"Well, sence I j'ined de church!" exclaimed Aunt Tish, who had been
watching proceedings from the doorway; then she added, as Mr. Opp came
into the hall: "Hit beats my time de way you handles dat pore chile.
Sometimes she got jes good sense as you an' me has. She ast me t'other
day if she wasn't crazy. I 'lowed no indeedy, dat crazy folks was lock
up in a lunatic asylum. An' she says 'Where?' 'Up at Coreyville,' I say.
She went on playin' jes as nice and happy. De chile's all right ef she
don't git a fool notion; den dey ain't nobody kin make out what she
wants inceptin' you. She been cryin' over dem flowers ever sence
breakfast."

"Why didn't you come after me?" demanded Mr. Opp.

"Jes to tie a box on her haid?" asked Aunt Tish. "Lor', I thought you
was busy makin' dem newspapers."

"So I am," said Mr. Opp, "but whenever Miss Kippy gets to crying, I want
you to come direct after me, do you hear? There ain't anything more
important than in keeping her from getting worried. Now, let's have a
look at that there table-cloth."

All afternoon Mr. Opp encountered difficulties that would have
disheartened a less courageous host. With the limited means at hand it
seemed impossible to entertain in a manner befitting the dignity of the
editor of "The Opp Eagle." But Mr. Opp, though sorely perplexed, was not
depressed, for beneath the disturbed surface of his thoughts there ran
an undercurrent of pure joy. It caused him to make strange, unnatural
sounds in his throat which he meant for song; it made him stop every now
and then in his work to glance tenderly and reminiscently at the palm of
his right hand, once even going so far as to touch it softly with his
lips. For since the last sun had set there had been no waking moment but
had held for him the image of a golden world inhabited solely by a pair
of luminous eyes, one small hand, and, it must be added, a band-box.

Through the busy afternoon Mr. Opp referred constantly to his watch, and
in spite of the manifold duties to be performed, longed impatiently for
evening to arrive. At five o'clock he had moved the furniture from one
bedroom to another, demonstrated beyond a possibility of doubt that a
fire could not be made in the parlor grate without the chimney smoking,
mended two chairs, hung a pair of curtains, and made three errands to
town. So much accomplished, he turned his attention to the most
difficult task of all.

"Kippy," he said, going to the window where she was gleefully tracing
the course of the raindrops as they chased down the pane. "Stop a
minute, Kippy. Listen; I want to talk to you."

Miss Kippy turned obediently, but her lips continued the dumb
conversation she was having with the rain.

"How would you like," said Mr. Opp, approaching the subject cautiously,
"to play like you was a grown-up lady--just for to-night, you know?"

Miss Kippy looked at him suspiciously, and her lips stopped moving.
Heretofore she had resisted all efforts to change her manner of dress.

"There's a gentleman a-coming," continued Mr. Opp, persuasively; "he's
going to remain over till to-morrow, and Aunt Tish is cooking that
large goose for him, and I've been fixing up the spare room. We are all
endeavoring to give him a nice time. Don't you want to dress up for
him?"

"Will it make him glad?" asked Miss Kippy.

Mr. Opp expiated on the enjoyment it would give the unknown guest to see
Kippy in the blue merino dress which Aunt Tish had gotten out of Mrs.
Opp's old trunk up-stairs.

"And you'll let Aunt Tish arrange your hair up like a lady?" went on Mr.
Opp, pushing the point.

"Yes," said Miss Kippy, after a moment, "Oxety will. She will make him
glad."

"Good!" said Mr. Opp. "And if you will sit nice and quiet and never say
a word all through supper, I'll get you a book with pictures in it,
representing flowers and things."

"Roses?" asked Miss Kippy, drawing a quick breath of delight; and when
Mr. Opp nodded, she closed her eyes and smiled as if heaven were within
sight. For Miss Kippy was like a harp across which some rough hand had
swept, snapping all the strings but two, the high one of ecstasy and the
low one of despair.

At six o'clock Mr. Opp went up to make his toilet. The rain, which had
been merely rehearsing all day, was now giving a regular performance,
and it played upon the windows, and went trilling through the gutters on
the roof, while the old cedar-tree scraped an accompaniment on the
corner of the porch below. But, nothing daunted, Mr. Opp donned his
bravest attire. Cyclones and tornadoes could not have deterred him from
making the most elaborate toilet at his command. To be sure, he turned
up the hem of his trousers and tied a piece of oilcloth securely about
each leg, and he also spread a handkerchief tenderly over his pink
necktie; but these could be easily removed after he heard the boat
whistle.

He dressed by the light of a sputtering candle before a small mirror the
veracity of which was more than questionable. It presented him to
himself as a person with a broad, flat face, the nose of which appeared
directly between his eyes, and the mouth on a line with the top of his
ears. But he made allowances for these idiosyncrasies on the part of the
mirror; in fact, he made such liberal allowances that he was quite
satisfied with the reflection.

"I'll procure the hack to bring the company back in," he said to Aunt
Tish rather nervously as he passed through the kitchen. "You assist Miss
Kippy to get arranged, and I'll carry up the coal and set the table
after I return back home. I can do it while the company is up in his
room."

All the way into town, as he splashed along the muddy road, he was
alternately dreading the arrival of one passenger, and anticipating
joyfully, the arrival of another. For as the time approached the
impending presence of the company began to take ominous form, and Mr.
Opp grew apprehensive.

At the landing he found everything dark and quiet. Evidently the packet
was unusually late, and the committee appointed to meet it and conduct
the guests to their various destinations was waiting somewhere uptown,
probably at Your Hotel. Mr. Opp paused irresolute: his soul yearned for
solitude, but the rain-soaked dock offered no shelter except the slight
protection afforded by a pile of empty boxes. Selecting the driest and
largest of these, he turned it on end, and by an adroit adjustment of
his legs, succeeded in getting inside.

Below, the river rolled heavily past in the twilight, sending up tiny
juts of water to meet the pelting rain. A cold, penetrating mist clung
to the ground, and the wind carried complaining tales from earth to
heaven. Everything breathed discomfort, but Mr. Opp knew it not.

His soul was sailing sunlit seas of bliss, fully embarked at last upon
the most magic and immortal of all illusions. Sitting cramped and numb
in his narrow quarters, he peered eagerly into the darkness, watching
for the first lights of the _Sunny South_ to twinkle through the gloom.
And as he watched he chanted in a sing-song ecstasy:

    "She is coming, my own, my sweet;
      Were it ever so airy a tread,
    My heart would hear her and beat,
      Were it earth in an earthy bed;
    My dust would hear her and beat,
      Had I lain for a century dead;
    Would start and tremble under her feet,
      And blossom in purple and red."

X

When Miss Guinevere Gusty tripped up the gang-plank of the _Sunny South_
late that afternoon, vainly trying to protect herself from the driving
rain, she was met half-way by the gallant old captain.

Tradition had it that the captain had once cast a favorable eye upon her
mother; but Mrs. Gusty, being cross-eyed, had looked elsewhere.

"We are a pudding without plums," he announced gaily, as he held the
umbrella at an angle calculated to cause a waterspout in the crown of
her hat--"not a lady on board. All we needed was a beautiful young
person like you to liven us up. You haven't forgotten those pretty tunes
you played for me last trip, have you?"

Guinevere laughed, and shook her head. "That was just for you and the
girls," she said.

"Well, it'll be for me and the boys this time. I've got a nice lot of
gentlemen on board, going down to your place, by the way, to buy up all
your oil-lands. Now I know you are going to play for us if I ask you
to."

"My goodness! are they on this boat?" asked Guinevere, in a flutter. "I
am so glad; I just love to watch city people."

"Yes," said the captain; "that was Mr. Mathews talking to me as you came
aboard--the one with the white beard. Everything that man touches turns
to money. That glum-looking young fellow over there is his secretary.
Hinton is his name; curious sort of chap."

Guinevere followed his glance with eager interest. "The solemn one with
the cap pulled over his eyes?" she asked.

The captain nodded. "All the rest are inside playing cards and having a
good time; but he's been moping around like that ever since they got on
board. I've got to go below now, but when I come back, you'll play some
for me, won't you?"

Guinevere protested violently, but something within her whispered that
if the captain was very insistent she would render the selection which
had won her a gold medal at the last commencement.

Slipping into the saloon, she dropped quietly into one of the very
corpulent chairs which steamboats particularly affect, and, unobserved,
proceeded to give herself up to the full enjoyment of the occasion. The
journey from Coreyville to the Cove, in the presence of the
distinguished strangers, had assumed the nature of an adventure. Giving
her imagination free rein, Miss Gusty, without apology, transported the
commonplace group of business men at the card-table into the wildest
realms of romance. The fact that their language, appearance, and manner
spoke of the city, was for her a sufficient peg upon which to hang
innumerable conjectures. So deep was she in her speculations that she
did not hear the captain come up behind her.

"Where have you been hiding?" he asked in stentorian tones. "I was
afraid you'd gotten out on deck and the wind had blown you overboard.
Don't you think it's about time for that little tune? We are forty
minutes late now, and we'll lose another half-hour taking on freight at
Smither's Landing. I've been banking on hearing that little dance-piece
you played for me before."

"I can't play--before them," said Guinevere, nervously.

The captain laughed. "Yes, you can; they'll like it. Mr. Mathews said
something mighty pretty about you when you came on board."

"He didn't--honest?" said Guinevere, blushing. "Oh, truly, Captain, I
can't play!" But even as she spoke she unbuttoned her gloves. Her
accomplishment was clamoring for an exhibition, and though her spirit
failed her, she twirled the piano-stool and took her seat.

The group of men at the table, heretofore indifferent to proceedings,
looked up when a thundering chord broke the stillness. A demure young
girl, with gentle, brown eyes, was making a furious and apparently
unwarranted attack upon the piano. Her one desire evidently was to get
inside of the instrument. With insinuating persistence she essayed an
entrance through the treble, and, being unable to effect it, fell upon
the bass, and exhausted a couple of rounds of ammunition there. The
assault on both flanks being unsuccessful, she resorted to strategy,
crossing her hands and assailing each wing of the enemy from an
unexpected quarter. When this move failed, she evidently became
incensed, and throwing aside diplomacy, rallied all her forces, charging
her artillery up to the highest note, then thundering down to the
lowest, beating down the keys as fast as they dared to rise. In the
midst of the carnage, when the clamor was at its height and victory
seemed imminent, she suddenly paused, with one hand in air and her head
gently inclined, and, tapping out two silvery bugle-notes of truce,
raised the siege.

The appalling silence that ensued might have hung above a battle-field
of slain and wounded. The captain bit his mustache.

"That wasn't exactly the one I meant," he said. "I want that little
dance-tune with the jingle to it."

Miss Gusty, disappointed and surprised at the effect which her
masterpiece had failed to produce, was insisting with flushed cheeks
that she could play no more, when the gentleman who was called Mr.
Mathews rose from the table and came toward her. His hair and pointed
beard were white, but his eyes were still young, and he looked at her
while he spoke to the captain.

"I beg your pardon, Captain," he was saying in smooth, even tones,
"can't you persuade the young lady to sing something for us?"

"I never took vocal," said Guinevere, looking at him frankly. "I'm
making a specialty of instrumental."

The gentleman looked sidewise at his companions and stroked his beard
gravely. "But you _do_ sing?" he persisted.

"Just popular music," said Guinevere. "I was going to take 'The Holy
City' and 'The Rosary' last year, but the vocal teacher got sick."

In response to a very urgent invitation, she took her seat again, and
this time sang a sentimental ditty concerning the affairs of one "Merry
Little Milly in the Month of May."

This selection met with prompt favor, and the men left their cards, and
gathered about the piano, demanding an encore.

Miss Guinevere's voice was very small, and her accompaniment very loud,
but, in her effort to please, she unconsciously became dramatic in her
expression, and frowned and smiled and lifted her brows in sympathy with
the emotions of the damsel in the song. And Miss Guinevere's eyes being
expressive and her lips very red, the result proved most satisfactory
to the audience.

One stout young man in particular expressed himself in such unrestrained
terms of enthusiasm, that Guinevere, after singing several songs, became
visibly embarrassed. Upon the plea of being too warm she made her
escape, half-promising to return and sing again later on.

Flushed with the compliments and the excitement, and a little uncertain
about the propriety of it all, she hurried through the swing-door and,
turning suddenly on the deck, stumbled over something in the darkness.

It proved to be a pair of long legs that were stretched out in front of
a silent figure, who shot a hand out to restore Miss Gusty to an upright
position. But the deck was slippery from the rain, and before he could
catch her, she went down on her knees.

"Did it hurt you?" a voice asked anxiously.

"It don't matter about me," answered Guinevere, "just so it didn't spoil
my new dress. I'm afraid there's an awful tear in it."

"I hope not," said the voice. "I'd hate to be guilty of dress slaughter
even in the second degree. Sure you are not hurt? Sit down a minute;
here's a chair right behind you, out of the wind."

Guinevere groped about for the chair. "Mother can mend it," she went on,
voicing her anxiety, "if it isn't too bad."

"And if it is?" asked the voice.

"I'll have to wear it, anyhow. It's brand splinter new, the first one I
ever had made by a sure-enough dressmaker."

"My abominable legs!" muttered the voice.

Guinevere laughed, and all at once became curious concerning the person
who belonged to the legs.

He had dropped back into his former position, with feet outstretched,
hands in pockets, and cap pulled over his eyes, and he did not seem
inclined to continue the conversation.

She drew in deep breaths of the cool air, and watched the big side-wheel
churn the black water into foam, and throw off sprays of white into the
darkness. She liked to be out there in the sheltered corner, watching
the rain dash past, and to hear the wind whistling up the river. She was
glad to be in the dark, too, away from all those gentlemen, so ready
with their compliments. But the sudden change from the heated saloon to
the cold deck chilled her, and she sneezed.

Her companion stirred. "If you are going to stay out here, you ought to
put something around you," he said irritably.

