spurred his horse and galloped up the hill.

Even as Thelismer Thornton found true haven on his porch in the summer
evening, so Dennis Kavanagh had his solace in his own domain, smoking
his pipe. He sat there when Harlan swung close to the steps.

"Mr. Kavanagh," said the young man, sternly, "I am Harlan Thornton. Do
you know any ill of me?"

"I know that you're old Land-Grabber Thornton's grandson! I also know
that you have shaken him in politics until his old teeth rattled. And
I'm much obliged to you!"

"I'm not here to talk about politics or my grandfather. I'm here on my
own account. You know where your own daughter is. I've come to ask you
honorably and fairly where she is. Will you tell me?"

Mr. Kavanagh was silent a long time. He seemed to be struggling with
some kind of surprise.

"No, I'll not tell you," he declared at last.

"Then I want to tell _you_ something, sir. I love your daughter. I love
her so honestly--so devotedly that I propose to search for her through
this world. And when I find her--" he hesitated.

"If you find her?"

"I stopped because I do not want to threaten or boast. But I will say,
Mr. Kavanagh, that when I find her I'll beg of her to be my wife, and if
she consents I promise you that no two sour old men are going to spoil
our happiness! I want a fair understanding with you."

"Queer notions you have of a fair understanding," retorted Mr. Kavanagh.
"You'd call it a fair understanding, would you, to come here and tell me
to get off my own doorstep because you claimed the place?"

"I mean that no man has the right to refuse happiness to his own or to
others simply to curry his own personal spite. That's all, sir."

He whirled his horse and galloped away. He halted at the church, threw
the reins over the animal's head and went and sat on the steps. He
wanted to think. He wanted to calm himself. He hoped that the place
would console him with its memories, afford him some hope, some
suggestion.

He wondered now why he had allowed anything to delay that search. Yet he
understood vaguely that she had hidden herself from him by her own
choice. She had fled with wounded heart. He had not dared to seek her
too eagerly.

The red eyes of Kavanagh's house mocked him.

Suddenly he started up. A figure, flitting and wraith-like, was coming
toward him from those eyes. It was running. He could hear the swift
patter of feet. She came straight to him where he stood; he had not
dared to