is coming and going were watched and speculated upon.
Recently he had imported foreign labour, much to the sneering contempt
of the natives whose philosophy did not include the necessity of
perpetual work and certainly repudiated the idea of outsiders
originating a new system. But Northrup was not a foreigner. He must be
regarded from a different angle.

Aunt Polly made it her business, after the first few days, to start
propaganda of a safe and inspiring character about her guest. While
not committing herself to any definite statement, she made it known
that if Northrup had any connection with Maclin, he was against him,
not for him.

Maclin just then was the hub from which the spokes of curiosity led.

"He couldn't be for Maclin," Polly had said to Peter. "You know that
as well as I do, Peter Heathcote. And getting facts signed and
witnessed is an awful waste of time. The Lord gave women a sixth sense
and it's a powerful sight surer than affidavits."

Peter grunted. So long as Polly hinted and made no statements he was
content. He believed she was partly right. He thought Northrup might
be on Maclin's trail, and from appearances Peter had confidence in his
guest's ability to run his quarry to earth where, heretofore, others
of the Forest had failed.

He liked Northrup, believed in him, and while he sat and nursed his
leg, he let Polly do her hinting.

It was the evening of Northrup's third day at the inn when the three,
with Ginger blinking contentedly, sat by the fire. Polly knitted and
smiled happily. She had drifted that day into calling Northrup "Brace"
and that betokened surrender. Peter puffed and regarded his bandaged
leg--he had taken a few steps during the afternoon, leaning on
Northrup's arm, and his mood was one of supreme satisfaction.

Breaking the silence, now and again, an irritating sound of a bell
intruded. It was a disconcerting note for it had a wild quality as if
it were being run away with and was sending forth an appeal. Loud;
soft; near; distant.

"Is there a church around here?" Northrup asked at last.

"There is," Heathcote replied, taking the pipe from his lips. "It's
the half-built church I mentioned to you. A bit down the line you come
to a bridge across an arm of the lake. On a little island is the
chapel. It ain't ever used now. Remember, Polly," Heathcote turned to
his sister, "the last time the Bishop came here? Mary-Clare was about
as high as nothing, and just getting over t