place where the Cup had been. Sometimes he talked in low, eerie voice to
Red Wull; and on two occasions, David, turning, suddenly, had caught his
father glowering stealthily at him with such an expression on his face
as chilled the boy's blood. The two never spoke now; and David held this
silent, deadly enmity far worse than the old-time perpetual warfare.

It was the same at the Sylvester Arms. The little man sat alone with Red
Wull, exchanging words with no man, drinking steadily, brooding over his
wrongs, only now and again galvanized into sudden action.

Other people than Tammas Thornton came to the conclusion that M'Adam
would stop at nothing in the undoing of James Moore or the gray dog.
They said drink and disappointment had turned his head; that he was mad
and dangerous. And on New Year's day matters seemed coming to a crisis;
for it was reported that in the gloom of a snowy evening he had drawn
a knife on the Master in the High Street, but slipped before he could
accomplish his fell purpose.

Most of them all, David was haunted with an ever-present anxiety as to
the little man's intentions. The boy even went so far as to warn his
friend against his father. But the Master only smiled grimly.

"Thank ye, lad," he said. "But I reck'n we can 'fend for oorsel's, Bob
and I. Eh, Owd Un?"

Anxious as David might be, he was not so anxious as to be above taking
a mean advantage of this state of strained apprehension to work on
Maggie's fears.

One evening he was escorting her home from church, when, just before
they reached the larch copse: "Goo' sakes! What's that?" he ejaculated
in horror-laden accents, starting back.

"What, Davie?" cried the girl, shrinking up to him all in a tremble.

"Couldna say for sure. It mought be owt, or agin it mought be nowt. But
yo' grip my arm, I'll grip yo' waist."

Maggie demurred.

"Canst see onythin'?" she asked, still in a flutter.

"Be'ind the 'edge."

"Wheer?"

"Theer! "--pointing vaguely.

"I canna see nowt."

"Why, theer, lass. Can yo' not see? Then yo' pit your head along o'
mine--so--closer--closer." Then, in aggrieved tones: "Whativer is the
matter wi' yo', wench? I might be a leprosy."

But the girl was walking away with her head high as the snow-capped
Pike.

"So long as I live, David M'Adam," she cried, "I'll niver go to church
wi' you agin!"

"Iss, but you will though--onst," he answered low.

Maggie whisked round in a flash, superbly indignant.