THE MARKET-HUNTER.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 6995, 10 January 1901, Page 4

THE MARKET-HUNTER.

: (By; ROBERT W. CHAMBERS.) . | ': Author of "The Ret! Republic," Etc, : A warm October was followed by a muggy wet November. , Because there had been as yet no frost, the partridges still lurked deep in the swamps, ■anA the woodcock skulked, shunning the white birches until the ice-storms in the north* should set; their comrades moving south-wards. : There was little doing in the feathered , -world. Of course tha swallows had long since departed, and with the advent of the ■blue jays and golden-winged woodpeckers, a few bea.vy -pinioned hawks had appeared, Wheeling all day over the pine-woods, calling querulously. >: Then, oiie still night the frost- silvered 4>he land, and rii? raccoons whistled from the beech waods on the ridges, and old man { ;Jocelyn\s •daughter crept from her chilly bed .to the window which framed a staring, 'frosty mnon. : Through niio silence she heard a, whisper :like the discreet rustle of- silken; hangings. It was the sound of leaves falling through 'the darkness. She peered into tie night, ■where unseen the delicate fingers of the frost were touching a million leaves, and as ; each little leaf was summoned she 'Heard it •go, whispering obedience. :... Now the moonlight seemed- to saturate her iforn, thin, night-gown, and lay-like frost on ;her body ; and she crept' to- the door of her room, shivering, and- called, "Father!" '. He answered heavily, and! the bed in the next room creaked. • "There is a frost," she said 1 ;- "shall I load tie cartridges?"' ) "There won't be no flight to-night,'* he said; "ihe birds won't move for twentyfour hours. Go to bed, Jess." • " But -i'hsrre are sure to be- a few droppersin to-night," she protested. "Go to- bed," he said shortly. . ■ After a moment she began again s' " I ■don't mind loading a dozen shells, dad." ; "What for?" he said. "It's my fault I ain't ready. I don't want you foolin,' with candle.s around- powder and; shot." ■ " Bub I want you to have a good time to•morrow," she urged, with teeth chattering. *'You know," ah-d she laughed a mirthless laugh, "it's Thanksgiving Day. and two woodcocks are as good as a turkey." ■ What he said! wos, " Turkey be dameS!" ibnt nevertheless she knew he was pleased, so she said no more. ■ There was a candle on her bureau f she lighted .it' with stiff fingers, then trotted' 'about over t'ho carpetless floor gathering up <the loading tools and flimsy paper shells, the latter carefully •hoard?*! after having already served. Before she finished her hands were numb ami her little feet like frozen marble. But. Ati In-st -two dozen cartridges were ready, and 1 she .gathered' them up in the skirt of her Wght-gown and oarriedf them to her father's door. . "Here they are," she said, rolling them in a heap on the floor ; and happy at his sleepy protest, she crept back to bed again, chilled' to the knees. • At dawn the cold was intense, but old man Jocelyn, descending the dark staircase, gun in hand, found his -daughter lifting the coffee-pot from the stove. '. " You're a good girl, Jess," he said. Then he began to unwind the flannel cover from hi*, gun. In the frosty twilight outside a gaccoon whistled fromrthe aldiers. ' When he had' unrollediand wiped his gun, lie drew ai shaky chadr to the pine table and «a# down. His daughter watched him, and •when he bent his gray .hend She .covered her eyes with one delicate hand. '' ' r Lord," he said, "ittoeing Thanksgiving, il db 1 hereby give Thee a*£ew extry thanks." |And "Amen," they said together. ! Jess stood warming herself with her back to-iSie stove, watching her father, busy with 3)is bread! and' coffee. Her childish face was mot a sad one, yet in her rare smile there iwas a certain beauty which, sorrow alone ■brings to- young lips- and! eyes. • Old man Jocelyn stirred his sugarless coffee and broke off a lump of 'bread. • " One of young Gordon's keepers was here yesterday," he said abruptly. His daugEcer slowly raised 11 her lead! and itwisted her dishevelled hair in ai great, soft knot. "What did!' Mr Gordon's keeper ,want?" she asked indifferently. "Wihy someone," said old) man Jocelyn with an indescribable sneer, "some real mean man has been and! shot out them swales \aiong Brier Brook. ■" : " Did! you do it?" askedHhe .girl. , . ' "Why, come to think, I guess I did, iiaid her father, grinning. • "It is your right," said 1 his daughter quietiy; "the Brier Brook