pail. "It may be
a flash in the pan, and I'd hate everybody in creation--you included--if
I was accused of--of missing fire the _second time_!"

They both happened to glance toward the cottage, and standing framed in
the kitchen doorway with a background of light they saw a mute and
motionless figure.

"It's little Joe!" Henley exclaimed. "Wait, I forgot what you sent me
for." He went to his buggy and returned with a parcel. "I got the Second
Reader, and I had the man put in a Geography-book full of pretty maps
and pictures. I thought maybe Joe would--"

"He'll be tickled to death," Dixie cried, as she reached for the parcel.
"The poor little fellow is watching us now. I told him you'd bring it
to-night, and he's been down several times to see if you was back. It's
awfully sweet of you, Alfred, to think of the Geography. I need it
myself, and me and Joe'll study it together. If that thing we was
talking about should happen to go through, the first move I'd make would
be to try to get that boy out of Pitman's clutch. I love 'im--he's so
gentle and patient that I can't help it."

They heard a step behind them, and, turning, they saw old Wrinkle
peering at them through the dark as he stood near the barn.

"If that's you, Alf," he called out, "you'd better come on to supper.
After a square meal at the Carlton Hotel you may look on our fare as
purty pore stuff. But you may choke it down. It's gettin' cold; the
grease in the beef hash is turnin' to tallow, an' the bread was baked
yesterday an' is as hard as a brick."

"All right; I'm with you," Henley said, good-naturedly, as he saw Dixie
hurrying away.

CHAPTER XVIII

On the morning set for the excursion to Carlton, Henley went down to the
stable and harnessed and hitched his horse to his buggy. Old Jason, who
was with him, made no offer to assist with the various buckles and
straps, but stood leaning in the barn-door chewing tobacco. He was
sufficiently courteous, however--as Henley started away with the remark
that he was going to give Dixie Hart a lift over to Carlton and back--to
slouch in front, his hands in his pockets, his tousled head bared to the
slanting rays of the sun, and open the big gate.

Reaching the front-door of Dixie Hart's cottage, Henley had only a
minute to wait. Mrs. Hart, followed by her sister with an arm in a
sling, came down the steps with a mincing step, her weak eyes shaded by
her thin hand, and approached him.

"It's powerf