CHAPTER I

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the

Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

THE DESIRED WOMAN

By WILL N. HARBEN

Author of "Dixie Hart," "Pole Baker," "The Redemption of Kenneth Galt,"

Etc.

WITH FRONTISPIECE

TO

VELLA AND BILLY

PART I

CHAPTER I

Inside the bank that June morning the clerks and accountants on their

high stools were bent over their ponderous ledgers, although it was

several minutes before the opening hour. The gray-stone building was in

Atlanta's most central part on a narrow street paved with asphalt which

sloped down from one of the main thoroughfares to the section occupied

by the old passenger depot, the railway warehouses, and hotels of

various grades. Considerable noise, despite the closed windows and

doors, came in from the outside. Locomotive bells slowly swung and

clanged; steam was escaping; cabs, drays, and trucks rumbled and

creaked along; there was a whir of a street-sweeping machine turning a

corner and the shrill cries of newsboys selling the morning papers.

Jarvis Saunders, member of the firm of Mostyn, Saunders & Co., bankers

and brokers, came in; and, hanging his straw hat up, he seated himself

at his desk, which the negro porter had put in order.

"I say, Wright"--he addressed the bald, stocky, middle-aged man who, at

the paying-teller's window, was sponging his fat fingers and counting

and labeling packages of currency--"what is this about Mostyn feeling

badly?"

"So that's got out already?" Wright replied in surprise, as he

approached and leaned on the rolling top of the desk. "He cautioned us

all not to mention it. You know what a queer, sensitive sort of man he

is where his health or business is concerned."

"Oh, it is not public," Saunders replied. "I happened to meet Dr. Loyd

on the corner. He had just started to explain more fully when a patient

stopped to speak to him, and so I didn't wait, as he said Mostyn was

here."

"Yes, he's in his office now." Wright nodded toward the frosted glass

door in the rear. "He was lying on the lounge when I left him just now.

It is really nothing serious. The doctor says it is only due to loss of

sleep and excessive mental strain, and that a few weeks' rest in some

quiet place will straighten him out."

"Well, I'm glad it is not serious," Saunders said. "I have seen him

break down before. He is too intense, too strenuous; whatever he does

he does with every nerve in his body drawn as taut as a fiddle-string."

"It is his _outside_ operations, his _private_ deals," the teller went

on, in a more confidential tone. "Why, it makes me nervous even to

watch him. He's been keyed high for the last week. You know, I'm an

early riser, and I come down before any one else to get my work up. I

found him here this morning at half past seven. He was as nervous as a

man about to be hanged. He couldn't sit or stand still a minute. He was

waiting for a telegram from Augusta concerning Warner & Co. I remember

how you advised him against that deal. Well, I guess if it had gone

against him it would have ruined him."

The banker nodded. "Yes, that was foolhardy, and he seemed to me to be

going into it blindfolded. He realized the danger afterward. He

admitted it to me last night at the club. He said that he was sorry he

had not taken my advice. He was afraid, too, that Delbridge would get

on to it and laugh at him."

"Delbridge is too shrewd to tackle a risk like that," Wright returned.

He glanced about the room cautiously, and then added: "I don't know as

I have any right to be talking about Mostyn's affairs even to you, but

I am pretty sure that he got good news. He didn't show me the telegram

when it came, but I watched his face as he read it. I saw his eyes

flash; he smiled at me, walked toward his office with a light step, as

he always does when he's lucky, and then he swayed sideways and keeled

over in a dead faint. The porter and I picked him up, carried him to

his lounge, and sprinkled water in his face. Then we sent for the

doctor. He gave him a dose of something or other and told him not to do

a lick of work for a month."

"Well, I'll step in and see him." Saunders rose. "I guess he won't

mind. He's too big a plunger for a town of this size. He lets things

get on his nerves too much. He has no philosophy of life. I wouldn't go

his pace for all the money in the U. S. Treasury."

"Right you are," the teller returned, as he went back to his work.

Opening the door of his partner's office, Saunders found him seated on

the lounge smoking a cigar. He was about thirty-five years of age,

tall, broad-shouldered, with blue eyes, yellow mustache, and was

good-looking and well built. Glancing up, he smiled significantly and

nodded. There were dark rings round his eyes, and the hand holding his

cigar quivered nervously.

"I suppose you heard of that silly duck fit of mine?" he smiled, the

corners of his rather sensuous mouth twitching.

Saunders nodded as he sat down in the revolving-chair at the desk and

slowly swung it round till he faced his partner.

"It's a wonder to me that you are able to talk about it," he said,

sharply. "You've been through enough in the last ten days to kill a

dozen ordinary men. You've taken too many stimulants, smoked like the

woods afire, and on top of it all instead of getting natural sleep

you've amused yourself at all hours of the night. You've bolted your

food, and fussed and fumed over Delbridge's affairs, which, heaven

knows, have nothing at all to do with your own."

"I suppose I _do_ keep track of the fellow," Mostyn smiled. "People

compare us constantly. We started about the same time, and it rankles

to hear of his making a lucky strike just when I've had a tumble. This

matter of my backing Warner when I went to Augusta they told me they

had met with more bad luck, and if I didn't advance fresh funds they

would have to go under. It was the biggest risk I ever took, but I took

it. I raised the money on my street-railway bonds. For a day or so

afterward I was hopeful, but they quit writing and wouldn't answer my

wires. My lawyer in Augusta wrote me that they were all three on the

verge of suicide, and if they could not close a certain deal in Boston

they would go under. That's what I've been waiting on for the last

week, and that's why I've been crazy. But it is all right now--all

right. I'm safe, and I made money, too--money that Delbridge would like

to have."

"There are no two ways about it." Saunders reached for a cigar in a

tray on the desk and cut off the tip with a paper-knife. "You've got to

take a rest and get your mind off of business."

"Nobody knows that better than I do," Mostyn said, a sickly smile

playing over his wan face, "and I'm in the mood for it. I feel as a man

feels who has just escaped the gallows. I'm going to the mountains, and

I don't intend to open a business letter or think once of this hot hole

in a wall for a month. I'm going to fish and hunt and lie in the shade

and swap yarns with mossback moonshiners. I've just been thinking of

it, and it's like a soothing dream of peace and quiet. You know old Tom

Drake's place near your farm? I boarded there two weeks three years ago

and loved every cat and dog about. Tom told me to come any time I felt

like it."

"No better place anywhere," Saunders said. "I shall run up home now and

then, and can see you and report, but you needn't bother about us;

we'll keep this thing afloat. I'm wondering how you are going to get

away from your social duties. They usually claim you at this time of

the year. Old Mitchell and his daughter will certainly miss you."

Mostyn stared at his friend steadily. "They are off for Atlantic City

Monday. They hinted at my joining them, but I declined. I was worried

at the time over this deal, but I need something quieter than that sort

of trip. You are always coupling my name with Miss Irene's. I'm not the

favorite in that quarter that you make me out."

"I have eyes and ears and _some_ experience in human nature." Saunders

puffed at his cigar. He felt that his friend was expecting what he was

saying. "Mitchell is getting in his dotage, and he talks very freely to

me at times."

"Surely not about--about me and Irene?" Mostyn said, a ripple of

interest in his tone.

"Oh yes, he quite lets himself go now and then. He thinks the sun rises

and sets in you. He is constantly talking about your rapid rise and

keen business judgment."

"You can't mean that he's ever gone so--so far as actually to speak of

me in--in connection with his daughter?" Mostyn said, tentatively.

"I may as well tell you that he has." Saunders felt that the subject

was a delicate one. "At least, he has expressed the hope that you and

she would care for each other. He knew your father and liked him, and

he has been afraid that Miss Irene might fancy some young fellow with

no sort of chance in the world. He speaks quite freely of her as his

sole heiress, often showing me the actual figures of what he expects to

leave her."

A touch of red appeared in Mostyn's cheeks. "He is getting old and

garrulous," he said. "I really have been of some help to him. It

happens that I've never advised him wrongly in any venture he has made,

and I suppose he overrates my ability; but, really, I give you my word

that I have not thought seriously of marrying _any one_. I suppose some

men would call me a fool--a cold-blooded fellow like Delbridge would, I

am sure, but I've always had a dream of running across my ideal

somewhere and of marrying solely for the sake of old-fashioned love

itself."

"What man hasn't?" Saunders responded, thoughtfully. "After all, very

few men, at least here in the South, marry for convenience or financial

advancement. There is Stillman; he married a typewriter in his office,

a beautiful character, and they are as happy as a pair of doves. Then

you remember Ab Thornton and Sam Thorpe. Both of them could have tied

up to money, I suppose, but somehow they didn't. After all, it is the

best test of a man."

"Yes, that certainly is true," Mostyn said, "the ideal is the thing. I

really believe I have two distinct sides to me--the romantic and the

practical. So you needn't count on--on what you were speaking of just

now. I think the young lady is somewhat like myself. At times she seems

to have dreams, and I am not the Prince Charming that rides through

them."

At his own desk a few minutes later Saunders sat wrapped in thought.

"He doesn't really love her," he mused, "and she doesn't love him, but

they will marry. His eyes kindled when I mentioned her money. He may

think he can stand out against it, but he can't. In his better moments

he leans toward the higher thing, but the current of greed has caught

him and will sweep him along."

At this juncture Saunders's attention was drawn to the paying-teller's

window.

"I tell you you can't see him this morning." Wright was speaking firmly

to an elderly man who stood clinging desperately to the wire grating.

"He's not well and is lying down."

"So he's lying down, is he?" was the snarling response. "He's lying

down while I have to walk the streets without a cent through his

rascality. You tell him I'm going to see him if I have to wait here all

day."

"Who is it?" Saunders asked, being unable to recognize the speaker from

his position.

Wright turned to him. "It's old Jeff Henderson," he said, "still

harping on the same old string. He's blocking up the window. A thing

like that ought not to be allowed. If I was the president of this bank,

and a man like that dared to--"

"Let him in at the side door, and send him to me," Saunders ordered, in

a gentle tone. "I'll see him."

A moment later the man entered, and shuffled in a slipshod way up to

Saunders's desk. He was about seventy years of age, wore a threadbare

frock coat, baggy trousers, disreputable shoes, and a battered silk hat

of ancient, bell-shaped pattern. He was smooth-shaven, quite pale, and

had scant gray hair which in greasy, rope-like strands touched his

shoulders. He was nervously chewing a cheap, unlighted cigar, and

flakes of damp tobacco clung to his shirt-front.

"You were inquiring for Mostyn," Saunders said, quietly. "He is not at

work this morning, Mr. Henderson. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I don't know whether you can or not," the old man said, as he sank

into a chair and leaned forward on his walking-cane. "I don't know

whether _anybody_ can or not. I don't believe there is any law or

justice anywhere. You and him are partners, but I don't believe you

know him clean to the bottom as well as I do. You wouldn't be in

business with him if you did, for you are a straight man--a body can

tell that by your eye and voice--and I've never heard of any shady,

wildcat scheme that you ever dabbled in."

"We are getting away from the other matter," Saunders reminded him,

softly. "You came to see Mostyn."

"I came to give him a piece of my mind, young man--that's what I'm here

for. He dodges me. Say, do you know how he got his start--the money he

put in this bank? Well, _I_ can tell you, and I'll bet he never did. He

started the Holly Creek Cotton Mills. It was his idea. I thought he was

honest and straight. He was going round trying to interest capital. I

never had a head for business. The war left me flat on my back with all

the family niggers free, but a chunk of money came to my

children--fifty thousand dollars. It stood in their name, but I got

their legal consent to handle it. Mostyn knew I had it and was

constantly ding-donging at me about his mill idea. Well, I went in--I

risked the whole amount. He was made president although he didn't hold

ten thousand dollars' worth of stock. Then I reckon you know what

happened. He run the thing plumb in the ground, claimed to be losing

money--said labor was too high; claimed that the wrong sort of

machinery had been put in. It went from bad to worse for twelve months,

then it shut down. The operatives moved away, and it was sold under the

hammer. Who bought it in--my God, who do you reckon bid it in for

twenty-five cents on the dollar? Why, the same smooth young duck that

is taking a nap in his fine private quarters back there now. Then what

did he do? Why, all at once he found that the machinery _was_ all right

and labor _could_ be had. Out of his own pocket with money he had made

in some underhand deal or other he added on a wing, filled it with

spindles and looms, built more cottages, and three years later the

stock had hopped up to two for one, and little to be had at that. He

next started this bank, and here I sit in it"--the old man swept the

interior with a slow glance--"without a dollar to my name and my

daughters hiring out for barely enough to keep rags on their bodies.

Say, what do you think--"

"I am afraid the courts are the only place to settle a matter upon

which two parties disagree," Saunders said, diplomatically, though a

frown of sympathy lay on his handsome dark face.

"The courts be damned!" the old man growled, pounding the floor with

his stick. "I _did_ take it to law. I spent the twelve thousand and odd

dollars that I rescued from the ruin in suing him, only to discover

that the law itself favors the shyster who has money and is sharp

enough to circumvent it."

"I am sorry, but there is absolutely nothing I can do to help you, Mr.

Henderson," Saunders said, lamely. "Of course, I mean in regard to this

particular matter. If you are in want, however, and any reasonable

amount would be of service to you--why, on my own account I am

willing--"

"I don't mean that," the old man broke in, tremulously. "You are very

kind. I know you would help me, you show it in your face; but I don't

want that sort of thing. It is--is my rights I'm after. I--I can't face

my children after the way I acted. I simply trusted Mostyn with my

all--my life's blood--don't you see? I remember when I was hesitating,

and a neighbor had hinted that Mostyn was too high a flyer--going with

fast women and the like--to be quite safe--I remember, I say, that the

commandment 'Judge not that ye be not judged' came in my head, and I

refused to listen to a word against him. But you see how it ended."

"I wish I could help you," Saunders said again, "but I don't see what I

can do."

"I don't either." The old man sighed heavily as he got up. "Everybody

tells me I am a fool to cry over spilt milk when even the law won't

back me; but I'm getting close to the end, and somehow I can't put my

mind on anything else." He laid his disengaged hand on Saunders's

shoulder almost with the touch of a parent. "I'll say one thing more,

and then I'm gone. You've done me good this morning--that is, _some_. I

don't feel quite so--so hurt inside. It's because you offered to--to

trust me. I won't forget that soon, Saunders, and I'm not going to come

in here any more. If I have to see him I will meet him somewhere else.

Good-by."

Saunders watched the bent form shamble between the counters and desks

and disappear.

"Poor old chap!" he said. "The shame of his lack of judgment is killing

him."

Just then the door of Mostyn's office opened, and Mostyn himself came

out. He paused over an electric adding-machine which was being

manipulated by a clerk, gave it an idle glance, and then came on to his

partner.

"Albert says old Henderson was here talking to you," he said, coldly.

"I suppose it's the old complaint?"

"Yes," Saunders nodded, as he looked up. "I did what I could to pacify

him; he is getting into a bad mental shape."

"He seems to be growing worse and worse." Mostyn went on, irritably. "I

heard he had actually threatened my life. I don't want to take steps to

restrain him, but I'll have to if he keeps it up. I can't afford to

have him slandering me on every street-corner as he is doing. Every

business man knows I was not to blame in that deal. The courts settled

that for good and all."

Saunders made no comment. He fumbled a glass paper-weight with one hand

and tugged at his brown mustache with the fingers of the other. Mostyn

stared into his calm eyes impatiently.

"What do you think I ought to do?" he finally asked.

"I am in no position to say," Saunders answered, awkwardly. "It is a

matter for you to decide. His condition is really pitiful. His family

seem to be in actual need. Girls brought up as his daughters were

brought up don't seem to know exactly how to make a living."

"Well, I can't pay money back to him," Mostyn said, angrily. "I'd make

an ass of myself, and admit my indebtedness to many others who happened

to lose in that mill. His suit against me cost me several thousand

dollars, and he has injured me in all sorts of ways with his slanderous

tongue. He'll have to let up. I won't stand it any longer."

Therewith Mostyn turned and went back to his office. Closing the door

behind him, he started to throw himself on the lounge, but instead sat

down at his desk, took up a pen and drew some paper to him. "I'll write

Tom Drake and ask him if he has room for me," he said. "Up there in the

mountains I'll throw the whole thing off and take a good rest."

CHAPTER II

J. Cuyler Mitchell got out of his landau in the _porte cochere_ of his

stately residence on Peachtree Street, and, aided by his gold-headed

ebony cane, ascended the steps of the wide veranda, where he stood

fanning his face with his Panama hat. Larkin, the negro driver, glanced

over his shoulder after him.

"Anything mo', Marse John?" he inquired.

"No, I'm through with the horses for to-day," the old man returned.

"Put them up, and rub them down well."

As the landau moved along the curving drive to the stables in the rear

Mitchell sauntered around to the shaded part of the veranda and went in

at the front door. He was tall, seventy-five years of age, slender and

erect, had iron-gray hair and a mustache and pointed goatee of the same

shade. He was hanging his hat on the carved mahogany rack in the hall

when Jincy, a young colored maid, came from the main drawing-room on

the right. She had a feather duster in her hand and wore a turban-like

head-cloth, a neat black dress, and a clean white apron.

"Where is Irene?" he inquired.

The maid was about to answer when a response came from above.

"Here I am, father," cried Miss Mitchell. "Can't you come up here? I've

been washing my hair; I've left it loose to dry. There is more breeze

up here."

"If you want to see me you'll trot down here," the old gentleman said,

crustily. "I put myself out to make that trip down-town for you, and

I'll be hanged if I climb those steps again till bed-time."

"Well, I'll be down in a minute," his daughter replied. "I know you

have no _very_ bad news, or you would have been more excited. You see,

I know you."

Mitchell grunted, dropped his stick into an umbrella-holder, and turned

into the library, where he again encountered the maid, now vigorously

dusting a bookcase.

"Leave it, leave it!" he grumbled. "I don't want to be breathing that

stuff into my lungs on a day like this. There is enough dust in the

streets without having actually to eat it at home."

With a sly look and a low impulsive titter of amusement the yellow girl

restored a vase to its place and turned into the study adjoining.

"Get out of there, too!" Mitchell ordered. "I want to read my paper,

and you make me nervous with your swishing and knocking about."

"I can slide the doors to," Jincy suggested, as she stood hesitatingly

in the wide opening.

"And cut off all the air!" was the tart response. "From now on I want

you to pick times for this sort of work when I'm out of the house. My

life is one eternal jumping about to accommodate you. I want comfort,

and I'm going to have it."

Shrugging her shoulders, the maid left the room. Mitchell had seated

himself near an open window and taken up his paper when his daughter

came down the steps and entered. She was above medium height, had

abundant chestnut hair, blue eyes, a good figure, and regular features,

the best of which was a sweet, thin-lipped, sensitive mouth. She had on

a blue kimono and dainty slippers, and moved with luxurious ease and

grace.

"You ought to have more patience with the servants, father," she said,

testily. "Jincy is slow enough, heaven knows, without you giving her

excuses for being behind with her work. Now she will go to the kitchen

and hinder the cook. If you only knew how much trouble servants are to

manage you'd be more tactful. Half a dozen women in this town want that

girl, and she knows it. Mrs. Anderson wants to take her to New York to

nurse her baby, and she would propose it if she wasn't afraid I'd be

angry."

Mitchell shook out his paper impatiently and scanned the head-lines

over his nose-glasses. "You don't seem very much interested in my trip

downtown, I must say."

"Well, perhaps I would be," she smiled, "but, you see, I know from your

actions that he isn't much sick. If he had been you'd have mounted

those steps three at a time. Do you know everybody is laughing over

your interest in Dick Mostyn? Why, you are getting childish about him.

I'm not so sure that he is really so wonderful as you make him out.

Many persons think Alan Delbridge is a better business man, and as for

his being a saint--oh my!"

"I don't care what they think," Mitchell retorted. "They don't know him

as well as I do. He wouldn't be under the weather to-day if he hadn't

overworked, but he is all right now. The doctor says he only needs

rest, and Dick is going to the mountains for a month. As for that, I

can't for the life of me see why--"

"Why, Atlantic City with us wouldn't do every bit as well," Irene

laughed out impulsively. "Oh, you _are_ funny!"

"Well, I don't see why," the old man said. "If you two really _do_ care

for each other I can't see why you really would want to be apart the

best month in the year."

Irene gave her damp, fragrant hair a shake on one side and laughed as

she glanced at him mischievously. "You must really not meddle with us,"

she said. "Three people can't run an affair like that."

Mitchell folded his paper, eyed her suspiciously for a moment, and then

asked: "Is Andrew Buckton going to Atlantic City? If he is, you may as

well tell me. I simply am not going to put up with that fellow's

impudence. People think you care for him--do you hear me?--some people

say you like him as well as he does you, and if he wasn't as poor as

Job's turkey that you'd marry him."

Miss Mitchell avoided her father's eyes. She shook out her hair again,

and ran her white, ringed fingers through its brown depths. "Haven't I

promised you not to think of Andy in--in any serious way?" she

faltered. "His mother and sister are nice, and I don't want to offend

them. You needn't keep bringing his name up." Her fine lips were

twitching. "I'd not be a natural woman if I didn't appreciate his--his

honest admiration."

"Honest nothing!" Mitchell blurted out. "He thinks you are going to

have money, and he believes you'll be silly enough to be influenced by

his puppy love to make a fool of yourself. Besides, he's in the way. He

took you to a dance not long ago when Mostyn wanted to go with you.

Dick told me at the bank that he was going to invite you, and then that

young blockhead called for you."

Miss Mitchell had the air of one subduing interest. She forced a faint

smile into the general gravity of her face. "Andy had asked me a month

before," she said, "or, rather, his mother asked me for him the day the

cards were sent out."

"I knew _she_ had a hand in it," Mitchell retorted, in a tone of

conviction. "That old woman is the most cold-blooded matchmaker in the

State, and she's playing with you like a cat with a mouse. They want my

money, I tell you--that's what they are after. I know how the old thing

talks to you--she's always telling you her darling boy is dying of

grief, and all that foolishness."

Irene avoided her father's eyes. She wound a thick wisp of her hair

around her head and began to fasten it with a hairpin. He heard her

sigh. Then she looked straight at him.

"You are bothering entirely too much," she half faltered, in a tone

that was all but wistful. "Now, I'll make _you_ a promise if--if you'll

make _me_ one. You are afraid Dick Mostyn and I will never come to--to

an understanding, but it is all right. I know I must be sensible, and I

intend to be. I'm more practical than I look. Now, here is what I am

going to propose. Andy Buckton _may_ be at Atlantic City with his

mother, and I want you to treat them decently. If you will be nice to

them I will assure you that when Dick gets back from the mountains he

will propose and I will accept him."

"You talk as if you knew positively that he--"

"I understand him," the young lady said. "I know him even better than

you do, with all your business dealings together. Now, that will have

to satisfy you, and you've got to let me see Andy up there. You simply

must."

"Well, I don't care," the old man said, with a breath of relief. "This

is the first time you ever have talked any sort of sense on the

subject."

"I know nothing else will suit you," Irene said, with a look of

abstraction in her eyes, "and I have made up my mind to let you have

your way."

There was a tremulous movement to her breast, a quaver in her voice, of

which she seemed slightly ashamed, for she turned suddenly and left the

room.

CHAPTER III

At the gate in front of his farmhouse in the mountains Tom Drake

received a letter from the rural mail-carrier, who was passing in a

one-horse buggy.

"That's all this morning, Tom," the carrier said, cheerfully. "You've

got good corn and cotton in the bottom below here."

"Purty good, I reckon, if the drouth don't kill 'em," the farmer

answered. The carrier drove on, and Tom slowly opened his letter and

turned toward the house. He was a typical Georgia mountaineer, strong,

tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged. He wore no beard, had mild brown

eyes, heavy chestnut hair upon which rested a shapeless wool hat full

of holes. His arms and legs were long, his gait slouching and

deliberate. He was in his shirt-sleeves; his patched jean trousers were

too large at the waist, and were supported by a single home-knitted

suspender. He was chewing tobacco, and as he went along he moved his

stained lips in the audible pronunciation of the words he was reading.

His wife, Lucy, a slender woman, in a drab print dress with no sort of

adornment to it or to her scant, tightly knotted hair, stood on the

porch impatiently waiting for him. Behind her, leaning in the doorway,

was her brother, John Webb, a red-haired, red-faced bachelor, fifty

years of age, who also had his eyes on the approaching reader.

"Another dun, I reckon," Mrs. Drake said, tentatively, when her husband

had paused at the bottom step and glanced up from the sheet in his hand.

"Not this time." Tom slowly spat on the ground, and looked first at his

wife and then at his brother-in-law with a broadening smile. "You two

are as good at guessin' as the general run, but if I gave you a hundred

trials--yes, three hundred--and all day to do it in, you wouldn't then

come in a mile o' what's in this letter."

"I don't intend to try," Mrs. Drake said, eagerly, "anyways not with

all that ironin' to do that's piled up like a haystack on the

dinin'-room table, to say nothin' of the beds and bed-clothes to be

sunned. You can keep your big secret as far as I'm concerned."

"It's another Confederate Veteran excursion to some town whar whisky is

sold," said the bachelor, with a dry cackle. "That's my guess. You

fellows that was licked don't git no pensions from Uncle Sam, but you

manage to have enough fun once a year to make up for it."

Tom Drake swept the near-by mountain slope with his slow glance of

amusement, folded the sheet tantalizingly, and spat again.

"I don't know, Luce," he said to his wife, as he wiped his lips on his

shirt-sleeve, "that it is a good time to tell you on top o' your

complaint of over-work, but Dick Mostyn, your Atlanta boarder, writes

that he's a little bit run down an' wants to come an' stay a solid

month. Money seems to be no object to him, an' he says if he kin just

git the room he had before an' a chance at your home cooking three

times a day he will be in clover."

"Well, well, well!" Lucy cried, in a tone of delight, "so he wants to

come ag'in, an' all this time I've been thinkin' he'd never think of us

any more. There wasn't a thing for him to do that summer but lie around

in the shade, except now an' then when he was off fishin' or huntin'."

"Well, I hope you will let 'im come," John Webb drawled out, in his

slow fashion. "I can set an' study a town dude like him by the hour an'

never git tired. I never kin somehow git at what sech fellers _think_

about or _do_ when they are at home. He makes money, but _how_? His

hands are as soft an' white as a woman's. His socks are as thin an'

flimsy as spider-webs. He had six pairs o' pants, if he had one, an' a

pair o' galluses to each pair. I axed him one day when they was all

spread out on his bed what on earth he had so many galluses for, an'

Mostyn said--I give you my word I'm not jokin'--he said"--Webb laughed

out impulsively--"he said it was to keep from botherin' to button 'em

on ever' time he changed! He said"--the bachelor continued to

laugh--"that he could just throw the galluses over his shoulders when

he was in a hurry an' be done with the job. Do you know, folks, if I

was as lazy as that I'd be afraid the Lord would cut me off in my

prime. Why, a feller on a farm has to do more than that ever' time he

pulls a blade o' fodder or plants a seed o' corn."

"Well, of course, I want 'im to come." Mrs. Drake had not heard a word

of her brother's rambling comment, and there was a decidedly expectant

intonation in her voice. "Nobody's usin' the company-room, an' the

presidin' elder won't be here till fall. Mr. Mostyn never was a bit of

trouble and seemed to love everything I set before him. But I reckon we

needn't feel so flattered. He's coming here so he'll be near Mr.

Saunders when he runs up to his place on Sundays."

John Webb, for such a slow individual, had suddenly taken on a new

impetus. He left his sister and her husband and passed through the

passage bisecting the lower part of the plain two-story house and went

out at the rear door. In the back yard he found his nephew, George

Drake, a boy of fifteen years, seated on the grass repairing a ragged,

mud-stained fish-net.

"Who told you you could be out o' school, young feller?" John demanded,

dryly. "I'll bet my life you are playin' hookey. You think because your

sister's the teacher you can run wild like a mountain shote. My Lord,

look at your clothes! I'll swear it would be hard to tell whether

you've got on anything or not--that is, anything except mud an' slime.

Have you been tryin' to pull that seine through the creek by yourself?"

The boy, who had a fine head and profile and was stoutly built and

generally good-looking, was too busy with his strings and knots to look

up. "Some fool left it in the creek, and it's laid there for the last

month," he mumbled. "I had to go in after it, and it was all tangled up

and clogged with mud. Dolly knew I wasn't going to school to-day."

"She knew it when you didn't turn up at roll-call, I bound you," Webb

drawled. "Say, do you know a young gal like her ain't strong enough to

lick scholars as sound as they ought to be licked, and thar is _some_

talk about appointin' some able-bodied man that lives close about to

step in an' sort o' clean up two or three times a week. I don't know

but what I'd like the job. A feller that goes as nigh naked as you do

would be a blame good thing to practise on."

"Huh!" the boy sniffed, as he tossed back his shaggy brown hair. "You

talk mighty big. I'd like to see you try to whip me--I shore would."

"Well, I may give you the chance if Dolly calls on me to help 'er out,"

Webb laughed. "Say, I started to tell you a secret, but I won't."

"I already know what it is," George said, with a mischievous grin.

"You say you do?" Webb was caught in the wily fellow's snare.

"Yes, you are going to get married." The boy now burst into a roar of

laughter and threw himself back on the grass. "You and Sue Tidwell are

going to get spliced. The whole valley's talking about it, and hoping

that it will be public like an election barbecue. You with your red

head and freckled face and her with her stub nose and--"

"That will do--that will do!" Webb's frown seemed to deepen the flush

which, fold upon fold, came into his face. "Jokin' is all right, but it

ain't fair to bring in a lady's name."

"Oh no, of course not." The boy continued to laugh through the net

which he had drawn over him. "The shoe is on the other foot now."

"Well, I'm not goin' to tell you the news," Webb declared, with a touch

of propitiation in his voice; and, not a little discomfited, he turned

away, employing a quicker step than usually characterized his movement.

"The young scamp!" he said. "He's gittin' entirely too

forward--entirely, for a boy as young as he is, and me his uncle."

Crossing a strip of meadow land, then picking his way between the rows

of a patch of corn, and skirting a cotton-field, he came out into a

red-clay road. Along this he walked till he reached a little

meeting-house snugly ensconced among big trees at the foot of the

mountain. The white frame building, oblong in shape, had four windows

with green outer blinds on each of its two sides, and a door at the end

nearer the road. As Webb traversed the open space, where, on Sundays,

horses were hitched to the trees and saplings, a drone as of countless

bees fell on his ears. To a native this needed no explanation. During

five of the week-days the building was used as a schoolhouse. The sound

was made by the students studying aloud, and John's niece, Dolly Drake,

had sole charge of them.

Reaching the door and holding his hat in his hand, Webb cautiously

peered within, beholding row after row of boys and girls whose backs

were turned to him. At a blackboard on the platform, a bit of chalk in

her fingers, Dolly, a girl eighteen years of age, stood explaining an

example in arithmetic to several burly boys taller than herself. Webb

glanced up at the sun.

"They haven't had recess yet," he reckoned. "I swear I'm sorry for them

boys. I'd rather take a dozen lickin's than to stay in on a day like

this an' try to git lessons in my head. I don't blame George a bit, so

I don't. I can't recall a thing in the Saviour's teachin's about havin'

to study figures an' geography, nohow. Looks to me like the older the

world gits the further it gits from common sense."

Patiently Webb held his ground till Dolly had dismissed the class;

then, turning to a table on which stood a cumbersome brass bell, she

said: "I'm going to let you have recess, but you've got to go out

quietly."

She had not ceased speaking, and had scarcely touched the handle of the

bell, when there was a deafening clatter of books and slates on the

crude benches. Feet shod and feet bare pounded the floor. Merry yells

rent the air. On the platform itself two of the arithmetic delinquents

were boxing playfully, fiercely punching, thrusting, and dodging. At a

window three boys were bodily ejecting a fourth, the legs and feet of

whom, like a human letter V, were seen disappearing over the sill.

Smilingly Webb stood aside and let the clamoring drove hurtle past to

the playground outside, and when the way was clear he entered the

church and stalked up the single aisle toward his niece. Dolly had

turned back to the blackboard, and was sponging off the chalk figures.

She was quite pretty; her eyes were large, with fathomless hazel

depths. Her brow, under a mass of uncontrollable reddish-brown hair,

was high and indicative of decided intellectual power. She was of

medium height, very shapely, and daintily graceful. She had a good nose

and a sweet, sympathetic mouth. Her hands were slender and tapering,

though suggestive of strength. She wore a simple white shirtwaist and a

black skirt than which nothing could have been more becoming. Hearing

her uncle's step, she turned and greeted his smile with a dubious one

of her own.

"Why don't you go out and play with the balance an' limber yourself

up?" he asked.

"Play? I say _play!_" she sighed. "You men don't know any more about

what a woman teacher has to contend with than a day-old kitten. My head

is in a constant whirl. Sometimes I forget my own name."

"What's wrong now?" Webb smiled eagerly.

"Oh, it's everything--everything!" she sighed. "Not a thing has

happened right to-day. George flatly refused to come to school--even

defied me before some other boys down the road. Then my own sister--"

"What's wrong with Ann? I remember now that I didn't see her in that

drove just now, and she certainly ain't at home, because I'm just from

thar."

"No, she isn't at home," Dolly frowned, and, for an obvious reason,

raised her voice to a high pitch, "but I'll tell you where she is, and

as her own blood uncle you can share my humiliation." Therewith Dolly

grimly pointed at a closet door close by. "Open it," she said. "The

truth is, I told her she would have to stay there twenty minutes, and

I've been bothered all through the last recitation for fear she

wouldn't get enough air. All at once she got still, though she kept up

a terrible racket at first."

