er of this flock," was
said, as soon as she passed into the house.

"Too good for Willy Hammond, in my opinion," said Matthew. "Clever and
generous as people call him."

"Just my opinion," was responded. "She's as pure and good, almost, as
an angel; and he?--I can tell you what--he's not the clean thing. He
knows a little too much of the world--on its bad side, I mean."

The appearance of Slade put an end to this conversation. A second
observation of his person and countenance did not remove the first
unfavorable impression. His face had grown decidedly bad in expression,
as well as gross and sensual. The odor of his breath, as he took a
chair close to where I was sitting, was that of one who drank
habitually and freely; and the red, swimming eyes evidenced, too
surely, a rapid progress toward the sad condition of a confirmed
inebriate. There was, too, a certain thickness of speech, that gave
another corroborating sign of evil progress.

"Have you seen anything of Frank this afternoon?" he inquired of
Matthew, after we had passed a few words.

"Nothing," was the bar-keeper's answer.

"I saw him with Tom Wilkins as I came over," said one of the men who
was sitting in the porch.

"What was he doing with Tom Wilkins?" said Slade, in a fretted tone of
voice. "He doesn't seem very choice in his company."

"They were gunning."

"Gunning!"

"Yes. They both had fowling-pieces. I wasn't near enough to ask where
they were going."

This information disturbed Slade a good deal. After muttering to
himself a little while, he started up and went into the house.

"And I could have told him a little more, had I been so inclined," said
the individual who mentioned the fact that Frank was with Tom Wilkins.

"What more?" inquired Matthew.

"There was a buggy in the case; and a champagne basket. What the latter
contained you can easily guess."

"Whose buggy?"

"I don't know anything about the buggy; but if 'Lightfoot' doesn't sink
in value a hundred dollars or so before sundown, call me a false
prophet."

"Oh, no," said Matthew, incredulously. "Frank wouldn't do an outrageous
thing like that. Lightfoot won't be in a condition to drive for a month
to come."

"I don't care. She's out now; and the way she was putting it down when
I saw her, would have made a locomotive look cloudy."

"Where did he get her?" was inquired.

"She's been in the six-acre field, over by Mason's Bridge, for the last
week or so," Matthew an