the pain was sharper than a knife. Below, on the big stairway, the echo of my footsteps sounded again from the empty rooms, so that I was taken with a panic and fled downward, sliding and falling, until I reached the hall. Frantically as I tried, I could not unfasten the bolts on the front door. And so, running into the drawing-room, I pried open the window, and sat me down in the embrasure to think, and to try to quiet the thumpings of my heart.

By degrees I succeeded. The still air of the night and the heavy, damp odors of the foliage helped me. And I tried to think what was right for me to do. I had promised the master not to leave the place, and that promise seemed in pledge to my father. Surely the master would come back—or Breed. They would not leave me here alone without food much longer. Although I was young, I was brought up to responsibility. And I inherited a conscience that has since given me much trouble.

From these thoughts, trying enough for a starved lad, I fell to thinking of my father on the frontier fighting the Cherokees. And so I dozed away to dream of him. I remember that he was skinning Cameron,—I had often pictured it,—and Cameron yelling, when I was awakened with a shock by a great noise.

I listened with my heart in my throat. The noise seemed to come from the hall,—a prodigious pounding. Presently it stopped, and a man's voice cried out:—

Ho there, within!

My first impulse was to answer. But fear kept me still.

Batter down the door, some one shouted.

There was a sound of shuffling in the portico, and the same voice:—

Now then, all together, lads!

Then came a straining and splitting of wood, and with a crash the door gave way. A lantern's rays shot through the hall.

The house is as dark as a tomb, said a voice.

And as empty, I reckon, said another. John Temple and his spy have got away.

We'll have a search, answered the first voice.

They stood for a moment in the drawing-room door, peering, and then they entered. There were five of them. Two looked to be gentlemen, and three were of rougher appearance. They carried lanterns.

That window's open, said one of the gentlemen. They must have been here to-day. Hello, what's this? He started back in surprise.

I slid down from the window-seat, and stood facing them, not knowing what else to do. They, too, seemed equally confounded.

It must be Temple's son, said one, at last. I had thought the family at Temple Bow. What's your name, my lad?

David Trimble, sir, said I.

And what are you doing here? he asked more sternly.

I was left in Mr. Temple's care by my father.

Oho! he cried. And where is your father?

He's gone to fight the Cherokees, I answered soberly. To skin a man named Cameron.

At that they were silent for an instant, and then the two broke into a laugh.

Egad, Lowndes, said the gentleman, here is a fine mystery. Do you think the boy is lying?

The other gentleman scratched his forehead.

I'll have you know I don't lie, sir, I said, ready to cry.

No, said the other gentleman. A backwoodsman named Trimble went to Rutledge with credentials from North Carolina, and has gone off to Cherokee Ford to join McCall.

Bless my soul! exclaimed the first gentleman. He came up and laid his hand on my shoulder, and said:—

Where is Mr. Temple?

That I don't know, sir.

When did he go away?

I did not answer at once.

That I can't tell you, sir.

Was there any one with him?

That I can't tell you, sir.

The devil you can't! he cried, taking his hand away. And why not?

I shook my head, sorely beset.

Come, Mathews, cried the gentleman called Lowndes. We'll search first, and attend to the lad after.