive the usual after-supper orders to do the
chores. Already they were turning to Rachel as the one who could best
direct them.

"Well, Si was good to us," Billy remarked after a deep silence which was
becoming painful. "He gave us a home, anyway. I was afraid when he went
we'd be set adrift."

"I wasn't," Rachel emphatically declared. "I knew that master would make
provision for us, and he did. We are to have the use of this place as
long as we live."

"But a stranger will rule over us," Nathan growled, "and a girl, at
that. What possessed Si to leave everything he owns to Miss Rowland is
more'n I can understand."

"Oh, she'll be all right," Billy replied. "An', besides, she can't turn
us out, even if she wants to. An' I'm sure she won't try. I heard the
parson read Si's will this afternoon, an' it's as clear as day. It says
we're to have the use of this place as long as we live, an' the three of
us are to share alike in what we raise. An' when we get too old to work,
or are sick, we are to be provided for from a trust fund which Si set
apart, an' is handled by the Golden Trust Company. An' we are to be
decently buried, too, when we die. Now, if that wasn't generous of Si, I
don't know what ye'd call it. We'll be better off than we ever were in
our lives, an' have comfort in our old age. Ye can't deny that, Nathan."

"Quite true, Billy. Si has certainly provided for us, but I wonder if he
made provision for himself in the next life. He laid up treasure on
earth, but it will be no use unless he had treasure laid up in heaven."

"If he doesn't get to heaven, then you'll have a mighty poor show,"
Billy retorted. "Si wasn't always blattin' about his religion as you
are, but he was mighty good to us. An' see what he did fer them poor
city children. If that isn't religion, I'd like to know what it is. I'd
be willin' to stake high on Si's chances against some pious
psalm-tooters I know."

"Do you mean me, Billy?"

"Yes, if the shoe fits. I'm goin' to stand up fer Si. He didn't go to
church much, I admit, but he did read his Bible, fer I've often seen him
with the Good Book open before him, specially on Sunday nights. Isn't
that so, Rachel?"

Thus addressed, Rachel turned towards the men. She did not speak, but
both noticed that there were tears in her eyes. She tried to say
something, but words would not come. Instead, she sank down upon a
chair and covered her face with her apron. The men were not only
surprised, but alarmed. Never before had they seen this calm,
self-possessed woman give way to any emotion.

"Are ye sick, Rachel?" Billy asked, going to her side and laying a hand
upon her shoulder.

"I'm all right now, thank you," she replied, lifting her head and wiping
away her tears. "I can't help feeling this way. No one knew master
better than I did. In some ways he was like a baby, even though he
seemed stern and fierce. He had a big heart which I am sure was almost
broken by some great trouble when he was young. I do not know what that
was, but it made me sorry for him, and he knew it. I shall miss him so
much, and the house will be very lonely now."

"You're quite right, Rachel," Billy agreed. "We shall miss him, too, fer
there'll be no one to boss us around. We'll be something like a chicken
without a head, an' that won't be well."

"You've always been like that, anyway," Nathan declared, "so it won't
make any difference to you. Now, I suggest that we elect Rachel head of
this place, and that we take our orders from her. It's only for your
sake, remember, Billy, that I propose this, and not for my own."

Billy glared at Nathan, and the old spirit of battle welled up within
his soul. With an effort he crushed back this feeling, and agreed that
it was a good idea, although he did hate to let off his opponent without
a parting thrust. Thus for once Billy and Nathan were of one mind.

That same evening Mrs. Nairn was lying in the hammock upon the rectory
verandah, with her husband seated by her side. Their visitor, Mrs.
Augustus Rockbridge, had just left in her car for the hotel. She had
been with them for over an hour, and now that she had gone, they
remained silent for a while, lost in thought. Their hearts were deeply
stirred by all that had taken place during the last two weeks,
especially since the death of Silas Acres. They had heard from Robert
and Joan about the death-bed scene, the confession, and the passing of
the strange man. And in addition to all this, had come Mrs. Rockbridge's
apology. She had spoken quietly and with emotion, a striking contrast to
her former haughty manner. Mr. and Mrs. Nairn were not only surprised,
but much affected, as well. That so great a change should come over such
a woman as Mrs. Rockbridge was remarkable. And of this they were
thinking now.