swales were ,-yours." . „ . ! " Before young Gordon s pa swuKtlea me lout o' *hem,i" observed! Jocelyn, tearing off ■more bread. "And," he added, "even oldGordon never dared post his land- in them jdays. If he had fteM; been tarxedi 'a' (feathered 1 ." , -i ' His daughter -looked! gcaro, then a, smile touched her eyes, and she said : I ihear, idaddy, that young Gordonttgives.youfrcattle and seeds^amd ploughs." ' Jocelyn*wh«eled xound lik»»-nash!. « Wh^ told you that?" he^ieinaj&dedkshar/ply. _ • The incredulous snule in her eyeajdiedt •out. She-stareda-b-himblamkly^ • " Why, of -^course^ib • wasrft ' true, * ■ She said. . .. " Who told yoa?" hevene*. angrily. : "Murphy toldxme," shSevstammered. **Of course it is a lie f of cortrse,,he lied', iaiHeal I told him ha Tied—" . Witht horror in hex* eyeswshe-steuedi-at her father, but Jocelyn? sat suflenly over his coffee cup and : tearing* bit after bit from the crust in his fist. .»,,., "Has young Gordon! ever- said' that*, to-. you?" h& demanded at length. "I have never spoken' to himi in altiny life," answered- the girl with a- dry soK- tt l£ I had known tha.fche gave*things*to— to— us '—I should have.^died— " [ Jocelyn's eyes'. were averiedL, "How dare (he !" she went on, trembling. ,' '■* We areKDOt •beggars ! If w© haye nothing it is his ■father's shame! and 1 his shame [ Oh, fath«r! father ! I never-thought— l never for one instant thought — " "Don't, Jess!" said Jocelyn,^ hoarselyv • T.ben he rose and laid atheavy hand on the table : " I took his cows, and his ploughs, and his seed. What of it? He owes me more ! I took them for your sake— to try and find a living'in this bit of flint and sand ,— for you. Birds- are scarce. They've passed a law against market-shooting. Every 'barrel of birds I send out may mean-prison. I've lived my life as a market-hunter ; I ain't fitted for farming. Bub you were •growing, and you needed^ schooling, and between the game-warden and young- Gordon :i couldn't keep you diecent— so I took bis .-. . cattle and I dug in the ground. What of it!" he ended violently. And, as she did not speak, he gave voice to the sullen rage withiu him : " I took his cattle and 'his ploughs a, I take his birds They am t his to give mine to take-the birds are."'

He picked up his gun^ancE starfcedyheayifar for the door. His eyes met the eyes of Ms daughter as*sh© drew the frosty latcbi fan him. There was a pause, then he>pulledyhja cap over his eyes with a grunt. «*£" " Dear-dad 1 ," she said under her "breatK* "I guess," h« observed unsteadUyj^yoolss ashamed of me, Jess." She put both her arms round ihia neck and laid her head against his. ' " I think as you do," she said. " Bub deJ« ling dad, you will never, never again take even one grain of buckwheat from him, -will you?" " His father robbed mine,'* said Jocelytt, with a surly shrug. But she was content with Ms answer and his rough- kiss, and. when ho had gone out into the gray morn-; ing, cailrnir hd'g mongrel setter from its ken* nel, she went back up the stairs and t&row herself on her icy bed. But iher littleface was hot with tearless shame, and misery numbed her limibs, and she cried but in her heart for God to -punish old Gordon's sin from generation to generation — meaning 1 that young Gordon should suffer for the sins of. Iks father. Yet through her torture' and the burning anger of h*r prayer ran a silent undercurrent, a voiceless call for mercy upon her and upon all she loved., iher father and — young Gordon. She awoke with the sun in her eyes and the strident cries of the blue jays in her . ears. " / Under her window she heard somebody moving. It was her father, already retuniv ed, and he stood by ;tihe door, drawing and plucking* half a dozen woodcock. When she had bathed andi dressed 1 , she found the birds on the kitchen table, ready for the oven, andi she set about her 'household duties with a glance through the window, where Jocelyn, crouching on the bant of the dark stream, was examining Ms setlines one by one. As she passed across the yard towardi the spring, bucket in hand, her father called out: "I guess we'll keep Thanksgiving,' Jess, after all. I've got a five pounder h«re!" , He held up a slim gold and green pickerel, then flung the fish on the ground with! the laugh of a boy; it was always so; th» forest and the pursuit of wild creatures •renewed his life. He was born for it : he had lived a hunter and a roamer of tie woods :.; he bade fair to die a poacher— which, perhaps, is no sin in the eyes