"Go sleep on your fairy story, boy. I don't see for the life of me how your health could have broken studying such a mild mixture as that. You must have been real run down at the start. But never mind, don't lay the laugh up against me, kid, I ain't enjoyed myself so much in ten years as I have to-night." The two parted the best of friends. Drew fell quickly into a deep, undisturbed sleep, but Filmer tossed about till morning. The grim Past gripped him; he pulled the flask, that stood ever ready, nearer; but the cowardice of the act swayed him, and he flung the bottle to the floor. Then he swore, and tried to sleep again, but the Spectre jeered him. "The powers they have in themselves." The words struck again and again on Filmer's aching brain. What powers? Oh! he had had powers. He might have been--what? He might have been where? If--if---- The sunrise of Joyce's wedding day was just breaking when Filmer's Spectre gave up the struggle and sleep came. The only trophy of the victory was the discarded flask, which lay untouched where the hand of the master--for that time at least--had flung it. CHAPTER VI The word had passed along, and all St. Ange knew that Jock Filmer had a raw specimen of a parson up at his shack, in safe keeping for the Sunday events. For Joyce's wedding-day fell upon a Sunday. "He's fattening him up," said Tom Smith, "and the Lord knows he needs it! Such a spindling youngster I _never_ saw--a parson!" The contempt was too deep for Smith's expression, so he gave up. "And to think," added the train conductor, stretching his long legs in Tate's tavern, "there he was on my car, and I never sensed his ideas. Talk about entertaining angels unaware, it ain't in it! He even cussed mild when I told him his ticket was punched for Green Lake, and he was headed for St. Ange. I never would have took him for anything but a plain milksop till he let forth his opinions." "I don't call it a proper attitude," broke in Tate, mixing a glass of vile dilution for Murphy's consumption. "I don't call it a _proper_ attitude for a parson to appear so much like other folks that you can't tell 'im. It's suspicious, says I. How do we know as he _is_ a parson?" This suggestion caused the company a moment's pause. "He better be!" muttered Peter Falstar. "He'd better be what he claims to be, even if it _is_ a parson. We don't stand for any tricks from strangers." This lifted the spirits somewhat. Looked at _that_ way, they had the matter in their own hands. "I wonder"--Tate's face assumed its cheerful placidity--"if his marrying of Jude and Joyce would hold in any court o' law?" At this the listeners laughed. "Who ever heard of a marriage in St. Ange getting to a court o' law?" asked Tom Smith. "But Jared ain't never had a daughter married before." Tate nodded his head sagely. "Jared's a deep one, and, taken off his guard, shows he knows more about law and order than any one man I ever let my eyes fall on."