And where was Alf all this time? No one had spoken his name; Millie had not asked me about him. I walked briskly in advance, half happy, but, of course, with my mind on Guinea, whose low voice reached my ears through the quiet that lay on the grass-land.

"Why don't you wait for us?" she cried. I turned about and waited, and as she came up, holding Chyd's arm, she said: "I hope your success to-night hasn't turned your head."

"And I hope that I don't deserve such a suspicion," I answered, not with bitterness, but with joy to think that she had felt my apparent indifference.

"Oh, I don't see anything to cause a spat," said Chyd, straining himself to take long steps. "Good stuff, of course, but nothing to turn a man's head—a mere bit of fancy paint. But you ought to write it. Good many people like nonsense. I mean something light, you know. Two-thirds of the human family make it their business to dodge the truth. But it is a good thing for a school-teacher to make himself felt in that way."

"Perhaps Mr. Hawes doesn't intend to be a teacher all his life," Guinea replied, speaking in kindliness, but with no interest, as to whether or not I was to remain a pedagogue.

"God forbid," I replied. And the young doctor gave me a sarcastic cough. "Man ought to do what he's best fitted for," said he. "Trouble is that a man generally thinks that he's fitted for something that he isn't—hates the thing that he can do best."

"Your knowledge of the practical fortifies you against any advance that I might make," I replied. "I don't pretend to be practical."

"Hum, I should think not," he rejoined. "Good deal of a dreamer, I take it. And you are in the right place. Everything dreams here, the farmers and even the cattle. Going to pull down the fence, eh? Guinea'll be over by the time you get it down. What did I tell you? Regular fawn, eh?"

We had passed out of the meadow. They waited in the road until I replaced the rails which I had let down. The road ran along the ravine and home was in sight. I looked across toward the smooth old rock and saw a dark object upon it. We went down into the ravine and as we were coming out, a voice cried: "Is that you, Bill?" And instantly Guinea answered for me. "Yes, Alf. And here's Chyd."

"How are you, Chyd?" he shouted, and then he added: "Bill, I want to see you a minute. Stay where you are and I'll come down."

I halted to wait for him. He stopped a moment to shake hands with Chyd, and then he hastened to me. "Old man, I've got something to tell you," he said. "Let's walk down this way—no, not over in the road, but up the hollow." He gripped my arm tightly, walked fast, then slowly and then stopped. "Let's sit down here, Bill." We seated ourselves on a rock. "You have been over to the General's, along with Chyd and Guinea, haven't you? Of course, you have—what's the use of asking that? Do you know what I did to-day? Not long after dinner I went over there determined to find out how I stood. I was brave until I got nearly to the house and then my courage failed. I stood by the fence in the blackberry briars and gazed at the house. After a while I saw her come out and start down the Ebeneezer road. And then I whipped round and met her. And as I stood beside the road, waiting for her to come up I noticed for the first time that the sun was nearly down. For hours I had been standing in the briars. I pretended not to see her; let on like I was hunting for a squirrel up in a tree, until she came up. Then I spoke to her and she started as if she was scared. She said that she was going over to Lum Smith's to tell the young people to come over at night, and I asked her if I might walk along with her. She said with a laugh that I might go part of the way, and then I knew that she was ashamed for any one to see her with me. This cut me to the red, but I walked along with her. I felt that I had nothing to say that would interest her, but I kept on talking, and once in a while she would look up at me and laugh. At last, and it was just as we came within sight of Smith's place, I asked her what she really thought of Dan Stuart. I knew that this was a fool's break, and if it hadn't been I don't suppose I would have made it. She looked up at me, but she didn't laugh this time. I begged her pardon for my rudeness, and she reminded me that I was only to come a part of the way with her. I then told her that I would wait for her to come back. She said that she might not come back that way. I replied that no matter which way she came back I would see her. She went on, laughing now, and I waited, but I didn't have to wait long before I saw her coming. As she came up I asked her if she was ready to grant my pardon and she wanted to know what about. We walked along together and she began to tell me about her brother, how smart he was and all that, and I said that I didn't think that he was as smart as you, Bill; I wanted to take credit for a friendship I had formed, you see? But a moment later I was sorry, for I was afraid that she might say something against you, but she didn't. She said that you were a smart man—a distinguished-looking man, and that she liked you ever so much. At first I was pleased, but a second afterward I was jealous of you, Bill. Did you ever see as blamed a fool as I am? But I didn't hate you, Bill. No, my heart was warm toward you even while she was praising you—even while I was jealous. I again asked her what she thought of Dan Stuart, and she looked up at me and wanted to know if I knew what he thought of her. I told her that everybody loved her, and that I didn't suppose he was mean enough not to love her. She said that she knew people who didn't love her, and I told her that if she would show them to me I would butt their heads together for being such idiots. We were now almost within sight of the General's home and I was not getting along very fast. I was determined to make a break. We were on a hill, where the trees were tall, almost over-lapping the road. To the right ran a path through the briars, a nearer way home. I asked her to wait and she stopped. The sun was down and it was now almost dark. And it was then that I told her that I loved her. I don't know how I acted or what I said, but I know that I was down in the dust at her feet. She stood there, pale and trembling, looking around as if she would call for help. I asked her to marry me, and she laughed, Bill—laughed at me and darted down the path. Then I went into the woods and roamed about I don't know where; and that is the reason I wasn't at the gathering to-night. I'm bruised and crippled, Bill—my heart is sore, but I want to tell you that when she's standing on the floor with that fellow Stuart, with the preacher in front of her, I'll be there, putting in my plea. I won't give up as long as there is a fighting chance left. Don't say a word about it. Forgive me for dragging you off down here. God knows you've got a deep trouble of your own. And I wish my word could settle it—I'd speak it, though it might hurt my chances at the General's. Well, let's go to the house."



CHAPTER XI.

Guinea and Chyd, old Lim and his wife went to church the next day, leaving Alf and me alone. Alf held himself in reasonable restraint until the old people were gone, and then he broke out so violently that I really feared for his reason. And it was mainly my fault for I read him a passionate poem, the outcry of a maddened soul, and he swore that it had been written for him, that it was his, and I caught his spirit and fancied that he might have written it, for I believed then, as I believe now, that great things do not come from a quiet heart, that quiet hearts may criticise, but that they do not create, that genius is a condition, an agony, a tortured John Bunyan.

I went to the spring to get a bucket of fresh water, and when I returned Alf was nowhere to be found. I went out and shouted his name, but no answer came back. I went out into the woods, walked up and down the road, but could see nothing of him. The shadows fell short and the old people and Guinea and Chyd returned from church, and the noon-tide meal was spread, but Alf came not. But save with me there was no anxiety, as he was wont to poke about alone they said. Evening, bed-time came. Chyd went home, and I went up to my room. I heard the old man locking the smoke-house door—heard his wife singing a hymn, heard Guinea's faint foot-steps as she returned from the gate, whither she went to bid her lover good-night, and her little feet fell not upon the path, but upon my heart. I went to bed, leaving the lamp burning low, and was almost asleep when I heard Alf on the stairs. He ran into the room with both hands pressed against his head. I sprang up. He ran to me and dropped upon his knees at the bed-side, dropped and clutched the covering and buried his face in it. I put my arm about him, knelt beside him, heard his smothered muttering, and put my face against his. "Bill!" he gasped in a shivering whisper, "Bill, I have killed him!"

"Merciful God!" I cried, springing back. He reached round, as if to draw me down beside him. "Hush, don't let them hear down stairs. Come here, Bill."

I lifted him to his feet, turned him round so that I could see his face. It was horror-stricken. "I have killed Dan Stuart."

He stood with both hands on my shoulders looking into my eyes.

"Wait a minute and I'll tell you. It wasn't altogether my fault. He ought to be dead. He tried to kill me. I left here without any thought of seeing him; didn't want to see him. I went away over yonder into the woods. I heard you calling me. Later in the day I came out near the wagon-maker's shop, and several fellows were sitting there, and I stopped to answer a question somebody asked me, and pretty soon here came Stuart. He grinned at me, but this didn't make me want to kill him. Do they hear me down stairs?"

"Go on, for God's sake!" I urged. "Why did you kill him? Didn't you know——"

"I knew everything, Bill. But I didn't want to kill him. I turned away, and walked up the road, and he came along after me on his horse. And when we were some distance away he made a slighting remark about Millie. I wheeled around and he snatched out a pistol and pointed it at me. I hadn't a thing, and there he was on a horse and with a pistol pointed at me. There was not a stone, nothing within reach. I was cool, I had sense, and I told him that he might have his fun, but that I would see him again. And when he had cursed me and abused me as much as he liked he rode away, leaving me standing there. I ran over to Parker's and told him that I wanted a pistol to shoot a dog with, and he gave it to me. Then I went back to the road and waited. He had gone over to the General's, I thought, and I knew that he would come back that way. I would make him swallow his words—I knew that he didn't mean what he said about Millie—knew that he simply wanted to stir me up and have an excuse to kill me. So I waited in the road not far from Doc Etheredge's, waited a long time and at last I heard some one coming on a horse. I didn't hide; I stood in the middle of the road. A man came up, but it wasn't him; it was Etheredge. He spoke to me, asked me good-naturedly why I was standing there, and I told him that I was waiting for a dog that I wanted to kill. He turned into his gate, a short distance off, and I stood there. After a while I heard another horse, and I knew his gait—single-foot. It was Stuart. He was singing and he didn't appear to see me until he was almost on me. His horse shied. 'Who is that?' he asked, and I told him. 'And you are going to take back what you said,' I remarked as quietly as I could, 'or I'm going to kill you right here.' He didn't say a word—he snatched at his pistol and then I fired, and he fell forward on his horse's neck. The horse jumped and I sprang forward and caught the body and eased it to the ground—stretched it in the road and left it. But I went up to Etheredge's house and hallooed, and when he answered I told him that the dog had come and that his name was Dan Stuart, and that he would find him lying in the road. I heard him shout something, but I didn't wait for him to come out, but went into the woods and came on home. And now I've got to go."