With a grin Webb mounted the platform and opened the door of the

closet. He opened it quite widely, that Dolly might look into the

receptacle from where she stood. And there against the wall, seated on

the floor, was Dolly's sister Ann, a slim-legged, rather pretty girl

about fourteen years of age, her eyes sullenly cast down. Around her

were some dismantled, ill-smelling lamps, a step-ladder, an old stove,

and a bench holding a stack of hymn-books.

"She ain't _quite_ dead," John said, dryly. "She's still breathin'

below the neck, an' she's got some red in the face."

"She ought to be red from head to foot," Dolly said, for the culprit's

ears. "Ann, come here!"

There was no movement on the part of the prisoner save a desultory

picking of the fingers at a fold of her gingham skirt.

"Didn't you hear what Dolly--what your teacher said?" Webb asked, in an

effort at severity which was far from his mood.

"Of course she heard," Dolly said, sharply. "She thinks it will mend

matters for her to pout awhile. Come here, Ann."

"I want to stay here," Ann muttered; "I like it. Shut the door, Uncle

John. It is cool and nice in here."

"She wants to stay." Webb's eyes danced as he conveyed the message.

"She says she likes it, an' I reckon she does. Scripture says them

whose deeds is evil likes darkness better'n light. You certainly made a

mistake when you clapped 'er in here--that is, if you meant to punish

'er. Ann's a reg'lar bat, if not a' owl."

"Pull her out!" Dolly cried. "I've got to talk to her, and recess is

almost over."

"Come out, young lady," Webb laid hold of the girl's wrist and drew the

reluctant creature to her feet, half pushing, half leading her to her

sister.

"I'm glad you happened in, Uncle John," Dolly said. "I want you to take

a look at that face. How she got the money I don't know, but she bought

a dozen sticks of licorice at the store as she passed this morning and

brought them to school in her pocket. She's been gorging herself with

it all day. You can see it all over her face, under her chin, behind

her neck, and even in her ears. Look here at her new geography." Dolly,

in high disgust, exhibited several brown smudges on an otherwise clean

page.

Webb took the book with all the gravity of a most righteous, if highly

amused judge. "Looks like ham gravy, don't it?" he said. "An' as I

understand it, the book has to be handed on to somebody else when she

gits through with it. What a pity!"

"I know you are ashamed of her, Uncle John, for I am," Dolly continued.

"You see, she's my own sister."

"And my own sister's child," Webb deplored. "Of course, she ain't

_quite_ as close to me as she is to you, but she's nigh enough to make

me feel plumb ashamed. I've always tuck pride in both you gals; but

lawsy me, if Ann is goin' to gaum 'erself from head to foot like a pig

learnin' to root, why, I reckon I'll jest hang my head in shame."

"I've lost all patience," the teacher said. "Go home, Ann, and let

mother look at you. Don't come back to-day. I don't want to see you

again. I've lost heart completely. I want to be proud of you and

George, but I'm afraid I never can be. She can't write, Uncle John; she

can't spell the simplest words in three syllables; and as for using

correct grammar and pronunciation--" But Ann was stalking off without

looking back.

Dolly sat down at the table and drew a sheet of paper toward her.

"She's got me all upset," she sighed. "Mr. DeWitt, the new teacher, has

been sending about a test example in arithmetic to see who can work it.

He says he can do it, and one or two other _men_, but that he never has

seen a woman teacher yet who could get the answer. I was within an inch

of the solution when I caught sight of that girl's face, and it went

from me in a flash. Uncle John, if fifteen men own in common three

hundred and eighty-four bushels of wheat, and three men want to buy

sixty-seven and three-fourths of--"

"Oh, Lord--thar you go!" Webb groaned. "Let me tell you some'n', Dolly.

The fool feller that concocted that thing to idle time away with never

hoed a row of corn or planted a potato. Do you know what that's meant

for? It is for no other reason under the shinin' sun than to make the

average parent think teachers know more'n the rest o' humanity. In the

first place, the fifteen common men must be common shore enough if they

couldn't own all told more than that amount o' wheat in this day and

time when even a one-horse farmer can raise--"

"You don't understand," Dolly broke in, with an indulgent smile.

"And I don't want to, either," John declared. "It is hard enough work

to sow and reap and thresh wheat in hot weather like this without

sweatin' over fifteen able-bodied men that are jowerin' about a pile no

bigger'n that."

Dolly glanced at the round rosewood clock on the plastered wall and

reached for the bell-handle. "My time's up," she said. "I wish I could

stop my ears with cotton. They always come in like a drove of iron-shod

mules on a wooden bridge."

"Your pa's got a piece o' news this mornin'." Webb knew his words would

stay the hand now resting on the bell.

"What is it?" Dolly inquired.

"He got a letter from Mr. Mostyn; he's comin' up to board at the house

for a month."

The pretty hand dropped from the bell-handle. Dolly was staring at the

speaker in surprise. She said nothing, though he was sure a flush was

creeping into her cheeks.

"I sorter thought that 'ud stagger you," Webb said with a significant

grin.

"Me? I don't see why." Dolly was fighting for perfect composure under

trying circumstances, considering her uncle's mischievous stare.

"Well, I do, if you don't, Miss Dolly," he tittered. "You wasn't a bit

older 'n Ann is when he was here last, but you was daffy about 'im the

same as your ma an' all the rest o' the women. In fact, you was wuss

than the balance."

"Me? I'm ashamed of you, Uncle John; I'm ashamed to hear you accuse me

of--of--why, I never heard of such a thing."

"No matter, I wasn't plumb blind," Webb went on. "You kept puttin'

fresh flowers in his room an' you eyed his plate like he was a pet cat

to see if he was bein' fed right. La me, I'm no fool! I know a _little_

about females, an' I never saw a mountain woman yet that wouldn't go

stark crazy over a town man or a' unmarried preacher. I reckon it must

be the clothes the fellers wear or the prissy stuff they chat about."

Dolly put her hand out toward the bell, but dropped it to the table.

"When is he coming?" she asked, her eyes holding a tense, eager stare.

"Thursday," was the answer, accompanied by a widening grin. "I wouldn't

give the children a holiday on the strength of it if I was you. Part o'

these mountain folks is men an' moonshiners, an' they don't think any

more about a feller that owns a bank in Atlanta 'an they do of a

mossback clod-hopper with the right sort o' heart in 'im. Say, Mostyn

ain't nothin' but human, an' if what _some_ say is so he ain't the

highest grade o' that. Over at Hilton's warehouse in Ridgeville t'other

day I heard some cotton-buyers talkin' about men that had riz fast an'

the underhanded tricks sech chaps use to hoodwink simple folks, an'

they said Dick Mostyn capped the stack. Accordin' to them, he--"

"I don't believe a word of it!" Dolly stood up and angrily grasped the

bell-handle. "It's not true. It's a meddlesome lie. They are jealous.

People are always like that--it makes them furious to see another

person prosper. They are mean, low back-biters."

"Oh, I don't say that Mostyn will actually be arrested before he gits

up here," John said, dryly. "From all reports he generally has the law

on his side, an'--"

But Dolly, still angry, was ringing the bell. She had turned her back

to Webb; and, unable to make himself heard, he made his way down the

aisle to the door.

"She's a regular spitfire when she gits 'er back up," he mused. "Now I

_know_ she likes 'im. It's been three years since she laid eyes on 'im,

but she's as daffy now as she was then. It must 'a' been the feller's

gallant way. I remember he used to say she was the purtiest an'

brightest little trick he ever seed. Maybe he said somethin' o' the

sort to her, young as she was. I remember I used to think Sis was a

fool to let 'im walk about with Dolly so much, pickin' flowers an' the

like. Well, if he thought she was purty an' smart then he'll be

astonished now--he shore will."

CHAPTER IV

As Mostyn's train ascended the grade leading up to the hamlet of

Ridgeville, within a mile of which lay the little farm to which he was

going, he sat at an open window and viewed the scene with delight,

drawing into his lungs with a sense of restful content the crisp,

rarefied air. To the west, and marking the vicinity of Drake's farm,

the mountain loomed up in its blended coat of gray and green, growing

more and more indistinct as the range gradually extended into the

bluish haze of distance.

"I'm going to like it," he said, almost aloud, with the habit he had of

talking to himself when alone. "I feel as if I shall never want to look

inside a bank again. This is life, real, sensible life. I have, after

all, always had a yearning for genuine simplicity. It must have come to

me from my pioneer, Puritan ancestry. That man over there plowing corn

with his mule and ragged harness is happier than I ever was down there

in that God-forsaken turmoil. The habit of wanting to beat other men in

the expert turning over of capital is as dangerous, once it clutches

you, as morphine. I must call a halt. That last narrow escape shall be

a lesson. I am getting normal again, and I must stay so. What are Alan

Delbridge's operations to me? He has no nerves nor imagination. He

could have slept through that last tangle of mine which came within an

inch of laying me out stiff and stark. I wonder how all the Drakes are,

especially Dolly. She must be fully grown now. Saunders says she is

beautiful and as wise as Socrates. I suppose there are a dozen mountain

boys after her by this time. For a little girl she was astonishingly

mature in manner and thought. I ought not to have talked to her as I

did. I have never forgotten her face and voice as I saw and heard them

that last night. I see the wonderful eyes and mouth, the like of which

I have never run across since. I am ashamed to think that I acted as I

did, and she only an inexperienced child; but I really couldn't help

it. I seemed to be in a dream. It was really an unpardonable thing--and

proves that I _do_ lack character--for me to tell her that I would

often think of her. But the worst of all, really the most cowardly,

considering her unsuspecting innocence and exaggerated faith in me, was

my kissing her as I did there in the moonlight. How exquisite was her

vow that she'd never kiss any other man as long as she lived! Lord, I

wonder what ails me. Surely I am not silly enough to be actually--"

Mostyn's meditations were interrupted by a shrill shriek from the

locomotive. Leaning out of the window, he saw the little old-fashioned

brick car-shed ahead and heard the grinding of the brakes on the smooth

wheels beneath the car. Grasping his bag in his hand, he made his way

out and descended to the ground.

He saw the long white three-story hotel close by with its green blinds,

extensive veranda, and blue-railed balustrade, the row of stores and

law-offices, forming three sides of a square of which the car-shed,

depot, and railway made the fourth. In the open space stood some

canvas-covered mountain-wagons containing produce for shipment to the

larger markets, and the usual male loungers in straw hats, baggy

trousers, easy shoes, and shirts without coats.

A burly negro porter hastened down the steps of the hotel and

approached swinging his slouch hat in his hand, his eyes on the

traveler's bag.

"All right, boss--Purcell House, fus'-class hotel, whar all de drummers

put up. Good sample-rooms an' fine country cookin'."

Mostyn held on to his bag, which the swarthy hands were grasping. "No,

I'm not going to stop," he explained. "I'm going out to Drake's farm."

"Oh, _is_ you? Well, suh, Mr. John Webb is in de freight depot. I done

hear 'im say he fetched de buggy ter tek somebody out."

At this juncture the florid and flushed face of Webb was seen as he

emerged from the doorway of the depot. He was bent under a weighty bag

of flour, and smiled and waved his hat by way of salutation as he

advanced to a buggy at a public hitching-rack and deposited his burden

in the receptacle behind the single seat. This done, he came forward,

brushing the sleeve of his alpaca coat and grinning jovially.

"How are you?" He extended a fat, perspiring hand luckily powdered with

flour. "I reckon you won't mind riding out with me. Tom said he'd bet

you'd rather walk to limber up your legs, but Lucy made me fetch the

buggy along, as some said you wasn't as well as common. But you look

all right to me-that is, as well as _any_ of you city fellers ever do.

The last one of you look as white as convicts out o' jail. I reckon

thar is so much smoke over your town that the sun don't strike it good

and straight."

"Oh, I'm all right," Mostyn said, good-naturedly, "just a little run

down from overwork, that's all."

"Run down?" Webb seemed quite concerned with getting at the exact

meaning of the statement, and as he took Mostyn's bag and put it in

with the flour he eyed the banker attentively. _"Run down?"_ he

repeated, with his characteristic emphasis. "I don't see how a man as

big an' hearty as you look an' weighin' as much could git sick or even

_tired_ without havin' any more work to do than you have. I've always

meant to ask you or Mr. Saunders what you fellers do, _anyway._ I

reckon banks are the same in big towns as in little ones. They haven't

got a regular bank here in Ridgeville, but I've been to the one in

Darley. I went in with Tom when he wanted to draw the cash on a cotton

check. Talk about hard work--I'll swear I couldn't see it. Me 'n' Tom

had been up fully three hours knockin' about the streets tryin' to kill

the best part o' the day before that shebang opened up for business,

an' _then_ somebody said they shet up at three o'clock an' went home to

take a nap or whiz about in their automobiles. The whole thing's

bothered me a sight, for I _do_ like to understand things. How _could_

a checker-playin' business like that tire anybody?"

"It's head-work," Mostyn obligingly explained, as he followed John into

the buggy and sat beside him. _"Head-work,"_ Webb echoed, the cloud

still on his brow. He clucked to his horse and gently shook the reins.

"To save me I don't see how head-work--if there is such a thing--could

tire out a man's legs and arms and body."

"There is a good deal of worry attached to it," Mostyn felt impelled to

say. "Nowadays they are saying that worry will kill a man quicker than

any sort of physical ailment. You see, good sound sleep is necessary,

and when a man is greatly bothered he simply can't sleep."

"Oh, I see, I see," Webb's blue eyes flashed. "Thar may be something in

that, but it does seem like a man would have more gumption 'an to worry

hisse'f to death about something that won't be of use to 'im after he

dies. That's common sense, ain't it?"

Mostyn was compelled to admit the truth of the remark. They had driven

out of the village square and were now in the open country.

"Thar is one more thing about town folks an' country folks that I've

always wanted to know," John began again after a silence of several

minutes, "and that is why town folks contend that country folks is

green. As I look at it it is an even swap. Now, you are a town man, an'

I'm a country feller. I could take you to the edge o' that cotton-field

whar it joins on to the woods on that slope thar, an' point out a spot

whar you couldn't make cotton grow more'n six inches high though it

will reach four feet everywhar else in the field. Now, I'd be an

impolite fool to lie down thar betwixt the rows an' split my sides

laughin' at you for not knowin' what I jest got on to by years an'

years o' farm life. The truth is that cotton won't take any sort o'

root within twenty feet of a white-oak tree."

"I didn't know that," Mostyn said.

"I knowed you didn't, an' that's why I fetched it up," Webb went on,

blandly, "an' me nor no other farmer would poke fun at you about it,

but it is different in town. Jest let a spindle-legged counter-jumper

at a store with his hair parted in the middle git a joke on a country

feller, an' the whole town will take a hand in it. Oh, I know, for

they've shore had _me_ on the run."

"I'm surprised at that," Mostyn answered, smiling. "You seem too shrewd

to be taken in by any one."

"Humph, I say!" Webb laughed reminiscently. "I supplied all the fun

Darley had one hot summer day when all hands was lyin' round the stores

and law-offices tryin' to git cool by fannin' and sprinklin' the

sidewalks. Did you ever hear tell of the Tom Collins gag?"

"I think not," the banker answered.

"Well, I have--you bet I have," John said, dryly, "an" it is one thing

that makes me afraid sometimes that a country feller railly hain't

actually overloaded with brains. Take my advice; if anybody ever tells

you that a feller by the name o' Tom Collins is lookin' for you an'

anxious to see you about something important, just skin your eye at

'im, tell 'im right out that you don't give a dang about Tom Collins.

La me, what a fool--what a fool I was! A feller workin' at the

cotton-compress told me that a man by the name o' Tom Collins wanted to

see me right off, an' that he was up at the wholesale grocery. Fool

that I was, I hitched my hosses an' struck out lickity-split for the

grocery. I axed one of the storekeepers standin' in front if Tom

Collins was anywhars about, and, as I remember now, he slid his hand

over his mouth an' sorter turned his face to one side and yelled back

in the store:

"'Say, boys, is Tom Collins back thar?' An' right then, Mr. Mostyn, if

I had had the sense of a three-year-old baby I'd have smelt a mouse,

for fully six clerks, drummers, and all the firm hurried to whar I was

at an' stood lookin' at me, their eyes dancin'. 'He _was_ here, but

he's just left,' a clerk said. 'He went to the hotel to git his grip.

He was awfully put out. He's been all over town lookin' for you.' Well,

as I made a break for the hotel, wonderin' if somebody had died an'

left me a hunk o' money, the gang at the grocery stood clean out on the

sidewalk watchin' me. When I inquired at the hotel, the clerk an' two

nigger waiters said Tom was askin' about me an' had just run over to

the court-house, whar I'd be shore to find him."

"I see the point," Mostyn laughed.

"I'm glad you do so quick, for I had to have it beat into me with a

sledge-hammer," Webb said, dryly. "I was so mad I could have chawed

nails, but I blamed myself more'n anybody else, for they was just

havin' their fun an' meant no harm."

"I suppose not," Mostyn said.

"Well, I can't complain; they have their sport with one another. Dolph

Wartrace, you know, that keeps the cross-roads store nigh us, clerked

in Darley before he went in on his own hook out here, an' I've heard

'im tell of a lot o' pranks that they had over thar. He said thar was

an old bachelor that, kept a dry-goods store who never had had much to

do with women. He was bashful-like, but thar was _one_ young woman that

he had his eye on, an' now an' then he'd spruce up an' go to see 'er or

take 'er out to meetin', but Jeff said he was too weak-kneed to pop the

question, an' the gal went off on a visit to Alabama and got married.

Now, the old bach' had a gang o' friends that was always in for fun,

an' with long, sad faces they went about askin' everybody they met if

they had heard that Bob Hadley--that was the feller's name--if they had

heard that he was dead. Bob knowed what they was sayin' an' tried to

put a pleasant face on it, but it must have been hard work, considerin'

all that happened.

"Well, one thing added to another till a gang of Bob's friends met the

next night in a grocery store after he had gone to bed and still with

sad, solemn faces declared that, considerin' his untimely end, it was

their bounden duty to bury 'im in a respectable way. So they went to

the furniture store close by an' borrowed a coffin an' picked out

pall-bearers. A feller that slept with Bob in the little room cut off

at the end o' his store was in the game, an' he had a key an' unlocked

the door, an' the solemn procession marched in singin' some sad hymn or

other with every man-jack of 'em wipin' his eyes an' snufflin'. Now,

that was all well an' good as far as it went, but thar was a traitor in

the camp. Somebody had let the dead man in on the job, an' when the

gang got to the door of the little room he jumped out o' bed with a

surprised sort o' grunt an' let into firin' blank-cartridges straight

at 'em. Folks say that thar was some o' the tallest runnin' an' jumpin'

an' hidin' under counters an' bustin' show-cases that ever tuck place

out of a circus. After that night Jeff said the whole town was meetin'

the gang an' tellin' 'em that thar must 'a' been some mistake about the

report of Bob Hadley's death anyway."

Mostyn laughed heartily. Indeed, he was conscious of a growing sense of

deep content and restfulness. The turmoil of business and city life

seemed almost dreamlike in its remoteness from his present more

rational existence. With the handle of his whip Webb pointed to the

roof of the farmhouse, the fuzzy gray shingles of which were barely

showing above the trees by which it was shaded.

"You haven't told me how the family are," Mostyn said, "I suppose the

children are much larger now. Dolly, at least, must be a young lady,

from what Saunders tells me of her school-work."

Webb's blue eyes swept the face of the banker with a steady scrutiny.

There was a faint twinkle in their mystic depths as he replied.

"Yes, she's full grown. She's kin folks o' mine, an' it ain't for me to

say, but I'd be unnatural if I wasn't proud of 'er. She's the head of

that shebang, me included. What she says goes with young or old. She

ain't more'n eighteen, if she's that, an' yet she furnishes brains for

us an' mighty nigh all the neighborhood. You wait till you see 'er an'

hear 'er talk, an' you will know what I mean."

CHAPTER V

The next morning the new boarder waked at sunrise, and stood at a

window of his room on the upper floor of the farmhouse and looked out

across the fields and meadows to the rugged, mist-draped mountain. The

beautiful valley was flooded with the soft golden light. An

indescribable luster seemed to breathe from every dew-laden stalk of

cotton or corn, plant, vine, blade of grass and patch of succulent

clover. Cobwebs, woven in the night and bejeweled with dewdrops,

festooned the boughs of the trees in the orchard and on the lawn. From

the barn-yard back of the farmhouse a chorus of sounds was rising. Pigs

were grunting and squealing, cows were mooing, a donkey was braying,

ducks were quacking, hens were clucking, roosters were crowing.

"Saunders is right," Mostyn declared, enthusiastically. "I don't blame

the fellow for spending so much time on his plantation. This is the

only genuine life. The other is insanity, crazy, competitive madness,

for which there is no cure this side of the grave. I must have two

natures. At this moment I feel as if I'd rather die than sweat and stew

over investments and speculations in a bank as I have been doing, and

yet I may be sure that the thing will clutch me again. One word of

Delbridge's lucky manipulations or old Mitchell's praise, and the fever

would burn to my bones. But I mustn't think of them if I am to benefit

by this. I must fill myself with this primitive simplicity and dream

once more the glorious fancies of boyhood."

Finishing dressing, he descended the stairs to the hall below and

passed through the open door to the veranda. No one was in sight, but

from the kitchen in the rear he heard the clatter of utensils and

dishes, and smelt the aroma of boiling coffee and frying ham. Already

his appetite was sharpened as if by the mountain air. He decided on

taking a walk, and, stepping down to the grass, he turned round the

house, coming face to face upon Dolly, whom he had not yet seen, as she

came from a side door.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, flushing prettily. "I did not think you would rise

so early--at least, not on your first morning."

He eyed her almost in bewilderment as he took the hand she was

cordially extending. Could this full-blown rose of young womanhood,

this startling beauty, be the slip of a timid girl he had so lightly

treated three years ago? What hair, what eyes, what palpitating,

sinuous grace! She was fast recovering calmness. There was a womanly

dignity about her which seemed incongruous in one so young.

"I am rather surprised at myself for waking so early," he answered. "I

slept like a log. It is the first real rest I have had since--since I

was here before. Why, Dolly"--he caught himself up--"I suppose I must

say Miss Drake now--"

"No, I am not that to any one in all this valley, and don't want to

be!" she cried, the corners of her mouth curving bewitchingly. "Even

the little children call me 'Dolly,' and I like it."

"I mustn't stop you if you are going somewhere," he said, still in the

grasp of her wondrous beauty.

"I'm going down to Tobe Barnett's cabin in the edge of our field." She

showed a small vial half filled with medicine in the pocket of her

white apron. "His baby, little Robby, was taken sick a few days ago. I

sat up there part of last night. They have no paragoric and I am taking

some over."

"So that's where you were; I wondered when I didn't see you at supper,"

Mostyn said, turning with her toward the gate. "I'll go with you if you

don't mind."

"Oh yes, come on," Dolly answered. "We'll have plenty of time before

the breakfast-bell rings. It is not far. I am awfully sorry for Tobe

and his wife; they are both young and inexperienced."

"And you are a regular grandmother in wisdom," Mostyn jested. "Only

eighteen, with the world on your shoulders."

"Well, I _do_ seem to know a few things, a few _ordinary_ things,"

Dolly said, seriously, "but they are not matters to boast about. For

instance, Tobe and Annie--that's his wife--were so scared and excited

when I got there last night that they were actually harming the poor

little baby, and I set about to calm them the very first thing. I can't

begin to tell you how they went on. Think of it, they had actually

given up and were crying--both of them--and there lay the little mite

fairly gasping for breath. I made Tobe go after some wood for the fire,

and put Annie at work helping me. Then I forced them to be still until

the baby got quiet and fell asleep."

"You'd make a capital nurse." Mostyn was regarding her admiringly. "It

would be a pleasure to be sick in your hands."

Dolly ignored his compliment. She was thinking of something alien to

his mood and deeper. "Do you know," she said, after she had passed

through the gate which he had held open, "the world is all out of

joint."

"Do you think so?" he asked, as he walked beside her, suiting his step

to hers.

"Yes, for if it were right," she sighed, her brows meeting

thoughtfully, "such well-meaning persons as the Barnetts would not have

to live as they do and bring helpless children into the world."

"Things do seem rather uneven," Mostyn admitted, lamely, "but you know

really that we ought to have a law that would keep such couples from

marrying."

"Poof!" She blew his argument away with a fine sniff of denial, and her

eyes shot forth fresh gleams of conviction. "How absurd to talk about a

human law to keep persons from doing God's infinite will. God intends

for persons to love each other. Love is the one divine thing that we

can be absolutely sure of. Annie and Tobe can't help themselves. They

are out in a storm. It is beating them on all sides--pounding, driving,

dragging, and grinding them. They love each other with a love that is

celestial, a love that is of the spirit rather than of their poor

ill-fed, ill-clothed bodies."

Mostyn's wonder over the girl's depth and facility of expression

clutched him so firmly that he found himself unable to formulate a

fitting reply.

"Oh yes, their love is absolutely genuine," Dolly ran on, loyally.

"Tobe could have married the daughter of a well-to-do farmer over the

mountain whom he had visited several times before he met his wife. The

farmer was willing, I have heard, to give them land to live on, and it

might have been a match, but Tobe accidentally met Annie. She was a

poor girl working in the Ridgeville cotton factory at two or three

dollars a week, which she was giving to her people. She had only two

dresses, the tattered bag of a thing she worked in and another which

she kept for Sundays. Tobe met her and talked to her one day while he

was hauling cotton to the factory, and something in her poor wretched

face attracted him, or maybe it was her sweet voice, for it is as

mellow as music. She wasn't well--had a cough at the time--and he had

read something in a paper about the lint of a factory causing

consumption, and it worried him; people say he couldn't keep from

talking about it. She was on his mind constantly. He was still going to

see the other girl, but he acted so oddly that she became angry with

him and, to spite him, began to go with another young man. But Tobe

didn't seem to care. He kept going to the factory and--well, the upshot

of it was that he married Annie."

"And then the _real_ trouble began," Mostyn said, smiling lightly.

"And actually through no fault of their own," Dolly declared. "He

rented land, bought some supplies on credit, and went to work to make a

crop. You ask father or Uncle John; they will tell you that Tobe

Barnett was the hardest worker in this valley. But ill luck clung to

him like a leach. The drouth killed his first crop, and the winter

caught him in debt. Then Annie got sick--she had exposed herself to the

bad weather milking a cow for a neighbor to earn a little money. Then

no sooner was she up when a wagon ran over Tobe and hurt his foot so

that he could hardly get about. Then the baby came, and their load of

trouble was heavier than ever."

"A case of true love, without doubt," Mostyn said.

"And the prettiest thing on earth," Dolly declared. "Sometimes it seems

to make their poor shack of a place fairly glow with heavenly light."

"You are a marvel to me, Dolly--you really are!" Mostyn paused, and she

turned to him, a groping look of surprise on her face.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Why, you have such an original way of speaking," he said, somewhat

abashed by her sudden demand. "I mean--that--that what you say sounds

different from what one would naturally expect. Not ordinary, not

commonplace; I hardly know how to express it. Really, you are quite

poetic."

He saw her face fall. "I am sorry about that," she faltered. "I have

been told the same thing before, and I don't like to be that way. I am

afraid I read too much poetry. It fairly sings in my head when I feel

deeply, as I do about Tobe and Annie, for instance, or when I have to

make a speech."

"Make a speech? You?" Mostyn stared.

"Oh yes, these people expect all that sort of thing from a teacher, and

it was very hard for me to do at first, but I don't mind it now. One is

obliged to open school with prayer, too, and it mustn't be worded the

same way each time or the mischievous children will learn it by heart

and quote it. The most of my speeches are made in our debating society."

"Oh, I see; you have a debating society!" Mostyn exclaimed.

"Yes, and as it happens I am the only woman member," Dolly proceeded to

enlighten him. "The men teachers in the valley got it up to meet at my

school twice a month, and the patrons took a big interest in it and

began to make insinuations that my school ought to be represented. They

talked so much about it that I was afraid some man would get my job, so

one day when Warren Wilks, the teacher in Ridgeville, asked me to join

I did."

"How strange!" Mostyn said, admiringly, "and you really do take part."

Dolly laughed softly. "You'd think so if you ever attended one of our

public harangues. I've heard persons say I was the whole show. Of

course, I'm joking now, but the women all take up for me and applaud

everything I say, whether it has a point to it or not. _'Whole show!'_

I oughtn't to have said that. When I try to keep from using bookish

expressions I drop plumb into slang; there is no middle ground for me."

"What sort of subjects does your society take up?" Mostyn inquired,

highly amused.

"Anything the human mind can think up," Dolly answered. "Warren Wilks

reads all the philosophical and scientific magazines, and he fairly

floors us--there I go again; when I talk I either grab the stars or

stick my nose in the mire. I mean that Warren's subjects are generally

abstruse and profound."

"For instance?" Mostyn suggested, still smiling.

"Well, the last one was--and there was a crowd, I tell you, for the

presiding elder had just closed a revival in our church and a good many

stayed over for the debate. We all tried to show off because he was

present, and it was a religious subject. It was this: Is it possible

for human beings in the present day to obey the commandment of Jesus to

love your neighbor as yourself?"

"And which side were you on?" the banker asked.

"I was affirmative, and almost by myself, too," Dolly answered. "I

oughtn't to say that either; it sounds like bragging, for there were

two men on my side, but I saw at the start that I couldn't depend on

them. They were weak-kneed--afraid of our premise. They didn't believe

Jesus meant it, anyway. I did the best I could. I not only think He

meant it, but I am sure the day will come when the whole world will

live up to the rule. Christ wouldn't be for all time, as He is, if His

best ideas were acceptable to such a grossly material age as ours.

Neither side won in that debate--the judges couldn't agree. I wish you

had been here last month. We had up a subject that you could have

helped me on. The question was: Which is the better place to rear a

man, the city or the country? Or, in other words, can the mind of man

develop in a busy, crowded place as well as in a quiet spot in the

country? I was on the side of the rural districts that night, and we

won. We had no trouble showing that the majority of great characters in

all lines of endeavor had come from rural spots. I think it is the same

to-day. I know I wouldn't live in a big town. City people are occupied

with automobiles, golf, dances, card parties, and gossip--of course, I

don't mean anything personal, you understand, but it is a fact that

they are that way. And it is a fact, too, that here our crowd, at

least, will get a good book and actually wear it to tatters passing it

around. That is the sort of education that sticks when it once gets

hold of a person."

"I am sure you are right," Mostyn admitted, and he felt the blood rise

to his face as he thought of the emptiness of his own life in Atlanta,

which now, somehow, seemed like a vanishing dream. The morning sun was

blazing over the verdant landscape, filling the dewdrops on the grass

with red, blue, and yellow light. An indescribable aura seemed to

encircle the exquisite face of his young companion. There was a restful

poise about her, a sure grasp of utterance, that soothed and thrilled

him. Something new and vivifying sprang to life in his breast. The

thought flashed into his consciousness that here with this embodiment

of intellectual purity he could master the cloying vices of his life.

He could put them behind him--turn over a new leaf, be a new man in

body and spirit. Perhaps he could kill the temptation to gain by sordid

business methods; perhaps he could subdue the reluctant intention to

marry for ulterior motives regardless of the magnitude of the

temptation. It really was not too late. He couldn't remember having

said anything to Mitchell or his daughter which would bind him in any

absolute sense. Yes, the ideal was the thing. Providence had rescued

him from his recent financial danger, and meant this encounter as a

chance for redemption. He could make some sort of compromise with old

Jefferson Henderson--a reasonable sum of money to one so hard pressed

for funds would not only silence the too active tongue, but win his

gratitude and the approval of all business men. Then there was the

other thing--the thing he scarcely dared think of in the presence of

this pure young girl--the disagreeable case of Marie--but there was no

use reflecting over what could not be helped. A man ought to be

pardoned for mistakes due to uncontrollable natural passion. The woman

is generally as much to blame as her companion in indiscretion,

especially one of the sort to whom his mind now reverted. She had shown

her lack of character, if not her prime motive, by accepting and using

the money he had offered her. She had been troublesome, and more so of

late than before, but she might be persuaded to let him alone. His

conscience was clear, for he had made no promises to her. He remembered

distinctly that he had made no effort actually to win her affections.

How different was this pure mountain flower from such a soiled and

degraded creature!

"There," Dolly was speaking again, and the soft cadences of her voice

put his shameful memories to flight as she pointed to an opening

between the trees of the wood on the right, "you can see your partner's

house from here. He has had it repainted. It is a beautiful old place,

isn't it?"

He nodded as he surveyed the stately mansion in the distance, the white

porch columns of which shone like snow in the slanting rays of the sun.

"It is Saunders's pride," he said. "Atlanta is becoming more and more

distasteful to him. He is never really happy anywhere but up here. He

yawns his head off at every party, dance, or dinner down there. They

all laugh at him and call him 'Farmer.'"

"Well, he is that," Dolly declared. "He works in the fields like a

day-laborer when he is up here on a holiday."

They walked on a few paces in silence; then Dolly said: "Mr. Saunders

has been very kind to our club; he gave us a lot of good books; he

comes to our debates sometimes and seems very much interested. We all

like him. The boys declare they could elect him to the legislature from

this county if only he would let them, but he doesn't care a fig for

it."

"He is something of a dreamer, I think," Mostyn remarked, "and still

he's practical. He has a long head on him--never gets excited and

seldom makes a wrong move in a deal."