"I'm not very cold. Besides, I don't want to go in. I don't want them to
make me sing any more. Mother'll be awfully provoked if I take cold,
though. Do you think it's too damp?"

"There's my overcoat," said the man, indifferently; "you can put that
around you if you want to."

She struggled into the large sleeves, and he made no effort to help her.

"You don't like music, do you?" she asked naïvely as she settled back in
her chair.

"Well, yes," he said slowly. "I should say the thing I dislike least in
the world is music."

"Then why didn't you come in to hear me play?" asked Guinevere,
emboldened by the darkness.

"Oh, I could hear it outside," he assured her; "besides, I have a pair
of defective lamps in my head. The electric lights hurt my eyes."

He struck a match as he spoke to relight his pipe, and by its flare she
caught her first glimpse of his face, a long, slender, sensitive face,
brooding and unhappy.

"I guess you are Mr. Hinton," she said as if to herself.

He turned with the lighted match in his hand. "How did you know that?"

"The captain told me. He pointed out you and Mr. Mathews, but he didn't
tell me any of the rest."

"A branch of your education that can afford to remain neglected," said
Mr. Hinton as he puffed at his pipe.

The door of the saloon swung open, and the chubby gentleman appeared in
the light, shading his eyes, and calling out that they were all waiting
for the little canary-bird.

"I don't want to go," whispered Guinevere, shrinking back into the
shadow.

The chubby gentleman peered up and down the deck, then, assailed by a
gust of wind, beat a hasty retreat.

"I don't like him," announced Guinevere, drawing a breath of relief. "It
isn't just because he's fat and ugly; it's the silly way he looks at
you."

"What a pity you can't tell him so!" said her companion, dryly. "Such
blasphemy might do him good. He is the scion of a distinguished family
made wealthy by the glorious sale of pork."

"Are all the gentlemen millionaires?" asked Guinevere in awe.

"Present company excepted," qualified Hinton.

"It'll seem awful small to them down in the Cove. Why, we haven't got
room enough at the two hotels to put them all up."

"Oh, you live there, do you?"

"Yes; I've just been up at Coreyville spending the night. I used to hate
it down at the Cove, it was so little and stupid; but I like it better
now."

There was a long silence, during which each pursued a widely different
line of thought.

"We have got a newspaper at the Cove now," announced Guinevere. "It's an
awful nice paper, called 'The Opp Eagle.'"

"Opp?" repeated Hinton. "Oh, yes, that was the man I telephoned to. What
sort of chap is he, anyhow?"

"He's awfully smart," said Guinevere, her cheeks tingling. "Not so much
book learning, but a fine brain. The preacher says he's got a natural
gift of language. You ought to see some of his editorials."

"Hiding his light under a bushel, isn't he?"

"That's just it," said Guinevere, glad to expatiate on the subject. "If
Mr. Opp could get in a bigger place and get more chances, he'd have a
lot more show. But he won't leave Miss Kippy. She's his sister, you
know; there is only the two of them, and she's kind of crazy, and has to
have somebody take care of her. Mother thinks it's just awful he don't
send her to an asylum, but I know how he feels."

"Is he a young man?" asked Mr. Hinton.

"Well--no, not exactly; he's just seventeen years and two months older
than I am."

"Oh," said Hinton, comprehensively.

There was another long pause, during which Guinevere turned things over
in her mind, and Mr. Hinton knocked the ashes from his pipe.

"I think girls seem a good deal older than they are, don't you?" she
asked presently.

"Some girls," Hinton agreed.

"How old would you take me for?"

"In the dark?"

"Yes."

"About twelve."

"Oh, that's not fair," said Guinevere. "I'm eighteen, and lots of people
take me for twenty."

"That is when they can see you," said Hinton.

Guinevere decided that she did not like him. She leaned back in her
corner and tried not to talk. But this course had its disadvantage, for
when she was silent he seemed to forget she was there.

Once he took a turn up and down the deck, and when he came back, he
stood for a long time leaning over the rail and gazing into the water.
As he turned to sit down she heard him mutter to himself:

    "... That no life lives forever;
    That dead men rise up never;
    That even the weariest river
    Winds somewhere safe to sea."

Guinevere repeated the words softly to herself, and wondered what they
meant. She was still thinking about them when a dim red light in the
distance told her they were approaching the Cove. She slipped off the
heavy overcoat and began to put on her gloves.

"Hello! we are getting in, are we?" asked Hinton, shaking himself into
an upright position. "Is that Cove City where the big red light bores
into the water like a corkscrew?"

They moved to the bow of the boat and watched as it changed its course
and made for the opposite shore.

"Did you mean," said Guinevere, absently, "that you wanted it all to end
like that? For us to just go out into nothing, like the river gets lost
in the ocean?"

Hinton glanced at her in surprise, and discovered that there was an
unusually thoughtful face under the sweeping brim of the red hat. The
fact that she was pretty was less evident to him than the fact that she
was wistful. His mood was sensitive to minor chords.

"I guess you _are_ eighteen," he said, and he smiled, and Guinevere
smiled back, and the chubby gentleman, coming suddenly out upon them,
went in again and slammed the door.

The lights on the landing twinkled brighter and brighter, and presently
figures could be seen moving here and there. The steamer, grumbling with
every chug of the wheel, was brought around, and the roustabouts crowded
along the rail, ready to make her fast.

Guinevere and Hinton stood on the upper deck under his umbrella and
waited.

Directly below them on the dock a small, fantastic figure made frantic
efforts to attract their attention. He stood uncovered, regardless of
the rain, madly waving his hat.

"Is that anybody you know?" asked Hinton.

Guinevere, who was watching the lights on the water, started guiltily.

"Where?" she asked.

"Down to the right--that comical little codger in the checked suit."

Guinevere looked, then turned upon Hinton eyes that were big with
indignation. "Why, of course," she said; "that's Mr. Opp."

XI

As Willard Hinton stood on the porch of Your Hotel and waited for his
host for the night to call for him, he was in that state of black
dejection that comes to a young man when Ambition has proposed to
Fortune, and been emphatically rejected. For six years he had worked
persistently and ceaselessly toward a given goal, doing clerical work by
day and creative work by night, going from shorthand into longhand, and
from numerical figures into figures of speech. For the way that Hinton's
soul was traveling was the Inky Way, and at its end lay Authorship.

Hinton had taken himself and his work seriously, and served an
apprenticeship of hard study and conscientious preparation. So zealous
was he, in fact, that he had arrived at the second stage of his great
enterprise with a teeming brain, a practised hand, and a pair of
affected eyes over which the oculists shook their heads and offered
little encouragement.

For four months he had implicitly obeyed orders, attending only to his
regular work, eating and sleeping with exemplary regularity, and
spending all of his spare time in the open air. But the ravages made in
the long nights dedicated to the Muses were not to be so easily
repaired, and his eyes, instead of improving, were growing rapidly
worse. The question of holding his position had slipped from a matter of
months into weeks.

As he stood on the porch, he could hear the bustle of entertainment
going on within the limited quarters of Your Hotel. Jimmy Fallows was in
his element. As bartender, head waiter, and jovial landlord he was
playing a triple bill to a crowded house. Occasionally he opened the
door and urged Hinton to come inside.

"Mr. Opp'll be here 'fore long," he would say. "He's expecting you, but
he had to stop by to take his girl home. You better step in and get a
julep."

But Hinton, wrapped in the gloom of his own thoughts, preferred to
remain where he was. Already he seemed to belong to the dark, to be a
thing apart from his fellow-men. He shrank from companionship and
sympathy as he shrank from the light. He longed to crawl away like a
sick animal into some lonely corner and die. Whichever way he turned,
the great specter of darkness loomed before him. At first he had fought,
then he had philosophically stood still, now he was retreating. Again
and again he told himself that he would meet it like a man, and again
and again he shrank back, ready to seek escape anywhere, anyhow.

"O God, if I weren't so damnably young!" he cried to himself, beating
his clenched hand against his brow. "More than half my life yet to
live, and in the dark!"

The rattle of wheels and the stopping of a light in front of the hotel
made him pull himself together.

The small gentleman in the checked suit whom he had seen on the wharf
strode in without seeing him. He paused before he opened the door and
smoothed his scanty locks and rearranged his pink necktie. Then he drew
in his chin, threw out his chest, and with a carefully prepared smile of
welcome entered.

The buzz within increased, and it was some minutes before the door
opened again and Jimmy Fallows was heard saying:

"He's round here some place. Mr. Hinton! Oh, here you are! Let me make
you acquainted with Mr. Opp; he's going to take you out to his house for
the night."

No sooner had Hinton's hand been released from Mr. Opp's cordial grasp
than he felt that gentleman's arm thrust through his, and was aware of
being rapidly conducted down the steps and out to the vehicle.

"On no possible account," Mr. Opp was saying, with Hinton's grip in one
hand and two umbrellas in the other, "would I have allowed myself to be
late, except that it was what you might consider absolutely necessary.
Now, you get right in; just take all that robe. No, the grip can go
right here between my feet. We trust that you will not regard the
weather in any ways synonymous with the state of our feelings of
welcome."

Mr. Hinton remarked rather shortly that the weather never mattered to
him one way or another.

"That's precisely like myself," Mr. Opp went on. "I come of very sturdy,
enduring stock. For a man of my size I doubt if you'd find a finer
constitution in the country. You wouldn't particularly think it to look
at me, now would you?"

Hinton looked at the small, stooping figure, and at the peaked, sallow
face, and said rather sarcastically that he would not.

"Strong as an ox," declared Mr. Opp.

Just here the horse stumbled, and they were jerked violently forward.

Mr. Opp apologized. "Just at present we are having a little difficulty
with our country roads. We have taken the matter up in 'The Opp Eagle'
last week. All these things take time to regulate, but we are getting
there. This oil boom is going to revolutionize things. It's my firm and
abiding conviction that we are on the eve of a great change. It wouldn't
surprise me in the least if this town grew to be one of the principalest
cities on the Ohio River."

"To be a worthy eyrie for your 'Eagle'?" suggested Hinton.

"'The Opp Eagle,'" corrected Mr. Opp. "I don't know as you know that I
am the sole proprietor, as well as being the editor in addition."

"No," said Hinton, "I did not know. How does it happen that a man with
such responsibilities can take time to dabble in oil-wells?"

"You don't know me," said Mr. Opp, with a paternal smile at his own
ability. "Promoting and organizing comes as natural to me as breathing
the atmosphere. I am engineering this scheme with one hand, the Town
Improvement League with another, and 'The Opp Eagle' with another. Then,
in a minor kind of way, I am a active Odd Fellow, first cornetist in the
Unique Orchestra, and a director in the bank. And beside," Mr. Opp
concluded with some coyness, "there is the natural personal social
diversions that most young men indulge in."

By this time they had reached the gray old house on the river-bank, and
Mr. Opp hitched the horse and held the lantern, while Hinton stepped
from one stony island to another in the sea of mud.

"Just enter right into the dining-room," said Mr. Opp, throwing open the
door. "Unfortunately we are having a temporary difficulty with the
parlor heating apparatus. If you'll just pass right on up-stairs, I'll
show you the guest-chamber. Be careful of your head, please!"

With pomp and dignity Mr. Hinton was conducted to his apartment, and
urged to make known any possible want that might occur to him.

"I'll be obliged to leave you for a spell," said Mr. Opp, "in order to
attend to the proper putting up of the horse. If you'll just consider
everything you see as yours, and make yourself entirely at home, I'll
come up for you in about twenty minutes."

Left alone, Hinton went to the bureau to pin a paper around the lamp,
and as he did so he encountered a smiling face in the mirror. The face
was undoubtedly his, but the smile seemed almost to belong to a
stranger, so long had it been since he had seen it.

He made a hasty toilet, and sat down with his back to the light to await
his summons to dinner. The large room, poorly and scantily furnished,
gave unmistakable evidence of having been arranged especially for his
coming. There was no covering on the floor, there were no pictures on
the wall; but the wall-paper was of a sufficiently decorative character
to warrant the absence of other adornment. It may be said to have been a
botanical paper, for roses and lilies and sunflowers and daisies grew in
riotous profusion. The man who hung the paper evidently was of a
scientific turn, for in matching the strips he had gained some results
in cross-grafting that approached the miraculous.

After sufficient time had elapsed to have stabled half a dozen horses,
Hinton, whose appetite was becoming ravenous, went into the hall and
started down the steps. When half-way down he heard a crash of china,
and saw his host, in his shirt-sleeves, staggering under a large tray
overcrowded with dishes.

Beating a hasty retreat, he went quietly up the steps again, but not
before he heard a querulous voice remonstrate:

"Now, Mr. D., if you ain't done busted two plates and a tea-cup!"

Retiring to his room until the trouble should be adjusted, Hinton once
more contemplated the floral paper. As he sat there, the door creaked
slightly, and looking up, he thought he saw some one peeping at him
through the crack. Later he distinctly heard the rustle of garments, a
stealthy step, and the closing of the door across the hall.

At last Mr. Opp came somewhat noisily up the steps and, flinging wide
the door, invited him to descend. In the dining-room below the scene was
nothing short of festal. All the candlesticks were filled with lighted
candles, an American flag was draped across the top of the clock, and
the little schooner that rocked behind the pendulum seemed fired with
the determination to get somewhere to-night if it never did again. Even
the owls on each end of the mantel wore a benignant look, and seemed to
beam a welcome on the honored guest.

But it was the dining-table that held the center of the stage, and that
held everything else as well. The dinner, through its sequence of soup,
meat, salad, and desert, was displayed in lavish hospitality. Cove
etiquette evidently demanded that no square inch of the table-cloth
should remain unoccupied.

Seated at the table, with hands demurely folded, was the most grotesque
figure that Hinton had ever seen. Clad in a queer, old-fashioned garment
of faded blue cloth, with very full skirt and flowing sleeves, with her
hair gathered into a tight knot at the back of her head, and a necklace
of nutshells about her neck, a strange little lady sat and watched him
with parted lips and wide, excited eyes.

