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Sunday-night prayer meeting was just over. The worshippers had gone from the church in twos and threes. Deacon Ringold had remained behind to extinguish the church lights and lock up. As he stepped from the porch into the shadows along the path, a small hand gripped his arm. "Aye," he would answer. "Your mother and I were happy in that way. But she was taken away and all I had in her place was heart loneliness—but for you." Then she would kiss him softly and, stealing about her household tasks, sing him to fitful sleep as she moved quietly about the room. 9 AND 11 YOUNG STREET.

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"I think," Mr. Johnson's voice was heard above the din, "it would be a good plan to start a fire in that big stove. This place is positively vault like with dampness." "I was goin' down the path to the road, Anse with me, when the teacher went past, runnin' fer all he was worth. Come to think of it his coat had been clawed some, an' I remember now his face was bleedin' from a scratch er two. He didn't see us an' he didn't stop. He kept right on goin'. Anse an' me went on to the school, an' there we found Ringdo jest finishin' the teacher's lunch. I brought him back an' put him in his cage. That's all, Ma, an' it's every blessed word true." "Not what you'd notice, Ma. He ain't any like Mr. Stanhope. His face—I ain't likin' it a bit. Besides, Ma, he flogs his poor horse somethin' awful." Hinter's sigh of relief was inaudible to the boy. "That's a good resolve," he commended. "Stick to it; that swamp is a treacherous place.".