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The cotton blossom is the only flower that is born inthe shuttle of a sunbeam and dies in a loom.

It is the most beautiful flower that grows, andneeds only to become rare to be priceless—only todie to be idealized.

For the world worships that which it hopes to attain,and our ideals are those things just out of our reach.

If, in early August, the delicately green leaves of thismost aristocratic of all plants, instead of covering acresof Southland shimmering under a throbbing sun, peepeddaintily out, from among the well-kept beds of somenoble garden, men would flock to see that plant, which,of all plants, looks most like a miniature tree.

Then, one morning, with the earliest sunrise, and bornof it, there emerges from the scalloped sea-shell of thebough an exquisite, pendulous, cream-white blossom,clasping in its center a golden yellow star, pinked withdawn points of light, and, setting high up under its skyof milk-white petals flanked with yellow stars, it seemsto the little nestling field-wrens born beneath it to be[Pg 8]the miniature arch of daybreak, ere the great eye ofthe morning star closes.

Later, when the sun rises and the sky above growspink and purple, it, too, changes its color from pink topurple, copying the sky from zone to zone, from blue todeeper blue, until, at late evening the young nestlingsmay look up and say, in their bird language: “It istwilight.”

Under every sky is a sphere, and under this sky picture,when night falls and closes it, a sphere is born.And in that sphere is all of earth.

Its oils and its minerals are there, and one day, becomingtoo full of richness, it bursts, and throws open afive-roomed granary, stored with richer fabric than evercame from the shuttles of Fez and holding globes of oilsuch as the olives of Hebron dreamed not of.

Oh, little loom of the cotton-plant, poet that can showus the sky, painter that paints it, artisan that reachesout, and, from the skein of a sunbeam, the loom of theair and the white of its own soul, weaves the cloth thatclothes the world!

From dawn and darkness building a loom. Fromsunlight and shadow weaving threads of such finenessthat the spider's were ropes of sand and the hoar frost'sbut clumsy icicles.

Weaving—weaving—weaving them. And the delicatelypatterned tapestry of ever-changing clouds formingpatterns of a fabric, white as the snow of the cen[Pg 9]turies,determined that since it has to make the garmentsof men, it will make them unsullied.

It is true to Nature to the last. The summer wanesand the winter comes, and when the cotton sphere bursts,'tis a ball of snow, but a dazzling white, spidery snow,which warms and does not chill, brings comfort andnot care, wealth and the rich warm blood, and not thepinches of poverty.

There are those who cannot hear God's voice unlessHe speaks to them in the thunders of Sinai, nor see Himunless He flares before them in the bonfires of a burningbush. They grumble because His Messenger came to atribe in the hill countries of Long Ago. They wish tosee the miracle of the dead arising. They see not themiracle of life around them. Death from Life is morestrange to them than life from death.

'Tis the silent voice that speaks the loudest. DidSinai speak louder than this? Hear it:

“I am a bloom, and yet I reflect the sky from themorning's star to the midnight's. I am a flower, yet Ishow you the heaven from the dawn of its birth to thetwilight of its death. I am a boll, and yet a miniatureearth stored with silks and satins, oils of the olives,minerals of all lands. And when I am ripe I throw openmy five-roomed granary, each fitted to the finger andthumb of the human hand, with a depth between,equalled only by the palm.”

O voice of the cotton-plant, do we need to go tooracles or listen for a diviner voice than yours when thusyou tell us: Pluck?

PART SECOND—THE BOLL

CHAPTER I

COTTON

The frost had touched the gums and maples in theTennessee Valley, and the wood, which linedevery hill and mountain side, looked like hugeflaming bouquets—large ones, where the thicker woodclustered high on the side of Sand Mountain and stoodout in crimson, gold and yellow against the sky,—smallones, where they clustered around the foot hills.

Nature is nothing if not sentimental. She will makebouquets if none be made for her; or, mayhap, shewishes her children to be, and so makes them bouquetsherself.

There was that crispness in the air which puts one towondering if, after all, autumn is not the finest timeof the year.

It had been a prosperous year in the Tennessee Valley—thatyear of 1874. And it had brought a doubleprosperity, in that, under the leadership of George S.Houston, the white men of the state, after a desperatestruggle, had thrown off the political yoke of the negroand the carpetbagger, and once more the Saxon ruled inthe land of his birth.

Then was taken a full, long, wholesome, air-fillingAnglo-Saxon breath, from the Tennessee Valley to theGulf. There was a quickening of pulses that had fal[Pg 14]tered,and heart-beats that had fluttered, dumb and discouraged,now rattled like kettle-drums, to the fight oflife.

It meant change—redemption—prosperity. Andmore: that the white blood which had made Alabama,need not now leave her for a home elsewhere.

It was a year glorious, and to be remembered. Onewhich marks an epoch. One wherein there is an end ofthe old and a beginning of the new.

The cotton—the second picking—still whitenedthousands of acres. There were not hands enough topick it. The negroes, demoralized for a half score ofyears by the brief splendor of elevation, and backed, atfirst, by Federal bayonets and afterwards by sheer forceof their own number in elections, had been correspondinglydemoralized and shiftless. True to their instinctthen, as now, they worked only so long as they neededmoney. If one day's cotton picking fed a negro forfive, he rested the five.

And so the cotton being neglected, its lengthened andfrowseled locks hung from wide open bolls like the locksof a tawdry woman in early morning.

No one wanted it—that is, wanted it bad enough topick it. For cotton was cheap that fall—very cheap—andpicking cotton is a back-bending business.Therefore it hung its frowsy locks from the boll.

And nothing makes so much for frowsiness in thecotton plant, and in woman, as to know they are notwanted.

The gin-houses were yet full, tho' the gin had been[Pg 15]running day and night. That which poured, like pulverizedsnow, from the mouth of the flues into the pick-room—wherethe cotton fell before being pressed intobales—scarcely had time to be tramped down andpacked off in baskets to the tall, mast-like screws whichpressed the bales and bound them with ties, ere the seedcotton came pouring in again from wagon bed andbasket.

The gin hummed and sawed and sang and creaked,but it could not devour the seed cotton fast enough fromthe piles of the incoming fleece.

The eight Tennessee sugar-mules, big and sinewy,hitched to the lever underneath the gin-house at TheGaffs, sweated until they sprinkled in one continualshower the path which they trod around the pivot-beamfrom morning until night.

For the levers turned the pivot-beam, and the pivot-beamturned the big shaft-wheel which turned the gin-wheel,and the gin had to go or it seemed as if the valleywould be smothered in cotton.

Picked once, the fields still looked like a snowfall inNovember, if such a thing were possible in a land whichscarcely felt a dozen snowfalls in as many years.

Dust! There is no dust like that which comes from agin-house. It may be tasted in the air. All other dustis gravel compared to the penetrating fineness of thatdiabolical, burning blight which flies out of the lint,from the thousand teeth of the gin-saws, as diamonddust flies from the file.[Pg 16]

It is all penetrating, consumptive-breeding, sickening,stifling, suffocating. It is hot and has a metallic flavor;and it flies from the hot steel teeth of the saws, aspestilence from the hot breath of the swamps.

It makes one wonder why, in picturing hell, no priestever thought of filling it with cotton-gin dust instead offire.

Small wonder that the poor little white slaves, takingup their serfdom at the loom where the negro left off atthe lint, die like pigs in a cotton-seed pen.

There was cotton everywhere—in the fields, unpicked;in the gin-houses, unginned. That in the fieldswould be plowed under next spring, presenting thestrange anomaly of plowing under one crop to raiseanother of the same kind. But it has been done manytimes in the fertile Valley of the Tennessee.

There was cotton everywhere; it lay piled up aroundthe gin-houses and screws and negro-cabins and underthe sheds and even under the trees. All of it, which wasexposed to the weather, was in bales, weighing each afourth of a ton and with bulging white spots intheir bellies where the coarse cotton baling failed tocover their nakedness.

The Gaffs was a fine estate of five thousand acreswhich had been handed down for several generations.[Pg 17]The old home sat in a grove of hickory, oak and elmtrees, on a gentle slope. Ancient sentinels, and theywere there when the first Travis came from North Carolinato the Tennessee Valley and built his first double-logcabin under the shelter of their arms.

From the porch of The Gaffs,—as the old home wascalled—the Tennessee River could be seen two milesaway, its brave swift channel glittering like the flash ofa silver arrow in the dark green wood which bordered it.

Back of the house the mountain ridge rolled; not highenough to be awful and unapproachable, nor so low asto breed contempt from a too great familiarity. Notgrand, but the kind one loves to wander over.

CHAPTER II

RICHARD TRAVIS

Strength was written in the face of RichardTravis—the owner of The Gaffs—intellectual,physical, passion-strength, strength of purposeand of doing. Strength, but not moral strength; andhence lacking all of being all-conquering.

He had that kind of strength which made others thinkas he thought, and do as he would have them do. Hesaw things clearly, strongly, quickly. His assurancemade all things sure. He knew things and was proudof it. He knew himself and other men. And best ofall, as he thought, he knew women.

To-night he was alone in the old-fashioned but elegantdining-room of the Gaffs. The big log fire of ash andhickory was pleasant, and the blaze, falling in sombrecolor on the old mahogany side-board which sat oppositethe fireplace, on the double ash floor, polished andshining, added a deeper and richer hue to it. From thetoes of the dragon on which it rested, to the beak of thehand-carved eagle, spreading his wings over the shieldbeneath him, carved in the solid mahogany and surroundedby thirteen stars, all was elegance and aristocracy.Even the bold staring eyes of the eagle seemed[Pg 19]proud of the age of the side-board, for had it not beenbuilt when the stars numbered but thirteen? And wasnot the eagle rampant then?

The big brass andirons were mounted with thebronzed heads of wood-nymphs, and these looked saucilyup at the eagle. The three-cornered cupboard, in onecorner of the room, was of cherry, with small diamond-shapedwindows in front, showing within rare old setsof china and cut glass. The handsome square diningtable matched the side-board, only its dragon feet werelarger and stronger, as if intended to stand up undermore weight, at times.

Everything was ancient and had a pedigree. Eventhe Llewellyn setter was old, for he was grizzled aroundthe muzzle and had deep-set, lusterless eyes, from whichthe firelight, as if afraid of their very uncanniness,darted out as soon as it entered. And he carried hishead to one side when he walked, as old and deaf dogs do.

He lay on a rug before the fire. He had won thislicense, for opposite his name on the kennel books weremore field-trials won than by any other dog in Alabama.And now he dozed and dreamed of them again, withmany twitchings of feet, and cocked, quivering ears,and rigid tail, as if once more frozen to the covey inthe tall sedge-grass of the old field, with the smell offrost-bitten Lespedeza, wet with dew, beneath his feet.

Travis stooped and petted the old dog. It was theone thing of his household he loved most.

“Man or dog—'tis all the same,” he mused as hewatched the dreaming dog—“it is old age's privilegeto dream of what has been done—it is youth's to do.[Pg 20]”

He stretched himself in his big mahogany chair andglanced down his muscular limbs, and drew his arms togetherwith a snap of quick strength.

Everything at The Gaffs was an open diary of themaster's life. It is so in all homes—that which wegather around us, from our books to our bed-clothes,is what we are.

And so the setter on the rug meant that RichardTravis was the best wing-shot in the Tennessee Valley,and that his kennel of Gladstone setters had won morefield trials than any other kennel in the South. No manhas really hunted who has never shot quail in Alabamaover a well-broken setter. All other hunting is butcherycompared to the scientific sweetness of this sport.

There was a good-night, martial, daring crow, ringingfrom the Hoss-apple tree at the dining-room window.Travis smiled and called out:

Richard Travis had the original stock—the IrishGreys—which his doughty old grandsire, GeneralJeremiah Travis, developed to championship honors,and in a memorable main with his friend, GeneralAndrew Jackson, ten years after the New Orleans campaign,he had cleared up the Tennesseans, cock andpocket. It was a big main in which Tennessee, Georgiaand Alabama were pitted against each other, and inwhich the Travis cocks of the Emerald Isle strain, asOld Hickory expressed it, “stood the steel like a stuckshe-b'ar, fightin' for her cubs.”

General Travis had been an expert at heeling a cock;[Pg 21]and it is said that his skill on that occasion was worthmore than the blood of his Greys; for by a peculiarturn of the gaffs,—so slight as to escape the notice ofany but an expert—his champion cock had struck theblow which ended the battle. With the money won, hehad added four thousand acres to his estate, and afterwardscalled it The Gaffs.

And a strong, brave man had been General JeremiahTravis,—pioneer, Indian fighter, Colonel in the Creekwar and at New Orleans, and a General in the war withMexico.

His love for the Union had been that of a brave manwho had gone through battles and shed his blood for hiscountry.

In his early days his heart had been in his thoroughbredhorses and his fighting cocks, and when he heardthat his nephew had died with Crockett and Bowie at theAlamo, he drew himself proudly up and said: “A rightbrave boy, by the Eternal, and he died as becomes onecrossed on an Irish Grey cock.”

That had been years before. Now, a new civilizationhad come on the stage, and where the grandsire hadtaken to thoroughbreds, Richard Travis, the grandson,took to trotters. In the stalls where once stood the sonsof Sir Archie, Boston, and imported Glencoe himself,now were sons of Mambrino Patchin, and George Wilkesand Harold. And a splendid lot they were—sires,—broodmares and colts, in the paddocks of The Gaffs.

Travis took no man's dust in the Tennessee Valley.At county fairs he had a walk-over.[Pg 22]

He had inherited The Gaffs from his grandfather,for both his parents died in his infancy, and his tworemaining uncles gave their lives in Virginia, early inthe war, following the flag of the Confederacy.

One of them had left a son, whom Richard Travishad educated and who had, but the June before, graduatedfrom the State University.

Travis saw but little of him, since each did as hepleased, and it did not please either of them to get intoeach other's way.

There had been no sympathy between them. Therecould not be, for they were too much alike in many ways.

All through the summer Harry Travis had spent histime at picnics and dances, and, but for the fact thathis cousin now and then missed one of his best horsesfrom the stable, or found his favorite gun put awayfoul, or his fishing tackle broken, he would not haveknown that Harry was on the place.

Cook-mother Charity kept the house. Bond and free,she had spent all her life at The Gaffs. Of this she wasprouder than to have been housekeeper at Windsor.Her word was law; she was the only mortal who bossed,as she called it, Richard Travis.

Usually, friends from town kept the owner company,and The Gaffs' reputation for hospitality, while generous,was not unnoted for its hilarity.

To-night Richard Travis was lonely. His suppertray had not been removed. He lit a cigar and pickedup a book—it was Herbert Spencer, and he was sooninterested.[Pg 23]

Ten minutes later an octoroon house-girl, with darkCreole eyes, and bright ribbons in her hair, came in toremove the supper dishes. She wore a bright-coloredgreen gown, cut low. As she reached over the table nearhim he winced at the strong smell of musk, whichbeauties of her race imagine adds so greatly to theiraestheticstatus-quo. She came nearer to him than wasnecessary, and there was an attempted familiarity inthe movement that caused him to curve slightly the cornerof his thin, nervous lip, showing beneath his mustache.She kept a half glance on him always. Hesmoked and read on, until the rank smell of her perfumesmote him again through the odor of his cigar, and ashe looked up she had busied around so close to him thather exposed neck was within two feet of him bent inseeming innocence over the tray. With a mischievouslaugh he reached over and flipped the hot ashes from hiscigar upon her neck. She screamed affectedly anddanced about shaking off the ashes. Then with feignedmaidenly piquancy and many reproachful glances, shewent out laughing good humoredly.

Still giggling she set the tray down in the kitchenand told Cook-mother Charity about it. That worthywoman gave her a warning look and said:

“The frisk'ness of this new gen'ration of niggersmakes me tired. Better let Marse Dick alone—he's adan'g'us man with women.”

In the dining-room Travis sat quiet and thoughtful.[Pg 24]He was a handsome man, turning forty. His face wasstrong, clean shaved, except a light mustache, with fullsensual lips and an unusually fine brow. It was thebrow of intellect—all in front. Behind and abovethere was no loftiness of ideality or of veneration. Hissmile was constant, and though slightly cold, was alwaysapproachable. His manner was decisive, but cleveralways, and kind-hearted at times.

Contrary to his habit, he grew reminiscent. Hedespised this kind of a mood, because, as he said, “It isthe weakness of a fool to think about himself.” Hewalked to the window and looked out on the broad fieldsof The Gaffs in the valley before him. He looked at thehandsomely furnished room and thought of the splendidold home. Then he deliberately surveyed himself in themirror. He smiled:

“'Survival of the fittest'—yes, Spencer is right—agreat—great mind. He is living now, and the world,of course, will not admit his greatness until he is dead.Life, like the bull that would rule the herd, is neverready to admit that other life is great. A poet is alwaysa dead rhymester,—a philosopher, a dead dreamer.

“Tush! Why indulge in weak modesty and fool self-depreciation?Even instinct tells me—that very lowestof animal intellectual forces—that I survive becauseI am stronger than the dead. Providence—God—whateverit is, has nothing to do with it except to startyou and let you survive by overcoming. Winds you upand then—devil take the hindmost!

“It is brains—brains—brains that count—brains[Pg 25]first and always. This moral stuff is fit only for thosewho are too weak to conquer. I have accomplishedeverything in life I have ever undertaken—everything—and—bybrains! Not once have I failed—I havedone it by intellect, courage—intuition—the thing inone that speaks.

“Now as to things of the heart,”—he stopped suddenly—heeven scowled half humorously. It cameover him—his failure there, as one who, sweeping withhis knights the pawns of an opponent, suddenly findshimself confronting a queen—and checkmated.

He walked to the window again and looked towardthe northern end of the valley. There the gables of anold and somewhat weather-beaten home sat in a groupof beech on a rise among the foothills.

“Westmoreland”—he said—“how dilapidated it isgetting to be! Something must be done there, and Alice—Alice,”—herepeated the name softly—reverently—“Ifeel—I know it—she—even she shall be mine—afterall these years—she shall come to me yet.”

He smiled again: “Then I shall have won all around.Fate? Destiny? Tush! It's living and survivingweaker things, such for instance as my cousin Tom.”

“I have had a hard time in the mill to-day. It's abeastly business robbing the poor little half-made-updevils.”

He rang for Aunt Charity. She knew what hewished, and soon came in bringing him his cocktail—hisnight-cap as she always called it,—only of late he[Pg 26]had required several in an evening,—a thing that setthe old woman to quarreling with him, for she knew thelimit of a gentleman. And, in truth, she was proud ofher cocktails. They were made from a recipe given byAndrew Jackson. For fifty years Cook-mother Charityhad made one every night and brought it to “old marster”before he retired. Now she proudly brought it tohis grandson.

“Oh, say Mammy,” he said as the old woman startedout—“Carpenter will be here directly with his report.Bring another pair of these in—we will want them.”

The old woman bristled up. “To be sure, I'll fix'em, honey. He'll not know the difference. But thelicker he gits in his'n will come outen the bottle we keepfor the hosses when they have the colic. The bran' wekeep for gem'men would stick in his th'oat.”

CHAPTER III

JUD CARPENTER

An hour afterwards, Travis heard a well-knownwalk in the hall and opened the door.

He stepped back astonished. He released theknob and gazed half angry, half smiling.

A large dog, brindled and lean, walked complacentlyand condescendingly in, followed by his master. At aglance, the least imaginative could see that Jud Carpenter,the Whipper-in of the Acme Cotton Mills, andBonaparte, his dog, were well mated.

The man was large, raw-boned and brindled, and he,also, walked in, complacently and condescendingly.

The dog's ears had been cropped to match his tail,which in his infancy had been reduced to a very fewinches. His under jaw protruded slightly—showingthe trace of bull in his make-up.

The dog was cross-eyed—“the only cross-eyed purpin the worl'”—as his master had often proudly proclaimed,and the expression of his face was uncanny.

Jud Carpenter's eastern-eye looked west, and his western-eyelooked east, and the rest of the paragraph abovefitted him also.

The dog's pedigree, as his master had drawlingly[Pg 28]proclaimed, was “p'yart houn', p'yart bull, p'yart cur,p'yart terrier, an' the rest of him—wal, jes' dog.”

Reverse this and it will be Carpenter's: Just dog,with a sprinkling of bull, cur, terrier, and hound.

Before Richard Travis could protest, the dog walkeddeliberately to the fireplace and sprang savagely onthe helpless old setter dreaming on the rug. Theolder dog expostulated with terrific howls, while Travisturned quickly and kicked off the intruder.

He stood the kicking as quietly as if it were part ofthe programme in the last act of a melodrama in whichhe was the villain. He was kicked entirely across theroom and his head was driven violently into the half-opendoor of the side-board. Here it came in contactwith one of Cook-mother's freshly baked hams, set asidefor the morrow's lunch. Without even a change ofcountenance—for, in truth, it could not change—withoutthe lifting even of a hair in surprise, the bruteseized the ham and settled right where he was, to lunch.And he did it as complacently as he had walked in, andwith a satisfied growl which seemed to say that, so faras the villain was concerned, the last act of the melodramawas ending to his entire satisfaction.

Opening a side door, Travis seized him by the stumpof a tail and one hind leg—knowing his mouth was toofull of ham to bite anything—and threw him, stillclutching the ham, bodily into the back yard. Withoutchanging the attitude he found himself in when he hitthe ground, the brindled dog went on with his luncheon.

The very cheek of it set Travis to laughing. Heclosed the door and said to the man who had followed[Pg 29]the dog in: “Carpenter, if I had the nerve of thatraw-boned fiend that follows you around, I'd soon ownthe world.”

The man had already taken his seat by the fire as unaffectedlyas had the dog. He had entered as boldlyand as indifferently and his two deep-set, cat-graycross-eyes looked around as savagely.

He was a tall, lank fellow, past middle age, with acrop of stiff, red-brown hair, beginning midway of hisforehead, so near to an equally shaggy and heavy splotchof eyebrows as to leave scarce a finger's breadth betweenthem.

He was wiry and shrewd-looking, and his two deep-seteyes seemed always like a leopard's,—walking thecage of his face, hunting for some crack to slip through.Furtive, sly, darting, rolling hither and thither, neverstill, comprehensive, all-seeing, malicious and deadlyshrewd. These were the eyes of Jud Carpenter, andthey told it all. To this, add again that they lookedin contrary directions.

Yet in them, now and then, the twinkle of humorshone. He had a conciliatory way with those beneathhim, and he considered all the mill hands in that class.To his superiors he was a frowning, yet daring and evenpresumptuous underling.

Somewhat better dressed than the Hillites from whomhe sprang was this Whipper-in of the Acme CottonMills—somewhat better dressed, and with the air ofone who had arisen above his surroundings. Yet, withal,the common, low-born, malicious instinct was there[Pg 30]—theinstinct which makes one of them hate the manwho is better educated, better dressed than he. All told,it might be summed up and said of Jud Carpenter thathe had all the instincts of a Hillite and all the arroganceof a manager.

“Nobody understands that dog, Bonaparte, but me,”said Carpenter after a while—“he's to dogs what hisnamesake was to man. He's the champ'un fighter ofthe Tennessee Valley, an' the only cross-eyed purp in theworl', as I have often said. Like all gen'uses of course,he's a leetle peculiar—but him and me—we understan'seach other.”

He pulled out some mill papers and was about toproceed to discuss his business when Travis interrupted:

“Hold on,” he said, good humoredly, “after my experiencewith that cross-eyed genius of a dog, I'll needsomething to brace me up.”

Travis settled quickly to business. He took out hismill books, and for an hour the two talked in a low toneand mechanically. The commissary department of themill was taken up and the entire accounts gone over.Memoranda were made of goods to be ordered. Theaccounts of families were run over and inspected. Itwas tedious work, but Travis never flagged and his executiveability was quick and incisive. At last he closedthe book with an impatient gesture:

“That's all I'll do to-night,” he muttered decisively.“I've other things to talk to you about. But we'llneed something first.[Pg 31]”

He went to the side-board and brought out a decanterof whiskey, two goblets and a bowl of loaf sugar.

He laughed: “Mammy knows nothing about this.Two cocktails are the limit she sets for me, and so Ikeep this private bottle.”

He made a long-toddy for himself, but Carpentertook his straight. In all of it, his furtive eyes, shiningout of the splotch of eyebrows above, glanced inquiringlyaround and obsequiously followed every movement ofhis superior.

“Now, Carpenter,” said the Secretary after he hadsettled back in his chair and lit a cigar, handing the boxafterwards to the other—“You know me—you and I—mustunderstand each other in all things.”

“'Bleeged to be that way,” drawled the Whipper-in—“wemust wu'ck together. You know me, an' thatJud Carpenter's motto is, 'mum, an' keep movin'.'That's me—that's Jud Carpenter.”

Travis laughed: “O, it's nothing that requires somuch heavy villain work as the tone of your voice wouldsuggest. We're not in a melodrama. This is the nineteenthcentury and we're talking business and going towin a thing or two by common sense and business ways,eh?”

“Well, now, the first is quite matter of fact—justhorses. I believe we are going to have the biggest fairthis fall we have ever had.”

“It's lots talked about,” said Carpenter—“'speciallythe big race an' purse you've got put up.[Pg 32]”

“My reputation is at stake—and that of The Gaffs'stable. You see, Carpenter, it's a three-cornered racefor three-thousand dollars—each of us, Col. Troup,Flecker and me, have put up a thousand—three heatsout of five—the winner takes the stake. Col. Troup,of Lenox, has entered a fast mare of his, and Flecker,of Tennessee, will be there with his gelding. I knowFlecker's horse. I could beat him with Lizette and oneof her legs tied up. I looked him over last week. Contractedheels and his owner hasn't got horse-sense toknow it. It's horse-sense, Carpenter, that counts forsuccess in life as in a race.”

“But it's different with Col. Troup's entry. Everbeen to Lenox?” he asked suddenly.

“Don't know anybody there?” asked Travis. “Ithought so—just what I want.”

He went on indifferently, but Carpenter saw that hewas measuring his words and noting their effect uponhimself. “They work out over there Tuesdays andFridays—the fair is only a few weeks off—they willbe stepping their best by Friday. Now, go thereand say nothing—but just sit around and see how fastCol. Troup's mare can trot.”

“I have no notion of losing my thousand and reputation,too.” He bent over to Carpenter and laughed.“All's fair in love and—a horse race. You know it's[Pg 33]the 2:25 class, and I've entered Lizette, but Sadie B. isso much like her that no living man who doesn't currythem every day could tell them apart. Sadie B.'s markis 2:15. Now see if Troup can beat 2:25. Maybe hecan't beat 2:15.”

It was all he said, but it was enough for Carpenter.Fraud's wink to the fraudulent is an open book. Hernod is the nod of the Painted Thing passing down thehighway.

Base-born that he was—low by instinct and inheritance,he had never heard of so brilliant and so gentlemanlya piece of fraud. The consummate boldness of itmade Carpenter's eyes twinkle—a gentleman and in arace with gentlemen—who would dare to suspect? Itwas the boldness of a fine woman, daring to wear anecklace of paste-diamonds.

He sat looking at Travis in silent admiration. Neverbefore had his employer risen to such heights in the eyesof the Whipper-in. He sat back in his chair andchuckled. His furtive eyes danced.

“Nobody but a born gen'us 'ud ever have tho'rt ofthat,” he said—“never seed yo' e'kal—why, the moneyis your'n, any way you fix it. You can ring in Lizetteone heat and Sadie B.”——

“There are things to be thought and not talked of,”replied Travis quickly. “For a man of your age ar'n'tyou learning to talk too much out loud? You go andfind out what I've asked—I'll do the rest. I'm think[Pg 34]ingI'll not need Sadie B. Never run a risk, even adead sure one, till you're obliged to.”

“I'll fetch it next week—trust me for that. ButI hope you will do it—ring in Sadie B. just for the funof it. Think of old bay-window Troup trottin' hismare to death ag'in two fast horses an' never havin'sense enough to see it.”

He looked his employer over—from his neatly turnedfoot to the cravat, tied in an up-to-date knot. At that,even, Travis flushed. “Here,” he said—“anothertoddy. I'll trust you to bring in your report all right.”

Carpenter again took his straight—his eyes had begunto glitter, his face to flush, and he felt more liketalking.

Travis lit another cigar. He puffed and smoked insilence for a while. The rings of smoke went up incessantly.His face had begun to redden, his fingers tothrill to the tip with pulsing blood. With it went hisfinal contingency of reserve, and under it he droppedto the level of the base-born at his side.

“When are you going out to get in more hands forthe mill?” asked Travis after a pause.

“Yes, you see,” said Carpenter, “there's been ha'f adozen of the brats died this summer an' fall—scarletfever in the mill.”

“An' I've got to git in some mo' right away,” he[Pg 35]went on. “Oh, there's plenty of 'em in these hills.”

“Carpenter, had you ever thought of Helen Conway—Imean—of getting Conway's two daughters intothe mill?” He made the correction with a feigned indifference,but the other quickly noticed it. In an instantCarpenter knew.

As a matter of fact the Whipper-in had not thoughtof it, but it was easy for him to say what he thoughtthe other wished him to say.

“Wal, yes,” he replied; “that's jes' what I had beenthinkin' of. They've got to come in—'ristocrats orno 'ristocrats! When it comes to a question of breadand meat, pedigree must go to the cellar.”

Carpenter laughed: “That's it—you all'ers say thek'rect thing. 'N' as I was sayin'”—he went on—“itis a ground-hog case with 'em. The Major's drunkall the time. His farm an' home'll be sold soon. He's'bleeged to put 'em in the mill—or the po'-house.”

He paused, thinking. Then, “But ain't that Helenabout the pretties' thing you ever seed?” He chuckled.“You're sly—but I seen you givin' her that airin'behin' Lizette and Sadie B.—”

“You've nothing to do with that,” said Travisgruffly. “You want a new girl for our drawing-inmachine—the best paying and most profitable placein the mill—off from the others—in a room by herself—nocontact with mill-people—easy job—twodollars a day[Pg 36]—”

“One dollar—you forgit, suh—one dollar's thereg'lar price, sah,” interrupted the Whipper-in.

The other turned on him almost fiercely: “Yourmemory is as weak as your wits—two dollars, I tellyou, and don't interrupt me again—”

“To be sho',” said the Whipper-in, meekly—“Idid forgit—please excuse me, sah.”

“Then, in talking to Conway, you, of course, woulddraw his attention to the fact that he is to have a nicecottage free of rent—that will come in right handywhen he finds himself out in the road—sold out andnowhere to go,” he said.

“'N' the commissary,” put in Carpenter quietly.“Excuse me, sah, but there's a mighty good bran' ofwhiskey there, you know!”

Travis smiled good humoredly: “Your wits are returning,”he said; “I think you understand.”

“Sit down,” said the other, peremptorily—“youwill need something to help you along the road. Shallwe take another?”

Travis stood in the doorway and watched them godown the driveway. They both staggered lazily along.Travis smiled: “Both drunk—the dog on ham.[Pg 37]”

When he came back he was restless. He looked atthe clock. “Too early for bed,” he said. “I'd givea ten if Charley Biggers were here with his little cocktaillaugh to try me a game of poker.”

Suddenly he went to the window, and taking a smallsilver whistle from his pocket he blew it toward thestables. Soon afterwards a well dressed mulatto boyentered.

“Exercise her to-morrow under the saddle, and Sundayafternoon we will give Miss Alice her first ride onher—she's to be a present for her on her birth-day,you know—eh?”

“You may fix my bath now—think I'll retire. OJim!” he called, “see that Antar, the stallion, is securelystalled. You know how dangerous he is.”

Then a metal whip handle thumped heavily on thefloor and the jingling of a spur rattled over the hallfloor, as Harry Travis boisterously went down the hall,singing tipsily,

[Pg 38]Another door banged so loudly it awakened even thesetter. The old dog came to the side of the bed andlaid his head affectionately in Travis' palm. The masterof The Gaffs stroked his head, saying: “It isstrange that I love this old dog so.”

CHAPTER IV

FOOD FOR THE FACTORY

The next morning being Saturday, Carpenter, theWhipper-in, mounted his Texas pony and startedout toward the foothills of the mountains.

Upon the pommel of his saddle lay a long single-barreledsquirrel gun, for the hills were full of squirrels,and Jud was fond of a tender one, now and then. Behindhim, as usual, trotted Bonaparte, his sullen eyeslooking for an opportunity to jump on any timid countrydog which happened along.

There are two things for which all mills must beprepared—the wear and tear of Time on the machinery—thewear and tear of Death on the frail thingswho yearly work out their lives before it.

In the fight for life between the machine and thehuman labor, in the race of life for that which men callsuccess, who cares for the life of one little mill hand?And what is one tot of them from another? And ifone die one month and another the next, and another thenext and the next, year in and year out, who remembersit save some poverty-hardened, stooped and benumbedcreature, surrounded by a scrawny brood calling everfor bread?

The world knows not—cares not—for its tiny life[Pg 40]is but a thread in the warp of the great Drawing-inMachine.

So fearful is the strain upon the nerve and brainand body of the little things, that every year manyof them pass away—slowly, surely, quietly—so imperceptiblythat the mill people themselves scarcely missthem. And what does it matter? Are there not hundredsof others, born of ignorance and poverty andpain, to take their places?

And the dead ones—unknown, they simply pass intoa Greater Unknown. Their places are filled with freshvictims—innocents, whom Passion begets with a caressand Cupidity buys with a curse. Children they are—tots—andwhy should they know that they are trading—lifefor death?

It was a bright fall morning, and Jud Carpenterrode toward the mountain a few miles away. They arescarcely mountains—these beautifully wooded hills inthe Tennessee Valley, hooded by blue in the day andshrouded in somber at night; but it pleases the peoplewho live within the sweet influence of their shadows tocall them mountains.

Jud knew where he was going, and he rode leisurelyalong, revolving in his mind the plan of his campaign.He needed the recruits for the Acme Mills, and in allhis past experience as an employment agent he hadnever undertaken to bring in a family where as muchtact and diplomacy was required as in this case.

It was a dilapidated gate at which he drew rein.There had once been handsome pillars of stone andbrick, but these had fallen and the gate had been swung[Pg 41]on a convenient locust tree that had sprung up andgrown with its usual rapidity from its sheltered nooknear the crumbling rock wall. Only one end of thegate was hung; and it lay diagonally across the entranceof what had once been a thousand acres of thefinest farm in the Tennessee Valley.

Dismounting, Jud hitched his horse and set his gunbeside the tree; and as it was easier to climb over thebroken-down fence than to lift the gate around, hestepped over and then shuffled along in his lazy waytoward the house.

It was an old farmhouse, now devoid of paint; andthe path to it had once been a well-kept gravel walk,lined with cedars; but the box-plants, having felt nopruning shears for years, almost filled, with their fantasticallyjagged boughs, the narrow path, while thecedars tossed about their broken and dead limbs.

The tall, square pillars in the house, from dado aboveto where they rested in the brick base below, showed thenaked wood, untouched so long by paint that it hadgrown furzy from rain and snow, and splintery fromsun and heat. Its green shutters hung, some of them,on one hinge; and those which could be closed, wereshut up close and sombre under the casements.

A half dozen hounds came baying and barkingaround him. As Jud proceeded, others poured out fromunder the house. All were ribby, and half starved.

Without a moment's hesitation they promptly coveredBonaparte, much to the delight of that genius. Indeed,from the half-satisfied, half malignant snarl which lit uphis face as they piled rashly and brainlessly on him,[Pg 42]Jud took it that Bonaparte had trotted all these milesjust to breakfast on this remnant of hound on the half-shell.

In a few minutes Bonaparte's terrible, flashing teethhad them flying in every direction.

On the front portico, his chair half-tilted back, histrousers in his boot legs, and his feet on the balustraderim, the uprights of which were knocked out here andthere, like broken teeth in a comb,—sat a man in aslouch hat, smoking a cob pipe. He was in his shirtsleeves. His face was flushed and red; his eyes werewatery, bleared. His head was fine and long—hisnose and chin seemed to meet in a sharp point. Hisface showed that form of despair so common in thosewhom whiskey has helped to degenerate. He did notsmile—he scowled continuously, and his voice had beenimprecatory so long that it whined in the same falsettotwang as one of his hounds.

“How are you to-day, Majah, sah?” he asked whilehis puckered and wrinkled face tried to smile.

Jud was chameleon. Long experience had taughthim to drop instinctively into the mannerism—eventhe dialect—of those he hoped to cajole. With thewell-bred he could speak glibly, and had airs himself.With the illiterate and the low-bred, he could out-Calibanthe herd of them.

The man did not take the pipe out of his mouth.He did not even turn his head. Only his two bleared[Pg 43]eyes shot sidewise down to the ground, where ten feetbelow him stood the employment agent of the mills,smiling, smirking, and doing his best to spell out onthe signboard of his unscrupulous face the fact that hecame in peace and good will.

