fter six miles of this careful back-tracing Dinsmore halted--this
time to listen. Both could now faintly distinguish voices ahead.

"Keep straight on over that thar hemlock ridge," whispered the
hide-out; "they're in the holler on t'other side." He held out his
hand to Thayor, pointed again in the direction he had indicated, and
disappeared as easily as a partridge.

Sam Thayor went on alone.

* * * * *

It was a day of dreary anxiety to those who awaited his return. The
trapper blamed himself for having allowed him to go. "It ain't right
for ye, friend, to risk yer life like this," he had declared. "Them
fellers won't stop at nothin' now--I've done my best to git ye clear
of 'em and I'll git ye clear and 'board the cars by to-morrow--all
of ye, if ye'll let me." To which Thayor, laying his hand on the old
man's shoulder, had replied:

"I refuse to expose any of you. It is a matter that concerns
myself alone. I hardly think they will attempt to molest a single,
defenceless man. As for your son, I'll take care that no one sees
him."

As the day wore on and no tidings came from either Thayor or the
hide-out, Holcomb's and the Clown's uneasiness became more and more
apparent. The midday meal passed in comparative silence. By noon the
sky became overcast and it drizzled intermittently. This told sadly
upon Alice, who went back to her blanket. There she closed her eyes,
but sleep was impossible.

Again she reviewed the events not only of this summer but of the
winter preceding it. She thought of Sperry, slowly going over in her
mind their days together--all that had happened; all that he had
dared to ask her to do. With astonishing clearness she now weighed his
worth. Bit by bit she recalled their last hours together that night on
the veranda. Then the sturdy honesty of men like Holcomb, the trapper
and the Clown in contrast with Sperry, and many of her guests at home,
rose in her mind. Their kindness to her; their unselfishness, despite
the fact that she had once treated them like a pack of uncouth boors.
But for Billy Holcomb she would have burned to death. She knew his
worth now. Sam had been right.

Then her mind dwelt on the close friendship that had grown up between
Margaret and the young woodsman. Was it friendship, really? Again she
thought of Sperry and again her cheeks burned. He had not asked her to
seek a divorce and marry him--he had demanded briefly that she leave
all a