"I can hardly believe it is true," Mrs. Nairn at length began. "Why,
Mrs. Rockbridge's story is almost like a fairy-tale. She came here to
spy upon me, and to find out my faults as Angel Gabriel's wife. In a
way, it is really amusing. I suspected something from the first visit
she made here when she found you in your shirt sleeves, and the house in
such disorder. But I never fully understood the purpose of her coming.
It is all clear to me now."

"There is something almost too deep for words about this, Nell," Mr.
Nairn replied. "There has been Another at work, and He has overruled
everything for good. I cannot help recalling those wonderful words of
the Magnificat. 'He hath put down the mighty from their seat, and hath
exalted the humble and meek.' They might not apply in every way to this
case, but the main idea is the same. That woman came here, hard,
haughty, and determined to injure us. Then from a most unexpected source
she received a blow to her pride and self-confidence which brought her
low in humility and shame."

"Yes, it is wonderful, Andrew," Mrs. Nairn agreed. "And there is another
thing we must not forget. For quite a while something had been stirring
in Mrs. Rockbridge's soul, so she told us. It was the spirit of unrest,
and dissatisfaction with her life. And that picture she saw in the
sitting room was another factor in her transformation."

"And you, too, Nell," Mr. Nairn reminded. "It was your sweet self that
had a great influence upon her."

Mrs. Nairn reached out and placed a hand upon her husband's. There were
tears in her eyes, but they were tears of happiness.

"My part was very small, I fear, although I am thankful for whatever
effect I had upon her. God can use our little for the working out of His
plans.

"And He always does so, Nell. Just think how much Betty meant to Mr.
Acres. Her unconscious influence softened and changed his heart. When I
recall his visit to us that morning he demanded his money back, and then
think of the same man doing so much for those poor city children, it
seems almost like a miracle, so great has been the transformation. And
he was only at the beginning of his good work when he was taken away.
That is something I cannot understand."

This conversation was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Peter
Pendle.

"Ah, enjoyin' the evenin', eh?" he asked as he stepped upon the
verandah.

"It is fine enough to enjoy," Mr. Nairn replied, offering him a seat by
his side. "Sit down and enjoy it with us."

"No, I can't set down, thank ye, all the same. I must hurry home. But as
I was comin' by the store, I was asked to give ye this," and he handed
forth a small folded paper. "It's a 'phone message from the city, I
guess."

Mr. Nairn took the paper, and by the dim twilight read the contents.

"Nell! Nell!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet in excitement. "I've been
elected Rector of St. Alban's! And it's unanimous!"

"What's that?" Peter demanded before Mrs. Nairn could reply. "Elected
Rector of St. Alban's? So we'll lose ye! My, my! I'm sorry."

"And so am I," Mrs. Nairn replied. "I shall be sorry to leave Glengrow,
but--" She paused and gazed out somewhat sadly into the deepening
darkness. "But the people here have never forgiven me for what I said
about them. Although they were kind and thoughtful when Betty was
injured, yet I know I shall never regain their confidence. They look
upon me with suspicion, so, perhaps, it is as well for us to go away."

"I know, I know," Peter replied. "An' even now folks are talkin' about
the parson's sermon this afternoon. They say he should have held Si
Acres up as a bad man, instead of sayin' that we must leave him to God
to judge. They wanted to have Si painted accordin' to their own views.
But I gave 'em something to think about, an' told 'em plainly that the
parson was right. That settled their quackin', though, no doubt, they
began again jist as soon as I left."