Major Edward Conway scarcely grunted—it mighthave been anything from an oath to an eructation.Then, taking his pipe-stem from between his teeth, andshifting his tobacco in his mouth,—for he was bothchewing and smoking—he expectorated squarely intothe eyes of a hound which had followed Jud up thesteps, barking and snarling at his heels.

Then he answered, with an oath, that he was aboutas well as the rheumatism and the beastly weather wouldpermit.

Jud came up uninvited and sat down. The Majordid not even turn his head. The last of a long line ofgentlemen did not waste his manners on one beneathhim socially.

Jud was discreetly silent, and soon the Major beganto tell all of his troubles, but in the tone of one whowas talking to his servant and with many oaths andmuch bitterness:

“You see it's this damned rheumatism, Carpenter.Las' night, suh, I had to drink a quart of whiskey befo'I cu'd go to sleep at all. It came on me soon aftahI come out of the wah, an' it growed on me like jim'sonweeds in a hog-pen. My appetite's quit on me—twopints of whiskey an' wild-cherry bark a day, suh, don't[Pg 44]seem to help it at all, suh. I cyant tell whut the devil'sthe matter with my stomach. Nothin' I eat or drinkseems to agree with me but whiskey. If I drink thismalarial water, suh, m'legs an' m'feet begin to swell.I have to go back to whiskey. Damn me, but I was bornfor Kentucky. Why, I've got a forty dollar thirst onme this very minute. I'm so dry I cu'd kick up a dustin a hog wallow. Maybe, though, it's this rotten stuffthat cross-roads Jew is sellin' me an' callin' it whiskey.He's got a mortgage on everything here but the houn'sand the house cat, an' he's tryin' to see if he cyant killme with his bug-juice an' save a suit in Chancery.I'm goin' to sen' off an' see if I cyant git another bran'of it, suh.”

Edward Conway was the type of the Southernerwrecked financially and morally by the war. His fatherand grandfather had owned Millwood, and the presentowner had gone into the war a carefully educated, wellreared youth of twenty. He came out of it alive, it istrue, but, like many another fine youth of both Northand South, addicted to drink.

The brutality of war lies not alone in death—it isoften more fatal, more degenerating, in the life it leavesbehind.

Coming out of the war, Conway found, as did allothers in the Tennessee Valley who sided with theSouth, that his home was a wreck. Not a fence, even,remained—nothing but the old home—shutterless,plasterless, its roof rotten, its cellar the abode of hogs.

Thousands of others found themselves likewise—bravehearts—men they proved themselves to be—in[Pg 45]that they built up their homes out of wreck and theircountry out of chaos.

The man who retrieves his fortune under the protectingarm of law and order is worthy of great praise;but he who does it in the surly, snarling teeth of Disorderitself is worthy of still greater praise.

And the real soldier is not he with his battles and hisbravery. All animals will fight—it is instinct. Buthe who conquers in the great moral battle of peace andgood government, overcoming prejudice, ignorance,poverty and even injustice, till he rises to the height ofthe brave whose deeds do vindicate them—this is thereal soldier.

Thousands of Southern soldiers did this, but EdwardConway had not been one of them. For where whiskeysits he holds a scepter whose staff is the body of theUpas tree, and there is no room for the oak of thrift orthe wild-flower of sweetness underneath.

From poverty to worse poverty Edward Conway hadgone, until now, hopelessly mortgaged, hopelessly besotted,hopelessly soured, he lived the diseased productof weakness, developed through stimulated inactivity.

Nature is inexorable, morally, physically, mentally,and as two generations of atheists will beget a thief,so will two generations of idle rich beget nonentities.

On this particular morning that Jud Carpenter came,things had reached a crisis with Edward Conway. Bya decree of the court, the last hope he had of retaininga portion of his family estate had been swept away,and the entire estate was to be advertised for sale, tosatisfy a mortgage and judgment. It is true, he had[Pg 46]the two years of redemption under the Alabama law,but can a drunkard redeem his land when he can notredeem himself?

And so, partly from despair, and partly from thatinstinct which makes even the most sensitive of mortalswish to pour their secret troubles into another's ear,partly even from drunken recklessness, Edward Conwaysat on his verandah this morning and poured his troublesinto the designing ear of Jud Carpenter. The refrainof his woe was that luck—luck—remorseless luckwas against him.

Luck, since the beginning of the world, has been thecry of him who gambles with destiny. Work is thewatchword of the man who believes in himself.

This thing went because that man had been againsthim, and this went because of the faithlessness of another.His health—well, that was God's doing.

Jud was too shrewd to let him know that he thoughtwhiskey had anything to do with it—and so, verycautiously did the employment agent proceed.

A child with sunny hair and bright eyes ran across theyard. She was followed by an old black mammy,whose anxiety for fear her charge might get her clothessoiled was plainly evident; from the parlor came thenotes of an old piano, sadly out of tune, and Jud couldhear the fine voice of another daughter singing a loveballad.

“Of course, they are, suh,” snapped their father—“theyare Conways.[Pg 47]”

“Ever think of it, sah,” went on Jud, “that theycould make you a livin' in the mill?”

Conway was silent. In truth, he had thought ofthat very thing. To-day, however, he was nerved anddesperate, being more besotted than usual.

“Now, look aheah—it's this way,” went on Jud—“you'regettin' along in age and you need res'. You'vebeen wuckin' too hard. I tell you, Majah, sah, you'redead game—no other man I know of would have stoodup under the burdens you've had on yo' shoulders.”

“Wal, it's time for you to res' awhile. No use todrive a willin' hoss to death. I can get a place for bothof the gyrls in the mill, an' aftah the fust month—aftahthey learn the job, they can earn enough to supportyou comf't'bly. Now, we'll give you a nice littlecottage—no bother of keepin' up a big run-downplace like this—jes' a neat little cottage. AuntMariah can keep it in nice fix. The gyrls will be employedand busy an' you can jes' live comf't'bly, an'res'. An' say,” he added, slyly—“you can get all thecredit at the Company's sto' you want an' I'm thinkin'you'll find a better brand of licker than that you'vebeen samplin'.”

Besotted as he was—hardened and discouraged—theproposition came over Conway with a wave ofshame. Even through his weakened mind the old instinctof the gentleman asserted itself, and for a momentthe sweet refined face of a beautiful dead wife,the delicate beauty of a little daughter, the queenliness[Pg 48]of an elder one, all the product of good breeding andrearing, came over him. He sprang to his feet.“What do you mean, suh? My daughters—grandchildrenof Gen. Leonidas Conway—my daughterswork in the mill by the side of that poor trash from themountains? I'll see you damned first.”

Jud drew his chair up closer: “But jes' think aminute—you're sold out—you've got no whur to go,you've wuck'd yo'self down tryin' to save the farm.We've all got to wuck these days. The war has changedall the old order of things. We havn't got any mo'slaves.”

“Wal, that's all right,” he added. “Listen to me,now, I'm tryin' to save you from trouble. The warchanged everything. Your folks got to whur they didby wuckin'. They built up this big estate by economyan' wuck. Now, you mus' do it. You've got the olddead-game Conway breedin' in yo' bones an' you'vegot the brains, too.” He lowered his voice: “It's onlyfor a little while—jes' a year or so—it'll give you anice little home to live in while you brace up an' pullout of debt an' redeem yo' farm. Here—it is onlyfor a year or so—sign this—givin' you a home, an'start all over in life—sign it right there, only for alittle while—a chance to git on yo' feet—.[Pg 49]”

Conway scarcely knew how it happened that he signed—forJud quickly changed the subject.

After a while Jud arose to go. As he did so, Lily,the little daughter, came out, and putting her armsaround her father's neck, kissed him and said:

“Papa—luncheon is served, and oh, do come on!Mammy and Helen and I are so hungry.”

Mammy Maria had followed her and stood deferentiallybehind the chair. And as Jud went away hethought he saw in the old woman's eyes, as she watchedhim, a trace of that fine scorn bred of generations ofgentleness, but which whiskey had destroyed in themaster.

CHAPTER V

THE FLY CATCHER CAUGHT

As Jud went out of the dilapidated gate at Millwood,he chuckled to himself. He had, indeed,accomplished something. He had gaineda decided advance in the labor circles of the mill.He had broken into the heretofore overpowering prejudicethe better class had against the mill, for he held inhis possession the paper wherein an aristocrat had signedhis two daughters into it. Wouldn't Richard Travischuckle with him?

To have the mill represented by a first family—evenif brought to poverty through drunkenness—wasan entering wedge.

His next job was easier. A mile farther on, thepoor lands of the mountain side began. Up on theslope was a cabin, in the poorest and rockiest portionof it, around the door of which half a dozen crackerchildren stared at Jud with unfeigned interest as herode up.

“Light an' look at yer saddle”—came from a typicalHillite within, as Jud stopped.

A cur—which, despite his breeding, is always a keen[Pg 51]detective of character—followed him, barking at hisheels.

This one knew Jud as instinctively and as accuratelyas he knew a fresh bone from a rank one—by smell.He was also a judge of other dogs and, catching sightof Bonaparte, his anger suddenly fled and he with it.

A tall, lank woman, smoking a cob pipe which hadgrown black with age and Samsonian in strength, camefrom the next room. She merely ducked her long, sharpnose at Jud and, pretending to be busily engaged aroundthe room, listened closely to all that was said.

Jud told the latest news, spoke of the weather andmade many familiar comments as he talked. Then hebegan to draw out the man and woman. They werepoor, child-burdened and dissatisfied. Gradually, carefully,he talked mill and the blessings of it. He drewglorious pictures of the house he would take them to,its conveniences—the opportunities of the town forthem all. He took up the case of each of the sixchildren, running from the tot of six to the girl oftwenty, and showed what they could earn.

“You sho'ly don't mean it comes to sixteen dollarsev'y week,” said the woman, taking the cob pipe out forthe first time, long enough to spit and wipe her mouthon the back of her hand, “an' all in silver an' allour'n?” she asked. “Why that thar is mo' money'n[Pg 52]we've seed this year. What do you say to tryin' it,Josiah?”

Josiah was willing. “You see,” he added, “weneedn't stay thar longer'n a year or so. We'll git themoney an' then come back an' buy a good piece of land.”

Suddenly he stopped and fired this point blank atJud: “But see heah, Mister-man, is thar any niggersthar? Do we hafter wuck with niggers?”

At the end of an hour the family head had signed fora five years' contract. They would move the next week.

“Cash—think of it—cash ever' week. An' in silver,too,” said the woman. “Why, I dunno hardly howit'll feel. I'm afeared it mou't gin me the eetch.”

Jud, when he left, had induced their parents to sellfive children into slavery for five years.

And both parents declared when he left that neverbefore had they “seed sech a nice man.”

Jud had nearly reached the town when he passed,high up on the level plateau by which the mountain roadnow ran, the comfortable home of Elder Butts. Peachand apple trees adorned the yard, while bee-hives sat in acorner under the shade of them behind the cottage.The tinkle of a sheep bell told of a flock of sheep nearby.A neatly painted new wagon stood under the shed bythe house, and all around was an air of thrift andwork.

“Now if I cu'd git that Butts family,” he mused,“I'd have something to crow about when I got back toKingsley to-night. He's got a little farm an' is well[Pg 53]to do an' is thrifty, an' if I cu'd only git that classstarted in the mill an' contented to wuck there, it 'udopen up a new class of people. There's that Archie B.—confoundhim, he cu'd run ten machines at onct andnever know it. I'd like to sweat that bottled mischiefout of him a year or two.

Jud drew his horse up with a jerk. Above him, withlegs locked, high up around the body of a dead willow,his seat the stump of a broken bough and fully twentyfeet above the employment agent's head, sat Archie B.,a freckled-faced lad, with fiery red hair and a world offun in his blue eyes. He was one of the Butts twins andthe very object of the Whipper-in's thoughts. Fromhis head to his feet he had on but three garments—asmall, battered, all-wool hat, a coarse cotton shirt, wideopen at the neck, and a pair of jeans pants which cameto his knees. But in the pockets of his pants were smallsamples of everything of wood and field, from shells ofrare bird eggs to a small supply of Gypsy Juice.

No one but a small boy, bent on fun, knows whatGypsy Juice is. No adult has ever been able to procureits formula and no small boy in the South cares, solong as he can get it.

“The thing that hit does,” Archie B. explained tohis timid and pious twin brother, Ozzie B., “is ter makeanything it touches that wears hair git up and git.”

Coons, possums, dogs, cats—with now and then acountry horse or mule, hitched to the town rack—withthese, and a small vial of Gypsy Juice, Archie B., as he[Pg 54]expressed it, “had mo' fun to the square inch than oleBarnum's show ever hilt in all its tents.”

Jud stood a moment watching the boy. It was easyto see what Archie B. was after. In the body of thedead tree a wood-pecker had chiseled out a round hole.

Bonaparte caught his cue at once and ran to the footof the tree barking viciously, daring the tree-climberto come down. His vicious eyes danced gleefully. Helooked at his master between his snarls as much as tosay: “Well, this is great, to tree the real live sonof the all-conquering man!”

It maddened him, too, to see the supreme indifferencewith which the all-conqueror's son treated his presence.

Jud grunted. He prided himself on his bird-lore.Finally he said: “Wal, any fool could tell you—it'sa wood-pecker's nest.”

“Yes, that's so and jus' exacly what a fool 'ud say,”came back from the tree. “But it 'ud be because he isa fool, tho', an' don't see things as they be. It's afly-ketcher's nest, for all that—” he added.

“Teach yo' gran'-mammy how to milk the house cat,”sneered Jud, while Bonaparte grew furious again withthis added insult. “Don't you know a wood-pecker'snest when you see it?”

“Yes,” said Archie B., “an' I also know a fly-ketcherwill whip a wood-pecker and take his nes' from[Pg 55]him, an' I've come up here to see if it's so with thisone.”

“What's a fly-ketcher, Mister Know-It-All?” saidJud. Then he grinned derisively.

Bonaparte, watching his master, ran around the treeagain and squatting on his stump of a tail grinned likewise.

“A fly-ketcher,” said Archie B. calmly, “is a sneakingsort of a bird, that ketches flies an' little helpless insectsfor a—mill, maybe. Do you know any two-leggedfly-ketchers a-doin' that?”

Jud glared at him, and Bonaparte grew so angry thathe snapped viciously at the bark of the tree as if hewould tear it down.

“Why his stomach,” drawled Archie B., “it's a littledifferunt from a cotton-mill, but it grinds 'em to deathall the same.”

“How do you know that's a fly-ketcher's nest andnot a wood-pecker's, then?” he asked, to change thesubject.

“That's what I'd like to know, too,” said Bonaparteas plainly as his growls and two mean eyes could say it.

“If it's a fly-ketcher's, the nest will be lined with asnake's-skin,” said Archie B. “That's nachrul, ain'tit,” he added—“the nest of all sech is lined with snake-skins.[Pg 56]”

Bonaparte, one of whose chief amusements in life waskilling snakes, seemed to think this a personal thrust athimself, for he flew around the tree with renewed ragewhile Archie B., safe on his high perch, made faces athim and laughed.

“I'll bet it ain't that way,” said Jud, rattled and discomfitedand shifting his long squirrel gun across hissaddle. Archie B. replied by carefully thrusting abrown sunburnt arm into the hole and bringing out anest. “Now, a wood-pecker's egg,” he said, carefullylifting an egg out and then replacing it, “'ud be pearlywhite.”

“Oh, by keepin' out of a cotton mill an' usin' myeye,” said Archie B., winking at Bonaparte.

“I'd like to git you into the mill,” said Jud. “I'dput you to wuck doin' somethin' that 'ud be worthwhile.”

“Oh, yes, you would for a few years,” sneered backArchie B. “Then you'd put me under the groun',where I'd have plenty o' time to res'.”

“I'm goin' up there now to see yo' folks an' see if Ican't git you into the mill.”

“Oh, you are?—Well, don't be in sech a hurry an'look heah at yo' snake-skin fust—didn't I tell you it'ud be lined with a snake-skin?” And he threw down alast year's snake-skin which Bonaparte proceeded torend with great fury.

“Now, come under here,” went on Archie B. persuasively,“and I'll sho' you they're not pearly white, like[Pg 57]a wood-pecker's, but cream-colored with little purplesplotches scratched over 'em—like a fly-ketcher's.”

Jud rode under and looked up. As he did so ArchieB. suddenly turned the nest upside down, that Judmight see the eggs, and as he looked up four eggs shotout before he could duck his head, and caught himsquarely between his shaggy eyes. Blinded, smearedwith yelk and smarting with his eyes full of fine brokenshell, he scrambled from his horse, with many oaths, andbegan feeling for the little branch of water which rannearby.

“I'll cut that tree down, but I'll git you and wringyo' neck,” he shouted, while Bonaparte endeavored totear it down with his teeth.

But Archie B. did not wait. Slowly he slid downthe tree, while Bonaparte, thunder-struck with joy,waited at the foot, his eyes glaring, his mouth wide open,anticipating the feast on fresh boy meat. Can hebe—dare he be—coming down? Right into my jaws,too? The very thought of it stopped his snarls.

Down—down, slid Archie B., both legs lockedaround the tree, until some ten feet above the dog, and,then tantalizingly, just out of reach, he suddenlytightened his brown brakes of legs, and thrusting hishand in his pocket, pulled out a small rubber ball.Reaching over, he squirted half of its contents over thedog, which still sat snarling, half in fury and half inwonder.

Then something happened. Jud could not see, beingdown on his knees in the little stream, washing his eyes,[Pg 58]but he first heard demoniacal barks proceed from Bonaparte,ending in wailful snorts, howls and whines, beginningat the foot of the tree and echoing in a fastvanishing wail toward home.

Jud got one eye in working order soon enough to seea cloud of sand and dust rolling down the road, from therear of which only the stub of a tail could be seen,curled spasmodically downward toward the earth.

Jud could scarcely believe his eyes—Bonaparte—thechampion dog—running—running like that?

Then he saw Archie B. up the road toward home,rolling in the sand with shouts of laughter.

“If I git my hands on you,” yelled Jud, shaking hisfist at the boy, “I'll swaller you alive.”

It was a half hour before Jud got all the fine eggshellout of his eyes. After that he decided to let theButts family alone for the present. But as he rodeaway he was heard to say again:

Archie B. was still rolling on the ground, and chucklingnow and then in fits of laughter, when a determined,motherly looking, fat girl appeared at the doorway ofthe family cottage. It was his sister, Patsy Butts:

“Maw,” she exclaimed, “I wish you'd look at ArchieB. I bet he's done sump'in.”

There was a parental manner in her way. Her oneobject in life, evidently, was to watch Archie B.[Pg 59]

“You Archie B.,” yelled his mother, a sallow littlewoman of quick nervous movements, “air you havin' arevulsion down there? What air you been doin' anyway?Now, you git up from there and go see whyOzzie B. don't fetch the cows home.”

A ground squirrel ran into a pile of rocks. ArchieB. turned the rocks about until he found the nest, whichhe examined critically and with care. He fingered itcarefully and patted it back into shape. “Nice littlenes',” he said—“that settles it—I thought they linedit with fur.” Then he replaced the rocks and aroseto go.

Ozzie B. was his twin brother—his “after clap”—asArchie B. called him. He was timid, uncertain,pious and given to tears—“bo'hn on a wet Friday”—asArchie B. had often said. He was always the effectof Archie B.'s cause, the illustration of his theorem, thesolution of his problem of mischief, the penalty of hismisdemeanors.

Presently Ozzie B. came in sight, hatless and drivinghis cows along, but sobbing in that hiccoughy way whichis the final stage of an acute thrashing.

No one saw more quickly than Archie B., and heknew instantly that his brother had met Jud Carpenter,on his way back to the mill.

“He's caught my lickin' ag'in,” said Archie B., indignantly—“it'sa pity he looks so much like me.[Pg 60]”

It was true, and Ozzie B. stood and dug one toe intothe ground, and sobbed and wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve, and told how, in spite of his explanations andbeseechings, the Whipper-in had met him down the roadand thrashed him unmercifully.

“Ozzie B.,” said his brother, “you make me tired allover and in spots. I hate for as big a fool as you tolook like me. Whyncher run—whyncher dodge him?”

“I—I—wanted ter do my duty,” sobbed Ozzie B.“Maw tole me ter drive—drive the cows right up theroad—”

“When the Devil's got the road,” said Archie B.,“decent fo'ks had better take to the wood. I'd fixedhim an' his ole dorg, an' now you come along an' spileit all.”

He made a cross mark in the road and spat on it.Then he turned with his back to the cross, threw his hatover his head and said slowly: “Venture pee wee underthe bridge! bam—bam—bam!”

“What's that fur?” asked Ozzie B., as he ceasedsobbing. His brother always had something new, and itwas always absorbingly interesting to Ozzie B.

“That,” said Archie B., solemnly, “I allers say aftermeetin' a Jonah in the road. The spell is now broke.Jus' watch me fix Jud Carpenter agin. Wanter see megit even with him? Well, come along.”

“I'll make that mustang break his neck for the wayhe treated you, or my name ain't Archie B. Butts[Pg 61]—that'sall.Venture pee wee under the bridge, bam—bam—bam!”

“No—oo—no,” began Ozzie B., beginning to cryagain—“Don't kill 'im—it'll be cruel.”

“Don't wanter see me go an' git even with the manthat's jus' licked you for nuthin'?”

“No—oo—no—” sobbed Ozzie B. “Paw says—leave—leave—thatfor—the Lord.”

“Tarnashun!”—said Archie B., spitting on theground, disgustedly—, “too much relig'un is a dang'usthing. You've got all of paw's relig'un an' maw'sbrains, an' that's 'nuff said.”

Then he ran across the wood to head off Jud Carpenter,who he knew had to go around a bend in the road.

There was no bird that Archie B. could not mimic.He knew every creature of the wood. Every wild thingof the field and forest was his friend. Slipping intothe underbrush, a hundred yards from the road downwhich he knew Jud Carpenter had to ride, he preparedhimself for action.

Drawing a turkey-call from his pocket, he gave thecall of the wild turkey going to roost, as softly as aviolinist tries his instrument to see if it is in tune.

He had not long to wait. Up the road he soon sawthe Whipper-in, riding leisurely along.

Archie B. swelled with anger at sight of the compla[Pg 62]centand satisfactory way he rode along. He eventhought he saw a smile—a kind of even-up smile—lighthis face.

When opposite his hiding place, Archie B. put hiscall to his mouth:Prut—Prut—P-R-U-T—itrang out. ThenPrut—prut!

Prut—Prut—it came out of the bushes on theright—a hundred yards away under a beech tree.

Jud listened: “Eatin' beech-mast,”—he said, andhe slipped off his pony, tied him quietly to the limb ofa sweet-gum tree, and cocking his long gun, slippedinto the wood.

Five minutes later he heard the sound still farther off.“They're walkin',” muttered Jud—“I mus' head 'emoff.” Then he pushed on rapidly into the forest.

Archie B. let him go—then, making a short circuit,slipped like an Indian through the wood, and came upto the pony hitched on the road side.

Quietly removing the saddle and blanket, he took twotough prickly burrs of the sweet-gum and placed one oneach side of the pony's spine, where the saddle wouldrest. Then he put the blanket and saddle back, takingcare to place them on very gently and tighten the girthbut lightly.

He shook all over with suppressed mirth as he wentfarther into the wood, and lay down on the mossy bankbehind a clay-root to watch the performance.

It was a quarter of an hour before Jud, thoroughly[Pg 63]tired and disgusted, gave up the useless search and cameback.

Untying the pony, he threw the bridle rein overits head and vaulted lightly into the saddle.

Archie B. grabbed the clay-root and stuffed his woolhat into his mouth just in time.

“It was worth a dollar,” he told Ozzie B. that night,after they had retired to their trundle bed. “The ponysquatted fust mighty nigh to the groun'—then he riza-buckin'. I seed Jud's coat-tail a-turnin' summersetsthrough the air, the saddle and blanket a-followin'. Iheard him when he hit the swamp hole on the side of theroadkersplash!—an' the pony skeered speechless wentoff tearin' to-ards home. Then I hollered out: 'Goit ole, fly-ketcher—you're as good for tad-poles as youis for bird-eggs'—an' I lit out through the wood.”

Ozzie B. burst out crying: “Oh, Archie B., do youreckin the po' man got hurt?”

“Say yo' prayers now and go to sleep. I'll kickyou m'se'f, but I'll lick anybody else that does it.”

“Venture pee-wee under the bridge—bam—bam—bam.Oh, Lord, you who made the tar'nal fools of thisworld, have mussy on 'em!”

CHAPTER VI

THE FLINT AND THE COAL

Love is love and there is nothing in all the worldlike it. Its romance comes but once, and it isthe perfume that precedes the ripened fruit ofall after life. It is not amenable to any of the laws ofreason; nor subject to any law of logic; nor can it beexplained by the analogy of anything in heaven orearth. Do not, therefore, try to reason about it. Onlylove once—and in youth—and be forever silent.

One of the mysteries of love to older ones is thattwo young people may become engaged and never aword be spoken. Put the girl in a convent, even, andlet the boy but walk past, and the thing is done. Theylook and love, and the understanding is complete. Theysee and sigh, and read each other's secret thoughts, pastand present—each other's hopes, fears.

Time and Romance travel not together. Time musthurry on. Romance would loiter by the way. And soRomance, in her completeness, loves to dwell most whereTime, traveling over the mile-tracks of the tropics,which belong by heredity to Alabama—stalks slowerthan on those strenuous half-mile tracks that spin[Pg 65]around the earth in latitudes which grow smaller as theyapproach the frozen pole.

The sun had reached, in his day's journey, the baldknob of Sunset Peak, and there, behind it, seemed tostop. At least to Helen Conway, born and reared underthe brow of Sand Mountain, he seemed every afternoon,when he reached the mountain peak, to linger, in afriendly way, behind it.

And a bold warrior-looking crest it was, helmetedwith a stratum of sand-stone, jutting out in visor-shapedfullness about his head, and feathery above with scrub-oakand cedar.

Perhaps it had been a fancy which lingered fromchildhood; but from the time when Mammy Maria hadfirst told her that the sun went to bed in the valleybeyond the mountain until now,—her eighteenth year,—Helenstill loved to think it was true, and that behindthe face of Sunset Rock he still lingered to undress;and, lingering, it made for her the sweetest and mostromantic period of the day.

True to her antebellum ideas, Mammy Maria dressedher two girls every afternoon before dinner. It is alsotrue that she cooked the dinner herself and made theirdresses with her own fingers, and that of late years, inthe poverty of her drunken master, she had little todress them with and less to cook.

But the resources of the old woman seemed wonderful—tothe people round about,—for never were two girlsmore gorgeously gowned than Helen and Lily. It washumorous, it was pathetic—the way it was done.

From old bureau drawers and cedar chests, stored[Pg 66]away in the attic and unused rooms of Millwood, whereshe herself had carefully put them in days long gone—daysof plenty and thrift—she brought forth richgowns of another age, and made them over for Helenand Lily.

“Now, this gown was Miss Clara's,” she would sayas she took out a bundle of satin and old lace. Shelooked at it fondly—often with tears in her honestblack eyes. “Lor', how well I disremember the nightshe fust wore it—the night of the ball we give toJineral Jackson when he first come to see old Marster.This flowered silk with pol'naize she wore at the Gov'nor'sball and the black velvet with cut steel I've seedher wearin' at many an' many a dinner here in this veryhouse.”

And so the old woman would go over all her treasures.Then, in a few days the gossipy and astounded neighborswould behold Helen and Lily, dressed, each, in agown of white brocaded satin, with a dinner gown ofblack velvet, and for Sunday, old point lace, with petticoatsof finest hand-made Irish linen and silk stockings—allmodernized with matchless deft and skill.

“I guess my gals will shine as long as the old chistlasts,” she would say, “an' I ain't started on 'em yet.I'm a-savin' some for their weddin', bless Gord, if Iever sees a man fitten for 'em.”

It was an hour yet before dinner, and Aunt Maria haddressed Helen, this Saturday afternoon, with great care—forafter a little frost, each day and night in Alabamabecomes warmer and warmer until the next frost.

Mammy Maria knew things by intuition, and hence[Pg 67]her care to see that Helen looked especially pretty to-day.

There was no sun save where he streamed his ribbonrays from behind Sunset Rock, and threw them in pearland ivory fan handles—white and gold and emerald,across the mackerel sky beyond.

Helen's silk skirt fitted her well, and one of thosebeautiful old ribbons, flowered in broad leaf and blossoms,wound twice around her slender waist and fell inbroad streamers nearly to the ground. The bodice wascut V-shaped at the throat—the corsage being takenfrom one of her grandmother's made in 1822, andaround her neck was a long chain of pure gold beads.

She was a type of Southern beauty obtained onlyafter years of gentle dames and good breeding.

Her face was pure and fine, rather expressionless ather age, with a straight nose and rich fine lips. Herheavy hair was coiled gracefully about her head andfell in a longer coil, almost to her shoulders. She wastall with a sloping, angular form, the flat outlines ofwhich were not yet filled with that fullness that timewould soon add.

Her waist was well turned, her shoulders broad andslightly rounded, with that fullness of chest and breastwhich Nature, in her hour of generosity, gives only tothe queenly woman. The curves of her sloping neckwere perfect and carried not a wave-line of grossness.It was as unsensual as a swan's.

Her gown, low cut, showed slight bony shoulders ofclassic turn and whiteness, waiting only for time toripen them to perfection; and the long curved lines which[Pg 68]ran up to where the deep braid of her rich brown hairfell over them, together with the big joints of her armsand the long, fine profile of her face were forerunners ofa beauty that is strong—like that of the thoroughbredbrood mare after a year's run on blue-grass.

Her eyes were her only weakness. They were deepand hazel, and given to drooping too readily with thatfeigned modesty wherein vanity clothes boldness. Downin their depths, also, shone that bright, penetratingspark of a taper by which Folly lights, in woman, thelamp of ambition.

Romance—girlish, idealized romance—was her'sto-day. A good intentioned, but thoughtless romance—andtherefore a weak one. And worse still, onewhich, coupled with ambition, might be led to ruin.

Down through the tangled box-planted walks shestrolled, swinging her dainty hat of straw and old lacein her hand; on through the small gate that bound thefirst yard, then through the shaded lawn, unkept nowand rank with weeds, but still holding the old treeswhich, in other days, looked down over the well keptlawn of grass beneath. Now gaunt hogs had rooted itup and the weeds had taken it, and the limbs of the oldtrees, falling, had been permitted to lie as they fell.

The first fence was down. She walked across the roadand took a path leading through a cottonfield, which,protected on all sides by the wood, and being on theelevated plateau on which the residence stood, had escapedthe severer frosts.[Pg 69]

She had seen the fields of cotton all her life, but shecould never pass through one in bloom and in fruit—thewhite and purple blossoms, mingled with the greenof the leaves and all banked over billows of snowy lint,—thatshe did not stop, thrilled with the same childhoodfeeling that came with the first reading of theArabian Nights.

She had seen the field when it was first plowed, inthe spring, and the small furrows were thrown up by thelittle turning shovels. Then, down the entire lengthof the ridge the cotton-planter had followed, its twolittle wheels straddling the row, while the small bull-tonguein front opened the shallow furrow for the linty,furry, white seeds to fall in and be covered immediatelyby the mold-board behind. She had seen it spring upfrom one end of the ridge to the other, like peas, thenchopped out by the hoe, the plants left standing, eachthe width of the hoe apart. Then she had watched it allsummer, growing under the Southern sun, throwingout limb above limb of beautiful delicate leaves, drawingtheir life and sustenance more from the air and sunshineabove than from the dark soil beneath. Drawing itfrom the air and sunshine above, and therefore cotton,silken, snowy cotton—with the warmth of the sun inthe skein of its sheen and the purity of heaven in thefleece of its fold.

Child of the air and the sky and sun; therefore,[Pg 70]cotton—and not corn, which draws its life from theclay and mud and decay which comes from below.

She had found it one sweet day in July, early in themorning, on the tip end of the eldest branch of the cottonstalk nearest the ground. It hung like the flowerof the cream-white, pendulous abutilon, with pollen ofyellow stars beaded in dew and throwing off a rich, delicate,aromatic odor, smelt nowhere on earth save in acottonfield, damp with early dew and warmed by the raysof the rising sun. Cream-white it was in the morning,but when she had visited it again at nightfall, it hungpurple in the twilight.

Through the hot month of July she had watched theboll grow and expand, until in August the lowest andoldest one next to the ground burst, and shone throughthe pale green leaves like the image of a star reflectedin waters of green. And every morning new cream-whiteblooms formed to the very top, only to turn purpleby twilight, while beneath, climbing higher and higheras the days went by and the cool nights came, star abovestar of cotton arose and stood twinkling in its sky ofgreen and purple, above the dank manger where, inearly spring, the little child-seed had lain.

To-day, touched by the great frost, the last purplebloom in the very tip-top seemed to look up yearninglyand plead with the sun for one more day of life; thatit, too, might add in time its snowy tribute to the bankof white which rolled entirely across the field, one bigbillow of cotton.[Pg 71]

She plucked a purple blossom and pinned it to herbreast. Then, with a deep sigh of saddened longing—thatthis should be the last—she walked on, daintilylifting her gown to avoid the damp stars of cotton, nowfast gathering the night dew.

Across the field, a vine of wild grape ran over thetop of two small hackberry trees, forming a naturalumbrella-shaped arbor above two big moss-coveredboulders which cropped out of the ground beneath, makingtwo natural rustic seats. On one of these she satdown. Above her head glowed the impenetrable leavesof the grape-vine and the hackberry, and through themall hung the small purple bunches of wild grapes, waitingfor the frost of affliction to convert into sugar theacid of their souls.

She was in plain view of Millwood, not a quarter of amile away, and in the glow of the blazing red sunset,shining through its broken shutters and windows, shecould see Mammy Maria busy about their dinner.

She looked up the road anxiously—then, with animpatient gesture she took the cotton bloom from herbosom and began to pluck the petals apart, one by one,saying aloud:

She stopped short and sighed—“O, pshaw! that wasHarry; why did I name it for him?”

She turned quickly. She heard the gallop of a saddlehorse coming. The rider sprang off, tied his horseand sat on the rock by her side.

It was a handsome boyish face that looked at her fora moment mischievously. Then he seized and kissed herdespite her struggles.

“Harry Travis, you can't kiss me every time youwant to, no matter if we are engaged.”

It was a strong and rather a masculine voice, and itgrated on one slightly, being scarcely expected from sobeautiful a face. In it was power, self-will, ambition—butno tenderness nor that voice, soft and low, which“is an excellent thing in woman.”

“Did you ever hear that love is not love if it is aminute late? Just see how long I have waited here foryou?”

She sat down by his side and looked fondly up intohis face, flushed with exercise and smiling half cynically.[Pg 73]It was the same smile seen so often on the face of RichardTravis.

“Oh, say,” he said, dolefully, “but don't start thehubby-come-to-taw-business on me until we are married.I was late because I had to steal the Gov'nor's new mare—isn'tshe a beauty?”

“Oh, say,” he went on, “but that is a good one—hehas bought her for somebody he is stuck on—can'tsay who—and I heard him tell Jim not to let anybodyget on her back.

“Well,”—he laughed—“she certainly has a fineback. I stole her out and galloped right straighthere.

“You ought to own her,”—he went on flippantly—pinchingplayfully at the lobe of her ear—“her nameis Coquette.”

“Harry!” she said, pulling away—“don't now—MammyMaria said I was never to—let you kiss me.”

“Oh,” he said with some iciness—“Listen to her an'you will die an old maid. Besides, I am not engagedto Mammy Maria.”

“Worst I ever saw—I said to Nellie just now—Imean—” he stopped and laughed.

“Then you've stopped to see Nellie, and that is whyyou are late? I do not care what she says—I amtrue to you, Harry—because—because I love you.[Pg 74]”

“Well—kiss me yourself then—show me thatMammy Maria does not boss my wife.”

She laughed and kissed him. He received it with indifferenceand some haughtiness.

“Don't you think my dress is pretty?” she askedafter a while, with a becoming toss of her head.

“Why, I hadn't noticed it—stunning—stunning.If there is a queen on earth it is you,”—he added.

“Harry,”—she said after a while, “I hate to troubleyou now, but I am so worried about things at home.”

“You know I have always told you I could not marryyou now. I would not burden you with Papa.”

“Why, yes,” he answered mechanically, “we're bothyoung and can wait. You see, really, Pet—you knowI am dependent at present on the Gov'nor an'—”

“A long engagement will only test our love,” hebroke in with a show of dignity.

“You do not understand,” she went on. “Thingshave got so bad at home that I must earn something.”

