lled Billy; but oh! if Tate had
only known to what that manhood was due.

"No, thank you," Billy replied, pulling his trousers up ecstatically. "I
don't want nothing to drink--to-day. But won't you please look and see
if there ain't a letter for Joyce--with her name to it?"

Tate walked around the screen, followed by Billy, and began fumbling in
the row of slits that answered for letter-boxes.

"Bet she's expecting word from Gaston."

Tate moistened his dirty fingers, and shuffled the envelopes.

"Here's five or six for Gaston hisself--one done up with a broad streak
of black round it. It's got a dreadful thick envelope! Well, if I ain't
blowed. Here _is_ one for Joyce, and did you ever?" Billy was beside him
now. "Done in printing. Well, if that don't beat the Injuns. Mis' Joyce
Lauzoon--that's good, Lauzoon! No wonder it didn't strike me first; I
guess I read it Jude Lauzoon. Here, you want to tote it up the hill?
Shouldn't wonder if it was _from_ Jude. If he's got over his sulks, and
finds no one to do for him, it's just like him to wheedle his woman
into coming back and--beginning all over."

Billy had grasped the letter with trembling hands. He was breathing
short and hard. Jared had evidently written the letter before talking to
Jude.

"Do you know who that's from?" Tate eyed the boy suspiciously.

"How should I?" Billy impudently turned away, "_I_ ain't Postmaster, am
I?"

Tate glared after the fleeing figure. He did not like the sense of
insecurity that pervaded St. Ange. If coming events cast their shadows
before, then Tate's future looked as if it might be one encompassed by
darkness.

When Billy reached Gaston's shack a silence of desolation pervaded it.
Had all reputable St. Ange gone a-visiting?

Jock's absence, and now Joyce's, gave Billy a creepy feeling such as a
cat must feel who has been deserted by them he trusted.

But there had been no fire in Filmer's shack; on Gaston's hearth a
roaring, recently builded fire gave evidence of late companionship.

"Joyce!" called Billy. There was no reply. Then the boy opened the door
leading into the lean-to. He had no reverence for retreats. If any door
opened to Billy's hand, Billy's feet carried him further.

A fresh fire also blazed on the hearth of Gaston's sanctuary.

All at once Billy's childhood rose supreme over his recently gained
moral viewpoint. Ever since he and the other St. Ange children had spied
upon Gaston as a stranger, Gaston's