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It was the evening of the next day. Frank Stanhope lay on a couch in a darkened room, a black bandage across his eyes. Erie Landon sat beside him, holding his hand. The pungent odor of ether hung in the air. Out in the dining room old Doctor Allworth, from Bridgetown, was discussing with the specialist things known only to those men of science.,

"Do you know the Minorca?",

Hope stirred in Anson's fear ridden soul—hope which Billy remorselessly killed with his next words.,

"Well, maybe that ain't stealin' it, but if it ain't what would you call it, Willium?"

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He was seated on a stump in the new clearing which sloped to Levee Creek, fingers locked about one knee, battered felt hat pulled over his eyes. The green slope at his feet lay half in the sunlight, half in the shadow. Across from a patch of golden-rod, the cock bird of a fox-scattered quail-covey whistled the "All's Well" call to the birds in hiding. Ordinarily Billy would have answered that call, would have drawn the brown, scuttling birds close about him with the low-whistled notes he could produce so well: but today he was oblivious to all save his thoughts.,

"You will deny me even a daisy?" he cried, with a sudden passion in his manner which alarmed her, as he was not sober. He sprang to the side of the road, and picking a daisy returned to her, pulled off his hat, and said earnestly—indeed in a voice of emotion and sincerity that put a fine and appealing meaning into the expression of his eyes which by the power of the impulse then governing him were superior to the drink in his head: "Let me entreat you, madam, to put this little flower to your sweet lips, and return it to me. It is but a trifle I ask: you are too good and generous to refuse me.",

Billy considered. "I'll try," he promised, "but it's goin' to take a whole lot of coaxin' to do it. That old witchcoon has been prowlin' down through the tamarack swale huntin' copperhead snakes for a week now, gettin' ready to do fer somebody er other.",

"Frank told Mr. Reddick, the preacher who came to bury old Scroggie, all that had passed between him an' the dead man but although they hunted high an' low fer the will, they never found it. Nor did they find any of the money the ol' miser must have left behind—not a solitary cent. That was over a year ago, an' they haven't found money or will yet. But this goes to show what a real feller Frank Stanhope is. He put a fine grave stone up for ol' Scroggie an' had his name engraved on it. Yes he done that, an' all he ever got from the dead man was his curses.