find his senses so alert. In such a moment he thought it strange to recognize Teck Jepson, leaning against the wall, his face white since the summer sunburn had worn away, and thoughtful, and with imperative lines even in silent reverie; his hands were thrust in his leather belt; his eyes were fixed on the leafless autumn woods. Nay, Longwood took note even of the bare brambles of the wild rose outside of the window, its profuse pods glowing scarlet amongst the gray rocks and the brown moss, and the fine-webbed witchery of the hoarfrost lying on the sere leaves in the shadow. Clem Sanders’s massive figure was the focus of the group, with his leather apron girded about him, his sleeves rolled back from his muscular arms, the light of the fire—a steady red glow, for the bellows was idle—upon his square, good-humored face, which was refined by that look of earnest attention and grave content characteristic of the good workman at his chosen task. One hand held with the tongs the metal upon the anvil; the other wielded the hand-hammer with deft precision, and the sledge came crashing down, as Jube, the parson’s son, grasped it with both hands. The brown shadows clustered about them, and the figure of the striker with the sledge was only dimly suggested in the rich depths of the picture. Each detail grew more distinct as the young man advanced; the apartment gradually seemed lighter than it did at a distance, seen through the brilliant crisp air, and with the contrast of the sunshine and the high color of the autumnal world without. As the cinders, which were mingled with the earth, at the door, began to grate beneath his feet, he wondered that none of those within took note of his deadly intention; that the smith should stand undefended, unwarned, for Clem’s unnoting head was bent over his work, and the yellow sparks flew from the red-hot iron as the hammer and the sledge alternately fell. Longwood did not realize how much the habitual imperturbable aspect characteristic of the mountaineer cloaked his agitation and his design. Even when he strode into the place, his drawn knife in his hand, calling out, “Clem Sanders, stand up ter fight! I be a-goin’ ter kill ye!” the idler in the doorway, chewing his quid of tobacco, merely shifted his eyes again to the new-comer, and an elongation in the stiff wrinkles about his mouth betokened preparation to smile. Teck Jepson withdrew slowly his attention from the forest wilds without, and the smith responded cheerily, his head still bent over the anvil, “Kill away!” while the painstaking blows of the forging alternated with the precision of machinery and the sparks flew.