“No, dear,” she said, still gazing at him with an absorbed look in her dark eyes. Richelieu felt a slight creepy sensation under that lonely far-off gaze. “Your eyes look awful big at night, Minty,” he said. He would have added “and pretty,” but she was his sister, and he had the lofty fraternal conviction of his duty in repressing the inordinate vanity of the sex. “Ye're sure ye ain't wantin' nothin'?” “Not now, dear.” She paused a moment, and then said deliberately: “But you wouldn't mind turnin' out after sun-up and runnin' an errand for me over to The Lookout?” Richelieu's eyes sparkled so suddenly that even in her absorption Minty noticed the change. “But ye're not goin' to tarry over there, ner gossip--you hear? Yer to take this yer message. Yer to say 'that it will be onpossible for me to come back there, on account--on account of--'” “Important business,” suggested Richelieu; “that's the perlite style.” “Ef you like.” She leaned over the bed and put her lips to his forehead, still damp with the dews of sleep, and then to his long-lashed lids. “Mind Nip!”--the squirrel--he practically suggested. For an instant their blond curls mingled on the pillow. “Now go to sleep,” she said curtly. But Richelieu had taken her white neck in the short strangulatory hug of the small boy, and held her fast. “Ye'll let me put on my best pants?” “Yes.” “And wear that ring?” “Yes”--a little sadly. “Then yer kin count me in, Minty; and see here”--his voice sank to a confidential whisper--“mebbee some day ye'll be beholden to ME for a lot o' real jewelry.” She returned slowly to her room, and, opening the window, looked out upon the night. The same moon that had lent such supererogatory grace to the natural beauty of The Lookout, here seemed to have failed; as Minty had, in disguising the relentless limitations of Nature or the cruel bonds of custom. The black plain of granite, under its rays, appeared only to extend its poverty to some remoter barrier; the blackened stumps of the burnt forest stood bleaker against the sky, like broken and twisted pillars of iron. The cavity of the broken ledge where Richelieu had prospected was a hideous chasm of bluish blackness, over which a purple vapor seemed to hover; the “brush dump” beside the house showed a cavern of writhing and distorted objects stiffened into dark rigidity. She had often looked upon the prospect: it had never seemed so hard and changeless; yet she accepted it, as she had accepted it before.