He frowned and tapped his foot impatiently. Shesat up closer to him and put her hand on his. He didnot move nor even return the pressure.

“And so, Harry—if—if to help papa—and Millwoodis sold—and I can get a good place in the mill[Pg 75]—oneoff by myself—what they call drawer-in—at goodwages,—and, if only for a little while I'd work there—tohelp out, you know—what would you think?”

“Good God, Helen Conway, are you crazy?” he saidbrutally—“why, I'd never speak to you again. Me?A Travis?—and marry a mill girl?”

The color went out of her face. She looked in hershame and sorrow toward the sunset, where a cloud, butten minutes before, had stood all rosy and purple withthe flush of the sunbeams behind it.

In the crisis of our lives such trifles as these flash overus. In the greatness of other things—often turningpoints in our life—Nature sometimes points it all witha metaphor.

But she was not a coward, and with her heart nervedand looking him calmly in the face, she talked on andtold him of the wretched condition of affairs at Millwood.And as she talked, the setting sun played overher own cheeks, touching them with a halo of such exquisitecolors that even the unpoetic soul of HarryTravis was touched by the beauty of it all.

And to any one but Harry Travis the proper solutionwould have been plain. Not that he said it or evenmeant it—for she was too proud a spirit even to havethought of it—there is much that a man should knowinstinctively that a woman should never know at all.[Pg 76]

Harry surprised himself by the patience with whichhe listened to her. In him, as in his cousin—his pattern—rana vein of tact when the crisis demanded,through and between the stratum of bold sensuousnessand selfishness which made up the basis of his character.

And so as he listened, in the meanness and meagernessof his soul, he kept thinking, “I will let her downeasy—no need for a scene.”

It was narrow and little, but it was all that couldcome into the soul of his narrowness.

For we cannot think beyond our fountain head, norcan we even dream beyond the souls of the two thingswho gave us birth. There are men born in this age ofripeness, born with an alphabet in their mouths andreared in the regal ways of learning, who can neitherread nor write. And yet had Shakespeare been bornwithout a language, he would have carved his thoughtsas pictures on the trees.

Harry Travis was born as so many others are—notonly without a language, but without a soul within himupon which a picture might be drawn.

And so it kept running in his mind, quietly, cold-bloodedly,tactfully down the narrow, crooked, slum-alleysof his mind: “I will—I will drop her—now!”She ceased—there were tears in her eyes and her facewas blanched whiter even than the cloud.

He arose quickly and glanced at the setting sun:“Oh, say, but I must get the Gov'nor's mare back. Jimwill miss her at feeding time.”

There was a laugh on his lips and his foot was alreadyin the stirrup. “Sorry to be in such a hurry just now,[Pg 77]too—because there is so much I want to say to you onthat subject—awful sorry—but the Gov'nor will raiseCain if he knows what I've done. I'll just write you along letter to-night—and I'll be over, maybe, soon—ta—ta—butthis mare, confound her—see how shecuts up—so sorry I can't stay longer—but I'll write—to-night.”

She sat dazed, numbed, with the shallowness of itall—the shale of sham which did not even conceal thebase sub-stratum of deceit below.

She dropped down behind the rock, but instead oftears there came steel. In it all she could only say withher lips white, a defiant poise of her splendid head, andwith a flash of the eyes which came with the Conwayaroused: “Oh, and I kissed him—and—and—Iloved him!”

She sat on the rock again and looked at the sunset.She was too hurt now to go home—she wished to bealone.

She was a strong girl—mentally—and with a deepnature; but she was proud, and so she sat and crushed itin her pride and strength, though to do it shook her asthe leaves were now being shaken by the breeze whichhad sprung up at sunset.

She thought she could conquer—that she had conquered—then,as the breeze died away, and the leaveshung still and limp again, her pride went with the breezeand she fell again on her knees by the big rock, fell and[Pg 78]buried her face there in the cool moss and cried: “Oh,and I loved that thing!”

Ten minutes later she sat pale and smiling. TheConway pride had conquered, but it was a dangerousconquest, for steel and tears had mingled to make it.

In her despair she even plucked another cotton bloomfrom her bosom as if trying to force herself to be happyagain in saying:

But this only hurt her, because she remembered thatwhen she had said it before she had had an idol whichnow lay shattered, as the petals of the cotton-blossomwhich she had plucked and thrown away.

Then the breeze sprang up again and with it, borneon it, came the click—click—click of a hammer tappinga rock. It was a small gladey valley throughwhich a gulley ran. Boulders cropped out here andthere, and haws, red and white elms, and sassafras grewand shaded it.

Down in the gulch, not a hundred yards from her, shesaw a pair of broad shoulders overtopped by a rustysummer hat—the worse for a full season's wear.Around the shoulders was strung a leathern satchel, andshe could see that the person beneath the hat was closelyinspecting the rocks he chipped off and put into thesatchel. Then his hammer rang out again.

She sat and watched him and listened to the tap ofhis hammer half sadly—half amused. Harry Travis[Pg 79]had crushed her as she had never been crushed before inher life, and the pride in a woman which endureth afall is not to be trifled with afterwards.

She grew calmer—even quiet. The old spirit returned.She knew that she had never been as beautifulin her life, as now—just now—in the halo of thesunset shining on her hair and reflected in the rare oldgown she wore.

The person with the leathern satchel was obliviousof everything but his work. The old straw hat bobbedenergetically—the big shoulders nodded steadily beneathit. She watched him silently a few minutes andthen she called out pleasantly:

He stopped and looked up. Then he took off his hatand, awkwardly bowing, wiped his brow, broad, calmand self-reliant, and a deliberate smile spread over hisface. Everything he did was deliberate. The smilebegan in the large friendly mouth and spread in kindredwaves upward until it flashed out from his kindlyblue eyes, through the heavy double-lens glasses thatcovered them.

Without a word he picked up the last rock he hadbroken off and put it into his satchel. Very deliberate,too, was his walk up the hill toward the grape arbor,mopping his brow as he came along—a brow big andfull of cause and effect and of quiet deductions anddeliberate conclusions. His coat was seedy, his trousersbagged at the knees, his shoes were old, and there werepatches on them, but his collar and linen were white andvery much starched, and his awkward, shambling gait[Pg 80]was honest to the last footfall. A world of depth andsoul was in his strong, fine face, lit up now with anhonest, humble smile, but, at rest, full of quiet dignity.

He smiled back at her abstractedly. She could seethat he had not yet really seen her. He was lookingthoughtfully across at the hill beyond:

“It puzzles me,” he said in a fine, mellow voice, “whyI should find this rotten limestone cropping out here.Now, in the blue limestone of the Niagara period I wasas sure of finding it as I am—”

He turned, and the thick lenses of his glasses werefocused on her—a radiant, superb being. Then therewere swept away all his abstractions and deductions, andin their place a real smile—a lover's smile of satisfactionlooking on the paradise of his dreams.

He did not appear to hear her. Already his mindwas away off in the hills where his eyes were. He wenton: “Now, over there I struck a stratum of rottenlimestone—it's a curious thing. I traced that vein of[Pg 81]coal from Walker County—clear through the carboniferousperiod, and it is bound to crop out somewhere inthis altitude—bound to do it.”

“Now it's just this way,” he said, taking her handwithout being conscious of it and counting off the periodswith her fingers. “Here is the carboniferous,the sub-carboniferous—” She jerked her hand awaywith what would have been an amused laugh except thatin a half conscious way she remembered that Harry hadheld her hand but half an hour ago; and it ended in afrigid shaft feathered with a smile—the arrow whichcame from the bow of her pretty mouth.

He came to himself with a boyish laugh and a blushthat made Helen look at him again and watch it rolldown his cheek and neck, under the fine white skinthere.

Then he looked at her closely again—the romanticface, the coil of brown hair, the old gown of rich silk,the old-fashioned corsage and the rich old gold necklacearound her throat.

He reddened again, and to divert it felt in his satcheland took out a rock. Then he looked across at the hillsagain:

“If I do trace up that vein of coal and the iron whichis needed with it—when I do—for I know it is hereas well as Leverrier knew that Neptune was in ourplanetary system by the attraction exerted—when Ido—”

He looked at her again. He could not say the words.[Pg 82]Real love has ideas, but never words. It feels, but cannotspeak. That which comes out of the mouth, beingwords, is ever a poor substitute for that which comesfrom the heart and is spirit.

“Clay,” she said, “you keep forgetting. I say I—Iam—was—” She stopped confused.

He looked hurt for a moment and smiled in his frankway: “I know it is here,” he said holding up a bit ofcoal—“here, by the million tons, and it is mine byright of birth and education and breeding. It is myheritage to find it. One day Alabama steel will outrankPittsburgh's. Oh, to put my name there as the discoverer!”

“Then you”—he turned and said it fondly—reverently—“youshould be mine by right of—of love.”

“Clay—I am sorry for you. I can never love youthat way. You have told me that, since—oh, since Ican remember, and I have always told you—you knowwe are cousins, anyway—second cousins.” She shookher head.

But she did not understand him. She had lookeddown and seen Harry's foot-track on the moss.

And so they sat until the first star arose and shimmeredthrough the blue mist which lay around the faroff purpling hill tops. Then there was the clang of adinner bell.

“It is Mammy Maria,” she said—“I must go. No[Pg 83]—youmust not walk home with me. I'd rather bealone.”

She did not intend it, but it was brutal to have said itthat way—to the sensitive heart it went to. He lookedhurt for a moment and then tried to smile in a weakway. Then he raised his hat gallantly, turned and wentoff down the gulch.

Helen stood looking for the last time on the prettyarbor. Here she had lost her heart—her life. Shefell on the moss again and kissed the stone. Then shewalked home—in tears.

CHAPTER VII

HILLARD WATTS

It is good for the world now and then to go backto first principles in religion. It would be betterfor it never to get away from them; but, since ithas that way of doing—of breeding away and breakingaway from the innate good—it is well that a manshould be born in any age with the faith of Abraham.

It matters not from what source such a man mayspring. And he need have no known pedigree at all,except an honest ancestry behind him.

Sprung from the common people of the South, hewas a most uncommon man, in that he had an absolutefaith in God and His justice, and an absolute belief thatsome redeeming goodness lay in every human being,however depraved he may seem to the world. And sofirm was his faith, so simple his religion—so contraryto the worldliness of the religion of his day,—that thevery practice of it made him an uncommon man.

As the overseer of General Jeremiah Travis's largeestate before the war, he proved by his success that evenslaves work better for kindness. Of infinite good sense,but little education, he had a mind that went to theheart of things, and years ago the fame of his homely[Pg 85]but pithy sayings stuck in the community. In connectionwith kindness to his negroes one of his sayings was,“Oh, kindness can't be classified—it takes in the wholeworld or nothin'.”

When General Travis got into dire financial straitsonce, he sent for his overseer, and advised with him asto the expediency of giving up. The overseer, whoknew the world and its ways with all the good judgmentof his nature, dryly remarked: “That'll never do.Never let the world know you've quit; an' let the undertakerthat buries you be the fust man to find out you'rebusted.”

General Travis laughed, and that season one of hishorses won the Tennessee Valley Futurity, worth thirty-thousanddollars—and the splendid estate was againfree from debt.

There was not a negro on the place who did not lovethe overseer, not one who did not carry that love to theextent of doing his best to please him. He had neverbeen known to punish one, and yet the work done by theTravis hands was proverbial.

Among his duties as overseer, the entire charge of theWestmore stable of thoroughbreds fell to his care. Thiswas as much from love as choice, for never was a manborn with more innate love of all dumb creatures thanthe preacher-overseer.

“I've allers contended that a man could love God an'raise horses, too,” he would say; and it was ludicrousto see him when he went off to the races, filling thetent trunk with religious tracts, which, after the races,he would distribute to all who would read them. And[Pg 86]when night came he would regularly hold prayers in histent—prayer-meetings in which his auditors were touts,stable-boys and gamblers. And woe to the stable-boywho uttered an oath in his presence or dared to strikeor maltreat any of his horses!

He preached constantly against gambling on theraces. “That's the Devil's end of it,” he would say—“TheAlmighty lets us raise good horses as a benefitto mankind, an' the best one wins the purse. It was theDevil's idea that turned 'em into gambling machines.”

No one ever doubted the honesty of his races. Whenthe Travis horses ran, the racing world knew they ranfor blood.

Physically, he had been an athlete—a giant, andunconscious of his strength. Incidentally, he had takento wrestling when a boy, and as a man his fame as awrestler was coincident with the Tennessee Valley. Itwas a manly sport which gave him great pleasure, justas would the physical development of one of his racehorses. Had he lived in the early days of Greece, hewould have won in the Olympian wrestling match.

There was in Hillard Watts a trait which is one of themost pronounced of his type of folks,—a sturdy, honesthumor. Humor, but of the Cromwell type—andwithal, a kind that went with praying and fighting.Possessed, naturally, of a strong mind of great goodsense, he had learned to read and write by studying theBible—the only book he had ever read through andthrough and which he seemed to know by heart. Hewas earnest and honest in all things, but in his earnestnessand strong fight for right living there was the twin[Pg 87]kleof humor. Life, with him, was a serious fight, butever through the smoke of its battle there gleamed thebright sun of a kindly humor.

The overseer's home was a double log hut on the sideof the mountain. His plantation, he called it,—forhaving been General Travis's overseer, he could notimagine any farm being less than a plantation.

It consisted of forty acres of flinty land on themountain side—“too po' to sprout cow-peas,” as hisold wife would always add—“but hits pow'ful forblackberries, an' if we can just live till blackberry timecomes we can take keer ourselves.”

Mrs. Watts had not a lazy bone in her body. Herreligion was work: “Hit's nature's remedy,” she wouldadd—“wuck and five draps o' turpentine if you'refeelin' po'ly.”

She despised her husband's ways and thought littleof his religion. Her tongue was frightful—her temperworse. Her mission on earth—aside from work—work—work—wasto see that too much peace andgood will did not abide long in the same place.

Elder Butts, the Hard-Shell preacher, used to say:“She can go to the full of the moon mighty nigh everymonth 'thout raisin' a row, if hard pressed for time an'she thinks everybody else around her is miser'ble. Butif things look too peaceful and happy, she'll raise sandin the last quarter or bust. The Bishop's a good man,but if he ever gits to heaven, the bigges' diamon' in hiscrown'll be because he's lived with that old 'oman an'ain't committed murder. I don't believe in law suits,[Pg 88]but if he ain't got a damage case agin the preacher thatmarried him, then I'm wrong.”

But no one ever heard the old man use harsher languagein speaking of her than to remark that she was“a female Jineral—that's what Tabitha is.”

Perhaps she was, and but for her the Bishop and hishousehold had starved long ago.

“Furagin' is her strong point”—he would alwaysadd—“she'd made Albert Sydney Johnston a greatchief of commissary.”

And there was not an herb of any value that Mrs.Watts did not know all about. Any fair day shemight be seen on the mountain side plucking edibles.Ginseng was her money crop, and every spring shewould daily go into the mountain forests and come backwith enough of its roots to help them out in the winter'spinch.

“Now, if anybody'll study Nature,” she would say,“they'll see she never cal'c'lated to fetch us here 'ithoutmakin' 'lowance fur to feed us. The fus' thing thatcomes up is dandelions—an' I don't want to stick mytooth in anything that's better than dandelion greensbiled with hog-jowl. I like a biled dinner any way.Sas'fras tea comes mighty handy with dandelions in thespring, an' them two'll carry us through April. Thencomes wild lettice an' tansy-tea—that's fur May.Blackberries is good fur June an' the jam'll take usthrough winter if Bull Run and Appomattox ain' toohealthy. In the summer we can live on garden truck,an' in the fall there is wild reddishes an' water-cressesan' spatterdock, an' nuts an' pertatoes come in mighty[Pg 89]handy fur winter wuck. Why, I was born wuckin'—whenI was a gal I cooked, washed and done house-workfor a family of ten, an' then had time to spin ten hankso' yarn a day.”

“Now there's the old man—he's too lazy to wuck—he'slike all parsons, he'd rather preach aroun' all hislife on a promise of heaven than to wuck on earth forcash!”

“How did I ever come to marry Hillard Watts?Wal, he wa'n't that triflin' when I married him. Hedidn't have so much religiun then. But I've allersnoticed a man's heredity for no-countness craps outafter he's married. Lookin' back now I reckin' I marriedhim jes' to res' myself. When I'm wuckin' an' gittired, I watches Hillard doin' nothin' awhile an' it hopesme pow'ful.”

Besides his wife there were five grandchildren in hisfamily—children of the old man's son by his secondwife. “Their father tuck after his stepmother,” hewould explain regretfully, “an' wucked hisself to deathin the cotton factory. The dust an' lint give him consumption.He was the only man I ever seed that tuckafter his stepmother”—he added sadly.

An old soldier never gets over the war. It has left anervous shock in his make-up—a memory in all hisafter life which takes precedence over all otherthings. The old man had the naming of the grandchildren,and he named them after the battles of theCivil war. Bull Run and Seven Days were the boys.[Pg 90]Atlanta, Appomattox and Shiloh were the girls. Hisapology for Shiloh was: “You see I thout I'd namethe last one Appomattox. Then came a little one befo'her mammy died, so weak an' pitiful I named her Shiloh.”

It was the boast of their grandmother—that thesechildren—even little Shiloh—aged seven—workedfrom ten to twelve hours every day in the cotton factory,rising before day and working often into the night, withforty minutes at noon for lunch.

They had not had a holiday since Christmas, and onthe last anniversary of that day they had worked untilten o'clock, making up for lost time. Their pay wastwenty-five cents a day—except Shiloh, who receivedfifteen.

“But I'll soon be worth mo', pap,” she would say asshe crawled up into the old man's lap—her usual placewhen she had eaten her supper and wanted to rest.“An you know what I'm gwine do with my other nickelevery day? I'm gwine give it to the po' people of Indyan' China you preaches about.”

And thus she would prattle—too young to knowthat, through the cupidity of white men, in this—theland of freedom and progress—she—this blue-eyed,white-skinned child of the Saxon race, was making thesame wages as the Indian sepoy and the Chinese coolie.

It was Saturday night and after the old man had putShiloh to bed, he mounted his horse and rode across themountain to Westmoreland.

“Oh,” said the old lady—“he's gwine over to MissAlice's to git his Sunday School less'n. An' I'd like to[Pg 91]know what good Sunday school less'ns 'll do any body.If folks'd git in the habit of wuckin' mo' an' prayin'less, the worl'ud be better off, an' they'd really havesomethin' to be thankful fur when Sunday comes, 'stidof livin' frum han' to mouth an' trustin' in some unknownGod to cram feed in you' crops.”

CHAPTER VIII

WESTMORELAND

From The Gaffs to Westmoreland, the home ofAlice Westmore, was barely two miles up thelevel white pike.

Jim sat in the buggy at The Gaffs holding the horseswhile Richard Travis, having eaten his supper, waslighting a cigar and drawing on his overcoat, preparatoryto riding over to Westmoreland.

The trotters stood at the door tossing their heads andeager to be off. They were cherry bays and so muchalike that even Jim sometimes got them mixed. Theywere clean-limbed and racy looking, with flanks welldrawn up, but with a broad bunch of powerful muscleswhich rolled from hip to back, making a sturdy backfor the splendid full tails which almost touched theground. In front they stood up straight, deep-chested,with clean bony heads, large luminous eyes and longslender ears, tapering into a point as velvety and softas the tendril-bud on the tip of a Virginia creeper.

They stood shifting the bits nervously. The nightair was cool and they wanted to go.

Travis came out and sprang from the porch to thebuggy seat with the quick, sure footing of an athlete.Jim sat on the offside and passed him the lines just ashe sang cheerily out:[Pg 93]

The two mares bounded away so quickly and keenlythat the near mare struck her quarters and jumped upinto the air, running. Her off mate settled to work,trotting as steadily as a bolting Caribou, but pullingviciously.

Travis twisted the near bit with a deft turn of hisleft wrist, and as the two mares settled to their stridesthere was but one stroke from their shoes, so evenly andin unison did they trot. Down the level road they flew,Travis sitting gracefully upright and holding the linesin that sure, yet careless way which comes to the expertdriver with power in his arms.

“How many times must I tell you, Jim,” he said atlast rather gruffly—“never to bring them out, even forthe road, without their boots? Didn't you see Lizettegrab her quarters and fly up just now?”

Travis let them out a link. They flew down a soft,cool graveled stretch. He drew them in at the soundof an ominous click. It came from Sadie B.

“Sadie B.'s forging again. Didn't I tell you to havethe blacksmith move her hind shoes back a little?”

“Not to-night, sir—I took off the two ounces thinkingyou'd not speed them to-night, sir.”

“You never know when I'm going to speed them.The night is as good as the day when I want a tonic.”

They had reached the big stone posts which marked[Pg 94]the boundary of Westmoreland. A little farther on themares wheeled into the gate, for it was open and lay,half on the ground, hanging by one hinge. It had notbeen painted for years. The driveway, too, had beenneglected. The old home, beautiful even in its decay,sat in a fine beech grove on the slope of a hill. A wideveranda, with marble flag-stones as a base, ran acrossthe front. Eight Corinthian pillars sentineled it, restingon a marble base which seemed to spring up out ofthe flag-stones themselves, and towering to the projectingentablature above.

On one side an ell could be seen, covered with ivy.On the other the roof of a hot-house, with the glassbroken out.

It touched even Richard Travis—this decay. Hehad known the place in the days of its glory before itsproprietor, Colonel Theodore Westmore, broken by thewar, in spirit and in pocket, had sent a bullet into hisbrain and ended the bitter fight with debt. Since then,no one but the widow and her daughter knew what thefight had been, for Clay Westmore, the brother, was buta boy and in college at the time. He had graduatedonly a few months before, and was now at home,wrapped up, as Richard Travis had heard, in what tohim was a visionary scheme of some sort for discoveringa large area of coal and iron thereabouts. He hadheard, too, that the young man had taken hold of whathad been left, and that often he had been seen followingthe plough himself.

Travis drove through the driveway—then he pulled[Pg 95]up the mares very gently, got out and felt of theirflanks.

“Take them to the barn and rub them off,” he said,“while you wait. And for a half hour bandage theirhind legs—I don't want any wind puffs from roadwork.”

He started into the house. Then he turned and said:“Be here at the door, Jim, by ten o'clock, sharp. Ishall make another call after this. Mind you now, teno'clock, sharp.”

Mrs. Westmore sat by the fire. She was a small,daintily-made woman, and beautiful even at fifty-five.She had keen, black eyes and nervous, flighty ways. Asmile, half cynical, half inviting, lit up continuouslyher face.

Mrs. Westmore laughed her metallic little laugh.It was habit. She intended it to be reassuring, buttoo much of it made one nervous. It was the laughwithout the soul in it—the eye open and lighted, butdead. It was a Damascus blade falling from thestricken arm to the stone pavement and not against theringing steel of an opponent.

“Getting their Sunday School lesson—she, UncleBisco, and the Bishop.[Pg 96]”

Travis frowned and gave a nervous twitch of hisshoulders as he turned around to find himself a chair.

“No one knows just how we feel towards Uncle Biscoand his wife,” went on Mrs. Westmore in half apology—“shehas been with us so long and is now so old andhelpless since they were freed; their children have allleft them—gone—no one knows where. And so UncleBisco and Aunt Charity are as helpless as babes, andbut for Alice they would suffer greatly.”

A sudden impulse seized Travis: “Let us go andpeep in on them. We shall have a good joke on HerMajesty.”

Mrs. Westmore laughed, and they slipped quietly outto Uncle Bisco's cabin. Down a shrubbery-lined walkthey went—then through the woods across a field. Itwas a long walk, but the path was firm and good, andthe moon lit it up. They came to the little cabin atlast, in the edge of another wood. Then they slippedaround and peeped in the window.

Uncle Bisco was very old. His head was, in truth,a cotton plant full open. His face was intelligent,grave—such a face as Howard Weeden only coulddraw from memory. He had finished his supper, andfrom the remnants left on the plate it was plain thatAlice Westmore had prepared for the old man daintieswhich she, herself, could not afford to indulge in.

By him sat his old wife, and on the other side of thefireplace was the old overseer, his head also white, hisface strong and thoughtful. He was clean shaven,[Pg 97]save a patch of short white chin-whiskers, and his bigstraight nose had a slight hook of shrewdness in it.

Alice Westmore was reading the chapter—her voiceadded to it an hundred fold: “Let not your heart betroubled.... Ye believe in God, believe also inme.... In my Father's house are many mansions...!”

The lamplight fell on her hair. It was brown wherethe light flashed over it, and lay in rippling wavesaround her temples in a splendid coil down the arch ofher neck, and shining in strong contrast through thegauzy dark sheen of her black gown. But where thelight fell, there was that suspicion of red which the lastfaint tendril a dying sunbeam throws out in a partingclutch at the bosom of a cloud.

And when she looked up, her eyes were the blessingspoured out—luminous, helpful, uplifting, restful,—certainof life and immortality, full of all that which onesees not, when awake, but only when in the borderlandof sleep, and memory, unleashed, tracks back on the trailof sweet days which once were.

They spake indeed always thus: “Let not yourheart be troubled.... Peace, be still.”

Her face did not seem to be a separate thing—apart—aswith most women. For there are women whosehair is one thing and whose face is another. The hairis beautiful, pure, refined. The face beautiful, merely.The hair decorous, quiet, unadorned and debauched notby powder and paint, stands aloof as Desdemona, Opheliaor Rosalind. The face, brazen, with a sharp-[Pg 98]tongued,vulgar queen of a thing in its center, on athrone, surrounded by perfumed nymphs, under thesensual glare of two rose-colored lamps, sits and holds aDu Barry court.

They are neighbors, but not friends, and they live inthe same sphere, held together only by the law of gravitywhich holds to one spot of earth the rose and the ragwort.And the hair, like the rose, in all the purity ofits own rich sweetness, all the naturalness of its soul, sitsand looks down upon the face as a queen would over thepainted yellow thing thrust by the law of life into herpresence.

But the face of Alice Westmore was companion to herhair. The firelight fell on it; and while the glow fromthe lamp fell on her hair in sweet twilight shadows ofgood night, the rosy, purple beams of the cheerful firelightlit up her face with the sweet glory of a perpetualgood morning.

Travis stood looking at her forgetful of all else. Hislips were firmly set, as of a strong mind looking on itslife-dream, the quarry of his hunter-soul all but in hisgrasp. Flashes of hope and little twists of fear werethere; then, as he looked again, she raised, half timidly,her face as a Madonna asking for a blessing; andaround his, crept in the smile which told of hope longdeferred.

Selfish, impure, ambitious, forceful and masterful ashe was, he stood hopeless and hungry-hearted beforethis pure woman. She had been the dream of his life—alltimes—always—since he could remember.

As he looked up, the hardness of his face attractedeven Mrs. Westmore, smiling by his side at the scenebefore her. She looked up at Travis, but when she sawhis face the smile went out of hers. It changed to fear.

All the other passions in his face had settled into onecruel cynical smile around his mouth—a smile of winningor of death.

“I must go now,” said Alice Westmore to the oldmen—“but I'll sing you a verse or two.”

The overseer leaned back in his chair. Uncle Biscostooped forward, his chin resting on his hickory staff.

And then like the clear notes of a spring, drippingdrop by drop with a lengthening cadence into the coveredpool of a rock-lined basin, came a simple SundaySchool song the two old men loved so well.

There were tears in the old negro's eyes when she hadfinished. Then he sobbed like a child.

“Now, Bishop—” she smiled at the overseer—“don'tkeep Uncle Bisco up all night talking about thewar, and if you don't come by the house and chat withmamma and me awhile, we'll be jealous.”

The overseer looked up: “Miss Alice—I'm an oleman an' we ole men all dream dreams when night comes.Moods come over us and, look where we will, it all leadsback to the sweet paths of the past. To-day—all day—mymind has been on”—he stopped, afraid to pronouncethe word and hunting around in the scanty lexiconof his mind for somephase of speech, some word[Pg 100]even that might not awaken in Alice Westmore memoriesof the past.

Richard Travis had an intuition of things as naturallyas an eagle has the homing instinct, howeverhigh in air and beyond all earth's boundaries he flies.In this instance Mrs. Westmore also had it, for shelooked up quickly at the man beside her. All the otheremotions had vanished from his face save the one appealinglook which said: “Come, let us go—we haveheard enough.”

He shook his head. “Jus' the dream of an ole man,”he said. “Don't bother about us two ole men. I'll be'long presently.”

“Bisco,” said the old preacher after a while, “comemighty nigh makin' a break then—but I've beenthinkin' of Cap'n Tom all day. I can't throw it off.”

Bisco shook his head solemnly. “So have I—sohave I. The older I gits, the mo' I miss Marse Tom.”

“I don't like the way things are goin'—in yonder”—andthe preacher nodded his head toward thehouse.

Uncle Bisco looked cautiously around to see that noone was near: “He's doin' his bes'—the only thing iswhether she can forgit Marse Tom.”

“Bisco, it ain't human nature for her to stan' upagin all that's brought to bear on her. Cap'n Tom isdead. Love is only human at las', an' like all else that's[Pg 101]human it mus' fade away if it ain't fed. It's been tenyears an' mo'—sence—Cap'n Tom's light went out.”

“The last day of November—'64—” said UncleBisco, “I was thar an' seed it. It was at the Franklinfight.”

“An' Dick Travis has loved her from his youth,”went on the overseer, “an' he loves her now, an' he's amasterful man.”

“So is the Devil,” whispered Uncle Bisco, “an' didn'the battle with the angels of the Lord an' mighty nighhurled 'em from the crystal battlements.”

“Bisco, I know him—I've knowed him from youth.He's a conjurin' man—a man who does things—he'llwin her—he'll marry her yet. She'll not love him asshe did Cap'n Tom. No—she'll never love again.But life is one thing an' love is another, an' it ain'toften they meet in the same person. Youth mus' liveeven if it don't love, an' the law of nature is the lawof life.”

“I'm afeered so,” said the old negro, shaking hishead, “I'm afeered it'll be that way—but—I'd ruthersee her die to-night.”

“If God lets it be,” said the preacher, “Bisco, ifGod lets it be—” he said excitedly, “if he'll let Cap'nTom die an' suffer the martyrdom he suffered for consciencesake an' be robbed, as he was robbed, of his home,an' of his love—if God'll do that, then all I can say is,that after a long life walkin' with God, it'll be the fus'time I've ever knowed Him to let the wrong win out inthe end. An' that ain't the kind of God I'm lookin'fur.[Pg 102]”

“Do you say that, Marse Hillyard?” asked the oldnegro quickly—his eyes taking on the light of hope asone who, weak, comes under the influence of a strongermind. “Marse Hillyard, do you believe it? PraiseGod.”

“Bisco—I'm—I'm ashamed—why should I doubtHim—He's told me a thousand truths an' never a lie.”

And so the two old men talked on, and their talk wasof Captain Tom. No wonder when the old preachermounted his horse to go back to his little cabin, all ofhis thoughts were of Captain Tom. No wonder UncleBisco, who had raised him, went to bed and dreamed ofCaptain Tom—dreamed and saw again the bloodyFranklin fight.

CHAPTER IX

A MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING

In the library, Travis and Mrs. Westmore sat forsome time in silence. Travis, as usual, smoked,in his thoughtful way watching the firelight whichflickered now and then, half lighting up the room. Itwas plain that both were thinking of a subject thatneither wished to be the first to bring up.

“I have been wanting all day to ask you about themortgage,” she said to him, finally.

“Oh,” said Travis, indifferently enough—“that'sall right. I arranged it at the bank to-day.”

“I am so much obliged to you; it has been so on mymind,” said his companion. “We women are such poorfinanciers, I wonder how you men ever have patience tobother with us. Did you get Mr. Shipton to carry it atthe bank for another year?”

“Why—I—you see, Cousin Alethea—Shipton's aclose dog—and the most unaccommodating fellow thatever lived when it comes to money. And so—er—well—thetruth is—is—I had to act quickly and forwhat I thought was your interest.”

Mrs. Westmore looked up quickly, and Travis sawthe pained look in her face. “So I bought it in myself,”he went on, carelessly flecking his cigar ashes intothe fire. “I just had the judgment and sale transferred[Pg 104]to me—to accommodate you—Cousin Alethea—youunderstand that—entirely for you. I hate to see youbothered this way—I'll carry it as long as you wish.”

She thanked him again, more with her eyes than hervoice. Then there crept over her face that look of troubleand sorrow, unlike any Travis had ever seen there.Once seen on any human face it is always remembered,for it is the same, the world over, upon its millions andmillions—that deadened look of trouble which carrieswith it the knowledge that the spot called home is lostforever.

There are many shifting photographs from the cameracalled sorrow, pictured on the delicate plate of thehuman soul or focused in the face. There is the crushedlook when Death takes the loved one, the hardened lookwhen an ideal is shattered, the look of dismay fromwrecked hopes and the cynical look from wrecked happiness—butnone of these is the numbed and dumb lookof despair which confronts humanity when the home isgone.

It runs not alone through the man family, but everyother animal as well, from the broken-hearted bird whichsits on the nearby limb, and sees the wreck of her homeby the ravages of a night-prowling marauder, to thesqualidest of human beings, turning their backs foreveron the mud-hut that had once sheltered them.

To Mrs. Westmore it was a keen grief. Here had shecome as a bride—here had she lived since—here hadbeen born her two children—here occurred the greatsorrow of her life.

And the sacredest memory, at last, of life, lies not in[Pg 105]the handclasp of a coming joy, but in the footfall of avanishing sorrow.

Westmoreland meant everything to Mrs. Westmore—thepride of birth, of social standing, the ties of motherhood,the very altar of her life. And it was her husband'sname and her own family. It meant she was notof common clay, nor unknown, nor without influence. Itwas bound around and woven into her life, and part ofher very existence.

Home in the South means more than it does anywhereelse on earth; for local self-government—wherever theprinciple came from—finds its very altar there. States-rightis nothing but the home idea, stretched over thestate and bounded by certain lines. The peculiar institutionsof the South made every home a castle, a town,a government, a kingdom in itself, in which the realruler is a queen.

Ask the first negro or child met in the road, whosehome is this, or that, and one would think the entireSouthland was widowed.

From the day she had entered it as a bride, Westmoreland,throughout the County, had been known as thehome of Mrs. Westmore.

She was proud of it. She loved it with that lovewhich had come down through a long line of cavaliersloving their castles.

And now she knew it must go, as well as that, sooneror later, Death itself must come.

She knew Richard Travis, and she knew that, if fromhis life were snatched the chance of making Alice West[Pg 106]morehis wife he would sell the place as cold-bloodedly asShipton would.

Travis sat smoking, but reading her. He spelled herthoughts as easily as if they had been written on herforehead, for he was a man who spelled. He smokedcalmly and indifferently, but the one question of hisheart—the winning of Alice,—surged in his breast andit said: “Now is the time—now—buy her—themother. This is the one thing which is her price.”

He looked at Mrs. Westmore again. He scanned herclosely, from her foot to the dainty head of beautiful,half-grey hair. He could read her as an open book—herveneration of all Westmoreland things—her vanity—herpride of home and name and position; theoverpowering independence of that vanity which madeher hold up her head in company, just as in the formerdays, tho' to do it she must work, scrub, pinch, ay, evengo hungry.

He knew it all and he knew it better than she guessed—thatit had actually come to a question of food withthem; that her son was a geological dreamer, just outof college, and that Alice's meagre salary at the run-downfemale college where she taught music was allthat stood between them and poverty of the bitterestkind.

For there is no poverty like the tyranny of that whichsits on the erstwhile throne of plenty.

He glanced around the room—the hall—the home—inhis mind's eye—and wondered how she did it—howshe managed that poverty should leave no trace ofitself in the home, the well furnished and elegant old[Pg 107]home, from its shining, polished furniture and old silverto the oiled floor of oak and ash.

Could he buy her—bribe her, win her to work forhim? He started to speak and say: “Cousin Alethea,may not all this be stopped, this debt and poverty andmake-believe—this suffering of pride, transfixed by thespears of poverty? Let you and me arrange it, and allso satisfactorily. I have loved Alice all my life.”

There is the fool in every one of us. And that is whatthe fool in Richard Travis wished him to say. Whathe did say was:

“Oh, it was nothing but purely business on my part—purelybusiness. I had the money and was looking fora good investment. I was glad to find it. There area hundred acres and the house left. And by the way,Cousin Alethea, I just added five-hundred dollars moreto the principal,—thought, perhaps, you'd need it, youknow? You'll find it to your credit at Shipton's bank.”

He smoked on as if he thought it was nothing. As abusiness fact he knew the place was already mortgagedfor all it was worth.

Travis glanced at her when she spoke. He flushedwhen he heard her place a slight accent on the we. Sheglanced at him and then looked into the fire. But intheir glances which met, they both saw that the otherknew and understood.

