All the conflicting emotions which whirled through Montgomery's mind pictured themselves in his face as he confronted the stern old gentlewoman opposite. The silence in the room was unbroken save by the roar of the tempest, and it seemed an age before she asked, coldly:

"Are you afraid?"

But there was no hesitation as he hastily stammered:

"Y-y-yes, gr-gram'ma, I am afraid. So 'fraid I – I – can't hardly think nor feel nothin'. B-b-but —I'm – going!"

His ruddy cheeks were now colorless save where the freckles spotted them, and his great eyes seemed to have grown in size; but though there was piteous terror in their blue depths there was no flinching from the duty. It took him a long time to button his jacket and adjust his cap. He even inspected his shoe-laces with a hitherto unknown care, and thoughtfully placed a stick of wood upon the dying embers. He wished – oh, how devoutly he wished – that he had been born just a common boy, like Bob Turner, or any other village lad, and not a Sturtevant! These hateful traditions about family and gentlemen – Cracky! How that wind did blow! That tramp – Well, he dared not think about the tramp, and there was nothing more he could find to delay the awful moment of departure. With a last imploring glance toward Madam, to see if there was no relenting, or if she would not suggest some easier way, "'cause she knows all 'b-bout honor an' such p-pl-plag – uey things," – yet finding none, he dragged himself to the side door, fumbled a moment with the latch, and went out.

Had he known it, Madam Sturtevant was suffering more than he. She would far rather have faced the elements and the darkness on that mile-long walk, unused to exposure though she was, than have sent this last darling of her heart out alone and unprotected. Indeed, she sat so still, and looked so anxious for a time after he had gone, that Alfaretta ventured to touch her hand, and to comfort, saying:

"Don't you worry, dear Madam. Nothin' 'll happen to Monty. Mr. Jones, he's well acquainted with him, an' he says 'at Monty's got as many lives as a cat. He's fell down-stairs, an' out of a cherry-tree, an' choked on fish-bones, an' had green-apple colic, an' been kicked by Squire Pettijohn's bull, an' tumbled into Foxes' Gully, – and that ain't but six things that might ha' killed him an' didn't. Besides, Monty's a good runner. Why, Madam, he's the fastest runner goes to school! True. He's more'n likely half-way there whilst we're just a-talkin'. Shall I fetch your specs an' the Chronicle newspaper? Readin' might pass the time till he gets back, an' I guess – I guess I won't be too scared to wash the dishes in the kitchen, if – if you'll let me leave the door open between."

Alfaretta had enumerated the various disasters which had befallen Montgomery upon finger after finger, and with such perfect gravity that the anxious grandmother was amused, in spite of her fear, and felt herself greatly cheered. With a kindly smile, she answered:

"Yes, Alfy, please do bring it; and, of course, you need not close the door. We are sadly late with the work to-night, but you may sit up till my son comes back. You are a dear, good child, Alfaretta, doing your duty faithfully in that state of life to which you were born, and you are a comfort to me."

The happy girl fairly flew to bring the "specs" and the last number of the religious weekly which Eunice regularly sent to her old friend. Conscience was rather doubtful about that ever faithful performance of duty; but why worry? Praise was sweet, doubly sweet from one so fine a pattern of all the virtues as her mistress, and Alfaretta had found comfort for her own self in comforting another. Besides, now she was either getting used to it, or the storm was lulling, for the blinds did not rattle as they had, and that mournful soughing of the wind in the tall chimneys had nearly ceased.

The bond-maid had rarely "done" her dishes so swiftly or so well, and, having set them in their places, she put out the kitchen candle, fetched her knitting, and sat down on her own stool beside the fireplace. For a wonder she was not sleepy. Too much had occurred that day to fill her imagination, and now that the "face" which had terrified her was safely out of sight, she began to recall it with a sort of fascination. If it were a ghost, it must have been that of somebody she had once known, for it was oddly familiar. The heavy features had a ghastly resemblance to – Who could it be? Uncle Moses? Mr. Turner? The stage-driver? No, none of these; nor of any old pensioner at the "Farm." Then, suddenly, she thought of Squire Pettijohn, terrible man, who had used to visit that "Farm," inspect its workings, suggest further extreme economies, where, it seemed to the beneficiaries, that economy had already reached its limit, ask personal questions, such as even a pauper may resent, and make himself generally obnoxious. Alfaretta had frankly hated him, and had never been more thankful than when she was assigned to Madam Sturtevant rather than to Mrs. Pettijohn – both ladies having entered application for a "bound-out" servant at the very same time. Already ashamed of misfortunes which were not at all her own fault, she had resented his pinching of her ears, his facetious references to her worthless parents, his chuckings under the chin, and the other personal familiarities by which some elderly people fancy they are pleasing younger ones.

