as he was of ignorance.  Then, he would surprise them by doing absolutely nothing till election time, then “plunk” it all on them through the opposition paper, and stand back, and take his dismissal!  Oh, his midnight thoughts raced, as yours and mine have raced, when we have been struck by sorrow, or blackmail, or motiveless malice!  He could not make sure of it; but once as he paced near the Ridge trail he thought he saw . . . was it a form in flannels accompanied by a figure resembling Bat’s sauntering slowly down to the Valley?

When Wayland dwelt a moment on what such a conjunction of observers might mean, his thoughts jumped.  Could Brydges have done it?  Back in the Cabin, the face in the picture seemed sentient and shining in the gloom.  It was an absurd notion, of course; for the picture was a shadowy thing in dark sepia; and there was no light but the silver reflection of the moon from the Holy Cross.  The Holy Cross,—­what was it she had said?  Nothing worth while ever won without someone being crucified?  How absurdly small, how remotely contemptibly impossible, the scandal thing seemed anyway, as though a skunk could obstruct the avalanche of the massed snow flakes by sending up his malodorous stench across the path of the Law!  And he loved her and he had her love, and he had known the highest blessedness of life, and nothing could take the consciousness of it from him!  Wayland went to sleep dreaming fool-things about the face in the picture.  Of course, you never dreamed them, sleeping or waking.  At break of day, he picked a sprig of mountain flower, and did certain things to that framed picture, and rode away to his day’s work.

“Let’s go up and see that little runt of an Irish lassie,” Matthews had suggested in the afternoon; and they were leisurely climbing the Ridge Trail, the old frontiersman yarning and yarning of the dear good old days; Eleanor thinking her own thoughts.  They met a downy-lipped youth in gray flannels and Mr. Bat Brydges wearing a panama hat and an “Oh-I-know-it-all” air.  Both dabbed at their hats to the old man; but Matthews saw them not till they had passed when he stopped and turned with a look over his shoulder and a grunt.  Eleanor had not learned yet what had happened to the Sheriff; but somehow the old frontiersman’s look gave her a satisfaction.  Where a crag jutted out from the face of the Ridge and some spruce saplings spanned a spring trickling down from the rocks, Matthews stopped.  This was the place!  Old rascal!  How did he know?  Has age ever been young?  Eleanor did not know that he was looking at her, did not know that her face was wrapped in mystery and light.  Suddenly he placed both hands on her shoulder.

“Eleanor, y’r a magnificent woman!  Y’ don’t mind me callin’ y’ a woman?”

It was his highest compliment.