lliance with
Lucille, on whom he lavished the whole affection of his deeply, if
undemonstratively, affectionate nature, and the two "hunted in
couples," sinned and suffered together, pooled their resources and
their wits, found consolation in each other when harried by Miss
Smellie, spent every available moment in each other's society and,
like the Early Christians, had all things in common.

On birthdays, "high days and holidays" he would ask "Grumper" to let
him have the Sword for an hour or two, and would stand with it in his
hand, rapt, enthralled, ecstatic. How strange it made one feel! How
brave, and anxious to do fine deeds. He would picture himself bearing
an unconscious Lucille in his left arm through hostile crowds, while
with the Sword he thrust and hewed, parried and guarded.... Who could
fear _anything_ with the Sword in his hand, the Sword of the Dream!
How glorious to die wielding it, wielding it in a good cause ...
preferably on behalf of Lucille, his own beloved little pal, staunch,
clever, and beautiful. And he told Lucille tales of the Sword and of
how he loved it!

CHAPTER V.

LUCILLE.

"If you drinks a drop more, Miss Lucy, you'll just go like my pore
young sister goed," observed Cook in a warning voice, as Lucille
paused to get her second wind for the second draught.

(Lucille had just been tortured at the stake by Sioux and
Blackfeet--thirsty work on a July afternoon.)

"And how did she go, Cookie-Bird--_Pop?_" inquired Lucille politely,
with round eyes, considering over the top of the big lemonade-flagon
as it rose again to her determined little mouth.

"No, Miss Lucy," replied Cook severely. "Pop she did not. She swole
... swole and swole."

"You mean 'swelled,' Cookoo," corrected Lucille, inclined to be a
little didactic and corrective at the age of ten.

"Well, she were _my_ sister after all, Miss Lucy," retorted Cook, "and
perhaps I may, or may not, know what she done. _I_ say she swole--and
what is more she swole clean into a dropsy. All along of drinking
water.... _Drops_ of water--_Dropsy_."

"Never drink water," murmured Dam, absentmindedly annexing, and
pocketing, an apple.

"Ah, water, but you see this is lemonade," countered Lucille.
"Home-made, too, and not--er--gusty. It doesn't make you go----" and
here it is regrettable to have to relate that Lucille made a
shockingly realistic sound, painfully indicative of the condition of
one who has imbibed unwisely and