The man swayed towards the chair. "Do you mean it?" he gasped, "honest?" He began to sob and choke a little, and turning half bent over the chair, hunted with his hand for his hat. "Get out!" Lindsay repeated violently, looking persistently sidewise. The man leaned over and fumbled for the picture on the floor, found it and straightened himself. Suddenly he leaped back and fell into the chair again; a dreadful pallor reached the roots of his hair. "All up, I guess--twice to-day--'Jim good-by," he said very quickly, and rolled against Lindsay, the picture tight in his hand. "Lin! If you don't come pretty soon"--Caroline pushed open the door a little. "Hush! Run and bring that whisky!" her cousin whispered, his face drawn and frightened. She waited outside while he labored mysteriously, breathing hard. "Is Mr. Barker sick, Lin?" she whispered fearfully when he came back to the door. "Y--yes. I guess he's pretty sick," he said slowly, stepping out with her and turning the knob carefully. The dining-room reeked with the whisky on his hands and his coat. "We'll go for the doctor," he went on, "both of us, because we'll have to fix--I'll have to talk to you on the way. You needn't hurry so, Caroline. There's no--we don't have to hurry." He tried the outside door twice, to make sure it was latched, and glanced hastily at the library windows. "I'd better wire Uncle Joe," he said half to himself; "he'll know what to do--oh, there's the dog. Come on, Hamlet--he's Buck Williams's--gentle as a kitten." "Yes, he'll know," she repeated, contentedly, reaching for Hamlet's black muzzle. "But I don't think that was right, do you, Lin, even for a joke?" she queried, following him down the side path. The big hound padded on behind them. "No," he agreed briefly. "Wasn't it funny he had one of your pins?" She was trotting rapidly, to keep up with him. Lindsay stopped short and almost faced her. He looked very young and tired. "I swear, Caroline, I believe worse men have worn it!" he said. V A PILLAR OF SOCIETY Caroline slipped out of the woodshed with Henry D. Thoreau barking under his breath at her heels, and struck across the dusty mountain road into the trail. The advantages of the woodshed were many: it was cool and dark, the stacked wood had a soothing odor and a neat, restful appearance, and one was more or less forgotten there. More important, it lay directly under the long living-room, and sounds carried easily through the primitive plank floor. Up to now the murmur of the company's voices had been a negligible quantity, a background for thought, merely, but suddenly a familiar intonation had risen higher.