"Not if you ran a thousand miles, Ches. This is the free land, boy. You can do what you like." Jim spoke with warmth, for, although he felt that the child could not understand, yet the love of the country swelled in him so hot that he could never speak of it carelessly. "Dat's prutty damn good," responded Ches. "It is," replied Jim. "Now, Ches, will you do something to oblige me?" "Sure!" "Well, then, don't swear. I don't like to hear boys swear." "I won't cuss another cuss, if I kin help it. Dey'll come out too quick for me sometimes, but I'll try to do dat, now." "Thank you. Now, let's get the stuff cleared up and roll in." In the middle of the night Jim heard a strange noise, a puzzling sound he could not trace. Becoming wider awake, it resolved itself into a stifled weeping. "Hello there, Ches! What's the matter?" he cried. The boy flung himself into Jim's arms with a cry. "Ar, I'm scart to deat'," said he. "Take holt uf me, Mister! Take holt uf me! Dere ain't anyt'ing but you and me here 'tall!" Jim gathered up the trembling figure. "Nothing will hurt you, Ches," he said. "You're safe here." "I wasn't t'inkin' of gettin' hurted," retorted the boy, with shaky indignation. "Did youse t'ink I'd weaken fur dat? Yer don't know me, den. Dat ain't bodderin' me--I've been hurted plenty. I'm just scart, dat's wat's der matter." "Well, now, you cuddle right up in my arms, like a little puppy dog, and you'll feel all right." "Say, you're prutty good stuff, Mister Felton," whimpered the little voice. "Dis is der bulliest time I ever had, even if I am scart." "I think you're a brave boy, Ches. Now go to sleep." A small hand reached timidly around until it found the man's and gave it an affectionate squeeze. "Good night, sir," said Ches. Jim lay awake, thinking dreamily, long after the boy's regular breathing showed that he was at peace again. The man felt a tenderness for the waif so abruptly put in his care that only a lonely man can feel. He speculated about the boy's future; he wondered what kind of a man he would make. Surely, with a foundation of such courage, the better part could be brought out. Then he wondered what Anne would say to the adoption, or rather what advice she would give, for he felt entirely sure of her broad humanity, outside of their one difference. He felt the need of her practical sense. Soon he had drifted into thinking of Anne entirely. Not bitterly now, but with a steady longing. The gray light of the waning moon, sifting through the boughs, was the true lumina for reverie. Why had he not answered her letter? Perhaps by this time-- What was that moving in the grass? He had noticed a sort of something before. He threw up his right hand in a threatening gesture, to frighten the intruder away. Instantly he got his answer, and an icy wind seemed to ruff his hair--that insistent, dry, shrilling sound that will make a man's blood turn cold if anything will--the whirring defiance of a rattlesnake!