The procession thinned. Sanford could give Peter some attention at intervals and rub his right palm covertly free from sweat.

"Hanged if I can remember all their names," he whispered. "Who's this

girl coming up the steps?"

"Kate Pollard," Peter prompted. Sanford could not recognize her. She had for escort Corporal Jock Cameron, who strutted somewhat, the gold chevron on his right sleeve very prominent, and Jock shoved her forward with a gesture of ownership. Against his bulk, she appeared childish, the twin ropes of her dark-red hair making her pointed face curiously white. She seemed frightened, and dreadful embarrassment took Sanford when she clung to his hand.

"I-I wanted to ask you somethin'-" "She wants to know if you saw her brother Andy in France," said Jock Cameron. "I told her you would n't of-"

"Yes," she gasped, "that's what I wanted, sir."

The "sir" alarmed Sanford. He shook his head helplessly. The girl was entirely strange to him.

"I'm sorry. No, I did n't. What regiment was he in?"

"I don't know. He'd be in the army, though. He's awful' brave." Her weak little mouth trembled. She sniffled without decorum and turned away. Jock Cameron followed her down the steps and hustled her off into a group of lilacs, where he stayed, administering consolation and pats, while the remaining visitors moved up. Presently the lawn cleared, and Peter gave a howl of relief, dragging at the idol's belt.

"Now," he snarled, "come and sit down."

"Now," said Sanford, "I 'm going up and take these clothes off."

But he subsided with Peter on the cushions of the living-room hearth and weakly let himself be worshiped while the servants brought in tea and sandwiches.

"It 's disgusting. I ought to remember every one, but I got caught three or four times. Who on earth is that girl who cried? Pollard? Who are the Pollards?"

"She's McCarthy's step-daughter," said Rawling. "McCarthy married Pollard's widow."

"He did n't have any wife along this afternoon," Sanford pondered.

"Mrs. McCarthy 's probably up at the house, drunk," Peter said and grinned, crawling over Sanford to the sandwichplate, and pausing to admire Sanford's silver wristlet, which he had just borrowed. "You ought to know her, San. She's a fat old cow with red hair and she's usually soused."

"McCarthy lives up beyond the Nattier's. It's a brick house. But I don't remember Mrs. McCarthy at all. Old age, I expect. Well, I don't remember any Andy Pollard, either. If you 'll get off me, Pete, I 'll go up and take a bath."

"You look pretty clean," said Peter, motionless, “and I don't see why I should get off you-Captain. Oh, no fair!" Sanford rolled him over in the cushions, spilling the sandwiches. The room filled with the noise of their scuffling and Peter's laughter. Rawling smiled through his cigarette smoke until a woman's voice, a harsh dissonance, cut over the din.

"Mr. Rawling-" "Oh," said Rawling, "Mrs. McCarthy. Come in, please."

Sanford let go Peter's leg and stood up. The large, red-haired woman fitted, with a snap of memory, into her place. Two years had made her more gross, and she came over the rugs in a needless curve, panting.

"I won't have Jock Cameron foolin' after Kate," she said, "an' I want you should put a stop to it quick."

Certainly she was not sober and she frowned at Rawling, her hands folding the front of a soiled pink wrapper with a sullen concentration. The owner of the valley frowned in return.

"Suppose you tell Jock that, Mrs. McCarthy."

"I have, an' I 've had McCarthy to tell him. An' I 've told Cameron I won't have none of his foolin' with my girl." She gave a beastly grunt, stamping suddenly. "I ain't good enough for Cameron an' his wife, see? Then Katie ain't good enough for 'em neither, see? I want you should stop this thing. The

big fool's been comin' after Katie ever since he come home-"

"I'll speak to the Camerons," said Rawling, patiently.

They let the horses carry them out of earshot and down the trail through the outer scattering of cottages, where Peter pointed his whip to the slovenly

"I'll speak in my usual tone of voice, Mrs. McCarthy. Was that all you had to say to me?"

Sanford saw her wavering eyes narrow on the suggestion that she had offended. She nodded and receded, a queer and ugly picture, across the floor. Yet, he thought, she had been hand

some.

"Poor old Jock!" said Peter, carelessly, rubbing butter from his breeches. "Fine mother-in-law he picked, huh? I think those boots would fit me, San."

He despoiled Sanford of the boots and wore them next day when they rode up the valley, revisiting old clearings, marking fresh trails here and there, crossing tranquil fords of the dozen streams, and halting to kill a young rattlesnake not far from the graveyard.

"I wonder," said Peter, pensively, kicking a hole for the crushed skull, "does Mrs. McCarthy see snakes. She drinks a heap. None of the other women like her."

