eserved it as the last recourse. When she saw her father rise to his
feet, and in the gathering gloom noted the grim resolute expression on
his face, she knew the crisis had come.

"Tell him to come down-stairs; we may as well have this matter settled
here and now."

"Father," she said in a low voice of the sweetest tenderness, "you will
not forget what he did two years ago?"

The parent stood motionless, silent for a minute, and then gently
resumed his seat, adding a moment later,

"No; I can never forget that; never mind calling him just now."

And what it was that Tim Hunter did "two years ago" I must now tell you.

CHAPTER II.

Bear in mind that Tim Hunter was twelve years old at the time, being
the junior by two years of his sister Maggie.

On the day which I have in mind, he had spent the forenoon fishing, and
brought home a mess of trout for which he had whipped one of the
mountain brooks, and which furnished the family with the choicest sort
of a meal. The father complimented him on his skill, for that was
before the parent's patience had been so sorely tried by the
indifference of the lad toward the vocation to which the elder meant he
should devote his life. He left the lad at liberty to spend the rest
of the day as he chose, and, early in the afternoon, he proposed to his
sister that they should engage in that old game of "jackstones" with
which I am sure you are familiar.

Years ago the country lads and lassies generally used little bits of
stones, instead of scraggly, jagged pieces of iron, with which they
amuse themselves in these days. Tim had seen some of the improved
jackstones; and, borrowing one from a playmate, he made a clay mould
from it, into which he poured melted lead, repeating the operation
until he had five as pretty and symmetrically formed specimens as one
could wish. It was with these in his hands, that he led the way to the
barn for a game between himself and sister.

The big, spacious structure was a favorite place for spending their
leisure hours. The hard, seedy floor, with the arching rafters
overhead could not be improved for their purpose. The shingles were so
far aloft that the shade within was cool on sultry summer days, and it
was the pleasantest kind of music to hear the rain drops patter on the
roof and the wind whistle around the eaves and corners. The mow where
the hay was stored was to the left, as you entered the door, and under
that were the stal