"If you'll just sit here opposite my sister," said Mr. Opp, not
attempting an introduction, "I'll as usual take my customary place at
the head of the board."

It was all done with great éclat, but from the first there were
unmistakable signs of nervousness on the part of the host. He left the
table twice before the soup was removed, once to get the napkins which
had been overlooked, and once to persuade his sister not to put the
baked potatoes in her lap.

When the critical moment for the trial of strength between him and the
goose arrived, he was not in good condition. It was his first wrestling
match with a goose, and his technical knowledge of the art consisted in
the meager fact that the strategic point was to become master of the
opponent's legs. The fowl had, moreover, by nature of its being, the
advantage of extreme slipperiness, an expedient recognized and made use
of by the gladiators of old.

Mr. Opp, limited as to space, and aware of a critical audience, rose to
the occasion, and with jaw set and the light of conquest in his eye
entered the fray. He pushed forward, and pulled back, he throttled, he
went through facial and bodily contortions. The match was conducted in
"the catch hold, first down to lose style," and the honors seemed
equally divided. At last, by the adroit administration of a left-leg
stroke, Mr. Opp succeeded in throwing his adversary, but unfortunately
he threw it too far.

The victory, though brilliant, was not without its casualties. The
goose, in its post-mortem flight, took its revenge, and the overturned
cranberries sent a crimson stain across the white cloth, giving a
sanguinary aspect to the scene.

When order was restored and Mr. Opp had once more taken his seat, the
little lady in the blue dress, who had remained quiet during the recent
conflict, suddenly raised her voice in joyous song.

"Now, Kippy," warned Mr. Opp, putting a restraining hand on her arm, and
looking at her appealingly. The little lady shrank back in her chair and
her eyes filled as she clasped his hand tightly in both of hers.

"As I was remarking," Mr. Opp went steadily on, trying to behave as if
it were quite natural for him to eat with his left hand, "the real
value of the underground product in this country has been but fairly
made apparent, and now that you capitalists are coming in to take a
hold, there's no way of forming a idea of the ultimate result."

Hinton, upon whom no phase of the situation had been lost, came
valiantly to Mr. Opp's rescue. He roused himself to follow his host's
lead in the conversation; he was apparently oblivious to the many
irregularities of the dinner. In fact, it was one of the rare occasions
upon which Hinton took the trouble to exert himself. Something in the
dreary old room, with its brave attempt at cheer, in the half-witted
little lady who was making such superhuman efforts to be good, and above
all in the bombastic, egotistical, ignorant editor who was trying to
keep up appearances against such heavy odds, touched the best and
deepest that was in Hinton, and lifted him out of himself. Gradually he
began to take the lead in the conversation. With great tact he relieved
Mr. Opp of the necessity of entertaining, and gave him a chance to eat
his dinner. He told stories so simple that even Miss Kippy loosened her
hold on her brother's hand to listen.

When the sunset of the dinner in the form of a pumpkin pie had
disappeared, the gentlemen retired to the fire.

"Don't you smoke?" asked Hinton, holding a match to his pipe.

"Why, yes," said Mr. Opp, "I have smoked occasional. It's amazing how it
assists you in creating newspaper articles. One of the greatest
editorials I ever turned out was when I had a cigar in my mouth."

"Then why don't you smoke?"

Mr. Opp glanced over his shoulders at Aunt Tish, who, with Miss Kippy's
doubtful assistance, was clearing the table.

"I don't mind telling you," he said confidentially, "that up to the
present time I've experienced a good many business reverses and
considerable family responsibility. I hope now in a year or two to be
able to indulge them little extra items. The lack of money," he added
somewhat proudly, "is no disgrace; but I can't deny it's what you might
call limiting."

Hinton smiled. "I think I've got a cigar somewhere about me. Here it is.
Will you try it?"

Mr. Opp didn't care if he did, and from the manner in which he lighted
it, and from the way in which he stood, with one elbow on the high
mantel-shelf and his feet gracefully crossed, while he blew curling
wreaths toward the ceiling, it was not difficult to reckon the extent of
his self-denial.

"Do you indulge much in the pleasure of reading?" he asked, looking at
Hinton through the cloud of smoke.

"I did," said Hinton, drawing a deep breath.

"It's a great pastime," said Mr. Opp. "I wonder if you are familiar with
this here volume." He took from the shelf "The Encyclopedia of Wonder,
Beauty, and Wisdom."

"Hardly a thumb-nail edition," said Hinton, receiving it with both
hands.

"Say, it's a remarkable work," said Mr. Opp, earnestly; "you ought to
get yourself one. Facts in the first part, and the prettiest poetry you
ever read in the back: a dollar down and fifty cents a month until paid
for. Here, let me show you; read that one."

"I can't see it," said Hinton.

"I'll get the lamp."

"Never mind, Opp; it isn't that. You read it to me."

Mr. Opp complied with great pleasure, and having once started, he found
it difficult to stop. From "Lord Ullin's Daughter" he passed to
"Curfew," hence to "Barbara Frietchie" and "Young Lochinvar," and as he
read Hinton sat with closed eyes and traveled into the past.

He saw a country school-house, and himself a youngster of eight
competing for a prize. He was standing on a platform, and the children
were below him, and behind him was a row of visitors. He was paralyzed
with fear, but bursting with ambition. With one supreme effort he began
his speech:

    Oh, the young Lochinvar has came out of the west!

He got no further; a shout from the big boys and a word from the
teacher, and he burst into tears and fled for refuge to his mother. How
the lines brought it all back! He could feel her arms about him now, and
her cheek against his, and hear again her words of comfort. In all the
years since she had been taken from him he had never wanted her so
insistently as during those few moments that Mr. Opp's high voice was
doing its worst for the long-suffering Lochinvar.

"Mr. D.," said a complaining voice from the doorway, "Miss Kippy won't
lemme tek her dress off to go to baid. She 'low she gwine sleep in hit."

Mr. Opp abruptly descended from his elocutionary flight, and asked to be
excused for a few moments.

"Just a little domestic friction," he assured Hinton; "you can glance
over the rest of the poems, and I'll be back soon."

Hinton, left alone, paced restlessly up and down the room. The temporary
diversion was over, and he was once more face to face with his problem.
He went to the table, and, taking a note from his pocket, bent over the
lamp to read it. The lines blurred and ran together, but a word here and
there recalled the contents. It was from Mr. Mathews, who preferred
writing disagreeable things to saying them. Mr. Mathews, the note said,
had been greatly annoyed recently by repeated errors in the reports of
his secretary; he was neither as rapid nor as accurate as formerly, and
an improvement would have to be made, or a change would be deemed
advisable.

"Delicate tact!" sneered Hinton, crushing the paper in his hand.
"Courtesy sometimes begets a request, and the shark shrinks from
conferring favors. And I've got to stick it out, to go on accepting
condescending disapproval until a 'change is deemed advisable.'"

He dropped his head on his arms, and so deep was he in his bitter
thoughts that he did not hear Mr. Opp come into the room. That gentleman
stood for a moment in great embarrassment; then he stepped noiselessly
out, and heralded his second coming by rattling the door-knob.

The wind had risen to a gale, and it shrieked about the old house and
tugged at the shutters and rattled the panes incessantly.

"You take the big chair," urged Mr. Opp, who had just put on a fresh log
and sent the flames dancing up the chimney; "and here's a pitcher of
hard cider whenever you feel the need of a little refreshment. You ain't
a married man I would judge, Mr. Hinton."

"Thank the Lord, no!" exclaimed Hinton.

"Well," said Mr. Opp, pursing his lips and smiling, "you know that's
just where I think us young men are making a mistake."

"Matrimony," said Hinton, "is about the only catastrophe that hasn't
befallen me during my short and rocky career."

"See here," said Mr. Opp, "I used to feel that way, too."

"Before you met her?" suggested Hinton.

Mr. Opp looked pleased but embarrassed. "I can't deny there is a young
lady," he said; "but she is quite young as yet. In fact, I don't mind
telling you she's just about half my age."

Hinton, instead of putting two and two together, added eighteen to
eighteen. "And you are about thirty-six?" he asked.

"Exactly," said Mr. Opp, surprised. "I am most generally considered a
long sight younger."

From matrimony the conversation drifted to oil-wells, then to
journalism, and finally to a philosophical discussion of life itself.
Mr. Opp got beyond his depth again and again, and at times he became so
absorbed that he gave a very poor imitation of himself, and showed
signs of humility that were rarely if ever visible.

Hinton meantime was taking soundings, and sometimes his plummet stopped
where it started, and sometimes it dropped to an unexpected depth.

"Well," he said at last, rising, "we must go to bed. You'll go on
climbing a ladder in the air, and I'll go on burrowing like a mole in
the ground, and what is the good of it all? What chance have either of
us for coming out anywhere? You can fool yourself; I can't: that's the
difference."

Mr. Opp's unusual mental exertions had apparently affected his entire
body, his legs were tightly wrapped about each other, his arms were
locked, and his features were drawn into an amazing pucker of protest.

"That ain't it," he said emphatically, struggling valiantly to express
his conviction: "this here life business ain't run on any such small
scale as that. According to my notion, or understanding,
it's--well--what you might call, in military figures, a fight." He
paused a moment and tied himself if possible even into a tighter knot,
then proceeded slowly, groping his way: "Of course there's some that
just remains around in camp, afraid to fight and afraid to desert, just
sort of indulging in conversation, you might say, about the rest of the
army. Then there is the cowards and deserters. But a decent sort of a
individual, or rather soldier, carries his orders around with him, and
the chief and principal thing he's got to do is to follow them. What the
fight is concerning, or in what manner the general is a-aiming to bring
it all correct in the end, ain't, according to my conclusion, a particle
of our business."

Having arrived at this point of the discussion in a somewhat heated and
indignant state, Mr. Opp suddenly remembered his duties as host. With a
lordly wave of the hand he dismissed the subject, and conducted Hinton
in state to his bed-chamber, where he insisted upon lighting the fire
and arranging the bed.

[Illustration: "It was Mr. Opp saying his prayers"]

Hinton sat for a long time before undressing, listening to the wind in
the chimney, to the scrape, scrape of the cedar on the roof, and to the
yet more dismal sounds that were echoing in his heart. Everything about
the old house spoke of degeneration, decay; yet in the midst of it lived
a man who asked no odds of life, who took what came, and who lived with
a zest, an abandon, a courage that were baffling. Self-deception,
egotism, cheap optimism--could they bring a man to this state of mind?
Hinton wondered bitterly what Opp would do in his position; suppose his
sight was threatened, how far would his foolish self-delusion serve him
then?

But he could not imagine Mr. Opp, lame, halt, or blind, giving up the
fight. There was that in the man--egotism, courage, whatever it
was--that would never recognize defeat, that quality that wins out of a
life of losing the final victory.

Before he retired, Hinton found there was no drinking water in his room,
and, remembering a pitcher full in the dining-room, he took the candle
and softly opened his door. The sudden cold draft from the hall made the
candle flare, but as it steadied, Hinton saw that an old cot had been
placed across the door opposite his, as if on guard, and that beside it
knelt an ungainly figure in white, with his head clasped in his hands.
It was Mr. Opp saying his prayers.

XII

The visit of the capitalists marked the beginning of a long and
profitable spell of insomnia for the Cove. The little town had gotten a
gnat in its eye when Mr. Opp arrived, and now that it had become
involved in a speculation that threatened to develop into a boom, it
found sleep and tranquillity a thing of the past.

The party of investigators had found such remarkable conditions that
they were eager to buy up the ground at once; but they met with
unexpected opposition.

At a meeting which will go down to posterity in the annals of Cove City,
the Turtle Creek Land Company, piloted by the intrepid Mr. Opp, had held
its course against persuasion, threats, and bribes. There was but one
plank in the company's platform, and that was a determination not to
sell. To this plank they clung through the storm of opposition, through
the trying calm of indifference that followed, until a truce was
declared.

Finally an agreement was reached by which the Turtle Creek Land Company
was to lease its ground to the capitalists, receive a given per cent. of
the oil produced, and maintain the right to buy stock up to a large and
impossible amount at any time during the ensuing year.

Close upon this contract came men and machinery to open up a test well.
For weeks hauling was done up the creek bottom, there being no road
leading to the oil spring where the first drilling was to be done.

The town watched the operations with alternate scorn and interest. It
was facetious when water and quicksands were encountered, and inclined
to be sarcastic when work was suspended on account of the weather. But
one day, after the pipe had been driven to a considerable depth and the
rock below had been drilled for six inches, the drill suddenly fell into
a crevice, and upon investigation the hole was found to be nearly full
of petroleum.

The Cove promptly went into a state of acute hysteria. Speculation
spread like the measles, breaking out in all manner of queer and
unexpected places. Everybody who could command a dollar promptly
converted it into oil stock. Miss Jim Fenton borrowed money from her
cousin in the city, and plunged recklessly; the Missionary Band raffled
off three quilts and bought a share with the proceeds; Mr. Tucker
foreclosed two mortgages on life-long friends in order to raise more
money; while the amount of stock purchased by Mr. D. Webster Opp was
limited only by his credit at the bank.

The one note of warning that was sounded came from Mrs. Fallows, who sat
on the porch of Your Hotel, and, like the Greek Chorus, foretold the
disasters that would befall, and prophesied nothing but evil for the
entire enterprise. Even the urbane Jimmy became ruffled by her insistent
iteration, and declared that she "put him in mind of a darned old
whip-o'-will."

But Mrs. Fallows's piping note was lost in the gale of enthusiasm.
Farmers coming into town on Saturday became infected and carried the
fever into the country. The entire community suspended business to
discuss the exciting situation.

These were champagne days for Mr. Opp. Life seemed one long, sparkling,
tingling draft and he was drinking it to Guinevere. If her eyes drooped
and she met his smile with a sigh, he saw it not, for the elixir had
gone to his head.