of Him; who designed the pattern of the partridge's wings and gave two coats to the northern! hare. His daughter watched him with a strained simile. In her bitterness against Gordon, now again in the ascendant,' she found! no peace of mind. I " ! Dad," she said, "I set six dead falls yesterday. I guess I'll go and look at them." Jocelyn watched her. He noted the finely moulded head, tihe dainty nose, : the clear, fearless eyes. It was the" sensitive head of « free woman — a maid of windy hillsides and silent forests. He saw the faint quiver of the nostril, and 'he thought of the tremor bhat twitches the dainty muzzles of thoroughbred dogs afield. It was in her, tne mystery and passion of the forest, and he saw it and dropped his eyes to the fish swinging from his hand. "Your mother was different,"- Be said 1 , slowly. Instinctively they both turned toward t!he shanty. Beside the doorstep^ rose a granite headsfeoni}. •After a while Jocelyn drew out his jack knife, and laid the fish on the dead grass, and the girl carried the bucket of water back to the house. She reappeared! a moment later, wearing her father's, shooting jacket and cap, and, with a quiet "goodbye" to Jocelyn, she started across the Ihillsida toward the woods above. Jocelyn watched her out of 6ight, then, turning the pickerel over, he slit th© firm white belly from vent to gill. About that time, just over the scrubby hill to the north, youiig Gordon was walking knee-deep in the bronzed sweet fern, gun cocked, eyes alert. His two beautiful dogs were working close, quartering the birch-dotted hillside in perfect form. But they made ■no points ; no dropping wood-, cock whistled) up from the shelter of birch or eider; no partridge blundered away from bramble covert or willow fringe. Only the heavy hawks, sailing, watched him with "bright ,eyes. He was a dark-eyed, spare young man/ with well-shaped head andi good mouth. He wore bia canvas shooting clothes like a soldier, and handled his gun andi his dogs with ft careless ease that might have appeared slovenly had the results been less precise." But' «yea an amateur could! see how thorj ougMy the ground was covered by those 1 silent dogs. Gordon never spoke to them J A motion of his hand was enough. Once a scared rabbit scuttered out of the' tweet fern, and bounded away, displaying tne piteous flag of truce, and Gordon smiled to himself when his perfectly trained dogs crossed the alluring trail without a tremour, swerving not an inch for bunny and his antics. But "what couM good dogs do, even if well handled, when there had been no flight from the North? So Gordon signalled 1 th* ■dogs .and walked on. That part of his property which he lhad -■•voided- for years he now came in sight of from the hill, and he 'halted, gun, tinder his «nn. There was the fringe of alders, mirrored in Rat's. Run; there was Jocelyn's shanty, the one plague spot in his estate ; there, too, was old man Jocelyn, on ihis knees beside the stream, fussing with something that glistened, probably a fish. The young man on the hilltop tossed his 'gun over his shoulder and called his two silvery-coated dogs to heel, then he started to descend the slope, the November sunlight dancing on the polished gun barrels. Down through the scrubby thickets he strode; burr and thorn scraped his canvas jacket, blackberry vines caught at elbow amd knee. With an unfeigned scowl he kept his eyes on Jocelyn, who was still pottering on the stream's bank, but when Jocelyn heard him come crackling through the stubble and looked up, the scowl faded, leaving Gordon's face unpleasantly placid. : " Good morning, Jocelyn," said the young man, stepping briskly to the bank^of the stream ; " I want a word with you." "Words axe cheap," said oocelyn, sitting up on his haunches ;"what do you want, Mr Gordon?" " I want you," said Gordon, slowly em-

