He felt like a traitor as she passed her soft little arm around his neck and kissed his cheek—pale now, although it had never blanched for shot or shell. He had both her and Mrs. Cat to hold, and although both were of squirming tendencies his mind could still steadily pursue its troublous regrets. “But I oughtn’t ter hev done it jes’ fur Rosamondy, nuther. I oughter hev done it fur the sake of—_folks_! A man oughter keep another man from doing wrong, ef he kin, same ez ter keep his own score clear—them ez kin stan’ ter thar guns oughter keer ter keep the whole line from waverin’, stiddier a-pridin’ tharse’fs on the aim o’ thar one battery. Laws-a-massy; I wish I hed tole him. I wish I hed gin him a word. He mus’ be nigh thar now. Ef I jes’ could ketch him! Ef I jes’ could find my way! I ain’t been nigh thar fur twenty year. Fur one hour o’ sight ter save a man from crime! Fur one hour o’ sight to hold the battle-line! Fur one hour o’ sight to do the Lord’s kind will!” He was speaking aloud. He had risen from his chair, the little girl and her cat slipping softly down upon the floor. He took a step forward, both groping hands outstretched. “Fur one hour o’ sight!” “I’ll lead ye, unky Ab,” the child compassionately exclaimed, putting up her soft, warm hand to his cold trembling fingers. “Lead me! yes! Lead me ter Keedon Bluffs,” he cried eagerly. “She kin do it! She kin save him! Stop,” he caught himself. “Look out, Rosamondy. Air the night dark?” She opened the door; a mild current of air flowed in above her yellow head, for the wind now was laid. She saw the dark woods gloom around; the stars glimmer in the vast spaces of the sky; but about the mountain summit shone an aureola of burnished gold. “The moon’s a-risin’,” she said. He placed his hand in hers; she stepped sturdily upon the ground. The door closed, and the hearth was vacant behind them but for the flicker of the flames, the drowsing dogs, and the purring Mrs. Cat. XIII. That night as Skimpy sat with the family group by the fireside in his father’s cabin, he had much ado to maintain a fictitious flow of spirits, for at heart he was far from cheerful. Often he would pause, the laugh fading from his face, and he would lift his head as if listening intently. Surely the wind had no message for him as it came blaring down the mountain side! What significance could he detect in the clatter of the bare boughs of the tree by the door-step that he should turn pale at their slightest touch on the roof? Then recognizing the sound he would draw a deep breath of relief, and glance covertly about the circle to make sure that he had been unobserved. So expert in feigning had poor Skimpy become that he might have eluded all but the vigilance of a mother’s eye. “Air ye ailin’, Skimpy?” she demanded anxiously. “Ye ’pear ter feel the wind. Ye shiver every time it blows brief. Be thar enny draught thar in the chinkin’?”