Compelled to find some outlet for his energy, he took advantage of the
Cove's unwonted animation and plunged into municipal reform. "The Opp
Eagle" demanded streets, it demanded lamp-posts, it demanded temperance.
The right of pigs to take their daily siesta in the middle of Main
Street was questioned and fiercely denied. Dry-goods boxes, which for
years had been the only visible means of support for divers youths of
indolent nature, were held up to such scathing ridicule that the owners
were forced to remove them.

The policies suggested by Mr. Opp, the editor, were promptly acted upon
by Mr. Opp, the citizen. So indignant did he become when he read his own
editorials that nothing short of immediate action was to be considered.
He arranged a reform party and appointed himself leader. Mat Lucas, he
made Superintendent of Streets; Mr. Gallop, chairman of the Committee on
City Lights. In fact, he formed enough committees to manage a
Presidential campaign.

The attitude of the town toward him was that of a large lump of dough to
a small cake of yeast. It was willing to be raised, but doubtful of the
motive power.

"I'd feel surer," said Jimmy Fallows, "if his intellect was the
standard size. It appears so big to him he can't get his language
ready-made; he has to have it made to order."

But since the successful management of the oil-wells, Mr. Opp's opinion
was more and more considered. In the course of a short time the office
of "The Opp Eagle" became the hub about which the township revolved.

One afternoon in March the editor was sitting before his deal table,
apparently in the most violent throes of editorial composition.

Nick, who was impatiently waiting for copy, had not dared to speak for
an hour, for fear of slipping a cog in the intricate machinery of
creation. The constant struggle to supply "The Opp Eagle" with
sufficient material to enable it to fly every Thursday was telling upon
the staff; he was becoming irritable.

"Well?" he said impatiently, as Mr. Opp finished the tenth page and
gathered the large sheets into his hand.

"Yes, yes, to be sure," said Mr. Opp, guiltily; "I am at your disposal.
Just finishing a little private correspondence of a personal nature
that couldn't wait over."

"Ain't that copy?" demanded Nick, fixing him with an indignant eye.

"Well, no," said Mr. Opp, uneasily. "The fact is, I haven't been able to
accomplish any regular editorial this week. Unusual pressure of outside
business and--er--"

"How long is she going to stay down in Coreyville?" Nick asked, with a
contemptuous curl of his lip.

Mr. Opp paused in the act of addressing the envelop, and gave Nick a
look that was designed to scorch.

"May I inquire to who you refer?" he asked with dignity.

Nick's eyes dropped, and he shuffled his feet. "I just wanted to put it
in the paper. We got to fill up with something."

"Well," said Mr. Opp, slightly conciliated, "you can mention that she
has gone back to attend the spring term at the Young Ladies' Seminary."

"Gone back to school again?" exclaimed Nick, unable to control his
curiosity. "What for?"

"To attend the spring term," repeated Mr. Opp, guardedly. Then he added
in a burst of confidence: "Nick, has it ever occurred to you that Mrs.
Gusty was what you might term a peculiar woman?"

But Nick was not interested in the psychological idiosyncrasies of the
Gusty family. "The Opp Eagle" was crying for food, and Nick would have
sacrificed himself and his chief to fill the vacancy.

"See here, Mr. Opp, do you know what day it is? It's Monday, and we've
got two columns to fill. New subscriptions are coming in all the time.
We've got to live up to our reputation."

"Extremely well put," agreed Mr. Opp; "the reputation of the paper must
be guarded above all things. I like to consider that after my mortal
remains has returned to dust, my name will be perpetuated in this paper.
That no monument in marble will be necessary, so long as 'The Opp
Eagle' continues to circulate from home to home, and to promulgate
those--"

"Can't you write some of it down?" suggested Nick; "it would fill up a
couple of paragraphs. Part of it you used before, but we might change it
around some."

"Never," said Mr. Opp. "On no consideration would I repeat myself in
print. I'll just run through my box here, and see what new material I
have. Here's something; take it down as I dictate.

"'Pastor Joe Tyler is holding divine service every second Sunday in Cove
City. He has had thirty conversions, and on Saturday was presented with
a $20.00 suit of clothing from and by this community, and a barrel of
flour, which fully attests what a general church awakening will
accomplish in the direction of good. No one should think of endeavoring
to rear their children or redeem society without the application of the
gospel twice per month.'"

"Now, if you can keep that up," said Nick, hopefully, "we'll get through
in no time."

But Mr. Opp had gone back to his letter, and was trying to decide
whether it would take one stamp or two. When he felt Nick's reproachful
eye upon him, he put the envelop resolutely in his pocket.

"You've already said that work would be resumed at the oil-wells as
early as the inclemency of the weather would permit, haven't you?"

"We've had it in every issue since last fall," said Nick.

"Well, now, let's see," said Mr. Opp, diving once more into his reserve
box. "Here, take this down: 'Mr. Jet Connor had his house burnt last
month, it being the second fire he has had in ten years. Misfortunes
never come single.'"

"All right," encouraged Nick. "Now can't you work up that idea about the
paper offering a prize?"

Mr. Opp seized his brow firmly between his palms and made an heroic
effort to concentrate his mind upon the business at hand.

"Just wait a minute till I get it arranged. Now write this: '"The Opp
Eagle" has organized a club called the B.B.B. Club, meaning the Busy
Bottle-Breakers Club. A handsome prize of a valued nature will be
awarded the boy or girl which breaks the largest number of whisky and
beer bottles before the first of May.' The boats to Coreyville run
different on Sunday, don't they, Nick?"

Nick, who had unquestioningly taken the dictation until he reached his
own name, glanced up quickly, then threw down his pen and sighed.

"I'm going up to Mr. Gallop's," he said in desperation; "he's got his
mind on things here in town. I'll see what he can do for me."

Mr. Opp remorsefully allowed him to depart, and gazed somewhat guiltily
at the unaccomplished work before him. But instead of making reparation
for recent delinquency, he proceeded to make even further inroads into
the time that belonged to "The Opp Eagle."

Moving stealthily to the door, he locked it, then pulled down the shade
until only a strip of light fell across his table. These precautions
having been observed, he took from his pocket a number of letters, and,
separating a large typewritten one from several small blue ones,
arranged the latter in a row before him according to their dates, and
proceeded, with evident satisfaction, to read them through twice. Then
glancing around to make quite sure that no one had crawled through the
key-hole, he unlocked a drawer, and took out a key which in turn
unlocked a box from which he carefully took a small object, and
contemplated it with undisguised admiration.

It was an amethyst ring, and in the center of the stone was set a pearl.
He held it in the narrow strip of light, and read the inscription
engraved within: "Guinevere forever."

For Miss Guinevere Gusty, ever plastic to a stronger will, had
succumbed to the potent combination of absence and ardor, and given her
half-hearted consent for Mr. Opp to speak to her mother. Upon that
lady's unqualified approval everything would depend.

Mr. Opp had received the letter a week ago, and he had immediately
written to the city for a jeweler's circular, made his selection, and
received the ring. He had written eight voluminous and eloquent epistles
to Guinevere, but he had not yet found the propitious moment in which to
call upon Mrs. Gusty. Every time he started, imperative business called
him elsewhere.

As he sat turning the stone in the sunlight and admiring every detail,
the conviction oppressed him that he could no longer find any excuse for
delay. But even as he made the decision to face the ordeal, his eye
involuntarily swept the desk for even a momentary reprieve. The large
typewritten letter arrested his attention; he took it up and reread it.

    Dear Opp: Do you know any nice, comfortable place in your
    neighborhood for a man to go blind in? I'll be in the hospital for
    another month, and after that I am to spend the summer out of doors,
    in joyful anticipation of an operation which I am assured beforehand
    will probably be unsuccessful. Under the peculiar circumstances I am
    not particular about the scenery, human or natural; the whole affair
    resolves itself into a matter of flies and feather-beds. If you know
    of any place where I can be reasonably comfortable, I wish you'd
    drop me a line. The ideal place for me would be a neat pine box
    underground, with a dainty bunch of daisies overhead.

        Yours gratefully,

            Willard Hinton.

    P.S. I sent you a box of my books last week. Chuck out what you
    don't want. The candy was for your sister.

Mr. Opp, with the letter still in his hand, suddenly saw a way out of
his difficulty: he would make Hinton's request an excuse for a call upon
Mrs. Gusty. No surer road to her good graces could he travel than by
seeking her advice.

Replacing the ring in the drawer and the letters in his pocket, he
buttoned up his coat, and with a stern look of determination went out of
the office. At the Gusty gate he encountered Val, who was on all fours
by the fence, searching for something.

"What's the matter, Val?" asked Mr. Opp. "Lost something?"

Val raised a pair of mournful eyes. "Yas, sir; you bet I is. Done lost a
penny Mr. Jimmy Fallows gimme for puttin' my fisty in my mouf."

"Putting your fist in your mouth!" repeated Mr. Opp, surprised. "Can you
perform that act?"

Val promptly demonstrated; but just as he was midway, a peremptory voice
called from a rear window:

"Val! You Val! You better answer me this minute!"

Val cowered lower behind the fence, and violently motioned Mr. Opp to go
on.

"Is--er--is Mrs. Gusty feeling well to-day?" asked Mr. Opp, still
lingering at the gate.

"Jes tolerable," said Val, lying flat on his back and speaking in
guarded tones. "Whenever she gits to beatin' de carpets, an' spankin' de
beds, and shakin' de curtains, I keeps outen de way."

"Do you think--er--that--er--I better go in?" asked Mr. Opp, sorely in
need of moral support.

"Yas, sir; she's 'spectin' yer."

This surprising announcement nerved Mr. Opp to open the gate.

It is said that the best-drilled soldiers dodge when they first face the
firing-line, and if Mr. Opp's knees smote together and his body became
bathed in profuse perspiration, it should not be attributed to lack of
manly courage.

In response to his knock, Mrs. Gusty herself opened the door. The signs
that she had been interrupted in the midst of her toilet were so
unmistakable that Mr. Opp promptly averted his eyes. A shawl had been
hastily drawn about her shoulders, on one cheek a streak of chalk
awaited distribution, and a single bristling curl-paper, rising fiercely
from the top of her forehead, gave her the appearance of a startled
unicorn.

"You'll have to excuse me, Mr. Opp," she said firmly, putting the door
between them. "I can't come out, and you can't come in. Did you want
anything?"

"Well, yes," said Mr. Opp, looking helplessly at the blank door. "You
see, there is a matter I have been considering discussing with you for a
number of weeks. It's a--"

"If it's waited this long, I should think it could wait till to-morrow,"
announced the lady with decision.

Mr. Opp felt that his courage could never again stand the strain of the
last few moments. He must speak now or never.

"It's immediate," he managed to gasp out. "If you could arrange to give
me five or ten minutes, I won't occupy more than that."

Mrs. Gusty considered. "I am looking for company myself at five
o'clock. That wouldn't give you much time."

"Ample," urged Mr. Opp; "it's just a little necessary transaction, as it
were."

Mrs. Gusty reluctantly consented.

"You go on in the parlor, then," she said. "I'll be in as quick as I
can. You won't more than have time to get started, though."

Mr. Opp passed into the parlor and hung his hat on the corner of a
large, unframed canvas that stood on the floor with its face to the
wall. The room had evidently been prepared for a visitor, for a fire was
newly kindled and a vase of flowers adorned the table. But Mr. Opp was
not making observations. He alternately warmed his cold hands at the
fire, and fanned his flushed face with his handkerchief. He was too
nervous to sit still, yet his knees trembled when he moved about. It was
only when he touched the little packet of letters in his breast pocket
that his courage revived.

At last Mrs. Gusty came in with a rustle of garments suggestive of
Sunday. Even in his confusion Mr. Opp was aware that there was something
unusual in her appearance. Her hair, ordinarily drawn taut to a prim
knot at the rear, had burst forth into curls and puffs of an amazing
complexity. Moreover, her change of coiffure had apparently affected her
spirits, for she, too, was flurried and self-conscious and glanced
continually at the clock on the mantel.

"I'll endeavor not to intrude long on your time," began Mr. Opp,
politely, when they were seated side by side on the horse-hair sofa.
"You--er--can't be in total ignorance of the subject that--er--I mean to
bring forward." He moistened his lips, and glanced at her for succor,
but she was adamant. "I want to speak with you," he plunged on
desperately--"that is, I thought I had better talk with you about Mr.
Hinton."

"Who?" blazed forth Mrs. Gusty in indignant surprise.

"Mr. Hinton," said Mr. Opp, breathlessly, "a young friendly
acquaintance of mine. Wants to get board for the summer, you know; would
like a nice, quiet place and all that, Mrs. Gusty. I thought I'd consult
you about it, Mrs. Gusty, if you don't mind."

She calmly fixed one eye upon him and one upon the clock while he went
into particulars concerning Mr. Hinton. When he paused for breath, she
folded her arms and said:

"Mr. Opp, if you want to say what you come to say, you haven't got but
four minutes to do it in."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Opp, gratefully, but helplessly; "I was just coming
to that point. It's a matter--that--er--well you might say it is in a
way pertaining--to--"

"Guin-never!" snapped Mrs. Gusty, unable longer to stand his hesitation.
"I'd have been a deaf-mute and a fool to boot not to have known it long
ago. Not that I've been consulted in the matter." She lifted a stiffened
chin, and turned her gaze upward.

"You have," declared Mr. Opp, earnestly; "that is, you will be.
Everything is pending on you. There has been no steps whatever taken by
Miss Guin-never or I--rather I might say by her. I can't say but what I
have made some slight preliminary arrangements." He paused, then went on
anxiously: "I trust there ain't any personal objections to the case."

Mrs. Gusty made folds in her black-silk skirt and creased them down with
her thumb-nail. "No," she said shortly; "far as I can see, Guin-never
would be doing mighty well to get you. You'd be a long sight safer than
a good-looking young fellow. Of course a man being so much older than a
girl is apt to leave her a widow. But, for my part, I believe in second
marriages."

Mr. Opp felt as if he had received a hot and cold douche at the same
time; but the result was a glow.

"Then you don't oppose it, Mrs. Gusty," he cried eagerly. "You'll write
her you are willing?"