"Go where?" I asked, facing him round as he strove to turn from me.

"To town to give myself up. Don't tell the old folks to-night. Tell them in the morning—tell them that they'll find me in jail."

I strove to restrain him; I could scarcely believe what he had told me. I asked him if he had not been dreaming. He shook his head, pulling away from me. "If you are my friend, Bill, do as I tell you. It's all over with me now, and all I can do is to answer to the law." He caught up his hat. "Tell them at morning; make it as soft as you can—tell them how I love that girl—tell them that I am crazy. Don't hold me, Bill. I must go. God bless you."

He pulled away from me and went down stairs so easily that he made scarcely a sound. I followed him, begged him to let me go with him, but, creeping back half way up the stairs, he said: "You can be of more service to me here. Tell them and to-morrow you can see me in jail. I don't want them to come and take me there. Do as I tell you, Bill. Don't let the folks see me in jail. Go on back."

I went back to the room and sat there all night, and at morning I heard the old man unlock the smoke-house, heard his wife singing a hymn. I knew that they expected me at early breakfast, so that I could reach the school-house in time, for my new session was to begin that morning. So the sun was not risen when I went down stairs. But nature held up a pink rose in the east, and the hilltops were glowing, while the valleys were yet dark. Guinea came out of the sitting-room, and seeing me in the passage, walking as if I were afraid of disturbing some one, laughed at me. "Why, what makes you slip along that way? You act as if you were the first one up. Why, I have already gathered you some flowers to take to school. And you won't even thank me. Why, Mr. Hawes, what on earth is the matter?"

I held up my hand. "There will be no school to-day," I said. "Don't say a word, please."

"But what's the matter?" she asked, with a look of fright.

"Come out here under the tree. Will you promise not to scream if I tell you something?"

"But what can you tell me to make me scream? Oh——"

"I'm not going to speak of myself," I broke in, fearing that she might think that I was going to tell her of my love. "Come out here, please."

She followed me to the bench under the tree and she stood there nervously gazing at me as I sat down, waiting for me to speak and yet afraid to hear me.

"What is it, please? But don't tell me anything bad—I don't want to hear anything bad."

"But you must hear this. Alf—Alf has had a quarrel with Dan Stuart. It was worse than a quarrel, and has——"

"Killed him?" she said, gazing at me. "Don't tell me anything."

She sat down beside me and hid her face. "Alf has gone to town to give himself up, and we must tell your father and mother. It wasn't murder—it was self-defence. You go and tell your mother, tell her as quietly as you can. I see your father out yonder. I will tell him. Tell her that they got into a quarrel last night."

She went away without looking back at me, without letting me see her face, and as I passed the corner of the house I heard her talking and before I reached the old man I heard a cry from that poor old woman.

Old Lim was at the door of his "stockade," oiling the lock. "Devilish thing don't work well," he said. "A padlock is generally the best lock or the worst; you never can tell which. If I could jest git a drap of the grease into the key-hole I'd soon fix it. But it won't go in, you see. By jings, the devil has his own way about half the time, and his influence is mighty powerful the other half. Now, we're gittin' at it. I reckon we'd better go on to breakfast, though. I almost forgot that you had to go to your school. Why, man, what the deuce is the matter with you this mornin'?"

He dropped the chain to which the lock was fastened and looked steadily at me. "What's gone wrong, man?"

"I'm not going to school to-day," I answered, endeavoring to be calm.

"What's the matter? House burnt down again?"

"Worse than that, Mr. Jucklin. Alf——"

"What about him?" he broke in, nervously grabbing the chain.

"Did you know that he was in love with Millie Lundsford?" I asked, now determined to be calm.

"Well, what of it? Young folks are in and out of love with each other mighty nigh every day in this neighborhood. Is that Susan callin' me? Be there in a minute!" he shouted. "Hasn't had a row with the old General, has he?"

"No, but with Dan Stuart. They quarreled last night and fought and Dan was killed."

His shoulders drooped; he spoke not, but he jerked the chain, the gate flew open and he stepped inside and shut it with a slam; and I heard him fumbling with the fastening that held the door of the coop. I strode away as fast as I could, went to the school-house to dismiss the children and to tell them that I knew not when the session would be resumed. And when I returned everything was quiet. The old man was slowly walking up and down the spring-house path, evidently waiting for me.

"Tell me all about it," he said, when I came up; "tell me from beginnin' to end."

And I told him just as Alf had told me. He listened with his mouth half open, rolling up his shirt-sleeves and then rolling them down again, as if he knew not what to do with himself.

"Well," he said, when I was done, "I don't know that I can blame him, poor feller, but they'll hang him."

"Do you think so?" I cried, with a start, for I had not dwelt upon that possibility; it had not occurred to me, so wrapt had I been in thinking of his own mental distress and the heart-breaking grief of his mother. "Do you really think so?"

"I know it—just as clear to me as that sunshine. Stuart's kin folks have got money and they'll spend every cent of it to put Alf on the gallows. Etheredge don't like Alf and will spend every cent he's got; and here we are without money. Yes, they'll hang him."

"But General Lundsford—won't he stand as Alf's friend?"

The old man shook his head. "He can't, and I don't know that he would if he could. I mean that he can't and still be true to himself. Ever since our agreement, the one I told you about, he has been putty open in talkin' to me, and I know that he wanted Millie to marry Stuart. No, he's too proud to help us."

"But can he for family reasons afford not to help us? His son——"

"Don't speak of that now, if you please, sir. Are you goin' to the house?"

"I don't know. I am almost afraid to meet his mother."

"Don't be afraid of that. She won't reproach you; she knows that you had nothing to do with it—knows that he never would have killed him if he had asked your advice and followed it."

"I don't mean that—I mean that I cannot bear to look upon her grief."

"She is a Christian, sir. She is praying to her God, and whatever comes she will trust in Him. The stock that she is from has stood at the stake, sir."

We were slowly walking toward the house. Suddenly he clutched my arm with a grip that reminded me of Alf, and in a voice betraying more emotion than I had known him to show, asked whether I intended to leave him. I put my arm about him and pressed him to me, just as if he were Alf telling me of the love-trouble that lay upon his heart.

"I understand you, God bless you," he said. "Don't say a word; I understand you. Git on the mare and go to town and find out all you can. I won't go jest now—can't stand to see my son in jail. But don't say a word, for I understand you. I reckon the neighborhood is pretty well alive over it by this time. See if they'll let him go about on bail, but I don't reckon they will, even if he did give himself up. They'll think that he done it because he must have knowed that they were bound to catch him. Go on and do whatever your jedgment tells you, and I know it will be all right."

Over the road I went, toward Purdy, and the people who had come out of their houses to speak words of encouragement to Alf and me when we were on our way to see the Aimes boys tried, now stood about their doors, gazing stupidly. At the wagon-maker's shop a crowd was gathered, and I was recognized as I drew near by young men who had met me at the General's house the night before—now so long ago, it seemed—and they came out into the road and urged me to tell them all I knew. I felt that Etheredge had already stirred in his own coloring, but I told the story of the tragedy just as I had told it to the old man; and I had gathered rein to resume my journey when a man rode up. "I'm going back to town!" he shouted, waving his hand to a man who stood in the door of the wagon-maker's shop. I rode on and he came up beside me.

"Are you Mr. Hawes?" he asked, and when I had answered him he said: "I am Dr. Etheredge."

I bowed and he nodded with distinct coolness. He was not of happy appearance; he was lean and angular, gray beyond the demand of his years, and it struck me that he must be given to drink, not because he was gray, but because there were puffs under his eyes and broken veins where his skin was stretched over his high cheek-bones.

"A devil of an affair, this," he said. "Man met in the public highway and murdered."

"Don't put it that way," I spoke up, "for perhaps you are not yet acquainted with the causes that led to it."

"No cause, sir, should lead to murder."

"I agree with you there, but many a man has been compelled to kill in order to save his own life."

He sneered at me. "But has many a man been compelled to stand for hours in a public road, and in order to save his own life shoot down an innocent person? I always held that Alf Jucklin was a dangerous and a desperate man, and everybody knows that he comes of that breed. I never did like him; and he took a dislike to me without cause. Stood near a church in a crowd of men one day when I seemed to be under discussion and declared that a man to be a doctor ought to be smart and to be smart a man must say something to prove the thought within him; and then he asked if any one had ever heard me say anything worth remembering."

I felt that he wanted to quarrel with me, and I was in the humor to gratify him. "And did anyone ever hear you say a thing worth remembering?" I asked.

"Sir!" he snarled.

"You heard what I said. And I take a degree of cool pleasure in telling you before we go further that you can't ride a high horse over me."

"A pedagogue's pedantry," he muttered.

"A man's truth," I replied. "And by the way," I added, "you appear to be well horsed. Suppose you ride on ahead."

"Does this road belong to you, sir?" he demanded, turning a severe brow upon me.

"A part of it does, and I am going to ride over that part without annoyance. Do you understand?"

"Sir, I can understand impudence even if I can't say a thing worth remembering. But rather than have words with you I will ride on, not to accommodate you, but to preserve my own dignity and self-respect."

