The conversation was taking a dangerous shape. Harvey saw that it would not do for him to stay. Both these men were fierce enough to fly at his throat. That little cabin in the woods was liable to become the scene of a tragedy unless he bridled his tongue or went away.

Disdaining to say so much as "good-night," he rose to his feet, opened the door, shut it behind him, and walked out in the blustery darkness.

"I would rather spend the night fighting tigers than to keep the company of such miscreants. But the new hands will be here in a few days, and the fellows will be taught a lesson which they will remember all their lives. I suppose I ought to pity their dupes, but they should have enough sense to see that these men are their worst enemies. It will be a bright day for the Rollo Mills and for Bardstown when they are well rid of them."

The superintendent did not pause to think where he was going when he stepped into the open air. The cold wind struck his face and a few fine particles touched his cheek. The sky had partly cleared, so that he could see the fine coating of snow around him, but after all, very little had fallen.

"If I can keep the path," he thought, "I will reach the village, but that is no easy matter—ah! there it is again."

The peculiar odor that had mystified him before was in the air. He recalled that Hugh and Tom had made an allusion to it that he did not understand.

"It may come from their chimney and be caused by something burning; but I looked closely at the wood on the hearth and saw nothing else."

A natural impulse led him, after walking a few rods, to look behind him. He had heard nothing, but knowing the surly mood of the couple, he thought it probable they might follow him.

The door of the cabin, was drawn wide open and the form of a man stood out to view, as if stamped with ink on the flaming background made by the fire beyond. His lengthened shadow was thrown down the path almost to the feet of Harvey. The fellow no doubt was peering into the gloom and listening.

"I wonder whether they mean to dog me," said Harvey; "it will be an easy matter to do so, for they know every part of the wood, while I am a stranger. They are none too good to put me out of the way; it is such men who have no fear of the law, but they shall not take me unawares."

While still looking toward the cabin, all became dark again. The door was closed, but he could not be sure whether the man stood outside or within.

"If he means to do me harm he will soon be at my heels."

But the straining eyes could not catch the outlines of any one, and the only sound was the moaning wind among the bare branches.

"He has gone back into the house, but may come out again."

And so, while picking his way through the dim forests, you may be sure that Harvey Bradley looked behind him many times. It makes one shiver with dread to suspect that a foe is softly following him. Harvey had buttoned his pea jacket to his chin and he now turned up the collar, so that it touched his ears. His hands were shoved deep into the side pockets and the right one rested upon his revolver that he had withdrawn from its usual place at his hip. He was on the alert for whatever might come.

He was pleased with one fact: the path to which so many references were made, was so clearly marked that he found it easy to avoid going wrong.

"If I had had sense enough to take the right course when I first struck it, I would have been home by this time."

After turning around several times without seeing or hearing anything suspicious, he came to believe that however glad O'Hara and Hansell might be to do him harm, they lacked the courage, unless almost sure against detection.

"Hugh will stir up others to go forward, but he will take good care to protect himself."

The dull roar that he once fancied he heard when tramping aimlessly during the day, was now so distinct that he knew he must be near a stream. The path crossed it at no great distance.

Sure enough, he had only turned a bend and gone down a little slope when he reached the margin of a deep creek, fully twenty feet wide. It flowed smooth and dark at his feet, but the turmoil to the left showed that it tumbled over the rocks, not far away.

Harvey was anything but pleased, when he saw the bridge by which the stream had to be passed. It was merely the trunk of a tree, that lay with the base on the side where he stood, while the top rested on the other bank. Whoever had felled the tree had trimmed the trunk of its branches from base to top—the result being more ornamental than useful, for the protuberances would have served to help the footing of a passenger. The trunk in the middle was no more than six inches in diameter, and being a little worn by the shoes that had trod its length, the footing was anything but secure. With the sprinkling of snow it was more treacherous than ever.

"Must I cross that?" Harvey said aloud, with a feeling akin to dismay.

"You can do so or swim, whichever you choose."

These words were spoken by a man standing on the other side, and who was about to step on the support, when he paused on seeing another on the point of doing the same from the opposite bank. In the dim light, Harvey saw him only indistinctly, but judged that he himself was recognized by the other.

"I suppose it's safe enough for those accustomed to it," said Harvey in reply, "but I prefer some other means; do you intend to use it?"

"That I do; I want no better; if you are afraid, get out of the way, for I am late."

Harvey moved to the right, and watched the other, who stepped upon the support and walked over with as much certainty as if treading a pavement on the street.

Harvey looked closely, and as the fellow came toward him, he recognized him as one of his former employes. He was Jack Hansell—a brother of Tom, and like him a close associate of Hugh O'Hara, the leader.

