t him full, straight, then
turned and fled towards the house.

He ran after her, came abreast, and after the fashion he had, stooped
to see into her face. "Don't go away, in from me--mad," he begged. Was
he laughing?

"But I am mad," she returned promptly.

"But don't go in either way," he said; "stay, mad if you will, but
stay. Oh, I'm not proud," he was breathing hard again, "that is--only
this proud; I shall build onto my little gold of Colchis until we
stand at least nearer equal--and then--"

Each looked at the other, with defiance almost. She was as beautiful
as Harriet Blair.

"Then," said the girl, "then you'll be that far less my equal. Let me
go." And she jerked her sleeve from his hand and ran into the house.

CHAPTER NINE

The morning after dawned sunless and chill. The sky was a pale leaden,
below which darker masses of clouds scurried. The wind blew strong,
steady, resistless. At breakfast they all sat shivering.

"Have Pete start fires," said King William to Charlotte, "and you had
better move Mrs. Garnier over to my room before night." For there were
not fire-places in all the rooms.

It was a dreary morning every way. The breakfast was poor and scant.
Aunt Mandy defended herself. "Ev'y thing done give out," she declared.
"Mis' Charlotte been so occapied she done forgot to order things f'om
town."

Convicted, Charlotte looked at Willy, then hastily took the defensive.
"Mandy ought to have reminded me," she declared.

"No, _ma'am_," responded Mandy. "I done quit this thing uv tellin' an'
havin' you say things give out too soon."

Willy sat stony. The Captain shivered. One realized all at once that
he was an old man. "The thermometer is at forty-six, King," he
remarked.

"Yes," said the son, "and falling."

All morning it fell. At noon it registered forty degrees. The wind
still swept a gale that whistled and shrieked at the corners of the
house, and the three women passed the morning in Charlotte's room,
shivering about the open fire-place. Pete spent his day chopping and
bringing in arm-loads of fat pine wood. All the sense of
dissatisfaction with Aden returned. Desolate grey sand is a hideous
exchange for sward, and orange trees look like toys from a Noah's ark.

At dinner there was a furrow between King's straight, dark brows.
"It's thirty-eight," he told his father, "and falling. It's clearing,
too."

Afterwards he was talking to Pete in the hall.

"No, sir," reiterated