[Illustration: 9156]
S Henry, Aunt Maria's husband, who was the chief farm-hand, was busy
patching fences the next morning, Bishop sent over for Pole Baker to
drive the spring-wagon. Alan sat beside Pole, and Abner and Bishop and
Mrs. Bishop occupied the rear seats.
Alan knew he could trust Pole, drunk or sober, and he confided his plans
to the flattered fellow's ears. Pole seemed to weigh all the chances for
and against success in his mind as he sat listening, a most grave and
portentous expression on his massive face.
“My opinion is the feller 'll be thar as shore as preachin',” he said.
“But whether you git his wad or not, that's another question. Miller's
as sharp as a briar, an', as he says, if Wilson gits to talkin' about
that land to any o' these hill-Billies they 'll bu'st the trade or die
tryin'. Jest let 'em heer money's about to change hands an' it 'll make
'em so durn jealous they 'll swear a lie to keep it away from anybody
they know. That's human natur'.”
“I believe you are right,” said Alan, pulling a long face; “and I'm
afraid Wilson will want to make some inquiries before he closes.”
“Like as not,” opined the driver; “but what I'd do, ef I was a-runnin'
it, would be to git some feller to strike up with 'im accidental-like,
an' liter'ly fill 'im to the neck with good things about the property
without him ever dreamin' he was bein' worked.”
The two exchanged glances. Alan had never looked at the man so
admiringly. At that moment he seemed a giant of shrewdness, as well as
that of physical strength.
“I believe you are right, Pole,” he said, thoughtfully.
“That's what I am, an', what's more, I'm the one that could do the
fillin', without him ever knowin' I had a funnel in his mouth. If I
can't do it, I 'll fill my hat with saft mud an' put it on.”
Alan smiled warmly. “I 'll mention it to Miller,” he said. “Yes, you
could do it, Pole--if any man on earth could.”
Driving up to Miller's office they found the door open, and the owner
came out with a warm smile of greeting and aided Mrs. Bishop to alight.
“Well,” he smiled, when they had taken seats in the office. “We have
gained the first step towards victory. Wilson is at the hotel. I saw his
name on the register this morning.”
The elder Bishops drew a breath of relief. The old man grounded his
heavy walking-stick suddenly, as if it had slipped through his inert
fingers.
“I'm trustin' you boys to pull me through,” he said, with a shaky laugh.
“I hain't never treated Alan right, an' I'm heer to confess it. I 'lowed
I was the only one in our layout with any business sense.”
“So you are willing to accept the loan?” said Miller.
“Willin'? I reckon I am. I never slept one wink last night fer feer
some 'n' 'll interfere with it.”
Miller reflected a moment and then said: “I am afraid of only one thing,
and that is this: Not one man in a million will make a trade of this
size without corroborating the statements made by the people he is
dealing with. Wilson is at breakfast by this time, and after he is
through he may decide to nose around a little before coming to me. I'm
afraid to go after him; he would think I was over-anxious. The trouble
is that he may run upon somebody from out in the mountains--there are a
lot in town already--and get to talking. Just one word about your biting
off more than you can chaw, Mr. Bishop, would make 'im balk like a mean
mule. He thinks I'm favoring him now, but let him get the notion that
you haven't been holding that land for at least a hundred thousand an'
the thing would bu'st like a bubble.”
Alan mentioned Pole Baker's proposition. Miller thought it over for a
moment, his brow wrinkled, and then he said: “Good!--a good idea, but
you must call Pole in and let me give him a few pointers. By George! he
could keep Wilson away from dangerous people anyway.”
Alan went after Pole, and Miller took him into his consultation-room in
the rear, where they remained for about fifteen minutes. When they came
out Pole's face was very grave. “I won't forget a thing,” he said to
Miller. “I understand exactly what you want. When I git through with
'im he 'll want that land bad enough to pay anything fer it, an' he won't
dream I'm in cahoot with you, nuther. I can manage that. I ain't no fool
ef I do have fits.”
“Do you remember my description of him?” asked Miller.
“You bet I do--thick-set, about fifty, bald, red-faced, sharp, black
eyes, iron gray hair, an' mighty nigh always with a cigar in his mouth.”
“That's right,” laughed Miller, “now do your work, and we won't forget
you. By all means keep him away from meddlesome people.”
When Pole had left the office and Miller had resumed his revolving-chair
Mrs. Bishop addressed him, looking straight into his eyes.