"Good!" I mockingly cried, "and if you continue to improve in expression I shall after a while be forced to believe that Alf's estimate of you was placed too low."

"I thank you, sir, for giving me the opportunity to say that a jury's estimate will hereafter most influence your friend, and that he will be placed high enough."

"You continue to improve, Doctor, and I believe that your last remark is worth remembering. At least, I shall remember it, and when this trouble is over, no matter what the result may be, I will hold you to account for it. And to prove that I am in earnest I'll lend you the weight of this." And with that I cut at his face with a switch. His horse shied and the apple tree sprout whistled in the air. He said something about hoping to meet me again and rode off at a brisk canter. I knew that I had acted unwisely, felt it even while the impulse was rising fresh and strong within me, but I was in no humor to bear with him. I rode along more slowly than I was disposed, to let him pass out of my sight, for every time I looked up and saw him I felt a new anger. And I was relieved when a turn in the road placed him beyond my view. I heard a galloping behind, and, looking round, I saw the old General coming with a cavalryman's recklessness. He dashed up and did not draw rein until he was almost upon me.

"Whoa! I have been trying to overtake you, Hawes. What did I tell you? Didn't I say that the country was gone? I'll swear I don't know what we are coming to when a man is shot down in the road like that."

"General, did you overtake me to ride to town with me?"

"I did; yes, sir."

"Then you mustn't talk that way."

"I beg your pardon, sir. Perhaps I should not have expressed myself in that manner. Let us ride along and discuss it quietly. Tell me what you know."

"It were better, General——"

"Never mind about your grammar and your bookish phrasing. Tell me what led up to it."

"Must I tell you that your daughter is——"

"By G——, sir, what do you mean?"

"You needn't turn on me, sir."

"Surely not. Pardon me. What about it?"

"I don't know that I ought to tell you—a man of more judgment wouldn't—but I suppose I must now that I have gone so far. Alf is in love with your daughter, and on that account Stuart insulted him, abused him at the point of a pistol."

Then I told him all that I could, all but the fact that Stuart had spoken slightingly of the girl, for I knew that this would only enrage him and, indeed, set him harder against Alf, as he would doubtless believe that my friend had simply forged a mean excuse. For some distance after I had told him the story, he rode along in silence, troubled of countenance and with his head hanging low. But just before we came into the town he looked up and said: "Poor fool, I can't help him."

"But you can see that justice is done."

"Mr. Hawes, in this instance we may take different views of justice. Pardon me, but your friendship—and, indeed, I can but honor you for it—your friendship may cry out against justice."

"I admit, General, that my friendship is strong, although I have known the young man but a short time, yet I think that I respect justice."

"We all think so until justice pinches us," he replied, placing himself in firm opposition to me, yet doing it kindly. "I am more concerned in this, Mr. Hawes, than you can well conceive. I can say this, but I cannot follow it up with an explanation. But the fact that he stood waiting there in the road is what will tell most against him. Had he met him at another time, under almost any other conditions, it would have been different, would have taken away the aspect of calculated murder. Yes, I am deeply concerned and on two accounts. But I cannot mention them. Dan Stuart was near to me; I had known him all his life and he was a young man of promise, was popular throughout the community—more popular than Alf, and this will have its effect."

"But wasn't he more popular because he had more money?" I asked, and the old General gave me a look of reproof.

"Money does not make so much difference in the South, sir. You have been filling your head with Northern books. It is refinement, sir, real worth that weighs in the South."

"I hope not to antagonize you, General, but I am of the South and I have cause to hold an opposite opinion. Have I not seen the most vulgar of men held in high favor because they were rich? The mere existence of a state line does not change human nature. Man is not changed even by the lines drawn about empires."

"I admit, sir, that the South has undergone a change, but in my day a man was measured according to his real worth, not in gold, but in honorable qualities."

"It is but natural to look back with the prejudiced eye of affection, General, and it is respectful that I should not argue with you. I turn here to the livery-stable. Good-morning."

"I honor you for your consideration, sir," he replied, bowing. "Let us hope for the best, but I must stand by justice."

When I had put up my horse I went directly to the jail. A crowd hung about the doors, eager to see the prisoner. When I told the jailer who I was he admitted me without a word. Alf sprang from a bench, seeing me enter the corridor, and came forward to the bars of his cell.

"Not much room for shaking hands here, Bill," he said, smiling sadly. "It is already an age since I left home. How are you, old man? Tell me how they took it. No, don't. I know. Well, I gave myself up and the sheriff wouldn't believe me at first, but he got it through his head after a while. He was very kind and when he had locked me in here he went to see whether I could be let out on bail, but I understand that I can't. It's all right; I might as well be in here. Bill, I have tried to feel sorry for killing him, but I can't. I reckon I must be about as mean as they make them. And it will all come out pretty soon, for court is still in session and all they've got to do is to rig up their jury after the inquest and go ahead. I'm going to make the best of it. The worst feature is the disgrace and suffering at home, and, of course, that almost tears my heart out when I let it. But to tell you the truth, I'd rather be hanged than to be on the grid-iron all the time. Who's that?"

Etheredge came into the corridor. He leered at Alf and Alf sneered at him. "I suppose you found the dog that I told you was lying in the road—the dog that tried to bite me," said Alf, with a cold smile.

"Jucklin, I didn't come in here to be insulted."

"All right, there's the door. Say, there, jailer, you have just let in a gray rat and I wish you'd come and drive him out."

I turned to Etheredge and pointed to the door. "I must respect your wish," he said, speaking to me. "I've an engagement with you—you are to be my guest," and without another word he strode away.

I remained with Alf as long as the jailer thought it prudent to let me stay, and then I went about the town to gather its sentiment. And I was grieved to find that every one declared it to be cold-blooded murder. My heart was heavy as I rode toward home, for the old people were looking to me for encouragement. Guinea met me at the gate. She tried to smile, but failed.

"Don't try to look pleased at seeing me," I said. "It is too much of an effort." And if she could not smile she could give me a look of gratitude. She went with me to the stable, saying not a word; and when I had turned the horse loose she followed me to the sitting-room. At the door I faltered, but Mrs. Jucklin's voice bade me enter. She was sitting in a rocking-chair, with the Bible in her lap, and placing her hand upon the book, she thus spoke to me: "Don't hesitate to talk, for His rod and His staff shall comfort me."

I had not noticed the old man, so bent were my eyes upon his wife, but now he arose into view, and, coming to me, he whispered: "From the stock that stood at the stake."

I told them all I knew, which was not much; and then knelt down and prayed with them.



CHAPTER XII.

Stuart was buried the next day, and the mourners passed our house. Mrs. Jucklin was sitting at the window when the hearse and the buggies came within sight, and her chin was unsteady as she reached for her book. And there she sat, holding the old leather-covered Bible in her lap.

I had thought that Chyd Lundsford would come, with words of encouragement, but we saw him not, neither that day nor the next. But four days later I came upon him as I was going to town. He had a gun, was followed by a number of squirrel-dogs and came out of the woods near the spot where Alf had eased Stuart from his horse to the ground. I stopped and bluntly asked him why he had not been over, and he answered that he was busy preparing for a rigid examination. I asked if they were going to examine him on the art of killing game, and he laughed and replied: "No, on the science of killing men. By the way," he added, looking up into the top of a tree, "how is Alf getting along? Does he appear to be hopeful?"

"He is more desperate than hopeful," I answered.

"Yes, I should think so. Is that a squirrel's nest? I have heard it hinted that a love-affair had something to do with it—an affair pretty close, at that. Well, I've got nothing to do with it. Can't drive out of my mind what I have had so hard a time driving into it. Sorry, and all that sort of thing. That's no squirrel's nest. But if people persist in being romantic they must expect to have trouble. I'm sorry for the old folks—must take it rather hard. Good-hearted and simple enough to worry over it, surely. Well, if you happen to think of it, give Alf my regards."

The coroner's jury had returned an expected verdict, influenced largely by what Etheredge had to say. I had given my testimony, but I could not make it sound as I wanted it—Alf's own words were against him, as I repeated them that day. The preliminary trial, the mummery before a justice of the peace, also went against Alf; the grand jury had brought in its finding, and the next step was the formal arraignment before the circuit judge. And I was now on my way to town to engage additional legal help, as the lawyer whom we had retained appeared to be luke-warm and half-hearted. I had heard many stories relating to the great force and ability of an old ex-judge named Conkwright, and I called at his office, though I had been warned that his price was exceedingly high. He met me gruffly, I thought, but I soon discovered that he had a heart. I told Alf's story, now so familiar to my own ears that I fancied that I could give it with effect, and I must have touched him, for he said: "Oh, well, I'll go into it and we'll say nothing about the price. I've been working for nothing all my life, and I don't see why I should change now. Why, of course, he ought to have killed him," and his old eyes shone as he said it. "Had to kill him. It strikes me that they are rushing things pretty fast, especially as the docket is covered with murder cases that have been put over from time to time. That Stuart set has lots of influence. Beat me for re-election, I know that. But we'll show them a few things that are not put down in the books. And you don't want the young lady's name mentioned. Of course, not. Wouldn't be gallant, eh? Well, I'll go down and see the young fellow some time to-day. They'll take it up in about a week from now, that is, if we are ready, and we'll be there. Tell old Jucklin not to fret. He's an old lion-tamer, I tell you, and if I had any interest in that fellow Etheredge I'd advise him to walk pretty straight. But the old man has quieted down mightily of late years."

Alf had undergone no change. He was glad to know that Conkwright took an interest in him, but he shook his head when I told him that we were sure to win.

"I don't believe it, Bill; don't believe it because I don't feel it. But don't tell the old folks that I'm not hopeful. Have you seen Millie?"

