The word smote upon her weary heart with a dull pain. She had no cultured phrase to characterize the sensation as a presentiment, but she was conscious of the prophetic process. To-night “all the mounting” would be riotous with that dubious hilarity known as “Chrismus in the bones,” and there was no telling what might come from the combined orgy and an inflamed public spirit. She remembered the familiar doom of the mountain horse-thief, the men lurking on the cliff, the inimical feeling against the ranger. She furtively watched him with forebodings as he came and went at intervals throughout the day. Dusk had fallen when he suddenly looked in and beckoned to the “Colonel,” who required him to take her with him whenever he fed the mare. “Let me tie this hyar comforter over the Cunnel's head,” Eugenia said, as he bundled the child in a shawl and lifted her in his arms. “Tain't no use,” he declared. “The Cunnel ain't travellin' fur.” She heard him step from the creaking porch. She heard the dreary wind without. Within, the clumsy shadows of the warping-bars, the spinning-wheel, and the churn were dancing in the firelight on the wall. The supper was cooking on the live coals. The children, popping corn in the ashes, were laughing; as her eye fell upon the “Colonel's” vacant little chair her mind returned to the child's excursion with her father, and again she wondered futilely where the mare could be hid. The next moment she was heartily glad that she did not know. It was like the fulfillment of some dreadful dream when the door opened. A man entered softly, slowly; the flickering fire showed his shadow--was it?--nay, another man, and still another, and another. The old crone in the corner sprang up, screaming in a shrill, tremulous, cracked voice. For they were masked. Over the face of each dangled a bit of homespun, with great empty sockets through which eyes vaguely glanced. Even the coarse fibre of the intruders responded to that quavering, thrilling appeal. One spoke instantly: “Laws-a-massy! Mis' Pearce, don't ye feel interrupted none--nor Mis' Gryce nuther. We-uns ain't harmful noways--jes want ter know whar that thar black mare hev disappeared to. She ain't in the barn.” He turned his great eye-sockets on Eugenia. The plaid homespun mask dangling about his face was grotesquely incongruous with his intent, serious gaze. “I dunno,” she faltered; “I dunno.” She had caught at the spinning-wheel for support. The fire crackled. The baby was counting aloud the grains of corn popping from the ashes. “Six, two, free,” he babbled. The kettle merrily sang.