"You are out late, Jack," remarked the superintendent, as the other left the log. To his surprise, Jack did not answer, but quickly disappeared up the path by which the superintendent had reached the spot.

"He is surly and ill-mannered, like all of them; no doubt he is on his way to the cabin to plot mischief with the others."

Since nothing was to be gained by waiting, Harvey now stepped on the trunk and began gingerly making his way across. It was a hard task, and just beyond the middle, he lost his balance. He was so far along, however, that a vigorous jump landed him on the other bank.

A little beyond he caught the twinkling lights of the village, and he hastened his steps, now that, as it may be said, home was in sight. He felt as if he was famishing, and the thought of the luscious supper awaiting his return, gave him such speed that he was soon at his own door.

Though it was late, he saw his aunt was astir, for the lights were burning brightly. Before he could utter the greeting on his tongue, he was terrified by the scared face of his relative.

"Why, aunt, what is the matter? Are you ill?"

"Oh, Harvey!" she wailed; "haven't you brought Dollie with you?"

"Dollie!" repeated the other; "I haven't seen her since I left home."

"Then you will never see her again," and, overcome by her terrible grief, the good woman sank into the nearest chair, covered her face with her apron and wept.

Harvey Bradley stood petrified. Bright-eyed Dollie, whom he had left a few hours before, rosy, happy, overflowing with bounding spirits, was gone, and the sobbing Aunt Maria declared she would never be seen again.

Stepping into the room, Harvey laid his hand on his aunt's shoulder and in a trembling voice said:

"Why, aunt, what does this mean? Are you in earnest? What has become of Dollie? Tell me, I beseech you."

"She is lost; she is lost! Oh, why did we ever bring her to this dreadful country? I wish none of us had ever seen it."

"But what about Dollie? Where is she? How long has she been gone? Compose yourself and tell."

It was not until he spoke sharply that the hysterical woman was able to make known that the child had been absent for hours, no one knew where. When she learned that noon that her big brother would not be back till night, Dollie had pouted because he had gone off without telling her. She was not sure she could ever forgive him. However, she ate her dinner, and soon after went out to play. Some hours later her aunt went to the door to call her, but she was not within sight or hearing. Maggie was sent to look for her, but soon came back with word that she could not be found.

The child had been seen a couple of hours before, running in the direction of the path that led into the mountains, as if she was fleeing from some one, Maggie had gone as far as she dared in quest of her, but her loudest shouts brought no reply and she returned.

The word brought by the servant, as may well be believed, filled the aunt with the wildest grief. Beyond all doubt, Dollie had formed a sudden resolve to hunt up her brother Harvey, who had gone away and left her at home. She had strayed so far into the mountains that she was lost. Fortunately, she was warmly dressed at the time, but exposed as she must be to the wintry winds and cold, she could not hold out until morning unless rescued very soon.

Harvey was stricken with an anguish such as he had never known before, but he knew that not a minute was to be lost. Dollie must be found at once or it would be too late. It added a poignancy to his woe to know that in coming down the mountain path, he must have passed close to her, who was in sore need of the help he was eager to give.

"Have you made no search for her?" he asked.

"I could not believe she would not come back until it began to grow dark. I thought she could not be far away; Maggie and I hunted through the village, inquiring of every one whom we saw; many of the people were kind, and two or three have gone to hunt for her; I started to do so, but did not go far, when I was sure she had come back while I was away, and I hurried home only to find she was not here."

"Are you sure any one is looking for her?"

"There are several."

"Well," said Harvey, impatient with the vacillation shown by his aunt, "I shall not come back until she is found."

His hand was on the knob of the door when his distressed relative sprang to her feet.

"Harvey;" she said in a wild, scared manner, "shall I tell you what I believe?"

"Of course."

"Dollie did not lose herself: some of those awful men did it."

"Do you mean the strikers?"

"Yes; they have taken her away to spite you."

"Impossible!" exclaimed the young man, passing out the door and striding up the single street that ran through the village.

But though unwilling to confess it to himself, the same shocking suspicion had come to him at the moment he learned that Dollie was lost. Could it be that some of the men, grown desperate in their resentment, had taken this means of mortally injuring him? Was there any person in the wide world who would harm an innocent child for the sake of hurting a strong man? Alas, such things had been done, and why should they not be done again? The words that he overheard between Hugh O'Hara and Tom Hansell proved them capable of dark deeds. Could it be that some of the hints thrown out by them during that brief interview in the cabin bore any relation to the disappearance of Dollie.

At the moment Harvey turned away from his own house it was his intention to rouse the village and to ask all to join in the hunt for the child, but a feeling of bitter resentment led him to change his purpose. No; they would rejoice over his sorrow; they would give him no aid, and, if they had had a hand in her taking off, they would do what the............