“I don't see,” she said, in a timid, hesitating way, and yet with a note
of firmness dominating her tone--“I don't see why we have to go through
all this trickery to make the trade. Ef the land is good security fer
the money we needn't be afeerd of what the man will find out. Ef it ain'
t good security I don't want his money as fer as I'm concerned.”
“I was jest thinkin' that, too,” chimed in her husband, throwing a
troubled glance all round. “I want money to help me out o' my scrape,
but I don't want to trick no man, Yankee or what not, into toatin' my
loads. As Betsy says, it seems to me if the land's wuth the money we
needn't make such a great to-do. I'm afeerd I won't feel exactly right
about it.”
The young men exchanged alarmed glances.
“You don't understand,” said Miller, lamely, but he seemed to be
unprepared for views so heretical to financial dealings, and could not
finish what he had started to say.
“Why,” said Alan, testily, “the land is worth all Wilson can make out of
it with the aid of his capital and the railroad he proposes to lay
here. Father, you have spent several years looking up the best timbered
properties, and getting good titles to it, and to a big lumber company a
body of timber like you hold is no small tiling. We don't want to cheat
him, but we do want to keep him from trying to cheat us by getting the
upper hand. Rayburn thinks if he finds out we are hard up he 'll try to
squeeze us to the lowest notch.”
“Well,” sighed Mrs. Bishop, “I'm shore I never had no idea we'd resort
to gittin' Pole Baker to tole anybody around like a hog after a yeer o'
corn. I 'lowed we was going to make a open-and-shut trade that we could
be proud of, an' stop folk's mouths about Alfred's foolish dealin'
s. But,” she looked at Abner, who stood in the doorway leading to the
consultation-room, “I 'll do whatever brother Ab thinks is right. I never
knowed 'im to take undue advantage of anybody.”
They all looked at Abner, who was smiling broadly.
“Well, I say git his money,” he replied, with a short, impulsive
laugh--“git his money, and then ef you find he's starvin', hand 'im back
what you feel you don't need. I look on a thing like this sorter like
I did on scramblin' fer the upper holt in war-times. I remember I shot
straight at a feller that was climbin' up the enemy's breastworks on his
all-fours. I said to myse'f, ef this ball strikes you right, old chap,
'fore you drap over the bank, yo're one less agin the Confederacy; ef
it don't you kin pop away at me. I don't think I give 'im anything but
a flesh-wound in the back--beca'se he jest sagged down a little an'
crawled on--an' that's about the wust you could do fer Wilson. I believe
he ort to hold the bag awhile. Alf's hung on to it till his fingers ache
an' he's weak at the knees. I never did feel like thar was any harm in
passin' a counterfeit bill that some other chap passed on me. Ef
the government, with all its high-paid help, cayn't keep crooked
shinplasters from slidin' under our noses, it ortn't to kick agin our
lookin' out fer ourse'ves.”
“You needn't lose any sleep about the Southern Land and Timber Company,
Mrs. Bishop,” said Miller. “They will take care of themselves--in fact,
we 'll have to keep our eyes peeled to watch them even if we get this
loan. Wilson didn't come up here for his health.”
“Oh, mother's all right,” said Alan, “and so is father, but they must
not chip in with that sort of talk before Wilson.”
“Oh no, you mustn't,” said Miller. “In fact, I think you'd better let me
and Alan do the talking. You see, if you sit perfectly quiet he 'll think
you are reluctant about giving such big security for such a small amount
of money, and he will trade faster.”
“Oh, I'm perfectly willin' to keep quiet,” agreed the old man, who now
seemed better satisfied.
Pole Baker left the office with long, swinging strides. There was an
entrance to the Johnston House through a long corridor opening on the
street, and into this Pole slouched. The hotel office was empty save for
the clerk who stood behind the counter, looking over the letters in the
pigeon-holed key-rack on the wall. There was a big gong overhead which
was rung by pulling a cord. It was used for announcing meals and calling
the porter. A big china bowl on the counter was filled with wooden
tooth-picks, and there was a show-case containing cigars. Pole glanced
about cautiously without being noticed by the clerk, and then withdrew
into the corridor, where he stood for several minutes, listening.
Presently the dining-room door opened and Wilson strolled out and walked
up to the counter.
“What sort of cigars have you got?” he said to the clerk.
“Nothing better than ten, three for a quarter,” was the respectful
reply, as the clerk recognized the man who had asked for the best room
in the house.
