eyes blazed as might the
eyes of some hungry thing to which food is brought. It was late when
he reached his home again, and the next day he must read a book, he
said, that he had found at Mrs. Rolfston's. At night he was stalking
across the country again, to his couch on the dry clover; and he
thought not even of the Hindoo king. Mrs. Rolfston's school of
theology was not of the sort which worries one with puzzling things,
and he had been in a receptive mood.

The next day he worked like a giant. In the early evening he found
Jenny Bierce. She questioned him, but he had not much to answer.

"Is there some one in the town ?" she asked.

"There are several hundred people there."

"You know what I mean. Is there any one in particular?"--this
poutingly.

He said that of late the only one, to speak of, he had found anywhere
was a girl in a calico dress.

CHAPTER XI.

SETTLING WITH WOODELL.

So passed the days away. What added brawn came to the strong young
fellow's arms from the driving of the rails and lifting them to place!
Brown, almost, as the changing beech-leaves his face, and the palms of
his hands became like celluloid. He was unlike the farmers, though,
for he lacked the farmers' stoop--he had not to dig nor mow, nor rake
nor bind. He swung his ax or maul, and commanded the red oxen in
country speech, and deeper and deeper into the forest grew the fence.
And, of evenings, he was with Jenny, and Sundays he was in the town.
What days they were, with all their force, and health, and lawless
abandonment, though in the line of nature. He drank not, nor smoked,
nor ate made dishes. He was like an unreasoning bobolink, or hawk, or
fawn, or wolf. But there grew apace the problem of Jenny.

One night, as the two were walking, each caught a glimpse of something
dark, which moved swiftly through the bushes some distance from the
road.

The girl started.

"What is the matter?" Harlson said.

"Did you not see it--that shadow in the bushes?"

"Yes. Some one was there. What of it? Some of the boys are
coon-hunting."

"It wasn't that," she whispered. "I know what it was. It was Harrison
Woodell, and he is watching."

"Well, he might be in much better business. Are you fond of him?"

"I like him very much," she answered, simply, "but sometimes I am
afraid."

He laughed.

"He'll not hurt you. He dare not."

"But he may hurt you."

Another laugh.

"Don't you think I can take ca