the
overseer, to make the daily rounds, a duty which had never been
undertaken at Red Springs by any one other than his grandfather.

Aunt Marianna had every right to be at Red Springs. She had been born
under its roof, having left it only as a bride to live in Lexington. The
war had brought her back when her husband became an officer in the
Second Kentucky Cavalry--Union. But now--riding with Rafe, watching in
the paddock--where was Alexander Mattock?

Red Springs was his grandfather. Drew found it impossible to think of
the house and the estate without the man, though in the past two years
he had discovered very few things could be dismissed as impossible.
Curiosity made him want to investigate the present mystery. But the
memory of his last exit from that house curbed such a desire.

Drew had never been welcome there from the day of his birth within those
walls. And the motive for his final flight from there had only provided
an added aggravation for his grandfather. A staunch Union supporter
wanted no part of a stubborn-willed and defiant grandson who rode with
John Hunt Morgan. Drew clung to his somewhat black thoughts as he made
his way to the pasture. The escape he had found in the army was no
longer so complete when he skulked through these familiar fields.

But there were only two horses grazing peacefully in the field dedicated
by custom to the four- and five-year-olds, and neither was of the best
stock. One could imagine that Red Springs had already contributed to the
service.

Of course, Morgan's men were not the only riders aiming to sweep good
horseflesh out of Kentucky blue grass this season, and here the Union
cavalry would be favored.

There was a slim chance that a few horses might be in the stables. He
debated the chance of that against the risk of discovery and continued
debating it as he started back to the tree house.

Drew had known short rations and slim foraging for a long time, but the
present pinch in his middle sharpened when he sighted the big house,
with its attendant summer kitchen showing a trail of chimney smoke.

Alexander Mattock might have considered his grandson an interloper at
Red Springs; certainly the old man never concealed the state of his
feelings on that subject. But neither had he, in any way, slighted what
he deemed to be his duty toward Drew.

There had been plenty of good clothing--the right sort for a Mattock
grandson--and the usual bounteous table set by hospi