Wilson thrust his fingers into his vest-pocket and drew out a cigar. “I
guess I can make what I have last me,” he said, transferring his glance
to Pole Baker, who had shambled across the room and leaned heavily over
the open register. “Want to buy any chickins--fine fryin' size?” he
asked the clerk.
“Well, we are in the market,” was the answer. “Where are they?”
“I didn't fetch 'em in to-day,” said Pole, dryly. “I never do till I
know what they are a-bringin'. You'd better make a bid on a dozen of 'em
anyway. They are the finest ever raised on Upper Holly Creek, jest this
side o' whar old man Bishop's lumber paradise begins.”
Pole was looking out of the corner of his eye at the stranger, and
saw his hand, which was in the act of striking a match, suddenly stay
itself.
“We don't bid on produce till we see it,” said the clerk.
“Well, I reckon no harm was done by my axin',” said Pole, who felt the
eyes of the stranger on him.
“Do you live near here?” asked Wilson, with a smile half of apology at
addressing a stranger, even of Pole's humble stamp.
“No.” Pole laughed and waved his hand towards the mountains in the west,
which were plainly discernible in the clear morning light. “No, I'm
a mountain shanghai. I reckon it's fifteen mile on a bee-line to my
shack.”
“Didn't you say you lived near old Mr. Bishop's place?” asked Wilson,
moving towards the open door which led to the veranda.
“I don't know which place o' his'n you mean,” said Pole when they were
alone outside and Wilson had lighted his cigar. “That old scamp owns the
whole o' creation out our way. Well, I 'll take that back, fer he don't
own any land that hain't loaded down with trees, but he's got territory
enough. Some thinks he's goin' to seceed from the United States an'
elect himself President of his own country.”
Wilson laughed, and then he said: “Have you got a few minutes to spare?”
“I reckon I have,” said Pole, “ef you've got the mate to that cigar.”
Wilson laughed again as he fished the desired article from his pocket
and gave it and a match to Pole. Then he leaned against the heavy
railing of the banisters. “I may as well tell you,” he said, “I'm a
dealer in lumber myself, and I'd like to know what kind of timber you
have out there.”
Pole pulled at the cigar, thrust it well into the corner of his mouth
with the fire end smoking very near his left eye, and looked thoughtful.
“To tell you the truth, my friend,” he said, “I railly believe you'd be
wastin' time to go over thar.”
“Oh, you think so.” It was a vocal start on the part of Wilson.
“Yes, sir; the truth is, old man Bishop has simply raked into his dern
clutch ever' acre o' fine timber out that away. Now ef you went east,
over t'other side o' the mountains, you mought pick out some good
timber; but as I said, old man Bishop's got it all in a bag out our way.
Saw-mill?”
“No, I don't run a saw-mill,” said Wilson, with an avaricious sparkle in
his eye. “I sometimes buy timbered lands for a speculation, that's all.”
Pole laughed. “I didn't see how you could be a saw-mill man an' smoke
cigars like this an' wear them clothes. I never knowed a saw-mill man to
make any money.”
“I suppose this Mr. Bishop is buying to sell again,” said Wilson,
tentatively. “People generally have some such idea when they put money
into such property.” Pole looked wise and thoughtful. “I don't know
whether he is or not,” he said. “But my opinion is that he 'll hold on to
it till he's in the ground. He evidently thinks a good time's a-comin'!
Thar was a feller out thar t'other day with money to throw at cats; he's
been tryin' to honeyfuggle the old man into a trade, but I don't think
he made a deal with 'im.”
“Where was the man from?” Wilson spoke uneasily. “I don't railly know,
but he ain't a-goin' to give up. He told Neil Fulmore at his store that
he was goin' home to see his company an' write the old man a proposition
that ud fetch 'im ef thar was any trade in 'im.”
Wilson pulled out his watch.
“Do you happen to know where Mr. Rayburn Miller's law office is?” he
asked.
“Yes; it's right round the corner. I know whar all the _white_ men
in this town do business, an' he's as white as they make 'em, an' as
straight as a shingle.”
“He's an acquaintance of mine,” said Wilson. “I thought I'd run in and
see him before I leave.”
“It's right round the corner, an' down the fust side street, towards the
court-house. I 'ain't got nothin' to do; I 'll p'int it out.”
“Thank you,” said Wilson, and they went out of the house and down the
street together, Pole puffing vigorously at his cigar in the brisk
breeze.
“Thar you are,” said Pole, pointing to Miller's sign. “Good-day, sir;
much obleeged fer this smoke,” and with his head in the air Pole walked
past the office without looking in.
