that
way."

"It isn't possible, or Tunk would have perished long ago," said the
widow, who had come to feed her chickens.

"It's enough to raise the neighbours," Trove added.

"There ain't any near neighbours but them over 'n the
buryin'-ground, and they must be a little uneasy," said the widow.

"Used t' drive so much in races," said Tunk, "got t' be kind of a
habit with me--seems so. Ain't eggzac'ly happy less I have holt o'
the ribbons every day or two. Ye know I used t' drive ol' crazy
Jane. She pulled like Satan. All ye had t' do was t' lean back
an' let 'er sail."

"But why do you shout that way?"

"Scares the other hosses," Tunk answered, dropping the reins and
tossing his whip aside. "It's a shame I have t' fool my time away
up here on a farm."

He went to work at the chores, frowning with discontent. Trove
watered and fed his mare and went in to breakfast. An hour later,
he bade them all good-by, and set out for Allen's. A new fear
began to weigh upon him as he travelled. Was this a part of that
evil sum, and had his father begun now to scatter what he had never
any right to touch? Whoever brought him that big roll of money had
robbed him of his peace. Even his ribs, against which it chafed as
he rode along, began to feel sore. Home at last, he put up the
mare and went to tell his mother that he must be off for
Hillsborough.

"My son," said she, her arms about his neck, "our eyes are growing
dim and for a long time have seen little of you."

"And I feel the loss," Trove answered. "I have things to do there,
and shall return tonight."

"You look troubled," was her answer. "Poor boy! I pray God to
keep you unspotted of the world." She was ever fearing unhappy
news of the mystery--that something evil would come out of it.

As Trove rode away he took account of all he owed those good people
who had been mother and father to him. What a pleasure it would
give him to lay that goodly sum in the lap of his mother and bid
her spend it with no thought of economy.

The mare knew him as one may know a brother. There was in her
manner some subtle understanding of his mood. Her master saw it in
the poise of her head, in the shift of her ears, and in her tender
way of feeling for his hand. She, too, was looking right and left
in the fields. There were the scenes of a boyhood, newly but
forever gone. "That's where you overtook me on the way to school,"
said he to Phyllis, for so the tin