rdial; and, if you
are passing there, would you inquire how many bushels they wish, and say
you will send them over with your compliments?"

"Thank you, John," she looked forgivingly across at him. "If Jane would
like, we may go now. The cherries are at their primest state. I shall
stop a moment," she turned and took Jane's arm, "to see how our
preserving goes, my dear. Can we be home for luncheon? And will you
remain to have it with us?"

Even before they had quite disappeared, Brent rescued the still
palatable juleps, and he and the Colonel were testing them.

"She's a good soul," the old gentleman murmured. "I'm glad for her sake
that Zack remained discreet the other day."

"I'm glad for all our sakes," Brent gravely nodded. "Though I suppose he
wouldn't have done it under any circumstances."

"He's a perspicacious nigger," the Colonel chuckled. In a moment he
spoke more soberly: "I've been in town every day, and have heard no
single word about Potter. Do you suppose he's dead somewhere in the
hills?"

"Oh, no," Brent evasively answered. "He's all right. A shot at him would
scare him away for a month. He has too much on his conscience."

"Well, I shall persist," the old gentleman sighed.

They were leaning back--just as two contented idlers in the shade; but
each with a weight upon his heart to rob it of that needed peace which
makes for perfect days. Yet, Brent could hardly now be called an idler.
He had worked late the night before plotting his field notes, and the
afternoon would be devoted to this same pursuit. Finally he said:

"Suppose I had killed Tusk! Would you stand by me?"

"Yes, sir," the old gentleman opened his eyes, "I would stand by you
with a shot gun until I had the satisfaction of seeing you safely locked
up in jail."

A longer pause.

"Assuming that I'd acted in self defense, would there be much of a stir
about it?"

"Hm," came the noncommital response, but this time with closed eyes, for
the Master of Arden had passed the point of active interest.

It was a morning to invite sleep. No leaf stirred, but the shaded air
was fresh and comforting. Great cumulus clouds lazily, ponderously,
glided across the sky, prototypes of nomadic wandering. Somewhere back
by the stables a mellow farm bell proclaimed across the smiling fields
the hour of noon; then negroes straightened up from the rows of young
tobacco, stretched their tired backs, and in groups wandered toward a
cool spring where