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Was there to be another murder? Ought he to call? If he did wouldn’t they turn on him—kill him? No matter. Some one might be on the road and hear. And he could run pretty fast. Anyway he must risk it.,A scream from “the shack” stopped further quotations. Billy ran up the hill to learn the trouble. Only Evelyn was there in the little house built, half of boards, half of willow twigs woven lattice-wise, against a huge smooth rock. Beside this rock also ascended a cobble chimney; and the fireplace, roughly plastered, served its purpose well. Billy had made it all, and Edith wished the house fireplace would draw as well.,And so the story went on. All the wholesome things of the country that children like had come from one and another. And each had been as happy in giving as Billy could possibly be in receiving.,“Clarence will tell the men where to instal their teams,” the hostess reflected. The boy, who had fought shy of this mere woman’s party, had spent the afternoon in the barn.,“And I’m always going to be your little girl, too,” the child pleaded; “so Billy must be my papa’s little boy.”,“How do you know?”,An enlarged crayon portrait in a wide gilt frame of Moses as a baby in a state of round cherubic innocent nudity, had been added recently to the mural decorations and was especially well covered with cloths.,Moses’ opinion, repressed, however, in his bursting bosom, was of a like complexion, only much more vivid. He was hesitating between the liquid verge of tears and the lambent verge of profane utterance.,“No, it isn’t, sister! I’ve thought of a way out. Keep the kids straight here—I’ll be back in a minute.”,He climbed cat-like to the crest again, slid through the brush, dashed across bare spots, jumped from rocks that jutted in his way, struck stones but righted himself before falling, truly “hit only the high places,” as he breathlessly told the girls waiting for him at Ellen’s Isle.,Betty was trying to keep up the engaging flow of talk but the dance proved to require all her attention.,The audience made an impetuous dash to the scene of the fatality and as he stooped over the dripping yellow-frocked figure a jolt of even greater proportions upset the bucket entirely; a deluge of the unsavory mixture almost knocked off his knightly helmet and trickled from its rusty edges till he looked like a very rotund and rakish Don Quixote..