■ Rations onfimy ptdpeafby T omtea and for all-" ' r i oro th« ideatf grass Jooelynu. '©too Ihinrf ssPpntty wi'tih.'o'uito replyiti'g 1 . t <*DW yo^^inaJer^teflHj,'*-^ said »" Gordon,. jsha^ply. "'*WeO!I, w!hte)fc*s Ehe tooulble •now—"'- began^. STocelynv !bu* Qkwdon ou'b tens short. *■ * "Trouble? Vda*ve shot- out every swale dfcotfg Biter Brootel There isn't a partridg* left between hero fend ite lake! And it's a shjabbyl' business^Jtooelyn)— a shabby business." ■*•,., He fltmg--<his fotoßn'g-'pfooSirilfJo the hollow i otf ihis letfO awtfandklbegaa !fca waflk up and dowri jjhs 'bank. " This is my land,** he siaitd, w aad I want no tenants. There were a cPozem farms on the properfcy nvheni it caan© tern; I gavo every "fcenanib a year's lease, renfc free, and: ,when they moved out I ©awe them their bouses to take dotem anldi rdbuilti! outside , of my boundary 'lines. Do yon know any other matfwlio woufldi db las march?" jocelyn was silenlb. "As for you/'conitinuecl! Gordon, "you •were left in thalt; house because your wife's grave is there at your very threshold. You h&ve your house free, you pay no rent for tJhe land, you cult your wood! without pay men*. My gardener has supplied you with seed, bulfc you never -csuflftSivate the lam'd ; my (nuamiager h^ sen* you caws, but you sell tjb.€(m." " One died," «mu*tered! Jdcelyn. «' Yes— wiltih' a oulb iHrroa!b," replied GordlcHi. "See here, Jooelyn, I don't expect gsaifeitu!o[« or ciivMty from you, but I do expect you *o stop robbing me.'* " EoWWmg !" repeiatetd 1 Jooffiyn ang^iily, rising to his fee*. ■ " Yes, I'oibbln'g ! My land is posted! warning people not to shoot, or fish/ or cab trees. The laild, tlha game and! the forests are mine, and you Wave no more right to kill a birjl or cut a tree on my propei^tiy than I ih'aive to enlter your Wouse and steal your .shoes'." Gordon's face was flushed nmv, and he came iaaid affcood squarely in frotiit of Jocelyn. " You roib me," lie said, " and ; yon break nWi! only my own private rules but also the State laws. You sfbotoit for the market, and it's ai ■diitby, ooateanplbilble tD.ing to do." Joeeflyn gßareld at him, bulb Gordon looked hSm straight in theeyeanSiJwenit on caJmly : "You are a law-breaker, and! you know it! Yiwi snare my trout; you cover the streams wfthse* Qines andlg^anigJhaoks.you get more partridiges with winter gra^pes and' deadifalls than you db wdlfch powder and shot. As ltong as your ouieed poaching served to fill your own istoanwdh I stood it, but now tWalb you've started wtelesalle game slaughter for the market I aim going *o st«p the wii'ole tMmg." The fbwo men faced each, other in silence for a momefnlb; then Jocelyn said:. "Are you gbimg to tear dkOTrai my, house?" Gordon <Jid not answer. It was what he ■wiamted jtb do, (but he lookedi at the gaunlt, granite headstone mi the dbbiway, them dropped tthe IbuWt of ihis gun/ to the deadi sod again: "Can't you "be decent, Jocelyn?" he aisked harMy. Joeeflyn was silent. " I don 1 * want to turn you out," said Gordon. " Can't you let my game alone? Come, let's start again, : shall we ? I'll send Badts down to-morrow with a couple of cows, and a cralte or two of chickens, and Murphy shall bring you what seedi3 you want for late planting " "To with youn seedis!" roared Jocelyn in a burst of fury. "To witih your cows, youu Murphys, and. your money and yourself, you loafing millionaire ! Do you tbinik I want to dig turnips any more tfihan you db ? I was 'bom free in a free land 'before you were born at all ! I bunted these swales and fished these streams w ; hile you were squalling for your pap!" vVith blazing eyes 'the ragg«d fellow shook his fist a* Gordon, cursing flum; fiercely, Lhen witib a violent gesture he pointed at tlhe ground under his feet : " Le'b those whose caHing is 'to dig, dig 1" 'he snarled 1 . " I've turned my last sod." ' Except that Gordon's face had 1 grown a little white undter th« hea.vy coat of tan, he betrayed no emotion as he said. : " You are welcome to live as you please^ — under the law. But if you fire one more shot on this land I shall be obliged! to ask you to go elsewhere." , " Keep your ears open tiben !" ehouted Jocelyn, " for I'H knock a pilTowful of feathers out of the first (partridge I mm over." "Better not," said Gordton, gravely. Jocelyn hitched up his weather-stained trousers and drew his leather belt tighter. "I' told you jusb now," he said', "■tihat I'd never turn another sod 1 . 11 l take that back." "I'm glad to hear it," said! Gordon 1 plea-sa-ntly. "Yes," continned! Jocelyn, ■with a grim gesture, " I'll tkuke it back. You see, I buried my wife yonder, and I guess I'm free to dig up what I planted. And! II do it !" After a pause, She added : " Tear the house dtown. I'om done with it. I guess I can find room somewhere uinderground' for her,, and- a few free inches on top of the ground for me to sit down on." ' " Don't talk -like thaib," said 1 Gordon, reddening to the roots of his hadr. " You are welcome to the house aJMt tlhe land, and you know it. I only ask you to let my game alone." " Your game?" retorted 1 Jocelyn. " They re wild creatures, put there by Him who