uty and religion on a
particularly bad man--a criminal indeed--one already fled from this
community, and under circumstances of the greatest suspicion. I mean
Andrew Zane!"

"Hush!" exclaimed Agnes; "perhaps he is dead."

A short and awkward quiet succeeded, broken by young Van de Lear's
interruption at last:

"Aggy, I don't know but it is the best thing. Is it so?"

"For shame, sir!"

"He wouldn't have come to any good. I know him well. We went to school
together here in Kensington. Under a light and agreeable exterior he
concealed an obstinacy almost devilish. All the tricks and daredevil
feats we heard of, he was at the head of them. After he grew up his eyes
fell on you. For a time he was soberer. Then, perceiving that you were
also his father's choice, he conspired against his father, repeatedly
absconded, and gave that father great trouble to find and return him to
his home, and still stepped between Mr. Zane and his wishes. Was that
the part of a grateful and obedient son?"

Not a word was returned by Agnes Wilt.

"How ill-advised," continued Calvin Van de Lear, "was your weakness
during that behavior! Do you know what the tattle of all Kensington is?
That you favored both the father and the son! That you declined the son
only because his father might disinherit him, and put off the father
because the son would have the longer enjoyment of his property! I have
defended you everywhere on these charges. They say even more, _Miss_
Agnes--if you prefer it--that the murder of the father was not committed
by Andrew Zane without an instigator, perhaps an accessory."

The voice of Agnes was heard in hasty and anxious imploration:

"For pity's sake, say no more. Be silent. Am I not bowed and wretched
enough?"

She came hastily to the fissure of the door and looked in, because Duff
Salter just then sneezed tremendously:

"Jericho-o-o-o! Jer-ry-cho-o-o!"

Podge Byerly reappeared with a pack of cards and shuffled them before
Duff Salter's face.

They sat down and played a game of euchre for a cent a point, the
tablets at hand between them to write whatever was mindful. Duff Salter
was the best player.

"I believe," wrote Podge, "that all Western men are gamblers. Are you?"

He wrote, to her astonishment,

"I was."

"Wasn't it a sin?"

"Not there."

"I thought gambling was a sin everywhere?"

"It is everywhere done," wrote Duff Salter. "You are a gambler."

"That's a fib."

"You risk your heart,