“She's worth more than all the other girls in this settlement put together,” Redfield said, without comment on the phase of the act which had interested the Squire, and went down the cabin steps into the lane. Braile turned back and opened the door of the room where Dylks was lurking. “Better come out, now,” he said, not ungently, “and get into a safe place before folks begin to be about much. Or wait--I'll put the ladder up first.” He brought the ladder from the kitchen where he exchanged a fleeting joke with his wife, still at her work of clearing the breakfast things away, and set it against the wall under the trapdoor of the loft. “Now, then!” he called and Dylks came anxiously out. “Ain't you afraid--” he began. “No, but _you_ are, and that'll do for both of us. There's nobody round, and if you'll hurry, nobody'll see you. Push the lid to one side, and get in, and you'll be perfectly safe,” he said as Dylks tremulously mounted the ladder. “I don't say you'll be very comfortable. There's a little window at one end, but it don't give much air, and this August sun is apt to get a little warm on the clapboards. And I don't suppose it smells very well in there; but the coon can't help that; it's the way nature scented him; she hadn't any sweet brier handy at the time. And be careful not to step on him. He's not very good-tempered, but I reckon he won't bite you if you don't bite _him.”_ The kitchen door opened and Mrs. Braile put her head out. She saw the ladder and the two men. Then she came out into the porch. “Well, Matthew Braile, I might have knowed from the sound of your voice that you was up to some mischief. Was you goin' to send that poor man up into that hot loft? Well, I can tell you you're not.” She went into the room they had left, and they heard her stirring vigorously about beyond its closed door, with a noise of rapid steps and hard and soft thumpings. She came out again and said, “Go in there, now, Mr. Dylks, and try to get some rest. I've made up the bed for you, and _I'll_ see that nobody disturbs you. Matthew Braile, you send and tell Mr. Hingston,--or _go_, if you can't ketch anybody goin' past,--and tell him he's here, and bring some decent clothes; he ain't fit to be seen.” “Well, he don't want to be,” the Squire said in the attempt to brave her onset. “But I reckon you're right, mother. I should probably have thought of it myself--in time. I'll send Sally or Abel, if they go past--and they nearly always do--or some of the hands from the tobacco patches. Or, as you say, I may go myself, towards evening. He won't want to be troubled before then.” XVIII