se in regard to Jim, he began to think more definitely than
he had done heretofore of the possibility of serious harm to
Lamoury. It was dreadful to think that he might have badly wounded
an inoffensive man. Was Lamoury much hurt? What would happen to a
marble in a shotgun, anyhow? Would he be arrested? Would his case
get to trial? Could he, without a single witness, prove that it was
an accident? The sinister figure of Jake Hibbard rose before him,
and made him feel helpless and frightened. The future looked black.

"But I done right," he tried to console himself by saying. "I done
right."

Better late than never, to be sure; but if genuine comfort in a good
deed is sought, it is best to act at once. Mr. Peaslee could feel
but small satisfaction in his tardy confession.

Moreover, he must now face his wife. As he turned with reluctant
feet into his own yard he fairly shrank in anticipation under the
sharp hail of her biting words.

To postpone a little the inevitable, to gather strength somewhat to
meet the shock, he passed the kitchen porch and went on toward the
barn. Seating himself upon an upturned pail, he stayed there a long
while, still as a statue, while he chewed the cud of bitter
reflection.

After a while, at the barn door there was a familiar flash of white
and yellow. Looking wearily up he saw the great, green eyes of the
Calico Cat fastened upon him in fierce distrust. She had one foot
uplifted as if she did not know whether it was safe to put it down,
and in her mouth, pendent, was a Calico Kitten.

Mr. Peaslee, silent and immovable, watched her with apathetic eyes.
Finally, as if assured he was not dangerous, she put down her foot
and disappeared with soft and cushioned tread into the dim recesses
of the barn. Yet a little while and she again appeared in the
doorway with a second duplicate of herself. Again an interval, and
she brought a third.

"Well," said Solomon to himself, his spirit quite crushed, "I guess
she ain't bringing no more than belong to me by rights."

Nevertheless, he could not endure to see any others. He went
desperately into the house, where he found his wife fuming over
his delay.

"I guess I may as well tell ye, first as last," he said, in a sort
of stubborn despair. "'T was me that shot Lamoury."

"You!" exclaimed his wife, dropping her knife and fork, and looking
at him as if she thought he had taken leave of his senses.

"I guess I'm the feller," he averred, with