“Good-morning,” exclaimed Miller, as Wilson entered. “You are not an
early riser like we are here in the country.” He introduced Wilson all
round, and then gave him a chair near his desk and facing him rather
than the others.
“This is the gentleman who owns the property, I believe,” said Wilson,
suavely, as he indicated Bishop.
Miller nodded, and a look of cunning dawned in his clear eye.
“Yes. I have just been explaining to Mr. and Mrs. Bishop that the mere
signing of a paper such as will be necessary to secure the loan will
not bind them at all in the handling of their property. You know how
cautious older people are nowadays in regard to legal matters. Now, Alan
here, their son, understands the matter thoroughly, and his mind is not
at all disturbed.”
Wilson fell into the preliminary trap. “Oh no; it's not a binding
thing at all,” he said. “The payment of the money back to us releases
you--that is, of course,” Wilson recovered himself, “if we make the
loan.”
Several hearts in the room sank, but Miller's face did not alter in the
slightest. “Oh, of course, if the loan is made,” he said.
Wilson put his silk hat on the top of Miller's desk, and flicked the
ashes from his cigar into a cuspidor. Then he looked at Mrs. Bishop
suddenly--“Does the lady object to smoking?”
“Not at all,” said the old lady--“not at all.”
There was a pause as Wilson relighted his cigar and pulled at it in
silence. A step sounded on the sidewalk and Trabue put his head in at
the door. Miller could have sworn at him, but he smiled. “Good-morning,
Squire,” he said.
“I see you are busy,” said the intruder, hastily.
“Just a little, Squire. I 'll see you in a few minutes.”
“Oh, all right.” The old lawyer moved on down the sidewalk, his hands in
his pockets.
Miller brought up the subject again with easy adroitness. “I mentioned
your proposition to my clients--the proposition that they allow you the
refusal of the land at one hundred thousand, and they have finally come
round to it. As I told them, they could not possibly market a thing like
that as easily and for as good a price as a company regularly in the
business. I may have been wrong in giving such advice, but it was the
way I felt about it.”
Without realizing it, Wilson tripped in another hole dug by Miller's
inventive mind.
“They couldn't do half as well with it,” the Boston man said. “In fact,
no one could, as I told you, pay as much for the property as we can,
considering the railroad we have to move somewhere, and our gigantic
facilities for handling lumber in America and abroad. Still I think, and
our directors think, a hundred thousand is a big price.”
Miller laughed as if amused. “That's five dollars an acre, you know,
but I'm not here to boom Mr. Bishop's timber-land. In fact, all this
has grown out of my going down to Atlanta to borrow twenty-five thousand
dollars on the property. I think I would have saved time if I hadn't run
on you down there, Mr. Wilson.”
Wilson frowned and looked at his cigar.
“We are willing,” said he, “to make the loan at five per cent, per annum
on two conditions.”
“Well, out with them,” laughed Miller. “What are they?”
“First,” said Wilson, slowly and methodically, “we want the refusal of
the property at one hundred thousand dollars.”
A thrill of triumph passed over the silent group. Alan saw his father's
face fill with sudden hope, and then it seemed to stand in abeyance as
if doubt had already mastered it. Abner Daniel caught his beard in his
stiff fingers and slowly slid them downward. Mrs. Bishop's bonnet hid
her face, but her fingers were twitching excitedly as they toyed with
the fringe of her shawl.
Miller's indifference was surprising. “For what length of time do you
want the refusal of the property at that figure?” he asked, almost in a
tone of contempt.
Wilson hung fire, his brow wrinkled thoughtfully.
“Till it is decided positively,” he got out finally, “whether we can get
a charter and a right of way to the property.”
To those who were not following the details as closely as were Alan and
Miller the reply of the latter fell discouragingly, even Abner Daniel
glared in open horror of what he regarded as an unfavorable turn in the
proceedings.
“That's entirely too indefinite to suit my clients,” said the lawyer.
“Do you suppose, Mr. Wilson, that they want to hang their property up
on a hook like that? Why, if you didn't attend to pushing your road
through--well, they would simply be in your hands, the Lord only knows
how long.”
“But we intend to do all we can to shove it through,” said Wilson, with
a flush.
“You know that is not a business-like proposition, Mr. Wilson,” said
Miller, with a bland smile. “Why, it amounts to an option without any
limit at all.”
