But Skimpy’s fingers were in his ears, and he was still swaying back and forth and making the air shudder with his mock vocalizations. At last Ike turned away in sheer futility, angered and smarting, but as anxious and troubled as before. Now he was sorry he had not persisted for he had not realized how immediate and terrible was the danger to Skimpy. He sat still for a moment, afraid to say aught of the perplexities that racked him, lest being mistaken he might needlessly implicate Skimpy in any crime that Binwell might commit. Presently he rose with a look of determination on his face. The sound of the lifting latch, the cold in-rushing of the air, the light touch of the flakes of ashes set a-flying from the hearth, notified Abner that he was solitary by the fire. He heard the cat purring, the low murmuring of the flames in the chimney, the wind outside, the voices of the two women busy in the shed-room. Another stir of a latch and a presence entered bright even to the blind man. “All alone-y by hisself-y!” Rosamondy cried as she pattered across the floor and flung herself into his arms. He shared much baby talk with Mrs. Cat, but he was not jealous of that esteemed friend, for he was Rosamondy’s preferred crony. Through her, life had come to mean for him a present as well as a past, and to hold for him a future and a vista. He planned for her with the two old women. He had let it be known to all his relatives that all he had in the world—his horse, his cows, his share of the cabin, his gun, a captured sabre—was to be hers at his death. Always in his simple dreams for enriching her, and for her fair fate, Jerry Binwell’s image would be intruded like some ugly blight upon it all. He had heretofore thrust away the thought of him, and dreamed on resolutely. Somehow he could not do this to-night. As he patted her on the head and heard the silken rustle of her hair beneath his hand, he could but remember that it was her father risking his life on the rocks, his liberty, the lurking officer and everlasting ignominy, which must surely rebound upon her. “She wouldn’t know nuthin’ ’bout it now, ef he war branded ez a thief, but she air a-goin’ ter be a gal ez will keer mightily fur a good name an’ sech. Jerry Binwell hain’t never hed a good name wuth talkin’ ’bout, but he ain’t never yit been branded ez a thief.” Mrs. Cat was brought and perched upon his knee, and he was required to shake hands and inquire after her health and that of her family, which ceremony both he and the poor animal performed lugubriously enough, although with a certain dexterity, having been trained to it by frequent repetitions. Rosamondy, however, found herself a better improvisor than he of conversation for Mrs. Cat, and as she prattled on his anxious thoughts reverted to the subject. “He air her dad, an’ he’ll be disgraced fur life, an’ I could hev purvented it. Too late! Too late!” he groaned aloud.