and then receded. Her eyes drew
down a little at the corners.

"Ye mean 'mong the squatters, don't ye?" she queried sharply. "Squatters
air jest as good as any one else, Miss Young."

"Well, now, dear, I didn't mean they weren't," Helen laughed pleasantly;
"and I'm sure if they're all like you, Tessibel, they're very nice
indeed."

The memory of Teola Graves, the small, sickly baby, and the sudden death
of Minister Graves passed through Tessibel's mind. The promise to her of
the deed to the land on which their shanty stood was also in that
procession of ghosts belonging to the past.

"Daddy and me was goin' to own our hut ground," she confided
thoughtfully, "but--but--the dominie died afore we got it--so we air
squatters yet jest the same as the rest. Squatters be awful nice folks!
Most of 'em air better'n me."

"Well, anyway," took up Helen, wishing to keep off dangerous ground,
"the paper says the warden's going to start from the head of Cayuga Lake
and search every house and cabin until he--"

Tessibel rose to her feet unsteadily. In her vivid imagination she saw
the strong arm of the law reach out from Auburn Prison and drag from her
care and protection the wee, twisted little man chanting over the verses
and prayers she'd taught him.

"I ain't a goin' to read today,--I got to go now," she gulped. "Good
bye, Miss Young."

Daddy Skinner unbarred the door when he heard Tessibel call his name. At
the sight of his young daughter's agitated face, the fisherman slid into
his chair, beckoning her to a place on his knee.

"What air doin', Tess?" he questioned swiftly. "Ye're as white as
bleached starch."

Tess placed her finger on her lips, glancing in the direction of the
garret. Getting up, she barred the door and crept back to her father's
side.

"Burnett air a scootin' down here after Andy," she murmured, too low for
the dwarf to hear. "Miss Young says it air in the paper. I got to tell
the poor little feller now so he won't die o' fright when the warden
comes."

She went to the ladder and looked up through the hole. Then she set one
foot on the lower rung and began to sing softly,

"Rescue the Perishin';
Care for the Dyin'."

And on and on she sang, in throbbing melody, to the end of the hymn.
Tess had long ago discovered the fear-dissipating qualities of "Rescue
the Perishin'." A long happy sigh in the attic told her the dwarf had
enjoyed her song.

"Andy," she called in a low tone, "come