"Well, there!"

At this Priscilla started, gave a light laugh, and readjusting her yoke,
walked down to the young fellow below.

"It's Jerry-Jo," she said slowly, still held by the change in him; "and
alone!"

"Yes." Jerry-Jo gave a gleaming smile that showed all his strong, white
teeth--long, keen teeth they were, like the fangs of an animal.

"Where are the others?" asked Priscilla.

"Uncle's dead," the boy returned promptly and cheerfully; "dead, and a
good thing. He was getting cranky."

Priscilla started back as if the mention of death on that glorious day
cast a cloud and a shadow.

"And your father, Jerry-Jo, is he, too, dead?"

"No. Dad, he is in jail!"

"In--jail!" Never in her life before had Priscilla known of any one being
in Kenmore jail. The red, wooden house behind its high, stockade fence
was at once the pride and relic of the place. To have a jail and never
use it! What more could be said for the peaceful virtues of a community?

"Yes. Dad's in jail and in jail he will stay, says he, till them as put
him there begs his pardon humble and proper."