"Madam! May I speak?"

"Certainly, Alfaretta. I haven't been able to keep my thoughts on my paper. I shall be glad to hear anything you have to say."

"Well, then! I'd hate to think it of any – any good ghost, but there was somethin' 'bout that face 'at made me remember somebody I'd seen, an' the somebody was – Squire Pettijohn!"

"Child, how absurd!"

"Yes'm, I s'pose it is. But there was them same big eyebrows standin' out fur from this white face as his'n does from his red one. There was the same sort of bitter look in the eyes, only these ones was afire. Ain't that queer?"

"Exceedingly queer. So queer that you must banish the notion at once from your mind. I am convinced that it was some poor, homeless wanderer estrayed into this quiet, and, I fear, inhospitable village, where there is no provision for such as he. I'm sure I wish he were safely housed in one of our own outbuildings rather than roaming the fields on such a night. Even an old blanket thrown into one of the box-stalls would have been comparative comfort."

"Y – es'm," assented Alfaretta, with small enthusiasm. But what she did like to hear was Madam's talk of the old times when the now empty stable was full of spirited horses, when guests filled the silent rooms, when servants were many and the larder abundant, and life and laughter ruled where now were only memories. It always sounded like make-believe; and, humble poor-house child though she was, Alfy delighted in make-believe.

A hint was commonly sufficient to set the house-mistress reminiscent, and once started upon such retrospections she was as contented to continue as her little maid to listen; and now there followed for the pair an hour of real enjoyment.

Once really past the threshold Montgomery's reluctance vanished. If he had anything disagreeable to do he liked to get it over with at once. The walk to The Maples in that storm was certainly disagreeable, as would, doubtless, be his reception there. He wouldn't think about that part of the affair till it faced him, and he wouldn't let any grass grow under his feet for loitering upon his road. Then a thought of Katharine, alone and in terror, roused all his real manliness, so that he cared no further for anything save to set her free. He would now promptly have knocked any other boy down for calling him the hard names he called himself all the way from the Mansion to Aunt Eunice's, and he disdained to think of tramps, thunder-claps, or broken tree-limbs, even though he stumbled over some of these along the path. Despite the obstructing wind, he had never run so swiftly, and the resounding whack he gave the Maitland knocker startled all within the house.

Poor Aunt Eunice required but little now to set her nerves a-quiver, and was anxiously pacing the sitting-room floor, wondering how and where to begin that search for little Katharine, which must be deferred no longer. But after the first shock of the summons she ran to answer it, feeling sure that here was news at last; and there almost fell into the hall a drenched, breathless lad, who could only stammer, feebly:

"H-h-hay – mow!"

Then he dropped upon the floor to catch his breath.

Miss Maitland stared at him, wondering if here was another storm-crazed victim. Then she remembered that "H-h-h-hay – mow!" was the one and only word the boy had uttered during that scene of the brass bound box. Now again just "H-h-hay-mow!" She passed her hand wearily across her eyes trying to understand.

Then said the last of the Sturtevants, recovering, and stammering but slightly in his earnestness:

"F-fetch a lantern, quick! We went up h-h-hay-mow huntin' eggs – an' mine are in the s-s-s-secret ch-amber – an' Squire c-come, an' I skipped an' – forgot!"

The boy was himself so familiar with the premises that he knew exactly where to find the lantern, and, having confessed his fault, he ran to light it. He was also first at the barn, though Miss Maitland and Susanna both followed promptly and unmindful of the rain.

But alas for Deacon Meakin's overcare! He had not only locked the doors, but he had hidden the keys.

Susanna sped back to the house, seeking on the shelf where he had placed the lantern for them, but failing to find them, while at Eunice's direction Montgomery felt everywhere under the flat stone which served as door-step to the main entrance. In the crannies of window casings, at the tops and bottoms of all the doors, in the cattle-shed and poultry-house, in any sort of place where a Marsdenite would naturally deposit keys, they searched without avail.