They were now nearing the cabin occupied by Tobe Barnett. It was a most

dilapidated shack. It was made of pine logs, the bark of which had

become worm-eaten and was falling away. The spaces between the logs

were filled with dried clay. It had a mud-and-stick chimney, from the

cracks of which the smoke oozed. It contained only one room, was roofed

with crudely split boards of oak, and was without a window of any sort.

Outside against the wall on the right of the shutterless door was a

shelf holding a battered tin water pail and a gourd.

Within, as the visitors approached nearer, was heard the grinding of

feet on the rough planks of the floor and the faint, tremulous cry of a

child. A lank young man appeared at the door. He wore a ragged,

earth-stained shirt and patched pants. His yellowish hair was tousled,

a scant tuft of beard was on his sharp chin, and whiskers of a week's

standing mottled his hollow cheeks. His blue eyes peered out

despondently from their shadowy sockets.

"How is Robby now, Tobe?" Dolly asked.

The man stepped down to the ground, and in his tattered, gaping shoes

slowly shambled forward.

"I can't see no change, Miss Dolly," he gulped. "He seems to me as sick

as ever. If anything, he don't git his breath as free as he did.

Annie's mighty nigh distracted. I don't know which way to turn or what

to do when she gives up."

"I know it--poor thing!" Dolly answered. She turned to Mostyn. "Wait

here. I'll be out before long."

Followed by the anxious father, she went into the cabin. Mostyn sat

down at the root of a big beech tree and glanced over the peaceful

landscape. How wonderful the scene! he thought. The top of the mountain

was lost in the lifting mist along its base and sides. The level

growing fields stretched away to the north in a blaze of warming

yellow. A boy was leading a harnessed horse along the road; behind him

lagged a dog to which the boy was cheerfully whistling and calling. A

covey of quails rose from a patch of blackberry vines and fluttered

away toward the nearest hillside.

Yes, he was going to turn over a new leaf. Mostyn was quite sure of

this. He would take Saunders for his model instead of that

crack-brained Delbridge who had the hide of an ox and no refinement of

feeling. Yes, yes, and forget--above all, he would forget; that was the

thing.

At this moment he saw Dolly crossing the room with the child in her

arms. It was only for an instant, and yet he noted the unspeakable

tenderness which pervaded her attitude and movement. He was reminded of

a picture of a Madonna he had seen in a gallery in New York. The crying

of the child had ceased; there was scarcely any sound in the cabin, for

Dolly's tread was as light as falling snow.

From the doorway came Tobe Barnett. He approached Mostyn in a most

dejected mien.

"This is Mr. Mostyn, ain't it?" he asked. "I heard Tom Drake say they

was expectin' you up."

The banker nodded. "How do you think the baby is now?" he asked,

considerately.

"Only the Lord could answer that, sir," the man sighed. "I believe it

would have died in the night if Miss Dolly hadn't got out o' bed an'

come over."

"I was half awake," Mostyn said. "I thought I heard some one calling

out at the gate. It was about two o'clock, I think."

"That was the fust time, sir. The second time was just before

daybreak. I didn't go for her that time. She come of her own

accord--said she jest couldn't git back to sleep. She loves children,

Mr. Mostyn, an' she seems to think as much o' Robby as if he was her

own. I ketched 'er cryin' last night when she was settin' waitin' in

the dark for 'im to git to sleep. La, la, folks brag powerful on Miss

Dolly, but they don't know half o' the good she does on the quiet. She

tries to keep 'em from findin' out what she does. I know I'm grateful

to 'er. If the Lord don't give me a chance to repay 'er for her

kindness to me an' mine I'll never be satisfied." The speaker's voice

had grown husky, and he now choked up. Silence fell. It was broken by a

sweet voice in the cabin humming an old plantation lullaby. There was a

thumping of a rockerless chair on the floor. Presently the mother of

the child came out. She blinked from the staring blue eyes which she

timidly raised to Mostyn's face. Her dress was a poor drab rag of a

thing which hung limply over her thin form. Her hair was tawny and

drawn into a tight, unbecoming knot at the back of her head. No collar

of any sort hid her sun-browned, bony neck.

"Miss Dolly said please not wait for her," she faltered. "Breakfast at

the house will be over. She's done give the child the medicine an'

wants to put it to sleep. It will sleep for her, but won't for me or

Tobe. We have sent for a doctor, but we don't know whether he will come

or not. Doctors can't afford to bother with real pore folks as much out

o' the way as this is."

"He won't be likely to come," Barnett sighed. "They are all out for

cases whar they kin git ready cash an' plenty of it."

Mostyn turned away. What a wonderful girl Dolly was, he said to

himself, as he strode along, his heart beating with strange new

elation. He was sure she still liked him. She showed it in her eyes, in

her tone of voice. She had not forgotten his last talk with her; she

was so young, so impressionable, and, withal, so genuine!

At the front gate he saw John Webb waiting for him. "You'd better

hurry," Webb smiled, as he swung the gate open. "The bell's done rung.

I seed you an' Dolly walkin' off, an' I was afeared you'd git cold

grub. As for her, she don't care when she eats or what is set before

her."

CHAPTER VI

It was the following Tuesday. Dolly, with a bundle of books and written

exercises under her arm, was returning from school. Close behind her

walked George and Ann.

"I'm ashamed of you both," Dolly said, with a frown. "We've got

company, and you are both as black as the pot. If I were you I'd

certainly stop at the branch and wash the dirt off before getting home."

"That's a good idea," George laughed. "Come on, Sis!" He caught the

struggling Ann by the arm and began to drag her toward the stream.

"I'll give you a good ducking. Dol' said I could."

Leaving them quarreling, and even exchanging mild blows, Dolly walked

on. "They are beyond me--beyond _anybody_ except an army of soldiers

with guns pointed," she said. "I don't know what Mr. Mostyn thinks of

us, I'm sure. People don't live that way in Atlanta--that is, _nice_

people don't; but he really doesn't seem to care much. He doesn't seem

to notice the mistakes father and mother make, and he lets Uncle John

talk by the hour about any trivial thing. I wonder if he really,

_really_ likes me--as--as much as he seems to. It has been three years

since he first hinted at it, and, oh, my! I must have been as gawky and

silly as Ann. Still, you never can tell; the heart must have a lot to

do with it. I wasn't thinking of looks, or clothes, or the rich man

they all said he was, and I guess he wasn't thinking of anything but--"

She checked herself; the blood had mounted to her face, and she felt it

wildly throbbing in the veins. "Anyway, he seems to like to be with me

now even more than he did then. He listens to all I say--doesn't miss a

word, and looks at me as if--as if--" Again she checked herself; her

plump breast rose high, and a tremulous sigh escaped her lips. "Well,"

she finished, as she opened the gate and saw her mother in the doorway,

"people may say what they like, but I don't believe anybody can love

but once in life, either man or woman. God means it that way just as He

doesn't let the same sweet flower bloom twice on the same stem."

Mrs. Drake had advanced to the edge of the porch. "Hurry up," she said,

eagerly. "Miss Stella Munson is in my room waiting for you. She come at

two o'clock and has been here ever since."

"What does she want?" Dolly asked, putting her books down on the upper

step of the porch.

"I don't want to tell you till you see it," Mrs. Drake said, smiling

mysteriously; "it is by all odds the prettiest thing you ever laid eyes

on, an' she says she is willin' to let it go for the bare cost of the

material. She is in a sort o' tight for cash."

"A hat?" Dolly inquired, eagerly.

"Something you need worse than a hat," the mother smiled. "It is a

dress--an organdie, a regular beauty. She made it for Mary Cobb, and

you know Mary always orders the best, but, the poor girl's mother bein'

dead, the dress come back on Miss Stella's hands. She could force Mary

to stick to her agreement, but she hates to do it when the girl has to

put on black and is in so much trouble. Even as it is, you wouldn't

have had the chance at it, but you and Mary are exactly of a size, an'

there'll be no alterations to make."

"Oh, I want to see it!" Dolly sprang lightly up the steps and hurried

into her mother's room on the right of the hall, where a tall, angular,

middle-aged spinster sat with her stained and needle-pricked fingers

linked in her lap.

"How are you, Miss Stella?" she cried, kissing the thin cheek

cordially. "I've already heard about that dress. Winnie Mayfield helped

Mary pick out the cloth and trimmings, and she said you would make it

the sweetest thing in the valley. Pink is my color. Where is--oh!" She

had descried it as it lay on the bed, and with hands clasped in

delight, she sprang toward it. "Oh, it is a dream--a dream, Miss

Stella! You are an artist."

She picked the flimsy garment up and held it at arm's length. Then she

hung it on one of the tall bed-posts and stood back to admire it,

uttering little ejaculations of delight. "I know it will fit. I wore

one of Mary's dresses to a party one night, and it was exactly right in

every way. Oh, oh, what a beauty! You are a wonder. You could get rich

in a city."

"I think Miss Stella is trying to advertise her work," Mrs. Drake

jested. "She knows Mr. Mostyn will see it, and he'd have to talk about

it. Town men are close observers of what girls put on--more so, by a

long shot, than country men. I wouldn't be surprised if some rich

person wrote to you to come down to Atlanta, Miss Stella."

Dolly was dancing about the room like a happy child, now placing

herself in one position, then another, in order to view the dress from

every possible point of vantage. She even went out into the hall and

sauntered back as if to surprise herself by a sudden sight of the

treasure.

"Stop your silliness!" her mother laughingly chided her. "You are a

regular circus clown or monkey in a cage when you try yourself."

"I just want you to put it on, Dolly," the seamstress said, with

elation. "All the time I was at work on it I kept thinking how nice it

would look on you. Mary is plain; I reckon there is no harm in saying

that, even if her mother _is_ dead."

"She will look better in black," said Mrs. Drake, "or pure white.

Colors as full of life as this dress has would die dead on a dingy

complexion like Mary's, or any of the Cobb women, for that matter. They

look for the world as if they lived on coffee and couldn't git it out

of their systems. Dolly, shuck off your dress and try it on."

Dolly needed no urging. In her excitement she forgot to correct her

mother's speech, which she would have done on any other occasion, and

began at once to divest her slender form of her waist and skirt,

dropping the latter at her feet and springing lightly out of the

circular heap. The seamstress took up the dress carefully and held it

in readiness.

"You will be a regular butterfly in it," she said, laughingly. "You are

light on your feet as a grasshopper anyway."

While the two women were buttoning and hooking the garment on her Dolly

kept up a running fire of amusing comments, arching her beautiful bare

neck as she eyed herself in the mirror on the bureau.

"It will come in handy for meeting on the First Sunday," Mrs. Drake

remarked. "Folks will have on their best if the weather is fine, an' I

don't see no sign o' rain. It will make Ann awful jealous; she is just

at the age to think she is as big as anybody, an' don't seem to

remember that Dolly makes 'er own money. But Dolly's to blame for that;

she spoils Ann constantly by letting her wear things she ought to keep

for herself."

"Growing girls are all that way about things to put on," mumbled Miss

Munson, the corner of her mouth full of pins. "I know _I_ had all sorts

o' high an' mighty ideas. I fell in love with a widower old enough to

be my grandfather. And I was--stand a little to the right, please.

There, that is all right. Quit wiggling. I was such a fool about him,

and showed it so plain that it turned the old scamp's head. He actually

called to see me one night. Oh, it was exciting! Father took down his

shotgun from the rack over the fireplace and ordered him off the place.

Then he spanked me--father spanked me good and sound and made me go to

bed. You may say what you please, but that sort o' medicine will

certainly cure a certain brand o' love. It did more to convince me that

I was not grown than anything else had ever done. From that day on I

hated the sight of that man. All at once he looked to me as old as

Santa Claus. I had a sort of smarting feeling every time I thought of

him, and he did look ridiculous that night as he broke an' run across

the yard with two of our dogs after him."

"Oh, _isn't_ it lovely?" Dolly was now before the looking-glass,

bending right and left, stepping back and then forward, fluffing out

her rich hair, her cheeks flushed, her eyes gleaming with delight.

"I wish you could just stand off and take a good look at yourself,

Dolly," Mrs. Drake cried, enthusiastically. "I simply don't know what

to compare you to. Where you got your good looks I can't imagine. But

mother used to say that _her_ mother in Virginia come of a long line of

noted beauties. Our folks away back, Miss Stella, as maybe you know,

had fine blood in 'em."

"It certainly crops out in Dolly," Miss Munson declared. "I've heard

folks say they took their little ones to school just to get a chance to

set and look at her while she was teaching. I know that I, myself, have

always--"

"Oh, you both make me sick--you make me talk slang, too," Dolly said,

impatiently. "I'm not good-looking--that is, nothing to brag

about--but, Miss Stella, this dress would make a scarecrow look like an

angel, and it _does_ fit. Poor Mary! I hope she won't see it on me. It

is hard enough to lose a mother without--"

"Go out on the grass and walk about," Mrs. Drake urged her. "An' let us

look at you from the window. I want to see how you look at a distance."

"Do you think I'm crazy?" Dolly demanded, but as merrily as a child

playing a game, she lifted the skirt from the floor and lightly tripped

away. The watchers saw her go down the porch steps with the majestic

grace of a young queen and move along the graveled walk toward the

gate. At this point an unexpected thing happened. John Webb and Mostyn

had been fishing and were returning in a buggy. The banker got out and

came in at the gate just as Dolly, seeing him, was turning to retreat

into the house.

"Hold on, do, please!" Mostyn cried out.

Dolly hesitated for a moment, and then, drawing herself erect, she

stood and waited for him quite as if there was nothing unusual in what

was taking place.

"What have you been doing to yourself?" he cried, his glance bearing

down admiringly on her.

"Oh, just trying on a frock," she answered, her face charmingly pink in

its warmth, her long lashes betraying a tendency to droop, and her rich

round voice quivering. "Those two women in there made me come out here

so they could see me. I ought to have had more sense."

"I'm certainly glad they did, since it has given me a chance to see you

this way. Why, Dolly, do you know that dress is simply marvelous. I

have always thought you were--" Mostyn half hesitated--"beautiful, but

this dress makes you--well, it makes you--indescribable."

Avoiding his burning eyes, Dolly frankly explained the situation. "You

see it is a sort of windfall," she added. "I've got enough saved up to

pay for it as it is, but if it were not a bargain I could never dream

of it. Mary's father is well off, and she is the special pet of a rich

uncle."

Glancing down the road, she saw the bowed figure of a man approaching,

and at once her face became grave. "It is Tobe Barnett," she said. "I

want to ask him about Robby."

Leaving Mostyn, she hastened to the fence, meeting the uplifted and

woeful glance of Barnett as he neared her. "Why, Tobe, what is the

matter? You look troubled. Robby isn't worse, is he?"

"I declare, I hardly know, Miss Dolly," the gaunt man faltered. "I'm no

judge, nor Annie ain't neither. She's plumb lost heart, an' I'm not any

better. The doctor come this morning. He said it was a very serious

case. He--but I don't want to bother you, Miss Dolly; the Lord above

knows you have done too much already."

"Tobe Barnett, listen to me!" Dolly cried. "What are you beating about

the bush for? Haven't I got a right to know about that child? I love

it. If anything was to happen to that baby it would kill me. Did the

doctor say there was no--no hope?"

"It ain't that, exactly, Miss Dolly." Barnett avoided her eyes and

gulped, his half-bare, hairy breast quivering with suppressed emotion.

"Well, what is it, then?" Dolly demanded, impatiently.

"Why, if you will know my full shame it is this, Miss Dolly," he

blurted out, despondently; he started to cover his face with his gaunt

hand, but refrained. "I'm a scab on the face of the world. I've lost

the respect and confidence of all men. The doctor left a prescription

for several kinds of medicine and a rubber hot-water bag and syringe. I

went to the drug store in Darley and the one here in Ridgeville but

they wouldn't credit me--they said they couldn't run business on that

plan. And I can't blame 'em. I owe 'em too much already."

"Look here, Tobe!" Dolly was leaning over the fence, regardless of the

fact that the sleeves of the new dress were against the palings. "How

much do those things cost?"

Barnett turned and stared hesitatingly at her. "More than I'd let _you_

pay for," he blurted out, doggedly. "Six dollars. When I git so low as

to put my yoke on your sweet young neck I--I will kill myself--that's

what I'll do. I tell you I've had enough, an' Annie has, too; but we

ain't goin' to let you do no more. We had a talk about it last night.

We are fairly blistered with shame. You've already give us things that

you couldn't afford to give."

Dolly's sweet face grew rigid, the lips of her pretty mouth twitched.

"Look here, Tobe," she said, huskily. "You've hurt my feelings. I love

you and Annie and Robby, and it is wrong for you to talk this way when

I'm so worried about the baby. You are not a cold-blooded murderer, are

you? Well, you will make yourself out one if you let silly false pride

stand between you and that sweet young life. Why, I would never get

over it. It would haunt me night and day. Turn right around and go to

the Ridgeville drug store and tell them to charge the things to me. I

will pay for them to-morrow. They are anxious for my trade. They are

eternally ding-donging at--bothering me, I mean, about not buying from

them."

"Miss Dolly, I can't. I just _can't._"

"If you don't, then _I'll_ have to go myself, as soon as I can get out

of this fool contraption," she answered, with determination. "You don't

want to make me dress and go, I know, but I will if you don't, and I

won't lose a minute, either."

"Why, Miss Dolly--"

"Hush, Tobe, don't be a fool!" Dolly was growing angry. She had thrust

her hand over her shoulder to the topmost hook of the dress at the

neck, that no time should be lost in changing her clothes. "Hurry up,

and I'll go straight to Annie. I'll have the hot water ready. I know

what the doctor wants. It is the same treatment I helped him give Pete

Wilson's baby."

"Lord have mercy!" Tobe Barnett groaned.

"Well, I'll go, Miss Dolly. I'll go. God bless you! I'll go."

She watched him for a moment as he trudged away, and then, still trying

in vain to unfasten the hook at the back of her neck and jerking at it

impatiently, she turned toward the house.

Mostyn was waiting for her at the porch steps, having put down his

game-bag and fishing-rod.

"I declare you are simply stunning in that thing," he said, admiration

showing itself in every part of him. "It is a dream!"

She frowned, arching her brows reflectively. She bit her lip.

"Oh, I don't know!" she said. "I was just trying it on to please mother

and Miss Stella. Look at the silly things gaping like goggle-eyed perch

at the window. One would think that the revolutions of the earth on its

axis and the movement of all the planets depended on this scrap of

cloth and the vain thing that has it on."

"Take my advice and buy it," Mostyn urged. "It fairly transforms

you--makes you look like a creature from another world."

She shrugged her shoulders. She cast a slow glance after the figure

trudging along the dusty road. She looked down at her breast and

daintily flicked at the pink ribbons which were fluttering in the

gentle breeze.

"It is a flimsy thing," he heard her say, as if in self-argument. "It

wouldn't stand many wearings before it would look a sight. It wouldn't

wash--man as you are, Mr. Mostyn, you know it wouldn't wash. I'm going

to take it off and try to have some sense. I'm in no position to try to

make a show. School-teachers here in the backwoods have no right to

excite comment by the gaudy finery they wear. I'm paid by people's

taxes. Did you know that? I might find myself out of a job--out of

employment, I mean. Some of these crusty old fellows that believe it is

wrong to have an organ in church had just as soon as not enter a

complaint against me as being too frivolous to hold a position of trust

like mine."

"Oh, I think you are very wrong to allow such an idea as that to

influence you," Mostyn argued, warmly. He was about to add more, but

Tom Drake sauntered round the corner, chewing tobacco and smiling

broadly. He scarcely deigned to notice Dolly's altered appearance.

"John says you didn't git a nibble," he laughed. "I hardly 'lowed you

would. The water is too low and clear. I've ketched 'em with my hand

under the rocks in such weather as this."

Leaving them together, Dolly went into the house, where she was met by

the two eager women.

"I'll bet Mr. Mostyn thought it was nice," Mrs. Drake was saying.

"Well, I certainly hope so," Miss Munson answered. "They say Atlanta

men in his set are powerful good judges of women's wear."

Dolly had advanced straight to the mirror and stood looking at her

reflection, a quizzical expression on her face.

"Hurry, unhook me!" she ordered, sharply. "Quick! I've got to run over

to Barnett's cabin. Robby isn't any better. In fact, he is dangerous

and Annie needs me."

The two women, eying each other inquiringly, edged up close to her, one

on either side. "Dolly, what is the matter? I knew something was wrong

the minute you come in the door."

"It is all right," Dolly said, in a low tone. "It is very sweet and

pretty, Miss Stella, but I have decided not to--not to take it."

"Not take it!" The words came from two pairs of lips simultaneously.

"Not take it!" The miracle happened again, in tones of double

bewilderment.

"Well, I can't say I really expected you to," Miss Munson retorted, in

frigid tones. "I only stopped by. To tell you the truth, I am on the

way over to Peterkins'. Sally is the right size and will jump at it."

Dolly's lips were tight. Her eyes held a light, half of anger, half of

an odd sort of doggedness.

"Please unhook me!" she said, coldly. "There is no time to lose. Annie

is out of her head with trouble."

"Well, well, well!" Mrs. Drake sank into a chair and folded her slender

hands with a vigorous slap of the palms. "Nobody under high heavens can

ever tell what you will do or what you won't do," she wailed. "I never

wanted anything for myself as much as for you to have that dress,

and--" Her voice ended in a sigh of impatience.

With rapid, angry fingers the seamstress was disrobing the slender form

roughly, jerking hooks, ribbons, and bits of lace. "Huh, huh!" she kept

sniffing, as she filled her mouth with pins. "I might as well not have

stopped, but it don't matter; it don't make a bit o' difference. You

couldn't have it now if you offered me double the cost."

Dolly seemed oblivious of what was passing. Getting out of the garment,

she quickly put on her skirt and waist, noting as she did so that her

father was seated behind her on the window-sill, nursing his knee and

chewing and spitting vigorously on the porch floor.

"What a bunch o' rowin' she-cats!" she heard him chuckling. "An' about

nothin' more important than a flimsy rag that looks like a hollyhock

bush with arms an' legs."

Without noticing him Dolly hurriedly finished buttoning her waist, and,

throwing on her sun-bonnet, she dashed out of the room.

"I don't blame you for losin' patience, Miss Stella," Mrs. Drake

sighed, "but I've thought it out. It is as plain as the nose on your

face. You know an' I know she was tickled to death with it till she met

Mr. Mostyn in the yard just now. Mark my words, he said something to

her about the style of it. Maybe it's not exactly the latest wrinkle

accordin' to town notions."

"Yes, that's it." Miss Munson paused in her flurried efforts to restore

the dress to its wrapper. The twine hung from her teeth as she stood

glaring. "Yes, _he's_ at the bottom of it. As if a man of _his_ stripe

an' character would be a judge. I have heard a few items about him if

you all haven't. Folks talk about 'im scand'lous in Atlanta. They say

he leads a fast life down there. You'd better keep Dolly away from 'im.

He won't do. He has robbed good men an' women of their money in his

shady deals, an' folks tell all sorts o' tales about 'im."

"Thar you go ag'in," Tom Drake broke in, with a hearty laugh. "First

one thing an' then another. You would swear a man's life away one

minute an' hug it back into 'im the next. Now, I kin prove what I say,

an' you both ought to be ashamed. Mostyn not only told Dolly that dress

was the purtiest thing he ever seed, but he told me to come in here an'

make 'er take it."

The twine fell from the spinster's mouth. She eyed Mrs. Drake steadily.

Mrs. Drake rose slowly to her feet. She went to the dressmaker and

touched her tragically on the arm. She said something in too low a

voice for her husband to catch it.

"Do you think that's it?" Miss Munson asked, a womanly blaze in her

eyes.

"Yes, I saw her talkin' to Tobe at the fence," Mrs. Drake said,

tremulously. "He turned square around and went back to town. Then you

remember Dolly wanted to hurry over there. Miss Stella, she is my own

daughter, an' maybe I oughtn't to say it, bein' 'er mother, but she's

got the biggest, tenderest heart in her little body that ever the Lord

planted in human form." Miss Munson stood with filling eyes for a

silent moment, then she tossed the dress, paper, and twine on the bed.

"I'm goin' to leave it here," she faltered. "She can pay me for it if

she wants to, in one year, two years, or ten--it don't make no odds to

me. She needn't pay for it at all if she doesn't want to. I never want

to see it on anybody else. She is a good girl--a regular angel of

light."

Therewith the two women fell into each other's arms and began to cry.

A sniff of amusement came from Tom Drake. "Fust it was tittle-tattle,

then a bar-room knock-down-and-drag-out fight, an' now it is a weepin'

camp-meetin'. I wonder what will happen when the wind changes next."

CHAPTER VII

It was a warm, sultry evening in the middle of the week. They had just

finished supper at the farmhouse. Dolly, with a book, a manuscript, and

a pencil, stood in a thoughtful attitude under a tree on the lawn. She

was joined by her uncle, his freckled face beaming with a desire to

tease her.

"What time do you all begin your meetin' to-night?" he inquired,

introductively.

"Eight o'clock," she said, absently, her gaze bent anxiously on the

figures of two men leaning over the barn-yard fence in the thickening

shadows. "Who is that father is talking to, Uncle John?" she asked,

with a frown.

"It's Gid Sebastian," Webb said. "I saw 'im back on the mountain road

lookin' for your pa as I come home."

"That's who it is," Dolly said, dejectedly, a soft sigh escaping her

lips. The man had changed his position, and even in the twilight the

broad-brimmed hat, sinister features, and dark sweeping mustache were

observable. "Uncle John, you know Gid is a moonshiner, don't you?"

"Folks says he is," Webb smiled. "An' fellers that like good corn

mountain-dew ought to know who makes it. I reckon Gid is about the only

moonshiner that has escaped jail up to date. Somehow he knows how to

cover his tracks an' let his men git caught an' take the punishment."

Dolly held her pencil to her lips, and, still frowning, looked at the

blank manuscript paper. "Uncle John," she faltered, "I want you to--to

tell me what he comes to see father so often about?"

Webb's face waxed a trifle more serious. "I don't know--never give it

much thought," he said. "I don't know but what your pa once in a while

sells Gid some corn to help out his still in a pinch when the

authorities are watchin' his movements too close for comfort. I've seed

the pile in our crib sink powerful in a single night. You remember the

time your ma thought some niggers had broke in an' stole a lot that was

shelled? Well, I noticed that your pa kicked powerful agin sendin' for

the sheriff an' his dogs, an' you know in reason that he would if he

had laid it to the darkies."

Dolly exhaled a deep breath. "Uncle John, I'm awful afraid--I never was

so worried in my life. I'm afraid father is actually mixed up with

Sebastian's gang, or is about to be."

"Do you think so?" Webb stared seriously. "That would be bad, wouldn't

it--that is, if the officers ketched 'im an' had enough proof agin 'im

to put 'im in limbo."

Dolly's eyes flashed, her breast rose high and fell tremblingly; she

grasped her pencil tightly and held it poised like a dagger.

"Uncle John, I've been through a lot; I've stood, a great deal, kept

patience and hope; but if my own father were actually arrested and put

in prison I'd give up--I'd quit, I tell you. I'd never try to raise my

head again. Here I am trying to put high manly ideas into George's

head, but if the boy's father is a lawbreaker all I do will be thrown

away. I want to see Ann grow up and marry well, but what decent man

would care to tie himself to a family of jail birds? Hush! There comes

Mr. Mostyn. You are always joking, but for goodness' sake don't mention

this. If it is true we must keep our shame to ourselves."

"I've got _some_ sense left," Webb said, quite earnestly. "It ain't a

thing to joke about, I'm here to state. Men, as a rule, say it ain't no

lastin' disgrace to be jerked up for distillin' here amongst the pore

folks the Union army trampled under heel and robbed of their all, but

it ain't no fun to stand up before that United States judge an' git a

sentence. I was a witness in Atlanta once, an' I know what moonshiners

go through. Your pa ain't to say actually loaded down with caution, an'

he's just the easy-goin' reckless sort that Sebastian makes cats'-paws

of."

"'Sh!" said Dolly, for Mostyn was quite near He was smoking an

after-supper cigar.

"Got the mate to that?" Webb asked easily. "I don't like to see fine

tobacco-smoke floatin' about in hot weather unless I'm helpin' to make

it."

Mostyn gave him a cigar. "What is this I hear Of your club-meeting

to-night?" he asked, smiling at Dolly.

"It is an impromptu affair," she answered, almost reluctantly. Then she

began to smile, and her color rose. "The truth is, the whole thing

started as a joke on me. I could have backed down if I had wished, but

I didn't, and now it is too late."

"You'll think it's too late"--Webb was drawing at his cigar, which he

held against the fire of Mostyn's--"when them fellers git through

arguin', an' you the only one on your side!"

"How is that?" Mostyn asked, wonderingly.

Dolly averted her eyes. "Why," she explained, "for a long time the club

has threatened to select some subject to be discussed only between

Warren Wilks and myself. I didn't think much about it at the time and

said it would suit me, thinking, of course, that it would only be heard

by a few club-members, but now what do you think they have done?"

"I can't imagine," Mostyn answered, heartily enjoying her gravity of

tone and manner.

"Why, they are not only holding me to my agreement, but they have

selected a topic for discussion which of all subjects under the sun is

completely beyond me. They are doing it for a joke, and they expect me

to acknowledge defeat. I've been at the point all day of ignoring the

whole business, and yet somehow it nearly kills me to give in. I laugh

when I think about it, for the joke is on me, sure enough."

"But the subject," Mostyn urged her, "what is it?"

"Have women the right to vote?'" dropped from the girl's smiling lips.

"Oh, great! great!" the banker laughed. "I hope you are not going to

let a few silly men back you down."

"I don't really see how I am going to escape going through with it,"

Dolly said. "They have sent notices all up and down the valley, and the

house will be full. Look! there goes a wagon-load now. Two things are

bothering me. I came out here to try to write down a few points, but

not one idea has come in my head. That's the first stumbling-block, and

the other is even more serious. You see, up to this time my side has

generally won because when it was left to the audience the women all

stood up and voted for me. I've seen them so anxious to help me out

that they would force their children to stand on the benches so their

heads would be counted."

"But aren't the women going to-night?" Mostyn inquired.

"More than ever got inside _that_ house," Dolly said, despondently,

"but, as much as they like me and think I know what I'm talking about

as a general rule, they won't be on my side of _this_ argument. They

think woman's suffrage originated in the bad place. They will think I'm

plumb crazy, but I can't help it. I understand that a lawyer doesn't

have actually to believe in his side of a question--he simply makes as

big a display of the evidence as he can muster up. Warren Wilks and the

other men are tickled to death over the fun they are going to have with

me to-night."

"I wouldn't miss it for any amount of money," Mostyn said, winking at

the contented smoker on his right.

"I wouldn't, nuther," Webb chuckled. "Warren Wilks is a funny duck on

the platform, an' he don't let a chance slip to git a joke on Dolly.

She has downed him several times, but I reckon he'll swat 'er good an'

heavy to-night."

"Well, I'll certainly have nothing to say if I stand here listening to

you two," Dolly said, with a smile. "I'm going to my room to try to

think up something. I'm awfully tired, anyway. I was at Barnett's till

twelve o'clock last night."

"How is Robby?" Mostyn asked.

"He is out of danger," Dolly answered, as she turned away. "The doctor

told me to-day that the child had had a narrow escape. A week ago he

gave him up, and was surprised when he saw him doing so well yesterday."

CHAPTER VIII

Half an hour later the little cast-iron bell in the steeple of the

meeting-house rang. Tom Drake and his wife and John Webb left the

farmhouse, and, joining some people from the village, sauntered down

the road. Tom was in his shirt-sleeves, for the evening was warm, but

Mrs. Drake wore her best black dress with a bright piece of ribbon at

the neck, a scarf over her head. Webb carried his coat on his arm and

was cooling himself with a palm-leaf fan.

Mostyn was on the lawn watching for Dolly to appear, and was glad that

the trio had left her to his care. They were out of sight when Dolly

came out of the house, a piece of writing-paper in her hand. Mostyn met

her at the gate and opened it for her.

"Well, what luck have you had with your speech?" he asked, as they

passed out.

"'What luck,' I say!" She shrugged her shoulders and smiled

despondently. "The harder I thought, the fewer ideas seemed to come my

way. I give you my word, Mr. Mostyn, I haven't a ghost of an argument.

I don't want to vote myself, you see, and I don't see how I am going to

make other women want to. Just at present I have so many matters to

bother about that I can't throw myself into an imaginary position. I'd

break down and cry--I feel exactly like it--if I hadn't been this way

before and managed to pull through by the skin of my teeth. You see,

standing up before a crowd makes you feel so desperate and

hemmed-in-like that you have to fight, and somehow you manage to say

something with more or less point to it. If I don't think of something

between here and the meeting-house--don't talk, please! I'm awfully

nervous. I feel for the world as if I'm going to laugh and cry myself

into hysterics. If Warren Wilks were to see me now he'd have the

biggest argument for his side he could rake up. If I was running for

office and the returns went against me I suppose I'd lie flat down in

the road and kick like a spoilt child."

At this moment a buggy containing two women and a man passed. One of

the women, a fat motherly creature, glanced back. "Is that you, Dolly?"

she asked.

"Yes; how are you, Mrs. Timmons?"

"I'm as well as common, thanky, Dolly. Drive slower, Joe. What's the

use o' hurryin'? They can't do a thing till _she_ gits thar; besides, I

want to git at the straight o' this business. Say, Dolly, it ain't

true, is it, that you intend to stand up for women goin' to the polls?"

Dolly swept Mostyn's expectant face with a startled look and then fixed

her eyes on the speaker.

