be several days, or a week, in
materializing, perhaps much longer. It was for him to be ready and
watchful; but there was no immediate call for action. His sympathies
were so largely aroused for Joyce, that he meant to overcome his
yearning to be with the object of his passion, and on that first night
he intended going to Gaston's shack and setting Joyce right about the
future and his own part in the drama.

Billy realized that he must shield himself. Birkdale and Lauzoon must
never know of his presence in the hut. Joyce, Billy felt sure, would
cooeperate with him. If he and she could find Gaston, all might be safe
and well; but while Gaston was absent, danger lurked. However, Joyce
must refuse to meet "the backwoodsman"; after that they two, Billy and
Joyce, must find a path that connected Gaston with them, and make him
secure from the plots of the evil Birkdale and the weak, foolish Jude of
the unerring shot.

All this Billy thought upon as he strode forward whistling comfortably,
and his chest swelling proudly.

It was one thing to whistle on the highway of St. Ange, and quite
another to whistle in the wilds of the North Solitude.

Billy was full of creature comfort, and the scattered lights of the
houses gave cheer and a feeling of security to the boy.

The Black Cat's twinkling eyes had no charm for Billy. They were never
to have a charm for him; but as he neared the bungalow his whistle grew
intermittent and his legs had an inclination in one direction while his
heart sternly bade him follow another. Then, without really being aware
of his weakness, Billy found himself knocking on the bungalow door, and
his heart thumped wildly beneath the old vest of his father's which he
wore closely buttoned under the coat he had painfully outgrown.

In response to his knock, the wide, hospitable door was flung open, and
Billy faced a stranger who quite unnerved him, by the direct and pointed
question:

"Why, good evening, little boy; what do _you_ want?"

The glow from within set Billy's senses in a mad whirl, but the "little
boy" was like a dash of cold water to his pride and egotism.

"I--I--want--her!" Poor Billy was in a lost state.

"It is--I do believe it is my delectable Billy."

It was _her_ voice, and it floated down to the boy at the gate of
Paradise, from the top of a step-ladder. Halfway up the ladder Jock
Filmer stood with his hands full of greens and his eyes full of
laughter.

"Billy, come up and