“Dick the Devil!” muttered Nell. “That sure is his name.” “From what I have heard about him,” said Hunt, “I think his nickname quite fits him. But it was probably Tolley’s meanness alone that made you—that is,” he hastened to correct himself, “that made all of the trouble. That was thrashed out last evening, Miss Nell. Steve Siebert and Andy McCann proved Dick was not dead, although he did go over the cliff back there in the spring.” “I don’t know what you are both talking about,” Betty interposed. “Who is this—this—Dick Beckworth, do you call him?” “A gambler, Betty,” said her brother. “You would scarcely know such a person. But unfortunately both Miss Nell and I have been obliged to mix with all classes of society,” he smiled again, “and so we know such people.” “Nell should not sing in those places.” Betty said it with conviction. But in a moment she turned again to the identity of the man whose reappearance had startled Nell Blossom so greatly that she had fainted in the storm. “What—what does this man, Dick, look like?” “Not an unhandsome fellow,” said the parson generously. “A somewhat cruel face—ruthless perhaps would be the better term. Good features; a beautiful complexion—if such a term should be applied to a man’s skin,” and he laughed. “You do not like him, Ford!” exclaimed Betty quickly. “Would I be likely to?” mildly asked her brother. “Oh! But I do not want a psychoanalysis of the man,” said Betty, and she used a handkerchief to half hide her own face. “Just what does he look like?” “Mildly dark. A beautiful, oiled mustache—like a crow’s wing as the Victorian lady novelists would say. Heavy black hair. Under different circumstances—you must remember I saw him only after he was dragged out of the storm and on the border of a collapse—I judge Dick Beckworth would be quite the gentleman in all appearance, and quite the devil at heart.” “You said it!” agreed Nell. “A mustache—and thick black hair,” murmured Betty. “Yes. I saw him go by when we were cowering there under that wall, too. Well, I am relieved.” Her laugh did not sound right in her brother’s ears. “I am glad that it did not turn out to be a real ghost.” Hunt sat down upon a chair at Nell’s side of the bed. The singer looked at him, and there suddenly flashed into her eyes a warm light that enhanced her beauty. She put out a little brown hand and gripped his, which was only too ready to be seized. “Parson—Mr. Hunt, you are a good man!” she said, chokingly. “I heard about what you did last night. But I didn’t hear all about it; so I didn’t know Dick was alive. I—I’m mighty wicked, I reckon. I ain’t glad he didn’t die——” “No need to go into that,” urged Hunt quickly. “All such things are in the hands of Providence. But your mind, I hope, Nell, is relieved.” Betty looked from the face of the girl on the pillow to her brother’s glowing countenance. It was another shock for Betty Hunt, but she understood. * * * * *