it was a gray, cold day, unusual for may, the kind of day that accords with ill-nature. it reminded billy of the incident of the opera when rain and storm, driven by his own insistence, had blown in on the stage quite out of season, and dragged off with them the remnants of winter. for the first sunday since may nell’s coming he took his wheel after dinner and went off alone. he was in accord with the sullen sky and air. in the morning he had answered his mother angrily; because bouncer wished to play instead of coming through the gate when called, billy had slammed it on his tail, knowing well that in a happier mood he would have been more careful.

now he flew off down the county road at a speed that made passers turn; but he saw no one. he neither slackened nor looked back till he found himself at the river where the little island rose, flower-crowned. the poppies were fewer; and where a month before the flame-flower had triumphed, to-day wild roses perfumed the air.

billy halted and looked up into the threatening sky. his eyes twitched, and he noticed wonderingly that his breath was short and his hand shook on the handle-bar. he dismounted and propped his wheel against the fence; climbed down to the river and sat on a projecting rock, with his feet dangling near the water.

there was a strange weight in his left side, like lead. he felt as if the whole world was against him; and the future looked dark and terrible. three days ago life had reached out, a white shining road to success. only three days! he looked north to where clouds were shutting down over the mountain, gray to-day, not blue. the mountain, every one called it, for it closed the valley and towered, a sentinel, far above all other mountains in view. billy thought that stood for him; he was to be chained to this narrow valley all his life; struggle as he might he should never be free.

if he had been older he would have said he had “the blues.” yet probably he would not have known that his mental—and physical—condition was a natural result of the long strain of previous weeks. all the children felt it. that morning the cousins, clarence and harry, who loved each other dearly, had come to blows in the sunday school room before the teachers arrived, over the question of which one of them should marry miss edith. clarence received a bloody scratch the full length of his palm from harry’s band of mercy pin; while the careful parting disappeared from his own hair, and a red splotch marred the whiteness of his wide collar. no one can tell what further calamity might have happened had not the twins opportunely arrived and questioned of the quarrel.

“you needn’t fight any more,” vilette said, loftily; “we shall marry her ourselves.”

“yes, we shall marry her ourselves,” evelyn echoed; while both girls made childish efforts to rehabilitate the depressed cousins.

the unstinted praise of the children in the operetta, the aftermath of buzz about the “show” at school,—this excitement lasted for a day or so; but on this lowering sunday tired nature put in a claim for her own; and relaxed nerves were irritably near the surface.

billy had the excitable musical temperament. he spent his forces lavishly, and it was because of this that he was a leader; could think and act quickly in emergencies, as when he saved the operetta from failure. edith and her mother knew that he had lived hard through the past few weeks, that next to edith herself he had carried the entertainment, though jean had been a host also. so it pleased mrs. bennett that afternoon to see billy start off alone for the country.

now in the silence and fragrance his tightened springs began to relax. presently he found himself in a dream of possibilities of the island,—ellen’s isle, he always called it; of what might be done with the smooth places in the river, the hills, sunol creek not far away, boiling and tumbling in boisterous beauty; of hidden nooks, piled boulders, and tiny meadows, vine-enclosed and flower-fragrant.

had he but dreamed on for an hour or so he would have returned, rested, refreshed, the cheery boy that helped to make the bennett house a home. but a voice in the road above startled him. only a word was spoken, a greeting; but it was surly and foreign, italian.

billy sprang up. the dark man of the sinister house was passing on his way to town; had answered a horseman’s salute. the boy could not see the house; but on the high hill above it he saw the other brother, regardless of the sabbath, hoeing his vineyard.

now was billy’s chance! the place was alone! he waited till each traveller was out of view on the curving road, then climbed up, crossed the dusty wheel tracks, and crept into the brush on the other side. once hidden he “snooped” silently through the tangled chaparral, coming shortly to the mystery-house, so close to it that he could have looked in at the windows had they been clean enough.

a faint sound caught his ear, as of clinking coins and soft voices. people there! he had thought it before, now he was certain. were not both brothers away?

billy cuddled down in the low-growing manzanitas, whose screen was further thickened by a tangle of wild pea vines all a-bloom. placing himself so that he could watch both the house and the man on the hill, he settled to await further disclosures.

all the excited nerves in his body that had been resting were tingling again. he could feel his temples throb, count the beats of his heart. for a time nothing happened. he heard no different sounds, though he strained his ears nervously. the moments passed and seemed hours. he crouched motionless, but his stillness was not repose.

what if they should find him? gee! couldn’t a boy run faster than a man? another sound banished these thoughts; wheels on the road, whose thick coat of dust almost hushed the ring of metal tires. a horseman before, and now a wagon; this was an unusual amount of travel for that lonely road.

billy looked up at the italian, saw him take a pistol from his pocket, discharge it in the air, replace it, and go calmly on with his work. what could that be for? a warning? yes; for he realized suddenly that every sound in the house had ceased. the wagon passed from sight. he could hear the voices of the men as they drove by, see the driver pointing to the house with his whip; and one of the women on the rear seat looked back as long as the house could be seen. then the soft mysterious sounds began again.

billy took no heed of time till he saw the man above shoulder his hoe, pick up his wine jug, and start down the hill. at that billy’s heels grew swift. he scurried out of his hiding place, slipped rapidly through the brush, found his wheel, and bowled off. no languor or heaviness now in body or mind. every atom of him was alert as on the night of the opera, yet not so normally alert; for the evil atmosphere of the place was in his soul, filling his teeming brain with imaginings of many crimes.

in this mood he turned into the main road and came upon jackson limping, bloody, and crying.

“jiminy crickets! what’s happened, kid?” billy asked, slowing up beside him.