"No, and have seen Chyd but once, and then I came upon him in the road."

"What, hasn't he been to the house? A fine husband he'll make for Guinea. Tell her that I say she must forbid his coming near her again. No, don't," he added. "It's better to wait. I wish she loved you, Bill, but I'm afraid she doesn't."

"I know she doesn't," I replied.

"Has she said so?"

"No, but she seems always afraid that I may tell her of my love."

"And I would if I were you, Bill. No, not yet. Tell father not to come near me yet a while. He couldn't stand it."

He had written home, begging his parents and his sister not to think of seeing him, had actually commanded them not to come near the jail.

"Mother can stand more than he can, for she's more religious. How about your school?"

"Oh, it's all right. The people know that I couldn't teach now, even if I should try ever so hard, and they are very considerate. They say that they are willing to wait."

"God bless them for that, any way. And this reminds me of a preacher that came in yesterday to pray for me. I thanked him for his kindness, but told him that some one was at home praying, and that one of her words had more influence in my behalf than all the prayers he could utter in a life-time. I merely mention this to show what sort of an atmosphere I'm in. I didn't like the fellow's looks—understand that he hasn't been a preacher but a week. Still on suspicion, as they say, Bill. I was almost crazy, but my mind has cooled wonderfully. A fellow's mind generally does after he's done the worst he can."

"I hope that my reading of the poem didn't start you off."

"Oh, no, that had nothing to do with it—relieved me, if anything; set me to thinking that some one else had been in the same fix. By the way, a telegraph operator here brings me something nearly every day. Says that he's a life-long friend of yours. Told me to tell you that he was about to pick up a piece of calico and take it home with him—said that you would understand. Now, you go on home and stay there until the trial. You have almost worn yourself out. You and the General are still on good terms, I suppose. Wish you could slip over there and see Millie. Do you know what Chyd's waiting for? He's waiting to see how the trial goes. Bill, I'm beginning to feel sorry for Stuart. But his face doesn't come up before me at night with a death-look. There's a good deal of nonsense about that sort of thing. When I see him he's always sitting on his horse, cursing me. And that's not very pleasant. Go on, Bill. I have kept you too long. It's nearly night."

Old man Jucklin was smartly encouraged when I told him what the ex-judge had said, and he related a number of anecdotes of the old fellow's early days on the circuit.

"Oh, help is comin' our way," old Limuel said, and his wife, pointing to her book, replied: "It has always been with us."

"At the stake," he whispered.

I did not speak of having seen Chyd. I had no right to do so, for I knew that he was now an additional distress. But the next morning when Guinea and I were alone at the breakfast table she asked me if I had not met him down the road—said that she had seen him crossing the meadows with his dogs. I began to quibble and she spoke up spiritedly: "Oh, you shouldn't hesitate to tell me. It amounts to nothing, I'm sure."

"I must manage some way to see Millie," I remarked, determined to say no more about Chyd lest I should lose my temper.

"I hope you won't go to the house," she replied, her face coloring.

"I won't, but I didn't know but that I might see her going to a neighbor's house and then——"

"No," she broke in, "I hope you won't even do that. She must know how we feel, and if she had any interest in us she would come over here. No, I won't say that. I don't know what she may have to contend with. But her brother could come if he wanted to, but it makes no difference, I'm sure."

"Suppose I meet Millie in the road; shall I speak to her?"

"Surely, but don't ask her why she hasn't been to see us. What did Chyd say?"

"Not much of anything—said that so long as people were romantic they must expect trouble."

She frowned and thus replied: "A good authority on the evils of romance."

"Why not an expert on the thrills of romance?" I asked. "Hasn't he played up and down the brook?"

"So have the ducks," she answered, with a return of her smile. "But let us not talk about him—I would rather not think about him."

I could not play the part of a hero; I was not of the stock that had stood at the stake glorifying the deed with a hymn. I had wanted to drop the subject, not because it was painful to her, but because it pressed a spike into my own flesh; but her wish to dismiss him from her mind urged me to keep him there, to torture her with him. Brute? Surely; I have never denied it, but I loved her, and in love there is no generosity. The lover who seeks to be liberal is a hypocrite, a sneak-thief robbing his own heart.

"But how can you put him out of your mind if he is worthy of your love?" I asked. "You did not place him therein, nor can you take him away."

She looked at me a long time, looked at me and read me; she did not frown, she smiled not, but searched me with her eyes until I felt that my motive lay bare under her gaze. "You would help Alf in his trouble," she said, "but you would throw a trouble at me."

How sadly she spoke those words, and my heart fell under them and lay at her feet in sorrow and in humiliation. I strove to beg for pardon, but I stammered and my words were almost meaningless.

"Oh, you have my forgiveness, if that is what you are trying to ask for. Now, please don't say anything more. I know you didn't mean to make me feel bad."

"I think I'd better cut my throat!" I replied, taking up a table knife.

She laughed at me. "How can a big man be so silly? Cut your throat, indeed. Why, what have you done to deserve it?"

"What have I done?" I cried, leaning over the table and making a fumble, as if I would take her hand—"what have I done? I have wantonly wounded the divinest creature——"

She was on her feet in an instant; she put her hands to her ears and shook her head at me. "No, you must not say that. Don't you see I can't hear what you say? So, what is the use of saying anything? Think you are a brute? No, I don't; but you must not talk like that. I can't hear you—I won't hear you. Oh, don't worry about Mr. Lundsford. He will kneel at my feet."



CHAPTER XIII.

The next day I took a "turn" of corn to the water-mill, far down the stream. The old man had not been off the place since Alf went to jail, and the office of attending to all outside affairs was conferred upon me. Guinea came out to the corn-crib and stood at the door, looking in upon me as I tied the mouth of the bag. The old man was not far off, calling his hogs; a sad cry at any time, but growing sadder, it seemed to me, as the days wore along.

"Old Moll will have a load," the girl said; "you and that bag."

"Yes, if I were to ride on the bag like a boy, but I'm going to walk and lead her."

"Oh, that will be nice," she cried. "Nice for Moll. I wish I could go with you. It's beautiful all down that way; high rocks and pools with fish in them. It isn't so awfully far, either. I have walked it many a time."

"Alone?" I asked, tugging at the string.

"That doesn't matter. It's the distance I'm talking about. Why, you haven't asked me to go."

"But I ask you now," I said, dragging the bag toward the door.

"No, I won't go now," she replied, making way for me to come out.

"Won't you, please?"

"No, not since I have come to think about it. I'd have to walk along all the time with my hands to my ears, for I just know you'd say something I don't want to hear. You are as cruel as you can be, lately."

I had taken up the bag to throw it across the mare, but I dropped it upon the log step.

"You'll burst it if you don't mind, Mr. Hawes."

"But I handle it more tenderly than you do my heart!" I cried. "You have thrown my heart down in the dust and are trying to burst it."

Her hands flew to her ears. "Oh, I knew you were going to say something mean. But I can't hear you now. Isn't it an advantage to say what you please and not hear a word? You can do this way if you want to. No, I won't go—really, I can't. I mustn't leave mother."

She ran away toward the house, and I stood watching her until she was hidden behind the old man's "stockade." Torturer she was, sometimes with her dignity, but worse with her whimsical, childish ways, when she seemed to dance on the outer edge of my life, daring me to catch her in my arms. But was it not my size that made her feel like a child? It must have been, for whenever she spoke of Chyd she was deeply serious. I was resentful as I led the old mare toward the mill. Oh, I understood it all. She had seen that I sought to punish her, had read me as we sat together at the table, and now she was torturing me. Well, I would give her no further opportunity; I would let her lead young Lundsford into her mind and out again, just as it suited her fancy.

The coves and nooks and quiet pools that lay along the stream were dreamful; there was not a mighty rock nor bold surprising bluff to startle one with its grandeur, but at the end of every view was the promise of a resting place and never was the fancy led to disappointment. Now gurgle and drip, now perfect calm, the elm leaf motionless, the bird dreaming. And had history marched down that quiet vale a thousand years ago and tinged the water with the blood of man, how sweetly verse would sing its beauty, from what distances would come the poet and the artist, the rich man seeking rest—all would flock to marvel and to praise. Ah, we care but little for what nature has done, until man has placed his stamp upon it.

I loitered and mused upon going to the mill and upon returning home. And when I came within sight of the house I halted suddenly, wondering whether I had forgotten something. Yes, I had. I had forgotten my resolve to be cool and dignified under the reading eyes of that girl. I led the mare to the rear end of the passage and had taken off the bag of meal when Guinea came out.

"Mr. Hawes," she said, "I wish you would forgive me for the way I acted last night and this morning. Now let us be good friends, friends in trouble, and let us hereafter talk with sense and without restraint. I am going to be frank with you, for I don't see why I should be cramped. I am not going to pretend not to know—know something, and you must wait; we must all wait for—for anything that is to come. I hardly know what I am saying, but you understand me."

She held out her hand, and I took it, tremulously at first, but I held it with a firm and manly honesty as I looked into her eyes. "Yes, I understand you, and it shall be as you say. I have been strong with every one but you, and I am going to show you that I can be your friend. Wait a moment. You know what I think, but I will not hint at it again. It was mean of me—yes, I must say it—it was mean of me to jibe you. But I'll not do it again. If you only knew what my early life was. I was the victim of size, an awkward boy, the jest of a neighborhood; and while I might have outlived some of my awkwardness, I am still sensitive, for I carry scars."

"Awkward," she laughed. "Why, I don't see how you could have been called awkward. Everybody at the General's spoke of how graceful you were, and really it would make you vain if I were to tell you all that was said."