“And by the way, Cousin Alethea,” said Travis aftera while, “of course it is not necessary to let Alice knowanything of this business. It will only worry her unnecessarily.”

CHAPTER X

A STAR AND A SATELLITE

An hour later Mrs. Westmore had gone to her roomand Alice had been singing his favorite songs.Her singing always had a peculiar influenceover Richard Travis—a moral influence, which, perhaps,was the secret of its power; and all influence whichis permanent is moral. There was in it for him an upliftingforce that he never experienced save in her presenceand under the influence of her songs.

He was a brilliant man and he knew that if he wonAlice Westmore it must be done on a high plane.Women were his playthings—he had won them by thescore and flung them away when won. But all his life—evenwhen a boy—he had dreamed of finally winningAlice Westmore and settling down.

Like all men who were impure, he made the mistakeof thinking that one day, when he wished, he could bepure.

Such a man may marry, but it is a thing of convenience,a matter in which he selects some woman, whohe knows will not be his mistress, to become his housekeeper.

And thus she plods along in life, differing eventuallyonly from his mistress in that she is the mother of hischildren.[Pg 109]

In all Richard's longings, too, for Alice Westmore,there was an unconscious cause. He did not know it becausehe could not know.

Sooner or later love, which is loose, surfeits and sours.It is then that it turns instinctively to the pure, as theJews, straying from their true God and meeting thechastisement of the sword of Babylon, turned in theiranguish to the city of their King.

Nature is inexorable, and love has its laws as fixed asthose which hold the stars in their course. And woe tothe man or woman who transgresses! He who, ere it isripe, deflowers the bud of blossoming love in wantonnessand waste, in after years will watch and wait and waterit with tears, in vain, for that bloom will never come.

She came over by the fire. Her face was flushed; herbeautiful sad eyes lighted with excitement.

“Was it not when father dressed me as a gypsy girland I rode my pony over to The Gaffs and sang fromhorse-back for your grandfather?”

He nodded: “I thought you were the prettiest thingI ever saw, and I have thought so ever since. That'swhen I fell in love with you.”

“I remember quite distinctly what you did,” she said.“You were a big boy and you came up behind my ponyand jumped on, frightening us dreadfully.”

How pretty she looked. Had it been any otherwoman he would have reached over and taken her hand.

“Overpower her, master her, make her love you byforce of arms”—his inner voice said.

He turned to the musing woman beside him and mechanicallyreached out his hand. Hers lay on the armof her chair. The next instant he would have droppedhis upon it and held it there. But as he made the motionher eyes looked up into his, so passion-free andholy that his own arm fell by his side.

But the little wave of passion in him only stirred himto his depths. Ere she knew it or could stop him hewas telling her the story of his love for her. Poetry,—romance,—andwith it the strength of saying,—fellfrom his lips as naturally as snow from the clouds. Hewent into the history of old loves—how, of all lovesthey are the greatest—of Jacob who served his fourteenyears for Rachel, of the love of Petrarch, of Dante.

“Do you know Browning's most beautiful poem?”he asked at last. His voice was tenderly mellow:

“Alice,” he said, drawing his chair closer to her, “Iknow I have no such life to offer as you would bringto me. The best we men can do is to do the best we can.We are saved only because there is one woman we canlook to always as our star. There is much of our pastthat we all might wish to change, but change, like work,is the law of life, and we must not always dream.”

Quietly he had dropped his hand upon hers. Herown eyes were far off—they were dreaming. So deepwas her dream that she had not noticed it. Passionpractised, as he was, the torch of her hand thrilled himas with wine; and as with wine was he daring.

She looked up with a start and her hand slipped fromunder his into her lap. It was a simple movement andinvoluntary—like that of the little brown quail whenshe slips from the sedge-grass into the tangled depths ofthe blossoming wild blackberry bushes at the far off flashof a sharp-shinned hawk-wing, up in the blue. Norcould she say whether she saw it, or whether it was merelya shadow, an instinctive signal from the innocent courtsof the sky to the brood-children of her innocence below.

But he saw it and said quickly, changing with it thesubject: “At least were—but all that has passed. Ineed you, Alice,” he went on passionately—“in my life,in my work. My home is there, waiting! It has beenwaiting all these years for you—its mistress—the onlymistress it shall ever have. Your mother”—Alicelooked at him surprised.

“Your mother—you,—perhaps, had not thoughtof that—your mother needs the rest and the care we[Pg 112]could give her. Our lives are not always our own,” hewent on gravely—“oftentimes it belongs partly toothers—for their happiness.”

This time, when his hand fell on hers, she did notmove. Surprised, he looked into her eyes. There weretears there.

Travis knew when he had gone far enough. Reverentlyhe kissed her hand as he said:

“Never mind—in your own time, Alice. I canwait—I have waited long. Twenty years,” he added,patiently, even sweetly, “and if need be, I'll wait twentymore.”

She looked at him gratefully, and arose. “One moment,Richard,” she said—“but you were speaking ofmother, and knowing your zeal for her I was afraidyou might—might—the mortgage has been troublingher.”

“Oh, no—no”—he broke in quickly—“I did nothing—absolutelynothing—though I wanted to foryour sake.”

“I'm so glad,” she said—“we will manage somehow.I am so sensitive about such things.”

“Yes, your mare—I happened on her quite unexpectedlyin Tennessee. I have bought her for you[Pg 113]—sheis elegant, and I wish you to ride her often. I havegiven Jim orders that no one but you shall ride her. Ifit is a pretty day to-morrow I shall be around in theafternoon, and we will ride down to the bluffs five milesaway to see the sunset.”

The trotters were at the door. He took her hand ashe said good-bye, and held it while he added:

“Maybe you'd better forget all I said to-night—bepatient with me—remember how long I have waited.”

He was off and sprang into the buggy, elated. Neverbefore had she let him hold her hand even for a moment.He felt, he knew, that he would win her.

From Westmoreland Travis drove straight towardthe town. The trotters, keen and full of play, flewalong, tossing their queenly heads in the very exuberanceof life.

At The Gaffs, he drew rein: “Now, Jim, I'll be backat midnight. You sleep light until I come in, and havetheir bedding dry and blankets ready.”

Up the road toward the town he drove, finally slackeninghis trotters' speed as he came into the more thicklysettled part of the outskirts. Sand Mountain loomedhigh in the faint moonlight, and at its base, in the outpostsof the town, arose the smoke-stack of the cottonmills.

Slowly he brought the nettled trotters down to a walk.Quietly he turned them into a shaded lane, overhungwith forest trees, near which a cottage, one of the many[Pg 114]belonging to the mill, stood in the shadow of the forest.

Stopping his horses in the shadow, he drew out hiswatch and pressed the stem. It struck eleven.

He drew up the buggy-top and taking the little silverwhistle from his pocket, gave a low whistle.

It was ten minutes later before the side door of thecottage opened softly and a girl came noiselessly out.She slipped out, following the shadow line of the treesuntil she came up to the buggy. Then she threw theshawl from off her face and head and stood smiling up atTravis. It had been a pretty face, but now it waspinched by overwork and there was the mingling bothof sadness and gladness in her eyes. But at sight ofTravis she blushed joyfully, and deeper still when heheld out his hand and drew her into the buggy and up tothe seat beside him.

“Maggie”—was all he whispered. Then he kissedher passionately on her lips. “I am glad I came,” hewent on, as he put one arm around her and drew her tohim—“you're flushed and the ride will do you good.”

“They are beauties”—she said after a while, as thetrotters' thrilling, quick step brought the blood tinglingto her veins.

“Beauties for the beauty,” said Travis, kissing heragain. Her brown hair was in his face and the perfumeof it went through him like the whistling flash of thefirst wild doe he had killed in his first boyish hunt andwhich he never forgot.

“You do love me,” she said at last, looking up intohis face, where her head rested. She could not move be[Pg 115]causehis arm held her girlish form to him with an overpoweringclasp.

“Why?” he asked, kissing her again and in sheerpassionate excess holding his lips on hers until she couldnot speak, but only look love with her eyes. When shecould, she sighed and said:

He relaxed his arm to control the trotters, which weregoing too fast down the road. She sat up by his sideand went on.

“About—about—our bein' married to each other—even—even—if—if—there'sno preacher. Youknow—that true love makes marriages, and not a ceremony—and—and—thatthe heart is the priest to allof us, you know!”

“One thing I wrote down in my little book when I gotback home an' memorized it—Oh, you can say suchbeautiful things.”

“I want you to see how the setting moonlight lookson the river,” he said. “There is nothing in all naturelike it. It floats like a crescent above, falling into thearms of its companion below. All nature is love and[Pg 116]never fails to paint a love scene in preference to allothers, if permitted. How else can you account for itmaking two lover moons fall into each other's arms,” helaughed.

She looked at him enraptured. It was the tributewhich mediocrity pays to genius.

Presently they passed by Westmoreland, and fromAlice's window a light shone far out into the goldentinged leaves of the beeches near.

CHAPTER XI

A MIDNIGHT BURIAL

It was growing late when the old preacher left Westmorelandand rode leisurely back toward the cabinon Sand Mountain. The horse he was riding—adilapidated roan—was old and blind, but fox-trottedalong with the easy assurance of having often travelledthe same road.

The bridle rested on the pommel of the saddle. Theold man's head was bent in deep thought, and the roan,his head also down and half dreaming, jogged into thedark shadows which formed a wooded gulch, leading intothe valley and from thence into the river.

There is in us an unnameable spiritual quality which,from lack of a more specific name, we call mental telepathy.Some day we shall know more about it, just assome day we shall know what unknown force it is whichdraws the needle to the pole.

It is the border land of the spiritual—a touch of it,given, to let us know there is more and in great abundancein the country to which we ultimately shall go,—aglimpse of the kingdom which is to be.

To-night, this influence was on the old man. Thetheme of his thoughts was, Captain Tom. Somehow hefelt that even then Captain Tom was near him. How—where—why—hecould not tell. He merely felt it.[Pg 118]

And so the very shadows of the trees grew uncannyto him as he rode by them and the slight wind amongthem mournedCaptain Tom—Captain Tom.

It was a desolate place in the narrow mountain roadand scarcely could the old man see the white sand whichwound in and through it, and then out again on the oppositeside into the clearing beyond the scraggy side ofSand Mountain. But the horse knew every foot of theway, and though it was always night with him, instincthad taught him a sure footing.

Suddenly the rider was awakened from his reverie bythe old horse stopping so suddenly as almost to unseathim. With a snort the roan had stopped and hadthrown up his head, quivering with fear, while with hisnose he was trying to smell out the queer thing whichstood in his path.

The moon broke out from behind a cloud at the samemoment, and there, in the middle of the road, not tenyards from him, stood a heavily built, rugged, black-beardedman in a ragged slouched hat and pointing aheavy revolver at the rider's head.

The old man looked quietly into the muzzle of the revolverand said, with a laugh:

“This ain't 'zactly my benediction time, JackBracken, an' I've no notion of h'istin' my arms an' axin'a blessin' over you an' that old pistol. Put it up an'tell me what you want,” he said more softly.

“Well, you do know me,” said the man, coming forwardand thrusting his pistol into its case. “I wa'ntsho' it was you,” he said, “and I wa'nt sho' you'd kno'[Pg 119]me if it was. In my business I have to be mighty keerful,”he added with a slight laugh.

He came up to the saddle-skirt and held out his hand,half hesitatingly, as he spoke.

The Bishop—as every one knew him—glanced intothe face before him and saw something which touchedhim quickly. It was grief-stricken, and sorrow sat inthe fierce eyes, and in the shadows of the dark face. Andthrough it all, a pleading, beseeching appeal for sympathyran as he half doubtingly held out his hand.

“Why,—yes—, I'll take it, Jack, robber that youare,” said the old man cheerily. “You may not be asbad as they say, an' no man is worse than his heart. Butwhat in the worl' do you want to hold up as po' a manas me—an' if I do say it, yo' frien' when you was aboy?”

“I know,” said the other—“I know. I don't wantyo' money, even if you had it. I want you. You'vecome as a God-send. I—I couldn't bury him till you'dsaid somethin'.”

The bishop slid off his horse: “What is it, Jack?You hain't kilt anybody, have you?”

“I—I dunno', Jack,” he said. “You'll have to tellme all. I hain't seed you sence you started in your robbercareer after the war—sence I buried yo' father,”he added. “An' a fine, brave man he was, Jack—a[Pg 120]fine, brave man—an' I've wondered how sech a man'sson could ever do as you've done.”

“Come,” said the other—“I'll tell you. Come, an'say a prayer over little Jack fust. You must do it”—hesaid almost fiercely—“I won't bury him without aprayer—him that was an angel an' all I had on earth.Hitch yo' hoss just outer the road, in the thicket, an'follow me.”

The Bishop did as he was told, and Jack Bracken ledthe way down a rocky gulch under the shaggy sides ofSand Mountain, furzed with scraggy trees and thickwith underbrush and weeds.

It was a tortuous path and one in which the old manhimself, knowing, as he thought he did, every foot ofthe country around, could easily have been lost. Above,through the trees, the moon shone dimly, and no pathcould be seen under foot. But Jack Bracken slouchedheavily along, in a wabbling, awkward gait, never oncelooking back to see if his companion followed.

For a half mile they went through what the Bishophad always thought was an almost impenetrable cattletrail. At last they wound around a curve on the denselywooded side of the mountain, beyond which lay the broadriver breathing out frosty mist and vapor from its sleepingbosom.

Following a dry gulch until it ended abruptly at theriver's bluff, around the mouth of which great looserocks lay as they had been washed by the waters ofmany centuries, and bushes grew about, the path terminatedabruptly. It overlooked the river romantically,with a natural rock gallery in front.[Pg 121]

Jack Bracken stopped and sat down on one of therocks. From underneath he drew forth a lantern andprepared to light it. “This is my home,” he said laconically.

The Bishop looked around: “Well, Jack, but this ispart of my own leetle forty-acre farm. Why, thar'smy cabin up yander. We've wound in an' aroun' theback of my place down by the river! I never seed thishole befo'.”

“I knew it was yo's,” said the outlaw quietly.“That's why I come here. Many a Sunday night I'veslipped up to the little church winder an' heard youpreach—me an' po' little Jack. Oh, he loved to hearthe Bible read an' he never forgot nothin' you ever said.He knowed all about Joseph an' Moses an' Jesus, an' lastnight when he died o' that croup befo' I c'ud get himhelp or anything, he wanted you, an' he said he wasgoin' to the lan' where you said Jesus was—”

Stepping into the mouth of the cave, he struck amatch, when out of sight of the entrance way, and steppingfrom stone to stone he guided the Bishop downsome twenty feet, following the channel the water hadcut on its way underground to the river. Here anotheropening entered into the dry channel, and into it hestepped.

It was a nicely turned cave—a natural room,—archedabove with beautiful white lime-rock, the stalactiteshanging in pointed clusters, their starry pointstwinkling above like stars in a winter sky. Underneath,the soft sand made a clean, warm floor, and the entire[Pg 122]cave was so beautiful that the old man could do nothingbut look and admire, as the light fell on stalagmite andghostly columns and white sanded floors.

“Little Jack loved 'em,” said the outlaw. “He'd layhere ev'y night befo' he'd go to sleep an' look up an'call it his heaven; an' he said that big column thar wasthe great white throne, an' them big things up yanderwith wings was angels. He had all them other columnsnamed for the fellers you preached about—Moses an'Aaron an' Joseph an' all of 'em, an' that kind o' doubleone lookin' like a woman holding her child, he calledMary an' little Jesus.”

“He's gone to a prettier heaven than this,” said theBishop looking down on the little figure, with face aspale and white as any of the columns around him, neatlydressed and wrapped, save his face, in an old oil clothand lying on the little bed that sat in a corner.

The old man sat down very tenderly by the little deadboy and, pulling out a testament from his pocket, readto the outlaw, whose whole soul was centered in all hesaid, the comforting chapter which Miss Alice had thatnight read to the old negro: “Let not your hearts betroubled....”

He explained as he read, and told the father howlittle Jack was now in one of the many mansions and farbetter off than living in a cave, the child of an outlaw,for the Bishop did not mince his words. He dwelt onit, that God had taken the little boy for love of him,and to give him a better home and perhaps as a means[Pg 123]of changing the father, and when he said the last prayerover the dead child asking for forgiveness for thefather's sins, that he might meet the little one in heaven,the heart of the outlaw burst with grief and repentancewithin him.

He fell at the old man's feet, on his knees—he laidhis big shaggy head in the Bishop's lap and wept as hehad never wept before.

“There can't be—you don't mean,” he said—“thatthere is forgiveness for me—that I can so live that I'llsee little Jack again!”

“That's just what I mean, Jack,” said the old man—“hereit all is—here—in a book that never lies, an'all vouched for by Him who could walk in here to-nightand lay His sweet hands on little Jack an' tell him to risean' laugh agin, an' he'd do it. You turn about nowan' see if it ain't so—an' that you'll be better an' happier.”

“But—my God, man—you don't know—youdon't understan'. I've robbed, I've killed. Men havegone down befo' my bullets like sheep. They wasshootin' at me, too—but I shot best. I'm a murderer.”

“So was Moses and David,” he replied—“men afterGod's own heart. An' so was many another that's nowcalled a saint, from old Hickory Jackson up.”

“We all steal,” said the old man sadly shaking hishead—“it's human nature. There's a thief in everytrade, an' every idle hand is a robber, an' every idle[Pg 124]tongue is a thief an' a liar. We all steal. But there'ssomethin' of God an' divinity in all of us, an' in spiteof our shortcomin' it'll bring us back at last to ourFather's home if we'll give it a chance. God's Bookcan't lie, an' it says: 'Tho' your sins be as scarletthey shall be white as snow!' ... an' then agin,shall have life everlasting!”

“Life everlastin',” repeated the outlaw. “Do youbelieve that? Oh, if it was only so! To live always upthere an' with little Jack. How do you know it ain'tlyin'?—It's too gran' to be so. How do you know itain't lyin', I say? Hillard Watts, are you handin' itout to me straight about this here Jesus Christ?” hecried bitterly.

“Well, it's this way, Jack,” said the old man, “jes'this away an' plain as the nose on yo' face: Now here'sme, ain' it? Well, you know I won't lie to you. Youbelieve me, don't you?”

“Because you ain't never lied to me,” said the other.“You've allers told me the truth about the things I knowto be so.”

“But now, suppose,” said the old man, “I'd tell youabout somethin' you had never seed—that, for instance,sence you've been an outcast from society an' a livin' inthis cave, I've seed men talk to each other a hundredmiles apart, with nothin' but a wire betwix' 'em.”

“Now that's faith, Jack—an' common sense, too.We know what'll be the earthly end of the liar, an' thethief, an' the murderer, an' him that's impure—becausewe see 'em come to thar end all the time. It don'tlie when it tells you the good are happy, an' the hones'are elevated an' the mem'ry of the just shall not perish,because them things we see come so. Now, if aftertellin' you all that, that's true, it axes you to believe whenit says there is another life—a spiritual life, which wecan't conceive of, an' there we shall live forever, can'tyou believe that, too, sence it ain't never lied about whatyou can see, by your own senses? Why ever' star thatshines, an' ever' beam of sunlight fallin' on the earth,an' ever' beat of yo' own heart by some force that weknow not of, all of them is mo' wonderful than the telegraph,an' the livin' agin of the spirit ain't any mo'wonderful than the law that holds the stars in theirplaces. You'll see little Jack agin as sho' as God livesan' holds the worl' in His hand.”

The outlaw sat mute and motionless, and a great lightof joy swept over his face.

“By God's help I'll do it”—and he bowed his headin prayer—the first he had uttered since he was a boy.

It was wonderful to see the happy and reconciledchange when he arose and tenderly lifted the dead childin his arms. His face was transformed with a peace theold man had never seen before in any human being.

Strong men are always strong—in crime—in sin.[Pg 126]When they reform it is the reformation of strength.Such a change came over Jack Bracken, the outlaw.

He carried his dead child to the next room: “I'vegot his grave already chiseled out of the rocks. I'llbury him here—right under the columns he called Maryand little Jesus, that he loved to talk of so much.”

“It's fitten”—said the old man tenderly—“it'sfitten an' beautiful. The fust burial we know of in theBible is where Abraham bought the cave of Machpelahfor to bury Sarah, his wife. And as Abraham boughtit of Ephron, the Hittite, and offered it to Abrahamfor to bury his dead out of his sight, so I give this caveto you, Jack Bracken, forever to be the restin' place oflittle Jack.”

And so, tenderly and with many kisses did they burylittle Jack, sinless and innocent, deep in the pure whiterock, covered as he was with purity and looking everupwards toward the statue above, wherein Nature'schisel had carved out a Madonna and her child.

CHAPTER XII

JACK BRACKEN

Jack Bracken was comfortably fixed in hisunderground home. There was every comfortfor living. It was warm in winter and cool insummer, and in another apartment adjoining his livingroom was what he called a kitchen in which a springof pure water, trickling down from rock to rock, formedin a natural basin of whitest rock below.

“Jack,” said the old man, “won't you tell me aboutyo'self an' how you ever got down to this? I knowedyou as a boy, up to the time you went into the army,an' if I do say it to yo' face, you were a brave hon'rbleboy that never forgot a frien' nor—”

“A foe,” put in Jack quickly. “Bishop, if I cu'donly forgive my foes—that's been the ruin of me.”

The old man was thoughtful a while: “Jack, that'sa terrible thing in the human heart—unforgiveness.It's to life what a drought is to Nature—an' it spilesmo' people than any other weakness. But that don'tmake yo' no wuss than the rest of us, nor does robberynor even murder. So there's a chance for you yet, Jack—amighty fine chance, too, sence yo' heart is changed.”

“Many a time, Jack, many a time when the paper'ud be full of yo' holdin' up a train or shootin' ashar'ff, or robbin' or killin', I'd tell 'em what a good[Pg 128]boy you had been, brave an' game but revengeful whenaroused. I'd tell 'em how you dared the bullets ofour own men, after the battle of Shiloh, to cut down an'carry off a measley little Yankee they'd hung up as aspy 'cause he had onct saved yo' father's life. Youshot two of our boys then, Jack.”

“They was a shootin' me, too,” he said quietly. “Icaught two bullets savin' that Yankee. But he was nospy; he was caught in a Yankee uniform an'—an' hesaved my father, as you said—that settled it with me.”

“Yes, an' the Yankees were agin me already—thatmade all the worl' agin me, an' it's been agin me eversince—they made me an outlaw.”

“They shot my father—waylaid and killed him—somehome-made Yankee bush-whackers that infestedthese hills—as you know.”

The Bishop nodded. “I know—I know—it wasawful. 'But vengeance is mine—I will repay'—saiththe Lord.”

“Well, I was young, an' my father—you know howI loved him. Befo' I c'ud get home they had burnedour house, killed my sick mother from exposure andinsulted my sisters.”

“Jack,” said the old man hotly—“a home-madeYankee is a 'bomination to the Lord. He's a twinbrother to the Copperhead up north.”

“My little brother—they might have spared him,”went on the outlaw—“they might have spared him.[Pg 129]He tried to defen' his mother an' sisters an' they shothim down in col' blood.”

“Well, I acted as His agent that time,”—his eyeswere hot with a bright glitter. “I put on their uniforman' went after 'em. I j'ined 'em—the devils! An'they had a nigger sarjent an' ten of their twenty-sevenwas niggers, wearin' a Yankee uniform. I j'ined 'em—yes,—forwasn't I the agent of the Lord?” Helaughed bitterly. “An' didn't He say: 'He thatkilleth with the sword must be killed with the sword.'One by one they come up missin', till I had killed all butseven. These got panicky—followed by an unknowndoom an' they c'udn't see it, for it come like a thief atmidnight an' agin like a pesterlence it wasted 'em atnoonday. They separated—they tried to fly—theyhid—but I followed 'em 'an I got all but one. He fledto California.”

“Then a price was put on my head. I was JackBracken, the spy and the outlaw. I was not to be captured,but shot and hung. Then I cut down that Yankeean' you all turned agin me. I was hunted andhounded. I shot—they shot. I killed an' they triedto. I was shot down three times. I've got bullets inme now.

“After the war I tried to surrender. I wanted to quitand live a decent life. But no, they put a bigger priceon my head. I came home like other soldiers an' wentto tillin' my farm. They ran me away—they hunted[Pg 130]an' hounded me. Civilization turned ag'in me. Societywas my foe. I was up ag'in the fust law of Nature.It is the law of the survival—the wild beast that,cowered, fights for his life. Society turned on me—Iturned on Society.”

“But there was one thing that happen'd that put thesteel in me wuss than all. All through them times wasone star I loved and hoped for. I was to marry herwhen the war closed. She an' her sister—the prettyone—they lived up yander on the mountain side. Thepretty one died. But when I lost faith in MargaretAdams, I lost it in mankind. I'd ruther a seen herdead. It staggered me—killed the soul in me—tothink that an angel like her could fall an' be false.”

“I was to marry Margaret. I love her yet,” he addedsimply. “When I found she was false I went out—and—well,you know the rest.”

He took a turn around the room, picked up one oflittle Jack's shoes, and cried over it.

“So I married his mother—little Jack's mother, amountain lass that hid me and befriended me. Shedied when the boy was born. His granny kep' himwhile I was on my raids—nobody knowed it was myson. His granny died two years ago. This has beenour home ever sence, an' not once, sence little Jack hasbeen with me, have I done a wrong deed. Often an'often we've slipt up to hear you preach—what you'vesaid went home to me.”

“Jack,” said the old man suddenly aroused—“was[Pg 131]that you—was it you been puttin' them twenty dollargol' pieces in the church Bible—between the leds,ever' month for the las' two years? By it I've kep' upthe po' of Cottontown. I've puzzled an' wonder'd—I'vethought of a dozen fo'ks—but I sed nothin'—wasit you?”

The outlaw smiled: “It come from the rich an' itwent to the po'. Come,” he said—“that's somethin'we must settle.”

He took up the lantern and led the way into theother room. Under a ledge of rocks, securely hid, sat,in rows, half a dozen common water buckets, made ofred cedar, with tops fitting securely on them.

The outlaw spread a blanket on the sand, then kneltand, taking up a bucket, removed the top and poured outits contents on the blanket. They chuckled and rolledand tumbled over each other, the yellow eagles and halfeagles, like thoroughbred colts turned out in the paddocksfor a romp.

The old man's knees shook under him. He trembledso that he had to sit down on the blanket. Then heran his hand through them—his fingers open, lettingthe coins fall through playfully.

Never before had he seen so much gold. Poor as hewas and had ever been—much and often as he had suffered—heand his, for the necessities of life, even,knowing its value and the use he might make of it, itthrilled him with a strange, nervous longing—a childishcuriosity to handle it and play with it.

Modest and brave men have looked on low-bosomed[Pg 132]women in the glitter of dissipative lights with the samefeeling.

The old man gazed, silent—doubtless with the sameawe which Keats gave to Cortez, when he first lookedon the Pacific and stood

The outlaw lifted another bucket and took off thelid. It also was full. “There are five mo',” he said—“thatlast one is silver an' this one—” He lifted thelid of a small cedar box. In it was a large package,wrapped in water-proof. Unravelling it, he shoved outpackages of bank bills of such number and denominationas fairly made the old preacher wonder.

He pushed them back and put the buckets under theirledge of rocks. “I'd give it all just to have little Jackhere agin—an'—an'—start out—a new man. Thishas cost me ten years of outlawry an' fo'teen bullets.Now I've got all this an'—well—a hole in the groun'an' little Jack in the hole. If you wanter preach a sermonon the folly of pilin' up money,” he went on halfironically, “here is yo' tex'. All me an' little Jackneeded or cu'd use, was a few clothes, some bac'n an'coffee an' flour. Often I'd fill my pockets an' say:'Well, I'll buy somethin' I want, an' that little Jack willwant.' I'd go to town an' see it all, an' think an' puzzlean' wonder—then I'd come home with a few toys, maybe,an' bac'n an' flour an' coffee.”

“With all our money we can't buy higher than our[Pg 133]source, an' when we go we leave even that behind,” headded.

“The world,” said the old man quaintly, “is full offolks who have got a big pocket-book an' a bac'n pedigree.”

“Every dollar of it,” said Jack Bracken. “It comefrom railroads, banks and express companies. I didn'tfeel squirmish about takin' it, for all o' them are robbers.The only diff'r'nce betwix' them an' me is that theyrob a little every day, till they get their pile, an' I takemine from 'em, all at onct.”

He thought awhile, then he said: “But it must allgo back to 'em, Jack. Let them answer for their ownsins. Leave it here until next week—an' then we willcome an' haul it fifty miles to the next town, where youcan express it to them without bein' known, or havin'anybody kno' what's in the buckets till you're safe backhere in this town. I'll fix it an' the note you are towrite. They'll not pester you after they get theirmoney. The crowd you've named never got hot undera gold collar. A clean shave will change you so nobodywill suspect you, an' there's a good openin' in town fora blacksmith, an' you can live with me in my cabin.”

“But there's one thing I've kept back for the las',”said Jack, after they had gone into the front part of theroom and sat down on the deer skins there.

The Bishop glanced up, and as he did so he felt a[Pg 134]strange thrill of recognition run through him—“Itbelongs to Cap'n Tom,” said Jack quietly.

“I was at Franklin,” went on Jack proudly. “Icharged with old Gen. Travis over the breastworks nearthe Carter House. I saw Cap'n Tom when he wentunder.”

“Cap'n Tom, yes—he saved my life once, you know.He cut me down when they were about to hang me for aspy—you heard about it?”

“It was his Company that caught me an' they wasglad of any excuse to hang me. An' they mighty nighdone it, but Cap'n Tom came up in time to cut me downan' he said he'd make it hot for any man that teched me,that I was a square prisoner of war, an' he sent me toJohnson Island. Of course it didn't take me long toget out of that hole—I escaped.”

“Well, at Franklin, when I seed Cap'n Tom dyin' asI tho'rt, shunned by the Yankees as a traitor——”

“As a traitor?” asked the old man hotly—“what,after Shiloh—after he give up Miss Alice for the flaghe loved an' his old grand sire an' The Gaffs an' all ofus that loved him—you call that a traitor?”

“You never heard,” said Jack, “how old Gen'l Travischarged the breastworks at Franklin and hit the linewhere Cap'n Tom's battery stood. Nine times they[Pg 135]had charged Cap'n Tom's battery that night—ninetimes he stood his ground an' they melted away aroundit. But when he saw the line led by his own grandsirethe blood in him was thicker than water and——”

“Well, why they say it was a drunken soldier in hisown battery who struck him with the heavy hilt of asword. Any way I found the old Gen'l cryin' over him:'My Irish Gray—my Irish Gray,' he kept sayin'.'I might have known it was you,' and the old Gen'lcharged on leaving him for dead. An' so I found himan' tuck him in my arms an' carried him to my owncabin up yonder on the mountain—carried him an'——”

“An' whut?”—asked the old man, grasping the outlaw'sshoulder—“Didn't he die? We've never beenable to hear from him.”

Jack shook his head. “It 'ud been better for him ifhe had”—and he touched his forehead significantly.

“Tell me, Jack—quick—tell it all,” exclaimed theold man, still gripping Jack's shoulder.

“There's nothin' to tell except that I kept him eversence—here—right here for two years, with littleJack an' Ephrum, the young nigger that was his bodyservant—he's been our cook an' servant. He neverwould leave Cap'n Tom, followed me offen the field ofFranklin. An' mighty fond of each other was all threeof 'em.”

The old man turned pale and his voice trembled sowith excitement he could hardly say:

“Where is he, Jack? My God—Cap'n Tom—he'sbeen here all this time too—an' me awonderin'[Pg 136]—”

“Right here, Bishop—kind an' quiet and teched inhis head, where the sword-hilt crushed his skull. Allthese years I've cared for him—me an' Ephrum, mytwo boys as I called 'em—him an' little Jack. An'right here he staid contented like till little Jack diedlast night—then—”

“That's the worst of it—Bishop—when he foundlittle Jack was dead he wandered off—”

“To-day—this even'. I have sent Eph after him—an'I hope he has found him by now an' tuck himsomewhere. Eph'll never stop till he does.”

“We must find him, Jack. Cap'n Tom alive—thankGod—alive, even if he is teched in his head.Oh, God, I might a knowed it—an' only to-day I wasdoubtin' You.”

He fell on his knees and Jack stood awed in the presenceof the great emotion which shook the old man.

But though they hunted until the moon went downthey found no trace of him. For miles they walked, ortook turn about in riding the old blind roan.

“It's no use, Bishop,” said Jack. “We will sleepa while and begin to-morrow. Besides, Eph is with him.I feel it—he'll take keer o' him.”

That is how it came that at midnight, that Saturdaynight, the old Bishop brought home a strange man tolive in the little cabin in his yard.

That is how, a week later, all the South was stirred[Pg 137]over the strange return of a fortune to the differentcorporations from which it had been taken, accompaniedby a drawling note from Jack Bracken saying he returnedill-gotten gain to live a better life.

The dim starlight was shining faintly through thecracks of the outlaw's future home when the old manshowed him in.

“Now, Jack,” he said, “it's nearly mornin' an' theold woman may be wild an' raise sand. But learn to laylow an' shoe hosses. She was bohn disapp'inted—maybebecause she wa'n't a boy,” he whispered.

There was a whinny outside, in a small paddock,where a nearby stable stood: “That's Cap'n Tom'shorse,” said the old man—“I mus' go see if he's hungry.”

“I've kept his horse these ten years, hopin' maybehe'd come back agin. It's John Paul Jones—the thoroughbred,that the old General give him.”

“It's been a job to get feed fur him, po' as I've been—but—but—he'sCap'n Tom's. You kno'—”

That Saturday night was one never to be forgotten[Pg 138]by others beside Jack Bracken and the old preacher ofCottontown.

When Helen Conway, after supper, sought herdrunken father and learned that he really intended tohave Lily and herself go into the cotton mills, she wascrushed for the first time in her life.

He brought back an answer that made her pale withwounded love and grief. Not even Mammy Mariaknew why she had crept off to bed. But in the nightthe old woman heard sobs from the young girl's roomwhere she and her sister slept.

“What is it, chile?” she asked as she slipped fromher own cot in the adjoining little room and went in toHelen's.

The girl had been weeping all night—she had nomother—no one to whom she could unbosom her heart—noone but the old woman who had nursed her fromher infancy. This kind old creature sat on the bed andheld the girl's sobbing head on her lap and stroked hercheek. She knew and understood—she asked no questions:

“It isn't that I must work in the mill,” she sobbedto the old woman—“I can do that—anything to helpout—but—but—to think that Harry loves me solittle as to give me up for—for—that.”

“Don't cry, chile,” said Mammy soothingly—“Itain't registered that you gwine wuck in that mill yit—Iain't made my afferdavit yit.”

“But Harry doesn't love me—Oh, he doesn't love[Pg 139]me,” she wept. “He would not give me up for anythingif he did.”

“I'm gwine give that Marse Harry a piece of mymind when I see him—see if I don't. Don't you cry,chile—hold up yo' haid an' be a Conway. Don't youever let him know that yo' heart is bustin' for him an'fo' the year is out we'll have that same Marse Harryacrawlin' on his very marrow bones to aix our forgiveness.See if we won't.”

It was poor consolation to the romantic spirit of HelenConway. Daylight found her still heart-broken andsobbing in the old woman's lap.

PART THIRD—THE GIN

CHAPTER I

ALICE WESTMORE

It is remarkable how small a part of our real life theworld knows—how little our most intimate friendsknow of the secret influences which have proven tobe climaxes, at the turning points of our existence.

There was no more beautiful woman in Alabama thanAlice Westmore; and throughout that state, where thesong birds seem to develop, naturally, along with thesoftness of the air, and the gleam of the sunshine, andthe lullaby of the Gulf's soft breeze among the pinetrees, there was no one, they say, who could sing as shesang.

And she seemed to have caught it from her nativemocking-birds, so natural was it. Not when they singin the daylight, when everything is bright and joyousand singing is so easy; but when they waken at midnightamid thearbor vitæ trees, and under the sweet,sad influence of a winter moon, pour out their halfawakened notes to the star-sprays which fall in mist toblend and sparkle around the soft neck of the night.

For like the star-sprays her notes were as clear; andthrough them ran a sadness as of a mist of moonlight.And just as moonbeams, when they mingle with themist, make the melancholy of night, so the memory of[Pg 144]a dead love ran through everything Alice Westmoresang.

Why should it be told? What right has a blacksmithto pry into a grand piano to find out wherein the exquisiteharmony of the instrument lies? Who has theright to ask the artist how he blended the colors thatcrowned his picture with immortality, or the poet toexplain his pain in the birth of a mood which moved theworld?