"It is this way, Mrs. Timmons," she began, falteringly. "Warren Wilks

suggested the subject, and--"

"That ain't what I axed you," the woman retorted, sharply. "Pull in

that hoss, Joe, or I'll git out an' walk the balance o' the way afoot.

That ain't what I axed you, Dolly Drake. I want to know now an' here if

you are goin' to teach my gals an' other folks' gals a lot o' stuff

that was got up by bold-faced Yankee women with no more housework to

do, or children to raise, than they have up thar these days. I want to

know, I say, for if you are I'll keep my young uns at home. I've always

had the highest respect for you, an' I've cheered an' stomped my feet

every time you made a speech at the schoolhouse, but if speechmakin' is

goin' to make you put on pants an'--"

"Git up!" The driver was whipping his horse. "Don't pay no attention to

'er, Miss Dolly," he called back over his shoulder. "She's been

jowerin' ever since she stepped out o' bed this mornin'. If she had a

chance to vote she'd stuff the ballot-box with rotten eggs if the

'lection didn't go her way."

"You see that?" Dolly sighed, as the buggy vanished in the gloom. "This

fool thing may cost me my job. Warren Wilks ought to be ashamed to get

up a joke like this."

"Why don't you throw it over and be done with it?" Mostyn asked,

sympathetically.

"Because I'm like the woman you just heard talking," Dolly returned.

"I'd rather drop dead in my tracks here in this sand than to have those

devilish boys beat me. For the Lord's sake, tell me something to say."

"I'm not daft about voting _myself,_" Mostyn laughed, "and to save my

life I can't be enthusiastic about _women_ doing it."

"I wish we could walk through the woods the rest of the way," the girl

said. "We'll meet another spitfire in a minute, and then I _will_ lose

patience."

They were soon in sight of the four lighted windows of the schoolhouse.

"Packed like sardines," Dolly muttered. "Who knows? They may mob me. I

don't care--those men pushed this thing on me against my will, and I'm

going to fight. Do you know when I'm bothered like this I can actually

feel the roots of my hair wiggling as if it were trying to stand up,

like the bristles on a pig. The women in this neighborhood have been my

best friends till now, and if I can't think of some way to stir up

their sympathy I shall be down and out."

Mostyn looked at her admiringly. She was so beautiful, so appealing in

her youth and brave helplessness. Being what she already was, what

would not opportunity, travel, higher environment bring to her? She was

a diamond in the rough. His heart beat wildly. Lucky chance had thrown

her in his way. He might win her love, if she did not already care for

him. As his wife he could gratify her every desire, and yet--and

yet--The situation had its disagreeable side. How could he think of

becoming the son-in-law of a man like Tom Drake? What would old

Mitchell say? What would his fashionable sister and his entire social

set think? Yes, Dolly was all that could be desired, but she was not

alone in the world, and she was absolutely true to her family. Mostyn

here felt a touch of shame, and shame was a thing he had scarcely been

conscious of in his questionable career. That was one of the advantages

which had come of his contact with this mountain paragon of womanhood.

In his unbounded respect for her he was losing respect for himself. In

the presence of her courage he saw himself more and more as the coward

that he was. He was beginning to long for her as he had really never

longed for any other woman. He wanted to clasp her in his arms and then

and there declare his fidelity to her forever.

"Hurry up, we are late!" Dolly warned him, and she quickened her step.

They were now among the horses and various kinds of vehicles in front

of the meeting-house. A fire of pine-knots near the doorway cast a

weird reddish glow over the scene.

"Come right on up to the front with me," Dolly said. "There will be a

vacant seat or two near the platform. Say, if you laugh at me while I

am speaking--that is, if I _do_ speak--I'll never forgive you--never!"

There was no chance for a reply. She was already leading him into the

crowded room. Every bench was full, and men and boys sat even on the

sills of the open windows. Seeing Dolly entering, somebody started

applause and hands were clapped, whistling and cat-calls rang through

the room, no part of which disturbed the girl in the least as she

calmly walked ahead of her escort finding seats for them on the front

bench.

Eight young men, all neatly dressed, sat in chairs on the platform, and

they smiled and bowed to Dolly.

"That's Warren Wilks at my desk," she whispered to Mostyn. "He is

grinning clear down the back of his neck. Oh, I'd give anything to get

even with him."

Mostyn took the man in with a sweeping glance. He was nice-looking,

about twenty-five years of age, tall and slender, and had a

clean-shaven intellectual face which was now full of suppressed

merriment. He rose with considerable ease and dignity and called the

house to order by rapping sharply on Dolly's desk with the brass top of

an inkstand. He announced the subject which was to be debated with

great gravity, adding with a smile that, of course, it was only through

special favor to the only lady member of the club that such a topic had

been selected. But--and he smiled down on his amused colleagues--that

lady member had lately shown such strong tendencies toward the

new-woman movement that, one and all, the members hoped that she might

be convinced of the fallacy of her really deplorable position.

"Scamp!" Mostyn heard Dolly exclaim, and, glancing at her profile, he

saw a half-smiling expression on her flushed face. "That is the way he

always talks," she whispered in the banker's ear. "His great forte is

making fun."

Wilks's speech consumed half an hour, during the whole of which Mostyn

noticed that Dolly sat as if in restless thought, now and then hastily

penciling a few words on a scrap of paper in her hand. At the

conclusion of Wilks's speech there was great applause, during which

Dolly looked about the room, seeing the hands of all the women as

active as the wings of humming-birds hovering over flowers.

"Just look at the silly things!" she sniffed, as she caught Mostyn's

eye. "They are voting against me already. They are as changeable as

March winds. Look at Mrs. Timmons; she is actually shaking her fist at

me. When I speak I always keep my eye on somebody in the crowd. I'll

watch that woman to-night, and if I can win her over I may influence

some of the rest."

CHAPTER IX

Therewith Dolly rose and went to the platform. Silence fell on the room

as she made a pretty, hesitating bow. To Mostyn she was a marvel of

beauty, animation, and reserved force as she stood lightly brushing

back her flowing hair.

"I'm going to tell you all the plain truth," she began. "You don't know

the facts in this case. The able-bodied men behind me, all rigged out

in their best togs for this occasion, simply got tired of having the

side I was on win so many times, and they put their heads together to

change it. They decided, in their sneaking, menlike way, that I won

because the women usually voted on my side, so they asked me one day if

I'd let them pick a theme; and, being too busy doing my work to suspect

trickery, I consented; and then what did they do? Why, they promptly

threw the defense of this--I started to say silly question on my

shoulders, but I won't call it silly, because, do you know, as I sat

there listening to Warren Wilks reel off all that harangue it occurred

to me that he was employing exactly the same threadbare method of

browbeating women that has been the style with _men_ ever since the

world began to roll. Now, listen--you women that blistered your hands

clapping just now--how are you ever going to get at the straight of

this thing if you hug and kiss the men every time they tell you that

you are narrow between the eyes and haven't a thimbleful of brains? Do

you know what is at the bottom of it all? Why, nothing but

old-fashioned, green-eyed jealousy, as rank as stagnant water in a

swamp. The men don't _want_ you to get up-to-date. Up-to-date women

don't hop out of bed on a cold, frosty morning and make a blazing fire

for their lords and masters to dress by. Up-to-date women are not

willing to stand shoe-mouth deep in mud in a cow-lot milching a cow and

holding off a calf while their husbands are swapping tales at the

cross-roads store."

A laugh started and swept over the room. There was considerable

applause, both from the men and the women.

"Well, that's one thing I wouldn't do for narry man that ever wore

shoe-leather!" came from Mrs. Timmons, who seemed to think that Dolly's

fixed glance in her direction called for an open opinion.

Dolly smiled and nodded. "That is the right spirit, Mrs. Timmons," she

said. "So many robust men wouldn't have skinny-looking, consumptive

wives if they would draw the line at the cow-lot." Then she resumed her

speech:

"The masculine opinion that women haven't got much sense originated

away back in the history of the world. _We_ get it from the savages.

I'll tell you a tale. Among the Indians in the early days there was a

certain big chief. They called him Frog-in-the-face because his nose

looked like a toad upside down trying to crawl between his thick lips.

He and the other braves loafed about the wigwams in disagreeable

weather, and on fine days went hunting. Now, Frog-in-the-face, savage

as he was, was a quite up-to-date man. He would please the women in

this audience mightily, and the men would elect him to office. He

didn't believe squaws had enough sense to shoot straight or catch fish

on the bank of a river, so he made his wife cook the grub, clean up the

wigwam, and with a wiggling papoose strapped to her back hoe corn in

the hot sun. This was the regular red-man custom, but one day a

meddlesome squaw began to think for herself. She called some other

squaws together while Frog-in-the-face and his braves were off hunting,

and she had the boldness to tell them that she believed they could

shoot as well as the men. She said she could, because she had tried it

on the sly. With that they got out some old worn-out bows and arrows

and went into the woods to try their luck. Well, do you know, those

squaws killed so many bears and deer and ducks and turkeys that, loaded

down with a baby each, they had hard work getting the meat home, but

somehow they did. Well, as luck would have it, Frog-in-the-face and his

sharp-shooters had got hold of some fire-water and smoking-tobacco, and

they didn't do any hunting that day at all, but came back hungry and

tired out over a big pow-wow they had had about another tribe

infringing on their rights away off somewhere. Then the women brought

out the roast meat, owned up like nice little squaws, and expected to

get some petting and praise, for they had done well and knew it. But,

bless you! what happened? The more the braves gorged themselves on the

turkey and duck, the madder they got, and after supper they all met out

in the open and began to fret and fume. They sat down in a ring and

passed a pipe from one to another, and Frog-in-the-face laid down the

law. Squaws were having too much liberty. If they were allowed to go

hunting it wouldn't be long before they would want to take part in the

councils of war, and then what would become of the papooses? Who would

grind the corn and till the soil and do all the rest of the dirty work?

So they passed a new law. The first squaw that ever touched a bow and

arrow in the future would be severely punished."

As Dolly paused at this point there was great laughter among both men

and women. Even Mrs. Timmons was clapping her hands.

"Warren Wilks," Dolly resumed, with a pleased smile, "drew a funny

picture just now of an election under the new idea. You all laughed

heartily when he spoke of there being so many fine hats and waving

plumes and women with low-necked dresses and open-work stockings about

the polls that bashful men would be afraid to vote. But, mind you,

Warren Wilks was making all _that_ up. Listen to me, and I'll tell you

what one of your elections really looks like. I've seen one, and that

was enough for me. At the precinct of Ridgeville, where only two

hundred votes have ever been polled, there were at the last county

election fully a hundred drunk from morning to night, including the

candidates. They had ten fights that day; three men were cut and two

shot. The price of a vote was a drink of whisky, but a voter seldom

closed a trade till he had ten in him, and then the candidate who was

sober enough to carry him to the box on his back got the vote."

[Laughter, long and loud.]

"Go it, Miss Dolly! You've got 'em on the run!" Farmer Timmons cried.

"Swat 'em good an' hard! They started it!"

"That's the way men conduct their elections," Dolly went on, smilingly.

"But the women of the present day wouldn't stand it. They would change

it right away. They wouldn't continue giving the men an excuse two or

three times a year to engage in all that carnage and debauchery for no

rational reason. Do you know the sort of election the women will hold,

Warren, if they ever get a chance?"

"I'm afraid I don't," Wilks answered, dryly. "It would be hard to

imagine."

"Well, I'll tell you," Dolly said to the audience. "They will do away

with all that foolishness I've been talking about. That day at

Ridgeville a dozen carriages were hired at a big expense to bring

voters to the polls. Hundreds of dollars were spent on whisky, doctors'

bills, lawyers' fees, and fines at court. But sensible women will wipe

all that out. On election day in the future a trustworthy man will ride

from house to house on a horse or mule with the ballot-box in his lap.

It will be brought to the farmhouse door. The busy wife will leave her

churning, or sweeping, or sewing for a minute. She will scribble her

name on a ticket and drop it in the slit while she asks the man how his

family is. She may offer him a cup of hot coffee or a snack to eat. She

will go to the back door and call her husband or sons in from the field

to do their voting, and then the polls of that election will be closed

as far as she is concerned."

"Good, good, fine, fine!" Timmons shouted. "That's the racket!"

"But," Dolly went on, sweeping the faces of the masculine row beside

her and turning to the audience, "this stalwart bunch of Nature's

noblemen here on the platform will tell you that women haven't got

sense enough to vote. That's it, Mrs. Timmons, they think at the bottom

of their hearts that women have skulls as thick as a pine board. They

don't know this: they don't know that some of the most advanced

thinkers in the world are now claiming that intuition is the greatest

faculty given to the human race and that woman has the biggest share of

it. Oh no, women oughtn't to be allowed to take part in any important

public issue! Away back in France, some centuries ago, a simple,

uneducated country-girl, seventeen years of age--Joan of Arc--noticed

that the men of the period were not properly managing the military

affairs of her country, and she took the matter under consideration.

She stepped in among great generals and diplomats and convinced them

that she knew more about what to do than all the men in the realm. The

King listened to her, gave her power to act, and she rode at the head

of thousands of soldiers to victory first and a fiery death later. Now,

Warren Wilks will tell you that a woman of that sort ought never be

allowed to do a thing but rock a cradle, scrub a floor, or look pretty,

according to her husband's disposition or pocket-book.

"Then, after all, did you all know--while you are talking so much about

the harm of a woman voting--that if it hadn't been for a woman there

wouldn't have been a single vote cast in all these United States? In

fact, you wouldn't be sitting here now but for that woman. Away back

(as I was teaching my history class the other day) Columbus tramped all

over the then civilized land trying to get aid to make his trial

voyage, and nobody would listen to him. He was taunted and jeered at

everywhere he went. Men every bit as sensible as we have to-day said he

was plumb crazy. He was out of heart and ready to give up as he rode

away from the court of Spain on a mule, when Isabella called him back

and furnished the money out of her own pocket to buy and man his ships.

Folks, that is the kind of brain Warren Wilks and his crowd will tell

you ought to be kept at the cook-stove and the wash-tub. Oh, women will

be given the vote in time, don't you bother!" Dolly said, with renewed

conviction. "We can't have progress without change. I never thought

about it myself before, but it is as plain as the nose on your face. It

has to come because it is simple justice. A law which is unfair to one

single person is not a perfect law, and many a woman has found herself

in a position where only her vote would save her from disaster. Women

are purer by nature than men, and they will purify politics. That's all

I'm going to say to-night. Now, I'm not managing this debate, but it is

getting late and I want everybody that feels like it to vote on my

side. Stand up now. All in favor, rise to your feet. That's right, Mrs.

Timmons--I knew you would wake up. Now, everybody! That's the way!"

Dolly was waving her hands like an earnest evangelist, while Wilks,

with a look of astonishment, was struggling to his feet to offer some

sort of protest.

"Don't pay attention to him!" Dolly cried. "Vote now and be done with

it!"

The house was in a turmoil of amused excitement. Timmons stood by his

wife's side waving his hat and slapping his thigh.

"Stand up, boys--every man-jack of you!" he yelled. "Them fellers got

this thing up agin that gal. Give it to 'em good an' sound."

The entire audience was on its feet laughing and applauding. Dolly

stood waving her hands with the delight of a happy child. She turned to

the teachers behind her, and one by one she gradually enticed them to

their feet.

"That makes it unanimous," she said, and, flushed and panting, she

tripped down the steps to the floor.

Mostyn edged his way through the chattering throng toward her. He was

beside himself with enthusiasm. A lump of tense emotion filled his

throat; he would have shouted but for the desire not to appear

conspicuous.

"Wonderful, wonderful!" he said, when he finally reached her, and

caught her hand and shook it.

"Do you think so?" she said, absent-mindedly; and he noticed that she

was staring anxiously toward the door.

"Why, you beat them to a finish!" he cried. "You fairly wiped up the

ground with them."

"Oh, I don't know!" she said, excitedly. "Come on, please. I want

to--to get out."

Wondering what could be in her mind, he followed her as well as he

could through the jostling throng. Women and men extended their hands

eagerly; but she hurried on, scarcely hearing their congratulations and

good-natured jests. At the door she reached back, caught Mostyn's hand,

and drew him out into the open. A few paces away stood a couple under a

tree. And toward them Dolly hastened, now holding to the arm of her

companion. Then he recognized Ann and saw that she was with a tall,

ungainly young man of eighteen or twenty. The two stood quite close

together.

"Ann," Dolly said, sharply, pausing a few feet from the pair, "come

here, I want to see you."

Doffing his straw hat, the young man moved away, and Ann slowly and

doggedly approached her sister.

"What do you want, Dolly?"

"I want you to walk straight home!" Dolly retorted. "I'll talk to you

there, not here."

"I wasn't doing anything," Ann began; but Dolly raised her hand.

"Go on home, I tell you. I'm ashamed of you--actually ashamed to call

you sister."

Without a word Ann turned and walked homeward.

"You certainly got the best of those fellows," Mostyn chuckled, still

under the heat of her triumph. "I never was so surprised in my life. It

was funny to watch their faces."

"I couldn't do myself justice," Dolly answered. "I don't know how it

sounded, I'm sure. I know I never can do my best when I have anything

on my mind to bother me. I'll tell you about it. You saw that fellow

with Ann just now? Well, it was Abe Westbrook, one of the worst young

daredevils in the valley. He belongs to a low family, and he hasn't a

speck of honor. For the last two months he has been trying to turn

Ann's head. I stopped him from coming to our house, but as soon as I

stepped on the platform to-night I saw him and her on the back seat. He

was whispering to her all the time, bending over her in the most

familiar way. Once I saw him actually brush her hair back from her

shoulder and pinch her ear. Oh, I was crazy! If I said anything to the

point in my speech it is a wonder, for I could hardly think of anything

but Ann's disgraceful conduct."

They were now entering a shaded part of the road. Ann was almost out of

sight and walking rapidly homeward. There was no one close behind

Mostyn and Dolly. A full moon shone overhead, and its beams filtered

through the foliage of the trees. He felt the light and yet trusting

touch of her hand on his arm. A warm, triumphant sense of ownership

filled him. How beautiful, how pure, how brave and brilliant she was!

What man of his acquaintance could claim such a bride as she would

make? A few months in his social set and she would easily lead them

all. She was simply a genius, and a beautiful one at that. He had a

temptation to clasp her hand, draw her to him, and kiss her as he had

kissed her three years before. Yet he refrained. He told himself that,

soiled by conventional vice as he was soiled, he would force himself to

respect in the highest this wonderful charge upon his awakened sense of

honor. He found something new and assuring in checking the passion that

filled him like a flood at its height. Yes, she should be his wife; no

other living man should have her. Fate had rescued him in the nick of

time from the temptation to wed for ulterior motives. Another month in

Atlanta and he would have lost his chance at ideal happiness. Yes, this

was different! Irene Mitchell, spoiled pet of society that she was,

could never love him as this strong child of Nature would, and without

love life would indeed be a failure. He walked slowly. She seemed in no

hurry to reach home. Once she raised her glorious eyes to his, and he

felt her hand quiver as she shrank from his ardent gaze. Another

moment, and he would have declared himself, but, glancing ahead, he saw

that her father and mother and John Webb had paused and were looking

toward them.

"I can wait," Mostyn said to himself, with fervor. "She is mine--she is

mine."

CHAPTER X

The next morning after breakfast John Webb met Mostyn as he stood

smoking on the front porch.

"If you haven't got nothin' better to do," he said, "you might walk

down with me to Dolph Wartrace's store, at the cross-roads. Thar will

be a crowd thar to-day."

"Anything special going on?" Mostyn asked.

"If the feller keeps his appointment we'll have a sermon," John smiled.

"For the last seven or eight years a queer tramp of a chap--John Leach,

he calls hisself--has been comin' along an' preachin' at the store.

Nobody knows whar he is from. Folks say he makes his rounds all through

the mountains of Tennessee, Georgia, an' North Carolina. He won't take

a cent o' pay, never passes the hat around, an' has been knowed to stop

along the road an' work for poor farmers for a week on a stretch for

nothin' but his bed an' board. Some say he's crazy, an' some say he's

got more real Simon-pure religion than any regular ordained minister. I

love to listen to 'im. He tells a lot o' tales an' makes a body laugh

an' feel sad at the same time."

"I certainly would like to hear him," the banker declared, and with

Webb he turned toward the gate.

"Are you a member of any church?" he inquired, when they were in the

road.

"No, I never jined one," Webb drawled out. "I'm the only feller I know

of in this country that don't affiliate with _some_ denomination or

other."

"That is rather odd," Mostyn remarked, tentatively. "How did you manage

to stay out of the fold among so many religious people?"

"I don't exactly know." Webb's freckled face held a reflective look. "I

kept puttin' it off from year to year, thinkin' I would jine,

especially as everybody was constantly naggin me about it. Seems to me

that I was the chief subject at every revival they held. It bothered me

considerable, I tell you. The old folks talked so much about my case

that little boys an' gals would sluff away from me in the public road.

But I wasn't to blame. The truth is, Mr. Mostyn, I wanted to give 'em

all--Methodists, Baptists, and Presbyterians--a fair show. You see,

each denomination declared that it had the only real correct plan, an'

I'll swear I liked one as well as t'other. When I'd make up my mind to

tie to the Methodists, some Baptist or Presbyterian would ax me what I

had agin _his_ religion, an' in all the stew an' muddle they got me so

balled up that I begun to be afeard I wasn't worth savin' nohow. About

that time this same tramp preacher come along, an' I heard 'im talk. I

listened close, but I couldn't make out whether he stood for

sprinklin', pourin', or sousin' clean under. So after he finished I

went up an' axed 'im about it. I never shall forget how the feller

grinned--I reckon I remember it because it made me feel better. He

ketched hold o' my hand, he did, an' while he was rubbin' it good an'

kind-like, he said: 'Brother, don't let that bother you. I'm floatin'

on top myself. In fact, my aim is to stay out o' the jangle so I kin

jine all factions together in brotherly bonds.' As he put it, the light

o' God was shinin' on every earthly path that had any sort o' upward

slope to it."

At this moment there was a vigorous blowing of the horn of an

automobile in the road behind them, and in a cloud of dust a gleaming

new car bore down toward them. To the banker's surprise, Webb paused in

the center of the road and made no effort to move.

"Look out!" Mostyn cried, warningly. "Here, quick!"

"Humph!" Webb grunted, still refusing to move, his eyes flashing

sullenly. "I'm goin' to pick up a rock some o' these days an' knock one

o' them fellers off his perch."

Still immovable he stood while the honking car, with brakes on, slid to

a stop a few feet away.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" the man at the wheel, in a

jaunty cap and goggles, cried out, angrily. "You heard me blowin',

didn't you?"

"I ain't deef," John flashed at him. "I wanted to see what _'the

hell'_--to use your words--you'd do about it. You think because you are

in a rig o' that sort, Pete Allen, you can make men an' women break

the'r necks to git out o' your way. If you had touched me with that

thing I'd have stomped the life out o' you. I know you. You used to

split rails an' hoe an' plow, barefooted over in Dogwood. 'White

trash,' the niggers called your folks. You've been in town just long

enough to make you think you can trample folks down like so many

tumble-bugs."

"Well, you have no right to block the road up," the driver said, quite

taken aback, his color mounting to his cheeks. "There is a law--"

"I don't care a dang about your law!" Webb broke in. "I'm law-abidin',

but when a law is passed givin' an upstart like you the right to make a

decent man jump out of your way, like a frost-bitten grasshopper, I'll

break it. The minute a skunk like you buys a machine on credit an'

starts out he thinks he owns the earth."

Still flushed, the man grumbled out something inarticulately and

started on his way.

"I hit 'im purty hard," John said, as Mostyn rejoined him, "but if thar

is anything on earth that makes me rippin' mad it is the way fellers

like that look an' act."

They found thirty or forty men, women, and children at the store

awaiting the coming of the preacher. The building was a long, one-story

frame structure made of undressed planks whitewashed. It had a porch in

front which was filled with barrels, chicken-coops, and heavy

agricultural implements. The people were seated in the shade of the

trees, some on the grass and others in their own road-wagons.

Wartrace, the storekeeper, in his shirt-sleeves, stood in the front

door. He was about thirty years of age and had only one arm. "Come up,

come up, Mr. Mostyn," he called out, cheerily. "The preacher is headed

this way. A feller passed 'im on the mountain road ten minutes ago. If

you hain't heard John Leach talk you've missed a treat."

Mostyn accepted the chair Wartrace drew from within the store, and Webb

took a seat near by on an inverted nail-keg. Wartrace was called

within, and the banker began to watch the crowd with interest. Back in

the store men were lounging on the long counters, chewing tobacco,

smoking and talking of their crops or local politics.

"I see 'im!" a woman cried, from the end of the porch, as she stood

eagerly pointing up the mountain-road. Mostyn saw a tall man of middle

age, smooth-shaven, with long yellow hair falling on his broad

shoulders, easily striding down the incline. He had blue eyes and

delicate, rather effeminate features. He wore a broad-brimmed felt hat,

dark trousers, and a black frock-coat without a vest. Reaching the

store, he took off his hat, brushed back his hair from a high pink

forehead, and with bows and smiles to the people on all sides, he cried

out cheerily:

"How are you, everybody? God bless your bones. I hope the Lord has been

with you since I saw you last fall. Hello, Brother Wartrace! You see,

old chap, I _do_ remember your name," he called out, as the storekeeper

appeared in the doorway. "Say, I wish you would have some of those

roustabouts inside roll out a dry-goods box for me to stand on."

"All right, Brother Leach," Wartrace answered. "I've got the same box

you spoke on before. I intend to keep it for good luck."

"All right, all right, roll it out, gentlemen. I'd help you, but I've

had a pretty stiff walk down the mountain to get here on time, and want

to sorter get my wind."

He stood fanning his perspiring face with his hat while two obliging

farmers brought the box out. "There under that tree," he ordered. "Show

me a cheaper pulpit than that, and I'll buy it for kindling-wood. By

the way, friends, two preachers over the mountain told me last night

that I was doing more harm than good, talking without pay on the public

highway as I am doing. I'd like to please every living soul, including

them, if I could. It makes them mad to see you all gather to hear a

jumping-jack like me. They say it's making salvation too cheap, and

quote Scripture as to 'the laborer being worthy of the hire.' That

would be all right if this was labor to me, but it isn't; it is nothing

but fun, an' fun full of the glory of God, at that."

The box was now in the required spot; and, mounting upon it, Leach

stamped on the boards vigorously to test their strength. "I'm gaining

flesh," he laughed. "Free grub is fattening. I'll have to gird up my

loins with a rope before long."

Then he was silent. The look of merriment passed from his face. Mostyn

thought he had never seen a more impressive figure as the man stood, a

ray of sunlight on his brow, looking wistfully over the heads of his

little audience toward the rugged mountains. Then slowly and reverently

he raised his hands and began to pray aloud. It was a conventional

prayer, such as the average rural preacher used in opening a meeting;

and when it was over he took a worn hymn-book from his coat pocket, and

after reading a hymn he began to sing in a deep, sonorous voice. Some

of the women, with timid, piping notes and the men in bass tones joined

in. This over, Leach cleared his throat, stroked his lips with a

tapering, sun-browned hand, and began to talk.

"Somebody over the mountain yesterday wanted to know, brethren, how I

happened to take up this roving life, and I told them. They seemed

impressed by it, and I'm going to tell you. To begin with, the best

temperance talker is the man who has led a life of drunkenness and

through the grace of the Lord got out of it to give living testimony as

to its evil. Now, I'm pretty sure, for the same reason, that a man who

has been through the mire of hell on earth is competent to testify

about that. I'm that sort of a man. I was once up in the world, as you

might say. My folks had means. After I got out of school I went into

business on my own hook in my home town. You will be interested in

this, Brother Wartrace; so make them fellers come out of the store and

be quiet."

Order was restored. The mountaineers who were talking within slouched

out on the porch and stood respectfully listening.

"I went into the grain business," Leach continued. "I was young then,

and I thought I owned the market. My old daddy cautioned me to go slow,

but I paid no attention to him. Folks called me a hustler, and I was

proud of it. I got into fast ways. I played poker; I had a pair of fast

horses, and I was guilty of other habits that I sometimes mention at my

'men-only' meetings. After awhile I slid into the hole that is at the

foot of every ungodly slope on earth. I was facing ruin. I had only one

chance to save myself, and that was to gamble big on wheat. To do it I

actually stole some money out of a bank run by a friend of mine. It's

awful to think about, but I did it. I was found out. I was accused and

arrested. I was tried and found guilty. Lord, Lord, I shall never

forget that day! My mother and father were in the courtroom. She

fainted dead away, and an eternal blight fell on his white head.

"I was sent to prison. My hair was clipped, and I was put in stripes

and steel shackles. All hell was packed in me. Instead of being

conquered, as most convicts are, I kept swearing that I was innocent.

I'd lie awake at night in my cell concocting lie after lie to bolster

up my case and stir up sympathy. I wrote letters to my home papers.

While I was clanking along by my fellow-prisoners who were taking their

medicine like men I was hating the whole of creation and studying

devilish ways to fight.

"I got to writing to the Governor of the State. I had heard he was

kind-hearted, and I thought I might make him believe I was innocent, so

I wrote letter after letter to him. I used every pretext I could think

of. Once I told him that I hoped God would strike me dead in my tracks

and damn me eternally if I had not been falsely imprisoned. Now and

then he would answer, in a kind sort of way, and that made me think I

might convince him if I kept up my letters.

"I was that sort of a fiend for a year. Then a strange thing happened.

A little, mild-mannered man was put in for murder. He had the cell

adjoining mine. He wasn't like any other prisoner I'd ever seen. He had

a sad, patient face, and didn't look at all strong. I took to him

because he used to pass his tobacco through to me--said he had quit

using it. Well, what do you think? One night as I lay with my ear close

to the partition I heard him praying. And the strangest part of it was

that he wasn't praying like a guilty man. He was begging the Lord to be

good to the other prisoners, and open their eyes to the spiritual

light, which he declared was even then shining in his cell.

"Well, do you know, I listened to him night after night, and got so I

could sleep better after I'd heard him pray. And in the daytime I loved

to find myself by his side in any work we had to do. I never shall

forget the thing I'm going to tell you. We were carrying brick to

repair a wall where an attempt was made by some fellows to get out. It

was out in the sunlight, and I hadn't seen the sun many times for a

year past. I don't know how it come up, but somehow he happened to

remark that he was innocent of the charge against him. Circumstantial

evidence had landed him where he was. He wasn't the one that did the

killing at all. I remember as I looked at him that I was convinced he

was telling the truth. He was innocent and I was guilty. I had an odd

feeling after that that I had no right to be near him.

"He used to talk to me in the sweetest, gentlest way I ever heard. He

told me that if a convict would only turn to God the most wretched

prison ever built would be full of joy. He said, and I believed him,

that he didn't care much whether he was out or in jail, that God was

there by his side and that he was happy. Lord, Lord, how he did plead

with me! His eyes would fill chock full and his voice would shake as he

begged and begged me to pray to God for help. I remember I _did_ try,

but, having lied to the Governor and everybody else, somehow I couldn't

do it right. Then what do you reckon? I heard him in his cell every

night begging God to help Number Eighty-four--that was all he knew me

by--Eighty-four. He was Number Seventy-two. Every night for a month I

would stick my ear to the partition and listen and listen for that

strange, strange mention of me. I got so that when we would meet in the

daytime I'd feel like grabbing hold of him and telling him that I loved

him.

"Now, on the first of every month I was in the habit of writing a

letter to the Governor, and the time had come round again. I got the

paper and pen and ink from the warden, and started to go over again my

old lying tale, but somehow I couldn't put the old fire in it. I kept

thinking of Seventy-two and his prayers. I remember I cried that night,

and felt as limp as a rag. I had changed. Then, I don't know how it

happened, but it was as though some voice had spoken inside of me and

told me not to write to the Governor about _myself_, but about

Seventy-two, who really was innocent. So I started out, and with the

tears pouring down my face and blotting the paper I told the Governor

about the prayers of Seventy-two, and how good he was, and begged him

to give him a pardon, as I knew positively that he was innocent. Then a

queer thing took place. I couldn't begin to explain it, but in trying

to think of some way to convince the Governor of the fellow's innocence

I came out with this: I said, 'Governor, I am the man that has been

writing to you all this time swearing he is innocent. I have written

you a thousand lies. I am guilty, but I'm telling you the truth this

time, as God is my judge. I don't ask release for myself, but I want

justice done to Seventy-two. No purer or better man ever lived.'

"I sent the letter off; and, friends, I'm here to tell you that I never

felt so happy in all my life. The very prison walls that night seemed

to melt away in space. My poor cot was as soft as floating clouds. I

didn't feel the shackles on my ankle and arm, and the low singing of

Seventy-two in his cell was as sweet as far-off celestial music. I

remember he called out to me just before bed-time, 'Brother, how goes

it?' and for the first time I answered, with a sob in my throat: 'I'm

all right, Seventy-two--I'm all right!' And I heard him say, 'Thank the

Lord, blessed be His holy name!'

"Now comes the best part, friends--I'm glad to see you've been so quiet

and attentive. Lo and behold! One morning the warden sent for me to

come to his private sitting-room, and there sat a dignified, kind-faced

man. It was the Governor. He wanted to talk to me, he said, about

Seventy-two. I don't know how it was, but I give you my word that

somehow I didn't have a single thought beyond trying to get Seventy-two

pardoned. Once the Governor broke in and said, 'But how about _your

own_ case?' And I told him I was guilty and had no hope as far as I was

concerned. He put a lot of questions to me about Seventy-two, about his

habits and talk to me and other prisoners; and I heard him say to the

warden, 'This is an interesting case; I must look further into it.'