The old man came round the house, and Guinea sprang back. I was still holding her hand. "Hah," he grunted. "Got home all right, eh? Parker was over here just now and said that the trial had been set for next Thursday, not quite a week from now, you understand. He seems to think we are goin' to pull through all right; said that you've made friends with everybody in the town. That's good, both for now and also for after a while, when you set in as a lawyer. I tell you, Parker's visit helped us mightily, and Susan has eat a right smart snack, and I didn't know how hungry I was till right then. You better go to town to-morrow."

I went in early the next morning and found nothing to serve as a basis for the hopefulness that Parker had given the old people. Conkwright was busy with the case, frowning over his papers, but he had no words of encouragement, except to say that he was going to do the best he could. But after a while he flashed a gleam of hope by remarking that there was one important factor in our favor. And eagerly I asked him what it was.

"It won't do to talk it around," said he, "but we can count on the judge doing the square thing. He is comparatively new in our district, and the Stuart influence hasn't taken hold on him—has had no cause to. His favor, or, at least, his lack of a cause to be directly against us, will mean a good deal; it will enable us to secure a new trial at any rate."

As I entered the corridor of the jail I saw Alf's face brighten behind the bars. "Have you seen Millie?" he asked.

"No, your sister commanded me not to go near the General's house."

His countenance fell, but he said: "I reckon she's right. And I didn't mean that you should make a dead-set call, you know—didn't know but you might happen to meet her. That preacher, the one I told you about, has been round again, and he declares that I must come into his church. They do pull and haul a fellow when they get him into a corner, don't they? Well, I don't see what else can be done now except to go into court and have the thing over with. I know as well as I know my name that he would have killed me if I hadn't killed him; not that night, of course, but some time. I am sorry, though, that I stood there in the road, waiting for him, for that does look like murder, Bill. But look how he had drawn his sight between my eyes and abused me for everything he could think of. And whenever I see him now, there he sits on his horse, with one eye half shut and the other one looking down the barrel of his revolver at me. I can see his lips moving and can hear every word he says."

I went home that day earlier than usual, resolved to keep the old people in the atmosphere of encouragement which the deputy sheriff had breathed about them, and I told them that the presiding judge was our friend, and that old woman put her worn hands in mine and gave me a look of trustful gratitude. "God rewards the man that seeks to ease an old mother's heart," she said; and the old man, standing there, with his sleeves rolled up, threw the droop out of his shoulders, the droop that had remained with him since that early morning when he stood at the gate of his "stockade," fumbling with the chain. "And, Susan," he spoke up, "if we've got two judges on our side we're all right. Let him set down there, now. Let him set down, I tell you. When a woman gets hold of a man she never knows when to turn him loose. I'm tempted now to go and see him. No," he added, shaking his head, "can't do it—couldn't bear to see a son of mine locked up like a thief. But it won't be for long. That judge will say, 'turn that boy loose,' and then—oh, it's all right, Susan, and a year from now we'll almost forget that it ever took place."

His wife began to cry, for in this trouble her heart demanded that he should lean upon her for support, and it appeared to me that whenever he straightened up to stand alone, she felt that her office was gone.

"Susan, don't take on that way. Jest as we see our way clear of the woods, you act like you are lost. Smile, till you find the path, and then you want to cry. Act like you want the Lord to do it all—don't want the circuit jedge to do nothin'. That's it, brighten up there now, and, Guinea, you go out and tell that nigger woman to cook enough for a dozen folks. Hawes, I've got them chickens down to a p'int that would make your eyes bulge out."

"I believe that Bob came very near making one of yours bulge out," I replied.

"Ah, didn't he, the old scoundrel. But Sam pecked a grain of corn out of my mouth this mornin' and never teched a tooth. That's what they call art, ain't it? Come out with me."

"Limuel, let him stay with me, won't you?" his wife pleaded.

"Of course, Susan, but don't you reckon a man wants to unstring himself once in a while? They can't understand us, Hawes. Women know all about the heart, but they are sometimes off on the soul."

"You think more of those old chickens than you do of me, anyhow," his wife whimpered, still resentful that he was not leaning upon her for support.

"Did you hear that, Hawes? By jings, sir, you've got to be foolish or a woman will think you've ceased to love her. The minute you are strong she thinks you have forgotten her. About the happiest woman I ever saw was one that had to support a bed-ridden husband. Fact, as sure as I'm standin' right here. She was the kindest and sweetest thing you ever saw, but when the feller got up finally and got strong enough to go about, blamed if she didn't jump on him every time he come in sight."

"Now, Limuel, you know you are makin' up every word of that."

"It's the truth, I tell you—knowed the man well."

"Well, who was he?"

"Oh, he lived away over yonder on the branch, out of your range."

"He didn't live anywhere; that's the truth of it."

"But, Susan, he might have lived anywhere. His name is man and his wife's name is woman. What, you goin' to cry about it? Now, there, it's all right. No, there never was such a man. I'm an old liar, that's what's the matter with me. Never was a man fitten to live with a good woman. Why, bless your life, what would I be without you? Why, you've been the makin' of me. And a long time ago, when I used to drink licker and fight, you'd set up and wait for me and you never scolded me, and that very fact turned me agin licker, for I jest nachully thought that it was too much work for you to keep up a show of good humor all the time. Yes, it's all right, and that boy's comin' out of there without a scar on him, and I'll pay back the money that I owe the General——" He hastened out of the room, and we heard him yelling at his chickens.



CHAPTER XIV.

I went to town every day, and every night I returned, self-charged with hope; and now the trial was at hand. When the work of impaneling the jury was begun, old Conkwright was there with his challenges. How shrewd he was, how sharp were his eyes. And when night came the panel was far from complete.

"It will take a long time at this rate," I said, as we were leaving the court-room.

"I don't care if it takes a thousand years; they sha'n't ring in a stuffed toad on me," replied the ex-judge. "Did you notice that fellow with a long neck? They've fixed him all right and I knew it. I am not altogether easy about that short fellow we've got, but I hope he is man enough to be honest. There is no more trickery anywhere than there is in a murder trial in this country. Well, they've put their worst men forward, and I think we shall have better material to-morrow."

And it appeared that we had, for the jury was sworn in the next afternoon. The testimony was so short and so direct, the witnesses were so few that the trial could not last long; and when at home I gave this as an opinion, the old people were glad, for they declared that it shortened the time of their son's absence. On the day set for the opening of the argument hundreds of the farmers gave over their work and rode to town, for the Southerner loves a passionate speech, and the court-house is still his theater.

The old man walked down the road with me, but he stopped before we reached the place where Stuart had been stretched upon the ground.

"Well," he said, turning back, "I reckon to-day'll finish it. At least they'll give it to the jury and it oughten't to take 'em long after what the judge says in his charge to 'em. I feel that it's goin' to be all right. Don't you?"

The truth was that I did not, but kindness is not always the truth; so I said: "Everything looks that way. Conkwright is as sharp as a thorn and he'll be in their flesh from the beginning to the end."

"By jings, jest say that again. That ought to settle it right now, hah? Stay with 'em till they git through, and you'll find us waitin' for you when you git back."

I nodded, waved my hand at him and galloped away, and from a hill-top I looked back and saw him still standing there in the road. Parker caught up with me and we in turn overtook a man whom I did not care to encounter—Etheredge. I had seen him every day during the trial, had caught his blurred eye as I was giving my testimony on the stand, had heard him tell his damaging story.

"Ho, there," he said, as I was about to pass him. "Haven't forgotten me, have you?"

"My memory is unfortunately so good that it retains many objectionable things," I answered.

"Glad to hear it; pleased to know that you haven't forgotten our little engagement."

He rode along with me. The way was just broad enough for two horses abreast, and the deputy dropped back. "We need not wait for the termination of the trial," I replied.

"That so? Strikes me that you are pretty keen, especially as there is an officer right behind you. Say, you seem to blame me for the interest I am taking in this affair. Have you stopped to think of the interest you are taking in it? Jucklin's no relation of yours and probably never will be. Did you hear what I said? Probably never will be."

"Unfortunately I haven't an apple tree sprout with me to-day, Mr. Etheredge."

"And it's a good thing for you that you haven't. Do you reckon I'd let you lash at me while so many people are riding along the road?"

"I don't suppose you would let me do so at any time if you could help yourself."

"Oh, I don't know. Might let you amuse yourself if there were no one in sight. But I've got nothing against you, young man. I've lived long enough to forgive an over-grown boy's impulses."

He could not have cut me deeper; and his sleepy old eyes saw the blood and he laughed. "Got under your hide a little that time, eh? We've all got a thin place somewhere in our skin, you know. You needn't look back; the officer is right behind us."

"I wish he were not in sight," I replied.

"You don't like him, eh? Why, I always thought, he was a pretty good fellow. But, of course, I am willing to accept your judgment of him. But if you don't like him why do you wait for him to come up?"

"I am waiting for you to go on, sir," I replied. "And if you don't I will knock you off that horse."

"Very well. I see a man on ahead who is doubtless better company. I trust, though, that I shall have the pleasure of a closer association with you at some future time. Good-morning."

I waited until Parker came up. "Did you get enough of him?" he asked, laughing. "I knew you would—nearly everybody does. Under the circumstances it was an insult for him to offer to ride with you."

"And he and I will have a trouble as soon as this one is settled," I replied.

"Oh, I reckon not. I don't see why any man of sense should want to have trouble with you. Just look how they are flocking to town. Hope they'll turn out this way and vote for me at the next election for sheriff. Women, too. See them coming out of that gate?"