Then Miss Maitland bethought herself that if Katharine were still within the barn and heard all this attempt at forcing an entrance she would be further frightened, and said:

"We must break the glass in that window behind the stalls, and you, Montgomery, must climb through. As soon as you are within, call to the poor child and tell her that we are outside and have come to get her. Then you hand us out some heavy tools, – an axe, if you can find one, would be best, – and we'll break down the door."

With that the lady herself took a stone from the barn-yard wall and crashed the glass, but Susanna interposed:

"You go right back into the house, Eunice Maitland, and not stay out in this damp to get your death of cold. And no need to break good doors. Katy ain't no bigger'n Monty, nor so big, an' a hole he can get into she can come out of. Trust her!"

Miss Maitland would not go indoors, but she did fold the shawl she had caught up more closely about her and retreated to the shelter of the cowshed, while Susanna stood listening beneath the window through which Monty had swiftly disappeared. Fortunately, the storm had greatly abated and there was less external noise to drown the sounds within, where Montgomery was now shouting at the top of his voice:

"K-K-Kath-arine! Katy! K-Kitty-kee-hotee!"

"Yelp! Snip! Snap! Gr-r-rrr!" came in response, and Katharine waked from the dreamless sleep into which exhaustion of grief and terror had thrown her.

At first she could not comprehend what it all meant. She could only make an effort to restrain the angry pug now escaping from her arms. Then she saw Montgomery's face at the opening above the bay, brilliantly illuminated by the lantern held close to his head as he peered inwards preparatory to a leap. With a scream half of relief, half of dread lest she should again be deserted, she ran toward the window and held her arms up.

The light disappeared, but before she had time for a fresh fear, she felt her hands clasped by Montgomery's sturdy ones, and she was bidden:

"Give a s-s-sp-spring – an' I'll haul you!"

She tried once, twice, and again, but there was no "spring" left in the usually active limbs, and she sank back to the bay, sobbing:

"Oh, I can't! I can't! I've tried and tried and tried! But I shall never get out. Never, never, never." And it was proof of the suffering she had undergone that there was no indignation left against the boy who had caused it, but only a hopeless acceptance of a terrible position.

This was too much for Monty. He would far rather have had her rail at him than sob so heart-brokenly. He began to sob himself in sympathy, and called back:

"D-d-don't! Qu-qu-quit it! See. Look up. I'll h-h-hang the lantern on the sill. I d-d-dassent take it down there, might s-s-set fire to the hay. I'm all r-r-right – I mean you're all r-r-right. Get out the way. I'm c-c-c-comin'!"

In an instant he had leaped down beside her and put his arm around her quivering shoulders. In all his life he had never been so sorry for anybody or anything as now for her and for his own neglectful selfishness, which had brought her to such a pass. Yet, heedless Monty had had many causes for regret during his previous career!

"I thought I should die! Oh, it was so awful! I thought I should certainly die here alone in this place. The wind would almost tear the roof off, and Punchy howled – he thought he was dying, too, maybe. But it was he kept me from it – quite. I never loved him so in all my life! Can – is there a way – you've got in, too, but is there a way out? I was hungry, I thought I would starve. Then I forgot that – listening. And the lightning – I was sure it had struck again and again. I waited to see the hay blaze up. Lightning always does strike barns, doesn't it?"

With a philosophy beyond his years Montgomery changed the subject.

"I shall have to boost you, i-i-if you c-c-can't climb without. P-p-put your feet right th-th-there – I'm b-bo-boo-boostin' my best! Catch hold the s-sill! Cracky! Up you g-g-go!"

Up she went, indeed, fear forgotten, every nerve strained, eager already to attain and excel in this new feat of climbing. Folks who lived in the country had to climb – or perish – it seemed. And once upon the sill she rolled over it to the broad floor of the barn and felt herself at last in safety.

But there still remained that other climb, to reach the broken window and through it freedom and friends outside. However, this was a trifle. Montgomery brought a short ladder, which he placed beneath the window that he had had the forethought to unbolt from the outside, and when the sash rolled back in its groove Katharine was already on the ledge, Susanna's strong arms clasping her and Aunt Eunice standing near.

Such an hour as followed! Such indigestibly delightful foods as Susanna brought from her storeroom – harbingers of holiday feasts to come – and of which the children were permitted to partake without any harm or restriction.

"Let the poor little creatur's get their stummicks full for once, sence nary one hain't had a mouthful of victuals, scurce that, to-day," cried Susanna, herself feasting her eyes upon the now joyous faces of the youngsters.

