"There is still a faint smell of burning. Do you think all the trees in the forest will die, Major?"

"Old Adam says they will not," answered the major. "A three months'

unbroken drought will dry up almost anything but trees. Now, while the underbrush and dried fern burned like tinder, the fire hardly touched the trees. It was those dead bramble hedges dividing the fields and the dried meadow gra.s.s that did the most damage, because the sparks from them ignited the garage and the roof of the stable."

"I am glad papa and Mrs. Thurston were not uneasy about us," observed Ruth. "If they had read the papers before you telegraphed, Major, they would have been frantic, I suppose."

"Make way for the Duke of Granada," called Jimmie's cheerful voice from the hall, and presently he appeared, pushing Jose, done up in bandages and lying flat on his back, on a rolling cot used by some invalid of the Ten Eyck family long since dead and gone.

"Jose, my boy," exclaimed the major, going to the foot of the cot to ease it as it pa.s.sed over the door sill, "do you think this is safe?"

"The doctor says it will not hurt him," replied Jimmie. "He needs company, but we won't let him stay long."

Jose smiled up at the faces leaning over him.

"You have all been so good to me," he said. "I want to thank you for your kindness and for believing in me when my character looked black enough to have condemned me without any more proof. And I want to thank you for my brother, too, and my poor little sister."

His eyes filled with tears.

"There, there," cried the major, pressing the boy's hand. "It's a little enough we have done, I'm sure. I only wish we could have saved you from your tumble," he added, gazing sadly toward the right wing of Ten Eyck Hall.

"And is it really true that our friends are going to leave us this afternoon?" asked Jose.

"Yes," answered the major; "all our girls and boys are going. We shall be lonesome enough when they are gone."

There was the sound of a motor horn down the avenue.

"Ah, here comes Stephen at last. I was afraid he would be late," said Major Ten Eyck, as his automobile pulled up at the door and Stephen, Martin and Alfred jumped out.

"I've got them, uncle," cried Stephen. "They arrived this morning." And he handed his uncle a registered package carefully done up and sealed with red sealing wax.

The major took the box and disappeared into the house while the boys exchanged significant looks.

"Stephen," said Bab, as they strolled down to the end of the-piazza while the others were examining the morning papers and reading their mail, "did you ever ask Jose where he was the morning we went to see the hermit!"

"Oh, yes," replied her friend; "or, rather, he told me without being asked. He was to meet his brother by appointment at the haunted pool. I suppose he was there too soon, because Antonio chose to inflict us with his antics before he went to see Jose, who heard a great deal of the nonsense, so he said, and there was a quarrel afterwards, a very bitter one, and Jose threatened to give Antonio over to the authorities unless he consented to give up his lawless life. Zerlina was hovering around later, and heard the pistol shots after the fight with the tramps. She thought, of course, it was a duel between her two brothers. That is why she paid you the mysterious visit and tried to read the note."

"How does Antonio strike you?" asked Bab.

"Just as a mischievous boy might. I think he will outgrow his vicious tendencies now that he has been taken hold of. For one thing he no longer hates poor old Jose. I told him, plainly, what a fine fellow his brother was, and that it was only on Jose's account we were not going to have him arrested. He seemed to be a good deal impressed, I think."

"A note for you, Miss," said John, handing Bab a three-cornered missive on a tray.

"Will Miss Barbara Thurston grant one last interview to an old admirer?"

the note ran.

"It's from your great-uncle," exclaimed Bab, giving Stephen the note to read.

Stephen smiled as his eye took in the crabbed, old-fashioned handwriting.

"The poor old fellow can't quite get the proper focus as to who you really are," he said. "You appear to represent two Barbaras to him. But you will go over for a few minutes, won't you, Bab? I doubt if Uncle Stephen will last much longer, and seeing you may be a great comfort to him."

"Of course I will," Bab replied. "If seeing me can bring a ray of pleasure into his life, I am glad enough to be able to do it. I should like to take him a few flowers. I know he loves them. Suppose we get some honeysuckle and late roses out of the garden before we go."

Together they strolled toward the major's garden, which the flames had spared, partly because it was protected by a high brick wall on three sides, and partly owing to a daily watering it had received from the gardener.

With Stephen's penknife they clipped a bunch of dewy white roses with yellow centers, and a few sprays of honeysuckle whose fragrance was overpoweringly sweet.

The old man was watching for the young people at the window when the attendant opened the door for them. He came forward with some of the major's grace and took Barbara's hand in his.

"It was very good of you to come," he said. "I heard you were going, and I wanted to say a last good-bye. I feel happier than I have felt in many years. You have forgiven me, have you not, little Barbara?" he went on, his mind confusing her again with that other Barbara whose tragic death had bereft him of his reason. "And you have brought me the roses, too?"

She nodded her head.

"Did they come from the bush near the arbor?"

"Yes," she replied, wondering a little.

"Don't you remember that it was our bush, the one we chose when you were here on a visit? Our white rose bush, Barbara. That you should not have forgotten, after all these years!" Then his memory came back. "But what am I saying?" he exclaimed. "My mind often gets confused. It was the likeness, I suppose. I want you to see this portrait of your grand-aunt."

He went over to a desk near the window and drew from one of its drawers an old daguerreotype.

"It is very, very like," he murmured, as he handed it to Barbara.

It was, indeed, even more like the present Bab than the miniature which the hermit had treasured during his years of solitude.

"I want you to keep this picture, Barbara," said Stephen's uncle. "I have another one, and it will be a pleasure to me, at the last, to know that it belongs to another Barbara Thurston. This ring must also be yours." He drew from the desk a little black velvet case. "It was a ring I gave to her after we were engaged. Will you wear it for me!"

Barbara opened the case and slipped the ring on her finger. It was a very old ring of beaten silver with a sapphire setting.

"Thank you," she said and gave him her hand.

"Good-bye, little Barbara!" cried the old man. "You have brought peace to me at last. You and my dear friend, Richard. I have changed a great deal, you see," he was lapsing back into the old mania, "but you are as young and pretty as ever, Barbara."

"It is time to go," whispered Stephen, hurriedly. The attendant had already opened the door for them and they slipped out together.

"The hermit has promised to come and see him every day," said Stephen, as they hastened through the pa.s.sage. "Indeed, Uncle John has invited the hermit to live at Ten Eyck Hall for the rest of his days, and he has all but consented. He is a wonderful old man, I think, and whether he swam off and left 'you' or not, he has atoned for it after all these years."

"Stephen," replied Barbara, "I shall never believe that he did that, no matter if he were to tell me so himself."

They reached the piazza just in time to hear Miss Sallie saying:

"Girls, I think we had better go up and get ready for the trip, before luncheon is announced. We want to start promptly, this time, even if we shall have such an excellent guard of young men. Jose, I am sorry you are not well enough to come in to our last meal," she added, turning to the sick boy and taking his hand. "But we shall run up and say good-bye to you before we leave, and if ever you go as far west as Chicago, I want you to come and see us. Perhaps Ruth and I shall see you and your father this autumn when we are in Europe."

"Indeed, I hope you will come to Madrid and visit at my home," cried Jose. "Will you not arrange it?"

"That would be delightful" said Miss Sallie, "but we shall be over only for six weeks. We must return in time for Ruth's school, you know."

The last luncheon at Ten Eyck Hall was a very gay one. The dangers of the previous week were over and the mysteries cleared away.