When we rode into the town the streets were thronged and horsemen, wagons and buggies were thick on the public square. The ginger cake and cider vender was there, with his stand near the court-house steps, and the neigh of the colt and the distressful answer of his mother, tied to the rack, echoed throughout the town. Dogs, meeting one another for the first time, decided in their knowing way that they were enemies, but suddenly became allies in a yelping chase after one of their kind that came down the street with a tin can tied to his tail.

I went at once to Conkwright's office and found him with his feet on a table, contentedly smoking a cob pipe.

"I was just thinking over some points that I want to make," he remarked as I entered.

"And I hope, sir, that you are in the proper humor to make them."

"Can't tell about that. Oratory is as stealthy and as illusive as a weazel at night. You never know when he's coming."

"But do you feel well?" I anxiously inquired.

"Oh, feel first-rate, but that doesn't make any particular difference. Sometimes a man may think that he feels well, but when he gets up to speak he finds that he is simply sluggish. Reckon I'll get through all right. Do the best I can, any way, and if I fail it can't be helped. Guess we'd better go over."

An anxious day that was for me. I looked at Alf, now beginning to grow pale under his imprisonment, and I saw his resentment rise and fall as the state's attorney pictured him, waiting, listening with eagerness for the sound of a horse's hoofs. I was to be a lawyer, to defend men and to prosecute them for money, and yet I wondered how that bright young fellow, with the seeming passion of an honest outcry, could stand there and tell the jury that my friend had committed the foulest murder that had ever reddened the criminal annals of his state. Old man Conkwright sat, twirling his thumbs, and occasionally he would nod at the jurymen as if to call their attention to a rank absurdity. But I did not see how he could offset the evidence and the blazing sentences of that impassioned prosecutor. At last Conkwright's time had come, and when he arose and uttered his first word I felt the chill of a disappointment creeping over me. He was slow and his utterance was as cold as if it had issued from a frost-bitten mouth. I went out and walked round the town, to the livery-stable, where a negro was humming a tune as he washed a horse's back; to the drug-store, where a doctor was dressing a brick-bat wound in a drunken man's scalp—I walked out to the edge of the town, where the farming land lay, and then I turned back. I was thinking of my return home, of the sorrow that I should take with me, of those old people—of Guinea.

Some one called me, and facing about I recognized the telegraph operator coming across a lot. "Glad to see you," he said, coming up and holding out his hand. "Didn't hear about her, did you?"

"Hear about whom?" I asked, not pleased that he should have broken in upon my sorrowful meditation.

"Mrs. McHenry."

"No, I've heard nothing. What about her?"

"Why, there's everything about her. She's my wife—married night before last. Know that piece of calico I pointed out that day, the time I said I had to be mighty careful? Well, she's it. I'll walk on up with you. Run it down—run in panting, you might say. Said I had to have her and she shied at first, but that didn't make any difference, for I was there three times a day till she saw it wasn't any use to shy any longer; so she gave in and I caught the first preacher that happened to be hanging around and he soon pronounced us one and the same kind—something of the same sort. Go right down that street and you'll see calico on my clothes line most any time. Say, it will be a pity if they hang that young fellow. And I'll tell you what I'll do. If they send anything off to any of the newspapers I'll spell his name wrong. Get even with them some way, won't we? Yonder comes my boy and I reckon there's a call for me at the office. They are rushing me now—seems to be the busy season. I've been to the office twice already to-day."

Long before I reached the court-house I heard old Conkwright bellowing at the jury. The windows were full of people and outside men were standing upon boxes, straining to see the old fellow in his mighty tirade. I could not get into the room, but I squeezed my way to the door and stood there, with my blood leaping. Now I could see why they had called him powerful. His face was aglow, his gray hair was upon end and his eyes were shooting darts at the jury. I know not how long he spoke, but I know that suddenly he was silent, looking upward, and then, spreading his hands over the jury, said: "May God in his infinite mercy influence your decision." He sat down, and I noticed then that the air was cooler with a breeze that sprang up when the sun had set. The state's attorney made a few remarks, and then the judge delivered his charge to the jury, an address short, but earnest. Now there was a shoving and a crush—the jurymen were filing out. I saw them leading Alf back to the jail, but I did not go to him, so pulled and hauled I was by hope and fear. But I made my way to the old lawyer, and asked him what he thought.

"I don't know," he answered. "Don't you see the disposition there is to rush everything? I don't think they will be out long."

"You made a great speech, sir."

"Wasn't bad, considering the material. We were at a disadvantage. He stood there in the road, you know, and that is a hard thing to get round."

"But the judge must have felt your speech."

"Why, my son, I don't suppose he heard it."

I went away and again I walked about the town. It was dusk and the tavern bell was ringing. On the court-house steps and on the public square men were discussing the trial and venturing their opinions as to the result. I heard one man say: "The old soldier made a great fight, but the odds were against him. Bet ten dollars they find him guilty."

"There's his friend over there," another man spoke up. "Don't talk so loud."

"Can't help who's there listening; money's here talkin'. Any takers?"

Not far away there was a wooden bridge over a small stream and thither I went and leaned upon the rail, listening to the murmur of the water. I thought that this must be the brook that rippled past our house, and I went down to the water's edge and bathed my aching head. Then I remembered that I had eaten nothing since early morning, and I thought that I would better go to the tavern, and was turning away when I heard some one cry: "The jury is in and court has met again!" I scrambled up and hastened toward the court-house, and at the steps I met a number of men coming out. "It's all over," one of them said to me. "Imprisonment for life. Conkwright has moved for a new trial and the judge has granted it."

I hastened to the jail, whither they had taken Alf. I found him seated on his bed. He got up when he saw me.

"Bill," he said, in a voice low and steady, "I am not going to the penitentiary if you are my friend."

"And you know that I am, Alf."

"Then you will lend me your knife."

"No, Alf, I can't do that—not now. Remember that we have another chance."

"I don't mean now—I mean if that last chance fails. Now I want you to do something for me. You tell father that he must sell his farm immediately and leave here. Tell him that I'll hate him if he doesn't do as I say. You can stay here and write to him, and if I don't come out at the next trial, all right, and if I do, I can go to him. It may seem hard, but he's got to do it. He wouldn't live here, any way. Will you do it?"

"I will, for I don't know but it is a good plan. No, he wouldn't live here. He will do as you request."

"Well, go on home now and rest. Hanged if you don't look as if you've been on trial for your life," he added, laughing. "Tell him that I'm not crushed—that it has come out better than I expected."

The night was dark, the road was desolate, and I heard the lonesome lowing of the cattle. And now and then a horseman passed me, for I was not eager to get home. At a gate near the road-side some one was standing with a lantern, and just behind me came the rattle of an old vehicle. I turned aside to let it pass, and as I did the light of the lantern fell upon me and a voice asked: "That you, Mr. Hawes?"

"Yes," I answered, turning back into the road and following a buggy.

"I 'lowed so," said a man in the buggy, "for we don't grow many of your size about here. I have heard that they used to, but they don't now. Good many things have happened since that day you come over to see me about the school. I'm Perdue. And, by the way, there's a hundred dollars at my house waitin' for you, and if you don't come after it I'll send it over."

"But you don't owe me anything yet," I replied.

"Yes, the money's there and it's yourn. You couldn't help not bein' in a fix to teach. As I say, it's there for you, and you might as well have it. Sorry for the old folks, tell 'em, but it can't be helped."

On he drove, shouting back that he would send the money the next day, and my protest, if, indeed, I entered one, was weak and faltering, for of all men in that neighborhood I thought that I stood most in need of a hundred dollars.

Now I was nearing the house. The hour was late, but a light was burning in the sitting-room. No one came out, though my horse's hoofs fell hard enough upon the stones to tell them of my coming; and when I got down at the gate I found a horse tied to the fence. Some person, eager to bear evil tidings, had forestalled me. I led my horse to the stable, went to the house, and had just stepped into the passage when Parker, the deputy sheriff, came out of the sitting-room. "I thought you'd go on back to the jail to stay a while, so I came on over to tell them. No trouble, you know—only a short distance out of my way."

All within was silent. I stepped inside. The old man was standing with his back to the fire-place; the old woman sat with her book in her lap and Guinea stood at the window, looking out into the darkness. I sat down in silence, for I knew not what to say, and in silence for a time we remained. The old woman sobbed, clutching more tightly her book, and the old man looked at her sharply and then almost flung himself out of the room. And a few moments later I heard him shouting: "Hike, there, Sam! Hike, there, Bob! There's plenty of light; you've got three lanterns. Hike, there! To a finish, to a finish!"

"Mrs. Jucklin, it is no time for despair," I said, and Guinea turned from the window. "We have already secured a new trial, and the next time it will surely go in our favor. That is the history of nearly all such cases. Be strong just a little while longer. You have been our prop, and now you must not let us fall."

She arose and with an old-time courtesy bowed to me, and Guinea came forward and held out her hand, and she must have seen a sudden light leap into my eyes, for she said: "I am Alf's sister and yours, too."

This came as a repulse to my heart's eager yearning; no sister's confidences could answer the call that my nature was shouting to her. But I gulped down a rising soreness of the heart and I said: "I thank you."

The old man, with heavy tread, strode into the room. "It was to a finish," he whispered. His hands were covered with blood. "It was to a finish, and they are both dead."

There was a sharp rap at the door. Guinea opened it and in came the old General. "Mr. Jucklin, can I speak to you in private?" he asked, bowing to the women.

"No. What you've got to say, out with it here."

"I would rather say it in private. Why, what's the matter with your hands?"

