ntain wrapt in a
delirious ecstasy. Suddenly he quickened his steps: "I must go and hear
Uncle Scroope's will. A chance of something thar. No need of grubbing
out my life then in that old sheep-pasture." But he soon slackened his
pace again, thinking with a glow of exultation how true and tender he
would be to his love--how he could fight for her if need be. He wished
there were some foes to fight. No doubt if there had been, Dave would
have done his devoir, for he was as gallant a gentleman as any Sidney of
them all.

Isabel sat on the porch alone that evening. The women, with the men,
were at work ploughing corn on the upland, and her father would not
return from Sevier until late. The sun was going down, throwing the
shadow of a great peak of the Balsam Range over the house and the neat
farm with its Pennsylvania barn and fences. High up on the mountain
heaps of mica outside of the gaping black mouth of a deserted mine
glistened like silver.

A queer little figure was coming up the lonely road. Isabel saw it, and
laughed. Nobody could mistake the consequential strut, the flapping
linen suit, the white hat with its band of crape. But Isabel was in a
happy, tender mood toward all the world to-night; and she had always
been gentle with the poor little major. She only, of all the people in
Sevier, saw beneath the drunken braggart a man who had been sorely
worsted, and that perhaps not fairly, in the long fight. He was quite
sober this evening. But as she rose to meet him she saw signs of an odd
change in him. The linen clothes were scrupulously clean, costly ruby
buttons blazed in his shirt-front, on his fore finger was a curious
antique ring never seen there before: the usual defiant jauntiness of
the man had given way to a more significant self-assertion, as if he had
at last found secure ground beneath his feet.

"My father is not at home, Major Fetridge: I am sorry," said Isabel,
offering him a chair.

But he remained standing, leaning airily against a pillar, looking down
at her. "_I_ am not sorry, Miss Calhoun. It was you that I came to see,"
he said pointedly. A nervous smile showed his teeth; his pale blue eyes
shone: the little man was, she saw, aflame with some secret exultation
as with wine.

"I fancy that you bring me good news, major?" said Isabel, humoring his
mood.

"News? Yes, I bring you news. The will is read--Judge Scroope's will."

"Who is the heir?"

"Peter Marmaduke Boyer, if he is alive.