hink such a bever-rage good to dr-rink! You go?
Ah, dear lady, I hope it will be soon again that you honor my house."

The Baron looked after the buggy as it disappeared in the dusk, and
then turned back into the cabin, once more to face the harsh reality of
his thoughts.

It grew clear to him that he must seek work in Asheville, the nearest
large town, a dozen miles away. He must walk there and beg for
employment like any tramp. Such straits as this he had not anticipated
when he had made the sacrifice that had forced him to leave the
Fatherland, though he did not for a moment regret that sacrifice.

What he could not formulate was just how he had been brought to his
present pass. It was with stinging honesty that he owned it to be
through some lack of foresight or of energy. But how should he have
energy when he had no purpose in life?

To be sure, there was Sydney Carroll, who might supply purpose to any
man who loved her, if that man were not a broken-spirited craven. The
hopeless longing that had been in his eyes while he gazed at the sunset
filled them once more. What had he to offer her but devotion,--the one
capacity that was mighty within him? No, not even Love could endow him
with Purpose.

Always he completed the circle of his thoughts. He must work for
somebody else. That would be, indeed, a new experience and a bitter.

He was fighting with his pride when a call outside summoned him. It was
the cry that has brought many a man to his door to be shot to death;
but von Rittenheim had no feuds, and went forward without hesitation.

"Can you-all give me some supper?" asked a man who loomed big in the
darkness as he sat on his horse. "Ah must have taken the wrong turn
back yonder and wandered off the county road."

"This r-road goes only by my house like a bow of which the county
r-road is the str-ring," explained the Baron. "Dismount, I beg, and
with much pleasure will I give you what I can."

It was little enough, though to the bit of bacon was added a couple of
apples roasted in the ashes. It was to the credit of the visitor's
powers of perception that he did not ask for other than was set before
him, and compel his host to disclose his poverty. He was a man of
middle age, with a shrewd face whose expression was spoiled by an
occasional look of slyness or glance of suspicion.

"Very fair whisky," approved the stranger. "Do you get it round here?"

"I make it."

"You do?" with a sudden contraction