fasih.ionedi them." " Nonsense, 1 ' said Gordbn;, diryly. My land is my own. Would you shoot the poultry jn my barnyard?" "If I did," cried Jocelvn, with! eyes aWaze, "I'd no^t be in your debt, young man. You are walking on my fathers land. Ask your father why. Yes, go bade to One city and hunt him up at his millionaire's club, and ask him ; w,hy you are driving) Tom Jooelyn off his old land!" "My father died' three years ago," said Gordon, between his teeth. " What do you mean?" Jocelyn looked at ihims blankly. "Wihaib do you mean?" repeated Gordon, wfbh narrowing eyes. Jocelyn was quite still. Presently he looked down at the fish en the ground and 1 moved it with his foot. Then Gordon asked' him for the third time what he meant,, and Jooelyn, raising his eyes, answered him, "With the dead all quarrels die." "Thaib' is not enough!" said Gordon, harshly. "Do you believe my father wronged you?" " "He's dead," said Jocelyn, as though; speaking to himself. Presently ne picked up his fish and walked toward his house, gray headi bent between his shoulders. . „ For a moment Gordon hesitated, then he threw his gun smartly over Ms shoulder and

motioned his dogs to heel. But his step had lost 'something of its elasticity, and) he cEmbedi.tlie hill slowly, following -wioh troubled eyes tea own shadow, which/ led) him over the dead grass. He did not enter the woods. • There was a fallen log, rotten and fragrant, half buried in the briers, and on it he found* a. seat, calling his dogs to his feet. At first thwb inert oppression whicU always came when the memory of his father rttu-nad to him touched hig fine lips with a gravity too deep for his vea.rs. No man had ever said that his father had) dealt unfairly with men, yet for years now his son had aiocuim.iila.tea impressions, vague and indefinable at first, but clearer a.s he grew older, and 1 the impressions had 1 already left the faintest tracery of a line between bis eyebrows. He had known his father as a hard maa ; he knew that the world had found him hard and shrewd, and! now, as he grew oldier and uiuderstoo'd! what the tribute of honest men was worth, even to the dead, he waited! to hear one word. But be never heard it. He had beard 1 other things, however, but always veiled 1 , like the menacing outbreak of old man Jccel<rn— » nothing tangible, nothing that !be> could! answer or refute. At times he becaiwe morbid, "believing he could (read reproach: in men'seyes, detect sarcasmi in friendly voices. Then for months h» would shun, men, as he was doing 1 now, living alone month, after month in the grea* silent house that his father and 1 his grandfather's father had! been born in. Yet even here, among the Sajjamore hills he had found St — that haunting hint that honour had been moulded! to fit occasions when old Gordon dealt with his fellowmen. a The yellow beech.' leaves illuminated the woods above and under foot ; he smelled the scent of ripening foliage, he s>w the purple gentiams 'wistfully raising their buds which neither sun nor frost, could' ever unseal. In a glade where brambles covered a tiny stream, creeping through! layers of swampweed arid 1 mint, the white setter in the lead swang suddenly west, quartered, wheeled 1 , crept forward and stiffened) to ■ a point. Behind him his mate froze into a silvery statue. But Gordon' walked oan, gun umder'lhis arm, and tlhe covey rose with a roar of newy wings, driving blindly through! i 3» tangie deep into the dimi wood's depths. Gordoni was not in a killing mood' that morning. As he was on the point of moving, forward, stooping to 1 avoid/ an ozier, something on the edge of the thotaket caught his eye. It was a twig, freshly- broken, hanging by its film <A bark. After he (bad exatmine'di % .cTosely "he looked around cautiously, peering into tihe thicket until, a few yards to the right, he discovered another twig, fresMy broken, hanging by its film of bark. ,An ugly flush stained his (forehead 1 j he set his lips together, and moved' on 1 noiselessly. Other twigs htung dtonglin® ©very few yards, yet it took iani expert's eye to detect them among the tanigles and cluster > ing branldhes. But he 'knew what he was to find at tihe end of the ibiind trail, and in a few minutes he 'found ilt. It was a deadfall, set, and baited wfth winter grapes. Noiselessly he destroyed it, -setting the •heavy stones on the moss without a souod: ; then he searched' Itfhe thicket for the next " line," and in a few mcmenlts ihe discovered another broken twig leading