heard a latch raised. Were the robbers breaking
into the house below? He heard a soft tread upon the floor. Should he
rise and give the alarm? Something restrained him. He reflected that a
robber would be sure to stumble over some of the "brats." So he lay
still and finally slumbered, only awakening when the place in which he
slept was full of the smoke of frying grease from the room below.

At breakfast Pete Jones scowled. He was evidently angry about something.
He treated Ralph with a rudeness not to be overlooked, as if he intended
to bring on a quarrel. Hartsook kept cool, and wished he could drive
from his mind all memory of the past night. Why should men on horseback
have any significance to him? He was trying to regard things in this
way, and from a general desire to keep on good terms with his host he
went to the stable to offer his services in helping to feed the stock.

"Don't want no saft-handed help!" was all he got in return for his
well-meant offer. But just as he turned to leave the stable he saw what
made him tremble again. There was the same sorrel horse with a white
left forefoot and a white nose.

To shake off his nervousness, Ralph started to school before the time.
But, plague upon plagues! Mirandy Means, who had seen him leave Pete
Jones's, started just in time to join him where he came into the big
road. Ralph was not in a good humor after his wakeful night, and to be
thus dogged by Mirandy did not help the matter. So he found himself
speaking crabbedly to the daughter of the leading trustee, in spite of
himself.

"Hanner's got a bad cold this mornin' from bein' out last night, and she
can't come to spellin'-school to-night," began Mirandy, in her most
simpering voice.

Ralph had forgotten that there was to be another spelling-school. It
seemed to him an age since the orthographical conflict of the past
night. This remark of Mirandy's fell upon his ear like an echo from the
distant past. He had lived a lifetime since, and was not sure that he
was the same man who was spelling for dear life against Jim Phillips
twelve hours before. But he was sorry to hear that Hannah had a cold. It
seemed to him, in his depressed state, that he was to blame for it. In
fact, it seemed to him that he was to blame for a good many things. He
seemed to have been committing sins in spite of himself. Broken nerves
and sleepless nights often result in a morbid conscience. And what
business had he to wander over this