"Thank you, Tobe; get in and ride."

"Wal, till we gits in sight o' the house; but don't you 'low you 'd better go back?"

"No; I'll go on and face the music."

"Thar never was nawthin' but trouble come o' foolin' with women, anyhow," said Tobe. "I 've had four on 'em in my time, and they've worn the soul-case off'n me."

"Four!" exclaimed Checkers.

"Yes, I 've had four. My first woman spent me out o' house and home, and then run away--I was glad to get shet o' her. The second un I jest nachally could n't live with, she hed sech a pizen-bad temper; and I 've had two others to die on me. I 've worked like a n.i.g.g.e.r airnin'

'em money fer cloes, and doctor's bills and sich, and not one on 'em but what 'ud claim she wa'n't well treated. The trouble with women is that a man takes and treats 'em so well when he's a-courtin' of 'em, that after they 're married, plain, ordinary, every-day treatment seems like cruelty to 'em."

This was a phase of the woman question which had never before occurred to Checkers; but the weight of suspense at his heart prevented his encouraging Tobe to further reminiscence.

As he drove into the door-yard, Arthur came out of the house, trembling and pale with anger and excitement.

"h.e.l.lo, Arthur?" called Checkers, cheerily.

"Traitor, hypocrite," was the answer; "how can you look me in the face?"

"Oh, get used to it."

"Ha! you make a jest of it, do you?"

"Of what, your face?"

Arthur grew livid. "It's easy and safe for you to taunt a man who is just recovering from a weakening sickness," he said. "If it were n't for my father, I 'd shoot you like the cur that you are, if I hanged for it."

Checkers jumped to the ground. "Now, look here, Arthur Kendall," he said threateningly. "I won't stand any such talk from any one. If you 're making your roar about Miss Barlow, and I suppose you are, I'll tell you this: The girl doesn't love you and never did, and why you should want to do the dog-in-the-manger act is more than I can see."

"No; of course she does n't love me, if a sneaking Judas goes and betrays me to her."

"I never mentioned your name to her, unless it was to say something good about you."

"You lie! You told her all about our affair at Hot Springs."

"I did no such thing."

"You did. She told her father about it, and he told me this very afternoon."

"Did he say I told her?"

"Who else could have told her? do you think I told her?"

"I do n't know, and, what's more, I don't care a d.a.m.n. I do n't want any trouble with you, but I have n't got the temper of an angel, and I 'd advise you to take a tumble to yourself until I 'm gone--and that won't be longer than it takes me to get my stuff into my trunk."

"It can't be any too quick to suit me."

Checkers started for the house, but stopped half-way, and turned for a parting word, while Arthur stood still, and eyed him malignantly.

"Now, listen, Arthur Kendall," said Checkers earnestly; "and these are the last words I 'm going to say. I 've been on the square with you from the day I met you, and if our positions were reversed, I 'd take you by the hand and wish you all kinds of happiness, but as it is, you show the yellow streak I always thought you had in you--it's wider than I thought it was, that's all. But just keep saying this over to yourself: 'I love that girl and I 'm going to have her, in spite of her father, or you, or the world.'" And turning on his heel, Checkers went into the house to collect his few, poor, little belongings.

VII.

That same night Pert, after another stormy interview with her father, had gone to her room, and, throwing herself on her little white bed, in a paroxysm of bitter grief, had softly sobbed herself to sleep.

Gradually into her dreams there came the whistled notes of a familiar little cadence, faint and far away at first, but growing louder and nearer until she awoke with a start.

It was "a whistle" which Checkers had taught her weeks before, and ran as follows:

Come, my love, and walk with me.

Yes, my love, I'll walk with thee.

Ta-ra-dum.

[Ill.u.s.tration: music fragment]

At this time, however, Checkers, standing down in the road outside, had cut the "ta-ra-dum" as flippant and irrelevant--a delicacy which, in her trepidation, Pert failed to remark. But, jumping up, she lighted her lamp, and cautiously exposed it at the window for a moment. Then, thanking fortune that she chanced to be dressed, she slipped a warm wrap over her shoulders, and stole down the stairs, out into the night.

Checkers folded her in his arms, and kissed her gently. "My darling,"

he murmured, "you haven't let them turn you against me, have you?"

"Why, Checkers dear," she answered looking into his eyes, "the whole world could n't turn me against you--I love you." Checkers kissed her again.

In the bright starlight they sat together, once more on the little rustic bench under the tree, listening with ready sympathy, as each related to each the trials of the day.

"No, little sweetheart," said Checkers finally, "there is no possible way for me to stay in Clarksville. The old man is practically right, I am a pauper, but I won't be long. Pert, I can hustle, when I want to; I 've got enough money to take me to Chicago, and keep me till I can get a job. When I get to work I 'll salt every cent, and with any kind of luck, I 'll come back and get you within a year. A year is not such a very long while." And with a show of genuine enthusiasm, Checkers ended by talking the downcast girl into a happy confidence in himself and the future.

"And now, Pert," he said, solicitously, "it's too cold for you to stay out here longer; come, we must be brave, and say good-bye."

"O, Checkers," she exclaimed, with a choking sob, suddenly throwing her arms around his neck, "I can't bear to let you go; I shall be miserable, miserable without you."

Tenderly Checkers soothed and reasoned with her. Once more their plans were gone over. Checkers was to leave in the morning for Chicago. He was to write to her as often as possible, addressing the letters to Sadie, whom Pert knew she could depend upon. Checkers was to bend every effort towards getting a position and saving money; and Pert was to be brave, and wait--the common lot of women.

With his arm around her, lovingly, he led her slowly to the house.

Again and again they said good-bye; but there is something in the word which makes us linger.

"Some little keepsake, sweetheart," he whispered--"this ribbon, or your handkerchief."

"No; wait here a minute," she answered. Carefully entering the house, she crept to her room, and from its hiding-place brought forth a fifty-dollar gold piece. It was of California gold, octagonal in shape, and minted many years before.

"Here, dear," she said, returning noiselessly. "Here is a coin that was given me long ago by my grandfather--take it as a lucky-piece. And whenever you see it, think of one who loves you and is praying for you.

And, Checkers, if you should have misfortune, and should really need to, don't hesitate to spend it; because, you see, if you don't have good luck, so that you do n't need to spend it, why it is n't a lucky piece, and you 'd better get rid of it--that is, if--if you have to."

Checkers embraced her pa.s.sionately. "My darling," he protested, "I shall have to be nearer starving to death than I 've ever been, or expect to be, before I part with this. I shall treasure it as a keepsake from the dearest, sweetest, prettiest, sandiest girl in the world; the one that I love and the one that loves me; and here--here's a scarfpin that once was my father's. They say opals are unlucky.

Well, father got shot, but I wore it the lucky day I met you; so that does n't prove anything--wear it for my sake. Now, dear, I _must_ go.