oached the house slowly. He knew that his father was a
man of strong temper and he wondered how he would take the news from
Charleston. All the associations of Colonel Kenton were with the
extreme Southern wing, and his influence upon his son was powerful.

But the Pendleton home, standing just beyond the town, gave forth
only brightness and welcome. The house itself, large and low, built
massively of red brick, stood on the crest of a gentle slope in two
acres of ground. The clipped cones of pine trees adorned the slopes,
and made parallel rows along the brick walk, leading to the white
portico that formed the entrance to the house. Light shone from a
half dozen windows.

It seemed fine and glowing to Harry. His father loved his home, and so
did he. The twilight had now darkened into night and the snow still
drove, but the house stood solid and square to wind and winter, and the
flame from its windows made broad bands of red and gold across the snow.
Harry went briskly up the walk and then stood for a few moments in the
portico, shaking the snow off his overcoat and looking back at the town,
which lay in a warm cluster in the hollow below. Many lights twinkled
there, and it occurred to Harry that they would twinkle later than usual
that night.

He opened the door, hung his hat and overcoat in the hall, and entered
the large apartment which his father and he habitually used as a reading
and sitting room. It was more than twenty feet square, with a lofty
ceiling. A home-made carpet, thick, closely woven, and rich in colors
covered the floor. Around the walls were cases containing books,
mostly in rich bindings and nearly all English classics. American work
was scarcely represented at all. The books read most often by Colonel
Kenton were the novels of Walter Scott, whom he preferred greatly to
Dickens. Scott always wrote about gentlemen. A great fire of hickory
logs blazed on the wide hearth.

Colonel Kenton was alone in the room. He stood at the edge of the
hearth, with his back to the fire and his hands crossed behind him.
His tanned face was slightly pale, and Harry saw that he had been
subjected to great nervous excitement, which had not yet wholly abated.

The colonel was a tall man, broad of chest, but lean and muscular.
He regarded his son attentively, and his eyes seemed to ask a question.

"Yes," said Harry, although his father had not spoken a word. "I've
heard of it, and I've already seen