Born in the mountains of North Alabama, she grewup there and developed this rare voice; and when herfather sent her to Italy to complete her musical education,the depth and clearness of it captured even thatsong nation of the world.

The great of all countries were her friends and princessought her favors. She sang at courts and in greatcathedrals, and her genius and beauty were toasts withsociety.

“Still, Mademoiselle will never be a great singer,perfect as her voice is,”—said her singing master toher one day—a famous Italian teacher, “until Mademoisellehas suffered. She is now rich and beautifuland happy. Go home and suffer if you would be agreat singer,” he said, “for great songs come only withgreat suffering.”

If this were true, Alice Westmore was now, indeed, agreat singer; for now had she suffered. And it wasthe death of a life with her when love died. For therebe some with whom love is a separate life, and when lovedies all that is worth living dies with it.[Pg 145]

From childhood she and Cousin Tom—CaptainThomas Travis he lived to be—had been sweethearts.He was the grandson of Colonel Jeremiah Travis of“The Gaffs,” and Tom and Alice had grown up together.Their love was one of those earthly loves whichcomes now and then that we may not altogether lose ourfaith in heaven.

Both were of a romantic temperament with high ideals,and with keen and sensitive natures.

And though a toast in society, and courted by thenobility of the old world, Alice Westmore rememberedonly a moon-lighted night when she told Cousin Tomgood-bye. For though they had loved each other alltheir lives, they had never spoken of it before that night.To them it had been a thing too sacred to profane withordinary words.

Thomas Travis had just graduated from West Point,and he was at home on vacation before being assignedto duty. To-night he had ridden John Paul Jones—thepick of his grandfather's stable of thoroughbreds—apresent from the sturdy old horse-racing, fox-huntinggentleman to his favorite grandson for graduating firstin a class of fifty-six.

How handsome he looked in his dark blue uniform!And there was the music of the crepe-myrtle in the air—themusic of it, wet with the night dew—for thereare flowers so delicate in their sweetness that they passout of the realm of sight and smell, into the unheardworld of rhythm. Their very existence is the poetry ofperfume. And this music of the crepe-myrtle, pulsing[Pg 146]through the shower-cooled leaves of that summer night,was accompanied by a mocking-bird from his nest inthe tree.

Never did the memory of that night leave Alice Westmore.In after years it hurt her, as the dream of childhood'shome with green fields about, and the old springin the meadow, hurts the fever-stricken one dying faraway from it all.

How long they sat on the rustic bench under thecrepe-myrtle they did not know. At parting there wasthe light clasp of hands, and Cousin Tom drew her tohim and put his lips reverently to hers. When he hadridden off there was a slender ring on her finger.

There was nothing in Italy that could make her forgetthat night, though often from her window shehad looked out on Venice, moon-becalmed, while thenightingale sang from pomegranate trees in the hedgerows.

Alice Westmore landed at home again amid drumbeats. War sweeps even sentiment from the world—sentimentthat is stronger than common sense, and whichmoves the world.

On the retreat of the Southern army from Fort Donelson,Thomas Travis, now Captain of Artillery, followed,with Grant's army, to Pittsburgh Landing. Andfinding himself within a day's journey of his old home,he lost no time in slipping through the lines to see Alice,whom he had not seen since her return.[Pg 147]

He went first to her, and the sight of his blue uniformthrew Colonel Westmore into a rage.

“To march into our land in that thing and claim mydaughter—” he shouted. “To join that John Browngang of abolitionists who are trying to overrun ourcountry! Your father was a Southern gentleman andthe bosom friend of my youth, but I'll see you damnedbefore you shall ever again come under my roof, unlessyou can use your pistols quicker than I can use mine.”

“Oh, Tom,” said Alice when they were alone—“how—howcould you do it?”

“But it is my side,” he said quietly. “I was born,reared, educated in the love of the Union. My grandfatherhimself taught it to me. He fought with Jacksonat New Orleans. My father died for it in Mexico.I swore fidelity to it at West Point, and the Uniongave me my military education on the faith of myoath. Farragut is a Tennessean—Thomas a Virginian—andthere are hundreds of others, men who lovethe Union more than they do their State. Alice—Alice—Ido not love you less because I am true tomy oath—my flag.”

“Your flag,” said Alice hotly—“your flag thatwould overrun our country and kill our people? It cannever be my flag!”

She had never been angry before in all her life, butnow the hot blood of her Southern clime and ancestrysurged in her cheeks. She arose with a dignity she hadnever before imagined, even, with Cousin Tom. “Youwill choose between us now,” she said.

“Alice—surely you will not put me to that test. I[Pg 148]will go—” he said, rising. “Some day, if I live, youcan tell me to come back to you without sacrificing myconscience and my word of honor—my sacred oath—writeme and—and—I will come.”

Thomas Travis had always been his grandsire's favorite.His other grandson, Richard Travis, was away inEurope, where he had gone as soon as rumors of the warbegan to be heard.

That night the old man did not even speak to him.He could not. Alone in his room, he walked the floorall night in deep sorrow and thought.

He loved Thomas Travis as he did no other livingbeing, and when morning came his great nature shookwith contending emotions. It ended in the grandsonreceiving this note, a few minutes before he rode away:

“All my life I taught you to love the Union whichI helped to make, with my blood in war and my brainsin peace. I gave it my beloved boy—your father's life—inMexico. We buried him in its flag. I sent youto West Point and made you swear to defend that flagwith your life. How now can I ask you to repudiateyour oath and turn your back on your rearing?

“Believing as I do in the right of the State first andthe Union afterwards, I had hoped you might see itdifferently. But who, but God, controls the course ofan honest mind?

“Go, my son—I shall never see you again. But Iknow you, my son, and I shall die knowing you didwhat you thought was right.”

The young man wept when he read this—he was[Pg 149]neither too old nor too hardened for tears—and whenhe rode away, from the ridge of the Mountain helooked down again—the last time, on all that had beenhis life's happiness.

“Watts,” he said, “in the accursed war which is aboutto wreck the South and which will eventually end inour going back into the Union as a subdued provinceand under the heel of our former slaves, there will bemany changes. I, myself, will not live to see it. I havetwo grandsons, as you know, Tom and Richard. Richardis in Europe; he went there following Alice Westmore,and is going to stay, till this fight is over. Now,I have added a codicil to my will and I wish you tohear it.”

“Since the above will was written and acknowledged,leaving The Gaffs to be equally divided between my twograndsons, Thomas and Richard Travis, my countryhas been precipitated into the horrors of Civil War.In view of this I hereby change my will as above andgive and bequeath The Gaffs to that one of my grandsonswho shall fight—it matters not to me on whichside—so that he fights. For The Gaffs shall never goto a Dominecker. If both fight and survive the war,it shall be divided equally between them as above expressed.If one be killed it shall go to the survivor. Ifboth be killed it shall be sold and the money appropriatedamong those of my slaves who have been faithful[Pg 150]to me to the end, one-fifth being set aside for my faithfuloverseer, Hillard Watts.”

In the panel of the wall he opened a small secretdrawer, zinc-lined, and put the will in it.

“It shall remain there unchanged,” he said, “andonly you and I shall know where it is. If I die suddenly,let it remain until after the war, and then do asyou think best.”

CHAPTER II

THE REAL HEROES

The real heroes of the war have not been decoratedyet. They have not even been pensioned,for many of them lie in forgotten graves, andthose who do not are not the kind to clamor for honorsor emoluments.

On the last Great Day, what a strange awakening fordecorations there will be, if such be in store for the justand the brave: Private soldiers, blue and gray, arisingfrom neglected graves with tattered clothes and unmarkedbrows. Scouts who rode, with stolid faces set,into Death's grim door and died knowing they went outunremembered. Spies, hung like common thieves at theend of a rope—hung, though the bravest of the brave.

Privates, freezing, starving, wounded, dying,—unloved,unsoothed, unpitied—giving their life with alast smile in the joy of martyrdom. Women, North,whose silent tears for husbands who never came backand sons who died of shell and fever, make a tiaraaround the head of our reunited country. Women,South, glorious Rachels, weeping for children who arenot and with brave hearts working amid desolate homes,the star and inspiration of a rebuilded land. Slaves,faithfully guarding and working while their masterswent to the front, filling the granaries that the war[Pg 152]might go on—faithful to their trust though its successmeant their slavery—faithful and true.

O Southland of mine, be gentle, be just to these simplepeople, for they also were faithful.

Among the heroic things the four years of the AmericanCivil War brought out, the story of CaptainThomas Travis deserves to rank with the greatest ofthem.

The love of Thomas Travis for the preacher-overseerwas the result of a life of devotion on the part of theold man for the boy he had reared. Orphaned as he wasearly in life, Thomas Travis looked up to the overseerof his grandfather's plantation as a model of all thatwas great and good.

Tom and Alice,—on the neighboring plantations—ranwild over the place and rode their ponies always onthe track of the overseer. He taught them to ride, totrap the rabbit, to boat on the beautiful river. Heknew the birds and the trees and all the wild things ofNature, and Tom and Alice were his children.

As they grew up before him, it became the dream ofthe preacher-overseer to see his two pets married.Imagine his sorrow when the war fell like a thunderboltout of a harvest sky and, among the thousand ofother wrecked dreams, went the dream of the overseer.

The rest is soon told: After the battle of Shiloh,Hillard Watts, Chief of Johnston's scouts, was capturedand sent to Camp Chase. Scarcely had he arrived beforeorders came that twelve prisoners should be shot,by lot, in retaliation for the same number of Federalprisoners which had been executed, it was said, unjustly,[Pg 153]by Confederates. The overseer drew one of the blackballs. Then happened one of those acts of heroismwhich now and then occur, perhaps, to redeem war ofthe base and bloody.

On the morning before the execution, at daylight,Thomas Travis arrived and made arrangements to savehis friend at the risk of his own life and reputation. Itwas a desperate chance and he acted quickly. For HillardWatts went out a free man dressed in the blue uniformof the Captain of Artillery.

The interposition of the great-hearted Lincoln alonesaved the young officer from being shot.

The yellow military order bearing the words of themartyred President is preserved to-day in the library ofThe Gaffs:

“I present this young man as a Christmas gift to myold friend, his grandsire, Colonel Jeremiah Travis.The man who could fight his guns as he did at Shiloh,and could offer to die for a friend, is good enough toreceive pardon, for anything he may have done or maydo, from

CHAPTER III

FRANKLIN

But General Jeremiah Travis could not keep out ofthe war; for toward the last, when Hood's armymarched into Tennessee the Confederacy calledfor everything—even old age.

And so there rode out of the gates of The Gaffs awhite-haired old man, who sat his superb horse well.He was followed by a negro on a mule.

“I have come to fight for my state,” said GeneralTravis to the Confederate General.

“An' I am gwine to take keer of old marster suh,”said Bisco as he stuck to his saddle girth.

It was the middle of the afternoon of the last day ofNovember—and also the last day of many a gallantlife—when Hood's tired army marched over the browof the high ridge of hills that looked down on the townof Franklin, in front of which, from railroad to river,behind a long semicircular breastwork lay Schofield'sdetermined army. It was a beautiful view, and as plainas looking down from the gallery into the pit of anamphitheatre.

Just below them lay the little town in a valley, admirablysituated for defense, surrounded as it was on[Pg 155]three sides by the bend of a small river, the furtherbanks of which were of solid rocks rising above the town.On the highest of these bluffs—Roper's Knob—acrossand behind the town, directly overlooking it and grimlyfacing Hood's army two miles away, was a federal fortcapped with mighty guns, ready to hurl their shells overthe town at the gray lines beyond. From the high ridgewhere Hood's army stood the ground gradually rolledto the river. A railroad ran through a valley in theridge to the right of the Confederates, spun along onthe banks of the river past the town and crossed it inthe heart of the bend to the left of the federal fort.From that railroad on the Confederate right, in frontand clear around the town, past an old gin house whichstood out clear and distinct in the November sunlight—onpast the Carter House, to the extreme left bend of theriver on the left—in short, from river to river againand entirely inclosing the town and facing the enemy—ranthe newly made and hastily thrown-up breastworksof the federal army, the men rested and ready forbattle.

There stands to-day, as it stood then, in front of thetown of Franklin, on the highest point of the ridge, alarge linden tree, now showing the effects of age. Itwas half-past three o'clock in the afternoon, when GeneralHood rode unattended to that tree, threw the stumpof the leg that was shot off at Chickamauga over thepommel of his saddle, drew out his field glasses and satlooking for a long time across the valley at the enemy'sposition.

Strange to say, on the high river bluff beyond the[Pg 156]town, amid the guns of the fort, also with field glass inhand anxiously watching the confederates, stood the federalgeneral. A sharp-shooter in either line could havekilled the commanding general in the other. And nowthat prophesying silence which always seems to precedea battle was afloat in the air. In the hollow of its stillnessit seemed as if one could hear the ticking of thedeath-watch of eternity. But presently it was brokenby the soft strains of music which floated up from thetown below. It was the federal band playing “JustBefore The Battle, Mother.”

The men in gray on the hill and the men in blue inthe valley listened, and then each one mentally followedthe tune with silent words, and not without a bit of moisturein their eyes.

Suddenly Hood closed his glasses with that nervousjerk which was a habit with him, straightened himselfin the saddle and, riding back to General Stewart,said simply: “We will make the fight, General Stewart.”

Stewart pressed his General's hand, wheeled andformed his corps on the right. Cheatham formed hison the left. A gun—and but few were used by Hoodin the fight for fear of killing the women and childrenin the town—echoed from the ridge. It was thesignal for the battle to begin. The heavy columnsmoved down the side of the ridge, the brigades marchingin echelon.[Pg 157]

At the sound of the gun, the federal army, some ofwhom were on duty, but the larger number loiteringaround at rest, or engaged in preparing their eveningmeal, sprang noiselessly to their places behind the breastworks,while hurried whispers of command ran down theline.

General Travis had been given a place of honor onGeneral Hood's staff. He insisted on going into theranks, but his commander had said: “Stay with me,I shall need you elsewhere.” And so the old mansat his horse silently watching the army formingand marching down. But directly, as a Mississippiregiment passed by, he noticed at the head of one ofthe companies an old man, almost as old as himself, hisclothes torn, and ragged from long marching; shoeless,his feet tied up in sack-cloth and his old slouch hat aflopover his ears. But he did not complain, he stood erect,and gamely led his men into battle. As the companyhalted for a moment, General Travis rode up to the oldman whose thin clothes could not keep him from shiveringin the now chill air of late afternoon, for it was thenpast four o'clock, saluted him and said:

“Captain, will you do me the favor to pull off thisboot?” Withdrawing his boot from the stirrup andthrusting it towards the old man, the latter looked at hima moment in surprise but sheathed his sword and compliedwith the request. “And now the other one?” saidTravis as he turned his horse around. This, too, waspulled off.

“Just put them on, Captain, if you please,” said therider. “I am mounted and do not need them as much[Pg 158]as you do?” and before the gallant old Captain couldrefuse, he rode away for duty—in his stocking feet!

The confederates came on in splendid form. On theextreme right, Forrest's cavalry rested on the river; thenStewart's corps of Loring, Walthall, French, from rightto left in the order named. On the left Cheatham'scorps, of Cleburne, Brown, Bate, and Walker. BehindCheatham marched Johnston's and Clayton's brigadefor support, thirty thousand and more of men, in solidlines, bands playing and flags fluttering in the afternoonwind.

Nor had the federals been idle. Behind the breastworkslay the second and third divisions of the 23rdCorps, commanded in person by the gallant General J.D. Cox. From the railroad on the left to the Carter'sCreek pike on the right, the brigades of these divisionsstood as follows: Henderson's, Casement's, Reilly's,Strickland's, Moore's. And from the right of the Carter'sCreek pike to the river lay Kimball's first divisionof the Fourth Corps. In front of the breastworks,across the Columbia pike, General Wagner, commandingthe second division of the Fourth Corps, had thrown forwardthe two brigades of Bradley and Lane to checkthe first assault of the confederates, while Opdyck's brigadeof the same division was held in the town as a reserve.Seven splendid batteries growled along the lineof breastworks, and showed their teeth to the advancingfoe, while three more were caged in the fort above andbeyond the town.

Never did men march with cooler courage on more[Pg 159]formidable lines of defense. Never did men wait anattack with cooler courage. Breastworks with abatis infront through which the mouth of cannon gaped; artilleryand infantry on the right to enfilade; siege guns inthe fort high above all, to sweep and annihilate.

Schofield, born general that he was, simply lay in arock-circled, earth-circled, water-circled, iron-and-steel-circledcage, bayonet and flame tipped, proof against thearmies of the world!

Even in the matter of where to throw up his breastworks,Schofield never erred. On a beautiful and seeminglylevel plain like this, a less able general might havethrown them up anywhere, just so that they encircledthe town and ran from river to river.

But Schofield took no chances. His quick eye detectedthat even in apparent level plains there are slightundulations. And so, following a gentle rise all theway round, just on its top he threw up his breastworks.So that, besides the ditch and the abatis, there was aslight depression in his immediate front, open and clear,but so situated that on the gentle slope in front, downwhich the confederates must charge, the background ofthe slope brought them in bold relief—gray targets forthe guns. On that background the hare would loom upas big as the hound.

There were really two federal lines, an outer and aninner one. The outer one consisted of Bradley's andLane's brigades which had retired from Spring Hill beforethe Confederate army, and had been ordered to haltin front of the breastworks to check the advance of the[Pg 160]army. They were instructed to fire and then fall back tothe breastworks, if stubbornly charged by greatly theirsuperiors in numbers. They fired, but, true to Americanideas, they disliked to retreat. When forced to do so,they were swept away with the enemy on their very heelsand as they rushed in over the last line at the breastworkson the Columbia pike the eager boys in grayrushed over with them, swept away portions of Reilly'sand Strickland's troops, and bayoneted those that remained.

It was then that Schofield's heart sank as he lookeddown from the guns of the fort. But Cox had theforethought to place Opdyck's two thousand men inreserve at this very point. These sprang gallantlyforward and restored the line.

The battle was now raging all around the line.There was a succession of yells, a rattle, a shock anda roar, as brigade after brigade struck the breastworks,only to be hurled back again or melt and die away inthe trenches amid the abatis. Clear around the lineof breastworks it rolled, at intervals, like a magazineof powder flashing before it explodes, then the roarand upheaval, followed anon and anon by another.The ground was soon shingled with dead men in gray,while down in the ditches or hugging the bloody sidesof the breastworks right under the guns, thousands,more fortunate or daring than their comrades, lay,thrusting and being thrust, shooting and being shot.And there they staid throughout the fight—not strongenough to climb over, and yet all the guns of the[Pg 161]federal army could not drive them away. Many agray regiment planted its battle-flag on the breastworksand then hugged those sides of death in its effortsto keep it there, as bees cling around the body of theirqueen.

“I have the honor to forward to the War Departmentnine stands of colors,” writes General Cox to GeneralGeo. L. Thomas; “these flags with eleven otherswere captured by the Twenty-third Army Corps alongthe parapets.”

The sun had not set; yet the black smoke of battlehad set it before its time. God had ordained otherwise;but man, in his fury had shut out the light of heavenagainst the decree of God, just as, equally against Hisdecree, he has now busily engaged in blotting out manya brother's bright life, before the decree of its sunset.Again and again and again, from four till midnight—eightbutchering hours—the heart of the South washurled against those bastions of steel and flame, only tobe pierced with ball and bayonet.

And for every heart that was pierced there broke adozen more in the shade of the southern palmetto, or inthe shadow of the northern pine. After nineteen hundredyears of light and learning, what a scientific nationof heart-stabbers and brother-murderers we Christiansare!

It was now that the genius of the confederate cavalryleader, Forrest, asserted itself. With nearly ten thousandof his intrepid cavalry-men, born in the saddle, who[Pg 162]carried rifles and shot as they charged, and whom withwonderful genius their leader had trained to dismountat a moment's notice and fight as infantry—he lay onthe extreme right between the river and the railroad.In a moment he saw his opportunity, and rode furiouslyto Hood's headquarters. He found the General sittingon a flat rock, a smouldering fire by his side, half waydown the valley, at the Winstead House, intentlywatching the progress of the battle.

“Let me go at 'em, General,” shouted Forrest in hisbluff way, “and I'll flank the federal army out of itsposition in fifteen minutes.”

Forrest turned and rode back with an oath of disgust.Years afterwards, Colonel John McGavock,whose fine plantation lay within the federal lines andwho had ample opportunity for observation, says thatwhen in the early evening a brigade of Forrest's cavalrydeployed across the river as if opening the way for theconfederate infantry to attack the federal army in flankand rear, hasty preparations were made by the federalarmy for retreat. And thus was Forrest's military wisdomcorroborated. “Let me flank them out,” was militarygenius. “No, charge them out,” was dare-devilblundering!

The shock, the shout and the roar continued. Theflash from the guns could now plainly be seen as nightdescended. So continuous was the play of flame aroundthe entire breastwork that it looked to the general atheadquarters like a circle of prairie fire, leaping up at[Pg 163]intervals along the breastworks, higher and higherwhere the batteries were ablaze.

In a black-locust thicket, just to the right of the Columbiaturnpike and near the Carter House, with abatisin front, the strongest of the batteries had been placed.It mowed down everything in front. Seeing it, GeneralHood turned to General Travis and said: “General,my compliments to General Cleburne, and say to him Idesire that battery at his hands.”

The old man wheeled and was gone. In a moment,it seemed, the black smoke of battle engulfed him. Cleburne'scommand was just in front of the old gin house,forming for another charge. The dead lay in heaps infront. They almost filled the ditch around the breastworks.But the command, terribly cut to pieces, wasforming as coolly as if on dress parade. Above themfloated a peculiar flag, a field of deep blue on which wasa crescent moon and stars. It was Cleburne's battleflag and well the enemy knew it. They had seen andfelt it at Shiloh, Murfreesboro, Ringgold Gap, Atlanta.“I tip my hat to that flag,” said General Sherman yearsafter the war. “Whenever my men saw it they knewit meant fight.”

As the old man rode up, the division charged. Carriedaway in the excitement he charged with them, guidinghis horse by the flashes of the guns. As they rushedon the breastworks a gray figure on a chestnut horserode diagonally across the front of the moving columnat the enemy's gun. The horse went down within fiftyyards of the breastwork. The rider arose, waved hissword and led his men on foot to the very ramparts.[Pg 164]Then he staggered and fell, pierced with a dozen minieballs. It was Cleburne, the peerless field-marshal ofconfederate brigade commanders; the genius to infantryas Forrest was to cavalry. His corps was swept back bythe terrible fire, nearly half of them dead or wounded.

“General Cleburne is dead, General”—was all hesaid. Hood did not turn his head.

“My compliments to General Adams,” he said, “andtell him I ask that battery at his hands.”

Again the old man wheeled and was gone. Again herode into the black night and the blacker smoke of battle.

General Adams's brigade was in Walthall's division.As the aged courier rode up, Adams was just charging.Again the old man was swept away with the charge.They struck the breastworks where Stile's and Casement'sbrigades lay on the extreme left of the federalarmy. “Their officers showed heroic examples and self-sacrifice,”wrote General Cox in his official report, “ridingup to our lines in advance of their men, cheeringthem on. One officer, Adams, was shot down upon theparapet itself, his horse falling across the breastworks.”Casement himself, touched by the splendor of his ride,had cotton brought from the old gin house and placedunder the dying soldier's head. “You are too brave aman to die,” said Casement tenderly; “I wish that Icould save you.”

“'Tis the fate of a soldier to die for his country,” smiled the dying soldier. Then hepassed away.[Pg 165]

It was a half hour before the old man reached Hood'sheadquarters again, his black horse wet with sweat.

“General Adams lies in front of the breastworks—dead!His horse half over it—dead”—was all hesaid.

“Then tell General Gist,” he exclaimed. The oldman vanished again and rode once more into the smokeand the night. Gist's brigade led the front line ofBrown's division, Cheatham's corps. It was on the left,fronting Strickland's and Moore's, on the breastworks.The Twenty-fourth South Carolina Infantry was infront of the charging lines. “In passing from the leftto the right of the regiment,” writes Colonel EllisonCapers commanding the South Carolina regiment abovenamed, “the General (Gist) waved his hat to us, expressedhis pride and confidence in the Twenty-fourthand rode away in the smoke of battle never more to beseen by the men he had commanded on so many fields.His horse was shot, and, dismounting, he was leading theright of the brigade when he fell, pierced through theheart. On pressed the charging lines of the brigade,driving the advance force of the enemy pell-mell into alocust abatis where many were captured and sent to therear; others were wounded by the fire of their own men.This abatis was a formidable and fearful obstruction.The entire brigade was arrested by it. But Gist's andGordon's brigade charged on and reached the ditch,mounted the works and met the enemy in close combat.The colors of the Twenty-fourth were planted and de[Pg 166]fendedon the parapet, and the enemy retired in ourfront some distance, but soon rallied and came back inturn to charge us. He never succeeded in retaking theline we held. Torn and exhausted, deprived of everygeneral officer and nearly every field officer, the divisionhad only strength enough left to hold its position.”

The charging became intermittent. Then out of thenight, as Hood sat listening, again came the old man,his face as white as his long hair, his horse once black,now white with foam.

“Tell Granbury, Carter, Strahl—General! Throwthem in there and capture that battery and break thatline.”

General Strahl was leading his brigade again againstthe breastworks. “Strahl's and Carter's brigade camegallantly to the assistance of Gist's and Gordon's” runsthe confederate report sent to Richmond, “but theenemy's fire from the houses in the rear of the line andfrom guns posted on the far side of the river so as toenfilade the field, tore their line to pieces before itreached the locust abatis.”

General Carter fell mortally wounded before reachingthe breastworks, but General Strahl reached the ditch,filled with dead and dying men, though his entire staffhad been killed. Here he stood with only two menaround him, Cunningham and Brown. “Keep firing”said Strahl as he stood on the bodies of the dead andpassed up guns to the two privates. The next instant[Pg 167]Brown fell heavily; he, too, was dead.

Again Cunningham fired. “Pass me anothergun, General,” said Cunningham. There was noanswer—the general was dead.

Not a hundred yards away lay General Granbury,dead. He died leading the brave Texans to the works.

To the commanding General it seemed an age beforethe old man returned. Then he saw him in the darknessafar off, before he reached the headquarters. TheGeneral thought of death on his pale horse and shivered.

“Granbury, Carter, Strahl—all dead, General,” hesaid. “Colonels command divisions, Captains are commandingbrigades.”

There was a moment's silence and then: “General?”It came from General Travis.

Hood thought a moment, then nodded and the horseand the rider were gone. It was late—nearly midnight.The firing on both sides had nearly ceased,—onlya desultory rattling—the boom of a gun now andthen. But O, the agony, the death, the wild confusion![Pg 168]This was something like the babel that greeted the oldsoldier's ears as he rode forward:

“The Fourth Mississippi—where is the Fourth Mississippi?”“Here is the Fortieth Alabama's standard—rallymen to your standard!” “Where is GeneralCleburne, men? Who has seen General Cleburne?”“Up, boys, and let us at 'em agin! Damn 'em, they'vewounded me an' I want to kill some more!”

“Water!—water—for God's sake give us water!”This came from a pile of wounded men just under theguns on the Columbia pike. It came from a sixteenyear old boy in blue. Four dead comrades lay acrosshim.

“And this is the curse of it,” said General Travis, ashe rode among the men.

But suddenly amid the smoke and confusion, the soldierssaw what many thought was an apparition—anold, old warrior, on a horse with black mane and tail andfiery eyes, but elsewhere covered with white sweat andpale as the horse of death. The rider's face too, wasdeadly white, but his keen eyes blazed with the fire ofmany generations of battle-loving ancestors.

The soldiers flocked round him, half doubting, halfbelieving. The terrible ordeal of that bloody night'swork; the poignant grief from beholding the death andwounds of friends and brothers; the weird, uncannygroans of the dying upon the sulphurous-smelling nightair; the doubt, uncertainty, and yet, through it all, thebitter realization that all was in vain, had shocked, benumbed,unsettled the nerves of the stoutest; and manyof them scarcely knew whether they were really alive,[Pg 169]confronting in the weird hours of the night ditches ofblood and breastworks of death, or were really dead—deadfrom concussion, from shot or shell, and were nowwandering on a spirit battle-field till some soul-leadershould lead them away.

And so, half dazed and half dreaming, and yet halfalive to its realization, they flocked around the old warrior,and they would not have been at all surprised hadhe told them he came from another world.

Some thought of Mars. Some thought of death andhis white horse. Some felt of the animal's mane andtouched his streaming flanks and cordy legs to see if itwere really a horse and not an apparition, while “Whatis it?” and “Who is he?” was whispered down thelines.

A mighty shout came up. “It's General Lee!—hehas come to lead us in,” they shouted.

“No, no, men,”—said the old warrior quickly. “Iam not General Lee. But I have led Southern troopsbefore. I was at New Orleans. I was—”

“It's Ole Hick'ry—by the eternal!—Ole Hick'ry—andhe's come back to life to lead us!” shouted a bigfellow as he threw his hat in the air.

“Ole Hickory! Ole Hickory!” echoed and re-echoeddown the lines, till it reached the ears of the dying soldiersin the ditch itself, and many a poor, brave fellow,as his heart strings snapped and the broken chord gurgledout into the dying moan, saw amid the blaze and[Pg 170]light of the new life, the apparition turn into a realityand a smile of exquisite satisfaction was forever frozenon his face in the mould of death, as he whispered withhis last breath:

Then the old warrior smiled—a smile of simplebeauty and grandeur, of keen satisfaction that such anhonor should have been paid him, and he tried to speakto correct them. But they shouted the more, anddrowned out his voice and would not have it otherwise.Despairing, he rode to the front and drew his long,heavy, old, revolutionary sword. It flashed in the air.It came to “attention”—and then a dead silence followed.

“Men,” he said, “this is the sword of John Sevier,the rebel that led us up the sides of King's Mountainwhen every tyrant gun that belched in our face calledus—rebels!”

“Men,” he said, drawing a huge rifled barreled pistol—“thisis the pistol of Andrew Jackson, the rebel thatwhipped the British at New Orleans when every gun thatthundered in his face, meant death to liberty!”

Again the old sword came to attention—again, thesilence. Then the old man fairly stood erect in his[Pg 171]stirrups—he grew six inches taller and straighter andthe black horse reared and rose as if to give emphasisto his rider's assertion:

“Men,” he shouted, “rebel is the name that tyrannygives to patriotism! And now, let us fight, as our fore-fathersfought, for our state, our homes and our firesides!”And then clear and distinct there rang out onthe night air, a queer old continental command:

They did not know what this meant at first. Butsome old men in the line happened to remember andfixed their bayonets. Then there was clatter and clankdown the entire line as others imitated their examples.

“Poise, fo'k!” rang out again more queerly still.The old men who remembered brought their guns to theproper position. “Right shoulder, fo'k!”—followed.Then, “Forward, March!” came back and they movedstraight at the batteries—now silent—and straightat the breastworks, more silent still. Proudly, superbly,they came on, with not a shout or shot—a chainedline with links of steel—a moving mass with one heart—andthat heart,—victory.

On they came at the breastworks, walking over thedead who lay so thick they could step from body to bodyas they marched. On they came, following the oldcocked hat that had once held bloodier breastworksagainst as stubborn foe.

On—on—they came, expecting every moment tosee a flame of fire run round the breastworks, a furnaceof flame leap up from the batteries, and then—victory[Pg 172]or death—behind old Hickory! Either was honorenough!

And now they were within fifty feet of the breastworks,moving as if on dress parade. The guns mustthunder now or never! One step more—then, an electricalbolt shot through every nerve as the old manwheeled his horse and again rang out that queer oldcontinental command, right in the mouth of the enemy'sditch, right in the teeth of his guns:

It was Tom Travis who commanded the guns wherethe Columbia Pike met the breastworks at the terribledeadly locust thicket. All night he had stood at hispost and stopped nine desperate charges. All nightin the flash and roar and the strange uncanny smell ofblood and black powder smoke, he had stood among thedead and dying calling stubbornly, monotonously:

And now it was nearly midnight and Schofield, findingthe enemy checked, was withdrawing on Nashville.

Tom Travis thought the battle was over, but in theglare and flash he looked and saw another column,ghostly gray in the starlight, moving stubbornly at hisguns.

On came the column—beautifully on. How itthrilled him to see them! How it hurt to think they werehis people![Pg 173]

“Aim!” he thundered again, and then as he lookedthrough the gray torch made, starlighted night, hequailed in a cold sickening fear, for the old man wholed them on was his grandsire, the man whom of allon earth he loved and revered the most.

Eight guns, with grim muzzles trained on the oldrider and his charging column, waited but for the captain'sword to hurl their double-shotted canisters ofdeath.

And Tom Travis, in the agony of it, stood, swordin hand, stricken in dumbness and doubt. On came thecolumn, the old warrior leading them—on and:—

The gunners dropped their lanyards with an oath,trained machines that they were.

It was a drunken German who brought a heavy sword-hiltdown on the young officer's head with:

A gleam of gun and bayonet leaped in the mistylight in front, from shoulder to breast—a rock wall,tipped with steel swept crushingly forward over thetrenches over the breastworks.

Under the guns, senseless, his skull crushed, an upturnedface stopped the old warrior. Down from hishorse he came with a weak, hysterical sob.

“O Tom—Tom, I might have known it was you—mygallant, noble boy—my Irish Gray!”

“At midnight, all being quiet in front, in accordancewith orders from the commanding Generals,” writes GeneralJ. D. Cox in his official report, “I withdrew mycommand to the north bank of the river.”

“The battle closed about twelve o'clock at night,”wrote General Hood, “when the enemy retreated rapidlyon Nashville, leaving the dead and wounded in our hands.We captured about a thousand prisoners and severalstands of colors.”

Was this a coincidence—or as some think—did theboys in blue retreat before they would fire on an oldContinental and the spirit of '76?

An hour afterwards a negro was sadly leading a tiredold man on a superb horse back to headquarters, andas the rider's head sank on his breast he said:

“Lead me, Bisco, I'm too weak to guide my horse.Nothing is left now but the curse of it.”

Fifty-seven Union dead beside the wounded, in the littlefront yard of the Carter House, alone. And theylay around the breastworks from river to river, a chainof dead and dying. In front of the breastworks wasanother chain—a wider and thicker one. It also ranfrom river to river, but was gray instead of blue.Chains are made of links, and the full measure of “thecurse of it” may have been seen if one could have lookedover the land that night and have seen where the deadlinks lying there were joined to live under the roof treesof far away homes.

But here is the tale of a severed link: About two[Pg 175]o'clock lights began to flash about over the battle-field—theywere hunting for the dead and wounded.Among these, three had come out from the Carter House.A father, son and daughter; each carried a lantern andas they passed they flashed their lights in the faces ofthe dead.

“May we look for brother?” asked the young girl,of an officer. “We hope he is not here but fear he is.He has not been home for two years, being stationed inanother state. But we heard he could not resist thetemptation to come home again and joined GeneralBate's brigade. And O, we fear he has been killed forhe would surely have been home before this.”

They separated, each looking for “brother.” Directlythe father heard the daughter cry out. It was inthe old orchard near the house. On reaching the spotshe was seated on the ground, holding the head of herdying brother in her lap and sobbing:

“Captain Carter, on staff duty with Tyler's brigade,”writes General Wm. B. Bate in his official report,“fell mortally wounded near the works of theenemy and almost at the door of his father's home. Hisgallantry I witnessed with much pride, as I had doneon other fields, and here take pleasure in mentioning itespecially.”

The next morning in the first light of the first day ofthat month celebrated as the birth-month of Him whodeclared long ago that war should cease, amid the deadand dying of both armies, stood two objects which[Pg 176]should one day be carved in marble—One, to representthe intrepid bravery of the South, the other, the coolcourage of the North, and both—“the curse of it.”

The first was a splendid war-horse, dead, but lyingface forward, half over the federal breastworks. It wasthe horse of General Adams.

The other was a Union soldier—the last silent sentinelof Schofield's army. He stood behind a smalllocust tree, just in front of the Carter House gate. Hehad drawn his iron ram-rod which rested under his rightarm pit, supporting that side. His gun, with butt onthe ground at his left, rested with muzzle against hisleft side, supporting it. A cartridge, half bitten offwas in his mouth. He leaned heavily against the smalltree in front. He was quite dead, a minie ball throughhis head; but thus propped he stood, the wonder ofmany eyes, the last sentinel of the terrible night battle.

But another severed link cut deepest of all. In therealization of her love for Thomas Travis, Alice Westmore'sheart died within her. In the years which followed,if suffering could make her a great singer, nowindeed was she great.

