eself, I've to live here mostly until the gang
comes. You must be knowing that, sir."

"I'm afraid it's true, Freckles," said McLean. "And I've decided to
double the guard until we come. It will be only a few weeks, now; and
I'm so anxious for you that you must not be left alone further. If
anything should happen to you, Freckles, it would spoil one of the very
dearest plans of my life."

Freckles heard with dismay the proposition to place a second guard.

"Oh! no, no, Mr. McLean," he cried. "Not for the world! I wouldn't be
having a stranger around, scaring me birds and tramping up me study, and
disturbing all me ways, for any money! I am all the guard you need! I
will be faithful! I will turn over the lease with no tree missing--on
me life, I will! Oh, don't be sending another man to set them saying
I turned coward and asked for help. It will just kill the honor of me
heart if you do it. The only thing I want is another gun. If it railly
comes to trouble, six cartridges ain't many, and you know I am slow-like
about reloading." McLean reached into his hip pocket and handed a
shining big revolver to Freckles, who slipped it beside the one already
in his belt.

Then the Boss sat brooding.

"Freckles," he said at last, "we never know the timber of a man's soul
until something cuts into him deeply and brings the grain out strong.
You've the making of a mighty fine piece of furniture, my boy, and you
shall have your own way these few weeks yet. Then, if you will go, I
intend to take you to the city and educate you, and you are to be my
son, my lad--my own son!"

Freckles twisted his finger in Nellie's mane to steady himself.

"But why should you be doing that, sir?" he faltered.

McLean slid his arm around the boy's shoulder and gathered him close.

"Because I love you, Freckles," he said simply.

Freckles lifted a white face. "My God, sir!" he whispered. "Oh, my God!"

McLean tightened his clasp a second longer, then he rode down the trail.

Freckles lifted his hat and faced the sky. The harvest moon looked down,
sheeting the swamp in silver glory. The Limberlost sang her night song.
The swale softly rustled in the wind. Winged things of night brushed
his face; and still Freckles gazed upward, trying to fathom these things
that had come to him. There was no help from the sky. It seemed far
away, cold, and blue. The earth, where flowers blossomed, angels walked,
and love could be found, was better. But to One,