ked up, suspiciously.

"Well?" he said.

"I meant how--how did he and Barbara appear to--get on together?"

Caleb spilled a spoonful of soup.

"Her!" he exploded with no regard for his grammar. "Why, she is true
to her blood! If she weren't she wouldn't be engaged to that thief who
masquerades as a gentleman. She isn't blind, and she's going to marry
him!"

"You are positively violent, Cal," reproved his sister. "And your
reference to Barbara does not do you credit. If I were your wife I
suppose I'd rise coldly now and sweep upstairs to leave you alone with
your bad mood. But being merely your sister I remain to hear you
apologize. Barbara is not yet married to Wickersham, I might add."

"I am exceedingly sorry," said Caleb.

"And, without any reason for it, save my womanly intuition, I feel very
certain that she will never marry him," Miss Sarah went on. "But you
spoke about Steve having no one upon whom he could depend for
assistance, and it was really a helpful hint to me. Did I fail to hear
you say how they seemed to get on together?"

"She didn't think he was good enough for her, ten years ago," growled
Caleb. "She wouldn't think so, now. He cares for her, so she treats
him like a dog, of course."

Miss Sarah had to smile.

"Then I think it is high time I did something about it," she stated
thoughtfully. "For she is a lovable girl, and she hasn't any mother of
her own. She's very pretty and little and finer than any girl I know.
If she weren't, Steve would not be in love with her, I am sure. And
Dexter Allison is no doubt an estimable man in many ways, even though,
as you feel positive, he has a tendency to acquisitiveness which is
deplorable. Your continued regard for him convinces me of that. I
wish, however, that Steve was not so entirely dependent upon what he
earns. There are many beautiful things--beautiful and intimate and
feminine things--which no man can remain happy in seeing paid for by
other money than his own, for the woman he loves."

Ten minutes after it was done Caleb could not have told what impulse
was to blame for the deed, but he rose forthwith and went to his
strong-box, to return with the legal-looking document and the bunch of
tax-receipts which he had found among Old Tom's papers, years and years
before.

"There's the deed to some thousands of acres of the finest timber in
this country," he announced challengingly, "all ship-shape in the name
of Stephen O'Mar