PART FOURTH—THE LINT

CHAPTER I

COTTONTOWN

When the directors of a cotton mill, in aMassachusetts village, decided, in the middle'70's, to move their cotton factory from New England toAlabama, they had two objects in view—cheaper laborand cheaper staple.

And they did no unwise thing, as the books of thecompany from that time on showed.

In the suburbs of a growing North Alabama town,lying in the Tennessee Valley and flanked on both sidesby low, regularly rolling mountains, the factory hadbeen built.

It was a healthful, peaceful spot, and not unpicturesque.North and south the mountains fell away in anundulating rhythmical sameness, with no abrupt gorgesto break in and destroy the poetry of their scroll againstthe sky. The valley supplemented the effect of themountains; for, from the peak of Sunset Rock, high upon the mountain, it looked not unlike the chopped upwaves of a great river stiffened into land—especiallyin winter when the furrowed rows of the vast cottonfields lay out brown and symmetrically turned under thehazy sky.

The factory was a low, one-story structure of half[Pg 180]burnt bricks. Like a vulgar man, cheapness was writtenall over its face. One of its companions was awooden store house near by, belonging to the company.The other companion was a squatty low-browed engineroom, decorated with a smoke-stack which did businessevery day in the week except Sunday. A black,soggy exhaust-pipe stuck out of a hole in its side, likea nicotine-soaked pipe in an Irishman's mouth, and sonatural and matter-of-fact was the entire structure thatat evening, in the uncertain light, when the smoke waspuffing out of its stack, and the dirty water runningfrom its pipes, and the reflected fire from the engine'sfurnace blazed through the sunken eyes of the windows,begrizzled and begrimed, nothing was wanted but a littleimagination to hear it cough and spit and give onefinal puff at its pipe and say: “Lu'd but o'ive wur-rekhard an' o'im toired to-day!”

The factory had been built on the edge of an oldcottonfield which ran right up to the town's limit; andthe field, unplowed for several years, had become soddedwith the long stolens of rank Bermuda grass, holdingin its perpetual billows of green the furrows which hadbeen thrown up for cotton rows and tilled years before.

This made a beautiful pea-green carpet in summerand a comfortable straw-colored matting in winter; andit was the only bit of sentiment that clung to Cottontown.

All the rest of it was practical enough: Rows ofscurvy three-roomed cottages, all exactly alike, even to[Pg 181]the gardens in the rear, laid off in equal breadth andrunning with the same unkept raggedness up the flintyside of the mountain.

There was not enough originality among the worked-to-deathinhabitants of Cottontown to plant their gardensdifferently; for all of them had the same weedyturnip-patch on one side, straggling tomatoes on another,and half-dried mullein-stalks sentineling the corners.For years these cottages had not been painted,and now each wore the same tinge of sickly yellow paint.It was not difficult to imagine that they had had a longsiege of malarial fever in which the village doctor hadused abundant plasters of mustard, and the disease hadfinally run into “yaller ja'ndice,” as they called it inCottontown.

And thus Cottontown had stood for several years, anew problem in Southern life and industry, and a payingone for the Massachusetts directors.

In the meanwhile another building had been put up—alittle cheaply built chapel, of long-leaf yellow pine.It was known as the Bishop's church, and sat on theside of the mountain, half way up among the black-jacks,exposed to the blistering suns of summer andthe winds of winter.

It had never been painted: “An' it don't need it,”as the Bishop had said when the question of paintingit had been raised by some of the members.

“No, it don't need it, for the hot sun has drawed allthe rosin out on its surface, an' pine rosin's as good apaint as any church needs. Jes' let God be, an' He'llfix His things like He wants 'em any way. He put the[Pg 182]paint in the pine-tree when He made it. Now man ismighty smart,—he can make paint, but he can't makea pine tree.”

It was Sunday morning, and as the Bishop drovealong to church he was still thinking of Jack Brackenand Captain Tom, and the burial of little Jack. Whenhe arose that morning Jack was up, clean-shaved andneatly dressed. As Mrs. Watts, the Bishop's wife, hadbecome used, as she expressed it, to his “fetchin' anyold thing, frum an old hoss to an old man home, whareverhe finds 'em,”—she did not express any surpriseat having a new addition to the family.

The outlaw looked nervous and sorrow-stricken. Severaltimes, when some one came on him unexpectedly, theBishop saw him feeling nervously for a Colt's revolverwhich had been put away. Now and then, too, he sawgreat tears trickling down the rough cheeks, when hethought no one was noticing him.

“Now, Jack,” said the Bishop after breakfast, “youjes' get on John Paul Jones an' hunt for Cap'n Tom.I know you'll not leave no stone unturned to find him.Go by the cave and see if him an' Eph ain't gone back.I'm not af'eard—I know Eph will take care of him,but we want to fin' him. After meetin' if you haven'tfound him I'll join in the hunt myself—for we mustfind Cap'n Tom, Jack, befo' the sun goes down. I'druther see him than any livin' man. Cap'n Tom—Cap'nTom—him that's been as dead all these years!Fetch him home when you find him—fetch him hometo me. He shall never want while I live. An', Jack,[Pg 183]remember—don't forget yo'se'f and hold up anybody.I'll expec' you to jine the church nex' Sunday.”

“High time you are going, then. You've put yo'hands to the plough—turn not back an' God'll straightenout everything.”

Jack was silent. “I'll go by the cave fus' an' jus'look where little Jack is sleepin'. Po' little feller, hemust ha' been mighty lonesome last night.”

It was ten o'clock and the Bishop was on his way tochurch. He was driving the old roan of the night before.A parody on a horse, to one who did not lookclosely, but to one who knows and who looks beyond themere external form for that hidden something in bothman and horse which bespeaks strength and reserveforce, there was seen through the blindness and the uglinessand the sleepy, ambling, shuffling gait a clean-cutform, with deep chest and closely ribbed; with welldrawn flanks, a fine, flat steel-turned bone, and a powerfulmuscle, above hock and forearms, that clung to theleg as the Bishop said, “like bees a'swarmin'.”

At his little cottage gate stood Bud Billings, the bestslubber in the cotton mill. Bud never talked to any oneexcept the Bishop; and his wife, who was the worstXanthippe in Cottontown, declared she had lived withhim six months straight and never heard him comenearer speaking than a grunt. It was also a sayingof Richard Travis, that Bud had been known to breakall records for silence by drawing a year's wages at the[Pg 184]mill, never missing a minute and never speaking aword.

As the Bishop drove shamblingly along down theroad, deeply preoccupied in his forthcoming sermon,there came from out of a hole, situated somewhere betweenthe grizzled fringe of hair that marked Bud'swhiskers and the grizzled fringe above that marked hiseyebrows, a piping, apologetic voice that sounded likethe first few rasps of an old rusty saw; but to theoccupant of the buggy it meant, with a drawl:

A blind horse is quick to observe and take fright atanything uncanny. He is the natural ghost-finder ofthe highways, and that voice was too much for the oldroan. To him it sounded like something that had beenresurrected. It was a ghost-voice, arising after manyyears. He shied, sprang forward, half wheeled andnearly upset the buggy, until brought up with a jerkby the powerful arms of his driver. The shaft-bandhad broken and the buggy had run upon the horse'srump, and the shafts stuck up almost at right anglesover his back. The roan stood trembling with the halfturned, inquisitive muzzle of the sightless horse—aparalysis of fear all over his face. But when Bud cameforward and touched his face and stroked it, the fearvanished, and the old roan bobbed his tail up and downand wiggled his head reassuringly and apologetically.

“Wal, I declar, Bishop,” grinned Bud, “kin yo' critterfetch a caper?[Pg 185]”

The Bishop got leisurely out of his buggy, pulleddown the shafts and tied up the girth before he spoke.Then he gave a puckering hitch to his underlip anddeposited in the sand, with a puddlingplunk, the halfcup of tobacco juice that had closed up his mouth.

The Bishop glanced at the bowed head, cocked hindfoot and listless tail: “Sof'nin' of the brain, Bud,”smiled the Bishop; “they say when old folks begin totake it they jus' go to sleep while settin' up talkin'.Now, a horse, Bud,” he said, striking an attitude for adiscussion on his favorite topic, “a horse is like a man—hemust have some meanness or he c'udn't live, an'some goodness or nobody else c'ud live. But git in,Bud, and let's go along to meetin'—'pears like it's gettin'late.”

This was what Bud had been listening for. This wasthe treat of the week for him—to ride to meetin' withthe Bishop. Bud, a slubber-slave—henpecked at home,brow-beaten and cowed at the mill, timid, scared, “an'powerful slow-mouthed,” as his spouse termed it, worshippedthe old Bishop and had no greater pleasure inlife, after his hard week's work, than “to ride to meetin'with the old man an' jes' hear him narrate.”

The Bishop's great, sympathetic soul went out to thepoor fellow, and though he had rather spend the nexttwo miles of Ben Butler's slow journey to church inthinking over his sermon, he never failed, as he termedit, “to pick up charity even on the roadside,” and it[Pg 186]was pretty to see how the old man would turn loose hiscrude histrionic talent to amuse the slubber. He knew,too, that Bud was foolish about horses, and that BenButler was his model!

They got into the old buggy, and Ben Butler began todraw it slowly along the sandy road to the little church,two miles away up the mountain side.

CHAPTER II

BEN BUTLER

Bud was now in a seventh heaven. He was ridingbehind Ben Butler, the greatest horse in theworld, and talking to the Bishop, the only personwho ever heard the sound of his voice, save in deprecatoryand scary grunts.

It was touching to see how the old man humored thesimple and imposed-upon creature at his side. It wasbeautiful to see how, forgetting himself and his sermon,he prepared to entertain, in his quaint way, thisslave to the slubbing machine.

Bud looked fondly at the Bishop—then admiringlyat Ben Butler. He drew a long breath of pure air, andsitting on the edge of the seat, prepared to jump ifnecessary; for Bud was mortally afraid of being in arunaway, and his scared eyes seemed to be looking forthe soft places in the road.

“Bishop,” he drawled after a while, “huc-cum youname sech a hoss”—pointing to the old roan—“secha grand hoss, for sech a man—sech a man as he was,”he added humbly.

“Blind,” said Bud sadly, shaking his head—“toobad—too bad—great—great hoss![Pg 188]”

“Yes, but the leds, Bud—that hoss, Ben Butlerthere, holds a world's record—he's the only cock-eyedhoss in the world.”

“You don't say so—that critter!—cock-eyed?”Bud laughed and slapped his leg gleefully. “Didn'tI always tell you so? World's record—great—great!”

He slapped his leg again. “An' him—his namesake—hewas cock-eyed, too—I seed him onct at New'Leens.”

“Don't you never trust a cock-eyed man, Bud. He'llflicker on you in the home-stretch. I've tried it an'it never fails. Love him, but don't trust him. Theworld is full of folks we oughter love, but not trust.”

“No—I never will,” said Bud as thoughtfully as heknew how to be—“nor a cock-eyed 'oman neither. Mywife's cock-eyed,” he added.

He was silent a moment. Then he showed the old mana scar on his forehead: “She done that last month—busteda plate on my head.”

“That's bad,” said the Bishop consolingly—“butyou ortenter aggravate her, Bud.”

“That's so—I ortenter—least-wise, not whilstthere's any crockery in the house,” said Bud sadly.

“There's another thing about this hoss,” went onthe Bishop—“he's always spoony on mules. He ain'thappy if he can't hang over the front gate spoonin'with every stray mule that comes along. There's oldlong-eared Lize that he's dead stuck on—if he c'u'dwrite he'd be composin' a sonnet to her ears, like poets[Pg 189]do to their lady love's—callin' them Star Pointers ofa Greater Hope, I reck'n, an' all that. Why, he'd rutherhold hands by moonlight with some old Maria mule thanto set up by lamplight with a thoroughbred filly.”

“So I named him Ben Butler when he was born.That was right after the war, an' I hated old Ben so an'loved hosses so, I thought ef I'd name my colt for oldBen maybe I'd learn to love him, in time.”

“But I have, Bud—sho' as you are born I love oldBen Butler.” He lowered his voice to an earnestwhisper: “I ain't never told you what he done for po'Cap'n Tom.”

The Bishop looked hurt. “Never mind, Bud, youwouldn't understand. But maybe you will ketch this,listen now.”

“I ain't never hated a man in my life but what Godhas let me live long enough to find out I was in thewrong—dead wrong. There are Jews and Yankees.I useter hate 'em worse'n sin—but now what do youreckon?”

“Bud,” he said cheerily after a pause, “did I evertell you the story of this here Ben Butler here?[Pg 190]”

“Well,” said the old man, brightening up into one ofhis funny moods, “you know my first wife was namedKathleen—Kathleen Galloway when she was a gal, an'she was the pretties' gal in the settlement an' could goall the gaits both saddle an' harness. She was han'som'as a three-year-old an' cu'd out-dance, out-ride, out-singan' out-flirt any other gal that ever come down thepike. When she got her Sunday harness on an' beganto move, she made all the other gals look like they werenailed to the roadside. It's true, she needed a littleweight in front to balance her, an' she had a lot of gingerin her make-up, but she was straight and sound,didn't wear anything but the harness an' never techedherself anywhere nor cross-fired nor hit her knees.”

“O, she was beautiful, Bud, with that silky hair that'ud make a thoroughbred filly's look coarse as sheep'swool, an' two mischief-lovin' eyes an' a heart that wasall gold. Bud—Bud”—there was a huskiness in theold man's voice—“I know I can tell you because it willnever come back to me ag'in, but I love that Kathleennow as I did then. A man may marry many times, buthe can never love but once. Sometimes it's his fustwife, sometimes his secon', an' oftenits the sweethearthe never got—but he loved only one of 'em the rightway, an' up yander, in some other star, where spirits thatare alike meet in one eternal wedlock, they'll be one thereforever.”

“Her daddy, old man Galloway, had a thoroughbredfilly that he named Kathleena for his daughter, an' she[Pg 191]c'ud do anything that the gal left out. An' one daywhen she took the bit in her teeth an' run a quarter intwenty-five seconds, she sot 'em all wild an' lots of fellerstried to buy the filly an' get the old man to throw inthe gal for her keep an' board.”

“I was one of 'em. I was clerkin' for the old man an'boardin' in the house, an' whenever a young feller beginsto board in a house where there is a thoroughbred gal,the nex' thing he knows he'll be—”

“Buckled in the traces,” cried Bud slapping his leggleefully, at this, his first product of brilliancy.

The old man smiled: “'Pon my word, Bud, you'regittin' so smart. I don't know what I'll be doin' withyou—so 'riginal an' smart. Why, you'll quit keepin'an old man's company—like me. I won't be able toentertain you at all. But, as I was sayin', the next thinghe knows, he'll be one of the family.”

“So me an' Kathleen, we soon got spoony an' wantedto marry. Lots of 'em wanted to marry her, but Idrawed the pole an' was the only one she'd take as arunnin' mate. So I went after the old man this a way:I told him I'd buy the filly if he'd give me Kathleen. Inever will forgit what he said: 'They ain't narry oneof 'em for sale, swap or hire, an' I wish you young fellers'ud tend to yo' own business an' let my fillies alone.I'm gwinter bus' the wurl's record wid 'em both—Kathleenathe runnin' record an' Kathleen the gal record, sobe damn to you an' don't pester me no mo'.'”

“Did he saydamn?” asked Bud aghast—that sucha word should ever come from the Bishop.

“He sho' did, Bud. I wouldn't lie about the old man,[Pg 192]now that he's dead. It ain't right to lie about deadpeople—even to make 'em say nice an' proper thingsthey never thought of whilst alive. If we'd stop lyin'about the ungodly dead an' tell the truth about 'em,maybe the livin' 'ud stop tryin' to foller after 'em inthat respect. As it is, every one of 'em knows that nomatter how wicked he lives there'll be a lot o' nice liestold over him after he's gone, an' a monument erected,maybe, to tell how good he was. An' there's anotherlot of half pious folks in the wurl it 'ud help—kind o'sissy pious folks—that jus' do manage to miss all thefun in the world an' jus' are mean enough to ketch hellin the nex'. Get religion, but don't get the sissy kind.So I am for tellin' it about old man Galloway jus' ashe was.

“You orter heard him swear, Bud—it was part ofhis religion. An' wherever he is to-day in that otherworld, he is at it yet, for in that other life, Bud, we'rejust ourselves on a bigger scale than we are in this. Heused to cuss the clerks around the store jus' from habit,an' when I went to work for him he said:

“'Young man, maybe I'll cuss you out some mornin',but don't pay no 'tention to it—it's just a habit I'vegot into, an' the boys all understand it.'

“'Glad you told me,' I said, lookin' him square in theeye—'one confidence deserves another. I've got a nastyhabit of my own, but I hope you won't pay no 'tentionto it, for it's a habit, an' I can't help it. I don't meannothin' by it, an' the boys all understand it, but whena man cusses me I allers knock him down—do it befo'I think'—I said—'jes' a habit I've got.'[Pg 193]

“Well, he never cussed me all the time I was there.My stock went up with the old man an' my chances wasgood to get the gal, if I hadn't made a fool hoss-trade;for with old man Galloway a good hoss-trade coveredall the multitude of sins in a man that charity now doesin religion. In them days a man might have all thelearnin' and virtues an' graces, but if he cudn't tradehosses he was tinklin' brass an' soundin' cymbal in thatcommunity.

“The man that throwed the silk into me was Jud Carpenter—thesame feller that's now the Whipper-in forthese mills. Now, don't be scared,” said the old mansoothingly as Bud's scary eyes looked about him and heclutched the buggy as if he would jump out—“he'llnot pester you now—he's kept away from me ever since.He swapped me a black hoss with a star an' snip,that looked like the genuine thing, but was about theneatest turned gold-brick that was ever put on an unsuspectin'millionaire.

“Well, in the trade he simply robbed me of a finemare I had, that cost me one-an'-a-quarter. Kathleenan' me was already engaged, but when old man Gallowayheard of it, he told me the jig was up an' no suchdouble-barrel idiot as I was shu'd ever leave any of mycolts in the Galloway paddock—that when he lookedover his gran'-chillun's pedigree he didn't wanter see allof 'em crossin' back to the same damned fool! Oh, hewas nasty. He said that my colts was dead sho' to beluffers with wheels in their heads, an' when pinchedthey'd quit, an' when collared they'd lay down. Thatthere was a yaller streak in me that was already pilin'[Pg 194]up coupons on the future for tears and heartaches an',maybe a gallows or two, an' a lot of uncomplimentarytalk of that kind.

“Well, Kathleen cried, an' I wept, an' I'll never forgitthe night she gave me a little good-bye kiss outunder the big oak tree an' told me we'd hafter part.

“The old man maybe sized me up all right as bein' afool, but he missed it on my bein' a quitter. I had nonotion of being fired an' blistered an' turned out to grassthat early in the game. I wrote her a poem every otherday, an' lied between heats, till the po' gal was nearlycrazy, an' when I finally got it into her head that if itwas a busted blood vessel with the old man, it was abusted heart with me, she cried a little mo' an' consentedto run off with me an' take the chances of the villagedoctor cuppin' the old man at the right time.

“The old lady was on my side and helped thingsalong. I had everything fixed even to the moon whichwas shinin' jes' bright enough to carry us to the Justice'swithout a lantern, some three miles away, an' intothe nex' county.

“I'll never forgit how the night looked as I rode overafter her, how the wild-flowers smelt, an' the fresh dewon the leaves. I remember that I even heard a mockin'-birdwake up about midnight as I tied my hoss to a lim'in the orchard nearby, an' slipped aroun' to meet Kathleenat the bars behin' the house. It was a half mileto the house an' I was slippin' through the sugar-mapletrees along the path we'd both walked so often befo'when I saw what I thought was Kathleen comin' towardsme. I ran to meet her. It wa'n't Kathleen, but her[Pg 195]mother—an' she told me to git in a hurry, that the oldman knew all, had locked Kathleen up in the kitchen,turned the brindle dog loose in the yard, an' was hidin'in the woods nigh the barn, with his gun loaded withbird-shot, an' that if I went any further the chances wereI'd not sit down agin for a year. She had slippedaround through the woods just to warn me.

“Of course I wanted to fight an' take her anyway—killthe dog an' the old man, storm the kitchen an' runoff with Kathleen in my arms as they do in novels. Butthe old lady said she didn't want the dog hurt—it beinga valuable coon-dog,—and that I was to go away outof the county an' wait for a better time.

“It mighty nigh broke me up, but I decided the oldlady was right an' I'd go away. But 'long towards theshank of the night, after I had put up my hoss, the moonwas still shinin', an' I cudn't sleep for thinkin' of Kathleen.I stole afoot over to her house just to look at herwindow. The house was all quiet an' even the brindledog was asleep. I threw kisses at her bed-room window,but even then I cudn't go away, so I slipped aroundto the barn and laid down in the hay to think over myhard luck. My heart ached an' burned an' I was nighdead with love.

“I wondered if I'd ever get her, if they'd wean herfrom me, an' give her to the rich little feller whose finefarm j'ined the old man's an' who the old man waswuckin' fur—whether the two wouldn't over-persuadeher whilst I was gone. For I'd made up my mind I'dgo befo' daylight—that there wasn't anything else forme to do.[Pg 196]

“I was layin' in the hay, an' boylike, the tears wasrollin' down. If I c'ud only kiss her han' befo' I left—ifI c'ud only see her face at the winder!

“I must have sobbed out loud, for jus' then I hearda gentle, sympathetic whinny an' a cold, inquisitive littlemuzzle was thrust into my face, as I lay on my backwith my heart nearly busted. It was Kathleena, an' Irubbed my hot face against her cool cheek—for itseemed so human of her to come an' try to console me,an' I put my arms around her neck an' kissed her silkymane an' imagined it was Kathleen's hair.

“Then all at onct a thought came to me, an' I slippedthe bridle an' saddle on her an' led her out at the backdoor, an' I scratched this on a slip of paper an' stuck iton the barn do':

“They say it 'ud done you good to have been therethe nex' mornin' an' heurd the cussin' recurd busted—butme an' the filly was forty miles away. He got out[Pg 197]a warrant for me for hoss-stealin', but the sheriff wasfor me, an' though he hunted high an' low he nevercould find me.”

“Well, it went on for a month, an' I got the oldman's note, sent by the sheriff:

“Oh, Bud, I'll never forgit that home-comin' whenshe met me at the gate an' kissed me an' laughed a littlean' cried a heap, an' we walked in the little parlor an'the preacher made us one.

“Nor of that happy, happy year, when all life seemeda sweet dream now as I look back, an' even the memoryof it keeps me happy. Memory is a land that neverchanges in a world of changes, an' that should show usour soul is immortal, for memory is only the reflectionof our soul.”

His voice grew more tender, and low: “Toward thelast of the year I seed her makin' little things slyly an'hidin' 'em away in the bureau drawer, an' one night sheput away a tiny half-finished little dress with the needlestickin' in the hem—just as she left it—just as herbeautiful hands made the last stitch they ever made onearth....

“O Bud, Bud, out of this blow come the sweetestthought I ever had, an' I know from that day that thislife ain't all, that we'll live agin as sho' as God lives an'[Pg 198]is just—an' no man can doubt that. No—no—Bud,this life ain't all, because it's God's unvarying law tofinish things. That tree there is finished, an' them birds,they are finished, an' that flower by the roadside an'the mountain yonder an' the world an' the stars an' thesun. An' we're mo' than they be, Bud—even the tinies'soul, like Kathleen's little one that jes' opened itseyes an' smiled an' died, when its mammy died. It hadsomething that the trees an' birds an' mountains didn'thave—a soul—an' don't you kno' He'll finish all suchlives up yonder? He'll pay it back a thousandfold forwhat he cuts off here.”

Bud wept because the tears were running down theold man's cheeks. He wanted to say something, but hecould not speak. That queer feeling that came overhim at times and made him silent had come again.

CHAPTER III

AN ANSWER TO PRAYER

Then the old man remembered that he was makingBud suffer with his own sorrow, and whenBud looked at him again the Bishop had wipedhis eyes on the back of his hand and was smiling.

“My, how far off the subject I got! I started out totell you all about Ben Butler, and—and—how hecome in answer to prayer,” said the Bishop solemnly.

The Bishop laughed: “Well I'll swun if he ain'tsound asleep sho' 'nuff.” He laughed again: “Bud,you're gittin' too bright for anything. I jes' don't seehow the old man's gwinter talk to you much longer'thout he goes to school agin.”

“The trouble with the world is it don't pray enough.Prayer puts God into us, Bud—we're all a little partof God, even the worst of us, an' we can make it big orlet it die out accordin' as we pray. If we stop prayin'God jes' dies out in us. Of course God don't answer any[Pg 200]fool prayer, for while we're here we are nothin' but abundle of laws, an' the same unknown law that moves theworld around makes yo' heart beat. But God is behindthe law, an' if you get in harmony with God's laws an'pray, He'll answer them. Christ knowed this, an' therewas some things that even He wouldn't ask for. Whenthe Devil tempted Him to jump off the top of the mountain.He drawed the line right there, for He knowed ifGod saved Him by stoppin' the law of gravitation itmeant the wreck of the world.”

“Bud,” he went on earnestly, “I've lived a longtime an' seed a heap o' things, an' the plaines' thing Iever seed in my life is that two generations of scofferswill breed a coward, an' three of 'em a thief, an' that theworld moves on only in proportion as it's got faith inGod.

“I was ruined after the war—broken—busted—ruined!An' I owed five hundred dollars on the littlehome up yander on the mountain. When I come backhome from the army I didn't have nothin' but one oldmare,—a daughter of that Kathleena I told you about.I knowed I was gone if I lost that little home, an' so onenight I prayed to the Lord about it an' then it come tome as clear as it come to Moses in the burnin' bush.God spoke to me as clear as he did to Moses.”

“How did he say it?” asked Bud, thoroughly frightenedand looking around for a soft spot to jump andrun.

“Oh, never mind that,” went on the Bishop—“Goddon't say things out loud—He jes' brings two an' twotogether an' expects you to add 'em an' make fo'. He[Pg 201]gives you the soil an' the grain an' expects you to plant,assurin' you of rain an' sunshine to make the crop, ifyou'll only wuck. He comes into yo' life with the lawsof life an' death an' takes yo' beloved, an' it's His wayof sayin' to you that this life ain't all. He shows youthe thief an' the liar an' the adulterer all aroun' you,an' if you feel the shock of it an' the hate of it, it'sHis voice tellin' you not to steal an' not to lie an' not tobe impure. You think only of money until you makea bad break an' loose it all. That's His voice tellin'you that money ain't everything in life. He puts opportunitiesbefo' you, an' if you grasp 'em it's His voicetellin' you to prosper an' grow fat in the land. No,He don't speak out, but how clearly an' unerringly Hedoes speak to them that has learned to listen for Hisvoice!

“I rode her across the river a hundred miles up inMarshall County, Tennessee, and mated her to a younghorse named Tom Hal. Every body knows about himnow, but God told me about him fust.

“Then I knowed jes' as well as I am settin' in thisbuggy that that colt was gwinter give me back my littlehome an' a chance in life. Of course, I told everybody'bout it an' they all laughed at me—jes' like they alllaughed at Noah an' Abraham an' Lot an' Moses, an'if I do say it—Jesus Christ. But thank God it didn'tpester me no more'n it did them.”

“Well, the colt come ten years ago—an' I namedhim Ben Butler—cause I hated old Ben Butler so. Hehad my oldest son shot in New Orleans like he did manyother rebel prisoners. But this was God's colt an' God[Pg 202]had told me to love my enemies an' do good to them thatdid wrong to me, an' so I prayed over it an' named himBen Butler, hopin' that God 'ud let me love my enemyfor the love I bore the colt. An' He has.”

“He showed me I was wrong, Bud, to hate folks,an' when I tell you of po' Cap'n Tom an' how good Gen.Butler was to him, you'll say so, too.

“From the very start Ben Butler was a wonder. Hecame with fire in his blood an' speed in his heels.

“An' I trained him. Yes—from the time I wasGen. Travis' overseer I had always trained his hosses.I'm one of them preachers that believes God intended theworld sh'ud have the best hosses, as He intended it sh'udhave the best men an' women. Take all His works,in their fitness an' goodness, an' you'll see He never'lowed for a scrub an' a quitter anywhere. An' so whenHe gave me this tip on Ben Butler's speed I donethe rest.

“God gives us the tips of life, but He expects us tomake them into the dead cinches.

“Oh, they all laughed at us, of course, an' nicknamedthe colt Mister Isaacs, because, like Sarah's son, he camein answer to prayer. An' when in his two-year-old form,I led him out of the stable one cold, icy day, an' he wasfull of play an' r'ared an' fell an' knocked down his hip,they said that 'ud fix Mister Isaacs.

“But it didn't pester me at all. I knowed God haddone bigger things in this world than fixin' a colt's hip,an' it didn't shake my faith. I kept on prayin' an'kept on trainin'.[Pg 203]

“Well, it soon told. His hip was down, but it didn'tstop him from flyin'. As a three-year-old he paced theNashville half mile track in one-one flat, an' thoughthey offered me then an' there a thousand dollars forBen Butler, I told 'em no,—he was God's colt an' Ididn't need but half of that to raise the mortgage, an'he'd do that the first time he turned round in a race.

“I drove him that race myself, pulled down the fivehundred dollar purse, refused all their fine offers forBen Butler, an' me an' him's been missionaryin' roundhere ever since.”

“Great hoss—great!” said Bud, his eyes sparkling,—“allerstold you so! Think I'll get out and hughim.”

This he did while the Bishop sat smiling. But in theembrace Ben Butler planted a fore foot on Bud's greattoe. Bud came back limping and whimpering with pain.

“Now there, Bud,” said the Bishop, consolingly.“God has spoken to you right there.”

“Why, he said through Nature's law an' voice thatyou mustn't hug a hoss if you don't want yo' toestramped on.”

“My wife's wussern a hoss,” said Bud sadly—“shebites. I'm sorry you didn't take that thar thousan' dollarsfor him,” he said, looking at his bleeding toe.

“Bud,” said the old man sternly, “don't say that[Pg 204]no mo'. It mou't make me think you are one of themselfish dogs that thinks money'll do anything. ThenI'd hafter watch you, for I'd know you'd do anythingfor money.”

CHAPTER IV

HOW THE BISHOP FROZE

“Well,” he went on reminiscently, “I'll have tofinish my tale an' tell you how I throwed the cold steelinto Jud Carpenter when I got back. I saw I had it todo, to work back into my daddy-in-law's graces an' savemy reputation.

“Now, Jud had lied to me an' swindled me terribly,when he put off that old no-count hoss on me. Ofcourse, I might have sued him, for a lie is a microbewhich naturally develops into a lawyer's fee. But whileit's a terrible braggart, it's really cowardly an' delicate,an' will die of lock-jaw if you only pick its thumb.

“So I breshed up that old black to split-silk fineness,an' turned him over to Dr. Sykes, a friend of mineliving in the next village. An' I said to the Doctor,'Now remember he is yo' hoss until Jud Carpentercomes an' offers you two hundred dollars for him.'

“'Will he be fool enough to do it?' he asked, as helooked the old counterfeit over.

“I said nothin', laid low an' froze an' it wa'n't longbefo' Jud come 'round as I 'lowed he'd do. He expectedme to kick an' howl; but as I took it all so nice he didn't[Pg 206]understand it. Nine times out of ten the best thingto do when the other feller has robbed you is to freeze.The hunter on the plain knows the value of that, an'that he can freeze an' make a deer walk right up tohim, to find out what he is. Why, a rabbit will do it,if you jump him quick, an' he gets confused an' don'tknow jes' what's up; an' so Jud come as I thort he'ddo. He couldn't stan' it no longer, an' he wanted torub it in. He brought his crowd to enjoy the fun.

“'Oh, Mr. Watts,' he said grinnin', 'how do you likea coal black stump-sucker?'

“'Well,' I said indifferent enough—'I've knowedgood judges of hosses to make a hones' mistake now an'then, an' sell a hoss to a customer with the heaves thinkin'he's a stump-sucker. But it 'ud turn out to be onlythe heaves an' easily cured.'

“'Yes,' I said, 'an' I've knowed better judges ofhosses to sell a nervous hoss for a balker that had beenbalked onct by a rattle head. But in keerful hands I'veseed him git over it,' I said, indifferent like.

“'Yes, Jud,' said I, 'I've knowed real hones' hosstraders to make bad breaks of that kind, now and then—honestintentions an' all that, but bad judgment,'—sezI—'an' I'll cut it short by sayin' that I'll justgive you two an' a half if you'll match that no-count,wind broken black as you tho'rt, that you swapped me.'

“Jud went off thoughtful. In a week or so he comeback. He hung aroun' a while an' said:

“'I was up in the country the other day, an' do youkno' I saw a dead match for yo' black? Only a littleslicker an' better lookin'—same star an' white hind foot.As nigh like him as one black-eyed pea looks like another.'

“'Jud,' I said, 'I never did see two hosses look exactlyalike. You're honestly mistaken.'

“'They ain't a hair's difference,' he said. 'He'sa little slicker than yours—that's all—better groomedthan the one in yo' barn.'

“'I reckon he is,' said I, for I knew very well therewa'n't none in my barn. 'That's strange,' I went on,'but you kno' what I said.'

“'Nuff said,' an' Jud was gone. The next day hecame back leading the black, slicker an' hence no-counterthan ever, if possible.

“'Look at him,' he said proudly—'a dead match foryourn. Jes' han' me that two an' a half an' take him.You now have a team worth a thousan'.'

“'Why, Jud,' I said as softly as I cu'd, for I wasnigh to bustin', an' I had a lot of friends come to see thesho', an' they standin' 'round stickin' their old hats intheir mouths to keep from explodin'—'Why, Jud, mydear friend,' I said, 'ain't you kind o' mistaken aboutthis? I said amatch for the black, an' it peers to melike you've gone an' bought the black hisse'f an' is[Pg 208]tryin' to put him off on me. No—no—my kindfrien', you'll not fin' anything no-count enuff to be hismatch on this terrestrial ball.'

“'Why, that's funny,' I said, 'but it comes in handyall round. If you'd told me that the other day I mighthave told you,' I said—'yes, I might have, but I doubtit—that I'd loaned him to Dr. Sykes an' told him wheneveryou offered him two hundred cash for him to let himgo. Jes' keep him,' sez I, 'till you find his mate, an'I'll take an oath to buy 'em.'”

“But remember, Bud, it's good policy allers to freeze.When you're in doubt—freeze!”

CHAPTER V

THE FLOCK

The Bishop's flock consisted of two distinct classes:Cottontowners and Hillites.

“There's only a fair sprinklin' of Hillitesthat lives nigh about here,” said the Bishop, “an' theycome because it suits them better than the high f'lutin'services in town. When a Christian gits into a churchthat's over his head, he is soon food for devil-fish.”

The line of demarcation, even in the Bishop's smallflock, was easily seen. The Hillites, though lean andlanky, were swarthy, healthy and full of life. “ButCottontown,” said the Bishop, as he looked down on hiscongregation—“Cottontown jes' naturally feels tired.”

It was true. Years in the factory had made themdead, listless, soulless and ambitionless creatures. Tolook into their faces was like looking into the crackedand muddy bottom of a stream which once ran.

Their children were there also—little tots, many ofthem, who worked in the factory because no man norwoman in all the State cared enough for them to makea fight for their childhood.

They were children only in age. Their little formswere not the forms of children, but of diminutive menand women, on whose backs the burden of earning their[Pg 210]living had been laid, ere the frames had acquired thestrength to bear it.

Stunted in mind and body, they were little solemn,pygmy peoples, whom poverty and overwork had cannedup and compressed into concentrated extracts of humanity.The flavor—the juices of childhood—had beenpressed out.

“'N no wonder,” thought the Bishop, as he lookeddown upon them from his crude platform, “for themlittle things works six days every week in the factoryfrom sun-up till dark, an' often into the night, withjes' forty minutes at noon to bolt their food. O God,”he said softly to himself, “You who caused a stream ofwater to spring up in the wilderness that the life of anIshmaelite might be saved, make a stream of sentimentto flow from the heart of the world to save these littlefolks.”

Miss Patsy Butts, whose father, Elder Butts of theHard-shell faith, owned a fertile little valley farm beyondthe mountain, was organist. She was fat and sored-faced that at times she seemed to be oiled.

And now, being marriageable, she looked alwaysabout her with shy, quick, expectant glances.

The other object in life, to Patsy, was to watch heryounger brother, Archie B., and see that he kept outof mischief. And perhaps the commonest remark of herlife was:

This was a great cross for Archie B., who had been[Pg 211]known to say concerning it: “If I ever has any kids,I'll never let the old'uns nuss the young'uns. Theygits into a bossin' kind of a habit that sticks to 'em allthey lives.”