"Not yet," said Mrs. Gusty; "there's a condition."

"There ain't any condition in the world I won't meet to get her," he
exclaimed recklessly, his fervor bursting its bounds. "You don't know
how I feel about that young lady. Why, I'd live on bread and water all
the rest of my life if it would make her happy. There hasn't been a hour
since I met her that she hasn't held my soul--as you might say--in the
pa'm of her hand."

"People don't often get it so bad at our age," remarked Mrs. Gusty,
sarcastically, and Mr. Opp winced.

"The condition," went on Mrs. Gusty, "that I spoke about, was your
sister. Of course I never would consent to Guin-never living under the
same roof with a crazy person."

The hope which was carrying Mr. Opp to the dizziest heights dropped to
earth at this unexpected shaft, and for a moment he was too stunned to
speak.

"Kippy?" he began at last, and his voice softened at the name. "Why,
you don't understand about her. She's just similar to a little child. I
told Miss Guin-never all about her; she never made any objections.
You--you--wouldn't ask me to make any promises along that line?" Abject
entreaty shone from Mr. Opp's eyes; it was a plea for a change of
sentence. She had asked of him the only sacrifice in the world at which
he would have faltered. "Don't--don't put it like that!" he pleaded,
laying his hand on her arm in his earnestness. "I'm all she's got in the
world; I've kind of become familiar with her ways, you know, and can
manage her. She'll love Miss Guin-never if I tell her to. She shan't be
a bit of care or trouble; I and Aunt Tish will continue on doing
everything for her. You won't refuse your consent on that account, will
you? You'll promise to say yes, now won't you, Mrs. Gusty?"

A slight and ominous cough in the doorway caused them both to start. Mr.
Tucker, in widower's weeds, but with a jonquil jauntily thrust through
his buttonhole, stood with his hand still on the knob, evidently
transfixed by the scene he had witnessed.

For a moment the company was enveloped in a fog of such dense
embarrassment that all conversation was suspended. Mrs. Gusty was the
first to emerge.

"Howdy, Mr. Tucker," she said, rustling forward in welcome. "I didn't
think you'd get here before five. Mr. Opp just dropped in to consult me
about--about boarding a friend of his. Won't you draw up to the fire?"

Mr. Tucker edged forward with a suspicious eye turned upon Mr. Opp, who
was nervously searching about for his hat.

"There it is, by the door," said Mrs. Gusty, eager to speed his
departure; and as they both reached for it, the picture upon which it
hung toppled forward and fell, face upward, on the floor. It was the
portrait of Mr. Tucker mourning under the willow-tree which Miss Jim had
left with Mrs. Gusty for safe-keeping.

Mr. Opp went home across the fields that evening instead of through the
town. He was not quite up to any of his rôles--editor, promoter, or
reformer. In fact, he felt a desperate need of a brief respite from all
histrionic duties. A reaction had set in from the excitement of the past
week, and the complication involved in Mrs. Gusty's condition puzzled
and distressed him. Of course, he assured himself repeatedly, there was
a way out of the difficulty; but he was not able to find it just yet. He
had observed that Mrs. Gusty's opinions became fixed convictions under
the slightest opposition, whereas Guinevere's firmest decision trembled
at a breath of disapproval. He sighed deeply as he meditated upon the
vagaries of the feminine mind.

Overhead the bare trees lifted a network of twigs against a dull sky, a
cold wind stirred the sedge grass, and fluttered the dry leaves that had
lain all winter in the fence corners. Everything looked old and worn and
gray, even Mr. Opp, as he leaned against a gaunt, white sycamore, his
head bent, and his brows drawn, wrestling with his problem.

Suddenly he lifted his head and listened, then he smiled. In the tree
above him a soft but animated conversation was in progress. A few daring
birds had braved the cold and the wind, and had ventured back to their
old trysting-place to wait for the coming of the spring. No hint of
green had tinged the earth, but a few, tiny, pink maple-buds had given
the secret away, and the birds were cuddled snugly together, planning,
in an ecstasy of subdued enthusiasm, for the joyous days to come.

Mr. Opp listened and understood. They were all whispering about one
thing, and he wanted to whisper about it, too. It was the simple theme
of love without variations--love, minus problems, minus complications,
minus consequences. He took out his little packet of letters and read
them through; then, unmindful of the chill, he stretched himself under
the tree and listened to the birds until the twilight silenced them.

When he reached home at last, Miss Kippy met him at the door with a
happy cry of welcome.

"D.," she said, with her arm through his, and her cheek rubbing his
sleeve, "I've been good. I've let my hair stay up all day, and Aunt Tish
is making me a long dress like a lady." She looked at him shyly and
smiled, then she pulled his head down and whispered, "If I'm very good,
when I grow up, can I marry Mr. Hinton?"

Miss Kippy, too, had been listening to the bird-song.

XIII

It was May when Willard Hinton arrived at the Cove and took up his abode
at Mrs. Gusty's. For the first week he kept to his bed, but at the end
of that time he was able to crawl down to the porch and, under the
protection of dark glasses and a heavy shade, sit for hours at a time in
the sunshine. The loss of his accustomed environment, the ennui that
ensues from absolute idleness, the consciousness that the light was
growing dimmer day by day, combined to plunge him into abysmal gloom.

He shrank from speaking to any one, he scowled at a suggestion of
sympathy, he treated Mr. Opp's friendly overtures with open discourtesy.
Conceiving himself on the rack of torture, he set his teeth and
determined to submit in silence, but without witnesses.

One endless day dragged in the wake of another, and between them lay the
black strips of night that were heavy with the suggestion of another
darkness pending. When sleep refused to come, he would go out into the
woods and walk for hours, moody, wretched, and sick to his innermost
soul with loneliness.

The one thing in the whole dreary round of existence that roused in him
a spark of interest was his hostess. She bestowed upon him the same
impersonal attention that she gave her fowls. She fed him and cared for
him and doctored him as she saw fit, and after these duties were
performed, she left him to himself, pursuing her own vigorous routine in
her own vigorous way.

Hinton soon discovered that Mrs. Gusty was temperamental. Her intensely
energetic nature demanded an emotional as well as a physical outlet.
Sometime during the course of each day she indulged in emotional
fireworks, bombs of anger, rockets of indignation, or set pieces of
sulks and pouts.

These periodic spells of anger acted upon her like wine: they warmed her
vitals and exhilarated her; they made her talk fluently and eloquently.
As a toper will accept any beverage that intoxicates, so Mrs. Gusty
accepted any cause that would rouse her. At stated intervals her
feelings demanded a stimulant, and obeying the call of nature, she went
forth and got angry.

Hinton came to consider these outbursts as the one diversion in a
succession of monotonous hours. He tabulated the causes, and made bets
with himself as to the strength and duration of each.

Meanwhile the sun and the wind and the silence were working their
miracle. Hinton was introduced to nature by a warlike old rooster whose
Hellenic cast of countenance had suggested the name of Menelaus. A
fierce combat with a brother-fowl had inevitably recalled the great
fight with Paris, and upon investigation Hinton found that the speckled
hen was Helen of Troy! This was but the beginning of a series of
discoveries, and the result was an animated and piquant version of Greek
history, which boldly set aside tradition, and suggested many
possibilities heretofore undreamed of.

Early one morning as Hinton was wandering listlessly about the yard he
heard the gate click, and, looking up, saw Mr. Opp hurrying up the walk
with a large bunch of lilacs in one hand and a cornet in the other.

"Good morning," said that gentleman, cheerily. "Mighty glad to see you
out enjoying the beauties of nature. I haven't got but a moment in which
to stop; appointment at eight-fifteen. We are arranging for a concert
soon up in Main Street, going to practise this afternoon. I'll be glad
to call by for you if you feel able to enjoy some remarkable fine
selections."

Hinton accepted the proffered bouquet, but made a wry face at the
invitation.

"None of your concerts for me," he said brusquely. "It would interfere
too seriously with my own musical job of getting in tune with the
infinite."

"Mornin', Mr. Opp," said Mrs. Gusty from the dining-room window. "There
ain't many editors has time to stand around and talk this time of day."

"Just paused a moment in passing," said Mr. Opp. "Wanted to see if I
couldn't induce our young friend here to give us a' article for 'The Opp
Eagle.' Any nature, you know; we are always metropolitan in our taste.
Thought maybe he'd tell us some of his first impressions of our city."

Hinton smiled and shook his head. "You'd better not stir up my
impressions about anything these days; I am apt to splash mud."

"We can stand it," said Mr. Opp, affably. "If Cove City needs criticism
and rebuke, 'The Opp Eagle' is the vehicle to administer it. You dictate
a few remarks to my reporter, and I'll feature it on the front editorial
column."

Hinton's eyes twinkled wickedly behind his blue glasses. "I'll give you
an article," he said, "but no name is to be signed."

Mr. Opp, regretting the stipulation, but pleased with the promise, was
turning to depart when Mrs. Gusty appeared once more at the window.

"What's the matter with the oil-wells?" she demanded, as she dusted off
the sill. "Why don't they open up? You can't use bad weather for an
excuse any longer."

"It wasn't the weather," said Mr. Opp, with the confident and superior
manner of one who is conversant with the entire situation. "This here
delay has been arranged with a purpose. I and Mr. Mathews has a plan
that will eventually yield every stock-holder in the Cove six to one for
what he put into it."

"Intend selling out to a syndicate?" asked Hinton.

Mr. Opp looked at him in surprise.

"Well, yes; I don't mind telling you two, but it mustn't go any farther.
The oil prospects in this region are of such a great magnitude that we
can't command sufficient capital to do 'em justice. I and Mr. Mathews
are at present negotiating with several large concerns with a view to
selling out the entire business at a large profit. You can't have any
conception of the tac' and patience it takes to manage one of these
large deals."

"Who was that man Clark that was down here last week?" asked Mrs. Gusty,
impressed, in spite of herself, at being taken into the confidence of
such a man of affairs.

Mr. Opp's face clouded. "Now that was a very unfortunate thing about
Clark. He was sent down by the Union Syndicate of New York city to make
a report on the region, and he didn't get the correct ideas in the case
at all. If they hadn't sent such a poor man, the whole affair might have
been settled by now."

"Wasn't his report favorable?" asked Hinton.

"He hasn't made it yet," said Mr. Opp; "but he let drop sundry casual
remarks to me that showed he wasn't a man of fine judgment at all. I
went over the ground with him, and pointed out some of the places where
we calculated on drilling; but he was so busy making measurements and
taking notes that he didn't half hear what I was saying."

"He stayed at Our Hotel," said Mrs. Gusty. "Mr. Tucker said he had as
mean a face as ever he looked into."

"Who said so?" asked Hinton.

She tossed her head and flipped her duster at him, but it was evident
that she was not displeased.

"By the way, Mr. Opp," she said, "I'm thinking about letting Guin-never
come home week after next. Guess you ain't sorry to hear that."

On the contrary, Mr. Opp was overcome with joy. Letters were becoming
less and less satisfying, and the problem suggested by Mrs. Gusty was
still waiting solution.

"If you'll just mention the date," he said, trying to keep his
countenance from expressing an undue amount of rapture, "I'll make a
business trip down to Coreyville on purpose to accompany her back home."

But Mrs. Gusty declined to be explicit. She deemed it unwise to allow a
mere man to know as much as she did upon any given subject.

Hinton's editorial appeared in the next issue of "The Opp Eagle." It was
a clever and cutting satire on the impressions of a foreigner visiting
America for the first time. Hinton interviewed himself concerning his
impressions of the Cove. He approached the subject with great
seriousness, handling village trifles as if they were municipal
cannon-balls. He juggled with sense and nonsense, with form and
substance. The result shot far over the heads of the country
subscribers, and hit the bull's-eye of a big city daily.

Mr. Opp's excitement was intense when he found that an editorial from
"The Opp Eagle" had been copied in a New York paper. The fact that it
was not his own never for a moment dimmed the glory of the compliment.

"We are getting notorious," he said exultingly to Hinton. "There are
few, if any, papers that in less than a year has extended its influence
as far as the Atlantic Ocean. Now I am considering if it wouldn't be a
wise and judicious thing to get you on the staff permanent--while you
are here, that is. Of course you understand I am invested up pretty
close; but I'd be willing to let you have a little of my oil stock in
payment for services."

Hinton laughingly shook his head. "Whenever you run short of material,
you can call on me. The honor of seeing my humble efforts borne aloft on
the wings of 'The Opp Eagle' will be sufficient reward."

Having once conceived it as a favor that was in his power to bestow, Mr.
Opp lost no opportunity for inviting contributions from the aspiring
author.

As Hinton's strength returned, Mr. Opp adopted him as a protégé, at
first patronizing him, then consulting him, and finally frankly
appealing to him. For during the long afternoon walks which they got
into the habit of taking together, Mr. Opp, in spite of bluster and brag
and evasion, found that he was constantly being embarrassed by a
question, a reference, a statement from his young friend. It was the
first time he had ever experienced any difficulty in keeping his head
above the waves of his own ignorance.

"You see," he said one day by way of explanation, "my genius was never
properly tutored in early youth. It's what some might regard as a
remarkable brain that could cope with all the different varieties of
enterprises that I have engaged in, with no instruction or guidance but
just the natural elements that God give it in the beginning."

But in spite of Mr. Opp's lenient attitude toward his intellectual
short-comings, it was evident that upon the serene horizon of his
egotism small clouds of humility were threatening to gather.

Hinton, restlessly seeking for something to fill the vacuum of his days,
found Mr. Opp and his paper a growing source of diversion. "The Opp
Eagle," at first an object of ridicule, gradually became a point of
interest in his limited range of vision. Under his suggestions it was
enlarged and improved, and induced to publish news not strictly local.

Mr. Opp, meanwhile, was buzzing as persistently and ineffectually as a
fly on a window-pane. The night before Guinevere's return, he found
that, in order to accomplish all that he was committed to, it would be
necessary to spend the night at the office.