"She's not a pleasant party. I wonder if Jock 'll marry Kate?" Sanford was absently asking when Jock Cameron, remarkable at any time for his bull-calf basso, began to sing inside the graveyard fence. A savage strumming accompanied his ballad, announcing a ukulele.

"That 's 'Quand Madelon,' is n't it?" Peter inquired, scrambling on to his irritated horse.

"He means it for that," Sanford admitted, rising in his stirrups for a view. Corporal Cameron, seated on a clovercovered grave, was bawling manfully. Kate Pollard stood absorbed and pleased by her lover's accomplishments. bellowed refrain made Sanford's mare snort. Peter giggled.

The

"Madelon! Madelon! Madelon!" "My!" Kate said, in the soothing silence, "it must be awful' hard to sing an' play at the same time, Jock. Sing some more."

"Good Lord!" said Sanford, "she likes it! Let's go."

little house itself had an unkempt look. There was a broken shutter, and the vines wandered shabbily about the porch.

"I expect Kate 's not what you 'd call wonderfully happy," Peter observed. "Probably not. I'm going to stop at the office to see Jim Varian," said Sanford; "so you take Sally on home."

He gave Peter his bridle at the office building opposite the vast, silenced mill and went in to talk gently with Varian. The old man was waning. His hawk nose seemed gaunter. There was the beginning of dusk in his eyes. He lounged in a chair by Rawling's empty desk and watched the clerks like a fierce, ancient dog. McCarthy gave Sanford a sleek bow over his ledgers.

"Hello, McCarthy. Well, Uncle Jim, let's go find a bear to-morrow and kill it, huh?"

He revived bygone forays, honeyhunts, fishing-trips, camp nights on the hilltops, avoiding any mention of those three sons who would never come back to the foreman. But their names came, after a while, when the clerks had slipped away and left them.

"D' you mind Reuben fightin' Andy Pollard over by the dam?"

"No, I don't," said Sanford. "Fact is, Uncle Jim, I don't remember Andy Pollard at all."

"You'd ought to,"-Varian was peevish-"he run off from here when his ma married McCarthy. But that 's twelve years, ain't it? Twelve, thirteen. He's your age, if he 's alive."

"The girl was asking if I'd seen him in France. I've forgotten him completely."

"He did n't play so much with all you boys," said Varian; "he was always taggin' after Pollard. Pollard was a good man. Went out West to bury his brother an' took typhoid fever. He come home an' died of it, or his wife killed him, I ain't sure which." He gave a mild chuckle, and reached for Sanford's cigarette-case, drawling on: "McCarthy was foolin' with her. She

was pretty back then. Anyways, she nursed Pollard on whisky an' fried pork. I mind old Doctor Laidlaw raisin' Cain over that. All the women kept talkin', too. Well, she married McCarthy in about, say, six months; five or six. She's got some money, I guess. I like seein' her go down to the store mornings. All the women kind of look at her sideways, like she was a case o' smallpox bustin' loose."

A smell of cooking suppers blew out of the village street, and the noise of children. Jock Cameron strolled by, fitfully twanging his ukulele. They became shadows in the darkening room, and both started at a shadow in the door.

"I wanted a job," said the shadow in question.

"Well, come round in the mornin'," Varian snapped. "This is a fine time to be lookin' for jobs."

"I walked up from the station, Mr. Varian. That 's ten miles."

The husky voice was dogged. Sanford pressed a light switch and peered, blinking. The shadow was an unshaven young man, with a wretched broad scar that made him frown ceaselessly.

"How'd you know me?" Varian complained. "I've seen ev' one on the property time out o' mind. I never saw you."

"They said to ask for you, down at the station." He considered Sanford's whipcord trousers and went on: "I was in a forestry outfit after I got done hospital, sir. I've got my discharge."

He had also a scarred hand. Sanford read that Private Joseph Collins was honorably discharged April first, and smiled.

"I think you can get supper and a bed at Mrs. Nattier's, up by the enginehouse. Come down in the morning."

"If Nattier can't feed you," said Varian, softened entirely, "go on up to my house an' tell that Swede girl to give you your supper."

"Thanks."

The man nodded quickly, gave Sanford a half-salute, and wheeled off. Next morning Sanford saw him, still unshaven, pulling a great log in toward the chain of moving hooks that would drag it up to the shrill saws. He

watched the trunk rolling in the water, steered by the pole, and spoke to Joseph Collins.

"Did you get in at the Nattier's? That's the best boarding-house." "Yes, it's pretty good."

The log caught and slid upward, dripping in the damp trough. Collins turned methodically, reaching for another. Under the felt hat his hair showed chestnut.

"Let me know," said Sanford, "if I can do anything for you."

"Thanks." He glanced up from his pole, and Sanford thought his eyes oddly bright, feverish in his tan, or that the scar made them seem so. He walked away, meeting Rawling as he crossed the street to the office.

