ughter played on. They
were living again in the past, and the strains were bringing memories
sacred and sweet. Shawn sat as one transported to a heavenly sphere, his
eyes fixed on the delicately graceful figure swaying to and fro under
the changing cadences of the melody. It was the sweetest music that had
ever floated into the portals of Shawn's heart, awakening a thrill of
tenderness and love.

The tall clock in the dining-hall pealed forth the hour of ten. Horton
came with a lighted candle, and Shawn followed him to the south room
overlooking the river. A cozy fire burned in the grate, the moon
swinging above the stream touched the hills and valley to silvery
softness. He stood near the window and gazed long upon the water, the
stream running through every association of his life. On the table was a
daguerrotype; it was Lallite's face, and the eyes seemed smiling just
for him.

Doctor Hissong and Major LeCroix sat long into the night. "Major," said
the old doctor, "I'm going to make the race for the Legislature again.
John Freeman wants it, but I want to represent the county just once
more. Can you hold this end of the county for me?"

"I think I can," said the Major.

"Then I'll announce. Freeman is a bitter man to go against, but I'm not
afraid to try him out. I'm getting worn out in the practice of medicine,
and will probably retire whether elected or not. I have my affairs in
good shape; a bachelor doesn't require much. I want to put Shawn into
the practice some day, God bless him." A tear-drop glistened on the old
doctor's cheek, and Major LeCroix knew the secret of this emotion.

CHAPTER XI

Who does not recall the joyous thrill that comes with the preparation
for a hunt--the powder-horns and shot pouches scattered here and
there--the cleaning of guns, the glances at the sky to determine whether
wind and weather are propitious, the barking of the dogs as their eyes
gleam in anticipation of the day's sport.

Major LeCroix critically examined Dr. Hissong's gun: "Too much choke in
the barrel for quail. Shawn, don't you load that rusty piece of yours
too heavily." Reaching above the doorway, he brought down his
muzzle-loading gun, with its silver mounted hammers and lock shields,
and as he caressingly drew his coat-sleeve along the barrels, he said,
"They don't know how to make them like this nowadays."

They went forth into the frosty, bracing air. They walked leisurely
along the bank of the litt