"All I had--seven thousand dollars--" Suddenly the old man's hand began to tremble. He raised his gray head and looked up at the stars. "That is yours still," said Gordon, gently, "with interest. My father wishes it." Old man Jocelyn looked up at the stars. They seemed to swim in silver streaks through the darkness. "Come," said Gordon, gayly, "we are brother sportsmen now--and that sky means a black frost and a flight. Will you invite me to shoot over Brier Brook swales to-morrow?" As he spoke, high in the starlight a dark shadow passed, coming in from the north, beating the still air with rapid wings. It was a woodcock, the first flight bird from the north. "Come to dinner, young man," said Jocelyn, excited; "the flight is on and we must be on Brier Brook by daybreak." In the blaze of a kerosene-lamp they sat down at table. Gordon looked across at Jocelyn's daughter; her eyes met his, and they smiled. Then old man Jocelyn bent his head on his hard clasped hands. "Lord," he said, tremulously, "it being Thanksgiving, I gave Thee extry thanks this A.M. It being now P.M., I do hereby double them extry thanks"--his mind wandered a little--"with interest to date. Amen." THE PATH-MASTER "The bankrupt can always pay one debt, but neither God nor man can credit him with the payment." I When Dingman, the fate game-warden, came panting over the mountain from Spencers to confer with young Byram, road-master at Foxville, he found that youthful official reshingling his barn. The two men observed each other warily for a moment; Byram jingled the shingle-nails in his apron-pocket; Dingman, the game-warden, took a brief but intelligent survey of the premises, which included an unpainted house, a hen-yard, and the newly shingled barn. "Hello, Byram," he said, at length. "Is that you?" replied Byram, coldly. He was a law-abiding young man; he had not shot a bird out of season for three years. After a pause the game-warden said, "Ain't you a-comin' down off'n that ridge-pole?" "I'm a-comin' down when I quit shinglin'," replied the road-master, cautiously. Dingman waited; Byram fitted a shingle, fished out a nail from his apron-pocket, and drove it with unnecessary noise. The encircling forest re-echoed the hammer strokes; a squirrel scolded from the orchard. "Didn't I hear a gun go off in them alder bushes this morning?" inquired the game-warden. Byram made no reply, but hammered violently. "Anybody got a ice-house 'round here?" persisted the game-warden. Byram turned a non-committal eye on the warden. "I quit that business three years ago, an' you know it," he said. "I 'ain't got no ice-house for to hide no pa'tridges, an' I ain't a-shootin' out o' season for the Saratogy market!" The warden regarded him with composure. "Who said _you_ was shootin' pa'tridges?" he asked. But Byram broke in: "What would I go shootin' them birds for when I 'ain't got no ice-box?"