Again was his vanity in the ascendency, and he resolved to propose at the first opportunity. It came quicker than he had thought for. Near Mr. Chittenden's house was a shady nook that overlooked the La Belle. It was where the little river dashed and foamed and smote the rocks that would bar its passage. Here Grace loved to sit and watch the conflict, and here she was when Tom Hobson rode by. His heart gave a great bound, for it was the first opportunity he had had of seeing and speaking to her alone. Reining in his horse, he dismounted, and making what he thought a most courtly bow, he bade her good evening. Grace arose, an angry flush on her face, and barely acknowledging his greeting, turned to go. Stepping in front of her he said, "Please don't go. I have been wanting to speak to yo' un ever since I returned. Yo' un know what I told yo' un when I went away. I'm of the same mind still, though I do be a capting now, and expect to be a kernel befo' the war is over." "Out of my way," exclaimed Grace, white with rage and trying to push past him. He caught her by the shoulder, "I reckon yo' un think that sneak of a Mark Grafton loves yo' un, but he don't. He told me so," sneered Tom. "You lie. Mark Grafton is a soldier and a gentleman and you are a coward. Out of my way." Her hand sought the bosom of her dress, but Tom did not notice. He was white with rage. "I'll hev' yo' un yet," he shouted. "All hell can't keep me from heven yo'." He attempted to take her in his arms. He drew back amazed. For the second time that afternoon he was looking into the muzzle of a revolver, and the hand that held that revolver was as firm and steady as the one that held the first. [Illustration: He was looking into the muzzle of a revolver.] "Mr. Hobson," said Grace, without a tremor in her voice, "if you do not mount your horse and ride away before I count ten I shall kill you. One, two--" But Tom did not wait for her to finish; he sprang on his horse and dashed away cursing. About an hour later, as Mark was returning home, there came the report of a rifle from a hillside and a ball tore away the crown of his hat. All he could see was a little cloud of smoke on the mountain. Putting spurs to his horse he was soon out of danger. When he reached the house he found Mr. Chittenden in a towering passion. He had just returned, and Grace was telling him of her encounter with Big Tom. "The wretch is too vile to live," he swore. "I will hunt him to earth, if it takes me a year." "I am with you," said Mark, showing his hat. "I got that only a few moments ago, so you see I have an account to settle with him, too." "Why should he shoot at you?" asked Mr. Chittenden, in astonishment. "You must ask him," answered Mark, carelessly, but as he said it he glanced at Grace. Her face was crimson, and then grew very pale. Had Big Tom told the truth? Had Mark been talking about her to him?