“sour’s licked me ’cause i’m a n-nigger, ’n gave t-twinnies some f-flowers an’ walked with ’em. he’s back there now l-lickin’ the t-twins.”

billy didn’t wait. like all generous natures that are slow to anger, the passion once aroused possessed him to madness. he raced down the turnpike, his face aflame. ahead he could see the dorrs’ horse and buggy standing near the fence. jimmy was on the ground beside the twins; and billy saw the whip descend more than once before he arrived. had he known it the blows were make-believe, for moral effect alone. jimmy was giving a lesson that his southern breeding made him think necessary, if painful.

billy heard the pitiful cries of the children, evelyn’s the loudest, though vilette was receiving the blows. every drop of blood in his veins was a spark of fire. an unsuspected power came from somewhere, mysteriously. he felt himself lift, expand, grow strong enough to battle with an ox. he dropped his wheel, sprang upon jimmy from behind, and bore him down. in an instant he had snatched the whip, broken it, and tossed the pieces into the field beyond. “you bully! you skunk! to horsewhip girls! why don’t you take one of your own size?”

jimmy was taken by surprise. billy was his favorite play-mate, and the whip had disappeared before he realized the import of the attack, and he thus lost any advantage he might have gained while billy’s hands were busy. but the words roused jimmy’s anger. no boy had a right to interfere between him and his sisters; and he struggled to his feet and launched some telling blows.

billy heeded no prize-ring rules, no boys’ traditions of fair play. every savage instinct inherited from far-distant ancestors and sleeping till to-day, rose, conquered the human in him, for the moment made him brutish. and the sobs of the little girls were as whips of fire.

the struggle was short. when jimmy resisted no longer, but, after a fall against the fence with his arm doubled under and back, did not try to rise, billy came to his senses. he cleared the dust from his eyes a little and turned to see why jimmy didn’t speak. he lay with closed eyes, motionless!

a chill as from an ice field swept over billy. his heart seemed to fall down, down, as far as his shoes. he noticed that things looked darker, and his head felt light and queer. another fear assailed him; would he, too, collapse, leave the little girls alone with the terror of two senseless boys?

he roused himself sharply; found his handkerchief and rubbed his eyes a little clearer; bent swiftly over jimmy, who stirred when touched, and, to billy’s intense relief, spoke.

“i think you’ve broke my neck, kid,” he said, feebly, as quaking billy helped him to his feet.

“jimmy, can you stand?”

he winced with pain, reeled, and would have fallen but for the other’s sustaining hand.

“here! sit down on the bank.” billy himself was trembling so he felt it safer to see jimmy sitting. “i’ll get—twinnies, run, run to the tank and wet your handkerchief. quick!”

they were at the dripping roadside tank and back in a trice. gently where a moment before he had been ferocious with anger, billy wiped his play-mate’s face, or rather, changed the mud from one spot to another, got him to his feet again, and finally into the buggy with the little girls by his side.

“can you drive?” he asked, anxiously, as he unhitched the horse. he noticed with a second sinking feeling that jimmy’s face twitched with pain, that his right arm hung limp.

“if i can’t vilette can. old bob goes by himself, anyway.” he made a brave though unsuccessful effort to appear as usual.

“are—are you hurt bad, jimmy?” came in a quaking voice.

“no worse ’n you, i reckon,” was the rueful response. billy’s appearance justified jimmy’s speech; for freckles were standing out large and ghastly from one or two very white spots on the younger boy’s battered face. “can you get home alone?”

“yes—go on quick! here come folks!”

he watched the three drive away, the brother holding the reins in his left hand; the other he did not attempt to lift; and billy’s heart thumped faster as fear grew to a certainty. he brushed himself weakly, turning his back as a surrey-load of people passed.

“had a fall, billy?” every one knew the boy.

“yes, mr. brown,” he answered, keeping his face from sight.

“hurt?”

“my clothes mostly,” he replied, hoping he had told the truth, though a dreadful, big feeling in his head, the humming in his ears, and the pain in his eyes, made him guess he had told a lie.

the travellers passed on; he righted his wheel and began his slow, painful way home. it was still cloudy and the welcome darkness setting in early, shrouded him as he slipped down the least public streets and alleys to his own side gate. he put his wheel away, fed his chickens,—though they had gone to roost,—went to the cellar and brought meat and milk for dog and cats, and reconnoitred the way to the fo’castle.

visitors! he saw them through the window. every step was growing more painful,—he must get to his room. the space from the woodshed roof to the tower room, before so easily surmounted by a swinging jump, looked now as high and far as mount whitney. back to the window he turned. the firelight was dancing on the walls. sister edith was talking gayly to neighbors who were standing near the door, and may nell was snuggled beside his mother on the couch, the great yellow cat, or a part of him, sprawling on her small lap.

how sweet and dear they all were! how peaceful it looked in there,—too peaceful, clean, for a dirty, fighting brute like himself. what could he do? he shivered in the cold, and the pain in his eyes increased. would he fall? would they find him, have doctor carter, learn the disgraceful truth? if the world had looked dark that afternoon, it was now egyptian blackness.

there was a stir in the room. his mother stood—may nell, too—and the cat stretched lazily on the couch. sister edith followed the guests to the porch, as did his mother and the little girl—the room was empty! he opened the kitchen door, tried to hasten noiselessly, yet thought he clattered like a threshing machine. into the living-room he crept, and lumbered softly up the stairs that seemed a mile long.

“it’s time billy was at home,” he heard his mother say as he opened her room door; and he stumbled on more hurriedly, across the bridge—at last, the fo’castle!

he threw himself on the bed and wept the bitterest tears he had ever shed in his life, tears of shame. there he lay—hours, he thought—determined to bear his pain and disgrace alone. yet it was only minutes when he heard his mother in her room, coming!