t. He drove
out just a few moments ago. I tell you, there's a hustler, Mr.
McElwin. He don't wait, he makes things happen."

"Which way did he go?" McElwin asked.

"I don't know, exactly, but I think he took the Spring Hill road. He
must be going after something particularly fine, for I heard him tell
old Josh that he wanted a bottle of the oldest liquor in town, no
matter what it costs. But he didn't take it with him, come to
recollect. He 'lowed he'd want it this evening when he come back."

McElwin walked straightway to his home. His appearance at that odd
hour caused surprise, and his wife, having seen him through the
window, came to the door with something of a flurry.

"Is there anything wrong?" she asked, as he stepped into the hall.

"Nothing at all," he answered, hanging up his hat. "Why?"

"Because you are home so early."

"Oh, that's it. I was tired and I thought I'd come home to rest."

She took his arm and they passed into the rear parlor. "Where is Eva?"
he asked, sitting down.

"I don't know. I think she's out for a walk. Are you tired?" she
asked, standing behind him, with her hands resting on the back of the
chair.

"Not now," he said, reaching back and taking her hands. He pressed
them against his cheeks. "You always rest me."

"Do I?" She leaned affectionately over him. "I was afraid that I did
not. You have had so much to worry you of late."

"Yes," he sighed. "But when we are alone I can forget it all. Play
something for me, please."

She looked at him in surprise: "When did you ask me to play, before?"

"I don't know," he answered frankly. "You most always play without my
asking. Sing an old song, something we used to sing long ago."

She went to the piano and touched to life the strains of "Kitty
Clyde." And when her voice arose, he felt a lump in his throat, and he
sat with his eyes shut, with a picture in his heart--an old house, a
honey-suckle, a beautiful girl in white, with a rose in her hair.

CHAPTER XVII.

AT THE CREEK.

Shortly after Sawyer took his leave, Lyman went out for a meditative
stroll in the wooded land. About a mile and a half distant was a
creek, with great bluffs on one side, and with a romantic tumble of
land on the other. Of late he had gone often to this stream, not to
listen to the melody of water pouring over the rocks, not to hear the
birds that held a joy-riot in the trees, but to lie in the grass on a
slope, beneath an elm, and gaze acro