which lay in a warm cluster in the hollow below. Many lights twinkled
there, and it occurred to Harry that they would twinkle later than usual
that night.

He opened the door, hung his hat and overcoat in the hall, and entered
the large apartment which his father and he habitually used as a reading
and sitting room. It was more than twenty feet square, with a lofty
ceiling. A home-made carpet, thick, closely woven, and rich in colors
covered the floor. Around the walls were cases containing books,
mostly in rich bindings and nearly all English classics. American work
was scarcely represented at all. The books read most often by Colonel
Kenton were the novels of Walter Scott, whom he preferred greatly to
Dickens. Scott always wrote about gentlemen. A great fire of hickory
logs blazed on the wide hearth.

Colonel Kenton was alone in the room. He stood at the edge of the
hearth, with his back to the fire and his hands crossed behind him.
His tanned face was slightly pale, and Harry saw that he had been
subjected to great nervous excitement, which had not yet wholly abated.

The colonel was a tall man, broad of chest, but lean and muscular.
He regarded his son attentively, and his eyes seemed to ask a question.

"Yes," said Harry, although his father had not spoken a word. "I've
heard of it, and I've already seen one of its results."

"What is that?" asked Colonel Kenton quickly.

"As I came through town Bill Skelly, a mountaineer, shot at Arthur
Travers. It came out of hot words over the news from Charleston.