"By Jove!" cried Rupert Vallance, flinging a stone into the river. "Something here seems to remind me of that evening when I came upon you staving in the red brother's grinders with the butt end of a fishing-rod. I wonder, by the way, what became of that same weapon? I expect Mountain Cat's band still keep it as a big medicine-stick. Deuced bad medicine it was for the buck you were laying it into. Ho, ho!" "Don't remind me of that horrible moment," she said, coming closer to him with a slight shiver. "Let us go home, it's getting cold." The Rev. Dudley Vallance was dead. The shock of learning his son's horrible end had brought on a stroke, and the following day he had breathed his last--not, however, before he had made what reparation he could for the wrong he had done his cousin, who, by the way, had so far relented as to satisfy him that he had borne no hand in poor Geoffry's death, and, in fact was powerless to prevent it; added to which he had himself rescued him from the same fate on a previous occasion. So on his death-bed he had signed a hastily drawn-up will, bequeathing the Lant property to Rupert Vallance absolutely, save and except a yearly charge on the estate for the support of his widow and daughters. To this Rupert had added with ample liberality. Once "the old man had climbed down," as he euphemistically put it, he himself was willing to let bygones be bygones, and had endowed the widow accordingly; needless to say, without earning the slightest degree of gratitude from the latter. They strolled homeward across the meadows in the falling eve, and, lo, as they entered the gate of the home paddock there arose a whinny and a stamp of hoofs. "Dear old Satanta!" said Yseulte, stroking the velvety black nose which the noble animal thrust lovingly against her hand. "You have well earned your ease for life, at any rate." "I should rather think he had. No more arrows flying in his wake. No more brack water or willow-bark provender. All oats and fun for life. We shall have to give the war-whoop occasionally, just to remind him of old times." "Please, sir," said a man-servant, meeting them in the hall. "Postman says was he right in leaving this, sir?" His master took the letter, glanced at the address, and exploded in a roar of laughter. It bore the United States stamp, and was directed-- "Judge Rupert Vipan, Lant Hall, Brackenshire County, Great Britain." "Nat Hardroper's fist! Come along, Yseulte, and let's see what that 'cute citizen's got to say. `Judge!' Great Scott! With infinite trouble I got him out of calling me Colonel, and now he's elevated me to the judicial bench! `Vipan,' too! The old name seems to stick, anyway." He broke open the letter and began to read-- Henniker City, Dakota, 14th July, 1876. Dear Rupe,--Seems to me you're fixed up pretty tight and snug, after "baching" around all these years. My respects to Madam.