Then what a tap-tap-tapping sounded on the floor of the kitchen chamber! Aunt Eunice interpreting the same to mean:

"Poor Moses is feeling left out of all our rejoicing and feels aggrieved. He wants us all to come up and tell him the whole story, since he cannot himself come to us. But alas for Deacon Meakin! I don't envy him his forthcoming interview with my hired man to-morrow morning. It is Moses' right to still direct matters, even if he cannot work. Both men are what Mrs. Meakin calls 'sot,' and I foresee some jarring of wheels, so to speak, before they run smooth. But let us go up at once, and then Monty must be starting home."

The boy sighed. This was all delightful. Badly as he had behaved, he had received no reproof. Instead of that, there was such rejoicing over Katharine's safety that his sins had, apparently, been forgotten. Yet it must end – there still remained the long and desolate road home!

Monty talked as fast as ever a boy could, nor did Katharine's tongue lag far behind, and for a time Moses listened eagerly. Then there came pangs of physical suffering which banished interest in all else, and while he was meditating how now best to rid himself of his guests, the hall clock struck nine.

"Nine o'clock! My suz! I didn't know it was half so late!" cried Susanna, honestly surprised. "Time you was home and abed, Montgomery Sturtevant, keepin' your poor grandmother up all hours like this, just account your pranks. My suz! and such a day. May I never see another like it!"

"Amen!" echoed poor Mr. Jones, so devoutly and in a voice of such suffering that they all silently withdrew.

"Only nine o'clock? Does nobody ever sit up till a respectable hour, here in Marsden? Why, at home, our evenings never began till after this time," remarked Katharine, now so wide-awake, and, it must be confessed, having had her nerves freshly excited by the recital of her woes to the sympathizing ear of Uncle Moses.

"Pooh! N-n-nine o'clock's n-n-nothing," assented Monty, who had never been out so late before in all his life.

"Isn't it?" asked Aunt Eunice, smiling. "Well, all the same, though it is rude to dispatch a guest, I'm sure it is full time for you to be with your grandmother, as Susanna justly remarked. She is doubtless anxious about you; and as for you, Katy dear, you are living in quiet Marsden now and not your city home."

The storm was fully over when they opened the great front door, and the moonlight set all the rain-drenched shrubs and trees a-glitter, so that Katharine exclaimed:

"Oh, look! It seems as if the world was just laughing at itself for having been so naughty a little while ago!"

Aunt Eunice gave the child a little squeeze, thinking how "Johnny" would have had just such a fancy, and Monty, wondering if all girls had queer ideas, bade them good night and started whistling down the path.

"We'll stand here till you get beyond the first big tree, my lad, and we'll follow you in our minds all the way," said Miss Maitland, kindly. Then to Katharine she added, softly: "He's doing that to keep his courage up."

"All the same he whistles beautifully," answered the girl, loyally. "If he could only speak as well as he whistles it would be splendid. Why, up there on the hay-mow to-day, some sort of bird – I think he said it was a meadow-lark, or skylark, or something – anyhow, it sang ex-quis-ite-ly! And he mimicked it so well I almost thought another bird had come through the window into the barn. He's a real nice boy, Monty is, but – but he needs some 'retouching,' as papa darling used to say of his pictures."

"God bless him – and his own 'Kitty Quixote,'" murmured the old guardian, touched to a tender softness by – ah, many things! and promptly marshalling her latest charge to bed.

Lights were out all along the street as Montgomery's passing whistle disturbed the early naps of these quiet folk, who had been so greatly interested and wearied by that day's unusual events. But the clear, birdlike tones were comfort to one harassed wanderer.

Shivering in his wet rags, he crept out from the shelter of a porch to hearken, as those boyish lips sent forth in flute-like tones the melody of "Home, Sweet Home." Hearkening, he followed, fearing he should lose the music which impressed him, all unknowing why; and as the whistler left the last village house behind him and set out to run over the long stretch of lonely road, which lay between that and the Mansion, the follower also ran.

Had Montgomery known this his pace would have been even swifter than it was, and the mere fear he now felt would have become abject terror.

But he did not know; and the unknown tramp soon lagged far behind. He had neither strength nor desire left to overtake the fleeing lad, since the whistling had ceased, and consciousness of his own misery returned upon him. So, presently he left the highway and limped across the fields toward the woods where instinct told him was safe hiding; and Montgomery reached the stately home of his forefathers in good time. Between the man and the boy there seemed no possible connection, yet circumstances were already linking their lives together as with a chain.