“I can’t think where Keefe has been to-day,” said Carin. “It is just the sort of a day you’d have expected him to come. We might have needed him, if the storm had grown worse. Weren’t you surprised that he didn’t look in on us?” “Yes, I was,” confessed Azalea. “It wasn’t like him to stay away on a stormy day.” Carin laughed—and her laugh had a touch of vexation. “How do you know it wasn’t like him?” she demanded. “You know very little about him, really. You mustn’t go on your impressions too much, my dear.” “I know,” confessed Azalea. “Everyone tells me that. Pa McBirney is forever saying it. Just the same I know it wasn’t like Keefe to stay away on a stormy day like this and I’d feel better if I knew where he was this minute.” They should have been in sight of the Oriole’s Nest by this time, but the clouds, which had lifted for a time, were settling down again in white drifting masses. They had not, of course, been able to see the mountain peaks all day; but now the trees began to disappear as if willed out of existence by some wonderful necromancer; then their very pathway before them seemed swallowed up; and finally each looked to the other like a ghost. “Goodness, but it is uncanny!” said Carin. “I’m glad we haven’t far to go. We could get lost in our own doorway.” It was then that they heard the cheering whistle of Keefe O’Connor. It came, apparently, from the cottage. “He’s been with Aunt Zillah,” said Azalea with a little sigh of relief. “That was nice of him, wasn’t it? A day like this she’s sure to be lonely.” She gave a blithe answer to the whistle, and seizing Carin’s hand, ran on swift feet to the cottage, laughing as the billowing mist parted and then closed like water behind her. The little cabin could not be discerned till she and Carin were fairly upon it. Then they saw the dull glow of a light in the window, and groping for the door, found the handle just at the moment Keefe opened it. “Here they are, Miss Pace,” he called, “quite safe and sound. I’ve looked in at you several times to-day, if you want to know, but I thought my room was better than my company.” “Oh, my, but I’m glad you’re home,” cried Aunt Zillah, helping them off with their things. “I declare, it’s getting darker every minute. Why, the mist isn’t white any more—it’s black!” “We’re in the heart of a black cloud, that’s why,” said Keefe cheerily. “Well, we’ve wood and oil and food inside, so what do we care?” “He’s been working around the place all day,” said Aunt Zillah. “And I must say I was glad to have him take a hand. Mr. McEvoy is an excellent man, but he certainly does carry his ‘take-it-easy’ philosophy to extremes. But even he is a comfort. In my opinion, every house needs a man around it to make it look right.” CHAPTER VIII THE WAR