"Then I was sent back, and Seventy-two was ordered out. He was with the

Governor for about an hour, and then he came back to his cell, and I

heard him praying and sobbing. Once I heard him say, 'Lord, Lord, Thou

hast answered my call. Justice is to be done.'

"The next day it went around that Seventy-two was pardoned. He put on

his old clothes, packed up his things, and come to shake hands with us.

When he come to me he pulled me to one side and clung to my hand and

began to cry. 'It was all through you,' he said. 'The Governor wouldn't

have believed it in any other way.' Then he told me not to feel bad,

that--well"--Leach's voice clogged up here, and he wiped his twitching

lips with his slender hand--"well, Seventy-two said that a look had

come in my face which showed that peace was mine at last. He said he

was going to keep on praying for me, and advised me to try to do good

among the prisoners.

"He went away, and I _did_ try to follow his advice. I read my Bible

every spare chance I got and told the convicts that I believed in a

merciful God who was ready and willing to forgive all sins and lighten

punishment. I got so I loved to talk to them, and sometimes when the

chaplain was sick or away he let me take his place on Sundays, and it

was there that I learned to preach. I served my time out. A sharp blow

met me on the day of my release. I was thinking of going back home to

make a new start when a letter from my father told me that my mother

had been dead a month. A young sister of mine was to be married to a

fellow high up in society, and father wrote me that he wished me well,

but thought that perhaps I ought not to come home branded for life as I

was.

"Friends, that was a lick that only God's omnipotent hand could soften.

I was without home or blood-kin. There was nothing I could do to make a

living, for an ex-convict is never encouraged by the world at large.

That's how I came to take up this work. It seems to me at times that I

was made for it--that all my trouble was laid on me for a divine

purpose."

The speaker paused to take a drink of water from a dipper Wartrace was

holding up to him, and Mostyn slipped back into the store. Going out at

a door in the rear, he went into the adjoining wood and strode along in

the cooling shade toward the mountain. The sonorous voice of the

speaker rang through the forest, and came back in an echo from a

beetling cliff behind him.

Mostyn shuddered. The speaker's experiences had vividly brought to mind

many of his own questionable exploits in finance. He recalled his

narrow escape from bankruptcy when, by an adroit lie, he had secured

the backing of Mitchell and other money-lenders. Old Jefferson

Henderson's ashen face and accusing eyes were before him. He had broken

no law in that case, but only he and Henderson knew of the false

statements which had ensnared the credulous man's whole fortune.

The preacher's warning had come in time. Pate had intended it as a

check to a perilous pace. He would speculate no more. He would follow

Saunders's example and lead a rational life. He would live more simply.

He would--his heart sank into an ooze of delight--he would marry the

sweetest, most beautiful, and bravest girl in the world. He would win

Dolly's whole heart, and in the future devote himself solely to her

happiness. What more admirable course could a penitent man pursue? He

quickened his step. He was thrilled from head to foot. He had reached

the turning-point, and what a turning-point it was! In fancy, he saw

himself taking the pretty child-woman in his arms and pledging his

brain and brawn to her forever. It was really a most noble thing to do,

for it meant the uplifting, as far as lay in his power, of her family.

It would materially alter their sordid lives. He could give employment

to Dolly's brother; he might be the means of educating and finding a

suitable husband for Ann. Perhaps Saunders might sell him his

plantation; Tom Drake could manage it for him, and the Colonial mansion

would make a delightful summer home. Ah, things were coming about as

they should! Dolly, Dolly, beautiful, exquisite Dolly was to be his

wife, actually his wife!

He sat down on a moss-covered stone aflame with a passion, which was of

both blood and spirit. How beautiful the world seemed! How gloriously

the sun shone on the pines of the mountain! How blue was the sky! How

white the floating clouds!

The preacher was singing a hymn.

CHAPTER XI

One cloudy night a few days later Mostyn was walking home from the

river where he had spent the day fishing. Thinking that he might

shorten the way by so doing, he essayed a direct cut through the dense

wood intervening between the river and Drake's. It was a mistake, for

he had gone only a short way when he discovered that he had lost his

bearings. He wandered here and there for several hours, and it was only

when the moon, which had been under a cloud since sundown, came out,

that he finally found a path which led him in the right direction.

He was nearing the house when in the vague light, due to the moon's

being veiled again, he saw a man stealthily climb over the fence, stand

as if watching the house for a moment, and then creep through the rose

bushes and other shrubbery to the side of the house beneath the window

of Dolly's room.

Wondering, and suspecting he knew not what, Mostyn crept to the fence,

and, half-hidden behind an apple tree, he stood watching. The figure of

the man was quite distinct against the white wall of the building, and

yet it was impossible to make out who he was. Then a surprising thing

happened. Mostyn saw the figure raise its hands to its lips, and a low

whistle was emitted. There was a pause. Then the window of Dolly's room

was cautiously raised, and her head appeared as she leaned over the

sill.

"Is your father at home?" a muffled masculine voice was heard inquiring.

"No, he's been gone all day." It was plainly Dolly who was speaking.

The stares of the two seemed to meet. There was a pause. It was as if

the girl's head had furtively turned to look back into the room.

"Then come down. Meet me at the front gate. I'll keep hid."

"Very well--in a minute."

She was gone. Mostyn saw the man glide along the side of the house,

treading the grass softly and making his way round to the front gate.

Filled with suspicion and hot fury, Mostyn kept his place, afraid that

any movement on his part might too soon betray his presence to the man

he now saw near the gate.

"My God," he cried, "she's like all the rest! I've been a fool--_me_,

of all men! Here I've been thinking she was to be for me and me alone.

This has been going on for God only knows how long. She has been

fooling me with her drooping lashes and flushed cheeks. I was ready to

marry her--fool, fool that I was. She might, for reasons of her own,

have married me. There is no knowing what a woman will do. Bah! What a

mollycoddle I have been! She, and he too, perhaps, have been laughing

at me for the blind idiot I am--_me_, the man who thought he knew all

there was to know about women."

Mostyn heard the front door open softly. It was just as softly closed,

and then the girl crossed the porch and advanced to the gate. She and

the man stood whispering for a moment, and then they passed out at the

gate and, side by side, went into the wood beyond the main road.

Filled with chagrin, to which an odd sort of despair clung like a moist

garment, Mostyn advanced along the fence to the gate and entered the

yard. Putting his rod and game-bag down, he seated himself on the step

of the porch. His blood seemed cold and clogged in his veins. He could

not adjust himself to the situation. He could not have met a greater

disappointment. The discovery had completely wrecked his already

strained faith in the purity of woman. He sat watching the moon as the

clouds shifted, now thinly, now thickly, before it. He heard a step in

the wood. Some one was coming. He started to rise and flee the spot,

but a dogged sort of resentment filled him. Why should he let the

matter disturb him? Why should he conceal from any one the knowledge of

her shame? He remained where he was. The step was louder, firmer. It

was Dolly, and she was now at the gate. He saw her, as with head hung

low, she put her hand on the latch. She opened the gate, entered, and

paused, her face toward the wood. There she stood, not aware of the

silent, all but crouching spectator behind her. Mostyn heard something

like a sigh escape her lips. Then a furious impulse to denounce her, to

let her know that he now knew her as she was, flashed through him. He

rose and went to her. He expected her to start and shrink from him as

he approached, but she simply looked at him in mild surprise.

"Have you just got home?" she inquired. "Mother and I were worried

about you, but George and Uncle John said you were all right."

He stared straight at her. She would have noted the sinister glare in

his eyes but for the half darkness.

"I was lost for a while," he said. "I got back just in time to see a

man climb over the fence and whistle to you."

"Oh, you saw that!" She exhaled a deep breath. "I'm sorry you did, but

it can't be helped. I suppose you know everything now."

"I can guess enough," he answered, with a bitterness she failed to

catch. "I don't know who he was, but that is no affair of mine."

"I ought to have told you all along." She was avoiding his eyes. "I

felt that I could trust you fully, but I was ashamed to have you know.

I was anxious for you to take away as good an opinion of us all as was

possible. You have been so kind to us. I'm sure no such degradation has

ever come into your family."

"Nothing like _this_, at any rate," he answered. "As far as I know

the--women of my family have--"

"Have what? What are you talking about? Do you think--do you

imagine--is it possible that you--who do you think that man was?"

"I have said I did not know," he retorted, frigidly.

She stepped closer to him. She put her little hand on his arm

appealingly. She raised her fathomless eyes to his. "Oh, you mustn't

think it was any young man--any--Why--it was--I see I must tell you

everything. That was Tobe Barnett. He has wanted to help me for a long

time, and he got the chance to-night. He knows the one great sorrow of

my life. Mr. Mostyn, my father is a moonshiner. I don't mean that he is

a regular member of a gang, but he helps a certain set of them, and

to-day Tobe accidentally heard of a plan of the Government officers to

surround the still where my father happens to be to-night. He heard it

through a cousin of his who is employed in the revenue detective

service. Tobe is law-abiding; he didn't want to have anything to do

with such things, but he knew how it would break my heart to have my

father arrested, so he came to me late this afternoon to see if father

had returned. He was going to tell him, you see, and warn him not to be

with the men to-night. But father was still away. Tobe went home; he

said he would come later to see if father was back. I sat up waiting

for him all alone in my room in the dark. I did not want George or Ann

or my mother to know about it. So just now when Tobe came to my window

and found that father had not returned, he determined to go to the

still and warn him. He may get there in time, and he may not, though it

is not far. I promised to wait here at the gate till he returns. I

could not possibly close my eyes in sleep with a thing like that

hanging over me."

Her voice shook; she turned her head aside. The cold mass of foul

suspicion in Mostyn's breast gave way to a higher impulse. A sense of

vast relief was on him. He would have taken her into his arms,

confessed his error, and humbly begged her forgiveness, but for an

unlooked-for interruption. There was a sound in the distance. It was

the steady beat of horses' hoofs on the hard clay road in the direction

of Ridgeville.

"It is the revenue men!" Dolly gasped. "Quick, we must hide!" And,

catching his hand as impulsively as a startled child, she drew him

behind a hedge of boxwood. "Crouch down low!" she cried. "We must not

let them see us. They would think--"

She failed to finish. Seated on the dewy grass, side by side, they

strained their ears for further sounds of the approaching horsemen.

Mostyn marveled over her undaunted calmness. She still held his hand as

if unconscious of what she was doing, and he noted that there was only

a slight tremor in it. The horses were now quite near. A gruff voice in

command was distinctly heard.

"We'll dismount at the creek," it said, "creep up on the scamps, and

bag the whole bunch. If they resist, boys, don't hesitate to fire. This

gang has bothered us long enough. I'm tired of their bold devilment."

"All right, Cap!" a voice returned. "We'll make it all right this time.

I know the spot."

A dozen horsemen, armed with rifles, came into view and passed on,

leaving a hovering cloud of dust in their wake. Moving swiftly, and

paler and graver, Dolly stood up, her steady gaze on the departing men.

"Did you hear that?" she said, dejectedly. "He ordered his men to--to

fire. Who knows? Perhaps before daybreak I shall have no--" She checked

herself, her small hand at her throat. "I shall have no father, and

with all his faults I love him dearly. He doesn't think moonshining is

wrong. Some of the most respectable persons--even ministers--wink at

it, if they don't actually take part. My father, like many others, has

an idea that the Government robbed the Southern people of all they had,

and they look on the law against whisky-making as an infringement on

their rights. I wish my father would obey the law, but he doesn't, and

now this has come. He may be killed or put in prison."

"You must try not to give way," Mostyn said, full of sympathy. "Don't

forget that Barnett has had time, perhaps, to warn them, and they may

escape."

"Oh, I hope so--I do--I do!" Still holding his hand, she led him back

to the gate, and stood resting her arms on its top, now almost

oblivious of his presence. Half an hour dragged by, during which no

remark of his could induce her to speak. Presently a low whistle came

from the wood across the road.

"That's Tobe now!" she cried. "Oh, I wonder if he was in time!" Then,

as she reached for the gate-latch he heard her praying: "God have

mercy--oh, Lord pity me--pity me!"

She opened the gate and passed out. He hung back, feeling that she

might not desire his presence at the meeting with Barnett, but again

she grasped his hand.

"Come on," she said. "Tobe will understand."

Crossing the road and walking along the edge of the wood for about a

hundred yards, they were presently checked by another whistle, and the

gaunt mountaineer emerged from the dense underbrush. Seeing Mostyn, he

paused as if startled, saying nothing, his eyes shifting helplessly.

"It's Mr. Mostyn--he knows everything, Tobe," Dolly threw in quickly.

"He's on our side--he's a friend. Now, tell me, what did you do?"

"Got to the still just in the nick o' time," Tobe said, panting, for he

had been running. "The gang started to handle me purty rough at

first--thought I was a spy--but your pa stepped in an' made 'em have

sense. They couldn't move any of their things on such short notice, but

the last one escaped just as the officers was ready for the rush."

"But my father?" Dolly inquired, anxiously.

"He's all right--he said he'd be home before morning. He has no idea

that you know about it."

"I'm glad of that. Oh, Tobe, you have been good to me to-night!" Dolly

took the humble fellow's hands and shook them affectionately.

"Well, if you hain't been good to me an' mine nobody ever was to a soul

on _this_ earth," Barnett half sobbed. "Mr. Mostyn, maybe you don't

know what Miss Dolly has--"

"Yes, I do, Barnett," Mostyn declared. "I know."

"Now, go back to Annie and Robby, Tobe," Dolly advised. "Poor girl! She

will be uneasy about you."

"No, she won't bother," Barnett answered, firmly. "She'd be willing to

have me go to jail to help you, Miss Dolly. She is that grateful she'd

cut off her hands to oblige you, an' she will be powerful happy when

she knows this went through all right. Good night, Miss Dolly; good

night, Mr. Mostyn."

Dolly and her companion turned back toward the house as Barnett trudged

off down the road.

"Well, I'm glad it came out all right," Mostyn said, lamely; but Dolly,

still listless, made no reply. Silently she walked by his side, her

pretty head down. An impulse of the heart impelled him to take her

hand. He was drawing her yielding form to him when she looked straight

into his eyes.

"I was wondering--" she began, but checked herself.

"What were you wondering, Dolly?" The fire of his whole being was

roused; it throbbed in his lips, thickened his tongue, and blazed in

his eyes. It filled his voice like a stream from a bursting dam.

"Why, I was wondering"--her sweet face glowed in the moonlight as from

the reflection of his own--"I was wondering how you happened to think

that Tobe was some young man that--that I cared enough for to--"

"I was insanely jealous." Mostyn put his arm about her, drew her breast

against his, and pressed his lips to hers. "I was mad and crazy. I

couldn't think--I couldn't reason. Dolly, I _love_ you. I love you with

all my heart."

"Yes, I know." She seemed not greatly surprised at the avowal. She put

her hand on the side of his face and gently stroked it. Then, of her

own accord, she kissed him lightly on the lips. "There," she said,

"that will do for to-night. I ought not to be here like this--you know

that--but I am happy, and--"

"You have not said"--he held her closer to him, now by gentle force,

and kissed her again--"you have not said that you love me."

"What is the use?" she sighed, contentedly. "You have known it all

these years. I have never cared for any one else, or thought of any one

else since you were here before. I was only a child, but I was old

enough to know my heart. You are the only man who ever held me this

way. There is no use saying it--you know I love you. You know I

couldn't help it. I'd be a queer girl if I didn't."

He tried to detain her at the steps, but she would not stay. She

entered the house, leaving the door open so that he might go up to his

room.

CHAPTER XII

The next day was Sunday. Mostyn did not see Dolly at breakfast. Drake

sat at the head of the table as unconcerned as if nothing unusual had

happened to him in the night. He spoke to John Webb and Mrs. Drake

about the meeting to be held that day at the church and praised the

preacher's powers and sincerity. It was the philosophical Webb who had

something to say more in harmony with Mostyn's reflections.

"I understand the revenue men made another haul last night," he said, a

watchful eye on his brother-in-law.

"You don't say?" Drake calmly extended his cup and saucer to Ann, to be

handed to George, and from him to Mrs. Drake, for a filling. "Whose

place was it?"

"Don't know whose still it was," Webb answered, "but they landed the

whole shootin'-match--sour mash, kegs, barrels, jugs, demijohns, copper

b'ilers, worms, a wagon or two, and some horses."

"Who did they ketch?" Drake asked. "I reckon it happened when I was

t'other side the mountain."

"Nobody, it seems," Webb answered. "The gang was too slick for 'em.

They must have had sentinels posted around the whole shebang."

Drake apparently found no further interest in the subject, for he began

to talk of other matters. He had heard that Saunders was expected to

spend the day at his farm, and added to Mostyn: "I reckon you will see

'im an' get news of business."

"I almost hope he won't mention it," the banker smiled. "I have

scarcely thought once of the bank. I never allow my mind to rest on it

when I am off for a change like this."

"Fine idea," Drake said, "but I don't see how you can help it,

'specially if you are concerned in the rise and fall of market-prices.

But I reckon you've got that down to a fine point."

Mostyn made some inconsequential response, but Drake's remark had

really turned his thoughts into other channels. After all, he

reflected, with a sudden chill of fear, how could he know but that some

of his investments were not so prosperous as when he had left Atlanta?

He became oblivious of the conversation going on around him. He failed

to hear the cautious dispute over some trifle between George and Ann.

A little later, Mostyn was walking to and fro on the lawn in front of

the house when Dolly came down-stairs. She had on the pretty pink dress

he had admired so much the day she had tried it on for the first time.

He threw down his cigar and went to the steps to meet her, his troubled

thoughts taking wing at the sight of her animated face.

"Why have you not worn it before?" he said, sweeping her slender figure

from head to foot in open admiration.

"For the best reason in the world," she laughed. "I only got the cash

to pay for it yesterday, and I would not wear it till it was mine. I

collected some money a man owed me for giving private lessons to his

children and sent it right away to the dressmaker."

"It is simply wonderful," he said, glad that no one else was present.

"I'm proud of you, little girl. You are the most beautiful creature

that ever lived."

"Oh, I don't know!" She shook her head wistfully. "I wish I could think

so, but I can't. There are so many other things that count for more in

the world than good looks. Do you know I didn't sleep more than an hour

last night?"

"I'm sorry," he said. "What was the matter?"

She glanced through the open door into the house as if to see if any

one was within hearing. Then she came nearer to him, looking down on

him from the higher step on which she stood, her pretty brow under a

frown. "I was bothered after I went to bed," she said, frankly. "I

don't think I ought to--to have kissed you as I did there at the gate.

I would have scolded Ann for the same thing, even if she were as old as

I am. I trust you--I can't help it--and last night I was so happy over

Tobe's message that--Tell me honestly. Do you think that a man loses

respect for a girl who will act as--as boldly as I did? Tell me; tell

me truly."

"Not if he loves her as I do you, Dolly," he said, under his breath,

"and knows that she feels the same way. Don't let a little thing like

that trouble you. It is really your wonderful purity that makes you

even think of it."

She seemed partially satisfied, for she gave him her glance more

confidingly. "It is queer that I should have let it worry me so much,"

she said. "It was as it some inner voice were reproving me. All sorts

of fears and queer ideas flocked about me. I--I am just a simple

mountain girl, and you now know what my--my people are like. Why, if my

father were now in prison I could not refuse to--to stick to him as a

daughter should, and for a man in your position to--to--" She broke

off, her eyes now on the ground.

"You mustn't think any more about it," he managed to say, and rather

tardily. "You can't help what he does." Mostyn's passionate gaze was

fixed on her again. "How pretty, how very pretty that dress is!" he

flared out. "Are you going to church this morning?"

"Oh yes," she replied, half smiling down into his eyes. "I must set a

good example to Ann and George."

Burning under the memory of her kiss of the night before, Mostyn told

himself that he must by all means see her alone that day. He must hold

the delicious creature in his arms again, feel the warmth of her lips,

and capture the assurance of a love the like of which was a novelty

even to him.

"What are you thinking about?" she suddenly demanded.

"I am thinking, Dolly, that you have the most maddening mouth that ever

woman had, and your eyes--"

"Don't, don't!" she said, with a shudder. "I can't explain it, but,

somehow, when you look and speak that way--"

"I can't help it," he blurted out, warmly. "You make my very brain

whirl. I can hardly look at you. It is all I can do to keep from

snatching you to my arms again, even here where any one could see us.

Say, darling, do me a favor. Don't go to church to-day. Make some

excuse. Stay at home with me and let the others go. I have a thousand

things to tell you."

The slight, shifting frown on her face steadied itself. She gave him a

swift glance, then avoided his amorous eyes.

"Oh, I couldn't do that, _even for you_," she faltered. "They have

asked me to sing in a quartette. That is why I put on this dress. The

other girls are going to fix up a little."

"Then you won't oblige me?"

"I can't. I simply can't. It would be deceitful, and I am not a bit

like that. I'm just what I am, open and aboveboard in everything. And

that is why I know--_feel_ that I did not act right last night."

"There you go again," he cried, lightly, forcing a laugh. "When will

you ever drop that? You say you love me, and I _know_ I love you, so

why should you _not_ let me kiss you? I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll

order a horse and buggy sent out from Ridgeville this afternoon, and we

will take a nice drive over the mountain."

"To-day?--not to-day," Dolly said, firmly. "There is to be an afternoon

service at the church. I'd be a pretty thing driving about the country

with a handsome city man while all the other girls were--oh, it never

would do! I'm sorry, but I couldn't think of it. People talk about a

school-teacher more than any one else, and this valley is full of

malicious gossips."

He was wondering if a little pretense of offense on his part--which, to

his shame, he remembered using in former affairs of the heart--might

make her relent, when he noticed that she was watching something on the

road leading to the village. It was a horse and buggy. Her sight was

keener than his, for she said, in a sudden tone of gratification:

"It is Mr. Saunders. He is on his way out home."

"So it is," Mostyn said, impatiently. "I'll go down to the gate and

speak to him. Will you come?"

With her eyes on the vehicle, and saying nothing, Dolly tripped down

the steps. How gracefully she moved, he thought. They reached the gate

just as Saunders drew rein.

"Hello!" he cried, cheerily. "How are you, Dolly?" And, doffing his

hat, he sprang down and shook hands with them both. "I'm lucky to catch

you," he added to the girl. "I have something for you."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" Dolly cried. "You are always so kind and thoughtful."

"It is only a couple of books." Saunders had flushed slightly, and he

turned back to the buggy, taking from beneath the seat a parcel wrapped

in brown paper. "Mostyn, they have a most wonderful reading-circle here

in the mountains. I have quit trying to keep pace with them." He held

the parcel toward Dolly. "I heard you say all of you wanted to know

something of Balzac's philosophy. I find that he has expressed it in

his novels _Louis_ _Lambert_ and _Seraphita_. The introductions in both

these volumes are very complete and well written."

"Oh, they are _exactly_ what we want." Dolly was very happy over the

gift, and she thanked the blushing Saunders warmly. Mostyn stood by,

vaguely antagonistic. He had not read the books in question, and he had

a feeling that his partner was receiving a sort of gratitude which he

himself could never have won. Then another thought possessed him. How

well the two seemed mated! Why, Saunders--plain, steady, ever-loyal

Saunders, with his love of books and Nature, and his growing aversion

to gay social life--was exactly the type of man to make a girl like

Dolly a good husband.

Dolly was trying to break the twine on the parcel. "Let me!" Saunders,

still blushing, was first to offer assistance. He took out his

pocket-knife, cut the twine, unwrapped the books, and handed them back

to her.

"Oh, they are so pretty--you always get such costly bindings!" Dolly

added, almost reproachfully, as she fairly caressed the rich red

leather with her hands. "You--you intend to lend them to the club, of

course, and we must be very careful not to soil them. I shall have some

covers made to--"

"Oh no!" Mostyn had never noticed before that his partner was such a

weakling in the presence of women, and he wondered over the man's

stumbling awkwardness. "Oh no," Saunders stammered. "I have inscribed

them to--to you, as a little personal gift, if--if you don't mind."

"Oh, how sweet, how lovely of you!" Dolly cried. "Now, I sha'n't even

want the others to handle them. I'm awfully selfish with what is

_really_ my own. Oh, you are _too_ good!" Her richly mellow voice was

full of genuine feeling, and a grateful moisture glistened in her

shadowy eyes. Saunders heard, saw, and averted his throbbing glance to

the mountain.

"Well, well," he said, awkwardly, "I must be going. It is Sunday, but I

must talk to my overseer about his work. He was down in Atlanta the

other day, and I did not like his showing as well as I could have done.

I shall throw up banking, Mostyn, one of these days and settle down

here. I see that now."

He was returning to the buggy, Dolly having gone to the house eager to

exhibit her gift, when Mostyn stopped him. "Shall I see you again

before you go back?" he inquired.

Saunders reflected. "I hardly think so, unless--Say, why couldn't you

get in and go over home with me? My cook, Aunt Maria, will give us a

good dinner, and we can lounge about all day."

"I don't think I could stay to dinner"--Mostyn was thinking that it

might prevent a possible chat with Dolly in the parlor or a stroll to

the spring--"but I'll ride over with you and walk back. I need the

exercise."

"All right, hop in!" There was a ring of elation in Saunders's voice

which was not often heard from him during business hours.

"These outings seem to do you a lot of good," Mostyn remarked. "You are

as lively as a cricket this morning."

"I love the mountains," was the answer. "I love these good,

old-fashioned people. Back at the station as I left the train I saw

some revenue officers with the wreck of a mountain still piled up in

the street. I know the moonshiners are breaking the law, but they don't

realize it. Many a poor mountain family will suffer from that raid. Do

you know, I was glad to hear that no arrests were made. Imprisonment is

the hardest part of ft."

Mostyn was discreetly non-communicative, and as they drove along the

conversation drifted to other topics. Suddenly Saunders broke into a

laugh. "You know, Mostyn, you are doing your very best to force me to

talk about business. You have edged up to it several times."

Mostyn frowned. "I have succeeded in keeping my mind off of it fairly

well so far," he declared; "but still, if anything of importance has

taken place down there I'd like to know it."

"Of course, you would," Saunders answered; "and from now on you'd

fairly itch to get back to your desk. Oh, I know you!"

"Not if everything was all right." There was a touch of rising doubt in

Mostyn's voice.

Saunders hesitated for a moment, then he said: "I have something for

you from--from Marie Winship." He rested the reins in his lap, took a

letter from his pocket, and gave it to his companion. It was a small,

pale blue envelope addressed in a woman's handwriting. In the lower

left-hand corner was written "Personal and important."

Mostyn started and his face hardened as he took it. He thrust it

clumsily into his pocket. "How did you happen to--to get it?" he asked,

almost angrily. "I see it was not mailed."

Saunders kept his eyes on the back of the plodding horse.

"The truth is, she came to the bank twice to see you--once last week

and again yesterday. I managed to see her both times alone in your

office. The clerks, I think, failed to notice her. She was greatly

upset, and I did what I could to calm her. I'm not good at such things,

as you may know. She demanded your address, and, of course, I had to

refuse it, and that seemed to make her angry. She is--inclined, Mostyn,

to try to make trouble again."

Mostyn had paled; his lower lip twitched nervously. "She had better let

me alone!" he said, coldly. "I've stood it as long as I intend to."

"I don't know anything about it," Saunders returned. "I could not

pacify her any other way, and so I promised to deliver her letter. She

would have made a scene if I had not. She has heard some way that you

are to marry Miss Mitchell, and it was on that line that her threats

were made."

"Marry? I have never said that I intended to marry--_any one_," Mostyn

snarled, a dull, hunted look in his eyes.

"I know," Saunders said, still unperturbed, "but you know that the

people at large are generally familiar with all that society talks

about, and they have had a lot to say about you and that particular

young lady. If you wish to read your letter, don't mind me--I--"

"I don't want to read it!" Mostyn answered. "I can imagine what's in

it. I'll attend to it later. But you have seen her, Saunders, since I

have, and you would know whether the situation really is such that--"

"To be frank"--Saunders had never spoken more pointedly--"I don't feel,

Mostyn, that I ought to become your confidant in exactly such a thing.

But through no intention of mine I have been drawn into it--drawn into

it, Mostyn, to protect the dignity and credit of the bank. She was

about to make a disturbance, and I _had_ to speak to her."

"I know--of course, I understand that"--Mostyn's fury robed him from

head to foot like a visible garment--"but that is not answering my

question."

"Well, if you want my opinion," Saunders said, firmly, "I think if the

woman is not appeased in some way that you and I, the directors, and

all concerned--friendly depositors and everybody-will regret it.

Scandal of this sort has a bad effect on business confidence. Mitchell

came in just as she was leaving. Of course, he is not a great stickler

on such matters, but--"

"I didn't know he was in town," Mostyn said, in surprise.

"Yes, they returned rather suddenly the day before yesterday. By the

way, he is impatient to see you. He wouldn't mind my telling you, for

that is what he wants to do. He has had a great streak of luck. You

remember the big investments you advised him to make in wild

timberlands in Alabama and North Georgia a few years ago? Well, your

judgment was good--capital. His agent has closed out his entire

holdings for a big cash sum. I don't know the exact figure, but he

banked a round one hundred thousand with us yesterday, and said more

was coming."

Mostyn stared excitedly. "I thought it would be a good thing, but I

didn't expect him to find a buyer so soon."

Saunders smiled. "I know you thought so," he chuckled. "He is as happy

as a school-boy. He is crazy to tell you about it. He thinks a lot of

you. He swears by your judgment. In fact, he said plainly that he

expected you to handle this money for him. He says he has some ideas he

wants you to join him in. He sticks to it that you are the greatest

financier in the South."

Mostyn drew his lips tight. "He is getting childish," he said,

irritably. "I have no better judgment than any one else--Delbridge, for

instance, is ahead of me."

"Delbridge _is_ lucky," Saunders smiled. "They say he has made another

good deal in cotton."

"How was that?" Mostyn shrugged his shoulders and stared, his brows

lifted.

"Futures. I don't know how much he is in, but I judge that it is

considerable. You can always tell by his looks when things are going

his way, and I have never seen him in higher feather."

Mostyn suppressed a sullen groan. "That is what _they_ are doing while

I am lying around here like this," he reflected. "Mitchell thinks I am

a financial wonder, does he? Well, he doesn't know me; Irene doesn't

know me. Dolly doesn't dream--my God, I don't know _myself!_ A few

minutes ago I was sure that I would give up the world for her, and yet

already I am a different man--changed--full of hell itself. I am a

slave to my imagination. I don't know what I want."

Then he thought of the unopened letter in his pocket. Light as it was,

he could all but feel its weight against his side. They were now at the

gate of Saunders's house. No one was in sight. The tall white pillars

of the Colonial porch gleamed like shafts of snow in the sunlight. It

was a spacious building in fine condition; even the grass of the lawn

and beds of flowers were well cared for.

"You'd better decide to stop," Saunders said, cordially. "I will soon

get over my talk with the overseer, and then I'll take you around and

show you some of the richest land in the South--black as your hat in

some places. I wouldn't give this piece of property for all you and

Delbridge and Mitchell ever can pile up. Both my grandfather and father

died in the room up-stairs on the left of the hall. It seems sacred to

me."

Mostyn nodded absently. "No, thanks, I'll walk home," he said, getting

out of the buggy. He was turning away, but paused and looked back.

"Would you advise--" he began, hesitatingly, "would you advise me to

return to Atlanta to-morrow--on--on account of this silly thing?"

Saunders hesitated. "I hardly know what to say," he answered, frankly.

"Perhaps you can tell better when you have read her letter. The

situation is decidedly awkward. In her present nervous condition the

woman is likely to give trouble. Somehow I feel that it is nothing but

your duty to all of us to do everything possible to prevent publicity.

She seems to me to have a dangerous disposition. She even spoke of--of

using force. In fact, she said she was armed--spoke of killing you in

cold blood. You might restrain her by law, but you wouldn't want to do

that."

A desperate shadow hovered over Mostyn's face. "I'll go back in the

morning," he said, doggedly. "Mitchell, you say, wants to see me. I'm

not afraid of the woman. If I had been there she wouldn't have made

such a fool of herself."

CHAPTER XIII

When Mostyn got back to the farmhouse he found no one at home, the

entire family being at church. He strolled about the lawn, smoked many

cigars, and tried to read a Sunday paper on the porch. His old nervous

feeling had him in its grasp. Try as he would to banish them, the

things Saunders had told him swept like hot streams through his veins.

Mitchell had doubled his fortune; Irene was now a richer heiress than

ever; Delbridge was in great luck; and a shallow-pated woman, whom

Mostyn both feared and despised, was threatening him with exposure.

Mitchell, and other men of the old regime, laughed at the follies of

youth, it was true, but a public scandal which would cripple business

was a different matter in any man's eyes. Besides, the old man must be

told of his intention to marry Dolly, and that surely would be the last

straw, for all of Mitchell's intimate friends knew that the garrulous

old man was counting on quite another alliance.

