sleuths, each accompanied by a white-toothed negro of renowned
coon-fighting, possum-catching proclivities, whom he had assembled from
the Old Harpeth to lead the hunt, thus leaving Caroline and Andrew alone
for the moment on the far side of the fire.

"Indeed, I'm not going to have your sweater!" she protested, beginning to
divest herself of the borrowed garment, but not knowing exactly how to
crawl out of its soft embrace.

"Please, oh, please do!" he exclaimed quickly, and as he spoke he caught
her hand away, that had begun to tug at the collar.

"I wouldn't keep it for the world--and have you cold, but--I can't get
out," she answered with a laugh. "Please show me or call for help."

And as she pleaded Andrew Sevier towered beside her, tall and slender,
while the cold breeze with its pine-laden breath ruffled his white
shirt-sleeves across his arms. Caroline Darrah in the embrace of his
clinging apparel was a sight that sent the blood through his veins at a
rate that warred with the winds, and his eyes drank deeply. The color
mounted under her eyes and with the unconsciousness of a child she
nestled her chin in the woolly folds about the neck as she turned her
face from the firelight.

"Well, then, get David's coat from the car," she pleaded.

"Will you stand back in the shadow of that tree until I do?" he asked.

He had caught across the fire a glimpse of the restive Hobson and a
sudden mad desire prompted him to snatch this one joy from Fate, come