unt.

"Good-by, old man. You go to bed and get a good sleep. I'll stop at
the hotel and leave word for Miss Reynier. And you stay here, so I'll
know where you are. I may want to find you quick, if I land that
bloomin' beggar."

"Thanks," said Aleck weakly. "I'll turn in for an hour or so, if
Sallie can find me a bed."

Mr. Chamberlain made several notes on an envelope which he pulled from
his pocket, gravely thanked Sallie for her breakfast and lifted his hat
to her when he departed. Aleck dropped into a chair and was stupidly
staring at the stove when Sallie returned from a journey to the pump in
the yard.

"You'll like to take a little rest, Mr. Van Camp," she said, "and I
know just the place where you'll not hear a sound from anywhere--if you
don't mind there not being a carpet. I'll go up right away and show
you the room before I knead out my bread." So she conducted Aleck to a
big, clean attic under the rafters, remote and quiet. He was
exhausted, not from lack of sleep--he had often borne many hours of
wakefulness and hard work without turning a hair--but from the jarring
of a live nerve throughout the night of anxiety. The past, and the
relationships of youth and kindred were sacred to him, and his pain had
overshadowed, for the hour at least, even the newer claims of his love
for Melanie Reynier.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE SPIRIT OF THE ANCIENT WOOD

Agatha's first thought on awakening late in the forenoon, was the
memory of Sallie Kingsbury coaxing her to bed and tucking her in, in
the purple light of the early morning. She remembered the attention
with pleasure and gratitude, as another blessing added to the greater
one of James Hambleton's turn toward recovery. Sallie's act was mute
testimony that Agatha was, in truth, heir to Hercules Thayer's estate,
spiritual and material.

She summoned Lizzie, and while she was dressing, laid out directions
for the day. During her short stay in Ilion, Lizzie had been diligent
enough in gathering items of information, but nevertheless she had
remained oblivious of any impending crisis during the night. Her
pompadour was marcelled as accurately as if she were expecting a
morning call from Mr. Straker. No rustlings of the wings of the Angel
of Death had disturbed her sleep. In fact, Lizzie would have winked
knowingly if his visit had been announced to her. Her sophistication
had banished such superstitions. She noticed, however, that Agatha's
can