To-day Miss Patsy was radiantly shy and happy,caused by the fact that her fat, honest feet were encasedin a pair of beautiful new shoes, the uppers of whichwere clasped so tightly over her ankles as to cause thefat members to bulge in creases over the tops, as uncomfortableas two Sancho Panzas in armor.

“Side-but'ners,” said Mrs. Butts triumphantly toMrs. O'Hooligan of Cottontown,—“side-but'ners—Igot 'em for her yistiddy—the fust that this town's everseed. La, but it was a job gittin' 'em on Patsy. Ihad to soak her legs in cold water nearly all night, an'then I broke every knittin' needle in the house abut'nin'them side but'ners.

“But fashion is fashion, an' when I send my gal outinto society, I'll send her in style. Patsy Butts,” shewhispered so loud that everybody on her side of thehouse heard her—“when you starts up that ole wheez-in'one gallus organ, go slow or you'll bust them side-but'nerswide open.”

When the Bishop came forward to preach his sermon,or talk to his flock, as he called it, his surplice wouldhave astonished anyone, except those who had seen himthus attired so often. A stranger might have laughed,but he would not have laughed long—the old man'searnestness, sincerity, reverence and devotion were over-shadowing.Its pathos was too deep for fun.

Instead of a clergyman's frock he wore a faded coat of[Pg 212]blue buttoned up to his neck. It had been the coat ofan officer in the artillery, and had evidently passedthrough the Civil War. There was a bullet hole in theshoulder and a sabre cut in the sleeve.

CHAPTER VI

A BISHOP MILITANT

No one had ever heard the Bishop explain his curioussurplice but once, and that had been severalyears before, when the little chapel, by the aidof a concert Miss Alice gave, contributions from the ExcelsiorMill headed by Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley, and othersources had been furnished, and the Bishop came forwardto make his first talk:

“This is the only church of its kind in the worl', Ireckin',” he said. “I've figured it out an' find we'remade up of Baptis', Metherdis', Presbyterian, 'Piscopalian,Cam'elites an' Hard-shells. You've 'lected meBishop, I reckon, 'cause I've jined all of 'em, an' sofar as I know I am the only man in the worl' who everdone that an' lived to tell the tale. An' I'm not ashamedto say it, for I've allers foun' somethin' in each one of'em that's a little better than somethin' in the other.An' if there's any other church that'll teach me somethin'new about Jesus Christ, that puffect Man, I'll jine it.I've never seed a church that had Him in it that wa'n'tgood enough for me.”

“The first company of Christians I jined was theHard-shells. I was young an' a raw recruit an' nachully[Pg 214]fell into the awkward squad. I liked their solar plexusway of goin' at the Devil, an' I liked the way they'dallers deal out a good ration of whiskey, after the fight,to ev'ry true soldier of the Cross—especially if we gotour feet too wet, which we mos' always of'ntimes gen'allydid.”

This brought out visible smiles all down the line, fromthe others at the Hard-shells and their custom of foot-washing.

“But somehow,” went on the old man, “I didn't growin grace—spent too much time in singin' an' takin'toddies to keep off the effect of cold from wet feet. Goodcompany, but I wanted to go higher, so I drapt into theBaptis' rigiment, brave an' hones', but they spen' toomuch time a-campin' in the valley of the still water, an'when on the march, instid of buildin' bridges to crossdry-shod over rivers an' cricks, they plunge in with theirguns stropped to their backs, their powder tied up intheir socks in their hats, their shoes tied 'round theirnecks an' their butcher-knife in their teeth. After theylan' they seem to think it's the greates' thing in theworl' that they've been permitted to wade through waterinstead of crossin' on a log, an' they spen' the balanceof their time marchin' 'roun' an' singin':

“Don't want to fly to heaven—want to swim there.An' if they find too much lan' after they get there,they'll spen' the res' of eternity prayin' for a deluge.[Pg 215]

“Bes' ole relig'un in the worl', tho,—good fighters,too, in the Lord's cause. Ole timey, an' a trifle keerlessabout their accoutrements, an' too much water nachullykeeps their guns rusty an' their powder damp, but if itcomes to a square-up fight agin the cohorts of sin, an'the powder in their pans is too damp for flashin', they'djes' as soon wade in with the butcher-knife an' the meataxe. I nachully out-grow'd 'em, for I seed if the GreatCaptain 'ud command us all to jine armies an' fightthe worl', the Baptis' 'ud never go in, unless it was asea-fight.

“From them to the Cam'elites was easy, for I seedthey was web-footed, too. The only diff'rence betwix'them an' the Baptis' is that they are willin' to jine inwith any other rigiment, provided allers that you letthem 'pint the sappers an' miners an' blaze out the way.Good fellers, tho', an' learned me lots. They beats theworl' for standin' up for each other an' votin' allers forfust place. If there's a promotion in camp they wantit; 'n' when they ain't out a-drillin' their companiesthey're sho' to be in camp 'sputin' with other rigimentsas to how to do it. Good, hones' fighters, tho', andtort me how to use my side arms in a tight place. Scatterin'in some localities, but like the Baptises, wheneveryou find a mill-dam there'll be their camp an' plenty o'corn.

“Lord, how I did enjoy it when I struck the Methodis'rigiment! The others had tort me faith an' zeal, butthese tort me discipline. They are the best drilled lotin the army of the Lord, an' their drill masters run allthe way from wet-nurses to old maids. For furagin'[Pg 216]an' free love for ev'rything they beats the worl', an'they pay mo' 'tenshun to their com'sary departmentthan they do to their ord'nance. They'll march anywhereyou want 'em, swim rivers or build bridges, fighton ship or sho', strong in camp-meetin's or battle songs,an' when they go, they go like clockwuck an' carry theirdead with 'em!

“The only thing they need is an incubator, to keepup their hennery department an' supply their captainswith the yellow legs of the land. Oh, but I love thembig hearted Methodists!

“I foun' the Presbyterian phalanx a pow'ful army,steady, true an' ole-fashioned, their powder strong ofbrimstone an' sulphur an' their ordnance antique.Why, they're usin' the same old mortars John Knoxfired at the Popes, an' the same ole blunderbusses thatscatter wide enough to cover all creation an' is as liableto kick an' kill anything in the rear as in front. Theywon't sleep in tents an' nothin' suits 'em better'n beingcaught in a shower on the march. In battle they knowno fear, for they know no ball is goin' to kill you ifyou're predistined to be hung. In the fight they knowno stragglers an' fallers from grace.

“Ay, but they're brave. I jined 'em Sunday nightafter the battle of Shiloh, when I saw one of their captainsstan' up amid the dead an' dyin' of that bloodyfield, with the shells from the Yankee gun-boats fallin'aroun' him. Standin' there tellin' of God an' His forgiveness,until many a po' dyin' soldier, both frien' an'foe, like the thief on the cross, found peace at the lasthour.[Pg 217]

“Befo' I jined the 'Piscopal corps I didn't think Icu'd stan' 'em—too high furlutin' for my raisin'.They seemed to pay mo' attenshun to their uniforms thantheir ordnance, an' their drum-majors outshine any otherchurches' major generals. An' drillin'? They can gothrough mo' monkey manoeuvers in five minutes thanany other church can in a year. It's drillin'—drillin'with 'em all the time, an' red-tape an' knee breeches, an'when they ain't drillin' they're dancin'. They havesigns an' countersigns, worl' without end, ah-men. An'I've knowed many of them to put all his three months'pay into a Sunday uniform for dress parade.

“Weepons? They've got the fines' in the worl' an'they don't think they can bring down the Devil les' theyshoot at him with a silver bullet. Everything goes byred-tape with 'em, an' the ban'-wagon goes in front.

He paused—his voice trembled, and the good natured,bubbling humor, which had floated down the smoothchannel of his talk, vanished as bubbles do when theyfloat out into the deep pool beyond.

“Here,” he said, lifting his arm, and showing thecoat of the Captain of Artillery—“this is what mademe jine 'em. This is the coat of Cap'n Tom, that savedmy life at the risk of his own an' that was struck downat Franklin; an' no common man of clay, as I be, everbefo' had so God-like a man of marble to pattern after.I saw him in the thick of the fight with his guns parkedan' double-shotted, stop our victorious rush almos' upto the river bank an' saved Grant's army from defeat[Pg 218]an' capture. I was on the other side, an' chief of scoutsfor Albert Sidney Johnston, but I see him now in hisblue Yankee coat, fightin' his guns like the hero thathe was. I was foolish an' rushed in. I was capturedan' in a prison pen, I drawed the black ball with 'levenothers that was sentenced to be shot. It was Cap'n Tomwho came to me in the early dawn of the day of theexecution an' said: 'They shall not shoot you, Bishop—puton my blue coat an' go through the lines. I owemuch to my country—I am giving it all.

“'I owe something to you. They shall not shootyou like a dog. I will tell my colonel what I have doneto-morrow. If they think it is treason they may shootme instead. I have nothing to live for—you, all. Go.'

“We are mortals and must think as mortals. If weconceive of God, we can conceive of Him only as inhuman form. An' I love to think that the blessed an'brave an' sweet Christ looked like Cap'n Tom lookedin the early dawn of that morning when he come an'offered himself,—captain that he was—to be shot, ifneed be, in my place—so gran', so gentle, so brave,so forgivin', so like a captain—so like God.”

His voice had dropped lower and lower still. It diedaway in a sobbing murmur, as a deep stream purls andits echo dies in a deeper eddy.

CHAPTER VII

MARGARET ADAMS

There passed out of the church, after the service,a woman leading a boy of twelve.

He was a handsome lad with a proud and independentway about him. He carried his head up andthere was that calmness that showed good blood. Therewas even a haughtiness which was pathetic, knowing asthe village did the story of his life.

The woman herself was of middle age, with neat, well-fittingclothes, which, in the smallest arrangement ofpattern and make-up, bespoke a natural refinement.

Her's was a sweet face, with dark eyes, and in theirdepths lay the shadow of resignation.

Throughout the sermon she had not taken her eyesoff the old man in the pulpit, and so interested was she,and so earnestly did she drink in all he said, that anyone noticing could tell that, to her, the plain old manin the pulpit was more than a pastor.

“Our virtue is all we po' fo'ks has got—if we losethat we ain't got nothin' lef',” Mrs. Banks of grass-widowfame had once said, and saying it had expressedCottontown's opinion.

Mrs. Banks was very severe when the question of[Pg 220]woman's purity was up. She was the fastest woman atthe loom in all Cottontown. She was quick, with abright, deep-seeing eye. She had been pretty—butnow at forty-five she was angular and coarse-looking,with a sharp tongue.

The Bishop had smiled when he heard her say it, andthen he looked at Margaret Adams sitting in the cornerwith her boy. In saying it, Mrs. Banks had elevatedher nose as she looked in the direction where satthe Magdalene.

The old man smiled, because he of all others knewthe past history of Mrs. Banks, the mistress of theloom.

He replied quietly: “Well, I dun'no—the bestthing that can be said of any of us in general is, thatup to date, it ain't recorded that the Almighty has appintedany one of us, on account of our supreme purity,to act as chief stoner of the Universe. Mighty few ofus, even, has any license to throw pebbles.”

Of all his congregation there was no more devotedmember than Margaret Adams—“an' as far as I kno',”the old man had often said, “if there is an angel onearth, it is that same little woman.”

When she came into church that day, the old mannoticed that even the little Hillites drew away from her.Often they would point at the little boy by her side andmake faces at him. To-day they had carried it toofar when one of them, just out in the church yard,pushed him rudely as he walked proudly by the side ofhis mother, looking straight before him, in his militaryway, and not so much as giving them a glance.[Pg 221]

“No—thoroughbred”—came back, and with it ablow which sent the intruder backward on the grass.

Several old men nodded at him approvingly as hewalked calmly on by the side of his mother.

“I guess you must be a new-comer,” remarked ArchieB. indifferently to the boy who was wiping the bloodfrom his face as he arose from the ground and lookedsillily around. “That boy Jim Adams is my pardneran' I could er tole you what you'd git by meddlin' withhim. He's gone in with his mother now, but him an'me—we're in alliance—we fights for each other. Feellike you got enough?”—and Archie B. got up closerand made motions as if to shed his coat.

To-day, just outside of the church Ben Butler hadbeen hitched up and the Bishop sat in the old buggy.

Bud Billings stood by holding the bit, stroking theold horse's neck and every now and then striking a fierceattitude, saying “Whoa—whoa—suh!”

“Turn him loose, Bud,” said the old man humoringthe slubber—“I've got the reins an' he can't run awaynow. I can't take you home to-day—I'm gwinter takeMargaret, an' you an' Jimmie can come along together.”

No other man could have taken Margaret Adams homeand had any standing left, in Cottontown.[Pg 222]

And soon they were jogging along down the mountainside, toward the cabin where the woman lived andsupported herself and boy by her needle.

To-day Margaret was agitated and excited—morethan the Bishop had ever known her to be. He knew thereason, for clean-shaved and neatly dressed, Jack Brackenpassed her on the road to church that morning, andas they rode along the Bishop told her it was indeedJack whom she had seen, “an' he loves you yet, Margaret,”he said.

She turned pink under her bonnet. How pretty andfresh she looked—thought the Bishop—and whatpurity in a face to have such a name.

“By the grace of God he has reformed,” said the oldman—“and—Margaret—he loves you yet, as I sed.He is going under the name of Jack Smith, the blacksmithhere, an' he'll lead another life—but he loves youyet,” he whispered again.

Then he told her what had happened, knowing thatJack's secret would be safe with her.

When he told her how they had buried little Jack, andof the father's admission that his determination to leadthe life of an outlaw had come when he found that shehad been untrue to him, she was shaken with grief.She could only sit and weep. Not even at the gate,when the old man left her, did she say anything.

Within, she stopped before a picture which hung overthe mantle-piece and looked at it, through eyes that[Pg 223]filled again and again with tears. It was the picture ofa pretty mountain girl with dark eyes and sensual lip.

The boy had come and stood moodily at the front gate.The hot and resentful blood still tinged in his cheek.He looked at his knuckles—they were cut and swollenwhere he had struck the boy who had jeered him. Ithurt him, but he only smiled grimly.

Never before had any one called him a wood's-colt.He had never heard the word before, but he knew what itmeant. For the first time in his life, he hated hismother. He heard her weeping in the little room theycalled home. He merely shut his lips tightly and, inspite of the stoicism that was his by nature, the tearsswelled up in his eyes.

They were hot tears and he could not shake them off.For the first time the wonder and the mystery of it allcame over him. For the first time he felt that he wasnot as other boys,—that there was a meaning in thislonely cabin and the shunned woman he called mother,and the glances, some of pity, some of contempt, whichhe had met all of his life.

As he stood thinking this, Richard Travis rode slowlydown the main road leading from the town to The Gaffs.And this went through the boy successively—not inwords, scarcely—but in feelings:

“What a beautiful horse he is riding—it thrills meto see it—I love it naturally—oh, but to own one!

“What a handsome man he is—and how like a gentlemanhe looks! I like the way he sits his horse. I[Pg 224]like that way he has of not noticing people. He hasgot the same way about him I have got—that I'vealways had—that I love—a way that shows me I'mnot afraid, and that I have got nerve and bravery.

“He sits that horse just as I would sit him—hishead—his face—the way that foot slopes to the stirrup—whythat's me—”

He stopped—he turned pale—he trembled withpride and rage. Then he turned and walked into theroom where Margaret Adams sat. She held out herarms to him pleadingly.

But he did not notice her, and never before had sheseen such a look on his face as he said calmly:

Margaret Adams had already seen. She turned whitewith a hidden shame as she said:

“No one,” he shouted fiercely—“by God”—shehad never before heard him swear—“I tell you no one—onmy honor as a Travis—no one! It has come tome of itself—I know it—I feel it.”

He was too excited to talk. He walked up and downthe little room, his proud head lifted and his eyes ablaze.

“I know now why I love honesty, why I despise thosecommon things beneath me—why I am not afraid—whyI struck that boy as I did this morning—why—”he walked into the little shed room that was his own andcame back with a long single barrel pistol in his handand fondled it lovingly—“why all my life I havebeen able to shoot this as I have[Pg 225]—”

He held in his hand a long, single barrel, rifle-boredduelling pistol—of the type used by gentlemen at thebeginning of the century. Where he had got it she didnot know, but always it had been his plaything.

“O Jimmie—you would not—” exclaimed thewoman rising and reaching for it.

“Tush—” he said bitterly—“tush—that's the wayRichard Travis talks, ain't it? Does not my very voicesound like his? No—but I expect you now, mother”—hesaid it softly—“tell me—tell me all about it.”

He looked at her cynically—then bitterly. A dangerousflash leaped into his eyes.

“Then, by God,” he cried fiercely, “this moment willI walk over to his house with this pistol in my hand andI will ask him. If he fails to tell me—damn him—Idare him—”

“Promise me that if I tell you all—all, Jimmy, whenyou are fifteen—promise me—will you be patient now—withpoor mother, who loves you so?” And shekissed him fondly again and again.

“I'll promise, mother,” he said simply, and walkedback into his little room.

CHAPTER VIII

HARD-SHELL SUNDAY

“This bein' Hard-shell Sunday,” said the Bishopthat afternoon when his congregation met,“cattle of that faith will come up to the frontrack for fodder. Elder Butts will he'p me conduct theseexercises.”

“It's been so long sence I've been in a Hard-shelllodge, I may be a little rusty on the grip an' pass word,but I'm a member in good standin' if I am rusty.”

There was some laughing at this, from the other members,and after the Hard-shells had come to the frontthe Bishop caught the infection and went on with a slywink at the others.

“The fact is, I've sometimes been mighty sorry Ijined any other lodge; for makin' honorable exception,the other churches don't know the diff'r'nce betwixttwenty-year-old Lincoln County an' Michigan pine-top.

“The Hard-shells was the fust church I jined, as Ised. I hadn't sampled none of the others”—he whisperedaside—“an' I didn't know there was any betterlicker in the jug. But the Baptists is a little riper, thePresbyterians is much mellower, an' compared to all ofthem the 'Piscopalians rises to the excellence of syllabuban' champagne.

“A hones' dram tuck now an' then, prayerfully, is[Pg 227]a good thing for any religion. I've knowed many aman to take a dram jes' in time to keep him out of adivorce court. An' I've never knowed it to do anybodyno harm but old elder Shotts of Clay County. An' efhe'd a stuck to it straight he'd abeen all right now. Butone of these old-time Virginia gentlemen stopped withhim all night onct, an' tor't the old man how to makea mint julip; an' when I went down the next year tohold services his wife told me the good old man had beengathered to his fathers. 'He was all right' she 'lowed,'till a little feller from Virginia came along an' tort 'imter mix greens in his licker, an' then he jes drunk hisselfto death.'

“There's another thing I like about two of thechurches I'm in—the Hard-shells an' the Presbyterians—an'that is special Providence. If I didn't believein special Providence I'd lose my faith in God.

“My father tuck care of me when I was a babe, an'we're all babes in God's sight.

“The night befo' the battle of Shiloh, I preached tosome of our po' boys the last sermon that many of 'emever heard. An' I told 'em not to dodge the nex' day,but to stan' up an' 'quit themselves like men, for ever'shell an' ball would hit where God intended it shouldhit.

“In the battle nex' day I was chaplain no longer,but chief of scouts, an' on the firin' line where it washot enough. In the hottest part of it General Johnstonrid up, an' when he saw our exposed position he told usto hold the line, but to lay down for shelter. A big tree[Pg 228]was nigh me an' I got behin' it. The Gineral seed mean' he smiled an' sed:

“'Oh, Bishop,'”—his voice fell to a proud and tendertone—“did you know it was Gineral Johnston thatfust named me the Bishop?”

“'Oh, Bishop,' he said, 'I can see you puttin' a treebetwixt yo'se'f an' special Providence.' 'Yes, Gineral,'I sed, 'an' I looks on it as a very special Providence jus'at this time.'

“Our lives an' the destiny of our course is fixed asfirmly as the laws that wheel the planets. Why, I haveknowed men to try to hew out their own destiny an'they'd make it look like a gum-log hewed out with abroad axe, until God would run the rip-saw of Hispurpose into them, an' square them out an' smooth themover an' polish them into pillars for His Temple.

“What is, was goin' to be; an' the things that's gotto come to us has already happened in God's mind.

“I've knowed poor an' unpretentious, God-fearin'men an' women to put out their hands to build shantiesfor their humble lives, an' God would turn them intocastles of character an' temples of truth for all time.

It was a long prayer and was proceeding smoothly,until, in its midst, from the front row, Archie B.'shead bobbed cautiously up. Keeping one eye on hisfather, the praying Elder, he went through a pantomimefor the benefit of the young Hillites around him, who,like himself, had had enough of prayer. Before comingto the meeting he had cut from a black sheep's skin a[Pg 229]gorgeous set of whiskers and a huge mustache. Thesenow adorned his face.

There was a convulsive snicker among the young Hillitesbehind him. The Elder opened one eye to see whatit meant. They were natural children, whose childhoodhad not been dwarfed in a cotton mill, and it was exceedinglyfunny to them.

But the young Cottontowners laughed not. Theylooked on in stoical wonder at the presumption of theyoung Hillites who dared to do such a deed.

Humor had never been known to them. There is nohumor in the all-day buzz of the cotton factory; andfun and the fight of life for daily bread do not sleepin the same crib.

Mrs. Butts hastily reached over the bench and yankedArchie B. down. His whiskers were confiscated and ina moment he was on his knees and deeply devotional,while the young Hillites nudged each other, and giggledand the young Cottontowners stared and wondered,and looked to see when Archie B. would be hungup by the thumbs.

The Bishop was reading the afternoon chapter whenthe animal in Archie B. broke out in another spot. Thechapter was where Zacharias climbed into a sycamoretree to see his passing Lord. There was a rattling ofthe stove pipe in one corner.

“Maw,” whispered Miss Butts, “Jes' look at ArchieB.—he's climbin' the stove pipe like Zacharias did thesycamo'.[Pg 230]”

Horror again swept over Cottontown, while the Hillitescackled aloud. The Elder settled it by calmly layingaside his spectacles and starting down the pulpitsteps. But Archie B. guessed his purpose and beforehe had reached the last step he was sitting demurelyby the side of his pious brother, intently engaged inreading the New Testament.

Without his glasses, the Elder never knew one twinfrom the other, but presuming that the studious onewas Ozzie B., he seized the other by the ear, pulled himto the open window and pitched him out on the grass.

It was Ozzie B. of course, and Archie B. turned cautiouslyaround to the Hillites behind, after the Elder hadgone hack to his chapter, and whispered:

Elder Butts' legs were brackets, or more properlyparentheses, and as he preached and thundered and gesticulatedand whined and sang his sermon, he forgot allearthly things.

Knowing this, Archie B. would crawl up behind hisfather and thrusting his head in between his legs, wherethe brackets were most pronounced, would emphasize allthat was said with wry grimaces and gestures.

No language can fittingly describe the way ElderButts delivered his discourse. The sentences werewhined, howled or sung, ending always in the vocal expletive—“ah—ah.[Pg 231]”

When the elder had finished and sat down, Archie B.was sitting demurely on the platform steps.

Then the latest Scruggs baby was brought forward tobe baptised. There were already ten in the family.

The Bishop took the infant tenderly and said: “SisterScruggs, which church shall I put him into?”

The Bishop looked the red-headed young candidateover solemnly. There was a howl of protest from thelusty Scruggs.

“He's a Cam'elite,” said the Bishop dryly—“readyto dispute a'ready”—here the young Scruggs sentout a kick which caught the Bishop in the mouth.

“With Baptis' propensities,” added the Bishop.“Fetch the baptismal fount.”

“Please, pap,” said little Appomattox Watts fromthe front bench, “but Archie B. has drunk up all thebaptismal water endurin' the first prayer.”

“I had to,” spoke up Archie B., from the platformsteps—“I et dried mackerel for breakfas'.”

CHAPTER IX

THE RETURN

It was Sunday and Jack Bracken had been out all theafternoon, hunting for Cap'n Tom—as he hadbeen in the morning, when not at church. Hitchingup the old horse, the Bishop started out to hunt also.

He did not go far on the road toward Westmoreland,for as Ben Butler plodded sleepily along, he almost ranover a crowd of boys in the public road, teasing whatthey took to be a tramp, because of his unkempt beard,his tattered clothes, and his old army cap.

They had angered the man and with many gestures hewas endeavoring to expostulate with his tormentors, atthe same time attempting imprecations which could notbe uttered and ended in a low pitiful sound. He shookhis fist at them—he made violent gestures, but from hismouth came only a guttural sound which had no meaning.

At a word from the Bishop his tormentors vanished,and when he pulled up before the uncouth figure he foundhim to be a man not yet in his prime, with an open face,now blank and expressionless, overgrown with a black,tangled, and untrimmed beard.

But at a second look the Bishop started. It was theman's eyes which startled him. There was in them[Pg 233]something so familiar and yet so unknown that theBishop had to study a while before he could remember.

And from that moment the homeless and dementedtramp had a warm place in the old man's heart.

The Bishop watched him closely. His tattered caphad fallen off, showing a shock of heavy, uncut hair,streaked prematurely with gray.

The man, flushed and angered, still gesticulated andmuttered to himself. But at the sound of the Bishop'svoice, for a moment there flashed into his eyes almostthe saneness of returned reason. His anger vanished.A kindly smile spread over his face. He came towardthe Bishop pleadingly—holding out both hands andstriving to speak. Climbing into the buggy, he sat downby the old man's side, quite happy and satisfied—andas a little child.

The man shook his head. He pointed to his headand looked meaningly at the Bishop.

He looked at the Bishop inquisitively, and for a moment,only, the same look—almost of intelligence—shonein his eyes. Slowly and with much difficulty—ay,even as if he were spelling it out, he said:

The old man turned quickly. Then he paled tremblinglyto his very forehead. The word itself—the[Pg 234]sound of that voice sent the blood rushing to his heart.

“Alice?—and what does he mean? An' his voicean' his eyes—Alice—my God—it's Cap'n Tom!”

Tenderly, calmly he pulled the cap from off thestrange being's head and felt amid the unkempt locks.But his hands trembled so he could scarcely control them,and the sight of the poor, broken, half demented thingbefore him—so satisfied and happy that he had founda voice he knew—this creature, the brave, the chivalrous,the heroic Captain Tom! He could scarcely seefor the tears which ran down his cheeks.

But as he felt, in the depth of his shock of hair, hisfinger slipped into an ugly scar, sinking into a cup-shapedhollow fracture which gleamed in his hair.

The man smiled reassuringly and slipped his hand, asa child might, into that of the old man.

“A-l-i-c-e”—he slowly and stutteringly pronouncedagain, as he pointed down the road toward Westmoreland.

“My God,” said the Bishop as he wiped away the tearson the back of his hand—“my God, but that blow hasspiled God's noblest gentleman.” Then there rushedover him a wave of self-reproach as he raised his headheavenward and said:

“Almighty Father, forgive me! Only this morningI doubted You; and now, now, You have sent me po'Cap'n Tom!”

There was the sound of some one riding, and as theBishop turned Ben Butler around Alice Westmore rodeup, sitting her saddle mare with that natural gracewhich comes only when the horse and rider have beenfriends long enough to become as one. Richard Travisrode with her.

The Bishop paled again: “My God,” he muttered—“butshe mustn't know this is Cap'n Tom! I'd ruthershe'd think he's dead—to remember him only as sheknowed him last.”

The man's eyes were riveted on her—they seemed todevour her as she rode up, a picture of grace and beauty,sitting her cantering mare with the ease of long yearsof riding. She smiled and nodded brightly at theBishop, as she cantered past, but scarcely glanced at theman beside him.

He glanced at the man as he spoke, and then gallopedon without turning his head.

“Alice!—Alice!”—whispered the man, holding outhis hands pleadingly, in the way he had held them whenhe first saw the Bishop. “Alice!”—but she disappearedbehind a turn in the road. She had not noticedhim.

“We'll go home, Cap'n Tom—you'll want for nothin'whilst I live. An' who knows—ay, Cap'n Tom, who[Pg 236]knows but maybe God has sent you here to-day to beginthe unraveling of the only injustice I've ever knowedHim to let go so long. It 'ud be so easy for Him—He'sdone bigger things than jes' to straighten out littletangles like that. Cap'n Tom! Cap'n Tom!” hesaid excitedly—“God'll do it—God'll do it—for Heis just!”

As he turned to go a negro came up hurriedly: “Iwas fetchin' him to you, Marse Hillard—been lookin'for yo' home all day. I had gone to the spring forwater an' 'lowed I'd be back in a minute.”

“Why, it's Eph,” said the Bishop. “Come on to myhome, Eph, we'll take keer of Cap'n Tom.”

It was Sunday night. They had eaten their supper,and the old man was taking his smoke before going tobed. Shiloh, as usual, had climbed up into his lap andlay looking at the distant line of trees that girdled themountain side. There was a flush on her cheeks anda brightness in her eyes which the old man had noticedfor several weeks.

Shiloh was his pet—his baby. All the affection ofhis strong nature found its outlet in this little soul—thismotherless little waif, who likewise found in the oldman that rare comradeship of extremes—the inexplicablelaw of the physical world which brings the snow-flowerin winter. The one real serious quarrel theold man had had with his stubborn and ignorant old wifehad been when Shiloh was sent to the factory. But itwas always starvation times with them; and whenaroused, the temper and tongue of Mrs. Watts was morethan the peaceful old man could stand up against. And[Pg 237]as there were a dozen other tots of her age in the factory,he had been forced to acquiesce.

Long after all others had retired—long after theevening star had arisen, and now, high overhead, lookeddown through the chinks in the roof of the cabin on themountain side, saying it was midnight and past, the patientold man sat with Shiloh on his lap, watching herquick, restless breathing, and fearing to put her to bed,lest he might awaken her.

He put her in bed at last and then slipped into CaptainTom's cabin before he himself lay down.

To his surprise he was up and reading an old dictionary—studyingand puzzling over the words. Itwas the only book except the Bible the Bishop had inhis cabin, and this book proved to be Captain Tom'ssolace.

After that, day after day, he would sit out under theoak tree by his cabin intently reading the dictionary.

Eph, his body servant, slept on the floor by his side,and Jack Bracken sat near him like a sturdy mastiffguarding a child. Sympathy, pity—were written inthe outlaw's face, as he looked at the once splendid manhoodshorn of its strength, and from that day JackBracken showered on Captain Tom all the affection ofhis generous soul—all that would have gone to littleJack.

“Put up yo' novel, Cap'n Tom,” said the old mancheerily, when he went in, “an' let's have prayers.”

The sound of the old man's voice was soothing to[Pg 238]Captain Tom. Quickly the book was closed and downon their knees went the three men.

“Almighty God,” prayed the old man—“me an'Cap'n Tom an' Jack Bracken here, we thank You forbein' so much kinder to us than we deserves. One ofus, lost to his friends, is brought back home; one of us,lost in wickedness but yestiddy, is redeemed to-day; an'me that doubted You only yestiddy, to me You havefotcht Cap'n Tom back, a reproach for my doubts an'my disbelief, lame in his head, it is true, but You'vefotcht him back where I can keer for him an' nuss him.An' I hope You'll see fit, Almighty God, You who madethe worl' an' holds it in the hollow of Yo' han', You, whoraised up the dead Christ, to give po' Cap'n Tom backhis reason, that he may fulfill the things in life ordainedby You that he should fulfill since the beginning ofthings.

“An' hold Jack Bracken to the mark, Almighty God,—lethim toe the line an' shoot, hereafter, only forgood. An' guide me, for I need it—me that in spiteof all You've done for me, doubted You but yestiddy.Amen.”

It was a simple, homely prayer, but it comforted evenCaptain Tom, and when Jack Bracken put him to bedthat night, even the outlaw felt that the morning of anew era would awaken them.

CHAPTER X

THE SWAN-SONG OF THE CREPE-MYRTLE

It was twilight when Mrs. Westmore heard the clatterof horses' hoofs up the gravelled roadway, and tworiders cantered up.

Richard Travis sat his saddle horse in the slightlystooping way of the old fox-hunter—not the mostgraceful seat, but the most natural and comfortable forhard riding. Alice galloped ahead—her fine squareshoulders and delicate but graceful bust silhouettedagainst the western sky in the fading light.

Mrs. Westmore sat on the veranda and watched themcanter up. She thought how handsome they were, andhow well they would look always together.

“Did you think we were never coming back? Richard'snew mare rides so delightfully that we rode fartherthan we intended. Oh, but she canters beautifully!”

She sat on the arm of her mother's chair, and bentover and kissed her cheek. The mother looked up tosee her finely turned profile outlined in a pale pink flushof western sky which glowed behind her. Her cheekswere of the same tinge as the sky. They glowed withthe flush of the gallop, and her eyes were bright withthe happiness of it. She sat telling of the new mare's[Pg 240]wonderfully correct saddle gaits, flipping her unglovedhand with the gauntlet she had just pulled off.

“Glad to see you, Cousin Alethea,” he said, as shearose and advanced gracefully to meet him—“no, no—don'trise,” he added in his half jolly, half commandingway. “You've met me before and I'm not such a bigman as I seem.” He laughed: “Do you rememberGiant Jim, the big negro Grandfather used to have tooversee his hands on the lower place? Jim, you know,in consideration of his elevation, was granted severalprivileges not allowed the others. Among them was theprivilege of getting drunk every Saturday night. Thenit was he would stalk and brag among those he ruledwhile they looked at him in awe and reverence. But hehad the touch of the philosopher in him and would finallysay: 'Come, touch me, boys; come, look at me; come,feel me—I'm nothin' but a common man, although Iappear so big.'”

Mrs. Westmore laughed in her mechanical way, butall the while she was looking at Alice, who was watchingthe mare as she was led off.

Travis caught her eye and winked mischievously ashe added: “Now, Cousin Alethea, you must promiseme to make Alice ride her whenever she needs a tonic—everyday, if necessary. I have bought her for Alice,and she must get the benefit of her before it grows toocold.”

He turned to Alice Westmore: “You have only totell me which days—if I am too busy to go with you—Jimwill bring her over.[Pg 241]”

She smiled: “You are too kind, Richard, alwaysthinking of my pleasure. A ride like this once a weekis tonic enough.”

She went into the house to change her habit. Herbrother Clay, who had been sitting on the far end ofthe porch unobserved, arose and, without noticing Travisas he passed, walked into the house.

“I cannot imagine,” said Mrs. Westmore apologetically,“what is the matter with Clay to-day.”

“He has neglected his geological specimens all day,nor has he ever been near his laboratory—he has oneroom he calls his laboratory, you know. To-night he ismoody and troubled.”

When Travis left it was still early and Alice walkedwith him to the big gate. The moon shone dimly andthe cool, pure light lay over everything like the first mistof frost in November. Beyond, in the field, where itstruck into the open cotton bolls, it turned them intoDecember snow-banks.

Travis led his saddle horse, and as they walked to thegate, the sweet and scarcely perceptible odor of the crepe-myrtlefloated out on the open air.

The crepe-myrtle has a way of surprising us now andthen, and often after a wet fall, it gives us the swan-songof a bloom, ere its delicate blossoms, touched todeath by frost, close forever their scalloped pink eyes,on the rare summer of a life as spiritual as the sweet softgulf winds which brought it to life.

Was it symbolic to-night,—the swan-song of the ro[Pg 242]manceof Alice Westmore's life, begun under those verytrees so many summers ago?

They stopped at the gate. Richard Travis lit a cigarbefore mounting his horse. He seemed at times to-nightrestless, yet always determined.

She had never seen him so nearly preoccupied as hehad been once or twice to-night.

“Do you not think?” he asked, after a while as theystood by the gate, “that I should have a sweet answersoon?”

Her eyes fell. The death song of the crepe-myrtle,aroused by a south wind suddenly awakened, smote herpainfully.

“How it was—Alice. But think—life is a practical—aserious thing. We all have had our romances.They are the heritage of dreaming youth. We outlivethem—it is best that we should. Our spiritual life followsthe law of all other life, and spiritually we are notthe same this year that we were last. Nor will we be thenext. It is always change—change—even as the bodychanges. Environment has more to do with what weare, what we think and feel—than anything else. Ifyou will marry me you will soon love me—it is the lawof love to beget love. You will forget all the lesserloves in the great love of your life. Do you not know it,feel it, Sweet?”

She looked at him surprised. Never before had heused any term of endearment to her. There was a hard,still and subtle yet determined light in his eyes.

“See,” he said, taking from his vest pocket a magnificentring set in an exquisite old setting—inheritedfrom his grandmother, and it had been her engagementring. “See, Alice, let me put this on to-night.”