Mostyn heard the voices of the Drakes down the road, and to avoid them

he went up to his room, and from a window saw them enter the gate. How

wonderfully beautiful Dolly seemed as she walked by her mother! The

girl was happy, too, as her smile showed. The others came into the

house, but Dolly turned aside to a bed of flowers to gather some roses

for the dinner-table. Bitterly he reproached himself. He had won her

heart--there was no doubt of it; she was his--soul and body she was

his, and with his last breath he would stand to her. From that day

forth, in justice to her, he would cleanse his life of past impurities

and be a new man. Delbridge, Mitchell, Henderson, Marie Winship--all of

them--would be wiped out of consideration. He would get rid of Marie

first of all. He would force her to be reasonable. He had made her no

actual promises. She had known all along what to expect from him, and

her present method was unfair in every way. He had paid her for her

favors, and for aught he knew other men had done the same. However,

that did not lessen the woman's power. She might even make trouble

before he got back to Atlanta--there was no counting on what a woman of

her class would do. He would send her a telegram at once, stating that

he would be down in the morning. But, no, that would only add to the

tangible evidence against him. He would wait and see her as soon as

possible after his arrival. Yes, yes, that would have to do, and in the

mean time--the mean time--

Mostyn paced the floor as restlessly as a caged tiger. There were

mental pictures of himself as already a discredited, ruined man.

Mitchell had turned from him in scorn; Saunders was placidly appealing

to him to withdraw from a tottering firm, and old Jeff Henderson was

going from office to office, bank to bank, whining, "I told you so!" At

any rate--Mostyn tried to grasp it as a solace worth holding--there was

Dolly, and here was open sunlight and a new and different life. But she

would hear of the scandal, and that surely would alter the gentle

child's view of him. Irene Mitchell would overlook such an offense if

she gave it a second thought, but Dolly--Dolly was different. It would

simply stun her.

Dinner was over. Tom Drake and John Webb were chatting under the apple

trees in the orchard, where Webb had placed a cider-press of a new

design which was to be tried the next day. Mrs. Drake had retired to

her room for a nap. Ann had gone to see a girl friend in the

neighborhood, and Dolly was in the parlor reading the books Saunders

had given her. Mostyn hesitated about joining her, but the temptation

was too great to be withstood. She looked up from her book as he

entered and smiled impulsively, then the smile died away and she fixed

him with a steady stare of inquiry.

"Why, what has happened?" she faltered.

"Nothing particular," he said, as he took a seat near her and clasped

his cold, nervous hands over his knee.

She shook her head slowly, her eyes still on him. "I know better," she

half sighed. "I can see it all over you. At dinner I watched you. You

look--look as you did the day you came. You have no idea how you

improved, but you are getting back. Oh, I think I know!" she sighed

again, and her pretty mouth drooped. "You are in trouble. Mr. Saunders

has brought you bad news of business."

He saw a loophole of escape from an embarrassing situation, and in

desperation he used it. "Things are always going crooked in a bank like

ours," he said, avoiding her despondent stare. "Men in my business take

risks, you know. Things run smoothly at times, and then--then they may

not do so well."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she faltered; "you were getting on beautifully.

You--you seemed perfectly happy, too, and I hoped that--" Her voice

trailed away in the still room, and he saw her breast under its thin

covering rise and fall suddenly.

"Don't let it worry you," he said.

"How can I help it?" She put the books on the window-sill and raised

her hand to her brow. "I know how to fight my _own_ troubles, but yours

are too big, too intricate, too far away. What--what are you going to

do?"

He felt the need of further pretense. He looked down as he answered:

"I shall have to take the first train in the morning, and--and--"

"Oh!" The simple ejaculation was so full of pain that it checked his

tardy subterfuge. He rose to take her in his arms to soothe her, to

pledge himself to her forever, but he only stood leaning against the

window-frame, the puppet of a thousand warring forces. No, he would not

touch her, he told himself; she was to be his wife--she was the

sweetest, purest human flower that ever bloomed, and until he was freer

from the grime of his past he would not insult her by further intimacy.

So far he had not spoken to her of marriage, and he would not do so

till he had a better right.

"So you really are going?" She had turned pale, and her voice shook as

she stared up at him, helplessly.

"Yes, but I am coming back just as soon as I possibly can," he said.

"Besides, I shall write you, if--if you will let me?"

"Why should you say _if_ I will let you? Don't you know--can't you see?

Oh, _can't_ you see?"

Again the yearning to clasp her in his arms rose to the surface of his

inner depths, and he might have given way to it but for the panorama of

accusing pictures which was blazing in his brain.

"I wish you would try--try to understand _one_ thing, Dolly," he said,

pitying himself as much as her. "I have meant everything I have said to

you. The little that is good in me loves you with all its force, but I

do not want you to--to even trust me--to even count on me--till I have

straightened out my affairs in Atlanta. Then--then if all goes well I

shall come back, and--and talk to you as I want to talk to you now--but

can't."

Her brows met in a troubled frown. Her pale lips were drawn tight as if

she were suffering physical pain.

"I see, and I shall not ask questions, either," she said, calmly. "I

realize, too, that you are speaking to me in confidence. I shall tell

no one, but I am going to pray for you. I believe it helps. It seems to

have helped me many, many times."

"No, no, you must not do that," he said, quickly, almost in alarm. "I

am not good enough for that."

"But I can't help it. Some philosopher has said that every desire is a

prayer, and in that case I shall be praying constantly till your

trouble is over."

It was as if she understood, and appreciated the momentary check he had

put upon his passion. They were quite alone. His face was close to

hers; it was full of shadowy yearning, and yet he made no effort to

repeat the blissful caresses of the night before.

Presently he heard her sigh again.

"What is it?" he asked, uneasily.

She was silent for a moment, then she asked: "Do you believe in

premonitions?"

"I don't think I do," he said, wondering what was forthcoming. "Why do

you ask?"

"Because I do to some extent," she said, slowly, a reminiscent

expression in her eyes, "and something seems to tell me that you and I

are in danger of being parted. I have felt forewarnings often. Once I

actually knew my father was in trouble when he was several miles from

me, and there was no hint of the matter from any external source."

"Strange," he said. "Was it something serious?"

"His life was in danger," Dolly said, "and he was on the point of

committing a crime which would have ruined us all. It was this way. A

rough mountaineer had become angry with me for keeping his disobedient

child in after school was out. He was drinking, and he made a

disrespectful remark at the store about me which reached my father's

ears. My father has an awful temper which simply cannot be controlled,

and, taking his revolver, he went to find the man. None of us at home

knew what he intended to do, but exactly at the hour in which he met

the man, fought with him, and shot him almost fatally, I felt that

something was wrong, I was in the schoolroom trying to get my mind on

my work, but I could not do it. I could think of nothing but my father

and some crisis which he seemed to be going through. So I was not

surprised later to learn of his trouble."

"I did not know your father had such a hot temper," Mostyn said. "He

looks like a man who is not easily upset."

"It is all beneath the surface," Dolly answered. "You have no idea how

careful I have to be. He seldom is willing for the young men about here

to visit me at all. That is his worst fault."

Dolly rose. She put her hand lightly on Mostyn's. "I must go to my room

now," she said. "I shall see you before you leave. I am going to do my

best to subdue the premonition about you and me. It is so strong that

it depresses me--fairly takes my breath away. It is exactly as if we

are not going to meet again, or something just as sad."

Mostyn stood still, looking at her steadily. "Am I to understand,

Dolly, that your father might not--not quite like for us to be together

even like this, and is that why you are leaving me now?"

Dolly's long lashes flickered. She seemed to reflect as she kept her

glance on the doorway. "I think I may as well tell you something, so

that if anything comes up you may be somewhat prepared for it. Last

night when Tobe Barnett called me to the window and I went out, as you

know, to meet him, Ann, whose room is next to mine, was awake. She

heard Tobe whistle and saw me leave. She couldn't see who it was, but

later, when you and I were at the gate, she saw us quite clearly."

"Oh, I see," Mostyn said, anxiously, "and she thought that I called you

out."

"I could not explain it any other way," Dolly answered. "I don't want

her to know, you see, about father and the moonshiners. She began

teasing me about you this morning, and I was afraid father would hear

it, so I simply had to admit that I was with you. I even

confessed--confessed"--Dolly's color rose--"that I care a great deal

for you, for, you see, she actually saw--saw--"

"I understand." Mostyn tried to smile lightly. "You mean that she saw

me kiss you?"

Dolly's flushed silence was her answer. "Ann is so young and romantic

that it has made a great impression on her," Dolly added, lamely, as

she moved toward the door, her eyes downcast. "You see how I am placed,

and I hope you won't blame me. There was no other way out of it. I

think I can keep her from mentioning it. I shall try, anyway. After

all," she sighed, deeply, "it is only _one_ of our troubles--yours and

mine."

"Only _one_ of them," he repeated, with a sudden guilty start--"what do

you mean?"

She swept his face with a flash of her eyes, seemed to hesitate, then

she said, resignedly: "I am quite sure that your Atlanta set,

especially your relatives, would not approve of me--that is, if I were

thrown with them as an equal."

"How absurd!" he began, awkwardly; but she fixed him with a firmness

that checked him.

"Your sister, Mrs. Moore, would scarcely wipe her feet on me. You see,

I met her once."

"When? how?" he asked, wonderingly.

"She was at the house-party Mr. Saunders gave last summer, and he

introduced us on the road one day," Dolly explained, with an indignant

toss of the head. "Oh, I could never--never like her. She treated me

exactly as if I had been a hireling. She is your sister, but Lord

deliver me from such a woman. Well, what's the use denying it--she is

part of my premonition. You may settle your business troubles

satisfactorily, but if--if you should tell her about me, she will move

heaven and earth to convince you that I am unworthy of your notice."

"Nonsense!" he began; but with a sad little shake of the head she

hurried away.

Left alone, Mostyn's heart sank into the lowest ebb of despair. Back

and forth he strode, trying to shake off his despondency, but it lay on

him like the weight of a mountain. What would the morrow bring forth?

To him his sister's objections would be the very least. The real

disaster lay in the matter Dolly's pure mind could not have grasped. He

took out the letter Saunders had brought and read it again.

"She is simply desperate--the little cat!" he cried. "I might have

known she would turn on me. For the last three months she has been 'a

woman scorned,' and she is not going to be easily put aside. Fool, fool

that I was, and always have been, I deserve it! It may ruin me--men

have been ruined by smaller things than this. Can this be the beginning

of my end?" He sank into the chair Dolly had vacated and rocked back

and forth. Suddenly he had a sort of inspiration.

"I might take the midnight train," he reflected. "Why, yes, I could do

that, and have my trunk sent on to-morrow. In that case I'd avoid

riding back with Saunders and be there early in the morning. Surely she

will be quiet that long."

CHAPTER XIV

Mostyn reached the city at five o'clock in the morning. The sun was

just rising over the chimneys and dun roofs of the buildings. He lived

in the house of his widowed sister, Mrs. John Perkins Moore, in a quiet

but fashionable street, and thither he went in one of the numbered cabs

which, in charge of slouching negro drivers, meet all trains at the big

station.

At his sister's house no one was stirring; even the servants were still

abed. He was vaguely glad of this, for he was in no mood for

conversation of any sort. Having a latchkey to the front door, he

admitted himself and went up to his room at the top of the stairs.

Should he lie down and try to snatch a little sleep? he reflected, for

his journey and mental state had quite deprived him of rest. Throwing

off his coat and vest and removing his collar, necktie, and shoes, he

sank on his bed and closed his eyes. But to no effect. His brain was

throbbing; his every nerve was as taut as the strings of a violin; cold

streams of despair coursed through his veins. For the thousandth time

he saw before him the revengeful face of a woman--a face now full of

fury--a face which he had once thought rarely pretty, rarely coy,

gentle, and submissive. What could be done? Oh! what could be done?

He heard the iceman stop at the door, curiously noted his slow,

contented tread as he trudged round to the kitchen to leave the block

of ice. He saw the first reddish-yellow shafts of sunlight as they shot

through the slats of the window-blinds, fell on his bureau, lighting up

the silver toilet articles and the leaning gilt frame holding a large

photograph of Irene Mitchell. He sat on the edge of the bed, thrust his

feet into his slippers, and stared at the picture. Was it possible that

he had really thought seriously of marrying her? It seemed like a vague

dream, his entire association with her. For months he had been her

chief escort; he had called on her at least twice a week. He had made

no denial when his and her friends spoke of the alliance as a coming

certainty, and yet a simple little mountain girl had come into his

life, and all the rest was over. But why think of that when the other

thing hung like a sinister pall above him?

There was a step in the corridor close to the door, then a rap.

"Come!" he cried, thinking it was a servant. The door opened partially,

and the reddish face of his sister, under a mass of yellowish crinkly

hair, peeped in, smiling.

"I heard you on the stairs," she said. "I'm not dressed, and so I'll

not kiss you. I've told the cook to get your breakfast at once, for I

know you are hungry."

"Thanks, I am," he answered. "I have been up all night."

She was ten years older than he, short, and firmly built. Her blue,

calculating eyes had a sleepy look.

"You must have been up late last night, yourself," he said, nothing

more vital occurring to his troubled mind.

"Oh yes, Alan Delbridge gave a big reception and dance in his rooms.

Supper was served at the club at one o'clock. Champagne and all the

rest. I was the blindest chaperon you ever saw. Good-by--if I don't get

down to breakfast it will be because I'm sound asleep. I knew you would

cut your outing short."

"You say you did?" he cried, his heart sinking. "What made you think

so?"

"The Mitchells are back." She laughed significantly, and was gone.

He had his breakfast alone in the pretty dining-room below, and at once

started to town. His first thought was that he would go to the bank,

but he decided otherwise. He shrank from the formality of greeting the

employees in his present frame of mind. No, he would simply see Marie

at once and face the inevitable. The earliness of the hour--it was only

nine o'clock--would make no difference with her. In fact, by seeking

her at once he might prevent her from looking for him. It would be

dangerous, he was well aware of that, but the danger would not be any

the greater under the roof of her cottage than at the bank, or even in

the streets. He decided not to call a cab. The distance was less than a

mile, and the walk would perhaps calm him and might furnish some

inspiration as to his dealings with her.

Marie Winship lived in a quiet part of the city, near Decatur Street,

and after a brisk walk he found himself at her door ringing the bell.

He was kept waiting several minutes, and this was awkward, for he was

afraid that some one in passing might recognize him and remark upon his

presence there so early in the day. However, no one passed, and he was

admitted by a yellow-skinned maid.

"Miss Marie just now got up," she said, as she left him to go into the

little parlor off the hall.

"Tell her, Mary, that I want to see her, but not to hurry, for I have

plenty of time," Mostyn said, "I have just got back."

"Yes, sir; I heard her say she was 'spectin' you to-day."

He had an impulse to make inquiries of the girl regarding her

mistress's disposition, but a certain evasive, almost satirical

expression in her eyes prevented it. He was sure the maid was trying to

avoid any sort of conference with him.

He sat down at one of the two windows of the room and looked at the

cheap, gaudy furniture--the green-plush-covered chairs of imitation

mahogany; the flaming rugs; the little upright piano; the square

center-table, on which were scattered a deck of playing-cards; some

thin whisky glasses; a brass tray of cigarettes. Four straight-backed

chairs at the table told a story, as did the burnt matches and

cigar-stubs on the hearth. Marie was not without associates, both male

and female.

He heard voices in the rear of the cottage. He recognized Marie's

raised angrily. Then it died away, to be succeeded by the low mumbling

of the maid's. Suddenly Mostyn noticed a thing which fixed his gaze as

perhaps no other inanimate object could have done. Partly hidden

beneath the blue satin scarf on the piano was a good-sized revolver.

Rising quickly, he took it up and examined it. It was completely loaded.

"She really is desperate!" He suddenly chilled through and through.

"She got this for me."

He heard a step in the rear, and, quickly dropping the revolver into

his coat pocket, he stood expectantly waiting. She was coming. Her

tread alone betrayed excitement. The next instant she stood before him.

She was a girl under twenty-two, a pretty brunette, with Italian cast

of features, and a pair of bright, dark eyes, now ablaze with fury.

"So you are here at last?" she panted, pushing the door to and leaning

against it.

"Yes, Saunders gave me your letter yesterday," he answered.

"I thought it would bring you." Her pretty lips were parted, the lower

hung quivering. "If you hadn't come right away you would have regretted

it to the last day of your life--huh! and that might not have been very

far off, either."

"I did not like the--the tone of your letter, Marie." He was trying to

be firm. "You see, you--"

"Didn't like it? Pooh!" she broke in. "Do you think I care a snap what

you like or don't like? You've got to settle with me, and quick, too,

for something you did--"

"I _did?_" he gasped, in slow surprise. "Why, what have I--"

"I'll tell you what you did," the woman blazed out, standing so close

to him now that he felt her fierce breath on his face. "Shortly before

you left you were taken sick at the bank, or fainted, or something like

it, and didn't even tell me about it. I read it in the paper. I was

beneath your high-and-mighty notice--dirt under your feet. But the next

day you went driving with Irene Mitchell. You passed within ten feet of

me at the crossing of Whitehall Street and Marietta. You saw me as

plainly as you see me now, and yet you turned your head away. You

thought"--here an actual oath escaped the girl's lips--"you were afraid

of what that stuck-up fool of a woman would think. She knows about

us--she's heard; she recognized me. I saw it in her eyes. She

deliberately sneered at me, and you--_you contemptible puppy!_--you

didn't even raise your hat to me after all your sickening, gushing

protestations. I want to tell you right now, Dick Mostyn, that you

can't walk over me. I'm ready for you, and I'm tired of this whole

business."

He was wisely silent. She was pale and quivering all over. He wondered

how he could ever have thought her attractive or pretty. Her face was

as repulsive as death could have made it. Aimlessly she picked up a

cigarette only to crush it in her fingers as she went on.

"Answer me, Dick Mostyn, why did you treat me that way?"

"My fainting at the bank was nothing," he faltered. "I didn't think it

was of enough importance to mention, and as for my not speaking to you

on the street, you know that you and I have positively agreed that our

relations were to be unknown. People have talked about us so much,

anyway, that I did not want to make it worse than it already is.

Besides--now, you must be reasonable. The last time I paid you a

thousand dollars in a lump you agreed that you would not bother me any

more. You were to do as you wished, and I was free to do the same, and

yet, already--"

_"Bother you! bother you!_ Is that the way to talk to me? Am I the scum

of creation all at once? Didn't you make me what I am? Haven't you

sworn that you care more for me than any one else? I was pretty,

according to you. I was lovely. I was bright--brighter and better-read

than any of your dirty, stuck-up set. You said you'd rather be with me

than with any one else, but since then you've begun to think of

marrying that creature for her money. Oh, I know that's it--you

couldn't love a cold, haughty stick like she is. You are not made that

way, but you _do_ love money; you want what she's got, and if you are

let alone you will marry her."

"I have no such idea, Marie," he said, falteringly.

"You are a liar, a deliberate, sneaking liar. Money is your god, and

always will be."

He made no further denial. They faced each other in perturbed silence

for a moment. Presently, to his relief, he saw her face softening, and

he took advantage of it. "Marie," he said, "you are not treating me

right. My conscience is clear in regard to you. I made you no promises.

I paid your expenses, and you were satisfied. You are the one who has

broken faith. Above all it was understood between us that I was not to

be bound to you in any way. I have been indulging you, and you are

growing more and more exacting. You are not fair--not fair. You went

openly to my place of business. You made threatening remarks about me

to my partner. You are trying to ruin me."

"Ruin you?" she smiled. "There are things worse than ruin. If I could

have gotten your address I'd have followed you and shot you like a dog!"

"I am not surprised," he said, calmly. "By accident I found the thing

you intended to do it with."

Her startled eyes crawled from his face to the piano. She strode to it,

threw back the scarf, and stood facing him.

"You have it?" she said.

He touched his bulging pocket. "Yes, I may use it on myself," he

retorted, grimly. "You say you've had enough; well, so have I. I have

sown my wild oats, Marie, but they have grown to a jungle around me.

During my vacation I made up my mind to turn over a new leaf, but I

suppose I have gone too far for that sort of thing. I couldn't marry

you--"

"You'd rather die than do it, hadn't you?" The woman's voice broke.

"Well, I can't blame you. I really can't." Her breast rose and shook.

"The devil is in me, Dick. It has been in me ever since--ever

since--but it won't do any good to talk about that. I am down and out."

"What do you mean?" He sank into one of the chairs heavily, his

despondent stare fixed on her softened face. "You may as well tell me.

I am ready for anything now."

"Oh, it is a family matter." She evaded his eyes. "There is no use

going over it, but it has thoroughly undone me."

"Tell me about it," he urged. "Why not?"

Eyes downcast, she hesitated a moment. Then: "You've heard me speak of

my brother Hal, who is in business in Texas. You know he and I are the

only ones of my family left. He is still a boy to me, and I have always

loved him. He is in trouble. He has been speculating and taking money

that did not belong to him. Through him his house has lost ten thousand

dollars. I've had six appealing letters from his wife--she is

desperate."

"Oh, I see," Mostyn said. "That is bad. Is--is he in prison?"

"No--not yet." Marie choked up. "The firm has an idea that his friends

may help him restore the money, and they won't prosecute if he can make

the loss good. He has been hoping to get help out there among his

wife's people, but has failed. The time is nearly up--only two days

left, and I--My God, do you think I can live after that boy is put in

jail? It has made a fiend of me, for if I hadn't taken up with you I

would have gone to Texas with him and it might not have happened. There

is a streak of bad blood in our family. My father was none too good. He

was like you, able to dodge the law, that's all. But poor Hal didn't

cover his tracks."

"Stop, Marie!" Mostyn demanded, in rising anger. "What do you mean by

mentioning _me_ in that sort of connection?"

"Humph! What do I mean? Well, I mean that men say--oh, I've heard them

talk! I don't have to tell you who said it, but I have heard them say

if you hadn't broken old Mr. Henderson all to pieces several years ago

you'd never have been where you are to-day."

"You don't understand that, Marie," Mostyn answered, impatiently.

"Henderson took it to court, and the decision was--"

"Oh, I know!" She tossed her head. "Your lawyers pulled you through for

a rake-off, and the Henderson girls went to work. They live in a shabby

little four-room house not far from here. I often see them at the

wash-tub in the back yard. The old man hates you like a snake, and so

do the girls. I can't blame them. When you get down in the very dregs

through dealing with a person you learn how to hate. The thing stays in

the mind night and day till it festers like a boil and you want to even

up some way."

"Marie, listen to me," Mostyn began, desperately deliberate. "Why can't

we come to an agreement? You want to help your brother out of his

trouble, I am sure. Now, that is a big amount of money, as you know,

and even a banker can't always get up ready funds in such quantities as

that, but suppose I give it to you?"

"You--you give it to me?" she stammered, incredulously, her lips

falling apart, her white teeth showing. "Why, you said, not a month

ago, that you were too hard pushed for money even to--"

"This is different," he broke in. "Through your conduct you are

actually driving me to the wall and I am desperate. I am ready to make

this proposition to you. I will get up that money. I'll send you a

draft for it to-day provided--provided, Marie, that you solemnly agree

not to disturb me at all in the future."

"Do you really mean it?" She leaned forward, eagerly. "Because--because

if you _don't_ you ought not to mention it. I'd cut off my hands and

feet to save that dear boy."

"I mean it," he answered, firmly. "But this time you must keep your

promise, and, no matter what I do in the future, you must not molest

me."

"I am willing, Dick. I agree. I love you--I really do, but from now on

you may go your way and I'll go mine. I swear it. May I--may I

telegraph Hal that--"

"Yes, telegraph him that the money is on the way to him," Mostyn said.

Marie sank into a chair opposite him and rested her tousled head on her

crossed arms. A trembling sob escaped her, and she looked up. He saw

tears filling her eyes. "After all, I may not be so very, very bad,"

she said, "for this will be a merciful act, and it comes through my

knowing you."

"But it must be the end, Marie," he urged, firmly. "It is costing me

more than you can know, but I must positively be free."

"I know it," she answered. "I will let you alone, Dick. You may

marry--you may do as you like from now on."

"Then it is positively settled," he said, a new light flaring in his

eyes. "For good and all, we understand each other."

"Yes, for good and all," she repeated, her glance on the floor.

A moment later he was in the street. The sun had never shown more

brightly, the sky had never seemed so fathomless and blue. He inhaled a

deep breath. He felt as if he were swimming through the air.

"Free, free!" he chuckled, "free at last!"

Reaching the bank, he was about to enter when he met, coming out, a

dark, straight-haired, beardless young man who promptly grasped his

hand. It was Alan Delbridge.

"Hello!" Delbridge said, with a laugh. "Glad to see you back. You look

better. The wild woods have put new life in you. I knew you'd come as

soon as the Mitchells got home."

"It wasn't that," Mostyn said, lamely.

"Oh, of course not," Delbridge laughed. "You were not at all curious to

learn the particulars of the old chap's big deal--oh no, you are not

that sort! A hundred or two thousand to the credit of a fellow's

fiancee doesn't amount to anything with a plunger like you."

Mostyn laid a hesitating hand on the shoulder of the other.

"Say, Delbridge," he faltered, "this sort of thing has gone far enough.

I am not engaged to the young lady in question, and--"

"Oh, come off!" Delbridge's laugh was even more persistent. "Tell that

to some one else. You see, I _know_. The old man confides in me--not in

just so many words, you know, but he lets me understand. He says you

and he are going to put some whopping big deals through, presumably

after you take up your quarters under his vine and fig tree."

Mostyn started to protest further, but with another laugh the financier

was off.

"Ten thousand dollars!" he thought, as he moved on. "He speaks of my

business head; what would he think of the investment I have just made?

He would call me a weakling. That is what I am. I have always been one.

The woman doesn't live who could worry him for a minute. But it is

ended now. I have had my lesson, and I sha'n't forget it."

At his desk in his closed office a few minutes later he took a blank

check, and, dipping his pen, he carefully filled it in. Mechanically he

waved it back and forth in the warm air. Suddenly he started; a sort of

shock went through him. How odd that he had not once, in all his

excitement, thought of Dolly Drake! Was it possible that his

imagination had tricked him into believing that he loved the girl and

could make actual sacrifices for her? Why, already she was like a

figment in some evanescent dream. What had wrought the change? Was it

the sight of Delbridge and his mention of Mostyn's financial prowess?

Was it the fellow's confident allusion to Mitchell and his daughter?

Had the buzz and hum of business, the fever of conquest, already

captured and killed the impulses which in the mountains had seemed so

real, so permanent, so redemptive?

"Dolly, dear, beautiful Dolly!" he said, but the whispered words

dropped lifeless from his lips. "I have broken promises, but I shall

keep those made to you. You are my turning-point. You are to be my

wife. I have fancied myself in love often before and been mistaken, but

the man does not live who could be untrue to a girl like you. You have

made a man of me. I will be true--I will be honest with you. I swear

it! I swear it!"

CHAPTER XV

A little later he and his sister were at luncheon in her dining-room.

"I am losing patience with you, Dick," she said, as she poured his tea.

"Is that anything new?" he ventured to jest, while wondering what might

lay in the little woman's mind.

"You are too strenuous," she smiled, as she dropped two lumps of sugar

into his cup. "Entirely too much so. I saw from your face this morning

that you are already undoing the effects of your vacation. The old

glare is back in your eyes; your hands shake. I really must warn you.

You know our father died from softening of the brain, which was brought

on by financial worry. You are killing yourself, and for no reason in

the world. Look at Alan Delbridge. He is the ideal man of affairs.

Nothing disturbs him."

"It is always Delbridge, Delbridge!" Mostyn said, testily. "Even _you_

can't keep from hurling him in my teeth. He is as cold-blooded as a

fish. Why should I want to be like him?"

"Well, take Jarvis Saunders, then," she returned. "What more success

could a man want than he gets? I like to talk to him. He has a helpful

philosophy of life. When he leaves his desk he is as happy and free as

a boy out of school. I saw him pitching and catching ball in a vacant

lot with one of your clerks the other day. Is it any wonder that so

many mothers of unmarried daughters consider him a safe catch for their

girls? I am not punning; he really is wonderful."

"Oh, I know it," Mostyn answered, drinking his tea, impatiently. "I was

not made like him. I am not to blame."

Mrs. Moore eyed him silently for a moment, then a serious expression

settled on her florid face. "Well," she ejaculated, "when are you going

to make a real clean breast of it?"

A shudder passed through him. She knew what had brought him home.

Marie's hysterical protest had leaked out. The girl had talked to

others besides Saunders.

"What do you mean?" He asked the question quite aimlessly. He avoided

her eyes.

"I want to know about your latest love affair," she laughed, softly.

"Just one line in your last letter meant more to me than all the rest

of it put together. As soon as I heard you were staying at Drake's I

began to expect it. So I was not surprised. You see, I saw her a year

ago. Jarvis introduced us one day. He put himself out to do it.

According to him, she was wonderful, a genius, and what not."

"You mean Dolly?" Mostyn's tongue felt thick and inactive.

"Yes, I mean _Dolly_." Mrs. Moore continued to laugh. "When I saw her

she was young enough to play with a doll, though I believe she was

reading some serious book. Well, she _is_ pretty--I can't dispute

it--and Jarvis declares she is more than that. To do her full justice,

she looked like a girl of strong character. I remember how the young

thing stared through her long lashes at me that day. Yes, I knew she

would turn your head. Dick, you are a man summer flirt. You are even

more; you enjoy the distinction of actually believing, temporarily, at

least, in every flirtation you indulge in. You have imagination, and it

plays you terrible pranks. You wouldn't have been home so soon--you

would even have been in your usual hot water over the girl--but for

your obligation to Irene Mitchell."

Mostyn tried to be resolute. He was conscious of his frailty of

purpose, of his lack of sincerity when he spoke.

"I am not obligated to Irene, and, what is more, Bess, I have

positively made up my mind to marry the little girl you are speaking

of."

The woman's eyes flickered, her lips became more rigid. It was as if a

certain pallor lay beneath her transparent skin and was forcing itself

out. He heard her exhale a long breath.

"To think that you could actually sit here and say as ridiculous a

thing as that to me in a serious tone," she said, in an attempt at

lightness. "Why, Dick, whatever your faults are, you are _not_ a fool."

"I hope not," he said, weakly defiant. "I really care very much for the

girl. You see, I knew her three years ago. You needn't oppose me, Bess;

I have made up my mind."

"You have done no such thing!" Mrs. Moore blurted out. "That is the

pity of it--the absurdity of it. You haven't made up your mind--that is

just exactly what you haven't done. You thought you had, I don't doubt,

when you said good-by to her, but already you are full of doubt, and in

a frightful stew. You show it in your face. You know and I know that

you cannot carry that thing through. You are not that type of man.

Jarvis Saunders could. If he ever marries, he will marry like that. It

wouldn't surprise me to see him walk off any day with some

stenographer, with nothing but a shirt-waist for a trousseau, but

you--_you_--Oh, Lord! You are quite a different proposition."

"You think you know me, Bess, but--"

"I am the only person who _does_ know you," she broke in. "I have

watched you since you were in the cradle. When you were ten you fell in

love with a little girl and cried when she fell and bruised her nose.

You have imagined yourself in love dozens of times, and have learned

nothing from it. But we are losing time. Tell me one thing, and let's

be done with it. Have you engaged yourself to this _new_ one?"

"No, but--"

"Thank God for the 'but,' and let it go at that," she laughed, more

freely. "I understand why you didn't better than you do. You doubted

your own feelings. You thought you would for once in your life think it

over."

"It was not that which held me back."

"I know; it was Irene Mitchell, her fine prospects, and your natural

good horse sense. Dick, you couldn't carry that silly dream through to

save your life. You are not made that way. Suppose you really married

that little country thing. What would you do with her? Well, I'll tell

you. You would break her heart--that's what you'd do. You couldn't fit

her into your life if you were deity itself and she were an archangel.

She seemed perfect up there in her Maud Muller surroundings, but here

in this mad town she would be afraid of you, and you would--ask her to

keep her finger out of her mouth. Why, you would be the joke of every

soul in Atlanta. Mr. Mitchell would despise you. You would lose his

influence. In fact, my dear boy, you have gone too far with Irene

Mitchell to turn back now. You may not be actually engaged to her, but

she and everybody else consider it settled. For you to marry any one

else now--to turn a woman like Irene down, after the way you have

acted--would ruin you socially. The men would kick you out of your

club. You'd never hold your head up afterward. Oh, I'm glad I got at

you this morning. It would be a crime against that mountain child to

bring her here on account of your--Dick, I have to speak plainly, more

plainly than I ever did before. But it is for your good. Dick, passion

is the greatest evil on earth. It has wrought more harm than anything

else. Passion often fools the wisest of men. To be plain, you think, or

thought, that you loved that pretty girl, but you do not and did not.

It was simply passion in a new and more subtle dress. Up there, with

plenty of time on your hands, you looked back on your life and became

sick of it (for you have been wild and thoughtless--not worse than many

others perhaps, but bad enough). You were disgusted and decided to make

a fresh start. But what sort of start appealed to you? It wasn't to

build a hospital with the better part of your capital. It wasn't really

to undo any of the little things more or less wrong in your past. Oh

no, it was something much more to your fancy. You decided to marry the

youngest, most physically perfect girl you had ever found. You may have

told yourself that you would lift her a bit socially, that you would

aid her people, make her happy, and what not. But passion was at the

bottom of it. Real love does not feed on ideal forms and perfect

complexions. The man who marries beneath himself for only a pair of

bright eyes is the prime fool of the universe--the whole world loves to

sneer at him and watch his prize fade on his hands. Real love is above

doubt and suspicion, but you would doubt that girl's honesty at the

slightest provocation. Let another man be alone with her for a moment,

and you--"

The remainder fell on closed ears. He was thinking of the night he

stood watching Dolly's window in the moonlight. How true were the words

just uttered! Had he not suspected Dolly, even when she had been most

courageous and self-sacrificing? How well his sister understood him!

Just then the telephone bell rang. A maid-servant went to it and spoke

in a low tone. Presently she came to the door and called her mistress.

