of an overdriven horse; but still, without slackening his pace,
he sped on to the old ice-pond and then wheeled past the turning
into the sunken road. Not until he had reached the long gate
before the Blake cottage did he stop short suddenly and stand,
grasping his moist shirt collar, in an effort to quiet his
convulsed breathing.

The hounds greeted him with a single bay, and at the noise
Cynthia came out upon the porch and then down into the gravelled
path between the old rose-bushes.

"What do you wish?" she demanded stiffly, standing severe and
erect in her faded silk.

"I must speak to Christopher--I must!" gasped the boy, breathing
hard. "I am going away tomorrow, and this is my last chance."

"Well, he's in the stable, I believe," replied Cynthia coolly.
"If you want him, you must go there to look for him, and be sure
not to make a noise when you pass the house." Then, as he darted
away, her eyes followed him with a weary aversion.

Will passed the kitchen and the woodpile and, turning into a
little path that led from the well, came to the open door of the
rudely built stable. A dim light fell in a square across the
threshold, and looking inside he saw that a lantern was hanging
from a nail above the nearest stall and that within the circle of
its illumination Christopher was busily currying the old gray
mare.