“Oh, I don't know,” said Wilson, lamely. “Mr. Bishop will be interested
just as we are in getting a right of way through--in fact, it would
insure us of his help. We can't buy a right of way; we can't afford it.
The citizens through whose property the road runs must be persuaded
to contribute the land for the purpose, and Mr. Bishop, of course, has
influence up here with his neighbors.”
“Still he would be very imprudent,” said Miller, “to option his property
without any limit. Now here's what we are willing to do. As long as
you hold Mr. Bishop's note for twenty-five thousand dollars unpaid, you
shall have the refusal of the land at one hundred thousand dollars. Now
take my advice”--Miller was smiling broadly--“let it stand at that.”
Wilson reflected for a moment, and then he said: “All right; let
that go. The other condition is this--and it need be only a verbal
promise--that nothing be said about my company's making this loan nor
our securing the refusal of the property.”
“That will suit us,” said Miller. “Mr. Bishop' doesn't care to have
the public know his business. Of course, the mortgage will have to be
recorded at the court-house, but that need not attract attention. I
don't blame Mr. Bishop,” went on Miller, in a half-confidential tone.
“These people are the worst gossips you ever saw. If you meet any of
them they will tell you that Mr. Bishop has bu'sted himself wide open by
buying so much timber-land, but this loan will make him as solid as the
Bank of England. The people don't understand his dealings, and they are
trying to take it out on him by blasting his reputation for being one of
the solidest men in his county.”
“Well, that's all, I believe,” said Wilson, and Miller drew a blank
sheet of legal-cap paper to him and began to write. Half an hour later
the papers were signed and Miller carelessly handed Wilson's crisp pink
check on a New York bank to Mr. Bishop.
“There you are, Mr. Bishop,” he said, with a smile; “you didn't want any
one else to have a finger in that big pie of yours over there, but you
needed money, and I 'll tell you as a friend that a hundred thousand cash
down will be about as well as you can do with that land. It takes money,
and lots of it, to make money, and Mr. Wilson's company can move the
thing faster than you can.”
“That's a fact,” said Wilson, in a tone that betrayed
self-gratification. “Now we must all pull together for the railroad.” He
rose and turned to Miller. “Will you come with me to record the paper?”
“Certainly,” said Miller, and they both left together.
The Bishop family were left alone, and the strain being lifted, they
found themselves almost wholly exhausted.
“Is it all over?” gasped the old woman, standing up and grasping her
son's arm.
“We've got his money,” Alan told her, with a glad smile, “and a fair
chance for more.”
The pink check was fluttering in old Bishop's hand. Already the old
self-willed look that brooked no interference with his personal affairs
was returning to his wrinkled face.
“I 'll go over to Craig's bank an' deposit it,” he said to Alan. “It 'll
take a day or two to collect it, but he'd let me check on it right now
fer any reasonable amount.”
“I believe I'd ask him not to mention the deposit,” suggested Alan.
“Huh! I reckon I've got sense enough to do that.”
“I thought you intended to pay off the mortgage on our farm the fust
thing,” ventured Mrs. Bishop.
“We can' t do it till the note's due next January,” said Bishop,
shortly. “I agreed to keep the money a yeer, an' Martin Doe 'll make me
hold to it. But what do you reckon I care as long as I've got some 'n' to
meet it with?”
Mrs. Bishop's face fell. “I'd feel better about it if it was cleer,” she
faltered. “But the Lord knows we ort to feel thankful to come out as we
have. If it hadn't been fer Alan--Mr. Miller said that Alan--”
“Ef you all hadn't made sech a eternal row,” broke in Bishop, testily,
“I'd 'a' had more timber-land than this. Colonel Barclay has as fine a
strip as any I got, an' he's bantered me for a trade time an' agin.”
Abner Daniel seldom sneered at anybody, no matter what the provocation
was, but it seemed impossible for him to refrain from it now.
“You've been lookin' fer the last three months like a man that needed
more land,” he said. “Jest no furder back 'an last night you 'lowed ef
you could git enough fer yore folly to raise the debt off'n yore farm
you'd die happy, an' now yo' re a-frettin' beca'se you didn't buy up the
sides o' the earth an' give nobody else a foothold. Le' me tell you the
truth, even ef it _does_ hurt a little. Ef Alan hadn't thought o' this
heer railroad idea, you'd 'a' been the biggest human pancake that ever
lay flat in its own grease.”
“I hain't said nothin' to the contrary,” admitted Bishop, who really
took the reproof well. “Alan knows what I think about it.”