The concert for which the Unique Orchestra had been making night hideous
for two weeks had just come to a successful close, and the editor found
himself at a late hour tramping out the lonely road that led to the
office with the prospect of a couple of hours' work to do before he
could seek a well-earned rest upon the office bench.

He was flushed with his double triumph as director and cornet soloist,
and still thrilled by the mighty notes he had breathed into his beloved
instrument.

The violin sobs, the flute complains, the drum insists, but the cornet
brags, and Mr. Opp found it the instrument through which he could best
express himself.

It was midnight, and the moon, one moment shining brightly and the next
lost behind a flying cloud, sent all sorts of queer shadows scurrying
among the trees. Mr. Opp thought once that he saw the figure of a man
appear and disappear in the road before him, but he was so engrossed in
joyful anticipation of the morrow that he gave the incident no
attention. As he was passing the Gusty house, he was rudely plunged from
sentiment into suspicion by the sight of a figure stealthily moving
along the wall beneath the front windows.

Mr. Opp crouched behind the fence to watch him, but the moon took that
inopportune moment to sink into a bank of clouds, and the yard was left
in darkness. No sound broke the stillness save the far-off bark of a dog
or an occasional croak from a bullfrog. Mr. Opp waited and listened in a
state of intense suspense. Presently he heard the unmistakable sound of
a window being cautiously raised, and then just as cautiously lowered.
Summoning all his courage, he skirted the yard and hid in the bushes
near the house. Nothing was to be seen or heard. He watched for a light
at any of the windows, but none came.

The rash desire to capture the burglar single-handed, and thus
distinguish himself in the eyes of Guinevere's mother, caused Mr. Opp to
stiffen his knees and assume a fierce and determined expression. But he
was armed only with his cornet, which, though often deadly as an
instrument of attack, has never been recognized as a weapon of defense.
There seemed no alternative but to waken Hinton and effect a
simultaneous attack from within and without.

After throwing a few unsuccessful pebbles at Hinton's window, Mr. Opp
remembered a ladder he had seen at the back of the barnyard. Shaking as
if with the ague, but breathing dauntless courage, he departed in great
excitement to procure it.

Unfortunately another party was in possession. A dozen guinea-fowls were
roosting on the rungs, and when he gave them to understand they were to
vacate they raised an outcry that would have quelled the ardor of a less
valiant knight.

But the romantic nature of the adventure had fired Mr. Opp's
imagination. He already saw himself lightly dusting his hands after
throttling the intruder, and smiling away Mrs. Gusty's solicitude for
his safety. Meanwhile he staggered back to the house with his burden,
dodging fearfully at every shadow, and painfully aware that his heart
was beating a tattoo on his ear-drums.

Placing the ladder as quietly as possible under Hinton's window, he
cautiously began the ascent. The sudden outburst of the guineas had set
his nerves a-quiver, and what with his breathless condition, and a
predisposition to giddiness, he found some difficulty in reaching the
sill. When at last he succeeded, he saw, by the light of the now
refulgent moon, the figure of Hinton lying across the foot of the bed,
dressed, but asleep. The opening not being sufficiently large to admit
him, he thrust in his head and whispered hoarsely through his chattering
teeth:

"Hinton! I say, Hinton, there's a burglar in the house!"

Hinton started up, and stared dully at the excited apparition.

"Hush!" whispered Mr. Opp, dramatically, lifting a warning hand. "I've
been tracking the scoundrel for half an hour. He's in the house now.
We'll surround him. We'll bind him hand and foot. You get the front door
open, and I'll meet you on the outside. It's all planned; just do as I
say."

Hinton, who was springing for the door, paused with his hand on the
knob. "What's that?"

It was Mrs. Gusty's commanding tones from a front window: "He's round at
the side of the house. He's been after my guineas! I saw him a minute
ago going across the yard with a ladder. Shoot him if you can. Shoot him
in the leg, so he can't get away. Quick! Quick!"

Mr. Opp had only time to turn from the window when he felt the ladder
seized from below and jerked violently forward. With a terrific crash he
came down with it, and found himself locked in a close struggle with the
supposed burglar. To his excited imagination his adversary seemed a
Titan, with sinews of steel and breath of fire. The combatants rolled
upon the ground and fought for possession of each other's throats. The
conflict, while fierce, was brief. As Hinton and Mrs. Gusty rushed
around the corner of the house, the fighters shouted in unison, "I've
got him!" and Mr. Opp, opening one swollen eye, gazed down into the
mild but bloody features of little Mr. Tucker!

With the instinct that always prompted him to apologize when any one
bumped into him, he withdrew his hands immediately from Mr. Tucker's
throat and began vehement explanations. But Mr. Tucker still clung to
his collar, sputtering wrathful ejaculations. Mrs. Gusty, wrapped in a
bed-quilt, and with her unicorn horn at its most ferocious angle, held
the lamp on high while Hinton rushed between the belligerents.

Excited and incoherent explanations followed, and it was not until Mr.
Opp, who was leaning limply against a tree, regained his breath that the
mystery was cleared up.

"If you will just listen here at me a moment," he implored, holding a
handkerchief to his bruised face. "We are one and all laboring under a
grave error. It's my belief that there ain't any burglar whatsoever here
at present. Mr. Hinton forgot his key and had to climb in the window. I
mistaken him for the burglar, and Mrs. Gusty, here, from what she
relates, mistaken me for him, and not knowing Mr. Hinton had come in,
telephoned our friend Mr. Tucker, and me and Mr. Tucker might be said,
in a general way, to have mistaken each other for him."

"A pretty mess to get us all into!" exclaimed Mrs. Gusty. "A man made
his fortune once 'tending to his own business."

"But, Mrs. Gusty--" began Mr. Opp, indignantly.

Hinton interrupted. "You would better put something on that eye of
yours. It will probably resemble a Whistler 'Nocturne' by morning. What
are you looking for?"

The object lost proved to be Mr. Opp's cherished cornet, and the party
became united in a common cause and joined in the search. Some time
elapsed before the horn was found under the fallen ladder, having
sustained internal injuries which subsequently proved fatal.

When dawn crept into the dingy office of "The Opp Eagle," the editor was
watching for it. He was waiting to welcome the day that would bring back
Guinevere. As Hope with blindfold eyes bends over her harp and listens
to the faint music of her one unbroken string, so Mr. Opp, with bandaged
head, bent over his damaged horn and plaintively evoked the only note
that was left therein.

XIV

Those who have pursued the coy goddess of happiness through the mazes of
the labyrinth of life, know well how she invites her victim on from
point to point, only to evade capture at the end. Mr. Opp rose with each
summer dawn, radiant, confident, and expectant, and each night he sat in
his window with his knees hunched, and his brows drawn, and wrestled
with that old white-faced fear.

Two marauders were harassing the editor these days, dogging his
footsteps, and snapping at him from ambush. One was the wolf that howls
at the door, and the other was the monster whose eyes are green.

Since the halcyon days that had wafted Miss Guinevere Gusty back to the
shore of the Cove, Mr. Opp had not passed a serene hour out of her
presence. His disposition, though impervious to the repeated shafts of
unkind fortune, was not proof against the corrosive effect of jealousy.

If he could have regarded Willard Hinton in the light of a hated rival,
and met him in fair and open fight, the situation would have been
simplified. But Hinton was the friend of his bosom, the man who, he had
declared to the town, "possessed the grandest intelligence he had ever
encountered in a human mind." He admired him, he respected him, and, in
direct contradiction to the emotion that was consuming him, he trusted
him.

Concerning Miss Guinevere Gusty's state of mind, Mr. Opp permitted
himself only one opinion. He fiercely denied that she was absent-minded
and listless when alone with him; he refused to believe his own eyes
when he saw a light in her face when she looked at Hinton that was
never there for him. He preferred to exaggerate to himself her
sweetness, her gentleness, her loyalty, demanding nothing, and
continuing to give all.

His entire future happiness, he assured himself, hung upon the one
question of little Miss Kippy. For four months the problem had been a
matter for daily, prayerful consideration, but he was still in the dark.

When he was with Guinevere the solution seemed easy. In explaining away
the difficulties to her, he explained them away to himself, also. It was
only a matter of time, he declared, before the oil-well would yield rich
profit. When that time arrived, he would maintain two establishments,
the old one for Miss Kippy, and a new and elegant one for themselves.
Mr. Opp used the hole in the ground as a telescope through which he
viewed the stars of the future.

But when he was alone with Kippy, struggling with her whims, while he
tried to puzzle out the oldest and most universal of conundrums,--that
of making ends meet,--the future seemed entirely blotted out by the
great blank wall of the present.

The matter was in a way complicated by the change that had come over
Miss Kippy herself. Two ideas alternately depressed and elated her. The
first was a fixed antipathy to the photograph of Miss Guinevere Gusty
which Mr. Opp had incased in a large hand-painted frame and installed
upon his dresser. At first she sat before it and cried, and later she
hid it and refused for days to tell where it was. The sight of it made
her so unhappy that Mr. Opp was obliged to keep it under lock and key.
The other idea produced a different effect. It had to do with Hinton.
Ever since his visit she had talked of little else. She pretended that
he came to see her every day, and she spread her doll dishes, and
repeated scraps of his conversation, and acted over the events of the
dinner at which he had been present. The short gingham dresses no longer
pleased her; she wanted long ones, with flowing sleeves like the blue
merino. She tied her hair up in all manner of fantastic shapes, and
stood before the glass smiling and talking to herself for hours. But
there were times when her mind paused for a moment at the normal, and
then she would ask frightened, bewildered questions, and only Mr. Opp
could soothe and reassure her.

"D.," she said one night suddenly, "how old am I?"

Mr. Opp, whose entire mental and physical powers were concentrated upon
an effort to put a new band on his old hat, was taken off his guard.
"Twenty-six," he answered absently.

A little cry brought him to her side.

"No," she whispered, shivering away from him, yet clinging to his
sleeve, "that's a lady that's grown up! Ladies don't play with dolls.
But I want to be grown up, too. D., why am I different? I want to be a
lady; show me how to be a lady!"

Mr. Opp gathered her into his arms, along with his hat, a pair of
scissors, and a spool of thread.

"Don't, Kippy!" he begged. "Now, don't cry like that! You are getting on
elegant. Hasn't brother D. learned you to read a lot of pieces in your
first reader? And ain't we going to begin on handwriting next? Wouldn't
you like to have a slate, and a sponge to rub out with?"

In an instant her mood veered.

"And a basket?" she cried eagerly. "The children carry a basket, too. I
see them when I peep through the shutters. Can I have a basket, too?"

The network of complexities that was closing in upon Mr. Opp apparently
affected his body more than his spirits. He seemed to shrivel and
dwindle as the pressure increased; but the fire in his eyes shone
brighter than before.

"None of his folks live long over forty," said Mrs. Fallows,
lugubriously; "they sorter burn themselves out."

Hinton, meanwhile, utterly unaware of being the partial cause of the
seismic disturbance in the editorial bosom, pursued the monotonous
routine of his days. It had taken him only a short time to adapt himself
to the changes that the return of the daughter of the house had brought
about. He had anticipated her arrival with the dread a nervous invalid
always feels toward anything that may jolt him out of his habitual rut.
He held a shuddering remembrance of her musical accomplishments, and
foresaw with dread the noisy crowd of young people she might bring about
the house.

But Guinevere had slipped into her place, an absent-minded, dreamy,
detached damsel, asserting nothing, claiming nothing, bending like a
flower in the high winds of her mother's wrath.

Hinton watched the dominating influence nip every bud of individuality
that the girl ventured to put forth, and he determined to interfere.
During the long months he had spent with Mrs. Gusty he had discovered a
way to manage her. The weak spot in her armor was pride of intellect;
she acknowledged no man her superior. By the use of figurative
language, and references to esoteric matters, he was always able to
baffle and silence her. His joy in handling her in one of her tempers
was similar to that of controlling a cat-boat in squally weather. Both
experiences redounded to his masculine supremacy.

One hot August day, he and Mrs. Gusty had just had an unusually sharp
round, but he had succeeded, by alternate compliment and sarcasm, in
reducing her to a very frustrated and baffled condition.

It was Sunday, the day the Cove elected for a spiritual wash-day. In the
morning the morals of the community were scrubbed and rinsed in the
meeting-house, and in the afternoon they were hung out on the line to
dry. The heads of the families sat in their front yards and dutifully
tended the children, while their wives flitted from house to house,
visiting the sick and the afflicted, and administering warnings to the
delinquent. It was a day in which Mrs. Gusty's soul reveled, and she
demanded that Guinevere's soul should revel likewise.

It was with the determination that Guinevere should occasionally be
allowed the privilege of following her own inclinations that Hinton
hurled himself into the breach.

"I'll go, Mother," said Guinevere; "but it's so hot. We went to see
everybody last Sunday. I thought I'd rather stay home and read, if you
didn't mind."

Mrs. Gusty tossed her head in disgust, and turned to Hinton.

"Now, ain't that a Gusty for you! I never saw one that didn't want to
set down to the job of living. Always moping around with their nose in a
book. I never was a reader, never remember wasting a' hour on a book in
my life, and yet I never saw the time that I wasn't able to hold my own
with any Gusty living."

"In short," said Hinton, sympathetically, "to quote a noted novelist,
you have never considered it necessary to add the incident of learning
to the accident of brains."

Mrs. Gusty tied her bonnet-strings in a firmer knot as she looked at him
uncertainly, then, not deigning to cast another glance in the direction
of her daughter, who was disappearing up the stairs, swept out of the
house.

Hinton looked at his watch; it was not yet two o'clock. The afternoon
threatened to be a foretaste of eternity. He went out on the porch and
lay in the hammock, with his hands clasped across his eyes. He could no
longer see to read or to write. The doctor said the darkness might close
in now at any time, after that the experiment of an operation would be
made, and there was one chance in a hundred for the partial restoration
of the sight.

