grances to his heart, swept him
with disconcerting violence.

He steadied himself against that assaulting and went resolutely into the
room where Dorothy was standing with her back half turned so that she
did not at once see him.

She stood deep in thought--artlessly posed in lance-like straightness,
and on the smooth whiteness of her neck a breath of breeze stirred wisps
of bronzed and crisply curling hair. The swing of her shoulders was
gallant and the man thanked God for that. She would want her courage
now.

"Dorothy," he said, softly, standing close at her side, "I've got ter do
somethin' thet ye're goin' ter hate ter hev me ter ondertake--an' yet I
knows ye'll want me ter do hit, too."

She wheeled at the tenseness of his voice and he wondered whether some
premonition had already foreshadowed his announcement, for her cheeks
were pale as she raised her hands and locked her fingers behind his
head, standing off at arms' length so that she might look into his face.

He felt the hands tighten and tremble as he explained his mission, and
saw the lids close over the eyes as if to shut out pictures of
terror-stricken foreboding, while the lips parted stiffly in the pain of
repressed and tidal emotions. Dorothy swayed uncertainly on her feet,
then recovered self-command.

With a passionate impulse of holding him for herself, her arms closed
more rigidly about him and her soft body clung against his own, but no
sound of sobbing came from her lips and after a little she threw back
her head and spoke rapidly, tensely, with the molten fierceness of one
mountain-bred:

"I hain't seekin' ter dissuade ye ... I reckon I kinderly egged ye on
out thar under ther tree ... but ef any harm comes ter ye, Cal ... over
yon ... then afore God, even ef I'm only a woman ... I'll kill ther man
thet causes hit!"

It was Dorothy who saddled and bridled the easy-paced mule for the man
with the bandaged arm to mount, and who gave him directions for reaching
his destination. As he turned in his saddle he summoned the spirit to
flash upon her his old smile in farewell and she waved as though she
were speeding him on some errand of festival. Then while old Aaron paced
the dooryard with a grim face of pessimism bowed low over his chest, she
turned into the house and, beside the bed where her lover had so long
lain, dropped to her knees and clasped her hands in prayer.

Parish Thornton had told Aaron that he meant to go unarmed to that
m