might study a face out of repose. Archer felt that this young fisherman was weighing his character. But he answered without resentment.
"Mine's Hugh Archer. I'd be obliged to you if you 'd tell me of a night's lodging somewhere. These other men won't. As for Powell's daughter"—he was going on half jocosely—
"Never mind what Beaky said," the other cut in, with severity. "He's full o' smut. It's best forgotten." Then, after a long silence, during which the sharp blue eyes studied further, and seemed to look through Archer into futurity and consequences, Peter added, "Yes, Powell may take ye in. It's just as well, after all, I should n't wonder."
The tone, unmistakably sad, was one of final decision. The eyebrows under the blue-veined forehead unbent.
"My brother 'll show ye the way."
And with this, stepping to the open door, he whistled into the darkness. Presently there came a patter of bare feet, and a small, ragged boy, bounding up the steps,
