Red Jerry still lived. Lawrence had wounded him not only in the arm, but in the thigh. Secreted in the fastnesses of the hills, and tenderly cared for by his wife, he nursed his wounds and thirsted for revenge. Terrible were his imprecations against Lawrence and terrible would be his revenge if ever he got him in his power. It was fated that he and Lawrence should never meet again. Jerry lived to organize another band and he became even more merciless than ever, and by his side rode his wife, as merciless as he. But there was one secret she never told her husband--that was, that she had spared the life of Lawrence Middleton. CHAPTER XIX MARK HAS A RIVAL It was in September when Mark returned from his last trip. He was so thin and pale that Mr. Chittenden insisted on his taking a few weeks of absolute rest. These weeks were the happiest, as well as the most miserable, that Mark had ever spent. Happy because he was thrown continually in the company of Grace, miserable because he felt a great love springing up in his heart which must never be spoken. A thousand times he resolved to flee. It would be so easy for him to go on one of his secret missions and never return. But he kept putting off the evil day; it was so near heaven to be near her, to see her every day. He believed he would be content if he could only live as he was always. In his imagination he had invested Grace with more than human attributes, and worshipped her from afar, as he would some angelic being. Did Grace know the feeling Mark Grafton had for her? The eyes often speak more eloquently than words, and Mark's eyes told her the story of his devotion a hundred times a day. But this knowledge, instead of drawing Grace to him, piqued her. If he loved her why did he remain silent? In all the books she had read, lovers were not backward in telling of their love. But after all, she was glad he was silent, for she was doubtful of her father's approval, and there was that mystery that hung over him, a mystery she had not solved as yet. "Mark, you are deceiving us," she said boldly one day. "You are not what you pretend to be." Mark started, but soon recovered his composure. "What makes you think so, Grace?" he asked quietly. "Because you have represented yourself as a poor, friendless, private soldier. Now, I know you were raised a gentleman. You need not deny it." "Is that all? I thought--" he stopped. "Thought what?" asked Grace. "Nothing, only I am sorry you have such a poor opinion of me, Grace. In saying I am poor and friendless I have not deceived you. I am as poor and as friendless as I have represented." "But in other things you are silent. You have never told me a word of yourself, of your early life. You only say you are an orphan. Mark, you are not what you pretend. You are holding back something, and I don't like it. Mark, what is it? You can surely trust me as you would a sister."