"It was to a finish, sir, and let what you say be to a finish, even if it is three times as bloody."

"Oh, I have come out of no hard feelings, sir. Ladies, would you and our friend, Mr. Hawes, mind retiring?"

"They are goin' to stay here, sir," the old man replied, rolling up his sleeves.

"All right, just as you will, sir. Mr. Jucklin, years ago we entered into an arrangement——"

"And I have cursed myself ever since!" the old man exclaimed.

"Just wait until I get through, if you please. We entered into an arrangement, prompted by a boy's fancy and warmed by a father's over indulgence. I know that this is a sore time to come to you, and I don't want to appear unkind, for my aim is tender, though my determination is just. Young hearts may whisper to each other, and that whispering may be music, sir; but in this life there are duties too stern to be melted and turned aside by a melody. And, sir, one of the most sacred duties that can fall to the trust of a man is to see that the family name, which is to survive after he has folded his hands in eternal stillness—pardon my devious methods, for I assure you that my windings proceed from a kindness of heart—I say that my duty now is to those who may bear my name in the future. I trust that I am now sufficiently started to speak plainly. I don't doubt the real worth and sterling integrity of your stock, Mr. Jucklin, but an agreement that we once made must be set aside."

He stood with his broad hat in his hand and out of it he grabbled a handkerchief and wiped his face. Old Lim gazed steadily at him. "My words sound cold and formal," the General continued, "and I wish that they might be warmer and more at ease, but in vain have I tempered with them. The short of it all is, and I have striven not to say it bluntly—is that the engagement which has held us in prospective relationship is hereby broken; but by this I do not mean that your son is guilty of murder, for in his heart he may see himself justified, but a decision of court has—and I wish I could find a softer means of saying it—court has pronounced him guilty, and that places the marriage out of the question. Bear with me just a moment more, for I assure you that I am suffering keenly with you, that my heart is in sorrowful unison with your own. Family pride may be regarded a hobby in this day when refinement and respectability are sneered at, but it is a virtuous hobby, and I have held it so long that I cannot put it down. And now, in so far as there is any question of a financial obligation, we will turn our backs upon it and forget that it ever existed."

He put his handkerchief into his hat, changed his hat to his other hand and stood looking at Jucklin; and I had expected to see the old man leap off the floor in a rage, but I cannot recall ever having seen a cooler show of indifference. "I put gaffs on 'em early this mornin' an' kept 'em waitin' for the finish, and when it come it come soon," he said.

"Mr. Jucklin, I had hoped to make myself sufficiently clear. I have come, sir, to break the engagement that was foolishly arranged by us to bind your daughter and my son."

"Bob died first, but Sam could jest stagger, and he fluttered against me and covered my hands with his blood; and I must apologize for not washin' 'em, but it is not too late to make some sort of amends. I will wipe 'em on your jaws, sir!"

He sprang forward, but I caught him. "You must be perfectly cool and perfectly sensible, Mr. Jucklin," I said, as quickly as I could, holding him. "Remember that he is in your house."

And this quieted him. Even the most pronounced backwoodsman in the South is sometimes graced with a sudden and almost marvelous courtesy, the unconscious revival of a long lost dignity; and this came upon the old man, and, bowing low, he said:

"I humbly beg your pardon, sir."

"And I should be a brute not to grant it," the General replied, bowing in turn. "But I hope that reason rather than the fact of my being under your roof will govern your conduct."

During this time, and, indeed, from the moment when the General had entered the room, Guinea stood beside the rocking-chair in which her mother was seated; no change had come over her countenance, but with one hand resting on the back of the chair she had remained motionless, with the exception that she placed her hand on her mother's head at the moment when I caught the old man in my arms. I saw this, though her motion was swift, for I was looking at her rather than at her father. And now the General turned to the girl.

"My dear," he said. She frowned slightly, but her lips parted with a cold smile that came out of her heart.

"My dear child, it is hard for me to say this to you, for I feel that you can but regard me a feelingless monster that would rend an innocent and loving heart, and God knows that I now beg your forgiveness, but in this life cruel things must be done, done that those who come after us may feel no sting of reproach cast by an exacting society. I am an old man, my dear, and shall soon be taken to the burial ground where my fathers sleep in honor. They left me a proud name and I must not soil it. The oldest stone there is above a breast that braved old Cromwell's pikemen—the noble heart of a cavalier beat in that bosom—and can you ask——"

"I have asked nothing, General."

"You are a noble young woman."

"But your son will come to me and kneel at my feet."

A flush flew over the General's face. "No, it is with his full consent that I have come. Indeed, I would have put off my coming until a more befitting day, but he knew his duty and bade me do mine."

"He will kneel at my feet," she said; and he had not replied when we heard footsteps in the passage—wild footsteps. There was a moment of sharp clicking at the door latch, as if a nervous hand had touched it, and then Millie broke into the room. Her face was white, her hair hung about her shoulders.

"You have kept me away!" she cried, stamping her feet and frowning at her father. "Yes, you have kept me away, but I have come and I hate you."

The old General was stupefied. "You may tell your cold-blooded son what to do," she went on, "but my heart is my own. He asked me to marry him and I will—I will break into the penitentiary and marry him. And you would have had me marry Dan Stuart. Just before he was killed he told me he would kill Alf if I said I loved him. I will go to the jail and marry him there."

She ran to Guinea, and they put their arms about each other and wept; and the old woman pressed her book to her bosom and sobbed over it. Through old Lim's wire-like beard a smile, hard and cynical, was creeping out, and the General was fiercely struggling with himself. He had bitten his lip until his mouth was reddening with blood.

"Come, you are going home with me," he said.

"I am not!" his daughter cried, with her arms tight about Guinea. "I am not; I am going to the jail."

"Then I will take you home."

"Don't touch me!" she cried, shrinking back into a corner. "Don't touch me, for I am almost mad. What do I care for your pride? What do I care for the old graveyard? You have tried to break my heart, but I will marry him. He is worth ten thousand such men as your cold-blooded son. Don't you touch me, father. Mr. Hawes!" she screamed, "don't let him touch me."

The old General had stepped forward as if to lay hands upon her, but he stepped back, bowed and said: "You are a lady and I am a gentleman, and these facts protect you from violence at my hands, but I here denounce you—no, I don't, my daughter. I cannot denounce my own flesh and blood. I will leave you here to-night, hoping that when this fit of passion is over reason will lead you home. Good-night."



CHAPTER XV.

Long we sat there in a calm, after the General left us; and the two girls, on a bench in a corner, whispered to each other. How wild had been my guessing at the character of Millie! How could one so shy, so gentle, so fond of showing her dimples, cast off all timidity and set herself in opposition to her father's authority and pride? I could but argue that she was wrong, that she had forgotten her duty, thus to stand out and violently defy him, and yet I admired her for the spirit she had shown. And I believed that Guinea was just as determined, just as passionate. But she was wiser.

I told the old man what Alf had requested me to tell him, that he must sell his farm and go away, and he replied that he would. "I don't think, though, that I can get very much for it. Parker's land joins mine, and may be I can strike a trade with him. Of course, I don't want to live here any longer, for no matter what may come now we've got the name. Susan, I never saw a woman behave better than you have to-night. The old stock—and I'm with the book from kiver to kiver. And now, Millie, let me say a word to you. Of course, I know exactly how you feel, and all that—how that you couldn't help yourself—but to-morrow mornin' after breakfast I would, if I was in your place, go right home and ask my father's forgiveness. I say if I was in your place, for if you do you won't have half so much to be sorry for, and in this life I hold that we're doin' our best when we do the fewest things to regret. What do you think?"

"I'm sorry I talked that way, and he's getting old, too. But I had a cause. He made me stay in the house, and he ought to remember that I am of the same blood he is and that it's awful to be humiliated. But there's one thing I'm going to do. When Alf's tried again, I'm going to tell them what Stuart said. I would have done it this time, but I was ashamed to say anything about it. I have been nearly crazy, but I'm awfully sorry that I talked that way. And, oh, suppose he were to die to-night? I never could forgive myself. I must go home now, Mr. Jucklin. Yes, I can't stay another minute. You'll go with me, won't you, Mr. Hawes?"

"I will gladly do so," I answered.

"And I will go, too," said Guinea.

We took a lantern, but the night was so dark that we went round by the road, rather than over the meadows. Millie said that she scarcely remembered how she had come, but she thought that she had run the most of the way. And over and over as we walked along she repeated: "I'm awfully sorry."

As we came out of the woods, where the road bent in toward the big gate, we saw a light burning in the library. Millie stopped suddenly and clutched my arm. "Suppose he won't let me come back?" she said. "I don't know in what sort of a humor I may find him. Mr. Hawes, you go on and see him first, please?"

"And I will wait out here," Guinea spoke up, and her voice trembled. "Of course, I can't go into the house after what has happened. Nobody must know that I am here."

I left them standing in the dark, and when I stepped upon the porch I heard some one walking heavily and slowly up and down the library. On the door was a brass knocker, and when I raised it and let it fall, the foot-steps came hastily to the door. A hanging lamp was burning in the hall, and I saw that the old General himself had opened the door.

"Oh, it's you Mr. Hawes. I couldn't tell at first. My old eyes are getting flat, sir. Step into the library."

"No, I thank you. I have but a moment to stay."

"Step in, sir," he insisted, almost commanded, and I obeyed. Chyd was under a lamp, reading a sheep-skin covered book. He looked up as I entered, nodded, and then resumed his reading.

"Sit down," said the General.

"No, I thank you, for, as I say, I have but a moment to remain. Your daughter is exceedingly sorry that she acted——"

"Where is she, sir?"

