rm to nobody. Take me along with you-all! I'm afeared the
Riders'll git me ag'in. I come back to see my darter, the onliest chile
I got in the worl'. I ain't got no other place to go at. The Madam won't
let a pore ole man suffer. I wants to see my darter."

"Stop talking about your daughter!" interrupted Benoix, harshly, "I give
you five minutes to get your things together and bring me your key."

"Why, Philip!" cried Jacqueline, hot with indignation. "Of course he's
in no condition to go now, after the scare he's had. The poor thing!
We'll take him home to Storm. Mother'll expect us to."

Henderson fawned upon her eagerly. "Bless yore purty sweet face! You
won't let 'em git the ole man. That's right. Take me along with you to
see my darter." He put a wheedling hand on her arm.

"You dare to touch that young lady--!" Philip spoke in a voice
Jacqueline had never heard, shaken with rage. He had a stout switch in
his hand. Suddenly, uncontrollably, he brought it down across the man's
shoulders again and again.

Henderson cowered away from him. In less than the five minutes he had
been given, he was shuffling down the lane, all his worldly goods slung
over his shoulder in a handkerchief.

Then Jacqueline's shocked astonishment burst bounds.

"Why, Philip Benoix, you wicked, cruel man! To turn that poor old thing
out of his home without even giving him a chance to see his daughter!
And you struck him, too, struck him to hurt--you, a minister of the
Gospel! Oh, oh, you 're as bad as those 'Possum Hunters,' kicking a dog
when he's down. You, a man of peace!"

"It seems," said Philip, ruefully, "that I am also a man of wrath."

During the ride back to Storm both remained silent, Jacqueline nursing
with some difficulty her displeasure against her friend. So this was
Philip's famous temper, in which she had never quite believed! In truth,
that sudden outburst of inexplicable rage on the part of the grave,
quiet, young clergyman had appealed strongly to the love of brute force
that is inborn in all women.

But it had frightened Philip himself. He realized for the first time
that he was indeed the son of a man who had killed in anger. He touched
more than once the little inconspicuous gold cross that hung at his
belt, wondering whether he were fitted after all for the vocation he had
chosen.

CHAPTER XVII

There stood, in the ravine which separated Storm hill from the property
that had formerly belonged to Jac