"But I _shall_ come back, Aunt Pallas, next spring, to bring you something nice for all you've done for me, and because--because--I shan't be able to stay away," he answered, though somewhat startled and puzzled by her revelation. "Why not be able to stay 'way?" queried she, with a sharp glance. "Oh, you can guess, Aunt Pallas. I shan't tell you." "People isn't allers satisfied with guessing--like to have things plain, and no mistake 'bout 'em," observed Pallas. "Just so. _I_ am not satisfied with guessing who tried to kill me, and what their object was. I am going to ask Alice, this evening. She's evidently frightened about me; she won't let me stir a step alone. So you think your pickaninny is the best and the prettiest child alive, do you?" "Dat I do." "So do I. What do you suppose she thinks of such a worthless kind of a person as myself? Do, now, tell me, won't you, auntie?" "You clar out, young masser, and don't bozzer me. I'se busy wid dis ironin'. You'd better ask _her_, if yer want to find out." "But can't you say something to encourage me?" "You go 'long. Better tease somebody hain't got no ironin' on hand." "You'll repent of your unkindness soon, Aunt Pallas; for, be it known to you, to-morrow is set for my departure, and when I'm gone it will be too late to send your answer after me;" and the young man rose, with a very becoming air of injured feeling which delighted her much. "Hi! hi! ef it could only be," she sighed, looking after him. "But we can't smoof tings out in dis yere worl' quite so easy as I smoof out dis table-cloth. He's one ob de family, no mistake; and masser's found it out, too, 'fore dis." That night the family sat up late, Pallas busy in the kitchen putting up her master's changes of linen and cooked provisions for the next day's journey, and the master himself busied about many small affairs demanding attention. The two young people sat before a blazing wood-fire in the front room; the settle had been drawn up to it for Philip's convenience, and his companion at his request had taken a seat by his side. The curtains were closely drawn, yet Alice would frequently look around in a timid, wild way, which he could not but notice. "You did not use to be so timid." "I have more reason now;" and she shuddered. "Until you were hurt, Mr. Moore, I did not think how near we might be to murderers, even in our house." "You should not allow it to make such an impression on your mind. It is passed; and such things scarcely happen twice in one person's experience." "I do not fear for myself--it is for you, Mr. Moore." "Philip, you called me, that night in the woods. Supposing I _was_ in danger, little Alice, what would you risk for me?" She did not answer. "Well, what would you risk for some one you loved--say, your father?" "All things--my life."