"She has come with me, but fearing that your resentment——"

"What, is she out there waiting in the dark? What, my child out there waiting to know whether she can come into her father's house? I will go to her, sir. Come, Chyd, let us both go."

I stepped to the door and stood confronting the old man and his son.

"You can go, General, if you will, but your son must remain where he is."

"What, I don't understand you, sir. How dare you—what do you mean, sir?"

"Your son must not come with us. That is what I mean."

"Not go to welcome his sister home. Get out of my way, sir!"

"Wait, General. He should not go out there, for the reason that some one else, out of kindness, has accompanied your daughter and me."

"Ah, I beg your pardon," said the old man, bowing. "Chyd, stay where you are."

Millie was inside the yard, but Guinea was in the road, standing at the gate. "Come, my child!" the old man called. Millie ran to him and he took her in his arms. And he lifted her off the ground, slight creature that she was, and carried her up the steps.

Guinea took my arm and homeward we went, and not a word was spoken until we entered the dark woods.

"You saw Chyd?" she said.

"Yes, and the old gentleman wanted him to come out."

"To kneel at my feet so soon?"

"No, to welcome his sister. Are you so anxious for the time to come?"

"Yes," she answered, without hesitation.

"And is it because you love him?" I asked bitterly.

"You and I are to be the best of friends, Mr. Hawes, and you must not reproach me."

"Forgive me if I have hurt you," I said, stupidly.

"But you must not keep on wounding me merely to be forgiven. I said that he would kneel at my feet, and this may sound foolish to you, but he will. How do I know? I feel it; I don't know why, but I do. And we are to leave the old home if father can sell the land. It's better to go, but it will be still better to come back, and we will. Do you think that I am merely a simple girl without ambition? I am not; I dream."

"I know that you are a noble woman."

"Oh, don't flatter me now. It's first reproach, and then flattery. But have you thought of the real nobility of some one else—yourself?"

I strove to laugh, but I know that it must have been a miserable croak. "I have done nothing to merit that opinion," I replied.

"Oh, it is a part of your nature to suppress yourself. Do you know that I expect great things of you? I do."

"I know one thing that I'm going to do—I am going to buy the old house and a narrow strip of land—the path and the spring. That's all I want—the house, the path and the spring, with just a little strip running a short distance down the brook where the moss is so thick. I have the promise of money from Perdue, and I think that I can borrow some of Conkwright. Yes, I must have the house and the path and the spring and the strip of moss-land that lies along the branch. It will be merely a poetic possession, but such possessions are the richest to one who has a soul; and no one with a soul will bid against me. It is a mean man that would bid against a sentiment."

"You must be nearly worn out," she said, when for some distance we had walked in silence.

"I may be, but I don't know it yet. And so long as I don't know it, why, of course, I don't care."

For a long time we said nothing. Her hand was on my arm, but I scarcely felt its weight, except when we came upon places where the road was rough; and I wished that the way were rougher, that I might feel her dependence upon me. Once she stepped into a deep rut, and I caught her about the waist, but when I had lifted her out, she gently released herself. She said that the road was rougher than she had ever before found it, and I was ready to swear that it was the most delightful highway that my feet had trod; indeed, I did swear it, but she warned me not to use such strong language when I meant to convey but a weak compliment.

"Let us walk faster," she said. "It is away past midnight. I do believe it's nearly day. Can you see your watch?"

"Yes, but I can't see the time."

"Nobody can see time, Mr. Teacher of Children."

"But I could not tell the time even if I were to hold the lantern to the watch."

"Oh, of course you could. Why do you talk that way?"

"I am moved to talk that way because I know that the watch, being in sympathy with me, refuses to record time when I am with you—it frightens off the minutes in an ecstasy."

"Nonsense, Mr. Hawes. I do believe daylight is coming. What a night we have passed, and here I am unable to realize it, and mother is heart-broken over our disgrace. But I suppose it will fall upon me and crush me when we have gone away. My brother sentenced to the penitentiary! To myself I have repeated these words over and over and yet they don't strike me."

"Perhaps it is because your mind is on some one else," I replied, with a return of my feeling of bitterness.

With a pressure gentle and yet forgetful her hand had been resting on my arm, but in an instant the pressure was gone like a bird fluttering from a bough, and out in the road she was walking alone.

"I earnestly beg your pardon. I scarcely knew what I was saying. Won't you please take my arm?"

"To be compelled to drop it again before we have gone a hundred yards?"

"No, to drop it when we have reached the gate. Won't you, please? I don't deny that I am a fool. I have always been a fool. My father said so and he was right. Everybody made fun of me because I was so easily cheated; and you ought to be willing to forgive a man who was born a failure. Whenever there has been a mistake to be made I have made it. Once I was caught in a storm and when I came in dripping, my father said that I hadn't sense enough to come in out of the rain. But I am stronger with every one else than I am with you, and——"

She was laughing at me; but it was a laugh of sympathy, of forgiveness, and I caught her hand and placed it upon my arm. And so we walked along in silence, she pressing my arm when the road was rough. Daylight was coming and we could see the house, dark and lonesome beyond the black ravine.

"What a peculiar man the General is," I said, feeling the growing heaviness of the silence. "I can hardly place him; but I believe he has a kind heart."

"Yes," she replied, "he is kind and brave and generous, but over it all is a weakness."

"And he is of a type that is fast disappearing," said I. "A few years more and his class will be but a memory, and then will come almost a forgetfulness, but later on he will reappear as a caricature from the pen of some careless and unsympathetic writer."

We had crossed the ravine and were now at the gate, and here I halted. "What, aren't you going in?" she asked, looking up at me, and in the dim light I could see her face, pale and sad.

"No," I answered, "I am going to town."

"At this hour, and when you are so tired?"

"The horse is rested, and as for myself, my duty must give me vigor."

"I don't understand you. What can you do in town?"

"I can bear the divinest of tidings—I can tell Alf that Millie loves him."

She stood looking down, and, bending over her, I kissed her hair, and oh, the heaven of that moment, at the gate, in the dawn; and oh, the thrilling perfume of her hair, damp with the dew brushed from the vine and the leaf of the spice-wood bush. And there, without a word, I left her, her white hands clasped on her bosom; and over the roadway I galloped with a message on my lips and incense in my soul.



CHAPTER XVI.

The sun was an hour above the tree-tops when I rode up to the livery-stable, and the town was lazily astir. Merchants were sprinkling the brick pavements in front of their stores, and on the public square was a bon-fire of trash swept from the court-house. I hastened to the jail, and for the first time the jailer hesitated when I applied for admission. My eagerness, apparent to every one, appeared to be mistrusted by him, and he shook his head. I told him that he might go in with me, that my mission was simply to deliver a message.

"The man has been sentenced," said he, "and I don't know what good a message can do him. I am ordered to be very strict. Some time ago a man was in this jail, sentenced to the penitentiary, but he didn't go—a friend came in and left him some pizen. And are you sure you ain't got no pizen about you."

"You may search me."

"But I don't know pizen when I see it. Man's got a right to kill himself, I reckon, but he ain't got no right to rob me of my position as jailer, and that's what it would do. Write down your message and I'll take it to him."

"That would take too long. The judge has granted him a new trial and surely he wouldn't want to kill himself now."

"Well, I reckon you're right, but still we have to be mighty particular. I don't know, either but you might be taking him some whisky. Man's got a right to drink whisky, it's true, but it don't speak well for the morals and religious standin' of a jailer if he's got a lot of drunken prisoners on hand; so, if you've got a bottle about you anywhere you'd better let me take it."

"I've got no bottle."

"That so? Didn't know but you might have one. Prohibition has struck this town putty hard, you know. Search yourself and see if you hain't got a bottle."

"Don't you suppose I know whether I've got one or not? But if you want one you shall have it."

"S-h-e-e! Don't talk so loud. There's nothin' that sharpens a man's ears like prohibition. Say," he whispered, "a good bottle costs about a dollar."

"Here's your dollar. It's my last cent, but you shall have it."

"Oh, it ain't my principle to rob a man," he said as he took the money. "But I do need a little licker this mornin'. Why, I'm so dry I couldn't whistle to a dog. No pizen, you understand," he added, with a wink, as he opened the door.

The drawing of the bolts must have aroused Alf from sleep, for when I stepped into the corridor he was sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing his eyes.

"Helloa, is that you, Bill? What are you doing here this time of day? Why, I haven't had breakfast yet."

"I have come to tell you something, and I want you to be quiet while I tell it."

"That's all right, old man. Go ahead. I can stand anything now."

I told him of the scene in the sitting-room, of the walk to the General's house—told him all except that kiss at the gate. He uttered not a word; he had taken hold of the bars and was standing with his head resting upon his arms—had gradually found this position, and now I could not see his face. Long I stood there, waiting, but he spoke not. Suddenly he wheeled about, fell upon his bed and sobbed aloud. And so I left him, and ere I reached the door I knew that his sobbing was a prayer, that his heart had found peace and rest. Upon a pardon from the governor he could have looked with cool indifference, for without that girl's love he cared not to live; but now to know that through the dark she had fled from her home, rebellious against her father's pride, wild with love—it was a mercy granted by the Governor of governors.

I went to see Conkwright and told him of the threat that Stuart had made, and the old man's eyes glistened. "We ought to have had that girl on the stand in the first place," he said. "But it was a delicate matter and, of course, we didn't know that she could bear so strongly upon the case. It's all right—better as it is, and that boy will get off as sure as you are sitting there. That threat was worse than his standing in the road, waiting. Yes, sir, it's all right, and you may take up your school again and go ahead with your work."