blue-and-white homespun coverlet, and a kettle steamed upon the fire at
the opposite end of the room.

The sunlight swept across the floor as far as Sydney's feet, and
glinted upon the silver spur at her left heel. It crept up to her
radiant face and glowing hair. As she held the little baby in her
strong young arms, she stood transfigured like an angel of old in the
eyes of Friedrich von Rittenheim as he walked up the trail that served
as an approach to the cabin.

"_Himmlisches Maedchen_," he whispered, and pulled off his cap with a
feeling of guilt that he was bringing into this pure presence his
thoughts of hatred and revenge.

Little Miss Yarebrough had a narrow escape from a fall as her temporary
nurse's eyes fell upon the figure outside the door.

"Ah, Baron, it is you!" cried Sydney, tucking the baby into the hollow
of one arm and extending her hand. "Grandmother has been disturbed
about you. Have you been away? It is a long time since you were at
Oakwood."

"Has it seemed so to you?" he said, tenderly. "I have been to the town,
and I am but now r-returned within a pair of minutes. I have come to
ask Mrs. Yare-brough to put into order my house for me."

The unexpected sight of Sydney was like the sudden breaking out of
sunshine through a bank of stormy cloud to the man whose whole mind had
been filled for days with poisonous thoughts. He beamed upon Melissa
and shook hands with her cordially.

"Yes, sir, Ah'll go this mo'nin'. You-all wants yo' flo's mopped up, Ah
suppose."

She took the baby from Sydney and laid her on the bed, and began to get
together what paraphernalia she needed.

"Bud ain' comin' home to dinner, so Ah c'n stay 'n cook yo's 'f ye
want," she called, cheerily, breaking in upon the silence that had
fallen between her two guests; a silence fraught with happiness for the
man, and with a return of that terrible shyness for the girl. Why she,
the belle of two seasons, whose composure always had been the envy of
the girls of her age, should stand overcome with embarrassment before
this jeans-clad German she truly did not know. All power of initiative
seemed to have passed from her, and von Rittenheim stood before her and
feasted his eyes upon her in a way that she had been wont to condemn as
"horridly foreign," and she did nothing to relieve the situation.

At last the happy idea of flight suggested itself. She pinned her hat
more securely and unlooped her skirt.

The glow died from v