If her tears were near the surface, they were at least genuine, and filmed her violet eyes and reddened her pretty eyelids quite as effectually as if they had welled from the depths of her being.  Her black frock lent a matured dignity to her figure, and paled her delicate complexion with the refinement of suffering.  Even Clarence was moved in that dark and haggard abstraction that had settled upon him since his strange outbreak over the body of his old friend.

The extent of that change had not been noticed by Mrs. Peyton, who had only observed that Clarence had treated her grief with a grave and silent respect.  She was grateful for that.  A repetition of his boyish impulsiveness would have been distasteful to her at such a moment.  She only thought him more mature and more subdued, and as the only man now in her household his services had been invaluable in the emergency.

The funeral had taken place at Santa Inez, where half the county gathered to pay their last respects to their former fellow-citizen and neighbor, whose legal and combative victories they had admired, and whom death had lifted into a public character.  The family were returning to the house the same afternoon, Mrs. Peyton and the girls in one carriage, the female house-servants in another, and Clarence on horseback.  They had reached the first plateau, and Clarence was riding a little in advance, when an extraordinary figure, rising from the grain beyond, began to gesticulate to him wildly.  Checking the driver of the first carriage, Clarence bore down upon the stranger.  To his amazement it was Jim Hooker.  Mounted on a peaceful, unwieldy plough horse, he was nevertheless accoutred and armed after his most extravagant fashion.  In addition to a heavy rifle across his saddle-bow he was weighted down with a knife and revolvers.  Clarence was in no mood for trifling, and almost rudely demanded his business.

“Gord, Clarence, it ain’t foolin’.  The Sisters’ title was decided yesterday.”

“I knew it, you fool!  It’s your title!  You were already on your land and in possession.  What the devil are you doing here?”

“Yes,—­but,” stammered Jim, “all the boys holding that title moved up here to ‘make the division’ and grab all they could.  And I followed.  And I found out that they were going to grab Judge Peyton’s house, because it was on the line, if they could, and findin’ you was all away, by Gord they did! and they’re in it!  And I stoled out and rode down here to warn ye.”

He stopped, looked at Clarence, glanced darkly around him and then down on his accoutrements.  Even in that supreme moment of sincerity, he could not resist the possibilities of the situation.

“It’s as much as my life’s worth,” he said gloomily.  “But,” with a dark glance at his weapons, “I’ll sell it dearly.”

“Jim!” said Clarence, in a terrible voice, “you’re not lying again?”