Mostyn sat limp, cold, undecided, miserable.

"She is right," he whispered, finding himself alone. "She is right. My

God, she is right! I am a fool, and yet--and yet--what _am_ I to do?"

Mrs. Moore came in at the door, a significant smile playing between her

eyes and lips. He was too despondent to be curious as to its cause.

"Guess who had me on the 'phone?" she asked, sitting down in her chair.

"How could I know?" he answered, too gloomy to fight his gloom.

"Nobody but the most rational, well-rounded, stylish woman in Atlanta.

It was my future sister-in-law, Irene Mitchell. She has had her little

dream, too, and survived it. She thought she cared a lot for Andrew

Buckton--or, rather, she liked to think that he was crazy about her,

but he is penniless--has no more energy than a pet kitten, and,

sensible girl that she is, she took her father's advice and sent him

adrift. Everybody knows that affair is dead. He followed her away this

summer, but came back with a long face, completely beaten. Dick, you

are lucky."

"What was she telephoning you about?" Mostyn asked, listlessly.

"You."

"Me?"

"Yes; she asked for you."

"And you didn't call me?" He was studying the designing face

apathetically.

"No, I fibbed out and out. I told her you were not here yet, but that I

expected you to lunch every minute. Then, as sweetly as you please, I

offered to deliver the message. It was as I thought, an invitation to

dinner to-night. I knew you were in no shape to talk into a 'phone--the

service is so bad lately--so I accepted for you, like the good sister I

am."

He found himself unable to reply. Suddenly she rose, bent over him, and

kissed him on the brow.

"Silly, silly boy!" she said, and left the room.

CHAPTER XVI

That evening at dusk, when Mostyn reached Mitchell's house, he found

the old gentleman smoking on the veranda.

"I looked for you earlier," he said, turning his cigar between his lips

and smiling cordially as he extended his hand. "You used to be more

prompt than this. We won't stand formality from you, young man."

"I had a lot of work to do," Mostyn said. "Saunders let it pile up on

me while I was away."

"I see." Mitchell stroked his gray beard. "He is getting to be a great

lover of nature, isn't he? I went in to see him about something the

other day, and I could hardly get his attention. He has just bought a

new microscope and wanted to show me how it worked. He had put a drop

of stagnant water on a glass slide and declared he could see all sorts

of sharks, whales, and sea-serpents in it. I tried, but I couldn't see

anything. There are plenty of _big_ affairs for fellows like you and me

to choke and throttle without hunting for things too small for the

naked eye."

A flash of light from behind fell upon them. A maid was lighting the

gas in the drawing-room. Mostyn saw the cut-glass pendants of the

crystal chandelier blaze in prismatic splendor. His mind was far from

the lined countenance before him. He was heavy with indecision. His

sister's confident derision clung to him like a menace from some

infinite source.

"A man never marries his ideal." He remembered the words spoken by a

college-mate who was contemplating marriage. Mostyn shuddered even as

he smiled. It was doubtlessly true, and yet he had gone too far with

Dolly to desert her now. He couldn't bear to have her know him for the

weakling that he was. The next moment even Dolly was snatched from his

reflections, sharp irritation and anger taking her place, for Mitchell

was speaking of Delbridge and his recent good fortune.

"You two are a wonderful pair to live in the same town," Mitchell

chuckled. "I have been in his office several times since we got home.

Not having you to loaf with, I turned to him for pastime. He certainly

is a cool hand in a deal. He doesn't get excited in a crisis, as you

do, and when he wins big stakes he hardly seems to notice it. Ten

minutes after he got the wire on his good luck the other day he could

talk of nothing better than a new golf-course he is planning."

"He is nothing more nor less than a gambler," Mostyn said, with

irritation. "He is on top now, but he may drop like a load of bricks

any minute. Who can tell?"

"Oh, _you_ needn't be jealous of him," Mitchell began, blandly. "He

can't crow over _you_."

"Jealous of him!" Mostyn smirked. "I am not jealous of any one, much

less Delbridge."

"Of course not, of course not," and the old man laid a caressing hand

on Mostyn's shoulder. "You don't play second fiddle to any man in

Georgia in _my_ opinion. I know your ability well enough. If I didn't I

wouldn't trust you as I do. Lord, I've told you everything. We are

going to work together, my boy; I have some big plans. Of course,

Saunders told you of my land deal?"

"Yes, that was fine," Mostyn said. "A big thing."

"I owe it all to you, and wanted to ask your advice before closing

out"--Mitchell glowed with contentment--"but as you were not here, I

went it alone. The parties seemed to be in a hurry, and I was afraid

they might accidentally change their minds, so I took them up."

Throwing his cigar into the grass, Mitchell led the way into the

drawing-room. His hand was now on Mostyn's arm. In the hall they met

Jincy, the maid. "Tell my daughter to order dinner," he said, curtly,

"and ask her to come down."

The two men stood near the big screened fireplace and plain white

marble mantelpiece. There was a rustling sound on the stair in the

hall, and Irene came in. She was beautifully attired in a gown Mostyn

had not yet seen. It was most becoming. How strange! There seemed,

somehow, to-night more about her to admire than on any former occasion.

Was it due to his return to his proper social plane? Was the other life

sheer delusion? What exquisite poise! What easy, erect grace! Her whole

being was stamped with luxurious self-confidence. How soft was the feel

of her delicate fingers as they touched his! Why had he clasped them so

warmly? How charming the gentle and seductive glance of her eyes! He

caught himself staring at her in a sort of reluctant pride of personal

ownership. He thought of Dolly Drake, and a glaring contrast rose

darkly before him. He fancied himself confessing his intentions to

Irene and shuddering under her incredulous stare. How could he explain?

And yet, of course, she must be told--her father must be told. All his

friends must know. And talk--how they would chatter and--laugh!

"You certainly look improved," Irene cried, as she surveyed him

admiringly. "You are quite tanned. Fishing or hunting every day, I

suppose."

"Nearly," he answered.

"Cousin Kitty Langley is here to spend the night," Irene went on. "But

I can't persuade her to come down to dinner. She is not hungry and is

buried in a novel. She was at a tea this afternoon and ate too many

sandwiches."

"Humph!" Mitchell sniffed, playfully. "You know that wasn't it. She

asked Jincy to bring something up to her. She told me she simply would

not break in on you two this first evening."

"Father is getting to be a great tease, Dick," Irene smiled. "The money

he has made lately has fairly turned his head. Please don't notice

him." The colored butler had come to the door, and stood waiting

silently to catch her eye. Seeing him, she asked:

"Is everything ready, Jasper?"

He bowed. He looked the ideal servant in his dark-blue suit, high

collar, and stiff white waistcoat. A wave of revulsion passed over

Mostyn. He was thinking of the crude dining-room in the mountains;

Drake, without his coat, his hair unkempt; Mrs. Drake in her soiled

print dress and fire-flushed face, nervously waving the peacock

fly-brush over the coarse dishes; Ann and George, as presentable as

Dolly could make them, prodding and kicking each other beneath the

table when they thought themselves unobserved; John Webb, with his

splotched face in his plate; and Dolly--the sweetest, prettiest,

bravest, most patient little woman Time had ever produced, and yet,

what had that to do with the grim demands of social life? Was his

sister right? Was his interest in the girl grounded only in a subtle

form of restrained passion? Would he tire of her; would he be ashamed

of her, here amid these surroundings? In fancy he saw Mitchell staring

contemptuously at the little interloper. After all, had any man the

right to inflict an ordeal of that sort upon an unsuspecting child?

Plainly, no; and there would be no alternative but for him to renounce

city life and live with her in the mountains. But could he possibly do

such a thing? Had he the requisite moral strength for a procedure so

foreign from his nature? Was his desire for reformation as strong as he

had once thought it? Perhaps his release from Marie Winship's

threatening toils had something to do with his present relapse from

good intentions. He remembered how he had been stirred by the

impassioned words of the mystic tramp preacher. How clear the way had

seemed at that sunlit moment; how intricate and difficult now!

Mitchell led the way out to dinner, Irene's calm hand on the arm of the

guest. What a superb figure she made at the head of the splendid table

under the pink lights of the candle-shades! How gracefully she ordered

this away, and that brought, even while she laughed and chatted so

delightfully. And she--_she_--that superb woman of birth, manners, and

position--could be had for the asking. Not only that, but the whole

horrible indecision which lay on him like a nightmare could in that way

be brushed aside. He felt the blood of shame rush to his face, but it

ran back to its source in a moment. Dolly would soon forget him. She

would marry some mountaineer, perhaps the teacher, Warren Wilks, and in

that case the man would take her into his arms, and--No, Mostyn's blood

boiled and beat in his brain with the sudden passionate fury of a

primitive man; that would be unbearable. She had said she had kissed no

other man and never would. Yes, she was his; her whole wonderful, warm,

throbbing being was his; and yet--and yet how could it be?

"You seem preoccupied." Irene smiled on him. "Are you already worried

over business?"

"I'm afraid I always have more or less to bother me," he answered,

evasively. "Then, too, a hot, dusty bank is rather depressing after

pure open mountain air."

"I had exactly that feeling when we returned," she smiled. "We

certainly had a glorious time. We had quite an Atlanta group with us,

you know, and we kept together. The others said we were clannish and

stuck-up, but we didn't care. We played all sorts of pranks after

father went to bed."

"You would have thought so if you had heard them, Dick," the old man

said, dryly. "They stayed up till three one morning and raised such a

row that the other guests of the hotel threatened to call in the

police."

"It was the greatest lark I ever was in," Irene declared, with a hearty

laugh. "That night Cousin Kitty put on a suit of Andy Buckton's

clothes. In the dark we all took her for a boy. She was the most

comical thing you ever saw. I laughed till I was sick."

Dinner over, they went out to the veranda. The lawn stretched green and

luscious down to the white pavement under the swinging arc light over

the street. Mitchell left them seated in a hammock and sauntered down

to the side fence, where he stood talking to a neighbor who was

sprinkling his lawn with a hose and nozzle.

At eleven o'clock Irene went up to her cousin, finding the young lady

still reading her novel under the green shade of a drop-light. Miss

Langley was a good-looking girl, slender, small of limb, active in

movement, and a blonde.

"Well," she said, closing her book and looking up, sleepily, "I wanted

to see what is coming to this pair of sweethearts, but they can wait. I

am anxious to know what is going on in real life. I am tired of the

poky way you and Dick Mostyn are courting. I want to be a swell

bridesmaid, I do."

"Oh, you do?" Irene sat down in an easy-chair, and, locking her hands

behind her head, she leaned back and sighed.

"Yes, I do. You were sure he would propose to-night. Well, did he--did

he? That is what I want to know."

"Oh yes, it is settled." Irene transferred her linked hands to her

knee, and leaned forward. "Kitty, I may be making a big mistake, but

the die is cast. There was nothing else to do. You know how silly

father is. You know, too, that poor Andy was out of the question."

"Yes, he was," Miss Langley agreed. "From every possible point of view.

He adores you--he will no doubt suffer some, but you could not have

married him."

"No, it wouldn't have done," Irene sighed, deeply. "I'm afraid I'll

never feel right about it, but the poor boy understands. The way father

bore with him and snubbed him on that trip was humiliating."

"So Dick declared himself?" Miss Langley smiled. "I wonder how he led

up to it--he is a blooming mystery to me."

Irene tittered. "The truth is, I helped him out. Do you know, he is

more sensitive than most persons think, and that side of him was

uppermost to-night. I really felt sorry for him. He spoke frankly of

having serious faults and being heartily ashamed of his past life. I

think I know what he was hinting at. You know we have both heard

certain reports."

"Not any more of him than any other man we know," Kitty said, with a

shrug. "Andy Buckton, with his Presbyterian bringing-up, may be an

exception, but he is about the only one in our crowd. They are all bad,

I tell you, and a woman may as well make up her mind to it and hope

marriage will cure the brute."

"I liked the way Dick talked to-night very, very much," Irene resumed,

reflectively. "He declared he was unworthy of me. Do you know he is

sensitive over a certain thing, and I admire it in him."

"What is that?" the other asked.

"Why, out on the steps to-night, after father had gone in, Dick seemed

very much depressed. He was worried about something, and I determined

to discover what it was. What do you think? The silly fellow was really

upset by the money father has recently made; he never has liked the

idea of marrying an heiress, and, you see, I am more of one now than I

was a month ago."

"Somehow, I don't read him that way," Miss Langley mused, "but I may be

wrong. So it is really settled?"

"Yes, it is settled. It was the common-sense thing to do. I am going to

put Andy out of my mind. Poor boy! he is lovely, isn't he? What do you

think he will do about it, Kitty?"

"Mope around like a sick cat for a month," the girl answered; "then he

will marry some one else, and wonder what on earth he ever saw in you

to be daft about."

"I don't believe it," Irene said, firmly. "Kitty, that boy will never

marry; he will never love any other woman. If I thought he would--"

Irene hesitated, a deepening stare in her eyes.

"You'd not marry Dick--Poof! Wouldn't you be a pretty idiot? If you

read as many novels as I do you'd know that sentimental, puppy love is

a delusion and a snare. Let it alone. You and Dick Mostyn are doing the

only rational thing. You will be an ideal couple. Gosh, I wish I had

some of the money you will have!"

CHAPTER XVII

One morning a few days later Mostyn entered the bank and went directly

to his office. He had been seated at his desk only a moment when

Wright, the cashier, came in smiling suavely. There was a conscious

flush on his face which extended into his bald pate, and his eyes were

gleaming.

"I want to congratulate you," he said. "We've all been reading the

account in the paper this morning. Of course, we've suspected it for

some time, but didn't want to talk about it till it was announced."

"I haven't seen the article," Mostyn answered, in a tone of curbed

irritation. "It was written by some woman society reporter. Miss

Langley told me to look out for it. I think she furnished the

information."

"Very likely," Wright answered. "Women like nothing better than a

wedding in high life."

"Has Saunders come down yet?" the banker inquired.

"Yes, he is at his desk. He just got back from his farm this morning."

"Please tell him"--Mostyn deliberated--"tell him when he is fully at

liberty that I'd like to see him."

A moment later Saunders opened the door and came in. A grave look was

on his face, and he failed to respond to Mostyn's "Good morning." He

paused, and stood leaning on the top of the desk, his glance averted.

"Wright says you wish to see me," he began.

"Yes, sit down; pull that chair up."

Saunders complied, his eyes on the floor.

"I suppose you've seen the morning paper?" Mostyn asked.

"You mean the--announcement of your--"

"Yes, of course."

"I saw the head-lines. I didn't read it through."

Silence crept between the two men. Mostyn touched a paper-weight with

his slender, bloodless fingers, drew it toward him aimlessly, and then

pushed it back.

"There is a matter," he began, awkwardly, "which I want to speak to you

about. It is due you to know why I drew out that ten thousand dollars.

It went to Marie Winship. If you are not satisfied with the collateral

I can put up something else."

"It is all right." Saunders dropped the words frigidly. "I knew it was

for her. The truth is, I supposed that little less would quiet her."

"You, no doubt, consider me the champion idiot of the world." Mostyn

essayed a smile, but it was a lifeless thing at best, and left his face

more grimly masked than before. "However, it is all over now. She is

satisfied, and agrees to quit hounding me from now on."

Saunders snapped his fingers impulsively, tossed his head, started to

speak, but remained silent.

"Why did you--do that?" Mostyn demanded, yielding to irritation against

his will.

"Oh, there is no use going into it," Saunders said, sharply, "but if

you think ten thousand dollars will stop a creature of that stamp, your

long experience with such women has not taught you much. She will dog

you to the end of her days."

"I don't think so, Jarvis." Mostyn seldom used Saunders's Christian

name, and it came out now in a tone of all but insistent conciliation.

"By giving her the money just now I rendered her a peculiar service.

She wanted it to save her brother from arrest and disgrace."

"And you think that will silence her permanently? Well, it won't. You

will hear from her again, if I am any sort of judge."

"You take a gloomy view of it," Mostyn protested. "In fact, I don't

exactly know how to make you out to-day. You seem different. Surely you

don't oppose my--my marriage?"

"Not in the slightest. I have scarcely thought of it."

"Well, then, what is the matter?"

The sudden set silence after such a demand showed plainly that the

question was well-timed. Mostyn repeated it less urgently, but he

repeated it.

"I have just got back from my plantation"--Saunders glanced at the

closed door furtively--"and while I was there I heard some slight

gossip about your attentions to my little friend Dolly Drake. You know

mountain people, Mostyn, usually make as much as possible of such

things. The truth is, some have gone so far as to say that you and

_she_ were likely to marry."

Mostyn's tanned skin faintly glowed. "They have no--no right to go so

far as that," he stammered. "I was with her a good deal, for, as you

know, she is very entertaining."

"No one knows it better," Saunders said, firmly. "She is the most

courageous, beautiful, and brilliant creature I have ever met. More

than that, she has long been the most wronged. She has her whole

family, including her moonshining father, on her frail shoulders. It is

because of these things that I am tempted to speak plainly about a

certain--"

"Go on." Mostyn swallowed anxiously, for his partner had paused.

"I have no personal right to inquire into your conduct," Saunders

continued, "but a certain thing has filled me with fear--fear for that

poor child's happiness. I met her yesterday near her school, and the

awful look in her face haunted me through the night. She had nothing to

say, no questions to ask, but the dumb look of despair in her eyes

could not be misread. I have known you a long time, Mostyn, and I can't

remember your failing to make love to every pretty woman you have been

thrown with. I hope I am mistaken this time--with all my soul, I do."

Mostyn turned in his revolving chair. He tried to meet the cold stare

of his partner steadily. "Jarvis, I am in the deepest trouble that I

ever faced."

"So it is true!" burst from Saunders's lips. "My God, it is true!"

"But don't misunderstand me." Mostyn laid an eager hand on the knee

close to his own. "My reputation is so bad in your eyes that I must

assure you that--that she is as pure as--"

"Stop!" Saunders shook the hand from his knee as if it were a coiled

reptile. "You insult her even by mentioning such a thing. The man does

not live who could tarnish her name. I have watched her since she was a

little child. I know her as well as if she were my sister, and I

respect her as much."

Mostyn was fiery red. "I will justify myself as far as possible," he

blurted out, desperately. "You may not believe it, but as God is my

Judge, I intended, when I left her, to rid myself of Marie Winship and

go back and ask her to be my wife."

"I can well believe it, even of you"--Saunders breathed hard--"and I

know what happened. You were not proof against other influences."

"That is it," Mostyn fairly groaned. "I am as weak as water. I have

wronged that noble girl, but it really was not intentional. Knowing her

has been the one solely uplifting influence of my life. While I was

there I was sure I could be--be worthy of her, but now I know that I am

not."

"No, you are not!" Saunders cried. "You are not. The man does not live

who is worthy of her. And you--_you_, with your past and that foul

stench upon you, actually thought of mating with the purest--ugh! My

God!"

Mostyn blinked; there was no trace of resentment in his manner, only

cringing humiliation.

"What am I to do?" he faltered, helplessly.

"Do? Nothing! There is nothing you can do now. She will read the papers

and know what to expect. It was not you she was in love with, anyway,

Mostyn, but an ideal of her own in regard to you. I don't know her well

enough to know how she will take it. She has had troubles all her life;

this may crown them all; it may drag her down--break her fine

spirit--_kill_ her. Who knows? You've made a great many successful

deals, Mostyn, but this one recently closed for money, as a main

consideration, was deliberately advised by the fiends of hell. You have

sold your birthright, and if you succeed in your investment it will be

because there is no God in the universe. Mark my prediction, the

marriage you are making cannot possibly result in happiness--it cannot,

because you'll never be able to wipe this other thing from your soul."

Mostyn shrank into his chair. "I wouldn't take this from any one else,

Jarvis," he said, almost in a piteous whine. "You have got me down. I'm

in no shape for any sort of resentment."

"You got yourself where you are," Saunders ran on, fiercely. "If I am

indignant, I can't help it. I would give my right arm to help that poor

child, and this powerlessness to act when her suffering is so great

drives me to absolute frankness."

"What is the use to talk more of it?" Mostyn said, desperately. "We are

getting nowhere."

"There is something else, and I must speak of it," Saunders said, more

calmly. "I happen to know the character of Dolly's father perhaps

better than you do, and I must tell you, Mostyn, that he is the most

dangerous man I ever met. It is my duty to put you on your guard. There

is bound to be more or less talk up there, for there are a great many

meddlers, and Tom Drake is more than apt to hear of this thing. If he

does, Mostyn, an army couldn't stop him. When he is wrought up he is

insane. He will come down here and try to kill you. I am going back up

there to-day, and if I can possibly prevent trouble I shall do it."

Mostyn had turned deathly pale. "Surely he would not compromise his

daughter by such a--a step as that," he stammered.

"Few other men would, but Tom Drake is not like other men. I have seen

him fairly froth at the mouth in a fight with three men as big as he

was."

Mostyn's lips moved, but no sound issued. Without another word Saunders

turned and walked away.

"Great God!" Mostyn whispered in agony, "what _am_ I?"

CHAPTER XVIII

That afternoon, Miss Sally-Lou Wartrace, sister of the keeper of the

store at the cross-roads, was at her brother's counter eagerly reading

an Atlanta paper while he stood looking over her shoulder. She had

passed well into spinsterhood, as was shown by the inward sinking of

her cheeks, the downward tendency of the lines about her mouth, the

traces of gray in her brown hair, and a general thinness and stiffness

of frame.

"Well, well, well!" she chuckled, her small, bead-like eyes flashing up

into her brother's face. "So all this time their high and mighty

boarder was engaged to be married. Did you ever in all your life hear

of bigger fools? Mrs. Drake has been so stuck up lately she'd hardly

nod to common folks in the road. She never come right out and said so,

but she actually thought he was settin' up to Dolly. Old Tom did, too."

"Yes, I think Tom was countin' on it purty strong," Wartrace said,

smiling. "I've heard him brag about Mostyn's money and big interests

many a time. He knowed his gal was purty an' smart, an' he didn't see

no reason why Mostyn shouldn't want her, especially as he was about

with her so much."

"That is _it,_" the old maid answered; "Mostyn never lost a chance to

tag on to her. Dolph, mark my words, thar's goin' to be no end o' talk.

Why, didn't Ann just as good as tell me t'other day, on her way home

from school, that she was goin' to a fine finishin'-school in Atlanta?

You know Tom couldn't send 'er. Besides, when I spoke--as I acknowledge

I did--about Dolly an' Mostyn, Ann grinned powerful knowin'-like an'

never denied a thing. Even Ann's got a proud tilt to 'er, an' struts

along like a young peacock. This here article will explode like a

busted gun amongst 'em an' bring the whole bunch down a peg or two. Do

you reckon they've got their paper yet?"

"Not yet," Wartrace answered. "The carrier has to go clean round by

Spriggs's at the foot of the mountain 'fore he gits thar. He generally

hits Tom's place about an hour by sun."

Miss Sally-Lou folded the paper and thrust it into the big pocket of

her print skirt. "I am goin' over thar, Dolph," she said, with a rising

smile. "I wouldn't miss it for a purty."

"You'd better keep out of it," the storekeeper mildly protested. "You

know you have been mixed up in several fusses."

"I don't expect to have a thing to do with this un," was the eager

reply. "But I would just like to see if they really are countin' on a

man of that sort tyin' himself on to a lay-out of their stripe. Nobody

in the valley believed Mr. Mostyn had any such intention. He was just

killin' time an' amusin' hisse'f."

Leaving the store, Miss Sally-Lou strode briskly along the hot, dusty

road toward Drake's. Every now and then a low giggle would escape her

lips, and she would put her thin, gnarled fingers to her mouth as if to

hide her smile from some observer. "John Webb wasn't tuck in by it,

I'll bet," she mused. "He ain't nobody's fool. John's got a long, cool

head on 'im, he has. He kin see through a mill-rock without lookin' in

at the hole."

She found John near the front fence, lazily inspecting a row of

beehives on a weather-beaten bench.

"Think they are goin' to swarm?" Miss Sally-Lou inquired, in her most

seductive tone, as she unlatched the gate and entered.

"Wouldn't be a bit surprised," the bachelor returned, as he

automatically touched his slouch hat. "It is time. We had fresh honey

last year long 'fore this."

"Has Dolly got home from school?" was the next question.

"Yes'm," Webb answered. "She come in a minute ago. She may be lyin'

down. She ain't as well as common; she looks sorter peaked; I told 'er

she'd better take a tonic o' some sort. She's stickin' too close over

them books; she needs exercise, an' plenty of it."

"I hate to bother her if she ain't up an' about"--Miss Wartrace had the

air of a maiden lady who had as soon chat with a bachelor as feast upon

any sort of gossip--"but I'm makin' me a new lawn waist, Mr. John, an'

I want to ask Dolly if she'd put big or little buttons on. She has such

good taste an' knows what the style is."

"By all means git the _right_ sort, Miss Sally-Lou," Webb jested. "If

they are as big as mule-shoes, or as little as gnats' eyes, stick 'em

on."

"You are a great tease," the spinster smirked. "You always have some

joke agin us poor women. You make a lot of fun, but you like to see us

look our best, I'll bound you."

John's freckled face bore vague evidence of denial, but he said

nothing. He moved toward the farthest hive and bent down as if to

inspect the tiny entrance.

"Well, I'll run in a minute," she said. "Watch out an' don't git stung."

"If I do it will be by a _bee_," said the philosopher to himself, "an'

not by no woman o' _that_ stripe. Lord, folks advise me to set up to

that critter! She'd talk a deef man to death. He'd kill hisse'f makin'

signs to 'er to stop."

The visitor ascended the steps, crossed the porch, and, without rapping

at the door, entered the sitting-room where she found Dolly, Ann, and

her mother together. Mrs. Drake was patching a sheet at the window;

Ann, sulky and obstinate, was trying to do an example on a slate; and

Dolly stood over her, a dark, wearied expression on her face.

"Hello, folkses!" Miss Sally-Lou greeted them, playfully. "How do y-all

come on?"

When she had taken a chair she mentioned the waist she was making, and

as Dolly gave her opinion in regard to the buttons she eyed the girl

studiously. She remarked the dark rings around the beautiful eyes, the

nervous, almost quavering voice. "She hain't heard yet," the caller

decided. "But she may suspicion something is wrong. Maybe he hain't

writ to her since he went back--the scamp! He ought to be licked good

an' strong."

"What are you fixing up so for, Miss Sally-Lou?" Ann wanted to know, a

bubble of amusement in her young eyes and voice. "Are you going to get

married?"

"Listen to her," Miss Wartrace tittered, quite unobservant of Ann's

sarcasm. "The idea of a child of that age constantly thinking of

marrying."

At this juncture John Webb came in and approached his sister. He had

not removed his hat, but, catching Dolly's reproving glance, he

snatched it off and stood whipping his thigh with it.

"You wanted to know about them bees," he said. "They don't intend to

swarm to-day, so you needn't bother any longer about it."

"I was just laughin' at Ann, Mr. John." Miss Sally-Lou raised her voice

tentatively, that she might rivet his attention. "Young as she is, I

never see 'er without havin' 'er ax some question or other about me or

somebody else marryin'."

"It's jest the woman croppin' out in 'er," Webb drawled, with

unconscious humor. "Looks like marryin' is a woman's aim the same as

keepin' out of it ought to be a man's."

"You needn't judge others by yourself," was the unoffended retort.

"Plenty of men know the value of a good wife, if you don't."

Mrs. Drake seemed not to have heard these give-and-take platitudes. She

raised her sheet to the level of her eyes and creased the hem of it

with her needle-pricked fingers. "What sort o' cloth are you goin' to

use in your waist?" she asked.

"White lawn," said Sally-Lou. "I got a rale good grade in a remnant in

town yesterday at a bargain. It was a little dirty at the edges, but

I'm goin' to trim them off."

"I'd make it plain, if I was you," Mrs. Drake advised. "At your age an'

mine it doesn't look well to fix up fancy."

"Humph! I don't know as you an' me are so nigh the same--"

The final word was caught up by an impulsive snicker, which Webb

muffled under his hat.

"Oh, I don't mean to say that I am not _some_ older," Mrs. Drake

floundered. "Bein' as you are unmarried, it wouldn't be polite for me

with as old children as I got to--"

"Oh, I'm not mad about it!" Miss Sally-Lou declared, hastily. "I know

I'm not as young as Dolly an' her crowd o' girls."

The spinster now frowned resentfully. Nothing could have angered her

more than such an allusion made in the presence of the amused bachelor.

She nursed her fury in silence for a moment, only to become more set in

the grim purpose of her present visit.

"Huh, wait till I git through with 'em!" she thought; then, as if

merely to change a disagreeable subject for a happier one, she turned

directly to Dolly.

"What do you hear from Mr. Mostyn?" she asked, in quite a tone of

indifference.

There was marked hesitation on the part of Dolly, but Ann was more

prompt. Her slate and pencil rattled as she dropped them in her lap.

"He hasn't written a word," she said, staring eagerly, as if the

visitor might help solve a problem which had absorbed her far more than

the example on which she was now working.

"You don't say!" Miss Sally-Lou's eyes fired straight gleams at Dolly,

as if Dolly herself had made the astounding revelation. "Why, I thought

you an' him was powerful thick. Well, well, I reckon he told you all

thar was to tell before he left. Young men usually are proud o' things

like that, an' can't hold 'em in. Well, I hope he will be happy. I

don't wish him no harm if he _is_ high up in the world an' rich. I know

I was awfully surprised when I read it in to-day's paper." She thrust a

steady hand into her pocket, pushing her right foot well forward to

give the rustling sheet better egress. There was silence in the room.

Webb glanced at his sister and at Ann. No one, save the tormentor,

noticed Dolly, who, pale as death, a groping in her eyes, and lips

parted, stood behind her sister's chair.

"Is there something in the paper about him?" Ann cried, eagerly.

"Oh yes, nearly a column on the society page," was the studied reply.

"The cat's out o' the bag. He's goin' to get married."

"Oh, Dolly!" Ann clapped her hands and leaned eagerly toward her

ghastly sister. "Do you reckon he went and told it? I know; he just

couldn't keep it--he is so much in love. Oh, Dolly, tell 'em about it.

Here you are keeping it so close, while he is sticking it into a paper

for everybody to read. I never could see any reason for you to be so

awful secret, anyway. It has been all I could do to--"

"What's the child talkin' about?" The caller's eyes gleamed in guarded

delight as she unfolded the paper and spread it out on her knee.

"Accordin' to _this_ account, he is marryin' the richest an' most

popular woman in the State. I reckon everybody that reads society news

has heard about Irene Mitchell."

"Irene Mitchell!" Ann gasped, rising in her chair, her slate and pencil

sliding to the floor. "That isn't so. It isn't so, is it, Dolly? Why,

what ails--" The half-scream was not finished. Dolly was reeling as if

about to fall, her little hands pressed helplessly to her face. John

Webb sprang quickly to her side. He threw his arm about her.

"Dry up all that!" he yelled, furiously. "Dry up, I say! She's sick."

Feeling his support, Dolly revived a little, and he led her out into

the hall and saw her go slowly up the stairs to her room. As for Mrs.

Drake and Ann, they had pounced on the paper and had it spread out

before their wide-open eyes. Sally-Lou was now on her feet. She had

gone to the door, seen Dolly's wilting form disappear at the head of

the stairs, and was now breathlessly feasting on the bewildered chagrin

of the stunned mother and daughter.

Ann finished reading sooner than her mother. Pale and indignant, she

turned to the caller. She had opened her mouth when John Webb promptly

covered it with his red paw. "Come out o' here!" he ordered, sharply.

"You go up-stairs an' 'tend to Dolly. She ain't well. She's been ailin'

off an' on for a week. You school-children have deviled the life out of

the poor thing. What are you all talkin' about, anyway? Mostyn told me

an' Dolly all about him an' that woman. We knowed all along that he was

goin' to git married, but it was a sort o' secret betwixt us three."

Astounded, and warningly pinched on the arm, Ann, with a lingering

backward look, left the room and reluctantly climbed the stairs.

"You'll have to excuse me, Miss Sally-Lou, here's your paper," Mrs.

Drake was slowly recovering discretion. "I'll have to see about Dolly.

John's right, she ain't well--she ain't--oh, my Lord, I don't know what

to make of it!"

"I see she _is_ sort o' upset," Miss Sally-Lou said, "an I don't

wonder. I oughtn't to have sprung it so sudden-like. I'll tell you all

good day. I'll have to run along. If thar's anything I kin do for Dolly

just let me know. I'm a good hand about a sick-bed, an' I know how to

give medicine. If Dolly gets worse, send word to me, an' I'll step

right over. This may go hard with her. You know I think that idle scamp

might 'a' had better to do than--"

But Mrs. Drake, obeying her brother's imperative nod, was moving toward

the stairs. Sally-Lou and Webb were left together. Her glance fell

before the fiercest glare she had ever seen shoot from a masculine eye,

and yet Webb's freckled face was valiantly digging up a smile.

"I see what _you_ thought," he laughed. "You went an' thought Dolly was

in love with that town dude. Shucks, she seed through 'im from the fust

throw out o' the box. She liked to chat with 'im now an' then, but la,

me! if you women are so dead bent on splicin' folks why don't you keep

your eyes open? Listen to me, an' see if I ain't right. You watch an'

see if Dolly an' Warren Wilks--"

"Pshaw!" Miss Sally-Lou sniffed. "Dolly will never give Warren a second

thought--not _now,_ nohow. She's got 'er sights up, an' she'll never

lower 'em ag'in."