"Your mother just 'phoned from New York. You'll have a nephew or a niece next week. Anyhow, I 'm going up." "I'll come."

"Oh, no,"-Rawling sniffed,-"you 'll stay here. You 'd be in the way, you know. You 're boss of the works. Kindly see that the engines get cleaned and that Peter does n't go in swimming."

He began to talk of details, interrupted himself as McCarthy came up with a check for signature, and while the clerk waited, Sanford eyed him sidelong. He had the remains of a dark beauty, although his eyes were puffed and his cheeks sallow.

"This business about Jock Cameron and that girl, Dad?"

- ron.

"Oh, let it alone. I spoke to CameThe boy may get tired of it, or Mrs. McCarthy may give in. Personally, I wish Jock would marry her. They say her mother beats her. She looks miserable most of the time. I wrote the adjutant-general in Washington last month to see if her fool brother 's in service. She thinks he is. He might be. And I wish he 'd come home and look after his fool of a mother." Rawling was testy, thinking of Margot and her prospective child. "I wanted to ship McCarthy off when he married Pollard's widow; there 'd been a deal of noise about them. But he's a good office man, so I let it go by. But I'm getting fed up with Mrs. McCarthy. She's a damned nuisance. By the way,

you 're a deputy sheriff while I 'm gone, if any one happens to kill any one else."

The owner departed that noon, and Sanford reigned placidly for several days, disturbed only by Peter, who developed an attack of versifying, the germ arriving from a volume of Swinburne. Once or twice Sanford noticed Kate Pollard in the door of the forge, listening to Jock's ukulele and any amount of rubbish about the Argonne. The lads began to swim in the log-pool, and a few more soldiers came home. On this peace a storm of gossip broke, swelling as the crowd emerged from Sunday church. Kate Pollard was imprisoned. Her mother had torn her from Jock's minstrelsy in the graveyard. Jock had spent the night singing on a log outside the McCarthy garden and was in bed with a chill.

"I'll bet," said Peter, 'that Kate is having a jolly time at home. Let's let Jock elope with her, huh?"

"I sha'n't do anything of the sort. And you keep out of this mess, Pete."

Sanford strode downhill and into the forge, where a circle of elders stood about Cameron, stolid and shirtless, beating rivets on the anvil. He gave Sanford a grim scowl and stopped. "You'll go up an' speak wi' Jock, San. He's to bed in his room, wi' a cauld on his lungs an' a mustard plaister." The audience snickered. "I '11 have no son o' mine yawlin' love-songs all night long in the wet to yon female's daughter. I ha' lockit him in. All night long in the rain like a tomcat on. the roofs! An' I 'll be obliged to the rest of you to be out of this smithy."

Jock was meek and dilapidated, smelling of camphor and inclined to tears. "You fix it up, San. I never was in love before. It's awful-”

"You look pretty awful," said Sanford, observing the ravages of the disease called love. "That 's what you get for staying out all night."

"But, San, that old devil 'll lick Kate again. She does. You go up and stop it and-"

walked away to the window and stared down at the lane, studded with children. Their bare legs twinkled in the green of the neat dooryards, and they yelled, foregathering here and there, purposeless, and pleased with the fair day. Peter had come down to share the excitement, and sat his horse before the forge, talking to Varian, whose worn amusement showed by the twitching of his hoary mustaches. To so old a man life was nothing but a spectacle, the repeated figures of a tapestry. To Sanford the comedy was very sour, with Jock choking in the untidy bed behind him.

"You keep quiet and be good," he said, "and I'll see what I can do." He went miserably down-stairs and joined Varian; but Peter touched his shoulder.

"Listen, San. She's up at Uncle Jim's. Shall I go up and tell Jock?" he whispered.

"The girl's got more spunk than I thought," said the foreman, and chuckled. "Yes, she got out this mornin'. She's bunged up some. McCarthy an' the woman are both drunk as lords. What'll I do with her?"

"Keep her," said Sanford after a second. "I'm deputy sheriff; we 'll make that do. Lord! I wish dad was here! You keep your mouth shut, Pete."

He felt moderately masterful and very foolish arranging the destinies of people under Varian's eye.

"I'll go see McCarthy," he suggested. "What's the good? They'll stay drunk all day. I can see their place from my porch. They ain't been out. yet. No, I'll talk to McCarthy in the mornin'. Keep out of women's business, San. You ain't old enough to be safe in it. You, Pete, if Jock Cameron comes yawpin' round my place, I'll fill him up with bird-shot, an' his blood 'll be on your hands."

Varian left them on this threat, and the administrator led Peter home to lunch, wondering if there would be an eruption of Mrs. McCarthy before night.

"We really ought to let Jock run off with her," Peter argued.

"We won't do anything of the kind. She's a minor and she can't get married without her mother letting her. When