A Man's Arm At The Window

Just then Boy's clear laugh came pealing down the stairway, a conclusive comfort to his mother's heart. When her extreme agitation had subsided. Professor Young sat down and called her to him. As of old, when first he had heard her lessons in his home, she dropped at his feet, resting her curly head against his knee.

"Now I want to know what's frightened you," said he, softly.

The girl made a gesture of refusal. "I can't tell it," she replied, under her breath. "It's too terrible! It's too awful!"

"There's nothing too terrible for me to know," answered Young. "What happened while you were out?"

"Don't ask me to tell you, Uncle Forrie," pleaded Tess. "I can't! I can't!"

"Tessibel," demanded the lawyer, "was it Sandy Letts?"

"Oh, no, no, not him!"

The man pondered a moment.

"Was it--"

"Please don't ask me any more questions." She lifted a crimson face. "I was foolish, I suppose, but I thought, I thought the baby--"

"Some one threatened Boy! Was that it, Tessibel?" he cross-questioned.

"Yes." The murmured answer was scarcely audible.

"One of the squatters, then?"

The red head sank again. This time a decided shake of the shining curls made the denial.

Hoping to avoid further examination, the girl tried to rise to her feet, but the questioner's hand pressed her back.

"Don't ask me," she entreated. "I'm better now."

She tried to smile, but the sweet lips trembled. Young hadn't seen her so stirred in all the years of her residence in his house. He'd been able to hold his love in check while he saw her happy and content, but her present pitiful state broke down the barriers he'd erected and hardly conscious of the change in his attitude, he kissed her.