Webb, almost outwitted, stood on the edge of the porch and watched the

spinster trip down the walk. She glanced over her shoulder

coquettishly. "You are losin' all your gal_lant_ ways, Mr. John," she

simpered. "You don't even open the gate for visitin' ladies here

lately."

"I greased that latch t'other day," he answered, laconically. "It works

as easy as the trigger of a mouse-trap. I don't know as I ever was a

woman's jumpin'rjack. I ain't one o' the fellers that fan flies off'n

'em at meetin'. If they draw flies an' gnats that's the'r lookout, not

mine."

CHAPTER XIX

Alone in her room, Dolly stood at a window, her distraught eyes on the

placid fields lying between the house and the mountains. She was still

pale. The tips of her fingers clung to the narrow mullions as if for

support. She seemed scarcely to breathe. Her beautiful lips were drawn

tight; her shapely chin had a piteous quiver.

"Oh, that was it!" she moaned. "I understand it now. He was engaged to

her all the time, but wouldn't tell me. He got tired of us here and

went back to her. I'll never see him again--never, never, never!"

The bed, with its snowy coverlet and great downy pillows, invited her.

She was about to throw herself upon it, but her pride, pierced to the

quick, rebelled. "I sha'n't cry!" she said. "He is marrying for her

money. I sha'n't weep over it. He lied to me--to _me!_ He said

something was wrong with his business and when that was settled he

would write. He was just trifling, passing time away this summer as he

did three years ago, and I--I--silly little gump--actually kissed him.

I trusted him as I trust--as I _trusted_ God. I even confided father's

secret to him. I loved him with my whole soul, and all the time he was

comparing me to her."

Far across the sunlit meadows on the gradual slope of a rise she saw

her father and George cutting and raking hay. How odd it seemed for

them to be so calmly working toward the future feeding of mere horses

and cattle when to her life itself seemed killed to its germ. There was

a step on the stairs. The door was thrown open, and her sister rushed

in.

"Oh, Dolly!" Ann cried, her begrimed fingers clutching at Dolly's arm,

"what does it mean? Is it so? Do you think he really is going to--"

"Oh, go away, go away, _please_ go away!" the older pleaded. "Don't

talk to me now--not now!"

"But I want to know--I _must_ know!" Ann ran on, hysterically, her

young, piping voice rising higher and higher. "I can't stand it, Dolly.

Ever since you told me about you and him I have thought about Atlanta

and your beautiful home down there and the things I was going to do.

Oh, I thought--I thought it was actually settled, but if--if the paper

tells the truth--Why don't you talk? What has got into you all at once?

Surely--surely he wouldn't--surely you wouldn't have gone out to meet

him as late at night as you did and let him--you know, sister, I saw

him holding you tight and--"

Dolly turned like an automaton suddenly animated. She laid her hands on

her sister's shoulders and bore down fiercely. She shook her so

violently from side to side that Ann's plaited hair swung like a rope

in a storm.

"Don't tell that to a soul!" Dolly panted. "You must not--don't _dare_

to! You promised you wouldn't. Sometime I will explain, but not

now--not now. I'm losing my mind. Go away and leave me."

"I really believe you think the paper is telling the truth," Ann

moaned. "You _must_ think so, or you wouldn't look this way and beg me

not to tell. Oh, I can't stand it!"

For a breathless moment Ann stood staring at her dumb-lipped sister,

and then, tottering to the bed, she threw herself upon it, burying her

face in a pillow. Sob after sob escaped her, but Dolly paid no heed.

Her lifeless stare on the mountain view, she stood like a creature

entranced.

The sun went down. Like a bleeding ball it hung over the mountain's

crest, throwing red rays into the valley. A slow step was heard on the

stair, the sliding of a dry hand on the balustrade. Mrs. Drake opened

the door and advanced to Dolly.

"You mustn't take on this way," she began. "I want you to be sensible

and strong. Thar is plenty of fish in the sea. I sort o' thought Mr.

Mostyn was talking too much to you for it to be exactly right, but you

always had such a level head--more level than I ever had--that I

thought you could take care of yourself."

"Mother, please leave me alone for to-day, anyway," Dolly pleaded.

"I--I'm not a fool. Take Ann down-stairs. I--I can't stand that noise.

It makes me desperate. I hardly know what to do or say."

"I just asked her to tell me the truth." Ann sat up, holding her pillow

in her lap as for comfort, her eyes red with rubbing. "But she won't

say a word, when all this time I've been counting on--"

"Well, I'm going down and see about supper," Dolly said, desperately.

"Father and George have stopped work and they will be hungry."

Her mother tried to detain her, but she went straight down the stairs.

Mrs. Drake crept stealthily to the door, peered after her daughter, and

then, heaving a sigh, she stood before the girl on the bed.

"Now," she said, grimly, "out with it! Tell me all you know about this

thing--every single thing!"

"But, mother"--Ann's eyes fell--"I promised-"

"It don't make no difference what you promised," Mrs. Drake blurted

out. "This ain't no time for secrets under this roof. I want the facts.

If you don't tell me I'll get your pa to whip you."

Half an hour later, as Tom Drake trudged across the old wheat-field

back of the barn, his scythe on his shoulder, he met his wife at the

outer fence of the cow-lot. There she stood as still and silent as a

detached post.

"Whar's your bucket?" he asked, thinking she had come to milk the cow,

which was one of her evening duties.

"I'm goin' to let it go over to-night," she faltered. Then she laid a

stiff hand on her husband's sweat-damp sleeve. "Tom Drake," she gulped,

"I'm afraid me an' you are facin' the greatest trouble we've ever had."

"What's wrong now?" he asked, swift visions of moonshine stills, armed

officers, and grim court officials flashing before him.

Haltingly she explained the situation. He bore it stolidly till, in a

rasping whisper, she concluded with the information forced from Ann.

She told him of the low whistle in the moonlight at their daughter's

window, of Dolly's cautious exit from the house, of the tender embrace

on the lawn. Drake turned his tortured face away. She expected a storm

of fury, but no words came from his ghastly lips.

"Now, Tom," she half wailed, "you _must_ be sensible. This is a family

secret. For once in your life you've got to keep your temper till we

can see our way clear. After all, goin' out that way to meet 'im don't

actually prove that our girl is bad; you know it don't. Young folks

these days--"

"Don't tell _me_ what it meant!" He bent fiercely toward her. "I know.

I've heard a lot about that whelp's sly conduct. No bigger blackguard

ever laid a trap for a helpless girl. Oh no, I won't do nothin'. I

wouldn't touch 'im. When I meet 'im I'll take off my hat an' bow low

an' hope his lordship is well. I'm just a mountain dirt-eater, I am.

Nobody ever heard of a Drake killin' snakes. A Drake will let one coil

itse'f round his baby an' not take it off. We are jest scabs--_we_ are!"

"Tom, for God's sake--"

"Look here, woman--you lay the weight of a hair in front o' me an' that

devil--that rovin' mad dog--an' I'll kill you as I would a stingin'

gnat! I won't bed with no woman with that sort o' pride. You've got to

stand by me. I'll kill 'im if it takes twenty years. I'll keep my nose

to his track like a bloodhound till I look in his eye, an' then, if he

had a thousand lives, I'd take every one of 'em with a grin, an' foller

'im to hell for more."

Leaving her with her head on the top rail of the fence, stunned,

wordless, he strode away in the dusk. Looking up presently, she saw him

standing at the well, in the full light from the kitchen doorway. He

seemed to be looking in at Dolly, who, with her back to him, was at

work over the stove. The next instant he was gone.

CHAPTER XX

It was eight o'clock. Jarvis Saunders alighted from the train at

Ridgeville, finding his horse hitched to a rack according to the

instructions he had left with his overseer. Mounting, he started

homeward in a brisk canter through the clear moonlight. He was soon in

the main road, and exhilarated by the crisp mountain air, after a

sweltering ride in the dusty train. He had reached the boundary fence

of Drake's farm when he thought he heard some one crying out. He reined

in and listened.

"Oh, father, please, please wait!" It was Dolly's voice, and it came

from the more darkly shaded part of the road in front of her father's

house. Urging his mount forward, Saunders was met by Drake on a

plunging horse which he was violently whipping into action.

"What is the matter?" Saunders cried out; but with an oath of fury

Drake flew past. He was hatless, coatless, and held something clutched

in his hand other than the bridle-rein. Fairly astounded and not

knowing what to do, Saunders remained in the road for a moment, then

the sound of a low sob in the direction from whence Drake had come

reminded him of Dolly's nearness, and he guided his horse forward.

Suddenly in the corner of a rail fence, her face covered with her

hands, he saw Dolly. Springing to the ground, he advanced to her.

"Dolly," he said, "what is it--what is wrong?"

She uncovered her face, stood staring at him helplessly. She raised her

hand and pointed after her father, but, though she tried to speak, she

seemed unable to utter a word.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked. "For God's sake, tell me if

there is. I want to help you."

"Yes, yes," she managed to articulate, "I know--and you are very kind,

but--"

"You were trying to stop your father," he said. "Would you like for

me--"

"You couldn't; he would kill you; he has his pistol; he doesn't know

what he is doing."

"I think I know--I think I can guess--he is going to Atlanta."

Dolly nodded mechanically, her mouth open. "Oh, he is making an awful

mistake, Mr. Saunders! He wouldn't let me explain. Ann told mother that

I went out late one night to meet--meet Mr. Mostyn when he whistled. It

was not Mr. Mostyn. It was Tobe Barnett, who came to warn me of

father's danger of arrest by the officers. I can tell you--I can trust

you, Mr. Saunders. Father is connected with some moonshiners, who--"

"I know it," Saunders broke in. "Now, listen to me, Dolly; this thing

shall go no further if I can help it. He wants to catch the southbound

train. I am going to stop him."

"No, no!" Dolly sprang forward, desperately clutching his arm. "He will

shoot you."

"I _must_ do it!" Saunders caught both her hands in his and pressed

them. "You must let me--I have never been able to help you in any way,

and I have always wanted to. I'd give my life to--to be of service to

you to-night. I feel this thing, little friend. I must do something--I

simply must!"

"I don't know what to say or do." Dolly clung to his hands desperately.

She raised them spasmodically and unconsciously pressed them against

her throbbing breast. "Oh, Mr. Saunders, it is so--so awful to be

suspected of being bad when I--when I--"

"When you are the purest, sweetest child that ever breathed," he cried,

fiercely. "They sha'n't start gossip about you." He dropped her hands

and turned his horse round quickly. "I'll overtake him and stop him."

He glanced at his watch. "I have no time to lose. I must go. Be brave,

Dolly. It will come out right--it _must!_" He swung himself into his

saddle; she clung to his foot which he was trying to put into the

stirrup.

"He will kill you, too," she sobbed, "and I'll have _that_ on my head

also. Oh, Mr. Saunders--"

Gently he drew his foot from her clutch. There was a look in his eyes

which she never forgot to the end of her life. "Excuse me, but I must

hurry," he said. "He is on a fast horse, and the train may be on time.

He must not get aboard. He mustn't, Dolly--good-by."

Away he dashed at full speed, bent to the mane of his mount like a

chased Indian on the plains. Once he looked back, seeing the patient

little figure standing like a mile-stone at the roadside. On he sped,

tasting the dust pounded into the air by Drake's horse, and feeling the

grit between his teeth. No one was in sight. The lights of the

farmhouses on the road moved backward like ships in a fog. Suddenly,

some distance ahead, he saw a rider dismounting. It was Drake, who now

stooped down to pick up something he had dropped. As he did so he saw

the pursuing horse, and, quickly springing into his saddle, was off

again.

"Hold! Hold!" Saunders shouted.

"Hold--hell!" rippled back on the moonlight. "Bother me an' I'll put a

ball in you. Back, I tell you!"

"Stop, Drake!" Saunders cried, without lessening his speed.

The only reply the pursued man made was the furious lashing of his

horse. An ominous sound now fell on Saunders's ears. It was the whistle

of a locomotive in the deep cut across the fields.

An oath of disappointment from Drake showed he had divined its full

portent. It was now merely a question of speed. The race went on. The

houses on the outer edge of the village flew past as if blown by a

hurricane. Children in the yards looked up and cheered what they took

for sport on the part of rollicking mountain riders. Saunders saw that

he was gaining, and he urged his horse to even greater speed. He drew

so close that the nose of his mount was lashed by the tail of Drake's

horse.

"Stop a minute--just a minute!" Saunders pleaded. "I must see you."

Then, without lessening his gait, Drake turned half round in his saddle

and pointed his revolver. Saunders heard the click of the hammer as it

was cocked. Drake's demoniacal face in the white light had the greenish

luster of a corpse--a corpse waking to life and grim purpose. "Fall

back or I'll kill you!" he swore from frothing lips. "I know what you

want; you want to take up for that dirty son of a--"

"No, no; you are mistaken. I don't. Wait--stop!"

They were now entering the open space between the station and the

hotel. The train, with grinding brakes and escaping steam, was slowing

up. Drake took aim over his shoulder. He fired. Saunders knew he was

not hit. Frightened by the flash in his eyes, his horse reared up and

almost threw him off behind. This delayed him for a moment, and Drake

galloped on till he was close to the last car of the train. Saunders

saw him throw the bridle-rein over the neck of his horse and spring

down. The next instant Saunders was by his side and also on the ground.

Again Drake raised his revolver, but Saunders was too quick for him.

With a sudden blow he knocked the weapon from the other's grasp. It

spun and flashed in the moonlight and fell in the weeds several yards

away. Then Drake began to fumble in the pocket of his trousers for his

knife. But again the younger man got the advantage. With the bound of a

panther he had embraced and pinioned the arms of his antagonist to his

sides. Back and forth they swung and pounded, Drake swearing, spitting,

and trying even to bite. The locomotive whistled. It was off again.

Seeing this, Drake swung himself free and made a break for the end car,

but Saunders was at his heels; and, throwing out his hand, he grasped

the runner's arm and violently threw him around. Again they were face

to face. Again Saunders pinioned his arms. Drake was helpless. He

struggled with all his strength, but it was unequal to that of his

determined captor.

"You've _got_ to listen to me, Drake!" Saunders said, fiercely. "You've

got plenty of time to settle with that man if you insist on it, but

you've got to hear me!"

"Well, let me loose then, damn you!" Drake panted. "Le' me loose!"

"All right, I'll let you loose." Saunders released him, and they stood

facing each other, both out of breath. "I'm your friend, Tom Drake--and

you know it," Saunders gasped. "I'm your daughter's friend, too. I'm

sufficiently interested in her not to let you soil her good name as you

are trying to do to-night. She is innocent, I tell you, and you are a

coward to--"

"You say--you say--"

Several by-standers at the ticket-office and hotel, attracted by the

combat, were approaching.

"Go back!" Saunders held up his hand warningly. "This is no affair of

yours. I want to speak to him in private. Leave us alone."

The men halted, stared dubiously, and finally, seeing that the quarrel

was over, they went back whence they had come. "Let's step over here,"

Saunders proposed; and he led the way to the railway blacksmith's shop,

now closed and unlighted. In the shadow of its smoky wall they faced

each other again.

"You said--" Drake began, "you said--"

"I said she was innocent of the foul charge you are making against

her," Saunders said, sharply. "You are a crazy man, Drake. You tried to

kill me back there, although I am bent on befriending you and your

daughter. She is as sweet and pure as the angels in heaven."

"I--I know more than you do. Ann said--"

"Yes, I know what the child said," Saunders retorted. "And if you had

been the right sort of a father you would not have acted on such slight

evidence. Dolly is in this plight simply because she saved you--"

"Saved _me?_ What the hell--"

"Yes, she saved you from arrest and imprisonment as a moonshiner. The

whistle Ann heard was not a signal from Mostyn. It was Tobe Barnett,

who had come to warn her of your danger. She did meet Mostyn that

night, but it was by accident, and not appointment. Dolly could have

explained it all to Ann, but she did not want the child to know of your

connection with that gang. Now you've got the whole thing, Drake."

The mountaineer stared, his mouth open; the sinews of his face were

drawn into distortion.

"You say--you tell me--you say--"

"That's the whole thing," Saunders said. "Now let's go home. Dolly

deserves a humble apology from you--you ought to get down on your knees

to her and beg her to forgive you. I know of no other woman like her in

this world--none, none, anywhere. She has my admiration, my respect, my

reverence."

"But--but"--Drake's dead face began to kindle--"Ann said she saw that

dirty scamp actually holdin' her in his arms an' kissin' 'er. She said

that Dolly made no denial of it, an' now, accordin' to the papers, he's

goin' to marry a woman in Atlanta."

Saunders's glance sought the ground, his eyes went aimlessly to the two

horses nibbling grass near by.

"Ah, ha, I see that floors you!" Drake flared out. "You admit that the

low-lived scamp did take advantage of our confidence, an'--"

"You've got to face that part of it as I would do if she were my

child," Saunders answered. "Listen to me, Drake. Mostyn is not a whit

better or worse than many other men of his class. He has been fast and

reckless, but when he met Dolly he met the first pure and elevating

influence of his life. I am in his confidence. He told me the whole

story. He determined that he would win her love and make her his wife.

When he left here it was with the firm resolution of being wholly true

to her. Now, I can only say that on his return home he found himself in

a situation which would have taken more strength of character to get

out of than he had. You cannot afford to attack him. Such a thing would

reflect on your brave daughter, and you have no right to do it, no

matter how you feel about it. From now on you've got to consider her

feelings. If she cares for--for him, and--and--is depressed by the

newspaper reports, that is all the more reason for your sympathy and

support. Surely you can realize what she has escaped. As that man's

wife her life would have been hell on earth. He is wholly unworthy of

her. If she were my--sister, I'd rather see her dead than married to

him."

Drake stood with hanging head. He stepped slowly to his horse and

grasped the rein. Saunders went a few feet to the right, searched on

the ground a moment and picked up the revolver. Returning, he extended

it to its owner.

Drake took it silently, and clumsily thrust it into his pocket. He

hesitated; he gulped, swallowed, then said, huskily:

"You are my friend, Saunders. I've had some that I depended on in a

pinch, but you've done me a big favor to-night. I'll never git

forgiveness for tryin' to shoot you--never--never in this world."

"That is all right." Saunders extended his hand, and the other clasped

it firmly.

A man with a polished club tied to his wrist was striding toward them.

It was the village marshal, Alf Floyd. Drake eyed him helplessly.

"Let me talk to him," Saunders said, under his breath. "You ride on

home. Leave him to me. This must not get out."

"What's the trouble here?" the officer asked, arriving just as Drake

rode away.

Saunders laughed carelessly as he reached for the bridle of his grazing

horse. "It means that I got the best of Tom Drake. He bet me a dollar

he could catch that train and get aboard. He would have done it, too,

if I hadn't caught him around the waist at the last minute and swung

him back. He didn't like it much, but he is all right now."

"Somebody said they heard a pistol-shot," the officer said.

"An accident," Saunders replied. "Drake dropped it--horse jerked it

from his hand. I suppose we may have violated an ordinance in racing in

town, and if so I'm willing to pay the fine. I'm responsible."

"There _is_ an ordinance," the marshal said, "but I won't make a case

out o' this."

"All right, Alf; thanks. How goes it?"

"Oh, so-so. How is it in the city?"

"Hot and dusty." Saunders mounted deliberately. "Good night, Alf; I

must get out home and eat something."

A few minutes later as Saunders was slowly riding past Drake's front

gate he noticed a figure on the inside of the yard close to the fence.

It was Dolly. She opened the gate and came out. He reined in and, hat

in hand, sprang to the ground. Her head was covered with a thin white

shawl held beneath her chin, and her pale face showed between the folds

as pure and patient as a suffering nun's. He saw that she was trying to

speak, but was unable to do so.

"What is it, Dolly?" he faltered. "I suppose your father got back?"

"Yes." It was a bare labial whisper. She nodded; she put her cold hand

into his great, warm eager one, and he held it as tenderly as if it had

been a dying sparrow.

"I am glad I happened to reach him," he said, in an effort to relieve

her embarrassment. "We had it nip and tuck," he added, lightly. "My

lungs are lined with dust."

He felt her fingers and palm faintly flutter.

"Oh, oh, Mr. Saunders!" she gulped. "I can never, never thank you

enough. I met him down the road just now. He actually cried. I have

never seen him give way before."

Saunders stared helplessly. He knew not what to say. In the moonlight

he saw tears like drops of dew rise in her eyes and trickle down her

cheeks.

"You must not cry," he managed to say. "Don't break down, Dolly; you

have been so brave all along."

She released the shawl beneath her chin and began to fumble in her

pocket for her handkerchief. Seeing she was unable to find it, he took

out his own, and while he still held her hand with his left he tenderly

dried her tears. Suddenly she clasped his hand with both of hers.

"I suppose you know everything--" she faltered. "How silly I have been

to think--to imagine that Mr. Mostyn really meant--" A great sob

struggled up within her and broke on her lips.

"I know _this_, Dolly." His face hardened to the appearance of stone in

the white light from the sky. "I know that from this moment on you must

never give him another thought."

"You don't understand a woman's feelings," she returned, in the saddest

of intonations. "I know what you say is right and true, but--it is like

this; he seems to have--died! I think of him only as dead, and a woman

with a heart cannot at a moment's notice put her dead out of mind. I

can't, somehow, blame him. You see, I think I understand him. He is not

going to be happy, and I'm afraid I'll never be able to forget that

fact. He was trying to get right. I saw his struggle. I did not fully

know what it meant when we parted, but I see it all now. I thought I

could help him, but it is too late--too late; and oh, that is the

terrible part! I feel somewhat like a mother must feel who sees a son,

hopelessly wrong, taken from her sight forever. Oh, I pity him, pity

him, pity him!"

"Nevertheless, you must try to put him wholly out of your mind and

heart," Saunders urged. "You deserve happiness, and this thing must not

kill your chances for it. Time will help."

"Isn't it queer?" she sighed; "but in moments of deepest sorrow we

don't want Time, God, or anything else to take our grief away. Really,

I feel to-night like an invisible thing crushed out of its body and

left intact to float forever in pitiless space."

He led her to the gate and opened it. "You must not indulge such weird

thoughts," he said, his features set in a mask of tense inner pain.

"You must go to bed and try to sleep."

"Sleep!" she laughed, harshly. "I'll have to wake. The happy chickens,

ducks, turkeys, and twittering, chirping birds will rouse me at sun-up.

I must teach to-morrow. I must answer questions about grammar, history,

geography, and arithmetic. I must correct compositions, write on a

blackboard with chalk, point to dots on maps, scold little ones,

reprove big ones, talk to parents, and through it all _think, think,

think!_ I am Dolly Drake. Do you know, Mr. Saunders, the queerest thing

to me in all the world is that I am Dolly Drake? Sometimes I pronounce

the name in wonder, as if I had never heard it before. I seem to have

been a thousand persons in former periods."

"Dolly, listen." Saunders bent till his face was close to hers. "I am

your friend. I shall be true to you forever and ever. From now on

nothing else on earth can be of so much importance to me as your

welfare. To help you shall be my constant aim."

"I know it, dear, sweet friend." The words bubbled from a swelling sob.

"And oh, it is sweet and comforting at a time like this! Don't--don't

stop me." And therewith she raised his hand, pressed her lips upon it,

and turned quickly away.

PART II

CHAPTER I

Five years passed. Again it was summer. Mostyn with his wife and his

only child, Richard, Jr., lived in the Mitchell mansion, which, save

for a new coat of paint, was unchanged. Mostyn himself was considerably

altered in appearance. There were deeper lines in his face; he was

thinner, more given to nervousness and loss of sleep; his hair was

turning gray; he had been told by his doctor that he worried too much

and that he must check the tendency.

Things had not gone in his married life as the financier had wished.

One of the most objectionable was the unexpected change in his

father-in-law, who had lapsed quite abruptly into troublesome dotage.

From a shrewd business man old Mitchell had become a querulous child,

subject to fits of suspicion and violent outbursts of anger. At the

most embarrassing moments he would totter into the bank, approach his

son-in-law, and insist on talking over matters which he was quite

incapable of seeing in a rational light. Mostyn had tried to deal with

him firmly, only to bring down a torrent of half-wild threats as to

what the old man would do in regard to certain investments the two held

in common. Indeed, it was plain to many that Mitchell had formed an

intuitive dislike for his son-in-law, which, somehow, was not lessened

by his great love for his grandson.

Saunders became a genial sort of escape-valve for the old man's endless

chatter and complaint, doing all in his power to pacify him, though it

required no little time and energy.

One warm day in the present June Mitchell came to the bank, and,

frowning angrily, he went into Mostyn's office, where his son-in-law

sat absorbed over some intricate calculations in percentage.

"Huh!" he sniffed. "Your nigger porter told me you were too busy to see

me. If he hadn't dodged I'd have hit the whelp with this cane, sir.

Busy! I say busy! If it hadn't been for me and my money I'd like to

know where you'd be to-day. I guess you wouldn't run long."

Flushing with combined anger and sensitive shame, Mostyn put his papers

aside and rose.

"Sit down, and rest," he said. "Albert meant no harm. I told him that I

had some important work to do and that I did not want to be disturbed

just now; but, of course, I had no reference to _you._"

"Oh, I know you didn't!" Mitchell sneered, his chin and white beard

quivering. "I know what your plan is. I'm no fool. You are handling my

means, and you are afraid I'll want to know what you have done with

them. I'll have a statement by law--that's what I'll do."

"You really _must_ be reasonable," Mostyn said, helplessly. "Only last

week I explained it all in detail in the presence of Saunders and

Wright, and you were quite satisfied. You ought to know that we can't

go over such matters every day. I assure you that everything is in good

shape."

"Are you _sure?_ That's what I want to know." The harsh expression in

Mitchell's face was softening. "I--I get to worrying--I admit it. You

and I used to get along all right, but you never consult me now as you

used to do. I'm older than you are, but my judgment is sound. I'm not

dead yet, and I won't be regarded that way."

"I know you are all right." Mostyn smiled pacifically. "Won't you take

a seat?"

"No, I'm going back home. I don't like the way things are running

there, either. Irene is never at home, it seems to me, and my grandson

has nobody to look after him but that trifling nurse. Irene has gone to

some fool reception to-day, and says she and Kitty are going to a dance

at Buckton's country house to-night. You may call that right and

proper, sir, but I don't. The way married couples live to-day is an

outrage on common decency. If you had any backbone you'd make your wife

behave herself. She is more of a belle, sir, right now than before you

married her. She is crazy for excitement, and the whole poker-playing,

wine-drinking set she goes with is on the road to perdition."

Laying his hand on the old man's arm gently, Mostyn led him toward the

door. "Don't let it worry you," he said. "The boy is well and sound,

and Irene means no harm. She has always loved society, and when we were

married it was with the understanding that she should not be hampered."

"And that is right where you made the mistake of your life." Mitchell

pulled back from the door. "The way you and she live is not natural.

The Lord never intended it to be so. You know as well as I do that

Irene used to have a silly sort of liking or fancy for Andy Buckton."

Mostyn nodded, his eyes averted. "Yes, yes, of course," he said,

hesitatingly. "She told me all about it at the time, quite frankly."

"Well, you know, I presume, that his uncle left him a lot of money when

he died the other day?"

"I heard something about it." Mostyn bit his lip in vexation, as he

reached out for the doorknob and turned it cautiously.

"Well, it is true, and it has turned the fool's head; he is spending it

like water. He is giving a big blow-out to-night, and it is all for

your wife, sir--your wife."

Mostyn made no reply, though his face looked graver; the sharp-drawn

lines about his mouth deepened.

"You heard what I said, didn't you?" Mitchell demanded.

"Yes, of course."

"Well, let me tell you one thing, and then you can do as you please

about it. I am not going to take any hand in it. Irene has no respect

for me or my opinion here lately. She gets mad the minute I say a word

to her. Andy Buckton is as big a fool about her as he ever was. I got

it straight, from a person who knows, that he makes no secret of it.

And that isn't all, sir--that isn't all. Irene is just vain enough of

her good looks to like it. Le'me tell you something, sir. This town is

not Paris, and our country is not France, but that fast set Irene runs

with is trying to think so. They read about the Four Hundred in New

York, its scandals and divorces in high life, and think it is smart to

imitate it. You seem to stay out of it, but what if you do? Are you

going to sit like a knot on a log and have them say you made a loveless

marriage for money, and--"

"Stop!" Mostyn flared out. "I won't stand it. You are going too far!"

"Ah, I see you can be touched," the old man laughed, putting his hand

on Mostyn's arm in his most senile mood. "I just wanted to set you

thinking, that's all."

When Mitchell was gone the banker sat down at his work again, but he

could not put his mind on it. He fumbled the papers nervously. His

brows met in a troubled frown. "I can't stand any more of this," he

thought. "He is driving me insane--the man does not live who could put

up with it day after day."

Going to the door, he asked one of the clerks to send Saunders to him

if he was quite disengaged. A moment later his partner entered. The

last five years had served him well. He had never looked better. His

skin was clear, his eyes bright, his movement calm and alert.

"Did you want to see me?" he asked.

"If you are not busy," Mostyn replied.

"Nothing to do just now," Saunders said, sitting down near the desk.

Mostyn gave him a troubled look. "The old man has just left," he said.

"I thought I recognized his voice," Saunders answered. "He has a way of

talking quite loud of late."

There was a pause, during which Mostyn continued to stare with

fluttering lashes; then he said:

"He is giving me a great deal of trouble, Saunders--a great deal."

"I see he is; in fact, all of us have noticed it."

"It is getting more and more serious," Mostyn sighed, heavily. "You

see, it is not only here that he talks. He goes to the other banks and

to the offices of the brokers and chatters like a child about our

confidential affairs. I am afraid he will do us absolute financial

injury. He is insanely suspicious, and there is no telling what report

he may set afloat."

"I think most persons understand his condition," Saunders returned.

"Delbridge does, I know. He goes to see Delbridge often. I see your

predicament and sympathize with you. The old man has lost all his

discretion, and you really cannot afford to confer with him."

"The trouble is, he has his legal rights," Mostyn said, tentatively,

"and the slightest thing may turn him against me. There are shyster

lawyers here who would not hesitate to advise him wrongly. They would

get their fee, and that is all they would want. As I look at it the

situation is serious, and growing worse."

"It is awkward, to say the least," Saunders admitted, "and I confess

that I do not know what to advise."

"Well, that is all," Mostyn concluded. "I wanted to speak to you about

it. He upsets me every time he comes in, and he is quite as troublesome

at home, I assure you. I envy you, old chap, with your care-free life,

spent half in the country. How is your plantation?"

"Fine--never had better crops." Saunders's eyes kindled with latent

enthusiasm. "The weather has been just right this season. Run up and

spend next Sunday with me. It will do you good. You stay in town too

much."

Mostyn shrugged his shoulders. He sighed and bowed his head over his

papers. "Not this season," he said, as if his thoughts were far away.

Suddenly he cast a wavering glance at his partner, hesitated, and said:

"I have always wanted to go back up there, Saunders. That was one

period of my life that is constantly before me. I may as well speak of

it and be done with it. You always seemed to shirk the subject, and I

have hesitated to mention it, but there is no one else I could

question. The last time I heard of Dolly Drake she was still unmarried.

Is there any likelihood of her marrying?"

Mostyn's eyes were downcast, and he failed to see the half-angry flush

which was creeping over Saunders's face.

"I really can't say," he returned, coldly. "She is still teaching

school, and is in the best of health; but, Mostyn, you have no right to

think--to fancy that she has remained single because--"

"Oh, I don't!" the other sighed. "I'm not such a fool. She knows me too

well by this time for that."

There was an awkward pause. Saunders, with eyes on the door, was

rising. With an appealing look of detention in his worn face Mostyn

also stood up. "I'd give a great deal to see her. I'd be glad even to

see a picture of her. I wonder what she looks like now. She was

scarcely more than a child when she and I--when we parted. I don't

think there can be any harm in my being frank in these days when the

wives of men make a jest of matrimonial love, and I confess freely that

I have never been able to forget--"

"Don't tell me about it!" Saunders interrupted. "You have no right,

Mostyn, even to think of her after--after what took place. But you

ought to have sense enough, at any rate, to know that she wouldn't

continue to care for you all these years. I see her now and then and

talk to her. I am helping her build a new schoolhouse up there on some

land I donated, and have had to consult her several times of late about

the building-plans. She is more beautiful and brilliant than ever,

though she still has cares enough. Her father doesn't make much of a

living, and her brother George is engaged to one of the girls in the

neighborhood and so cannot be counted on for help. Ann is a young lady

now, and Dolly dresses her nicely at her own expense."

"Of course, I know that she has forgotten me," Mostyn said, with

feeling. "I made the one great mistake of my life when I--you know what

I mean, Saunders?"

"Yes, I know," Saunders answered, quickly, "but that is past and gone,

Mostyn. The main harm you did was, perhaps, to kill her faith in men in

general. I don't really think she will ever give her heart to any one.

She seems farther from that sort of thing than any woman I ever met.

She has had, I think, many suitors."

"Then from what you say I gather that she doesn't mention me?" Mostyn

said, heavily. "She has no curiosity at all to know how--how my

marriage terminated?"

"How _could_ she have?" Saunders asked, frigidly. "We'd better not talk

of it, Mostyn. I am sure she would not wholly approve of this

conversation. But in justice to her I must insist that she is _not_

broken-hearted by any means. She is as brave and cheerful as she ever

was. Her character seems to have deepened and sweetened under the

knowledge of the world which she acquired by her unfortunate experience

with you."

When Saunders had left, Mostyn bowed his head on his desk.

"If I had been the sort of man Saunders is, Dolly would have been my

wife," he thought. "My wife! my wife! actually my wife!"