Having beaten and bruised himself against the bars of Fate, he now lay
exhausted and passive in the power of his jailer. He had tried to run
his own life in his own way, and the matter had been taken out of his
hands. He must lie still now and wait for orders from headquarters. The
words of Mr. Opp, spoken in the low-ceiled, weird old dining-room, came
vividly back to him: "What the fight is concerning, or in what manner
the general is a-aiming to bring it all correct in the end, ain't,
according to my conclusion, a particle of our business."

And Hinton, after a year of rebellion and struggle and despair, had at
last acknowledged a superior officer and declared himself ready to take
whatever orders came.

As he lay in the hammock he turned his head at every noise within the
house, and listened. He had become amazingly dependent upon a soft,
drawling voice which day after day read to him for hours at a time. At
first he had met Guinevere's offers of help with moody irritability.

"Pray, don't bother about me," he had said. "I am quite able to look
after myself; besides, I like to be alone."

But her unobtrusive sympathy and childish frankness soon conquered his
pride. She read to him from books she did not understand, played games
with him, and showed him new walks in the woods. And incidentally, she
revealed to him her struggling, starving, wistful soul that no one else
had ever discovered.

She never talked to him of her love affair, but she dwelt vaguely on the
virtues of duty and loyalty and self-sacrifice. The facts in the case
were supplied by Mrs. Gusty.

Hinton looked at his watch again, and groaned when he found it was only
a quarter past two. Feeling his way cautiously along the porch and down
the steps, he moved idly about the yard. He could not distinguish
Menelaus from Paris now, and Helen of Troy was no longer to be
recognized.

At long intervals a vehicle rattled past, leaving a cloud of dust
behind. The air shimmered with the heat, and the low, insistent buzzing
of bees beat on his ears mercilessly. He wondered impatiently why
Guinevere did not come down, then checked himself as he remembered the
constant demands he made upon her time.

At three o'clock he could stand it no longer. He felt a queer, dull
sensation about his head, and he constantly drew his hand across his
eyes to dispel the impression of a mist before them.

"Oh, Miss Guinevere!" he called up to her window. "Would you mind coming
down just for a little while!"

Guinevere's head appeared so promptly that it was evident it had been
lying on the window-sill.

"Is it time for your medicine?" she asked guiltily. "Mother said it
didn't come till four."

"Oh, no," said Hinton, with forced cheerfulness; "it isn't that. You
remember the old song, don't you, 'When a man's afraid, a beautiful maid
is a cheering sight to see'?"

She disappeared from the window, and in a moment joined him behind the
screen of honeysuckles on the porch. The hammock hung, inviting ease,
but neither of them took it. She sat primly on the straight-backed,
green settee, and he sat on the step at her feet with his hat pulled
over his eyes.

"What an infernal nuisance I have been to you!" he said ruefully; "but
no more than I have been to myself. The only difference was that I had
to stand it, and you stood it out of the goodness of that kind little
heart of yours. Well, it's nearly over now; I'm expecting to go to the
city any day. I guess you'll not be sorry to get rid of me, will you,
Miss Guinevere?"

Instead of answering, she drew a quick breath and turned her head away.
When she did speak, it was after a long pause.

"I like the way you say my name. Nobody says it like that down here."

"Guinevere?" he repeated.

She nodded. "When you say it like that, I feel like I was another
person. It makes me think of flowers, and poetry, and the wind in the
trees, and all those things I've been reading you out of your books.
Guin-never and Guinevere _don't_ seem the same at all, do they?"

"They aren't the same," he said, "and you aren't the same girl I met on
the boat last March. I guess we've both grown a bit since then. You know
I was rather keen on dying about that time,--'in love with easeful
death,'--well, now I am not keen about anything, but I am willing to
play the game out."

They sat in silence for a while, then he said slowly, without raising
his eyes: "I am not much good at telling what I feel, but before I go
away I want you to know how much you've helped me. You have been the one
light that was left to show me the way down into the darkness."

A soft touch on his shoulder made him lift his head. Guinevere was
bending toward him, all restraint banished from her face by the
compassion and love that suffused it.

[Illustration: "'Oh, my God, it has come'"]

Instinctively he swayed toward her, all the need of her crying out
suddenly within him, then he pulled himself sharply together, and,
resolutely thrusting his hands in his pockets, rose and took a turn up
and down the porch.

"Do you mind reading to me a little?" he asked at length. "There are
forty devils in my head to-day, all hammering on the back of my
eyeballs. I'll get my Tennyson; you like him better than you do the
others. Wait; I'm going."

But she was up the steps before him, eager to serve, and determined to
spare him every effort.

Through the long afternoon Guinevere read, stumbling over the strange
words and faltering through the difficult passages, but vibrant to the
beauty and the pathos of it all. On and on she read, and the sun went
down, and the fragrance of dying locust bloom came faintly from the
hill, and overhead in the tree-tops the evening breeze murmured its
world-old plaint of loneliness and longing.

Suddenly Guinevere's voice faltered, then steadied, then faltered again,
then without warning she flung her arms across the back of the bench,
and, dropping her head upon them, burst into passionate sobs.

Hinton, who had been sitting for a long time with his hands pressed over
his eyes, sprang up to go to her.

"Guinevere," he said, "what's the matter? Don't cry, dear!" Then, as he
stumbled, a look of terror crossed his face and he caught at the railing
for support. "Where are you?" he asked sharply. "Speak to me! Give me
your hand! I can't see--I can't--oh, my God, it has come!"

XV

The warning note sounded by Mrs. Fallows at the beginning of the oil
boom was echoed by many before the summer was over. The coldest thing in
the world is an exhausted enthusiasm, and when weeks slipped into
months, and notes fell due, and the bank became cautious about lending
money, a spirit of distrust got abroad, and a financial frost settled
upon the community.

Notwithstanding these conditions, "The Opp Eagle" persistently screamed
prosperity. It attributed the local depression to the financial
disturbance that had agitated the country at large, and assured the
readers that the Cove was on the eve of the greatest period in its
history.

"The ascending, soaring bubble of inflated prices cannot last much
longer," one editorial said; "the financial flurry in the Wall Streets
of the North were pretty well over before we become aware of it, in a
major sense. 'The Opp Eagle' has in the past, present, and future waged
noble warfare against the calamity jays. Panic or no panic, Cove City
refuses to remain in the backgrounds. There has been a large order for
job-work in this office within the past ten days, also several new and
important subscribers, all of which does not make much of a showing for
hard times, at least not from our point of looking at it."

But in the same issue, in an inconspicuous corner, were a couple of
lines to the effect that "the editor would be glad to take a load of
wood on subscription."

The truth was that it required all of Mr. Opp's diplomacy to rise to the
occasion. The effort to meet his own obligations was becoming daily
more embarrassing, and he was reduced to economies entirely beneath the
dignity of the editor of "The Opp Eagle." But while he cheerfully
restricted his diet to two meals a day, and wore shirt-fronts in lieu of
the genuine article, he was, according to Nick's ideas, rashly
extravagant in other ways.

"What did you go and buy Widow Green's oil-shares back for?" Nick
demanded upon one of these occasions.

"Well, you see," explained Mr. Opp, "it was purely a business
proposition. Any day, now, things may open up in a way that will
surprise you. I have good reason to believe that those shares are bound
to go up; and besides," he added lamely in an undertone, "I happen to
know that that there lady was in immediate need of a little ready
money."

"So are we," protested Nick; "we need every cent we can get for the
paper. If we don't get ahead some by the first of the year, we are going
under, sure as you live."

Mr. Opp laid a hand upon his shoulder and smiled tolerantly.
"Financiers get used to these fluctuations in money circles. Don't you
worry, Nick; you leave that to the larger brains in the concern."

But in spite of his superior attitude of confidence, Nick's words
rankled in his mind, and the first of the year became a time which he
preferred not to consider.

One day in September the mail-packet brought two letters of great
importance to Mr. Opp. One was from Willard Hinton, the first since his
operation, and the other was from Mr. Mathews, stating that he would
arrive at the Cove that day to lay an important matter of business
before the stock-holders of the Turtle Creek Land Company.

Mr. Opp rushed across the road, a letter in each hand, to share the news
with Guinevere.

"It's as good as settled," he cried, bursting in upon her, where she sat
at the side door wrestling with a bit of needlework. "Mr. Mathews will
be here to-day. He is either going to open up work or sell out to a
syndicate. I'm going to use all my influence for the latter; it's the
surest and safest plan. Miss Guin-never,"--his voice softened,--"this is
all I been waiting for to make my last and final arrangement with your
mother. It was just yesterday she was asking me what I'd decided to do,
and I don't mind telling you, now it's all over, I never went to bed all
last night--just sat up trying to figure it out. But this will settle
it. I'll be in a position to have a little home of my own and take care
of Kippy, too. I don't know as I ever was so happy in all my life put
together before." He laughed nervously, but his eyes anxiously studied
her averted face.

"Then there's more news," he plunged on, when she did not speak--"a
letter from Mr. Hinton. I thought maybe you'd like to hear what he had
to say."

Guinevere's scissors dropped with a sharp ring on the stepping-stone
below, and as they both stooped to get them, their fingers touched. Mr.
Opp ardently seized her hand in both of his, but unfortunately he
seized her needle as well.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" she said. "Wait, let me do it," and with a
compassion which he considered nothing short of divine she extricated
the needle, and comforted the wounded member. Mr. Opp would have gladly
suffered the fate of a St. Sebastian to have elicited such sympathy.

"Is--is Mr. Hinton better?" she asked, still bending over his hand.

"Hinton?" asked Mr. Opp. "Oh, I forgot; yes. I'll read you what he says.
He got his nurse to write this for him.

    Dear Opp: The die is cast; I am a has-been. I did not expect
    anything, so I am not disappointed. The operation was what they
    called successful. The surgeon, I am told, did a very brilliant
    stunt; something like taking my eyes out, playing marbles with them,
    and getting them sewed back again all in three minutes and a half.
    The result to the patient is of course purely a minor consideration,
    but it may interest you to know that I can tell a biped from a
    quadruped, and may in time, by the aid of powerful glasses, be able
    to distinguish faces.

    With these useful and varied accomplishments I have decided to
    return to the Cove. My modest ambition now is to get out of the way,
    and the safest plan is to keep out of the current.

    You will probably be a Benedick by the time I return. My heartiest
    congratulations to you and Miss Guinevere. Words cannot thank either
    of you for what you have done for me. All I can say is that I have
    tried to be worthy of your friendship.

    What's left of me is

        Yours,

            Willard Hinton."

Mr. Opp avoided looking at her as he folded the sheets and put them back
in the envelop. The goal was bright before his eyes, but quicksands
dragged at his feet.

"And he _will_ find us married, won't he, Miss Guin-never? You'll be
ready just as soon as I and your mother come to a understanding, won't
you? Why, it seems more like eleven years than eleven months since you
and me saw that sunset on the river! There hasn't been a day since, you
might say, that hasn't been occupied with you. All I ask for in the
world is just the chance for the rest of my life of trying to make you
happy. You believe that, don't you, Miss Guin-never?"

"Yes," she said miserably, gazing out at the little arbor Hinton had
made for her beneath the trees.

"Well, I'll stop by this evening after the meeting, if it ain't too
late," said Mr. Opp. "You'll--you'll be--glad if everything culminates
satisfactory, won't you?"

"I'm glad of everything good that comes to you," said Guinevere so
earnestly that Mr. Opp, who had lived on a diet of crumbs all his life,
looked at her gratefully, and went back to the office assuring himself
that all would be well.

The visit of Mr. Mathews, while eagerly anticipated, could not have
fallen on a less auspicious day. Aunt Tish, the arbiter of the Opp
household, had been planning for weeks to make a visit to Coreyville,
and the occasion of an opportune funeral furnished an immediate excuse.

"No, _sir_, Mr. D., I can't put hit off till to-morrow," she declared in
answer to Mr. Opp's request that she stay with Miss Kippy until after
the stock-holders' meeting. "I's 'bleeged to go on dat night boat. De
funeral teks place at ten o'clock in de mawnin', an' I's gwine be dar ef
I has to swim de ribber."

"Was he a particular friend, the one that died?" asked Mr. Opp.

"Friend? Bunk Bivens? Dat onery, good-fer-nothin' ole half-strainer?
Naw, sir; he ain't no friend ob mine."

"Well, what makes you so pressing and particular about attending his
funeral?" asked Mr. Opp.

"'Ca'se I 'spise him so. I been hating dat nigger fer pretty nigh forty
year, an' I ain't gwine lose dis chanst ob seein' him buried."

"But, Aunt Tish," persisted Mr. Opp, impatiently, "I've got a very
important and critical meeting this afternoon. The business under
consideration may be wound up in the matter of a few minutes, and then,
again, it may prolong itself into several consecutive hours. You'll have
to stay with Kippy till I get home."

The old woman looked at him strangely. "See dis heah hole in my haid,
honey? 'Member how you and Ben uster ast Aunt Tish what mek hit? Dat
nigger Bunk Bivens mek hit. He was a roustabout on de ribber, an' him
an' yer paw fell out, an' one night when you was a baby he follow yer
paw up here, an' me an' him had hit out."

"But where was my father?" asked Mr. Opp.

"Dey was 'sputin' right heah in dis heah kitchen where we's standin' at,
an' dat mean, bow-laigged nigger didn't have no better manners den to
'spute wif a gentleman dat was full. An' pore Miss she run in so skeered
an' white an' she say, 'Aunt Tish, don't let him hurt him; he don't know
what he's sayin',' she baig, an' I tell her to keep yer paw outen de
way an' I tek keer ob Bunk."

"And did he fight you?" asked Mr. Opp, indignantly.

"Naw, sir; I fit him. We put nigh tore up de floor ob de kitchen. Den he
bust my haid open wif de poker, an' looks lak I been losing my knowledge
ever sence. From dat day I 'low I's gwine to git even if it took me till
I died, an' now dat spiteful old devil done died fust. But I's gwine see
him buried. I want to see 'em nail him up in a box and th'ow dirt on
him."

