he girl had, to put it in Greyson's words, "grown up over night." She
was dazzling and recalled a past that struck deep in the father's heart.

There had been a time when Peter Greyson, a mere boy, to be sure--and
before the cruel war had wrecked the fortunes of his family--had been
surrounded by such women as Nella-Rose now suggested. Women with dancing
eyes and soft, white hands. Women born and bred for love and homage, who
demanded their privileges with charm and beauty. There had been one
fascinating woman, a great-aunt of Nella-Rose's, who had imperilled the
family honour by taking her heritage of worship with a high hand.
Disregarding the rights of another, she boldly rode off with the man of
her choice and left the reconstruction of her reputation to her kith and
kin who roused instantly to action and lied, like ladies and gentlemen,
when truth was impossible. Eventually they so toned down and polished
the deed of the little social highwaywoman as to pass her on in the
family history with an escutcheon shadowed only, rather than smirched.

Nella-Rose, now that her father considered, was dangerously like her
picturesque ancestress! The thought kept Peter from the still, back in
the woods, for many a day. He, poor down-at-heel fellow, was as ready as
any man of his line to protect women, especially his own, but he was
sorely perplexed now.

Was it Burke Lawson who, from his hiding place, was throwing a glamour
over Nella-Rose?

Then Peter grew ugly. The protection of women was one thing; ridding the
community of an outlaw was another. Men knew how to deal with such
matters and Greyson believed himself to be very much of a man.

"Nella-Rose," he said one day as he smoked reflectively and listened to
his younger daughter singing a camp meeting hymn in a peculiarly sweet
little voice, "when my ship comes in, honey, I'm going to buy you a
harp. A gold one."

"I'd rather have a pink frock, father, and a real hat; I just naturally
hate sunbonnets! I'd favour a feather on my hat--flowers fade right
easy."

"But harps is mighty elegant, Nella-Rose. Time was when your--aunts
and--and grandmothers took to harps like they was their daily
nourishment. Don't you ever forget that, Nella-Rose. Harps in families
mean _blood_, and blood don't run out if you're careful of it."

Nella-Rose laughed, but Marg, in the wash-house beyond, listened
and--hated!

No one connected _her_ with harps or blood, but she held, in her sull