e gone before ever ye know he's about."

"What kind of a sign?"

"Faith! I'm not sure of that yet--myself. It must be something that
will put trust back in a lad and tell him to come home."

"And where would you put it?"

"Where? On the roadside, just, anywhere along the road he's used to
tramping."

Gregory Jessup's face lost its puzzled frown and became suddenly
illumined with an inspiration. "I know! By Hec! I've got it! There's
that path that runs down from the Burgeman estate to our old cottage.
It was a short cut for us kids, and we were almost the only ones to
use it. Billy would be far more likely to take that than the
highroad--and it leads to the Burgeman farm, too, run by an old
couple that simply adore Billy. He might go there when he wouldn't go
anywhere else. That's the place for a message. But what message?"

"I know!" Patsy clapped her hands. "Have ye a scrap of paper
anywheres about ye--and a pencil?"

Hunting through the pockets of his riding-clothes, Gregory Jessup
discovered a business letter, the back of which provided ample
writing space, and the stub of a red-ink pencil. "We use 'em in the
drafting-room," he explained. "If these will do--here's a desk," and
he raised the end of his saddle, supporting it with a large expanse
of palm.

Patsy accepted them all with a gracious little nod, and, spreading
the paper on the improvised desk, she wrote quickly:

"If it do come to pass
That any man turn ass,"
Thinking the world is blind
And trust forsworn mankind,
"Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame":
Here shall he find
Both trust and peace of mind,
An he but leave all foolishness behind.

"With apologies to Willie Shakespeare," Patsy chuckled again as she
returned paper and pencil to their owner. "Ye put it somewhere he'd
be likely to look--furninst something that would naturally take his
notice."

"I know just the spot--and they're in blossom now, too. I'll fasten
it to a rock, there, wedge it in the cracks. Billy won't miss it if
he comes within yards of the place." He grasped Patsy's hand with
growing fervor that gave promise of developing suddenly into almost
anything. "You're a brick, Miss O'Connell--a solid gold brick of a
girl, and I wish--"

"Take care!" warned Patsy. "Ye're not improving as fast in your
compliments as ye might--and there's no poetry in gold--for me."

Gregory Jessup looked puzzled, but his fervor did not abate one whit.
"I want