"Thank you, Peter," and Mr. Nairn held out his hand as he spoke. "You
have always been a good friend to us, and defended us against bitter
slander. It is good that we have such friends as you and your wife. I
must go now and send a message of my acceptance of the Rectorship of St.
Alban's."

Robert Rutledge and Joan Rowland were seated at tea in the White Lily
Cafe. They had just come to the city from Glengrow, and had several
things to attend to before returning. They were facing each other at a
small table near the window overlooking the large square. Only a few
people were in the room, and no one was close to their table, so it was
easy for them to talk in subdued voices without being overheard.

"It was here that I first saw you," Robert remarked, looking longingly
at the fair face before him. "That is why I chose this table. What a
discovery that was for me!"

"And how you stared at me," Joan smilingly replied.

"I know I did, and how could I help it? But I had no idea that you took
any notice of me. You kept gazing out of the window until the waitress
brought your dinner."

"Oh, I saw you, all right, and I considered you a very rude, bold man."

"And I frightened you, I suppose? But you frightened me at first, for I
thought some other man had a claim upon you."

"At first? you say. What caused you to change your mind?"

"I saw no engagement ring upon your finger."

"Wasn't that poor evidence? There is no ring now, and yet--"

"I know, Joan, what you mean," Robert hastily interrupted. "But you
shall have a ring just as soon as we can get to a jeweller's store. You
see, I haven't been to the city since that evening you made me the
happiest man on earth. Just think what a change has taken place in a few
weeks. When I first saw you here I had very little to live for, and my
doctor ordered me away for my health. Now I have so much to live for,
and I am well and strong. Then I had little hope of literary success,
while now--"

He ceased, and drew a letter from his pocket. His eyes were alight with
enthusiasm, and Joan felt that the letter contained something of unusual
importance.

"I received this to-day," Robert continued, "and have kept it as a
surprise until now. In this place I saw you first, and that was the
beginning of my happiness. It, therefore, seems fitting that I should
tell you of my success in this room of such pleasant memory. This is a
letter from the editor of the _Proclara Magazine_, accepting my story I
sent to him several weeks ago, before I went to Glengrow. And here is a
cheque for five hundred dollars. And he wants other stories from me
about the sea. I tell you, it means much to get into the _Proclara_, as
my stories there will bring other magazines after me. I can hardly
believe it is true."

Joan's eyes were glowing with pleasure, and her face beaming with
animation.

"You are splendid, Robert! I always knew it from the first time I saw
you. And just think, you can do your writing, and I can continue my
painting. What a happy time we shall have. And isn't it wonderful that
Mr. Acres left everything to me. I wonder how much he was worth."

"We shall attend to that in a few days, Joan. But after we get the ring,
suppose we go over to Doctor Bradbury's. I want to show him how strong
and well I am, and to thank him for sending me to the woods. Won't he be
surprised and delighted when he sees what a prize I have captured."

"Don't be too sure," Joan happily replied. "Doctor Bradbury may think
differently."

"I have no fear of that. But let us go now. I am very eager to get back
to Glengrow to tell the good news to Nell and Andy. I should see the
editor of the _Daily Echo_ while I am in town, but he will have to wait.
I had a letter from him yesterday. He wants me to write several articles
for his paper about sea captains and old ship-building days, and he is
willing now to pay me a reasonable price for them."

"What about the story of Bullet House?" Joan queried. "That should be
thrilling enough for Mr. Rockbridge."

"He begged me not to write it."

"So he knows the story, does he?"

"He has known part of it for years, although he never had the courage to
tell his wife. It took a heroine to do that."

Joan's face grew suddenly grave, and she gave a deep sigh.

"I didn't feel much like a heroine. It was a terrible ordeal."

"It served its purpose, though. But let us forget all about that. I want
to think only of pleasant things, such as Bullet Lake, and the glorious
picnic we shall have there to celebrate our happiness."


[The end of _The Girl at Bullet Lake_ by H. A. Cody]