e glanced involuntarily at
the corner where the gun had stood not many minutes before he left the
house. It was gone. Then she knew. She threw down her work, went to the
telephone, and called Raven. He was there, and she felt her heart answer
wildly when, at her first word, he broke in:

"Is it you?" Not her name, only the intimacy of the significant word.
"The hut?" he added.

"Up there," said Tira, breathless. "Both of you. I've got to see you
both. Come quick."

She got her cloak and threw it down again, remembering it was what she
was used to wearing and that Tenney would most certainly recognize her
outline in it, even though a long way off. Grandmother Tenney's black
blanket shawl was in the parlor chest of drawers, that and her hood,
disfiguring ancientry of dress. She ran into the parlor, snatched them
out, tied on the black knitted hood and, not unfolding the shawl,
wrapped it about her shoulders. The baby was in his cradle, and she gave
him one glance. If he waked, he would cry. Let him cry. But she did lock
the door behind her, and put the key on the sill, a place Tenney would
know. Half way down the path, she went back, took the key again and
dropped it into her apron pocket. Tenney might come, but he should not
go into the house and find the child alone. Lest he should come the way
he went, she took the back road, and there, when she was about to turn
into the wood road, she heard sleigh-bells behind her, the horse going,
as her ear told her, "step and step." But she was actually on the wood
road when the driver whipped up and the bells came clashingly. She did
not turn to look. It was not Tenney. She would have known his bells. The
horse drew up, the driver called to him a peremptory and jovial word,
and she knew the voice. It was Eugene Martin's, and instinct told her to
stop and face him. He stepped out of the sleigh and threw the robe, with
a quick motion, over the horse. Then he came on to her, smiling,
effusively cordial, and Tira waited. A pace away he took off his hat and
made her an exaggerated bow. He was carefully dressed, but then he was
always that, according to his lights. Only Tira, who knew him so well,
all his vain schemes of personal fitness, judged this to be a day of
especial preparation. For what? He took the step between them and put
out both hands.

"If this ain't luck!" he beamed. "How are you, girl? I made up my mind
I'd see you, but I hadn't an idea you'd be on the road."

Ti