to the left. He bad been on the trail for some time, losing it again antt 'again', before the suspicion flashed over him that there was somebody ahead who had either 'seen or heard him, and who was deliberately leading -him astray wifth false " lines " that would end in nobbing. He listened' ; there was no sound either of steps or. cracking twigs, but both dogs had begun growlling, andl staring into the demi-light ahead. He motioned' them on and followed. A moment I'aiter both dogs barked sharply. As he stepped out of the thicket on one side, a youmg gM, standing im the more open and, heavies' Climber, raised her head and looked at him with grave "brown eyes. Her Ihamlds were oil the silky heads of hi? dogs^vlfrcan her belt hung a great fluffy cock partridge, outspread wings still limber. He knew her in an instant ; he kadi seen her often in church. Perplexed and! astonished he took off his cap ia silence, finding absolutely nothing to say,, although the dead partridge at her belt furnSSed! a text on which, he had often displayed biting eloquence. _ After a moment he smiled, partly at the situation, partly to put her at her ease. " If I 'had known it was you," 'he saidj " I should not have followed those very inviting twigs I saw dangling from the oziers and moosevines." ; "Lined dead-falls are thoroughfares toi woodsmen," she answered, defiantly. " You are as free as I am in these woods — but not more free." The defiance, instead of irritating ham touched him. In it he felt a strange pathos— the proud protest of a heart that beat as free as the thudding wings of the wild birds he sometimes silenced! with a shot. "It is quite true," he said gently ; " you are perfectly free in these woods." " But nofc by your leave !" she said, and the quick colour stung her cheeks. "It is not necessary to ask it," he replied. • "I mean," she said desperately, "that neither I nor my father recognise your right to these woods." "Your father?" he repeated, puzzled. "Don't you know who I am?" she^said in surprise. "I know you sing very beautifully in church," he said, smiling. "My name," she said quietly, "is the name of your father's old neighbour. lam Jessie Jooelyn." ' , His face was troubled, even in his surprise. The line between hiis eyes deepened. " I did not know you were Mr Jocelyn's daughter," he said at last. Neither spoke for a moment. Presently Gordon raised his head and found her brown eyes on him. "I wish,'' he saidl wistfully, "that you would let me walk with) you a little way. I wan t/to ask your advice. Will you ?" " I am going home," she said coldly. She turned away, moving two or three paces, then the next step, was less hasty, and the next was slower still. As he joined her she looked up a trifle startled, then bent her head. ".Miss Jocelyn," he said abruptly, "have you ever heard your father say that my father treated him harshly?" She stopped short beside him. "Have you?" he repeated firmly. "I think," she said scornfully, "your father can answer that question." " If he could," said Gordon, " I would ask him. He is dead." She was listening to him with face half averted, but now she turned round and,met his eyes again. " Will you answer my question?" he said. "No," she replied slowly; "not if he is dead." ' Young Gordon's face was painfully white. "I beg you, Miss Jocelyn, to answer me," he said. " I beg you will answer for your father's sake and — in justice to my father's eon." " What do you care," she began, but stop, ped short. To her surprise her own bitterness seemed forced. She saw he did care. Suddenly she pitied him. " There was a promise broken," »he said gravely. ."What else?" "A man's spirit." They walked on, foe clasping his gun with nerveless 'hands, she breaking the sapless twigs as she passed with delicate, idle fingers. Presently he said, as though speaking to ■himself : 'He had no quarrel with the dead, nor has the dead with him — now. What