Aunt Tish ended the recital in a sing-song chant, worked up to a state
of hysteria by the recital of her ancient wrong.

Mr. Opp sighed both for the past and the present. He saw the futility of
arguing the case.

"Well, you'll stay until the boat whistles?" he asked. "Sometimes it is
two hours late."

"Yas, sir; but when dat whistle toots I's gwine. Ef you is heah, all
right; ef you ain't, all right: I's _gwine_!"

As Mr. Opp passed through the hall he saw Miss Kippy slip ahead of him
and conceal herself behind the door. She carried something hidden in her
apron.

"Have you learned your reading lesson to say to brother D. to-night?" he
asked, ignoring her behavior. "You are getting so smart, learning to
read handwriting just as good as I can!"

But Miss Kippy only peeped at him through the crack in the door and
refused to be friendly. For several days she had been furtive and
depressed, and had not spoken to either Aunt Tish or himself.

On the way to his office Mr. Opp was surprised to see Mr. Gallop leaning
out of the window of his little room beckoning frantically. It was
evident that Mr. Gallop had a secret to divulge, and Mr. Gallop with a
secret was as excited as a small bird with a large worm.

"Just come in a minute and sit down," he fluttered; "you'll have to
excuse the looks of things. Having just this one room for telegraph
office and bedroom and everything crowds me up awful. I've been trying
to fix my lunch for half an hour, but the telephone just keeps me busy.
Then, besides, Mr. Mathews was here; he came down on the launch at
twelve o'clock. Now, of course I know it ain't right to repeat anything
I hear over the long-distance wire, but being such a good friend of
yours, and you being such a friend of mine--why, Mr. Opp there ain't
anybody in the world I owe more to than I do to you, not only the money
you've lent me from time to time, but your standing up for me when
everybody was down on me--and--"

"Yes; but you was remarking about Mr. Mathews?" Mr. Opp interrupted.

"Yes; and I was saying I never make a practice of repeating what I hear,
but he was talking right here in the room, and I was mixing up a little
salad dressing I promised Mrs. Fallows for the social,--it's to be over
at Your Hotel this evening--there's the telephone!"

Mr. Opp sat on the edge of the sofa, the rest of it being occupied with
gaily embroidered sofa pillows, specimens, the town declared, of Mr.
Gallop's own handiwork. In fact, the only unoccupied space in the room
was on the ceiling, for between his duties as operator and housekeeper
Mr. Gallop still found time to cultivate the arts, and the result of his
efforts was manifest in every nook and corner.

"It was Mrs. Gusty getting after Mr. Toddlinger for sending vanilla
extract instead of lemon," explained Mr. Gallop, who had stopped to hear
the discussion.

"Well, as I was saying, Mr. Mathews called up somebody in the city
almost as soon as he got here--Now you've got to promise me you won't
tell a living soul about this."

Mr. Opp promised.

"He said to telegraph New York party that terms were agreed on, and to
mail check at once to Clark, and tell him to keep his mouth shut. Then
the other end said something, and Mr. Mathews said: 'We can't afford to
wait. You telegraph at once; I'll manipulate the crowd down here.' They
talked a lot more, then he said awful low, but I heard him: 'Well, damn
it! they've got to. There's too much at stake.'"

The editor sat with his hat in his hand, and blinked at the operator:
"Manipulate," he said in a puzzled tone, "did he use that particular
word?"

Mr. Gallop nodded.

"He may have been referring to something else," said Mr. Opp, waiving
aside any disagreeable suspicion. "Mr. Mathews is a business gentleman.
He's involved in a great many ventures, something like myself. You
wouldn't think from what you heard that--er--that he was contemplating
not acting exactly--fair with us, would you?"

Mr. Gallop, having delivered himself of his information, did not feel
called upon to express a personal opinion.

"If you ever say I told you a word of this, I'll swear I didn't," he
said. "It was just because you were such a good friend, and--there's
that 'phone again!"

During the early hours of the afternoon, Mr. Opp was oppressed with a
vague uneasiness. He made several attempts to see Mr. Mathews, but that
gentleman was closeted with his stenographer until five o'clock, the
hour named for the meeting.

All feeling of distrust was banished, however, when Mr. Mathews made his
way through the crowd of stock-holders that filled the office of Your
Hotel, and took his stand by the desk. He was so bland and confident, so
satisfied with himself and the world and the situation, that, as Jimmy
Fallows remarked, "You kinder looked for him to purr when he wasn't
talking."

He set forth at great length the undoubted oil wealth of the region, he
complimented them on their sagacity and foresight in buying up the
Turtle Creek ground, he praised the Cove in general and that
distinguished citizen, the editor of "The Opp Eagle," in particular.
The enterprise upon which they had embarked, he said, had grown to such
proportions that large capital was required to carry it on. Owing to the
recent depression in the money market, the Kentucky company did not feel
able properly to back the concern, so it had been agreed that if a good
offer was made to buy it, it should be accepted. It was with such an
offer, Mr. Mathews said, that he had come to them to-day.

A stir of excitement met this announcement, and Miss Jim Fenton waved
her lace scarf in her enthusiasm.

"Some time ago," went on Mr. Mathews, graciously acknowledging the
applause, "the Union Syndicate of New York sent an expert, Mr. Clark,
down here to report on the oil conditions in this region." Mr. Opp's
eyes became fixed on Mr. Mathews's face, and his lips parted. "The
report was so entirely satisfactory," continued Mr. Mathews, "that the
following offer has been made."

Mr. Opp rose immediately. "Excuse me, sir, there is--er--rather, there
must be some little mistake just at this juncture."

All eyes were turned upon him, and a murmur of dissent arose at an
interruption at such a critical point.

Mr. Mathews gave him permission to proceed.

"You see--I--Mr. Clark, that is,"--Mr. Opp's fingers were working
nervously on the back of the chair before him,--"him and myself went
over the ground together, and--I--well, I must say I don't consider him
a competent judge."

Mr. Mathews smiled. "I am afraid, Mr. Opp, that your opinion is
overruled. Mr. Clark is a recognized authority, although," he added
significantly, "of course the most expert make mistakes at times."

"That ain't the point," persisted Mr. Opp; "it's the conflicting
difference in what he said to me, and what he's reported to them. He
told me that he didn't consider our prospects was worth a picayune, and
if the wells were drilled, they probably wouldn't run a year. I didn't
believe him then; but you say now that he is a expert and that he
knows."

Mr. Mathews's tolerance seemed limitless. He waited patiently for Mr.
Opp to finish, then he said smoothly:

"Yes, yes; I understand your point perfectly, Mr. Opp. Mr. Clark's
remarks were injudicious, but he was looking at all sides of the
question. He saw me after he saw you, you know, and I was able to direct
his attention to the more favorable aspects of the case. His report was
entirely favorable, and I guess that is all that concerns us, isn't it?"
He embraced the room with his smile.

During the next quarter of an hour Mr. Opp sat with his arms folded and
his eyes bent on the floor and bit his lips furiously. Something was
wrong. Again and again he fought his way back to this conclusion through
the enveloping mazes of Mr. Mathews's plausibility. Why had they waited
so long after drilling that first well? Why, after making elaborate
plans and buying machinery, had they suddenly decided to sell? Why had
Mr. Clark given such contradictory opinions? What did Mr. Mathews mean
by that message from Mr. Gallop's office? Mr. Opp's private affairs,
trembling in the balance, were entirely lost sight of in his
determination for fair play.

Covering his eyes with his hand, and trying not to hear the flood of
argument which Mr. Mathews was bringing to bear upon his already
convinced audience, Mr. Opp attempted to recall all that Mr. Gallop had
told him.

"He said 'manipulate,'" repeated Mr. Opp to himself. "I remember that,
and he said 'telegraph New York party that terms were agreed on.' Then
he said 'mail check to Clark; tell him to keep his mouth shut.' What's
_he_ paying Clark for? Why--"

"The motion before the house," Mr. Tucker's piping voice broke in upon
his agitated reasoning, "is whether the stock-holders of the Turtle
Creek Land Company is willing to sell out at a rate of seven to one to
the Union Syndicate."

In the buzz of delight that ensued, Mr. Opp found himself standing on a
chair and demanding attention.

"Listen here," he cried, pounding on the wall with his hand, "I've got
important information that's got to be told: that man Clark is a rascal.
He's--he's deceiving his company. He's been paid to make a good report
of our ground. I can't prove it, but I know it. We're taking part in a
fraud; we're--we're being manipulated."

Mr. Opp almost shrieked the last word in his agony of earnestness; but
before the crowd could fully apprehend his meaning, Mr. Mathews rose and
said somewhat sharply:

"What the representative of the Union Syndicate is, or is not, doesn't
concern us in the least. I come to you with a gilt-edged proposition;
all I ask you is to sit tight, and take my advice, and I guarantee you
an immediate return of seven dollars to every one you put into this
concern. Mr. Chairman, will you put it to the vote?"

But Mr. Opp again stopped proceedings. "As a director in this company I
won't stand for what's going on. I'll telegraph the syndicate. I'll
advertise the whole matter!"

Mat Lucas pulled at his sleeve, and the preacher put a restraining arm
about his shoulder. The amazing rumor had become current that the Cove's
stanchest advocate for temperance had been indulging in drink, and there
was nothing in the editor's flushed face and excited manner to
contradict the impression.

"If by any chance," Mr. Mathews went on in a steady voice, "there should
be a stock-holder who is unwilling to take advantage of this magnificent
offer, we need hardly say that we are prepared to buy his stock back at
the amount he gave for it." He smiled, as if inviting ridicule at the
absurdity of the proposition.

"I am unwilling," cried Mr. Opp, tugging at the restraining hands. "I
have never yet in all the length and breadth of my experience been
associated with a dishonest act."

"Don't! Mr. Opp, don't!" whispered Mat Lucas. "You're acting like a
crazy man. Don't you see you are losing the chance to make three
thousand dollars?"

"That hasn't nothing to do with it," cried Mr. Opp, almost beside
himself. "I'll not be a party to the sale. I'll--"

Mr. Mathews turned to his secretary. "Just fix up those papers for Mr.
Opp, and give him a check for what is coming to him. Now, Mr. Chairman,
will you put the matter to the vote?"

Amid the hilarious confusion that succeeded the unanimous vote, and the
subsequent adjournment of the meeting, Mr. Opp pushed his way through
the crowd that surrounded Mr. Mathews.

"You know what I was alluding at," he shouted through his chattering
teeth. "You've carried this through, but I'll blockade you. I am going
to tell the truth to the whole community. I am going to telegraph to
the syndicate and stop the sale."

Mr. Mathews lifted his brows and smiled deprecatingly.

"I am sorry you have worked yourself up to such a pitch, my friend," he
said. "Telegraph, by all means if it will ease your mind; but the fact
is, the deal was closed at noon to-day."

The long, low whistle of the packet sounded, but Mr. Opp heeded it not.
He was flinging his way across to the telegraph office in a frenzy of
Quixotic impatience to right the wrong of which he had refused to be a
part.

XVI

Half an hour later, Mr. Opp dragged himself up the hill to his home. All
the unfairness and injustice of the universe seemed pressing upon his
heart. Every muscle in his body quivered in remembrance of what he had
been through, and an iron band seemed tightening about his throat. His
town had refused to believe his story! It had laughed in his face!

With a sudden mad desire for sympathy and for love, he began calling
Kippy. He stumbled across the porch, and, opening the door with his
latch-key, stood peering into the gloom of the room.

The draft from an open window blew a curtain toward him, a white
spectral, beckoning thing, but no sound broke the stillness.

"Kippy!" he called again, his voice sharp with anxiety.

From one room to another he ran, searching in nooks and corners, peering
under the beds and behind the doors, calling in a voice that was
sometimes a command, but oftener a plea: "Kippy! Kippy!"

At last he came back to the dining-room and lighted the lamp with
shaking hands. On the hearth were the remains of a small bonfire, with
papers scattered about. He dropped on his knees and seized a bit of
charred cardboard. It was a corner of the hand-painted frame that had
incased the picture of Guinevere Gusty! Near it lay loose sheets of
paper, parts of that treasured package of letters she had written him
from Coreyville.

As Mr. Opp gazed helplessly about the room, his eyes fell upon something
white pinned to the red table-cloth. He held it to the light. It was a
portion of one of Guinevere's letters, written in the girl's clear,
round hand:

    Mother says I can never marry you until Miss Kippy goes to the
    asylum.

Mr. Opp got to his feet. "She's read the letter," he cried wildly;
"she's learned out about herself! Maybe she's in the woods now, or down
on the bank!" He rushed to the porch. "Kippy!" he shouted. "Don't be
afraid! Brother D.'s coming to get you! Don't run away, Kippy! Wait for
me! Wait!" and leaving the old house open to the night, he plunged into
the darkness, beating through the woods and up and down the road,
calling in vain for Kippy, who lay cowering in the bottom of a leaking
skiff that was drifting down the river at the mercy of the current.

Two days later, Mr. Opp sat in the office of the Coreyville Asylum for
the Insane and heard the story of his sister's wanderings. Her boat had
evidently been washed ashore at a point fifteen miles above the town,
for people living along the river had reported a strange little woman,
without hat or coat, who came to their doors crying and saying her name
was "Oxety," and that she was crazy, and begging them to show her the
way to the asylum. On the second day she had been found unconscious on
the steps of the institution, and since then, the doctor said, she had
been wild and unmanageable.

"Considering all things," he concluded, "it is much wiser for you not to
see her. She came of her own accord, evidently felt the attack coming
on, and wanted to be taken care of."

He was a large, smooth-faced man, with the conciliatory manner of one
who regards all his fellow-men as patients in varying degrees of
insanity.

"But I'm in the regular habit of taking care of her," protested Mr. Opp.
"This is just a temporary excitement for the time being that won't ever,
probably, occur again. Why, she's been improving all winter; I've
learnt her to read and write a little, and to pick out a number of
cities on the geographical atlas."

"All wrong," exclaimed the doctor; "mistaken kindness. She can never be