Then Bishop and his wife went to Craig's bank, and a moment later Miller
returned, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.
“We got through, and he's gone to catch his train,” he said.
“It worked as smooth as goose-grease. I wonder what Pole Baker said to
him, or if he saw him. I have an idea he did, from the way Wilson danced
to our music.”
“Heer's Pole now,” said Abner, from the door. “Come in heer, you
triflin' loafer, an' give an account o' yorese'f.”
“I seed 'im makin' fer the train,” laughed Pole, “an' so I sneaked in to
see what you-uns done. He walked like he owned the town.”
“It went through like lightning, without a hitch or a bobble,” Abner
told him. “We was jest a-won-derin' what you shot into 'im.”
“I hardly know,” Pole sniggered. “I got to talkin' to 'im an' it looked
to me like I was chippin' off tan-bark with the sharpest tool I ever
handled. Every lick seemed to draw blood, an' he stood an' tuck it
without a start or a shiver. I said to myse'f: 'Pole Baker, yo're
nothin' but a rag-tag, bob-tail mountain Hoosier, an' he's a slick duck
from up North, with a gold watch-chain an' a silk beaver, but he's a
lappin' up what you say like a hungry kitten does a pan o' milk. Go it,
old boy, an' ef you win, you 'll he'p the finest man out o' trouble--I
mean Alan Bishop, by gum--that ever lived.' It seemed to me I was
filled with the fire of heaven. I could 'a' been at it yet--fer I'd
jest started--but he drawed his watch on me, an' made a shoot fer this
office, me with 'im, fer feer some yokel would strike up with 'im. I
mighty nigh shoved 'im in at the door.”
“You did noble,” said Miller, while Pole and Alan were silently
clasping hands. “Now I told you we wouldn't forget you. Go down to
Wimbley's and tell him to give you the best suit of clothes he's got,
and to charge them to me 'n' Alan.”
Pole drew himself up to his full height, and stared at the lawyer with
flashing eyes.
“Damn yore soul,” he said; “don't you say a thing like that to me agin.
I 'll have you know I've got feelin' s as well as you or anybody else.
I'd cut off this right arm an' never wince to do Alan Bishop a favor,
but I 'll be danged ef anybody kin look me over after I've done a
_little_ one an' pay me for it in store-clothes. I don't like that one
bit, an' I ain't afeerd to say so.”
“I didn't mean any offence, Pole,” apologized Miller, most humbly.
“Well, you wouldn't 'a' said it to _some_ men,” growled Pole, “I know
that. When I want pay fer a thing like that, I 'll jest go to that corner
o' the street an' look down at that rock-pile, whar Alan found me one
day an' paid me out jest to keep me from bein' the laughin'-stock o'
this town.”
Alan put his arm over his shoulder. “Rayburn didn't mean any harm,”
he said, gently. “You are both my friends, and we've had a big victory
to-day; let's not have hard feelings.”
Pole hung his head stubbornly and Miller extended his hand. Abner Daniel
was an attentive listener, a half smile on his face.
“Say, Pole,” he said, with a little laugh, “you run down to Wimbley's
an' tell 'im not to wrop up that suit. I'm a-owin' him a bill, an' he
kin jest credit the value of it on my account.”
Pole laughed heartily and thrust his big hand into Miller's.
“Uncle Ab,” he said, “you'd make a dog laugh.”
“I believe yo' re right,” said Abner, significantly, and then they all
roared at Pole's expense.
The next day Alan received the following letter from Dolly Barclay:
“_DEAR ALAN,--Rayburn Miller told me in confidence of your wonderful
success yesterday, and I simply cried with joy. I knew--I felt that you
would win, and this is, as he says, a glorious beginning. I am so proud
of you, and I am so full of hope to-day. All our troubles will come
out right some day, and now that I know you love me I can wait. Rayburn
would not have confided so much to me, but he said, while he would not
let me tell father anything about the prospective railroad, he wanted
me to prevent him from selling his tract of land near yours. You know
my father consults me about all his business, and he will not dispose of
that property without my knowing of it. Oh, wouldn't it he a fine joke
on him to have him profit by your good judgment._”
Alan was at the little post-office in Filmore's store when he received
the letter, and he folded it and restored it to its envelope with a
heart filled with love and tenderness. As he walked home through the
woods, it seemed to him that everything in nature was ministering to his
boundless happiness. He felt as light as air as he strode along. “God
bless her dear, dear little soul!” he said, fervently.