my father would mow wish, I can-do — I can do even, yet — " • Under her deep, lashes her brown eyes " ; rested on. Mm pitifully. But at Ms slightest motion she turnediaway, -walking in silence. As'-they reached the edge of the woods in burst of sunshine he looked up at her, and she stopped. Below them tho smoke curled from her weather-racked house. " Will you have me for a gutst?" 'he said, suddenly. " A guest!" she faltered. A new mood was on- him, he was smiling now. " Yes, a guest. It is Thanksgiving Day, Miss Jocelyn. Will you and your father forget old quarrels— and perhaps forgive?" Again she rested her slender hands on his dogs' heads, looking out over the valley. "Will you forgive?" ha asked in a low voice. "I? Yes," she said 1 , startled. " Then," ho went on, smiling, " you must invite me to be your guest. When I look at that partridge, Miss Jocelyn, hunger makes me shameless. I want a second joint — indeed I do!' . Her sensitive lips trembled l into a smile, but she could not meet his eyes yet. " Our Thanksgiving dinner would ihorrify you," she said; "a pickerel taken on a gang-hook, woodcock shot in Brier Brook swales, and this partridge — " She hesi- . tated. " And thai) partridge a victim to his own. rash passion for winter (grapes," added Gordon, laughing. The laugh did them both) good. "I could make a chestnut stuffing," sho said), timidly. "Splendid l. splendid!" murmured Gordon. „ "Are you, really coming?" she asked. Something in,. her eyes held his, then he answered with heightened! colour, "I am H-ery serious, Miss Jocelyn. . May I come?" She saddl " Yes " under her breath. There was colour enough in her lips and; cheeks now. So young Gordon went away across the hills, whistling his dogs cheerily on, the sunlight glimmering on the slanting barrels of 'his gun. They looked back twice. The third' time she looked he was gone beyond the brown hill's crest. She came to her own door all of a tremble. Old man Jocelyn sat sunning his gray 'head on the south porch, lean hands folded over his stomach, pipe between his teeth. ' "Daddy," she said, "look!" and she held 'up the partridge. Jocelyn smiled. All the afternoon, she was busy in the kitchen, and! when the eariy evening shadows lengthened across 4ihe purple hills, she stood at the door, brown eyes searching the northern slope.. The early dusk fell over the alder swales ; the brawling brook was sheeted with vapour. Upstairs she heard her father dressing in his ancient suit of rusty black, and pulling on his obsolete boots. She stole into the dining-room.' and looked at the tables. Three covers were laid.. She had dressed in.her graduating gown — a flimsy bit of mousseline and ribbon. Her dark soft hair was gathered' simply j a bunch of gentian glimmered at her belt. Suddenly, as she lingered over the table, she heardi Gordon's step on the poreh 1 , and the next instant her father came down the dark stairway into, the dining-room just as Gordon entered. The old man halted, eyes ablaze. But Gordon came forward gravely, saying, " I asked Miss Jocelyn if I might come as your guest to-night. It would have been -a lonely thanksgiving at home." Jocelyn turned to his daughter in. silence. Then the three places laid at table, and the three chairs caught his eye. "I hope," said Gordon, "that old quarrels will be forgotten and old scores wiped out. I am sorry I spoke as I did this morning. You are quite right, Mr Jocelyn, the land is jours, and has always been yours. It is from you I must ask permission to sh6ot." Jocelyn eyed him grimly. " Don't make it hard for me," said Gordon. " The land is yours, and that also which you lost with 1 it will be returned. It is what my father wishes — now." He held out his handu Jocelyn took it as though stunned. Gordon, still holding his hard hand, drew !him outside the porch. " How much did you have in the Sagamore and Wyandotte Railway before our 6ystem bought it?" asked Gordon. "All I had — seven thousand dollars " Suddenly the old man's hand- began to tremble. He raised his headl and looked up at the stars. " That is yours still," said Gordon gently, "with interest. My father wishes it." Old man Jocelyn looked up at the stars. They seemed to swim in silver streaks through the darkness. "Come," said Gordon gayly, "we are brother sportsmen now, and that sky means a black frost and a flight. Will you invite me to shoot over Brier Brook Swales tomorrow?" As he spoke, high m the; starlight, a dark shadow passed, coming in from the north, beating the still air with rapid wings. It was a woodcock, the first flight bird from the north. "Come to dinner, young man," said Jocelyn, excited ; " the flight is on, andVe must be on Brier Brook by daybreak." In the blaze of a kerosene lamp they sat down at table. Gordon looked across at Jocelyn's daughter; her eyes met his and they smiled. Then the old man Jocelyn ben tn his head on his hard clasped' hands. ' . "Lord," ho said tremulously, "it being Thanksgiving, I gave Thee extry thanks this a.m. It being now p.m. Ido hereby double them eitry thanks with interest to date., Amen."