He took her hand—it thrilled him as he had neverbeen thrilled before. This impure man, who had madethe winning of women a plaything, trembled with thefear of it as he took in his own the hand so pure thatnot even his touch could awaken sensuality in it. Theodor of her beautiful hair floated up to him as he bentover. A wave of hot passion swept over him—for withhim love was passion—and his reason, for a moment,was swept from its seat. Then almost beside himselffor love of this woman, so different from any he had everknown, he opened his arms to fold her in one overpowering,conquering embrace.

It was but a second and more a habit than thought—hewho had never before hesitated to do it.

She stepped back and the hot blood mounted to hercheek. Her eyes shone like outraged stars, dreamingearthward on a sleeping past, unwarningly obscured bya passing cloud, and then flashing out into the night,more brightly from the contrast.

She did not speak and he crunched under his feet,purposely, the turf he was standing on, and so carryingout, naturally, the gesture of clasping the air, in establishinghis balance—as if it was an accident.

“Alice—Alice!” he exclaimed. “I love you—love[Pg 244]you—I must have you in my life! Can you not wearthis now? See!”

He tried to place it on her finger. He held the smallbeautiful hand in his own. Then it suddenly withdrewitself and left him holding his ring and looking wonderinglyat her.

She had thrown back her head, and, half turned, waslooking toward the crepe-myrtle tree from which thefaint odor came.

“Soon?” he repeated as he rose in the stirrup—“soon—andto claim you always, Alice.”

He rode off and left her standing with her head stillthrown back, her thoughtful face drinking in the odorof the crepe-myrtle.

Travis did not understand, for no crepe-myrtle hadever come into his life. It could not come. With himall life had been a passion flower, with the rank, strongodor of the sensuous, wild honeysuckle, which must climbever upon something else, in order to open and throwoff the rank, brazen perfume from its yellow and streakedand variegated blossoms.

And how common and vulgar and all-surfeiting it is,loading the air around it with its sickening imitation ofsweetness, so that even the bees stagger as they passthrough it and disdain to stop and shovel, for the mereasking, its musky and illicit honey.

But, O mystic odor of the crepe-myrtle—O love[Pg 245]which never dies—how differently it grows and livesand blooms!

In color, constant—a deep pink. Not enough ofred to suggest the sensual, nor yet lacking in it whenthe full moment of ripeness comes. How delicately pinkit is, and yet how unfadingly it stands the summer's sun,the hot air, the drought! How quickly it responds tothe Autumn showers, and long after the honeysucklehas died, and the bees have forgotten its rank memory,this beautiful creature of love blooms in the very lap ofWinter.

The yellow lips of the honeysuckle are thick and sensual;but the beautiful petals of this cluster of love-cells,all so daintily transparent, hanging in pink clustersof loveliness with scalloped lips of purity, that eventhe sunbeam sends a photograph of his heart throughthem and every moonbeam writes in it the romance of itslife. And the skies all day long, reflecting in its heart,tells to the cool green leaves that shadow it the story ofits life, and it catches and holds the sympathy of thetiniest zephyr, from the way it flutters to the patter oftheir little feet.

All things of Nature love it—the clouds, the winds,the very stars, and sun, because love—undying love—isthe soul of God, its Maker.

The rose is red in the rich passion of love, the lily ispale in the poverty of it; but the crepe-myrtle is pinkin the constancy of it.

O bloom of the crepe-myrtle! And none but a loverever smelled it—none but a lover ever knew![Pg 246]

She ran up the gentle slope to the old-fashioned gardenand threw herself under the tree from whence thedying odor came. She fell on her knees—the moonlightover her in fleckings of purification. She clungto the scaly weather-beaten stem of the tree as she wouldhave pressed a sister to her breast. Her arms werearound it—she knew it—it's very bark.

“O Tom—Tom—why—why did you make melove you here and then leave me forever with only thememory of it?”

The blood leaped and then pricked her like sharp-pointedicicles, and they all seemed to freeze around andprick around her heart. She could not breathe.... Herhead reeled.... The crepe-myrtle fell on herand smothered her....

When she awoke Mrs. Westmore sat by her side andwas holding her head while her brother was rubbing herarms.

“You must be ill, darling,” said her mother gently.“I heard you scream. What—”

“It was not that—no, that was not the way it sounded,”she said as they led her into the house.

CHAPTER XI

THE CASKET AND THE GHOST

After he returned from Westmoreland,Mammy Charity brought him his cocktail, and tidied uphis room, and beat up the feathers in his pillows and bed—forshe believed in the old-fashioned feather-bed andwould have no other kind in the house.

The old clock in the hall—that had sat there sincelong before he, himself, could remember—struck ten,and then eleven, and then, to his disgust, even twelve.

There is only one excuse for drunkenness, and that issleeplessness. If there is a hell for the intellectual it isnot of fire, as for commoner mortals, but of sleeplessness—thewild staring eyes of an eternity of sleeplessnessfollowing an eon of that midnight mental anguishwhich comes with the birth of thoughts.

But still he slept not, and so at ten he had taken anothertoddy—and still another, and as he felt its lifeand vigor to the ends of his fingers, he quaffed his fourthone; then he smiled and said: “And now I don't careif I never go to sleep!”

He arose and dressed. He tried to recite one of his[Pg 249]favorite poems, and it angered him that his tongueseemed thick.

His head slightly reeled, but in it there galloped athousand beautiful dreams and there were visions ofAlice, and love, and the satisfaction of conquering andthe glory of winning.

He could feel his heart-throbs at the ends of hisfingers. He could see thoughts—beautiful, grandthoughts—long before they reached him,—stalkinglike armed men, helmeted and vizored, stalking forwardinto his mind.

Because, somehow, it ticked every time his heart beat;and he could count his heart-beats in his fingers' ends,and he didn't want to know every time his heart beat.It made him nervous.

It might stop; but it would not stop. And then,somehow, he imagined that his heart was really out inthe yard, down under the hill, and was pumping thewater—as the ram had done for years—through thehouse. It was a queer fancy, and it made him angry becausehe could not throw it off.

He walked down the hall, rudely snatched the clockdoor open, and stopped the big pendulum. Then helaughed sillily.

The moonbeams came in at the stained glass windows,and cast red and yellow and pale green fleckings of lighton the smooth polished floor.[Pg 250]

Things began to come to him in a moral way andmixed in with the uncanniness of it all. He imagined hesaw, off in the big square library across the way, in thevery spot he had seen them lay out his grandfather—Maggie,and she arose suddenly from out of his grandfather'scasket and beckoned to him with—

It was so real, he walked to the spot and put his handson the black mohair Davenport. And the form on it,sitting bolt upright, was but the pillow he had nappedon that afternoon.

He walked into Harry's room and lit the lamp there.He smiled when he glanced around the walls. Therewere hunting scenes and actresses in scant clothing. Tobaccopipes of all kinds on the tables, and stumps of ill-smellingcigarettes, and over the mantel was a crayonpicture of Death shaking the dice of life. Two old cutlassescrossed underneath it.

On his writing desk Travis picked up and read thecopy of the note written to Helen the day before.

“The little yellow cur—to lie down and quit—tothrow her over like that! Damn him—he has a yellowstreak in him and I'll take pleasure in pulling down thepurse for him. Why, she was born for me anyway![Pg 251]That kid, and in love with Helen! Not for The Gaffswould I have him mix up with that drunken set—nor—nor,well, not for The Gaffs to have him quit likethat.”

And yet it was news to him. Wrapped in his ownselfish plans, he had never bothered himself about Harry'saffairs.

But he kept on saying, as if it hurt him: “The littleyellow cur—and he a Travis!” He laughed: “He'sgot another one, I'll bet—got her to-night and by nowis securely engaged. So much the better—for myplans.”

Again he went into the hall and walked to and fro inthe dim light. But the Davenport and the pillow instantlyformed themselves again into Maggie and thecasket, and he turned in disgust to walk into his ownroom.

Above his head over the doorway in the hall, on a pairof splendid antlers—his first trophy of the chase,—restedhis deer gun, a clean piece of Damascus steel andold English walnut, imported years before. The barrelswere forty inches and choked. The small brighthammers rested on the yellow brass caps deep sunk onsteel nippers. They shone through the hammer slit freshand ready for use.

He felt a cold draught of air blow on him and turnedin surprise to find the hall window, which reached to theveranda floor, open; and he could see the stars shiningabove the dark green foliage of the trees on the lawnwithout.

At the same instant there swept over him a nervous[Pg 252]fear, and he reached for his deer gun instinctively. Thenthere arose from the Davenport coffin a slouching unkemptform, the fine bright eyes of which, as the lastrays of the moonlight fell on them, were the eyes of hisdead cousin, Captain Tom, and it held out its handspleadingly to him and tenderly and with much effortsaid:

Travis's heart seemed to freeze tightly. He tried tobreathe—he only gasped—and the corners of hismouth tightened and refused to open. He felt the bloodrush up from around his loins, and leave him paralyzedand weak. In sheer desperation he threw the gun tohis shoulder, and the next instant he would have fired theload into the face of the thing with its voice of the dead,had not something burst on his head with a staggering,overpowering blow, and despite his efforts to stand, hisknees gave way beneath him and it seemed pleasant forhim to lie prone upon the floor....

When he awakened an hour afterwards, he sat up, bewildered.His gun lay beside him, but the window wasclosed securely and bolted. No night air came in. TheDavenport and pillow were there as before. His headached and there was a bruised place over his ear. Hewalked into his own room and lit the lamp.

“I may have fallen and struck my head,” he said,bewildered with the strangeness of it all. “I may have,”he repeated—“but if I didn't see Tom Travis's ghostto-night there is no need to believe one's senses.”

He opened the door and let in two setters which[Pg 253]fawned upon him and licked his hand. All his nervousnessvanished.

“No one knows the comfort of a dog's company,” hesaid, “who does not love a dog?”

“A close shave for you, Cap'n Tom,” he said—“Istruck just in time. I'll not leave you another nightwith the door unlocked.” Then: “But poor fellow—howcan we blame him for wandering off, after all thoseyears, and trying to get back again to his boyhoodhome.”

CHAPTER XII

A MIDNIGHT GUARD

Jack Bracken rolled himself in his blanket onthe cot, placed in the room next to Captain Tom,and prepared to sleep again.

But the excitement of the night had been great; hissudden awakening from sleep, his missing Captain Tom,and finding him in time to prevent a tragedy, hadaroused him thoroughly, and now sleep was far from hiseyes.

And so he lay and thought of his past life, and as itpassed before him it shook him with nervous sleeplessness.

Perhaps it was that, but with it were thoughts also oflittle Jack, and the tears came into the eyes of the big-heartedoutlaw.

He had his plans all arranged—he and the Bishop—andnow as the village blacksmith he would begin the lifeof an honest man.

Respected—how little it means to the man who is,how much to the man who is not.

“Why,” he said to himself—“perhaps after a whilepeople will stop and talk to me an' say as they pass my[Pg 255]shop: 'Good mornin', neighbor, how are you to-day?'Little children—sweet an' innocent little children—comin'from school may stop an' watch the sparks flyfrom my anvil, like they did in the poem I onct read,an' linger aroun' an' talk to me, shy like; maybe, afterawhile I'll get their confidence, so they will learn to loveme, an' call me Uncle Jack—Uncle Jack,” he repeatedsoftly.

“An' I won't be suspectin' people any mo' an' none of'em will be my enemy. I'll not be carryin' pistols an'havin' buckets of gold an' not a friend in the worl'.”

His heart beat fast—he could scarcely wait for themorning to come, so anxious was he to begin the life ofan honest man again. He who had been an outlaw solong, who had not known what it was to know humansympathy and human friendship—it thrilled him witha rich, sweet flood of joy.

Then suddenly a great wave swept over him—a waveof such exquisite joy that he fell on his knees and criedout: “O God, I am a changed man—how happy Iam! jus' to be human agin an' not hounded! How canI thank You—You who have given me this blessedMan the Bishop tells us about—this Christ who reachesout an' takes us by the han' an' lifts us up. O God,if there is divinity given to man, it is given to that manwho can lift up another, as the po' outlaw knows.”

He lay silent and thoughtful. All day and night—sincehe had first seen Margaret, her eyes had hauntedhim. He had not seen her before for many years; butin all that time there had not been a day when he hadnot thought of—loved—her.[Pg 256]

Margaret—her loneliness—the sadness of her life,all haunted him. She lived, he knew, alone, in her cottage—anoutcast from society. He had looked butonce in her eyes and caught the lingering look of appealwhich unconsciously lay there. He knew she loved himyet—it was there as plain as in his own face was writtenthe fact that he loved her. He thought of himself—ofher. Then he said:

“For fifteen years I have robbed—killed—oh, God—killed—howit hurts me now! All the category ofcrime in bitter wickedness I have run. And she—once—andnow an angel—Bishop himself says so.”

“I am a new man—I am a respectable and honestman,”—here he arose on his cot and drew himself up—“Iam Jack Smith—Mr. Jack Smith, the blacksmith,and my word is my bond.”

He slipped out quietly. Once again in the cool night,under the stars which he had learned to love as brothersand whose silent paths across the heavens were to him oldfamiliar footpaths, he felt at ease, and his nervousnessleft him.

He had not intended to speak to Margaret then—forhe thought she was asleep. He wished only to guardher cabin, up among the stunted old field pines—whileshe slept—to see the room he knew she slept in—thelittle window she looked out of every day.

The little cabin was a hallowed spot to him. Somehowhe knew—he felt that whatever might be said—init he knew an angel dwelt. He could not understand—heonly knew.[Pg 257]

There is a moral sense within us that is a greaterteacher than either knowledge or wisdom.

For an hour he stood with his head uncovered watchingthe little cabin where she lived. Everything aboutit was sacred, because Margaret lived there. It waspretty, too, in its neatness and cleanliness, and there wereold-fashioned flowers in the yard and old-fashioned rosesclambered on the rock wall.

He sat down in the path—the little white sanded pathdown which he knew she went every day, and so madesacred by her footsteps.

And that night and many others did the outlaw watchover the lonely cabin on the mountain side. And she,the outcast woman, slept within, unconscious that shewas being protected by the man who had loved her allhis life.

CHAPTER XIII

THE THEFT OF A CHILDHOOD

Mrs. Watts ate, always, by candle-light.The sun, she thought, would be dishonored, were he tofind her home in disorder, her breakfast uncooked, herday's work not ready for her, with his first beams.

For Mrs. Watts did not consider that arising at four,and cooking and sweeping and tidying up the cabin, andquarreling with the Bishop as “a petty old bundle ofbotheration”—and storming around at the children—allby sun-up—this was not work at all.

The children were aroused by her this morning withmore severity than usual. Half frightened they rolledstupidly out of their beds—Appomattox, Atlanta, andShiloh from one, and the boys from another. Thenthey began to put on their clothes in the same listless,dogged, mechanical way they had learned to do everything—learnedit while working all day between thewhirl of the spindle and the buzz of the bobbin.

The sun had not yet risen, and a cold gray mist creptup from the valley, closing high up and around thewood-girdled brow of the mountain as billows arounda rock in the sea. The faint, far-off crowing of cocks[Pg 259]added to the weirdness; for their shrill voices alone brokethrough the silence which came down with the mist.Around the brow of Sand Mountain the vapor made afaint halo—touched as it was by the splendid flush ofthe East.

It was all grand and beautiful enough without, butwithin was the poverty of work, and the two—povertyand work—had already had their effect on the children,except, perhaps, Shiloh. She had not yet been in themill long enough to be automatonized.

Looking out of the window she saw the star setting behindthe mountain, and she thought it slept, by day, ina cavern she knew of there.

“Wouldn't it be fine, Mattox,” she cried, “if we didn'thave to work at the mill to-day an' cu'd run up on themountain an' pick up that star? I seed one fall onctan' I picked it up.”

“I wonder how it would feel to spen' the day in thewoods onct. Archie B. says it's just fine and flowersgrow everywhere. Oh, jes' to be 'quainted with oneJeree—like Archie B. is—an' have him come to yo'winder every mornin' an' say, 'Wake up, Pet! Wakeup, Pet! Wake up, Pet!' An' then hear a little 'unover in another tree say, 'So-s-l-ee-py—So-s-l-ee-py!'”

Her chatter ceased again. Then: “Mattox, did youever see a rabbit? I seen one onct, a settin' up in afence corner an' a spittin' on his han's to wash his face.”

She laughed at the thought of it. But the other children,who had dressed, sat listlessly in their seats, looking[Pg 260]at her with irresponsive eyes, set deep back into tired,lifeless, weazened faces.

Mrs. Watts came in and jerked the chair from underhim and he sat down sprawling. Then he lazily aroseand deliberately spat, between his teeth, into the fireplace.

For breakfast they had big soda biscuits and friedbacon floating in its own grease. There was enough ofit left for the midday lunch. This was put into a tinpail with a tight fitting top. The pail, when opened,smelt of the death and remains of every other soda biscuitthat had ever been laid away within this tightlyclosed mausoleum of tin.

They had scarcely eaten before the shrill scream ofthe mill-whistle called them to their work.

To this child of seven, who had already worked sixmonths in the factory, the scream of the whistle was thecall of a frightful monster, whose black smoke-stack ofa snout, with its blacker breath coming out, and theflaming eyes of the engine glaring through the smoke,completed the picture of a wild beast watching her.Within, the whirr and tremble of shuttle and machinerywere the purr and pulsation of its heart.[Pg 261]

She was a nervous, sensitive child, who imagined farmore than she saw; and the very uncanniness of the darkmisty morning, the silence, broken only by the trembleand roar of the mill, the gaunt shadows of the overtoppingmountain, filled her with childish fears.

Nature can do no more than she is permitted; and theterrible strain of twelve hours' work, every day exceptSunday, for the past six months, where every faculty,from hand and foot to body, eye and brain, must bealert and alive to watch and piece the never-ceasingbreaking of the threads, had already begun to underminethe half-formed framework of that little life.

As she approached the mill she clung to the hand ofAppomattox, and shrinking, kept her sister between herselfand the Big Thing which put the sweet morningair a-flutter around its lair. As she drew near the doorshe almost cried out in affright—her little heart grewtight, her lips were drawn.

“Oh, it can't hurt you, Shiloh,” said her sister pullingher along. “You'll be all right when you get inside.”

There was a snarling clatter and crescendo tremble,ending in an all-drowning roar, as the big door waspushed open for a moment, and Shiloh, quaking, butbrave, was pulled in, giving the tiny spark of her littlelife to add to the Big Thing's fire.

Within, she was reassured; for there was her familiarspinning frame, with its bobbins ready to be set to spinningand whirling; and the room was full of people,many as small as she.

Shiloh was too small to see, to know; but had shelooked to the right as she entered, she had seen a sightwhich would have caused a stone man to flush with pity.It was Byrd Boyle, one of the mill hands who ran aslubbing machine, and he held in his arms (becausethey were too young to walk so far) twins, a boy anda girl. And they looked like half made up dolls leftout on the grass, weather-beaten by summer rains.They were too small to know where their places werein the room, and as their father sat them down, in theirproper places, it took the two together to run one sideof a spinner, and the tiny little workers could scarcelyreach to their whirling bobbins.

To the credit of Richard Travis, this working of childrenunder twelve years of age in the mills was doneover his protest. Not so with Kingsley and his wife,who were experienced mill people from New Englandand knew the harm of it—morally, physically. Travishad even made strict regulations on the subject, only tobe overruled by the combined disapproval of Kingsleyand the directors and, strange to say, of the parents ofthe children themselves. His determination that onlychildren of twelve years and over should work in themill came to naught, more from the opposition of theparents themselves than that of Kingsley. These, toearn a little more for the family, did not hesitate to bringa child of eight to the mill and swear it was twelve.This and the ruling of the directors,—and worse thanall, the lack of any state law on the subject,—hadbrought about the pitiful condition which prevailedthen as now in Southern cotton mills.[Pg 263]

There was no talking inside the mill. Only the BigThing was permitted to talk. No singing—for songscome from the happy heart of labor, unshackled. Nonoise of childhood, though the children were there.They were flung into an arena for a long day's fightagainst a thing of steel and steam, and there was no timefor anything save work, work, work—walk, walk, walk—watch,forever watch,—the interminable flying whirlof spindle and spool.

Early as it was, the children were late, and were soundlyrebuffed by the foreman.

The scolding hurt only Shiloh—it made her trembleand cry. The others were hardened—insensible—andtook it with about the same degree of indifferencewith which caged and starved mice look at the man whopours over their wire traps the hot water which scaldsthem to death.

Spinners are small girls who walk up and down anaisle before a spinning-frame and piece up the threadswhich are forever breaking. There were over a hundredspindles on each side of the frame, each revolving withthe rapidity of an incipient cyclone and snapping everynow and then the delicate white thread that was spunout like spiders' web from the rollers and the cylinders,making a balloon-like gown of cotton thread, whichsettled continuously around the bobbin.

All day long and into the night, they must walk upand down, between these two rows of spinning-frames,[Pg 264]amid the whirling spindles, piecing the broken threadswhich were forever breaking.

It did not require strength, but a certain skill, which,unfortunately, childhood possessed more than the adult.Not power, but dexterity, watchfulness, quickness andthe ability to walk—as children walk—and watch—asage should watch.

No wonder that in a few months the child becomes, notthe flesh and blood of its heredity, but the steel and woodof its environment.

Bull Run and Seven Days were doffers, and confinedto the same set of frames. They followed their sisters,taking off the full bobbins and throwing them into acart and thrusting an empty bobbin into its place. Thisrequires an eye of lightning and a hand with the quicknessof its stroke.

For it must be done between the pulsings of the BigThing's heart—a flash, a snap, a snarl of broken thread—upin the left hand flies the bobbin from its disentanglementof thread and skein, and down over the buzzingpoint of steel spindles settles the empty bobbin, thrustover the spindle by the right.

It is all done with two quick movements—a flash anda jerk of one hand up, and the other down, the eyeriveted to the nicety of a hair's breadth, the stroke downwardgauged to the cup of a thimble, to settle over thepoint of the spindle's end; for the missing of a thread'sbreadth would send a spindle blade through the hand, ortangle and snap a thread which was turning with a thousandrevolutions in a minute.

Snap—bang! Snap—bang! One hundred and[Pg 265]twenty times—Snap—bang! and back again, wentthe deft little workers pushing their cart before them.

It was a steady, lightning, endless track. Their littletrained fingers betook of their surroundings and workedlike fingers of steel. Their legs seemed made of Indiarubber. Their eyes shot out right and left, left andright, looking for the broken threads on the whirlingbobbins as hawks sweep over the marsh grass looking formice, and the steel claws, which swooped down on thebobbins when they found it, made the simile notunsuitable.

Young as she was, Shiloh managed one of these harnessed,fiery lines of dancing witches, pirouetting onboards of hardened oak or hickory. Up and down shewalked—up and down, watching these endless whirlingfigures, her bare fingers pitted against theirs of brass,her bare feet against theirs shod with iron, her little headagainst theirs insensate and unpitying, her little heartagainst theirs of flame which throbbed in the boiler'sbosom and drove its thousand steeds with a whip of fire.

In the bloodiest and cruelest days of the Roman Empire,man was matched against wild beasts. But in theman's hand was the blade of his ancestors and over hisbreast the steel ribs which had helped his people to conquerthe world.

Ay, and the man was a man—a trained gladiator—andhe was nerved by the cheers of thousands of sympathizingspectators.[Pg 266]

And now, centuries after, and in the age of so-calledkindness, comes this battle to be fought over. And thefight, now as then, is for bread and life.

But how cruelly unfair is the fight of to-day, whenthe weak and helpless child is made the gladiator, andthe fight is for bread, and the Beast is of steel andsteam, and is soulless and heartless. Steel—that bywhich the old gladiator conquered—that is the heart ofthe Thing the little one must fight. And the cheers—theglamour of it is lacking, for the little one cannothear even the sound of its own voice—in the roar ofthe thousand-throated Thing which drives the SteelBeast on.

Seven o'clock—eight o'clock—Shiloh's head swam—hershoulders ached, her ears quivered with sensitiveness,and seemed not to catch sounds any more, but sharpand shooting pains. She was dazed already and weak;but still the Steam Thing cheered its steel legions on.

Up and down, up and down she walked, her babythoughts coming to her as through the roar of a Niagara,through pain and sensitiveness, through aches and a dull,never-ending sameness.

Hark, she thought she heard a bird sing in a far off,dreamy way, and for a moment she made mud pies inthe back yard of the hut on the mountain, under theblack-oak in the yard, with the glint of soft sunshineover everything and the murmur of green leaves in thetrees above, as the wind from off the mountain wentthrough them, and the anemone, and bellworts, anddaisies grew beneath and around. Was it a bluebird?[Pg 267]She had never seen but one and it had built its nest in ahole in a hollow tree, the summer before she went intothe mill to work.

She listened again—yes, it did sound something likea bluebird, peeping in a distant far off way, such as shehad heard in the cabin on the mountain before she hadever heard the voice of the Big Thing at the mill. Shelistened, and a wave of disappointment swept over herbaby face; for, listening closely, she found it was an unoiledseparator, that peeped in a bluebird way now andthen, above the staccato of some rusty spindle.

But in the song of that bluebird and the glory of animaginary mud pie, all the disappointment of what shehad missed swept over her.

Ten o'clock—the little fingers throbbed and burned,the tiny legs were stiff and tired, the little head seemedas a block of wood, but still the Steam Thing took nothought of rest.

Eleven o'clock—oh, but to rest awhile! To rest underthe trees in the yard, for the sunshine looked so warmand bright out under the mill-windows, and the memoryof that bluebird's song, though but an imitation, stillechoed in her ear. And those mud pies!—she saw themall around her and in such lovely bits of old brokencrockery and—....

She felt a rude punch in the side. It was Jud Carpenterstanding over her and pointing to where afrowzled broken thread was tangling itself around a separator.She had dreamed but a minute—half a dozenthreads had broken.

It was a rude punch and it hurt her side and fright[Pg 268]enedher. With a snarl and a glare he passed on whileShiloh flew to her bobbin.

This fright made her work the next hour with lessfatigue. But she could not forget the song of the bluebird,and once, when Appomattox looked at her, she wasworking her mouth in a song,—a Sunday School songshe had picked up at the Bishop's church. Appomattoxcould not hear it—no one had a license to hear a songin the Beast Thing's Den—nothing was ever privilegedto sing but it,—but she knew from the way her mouthwas working that Shiloh was singing.

Oh, the instinct of happiness in the human heart! Tosing through noises and aches and tired feet and stunned,blocky heads. To sing with no hope before her and thetheft of her very childhood—ay, her life—going onby the Beast Thing and his men.

Twelve o'clock. The Steam Beast gave a triumphantscream heard above the roar of shuttle and steel. Itwas a loud, defiant, victorious roar which drowned allothers.

Then it purred and paused for breath—purred softerand softer and—slept at last.

The silence now was almost as painful to Shiloh asthe noise had been. The sudden stopping of shuttle andwheel and belt and beam did not stop the noise in herhead. It throbbed and buzzed there in an echoing ache,as if all the previous sounds had been fire-waves andthese the scorched furrows of its touch. Wherever she[Pg 269]turned, the echo of the morning's misery sounded in herears.

They sat in a circle, these five children—and atetheir lunch of cold soda biscuits and fat bacon.

Not a word did they say—not a laugh nor a soundto show they were children,—not even a sigh to showthey were human.

Silently, like wooden things they choked it down andthen—O men and women who love your own little ones—look!

Huddled together on the great, greasy, dirty floor ofthis mill, in all the attitudes of tired-out, exhaustedchildhood, they slept. Shiloh slept bolt upright, herlittle head against the spinning-frame, where all themorning she had chased the bobbins up and down thelong aisle. Appomattox and Atlanta were groupedagainst her. Bull Run slept at her feet and Seven Dayslay, half way over on his bobbin cart, so tired that hewent to sleep as he tried to climb into it.

In other parts of the mill, other little ones slept andeven large girls and boys, after eating, dozed or chatted.Spoolers, weavers, slubbers, warpers, nearly grown butall hard-faced, listless—and many of them slept onshawls and battings of cotton.

They were awakened by the big whistle at twenty minutesto one o'clock. At the same time, Jud Carpenter,the foreman, passed down the aisles and dashed coldwater in the sleeping faces. Half laughingly he did it,but the little ones arose instantly, and with stoopedforms, and tired, cowed eyes, in which the Anglo-Saxon[Pg 270]spirit of resentment had been killed by the Yankee spiritof greed, they looked at the foreman, and then begantheir long six hours' battle with the bobbins.

Three o'clock! The warm afternoon's sun poured onthe low flat tin roof of the mill and warmed the interiorto a temperature which was uncomfortable.

Shiloh grew sleepy—she dragged her stumbling littlefeet along, and had she stopped but a moment, shehad paid the debt that childhood owes to fairy-land.The air was close—stifling. Her shoulders ached—herhead seemed a stuffy thing of wood and wooly lint.

As it was she nodded as she walked, and again thesong of the bluebird peeped dreamily from out the unoiledspindle. She tried to sing to keep awake, andthen there came a strange phantasy to mix with it all,and out of the half-awake world in which she now staggeredalong she caught sight of something which madeher open her eyes and laugh outright.

And oh, so many! And all in a row dressed in matchlessgowns of snowy white. She would count them up toten—as far as she had learned to count.... Butthere were ten,—yes, and many more than ten— ... andjust to think of whole rows of them— ... all there— ... andwaiting for her toreach out and fondle and caress.

A smile lit up her dreaming eyes.Rows upon rowsof dolls.... And not even Appomattox and At[Pg 271]lantahad ever seen so many before; and now how funnythey acted, dancing around and around and bobbing theirquaint bodies and winking and nodding at her....It was Mayday with them and down the long line of spindlesthese cotton dolls were dancing around their MayQueen, and beckoning Shiloh to join them....

It was too cute—too cunning—! they were dancingand drawing her in—they were actually singing— ... hummingand chanting a May song....

Jud Carpenter found her asleep in the greasy aisle,her head resting on her arm, a smile on her little face—ahand clasping a rounded well-threaded doll-like bobbinto her breast.

It is useless to try to speak in a room in which theSteam Beast's voice drowns all other voices. It is uselessto try to awaken one by calling. One might aswell stand under Niagara Falls and whistle to the littlefishes. No other voice can be heard while the SteamBeast speaks.

Shiloh was awakened by a dash of cold water and arough kick from the big boot of that other beast whocalled himself the overseer. He did not intend to jostleher hard, but Shiloh was such a little thing that thekick she got in the side accompanied by the dash ofwater shocked and frightened her instantly to her feet,and with scared eyes and blanched face she darted downto the long line of bobbins, mending the threads.

If, in the great Mystic Unknown,—the Eden of Balance,—therelies no retributive Cause to right the injusticeof that cruel Effect, let us hope there is no Here-[Pg 272]after;that we all die and rot like dogs, who know nojustice; that what little kindness and sweetness and right,man, through his happier dreams, his hopeful, cheerfulidealism, has tried to establish in the world, may nolonger stand as mockery to the Sweet Philosopher wholong ago said: “Suffer the little children to come untome.” ...

They were more dead than alive when, at seven o'clock,the Steam Beast uttered the last volcanic howl which saidthey might go home.

Outside the stars were shining and the cool night airstruck into them with a suddenness which made themshiver. They were children, and so they were thoughtlessand did not know the risk they ran by coming out ofa warm mill, hot and exhausted, into the cool air of anAutumn night. Shiloh was so tired and sleepy thatBull Run and Seven Days had to carry her betweenthem.

Everybody passed out of the mill—a speechless, haggard,over-worked procession. Byrd Boyle, with a faceand form which seemed to belong to a slave age, carriedhis twins in his arms.

Scarcely had the children eaten their supper of biscuitand bacon, augmented with dandelion salad, ere they,too, were asleep—all but Shiloh.

She could not sleep—now that she wanted to—andshe lay in her grandfather's lap with flushed face andhot, over-worked heart. The strain was beginning totell, and the old man grew uneasy, as he watched the[Pg 273]flush on her cheeks and the unusual brightness in hereyes.

“Better give her five draps of tub'bentine an' put herto bed,” said Mrs. Watts as she came by. “She'll befittin' an' good by mornin'.”

It was ten o'clock, and now she lay on the old man'slap asleep from exhaustion. A cricket began chirpingin the fireplace, under a hearth-brick.

Another hour found the old man tired, but still holdingthe sleeping child in his arms:

He was silent a while and thoughtful. Then he lookedup at the shadow of Sand Mountain, falling half waydown the valley in the moonlight.

“The shadow of that mountain across that valley,”he said, “is like the shadow of the greed of gain acrossthe world. An' why should it be? What is it worth?Who is happier for any money more than he needs inlife?”

“Oh, God,” he prayed—“You, who made the world[Pg 274]an' said it might have a childhood—remember what itmeans to have it filched away. It's like stealin' the budfrom the rose-bush, the dew from the grass, hope fromthe heart of man. Take our manhood—O God—itis strong enough to stand it—an' it has been took frommany a strong man who has died with a smile on his lips.Take our old age—O God—for it's jus' a memory ofHas Beens. But let them not steal that from any lifethat makes all the res' of it beautiful with dreams of it.If, by some inscrutable law which we po' things can't seethrough, stealin' in traffic an' trade must go on in theworld, O God, let them steal our purses, but not ourchildhood. Amen.”

CHAPTER XIV

UNCLE DAVE'S WILL

The whistle of the mill had scarcely awakenedCottontown the next morning before ArchieB., hatless and full of excitement, came over tothe Bishop with a message from his mother. No onewas astir but Mrs. Watts, and she was sweeping vigorously.

“Uncle Dave Dickey is dyin' an' maw told me to runover an' tell you to hurry quick if you wanted to see theold man die.”

“Oh, Uncle Dave is dyin', is he? Well, we'll go,Archie B., just as soon as Ben Butler can be hooked up.I've got some more calls to make anyway.”

Ben Butler was ready by the time the children startedfor the mill. Little Shiloh brought up the rear, her tinylegs bravely following the others. Archie B. looked atthem curiously as the small wage-earners filed past himfor work.

“Say, you little mill-birds,” he said, “why don't youchaps come over to see me sometimes an' lem'me showyou things outdoors that's made for boys an' girls?”

“Is they very pretty?” asked Shiloh, stopping andall ears at once. “Oh, tell me 'bout 'em! I am jus'[Pg 276]hungry to see 'em. I've learned the names of three birdsmyself an' I saw a gray squirrel onct.”

“Three birds—shucks!” said Archie B., “I couldsho' you forty, but I'll tell you what's crackin' good funan' it'll test you mor'n knowin' the birds—that's easy.But the hard thing is to find their nests an' then to tellby the eggs what bird it is. That's the cracker-jacktrick.”

Shiloh's eyes opened wide: “Why, do they lay eggs,Archie B.? Real eggs like a hen or a duck?”

Archie B. laughed: “Well, I should say so—an'away up in a tree, an' in the funniest little baskets youever saw. An' some of the eggs is white, an' some blue,and some green, an' some speckled an' oh, so many kind.But I'll tell you a thing right now that'll help you toremember—mighty nigh every bird lays a egg that'smighty nigh like the bird herself. The cat bird's eggsis sorter blue—an' the wood-pecker's is white, like hiswing, an' the thrasher's is mottled like his breast.”

Ben Butler was hitched to the old buggy and theBishop drove up. He had a bunch of wild flowers forShiloh and he gave it with a kiss. “Run along now,Baby, an' I'll fetch you another when I come back.”

They saw her run to catch up with the others andbreathlessly tell them of the wonderful things Archie B.had related. And all through the day, in the dust andthe lint, the thunder and rumble of the Steam Thing'swar, Shiloh saw white and blue and mottled eggs, in tinybaskets, with homes up in the trees where the winds rockedthe cradles when the little birds came; and young asshe was, into her head there crept a thought that some[Pg 277]thingwas wrong in man's management of things whenlittle birds were free and little children must work.

“You'd better fetch her somethin' to eat, instead ofprayin' aroun' with old fools that's always dyin',” calledMrs. Watts to him from the kitchen door where she wasscrubbing the cans.

She watched him drive slowly over the hill: “Thatmeans I had better get a move on me an' go to furagin',”she said to herself.

“Hillard Watts has mistuck me for the Almightymighty nigh all his life. It's about time the blackberrieswas a gittin' ripe anyway.”

The Bishop found the greatest distress at Uncle DaveDickey's. Aunt Sally Dickey, his wife, was weepingon the front porch, while Tilly, Uncle Dave's prettygrown daughter, her calico dress tucked up for the morning'swork, showing feet and ankles that would grace aduchess, was lamenting loudly on the back porch. Acoon dog of uncertain lineage and intellectual development,tuned to the howling pitch, doubtless, by the musicof Tilly's sobs, joined in the chorus.

The Bishop went in sad and subdued, expecting tofind Uncle Davy breathing his last. Instead, he foundhim sitting bolt upright in bed, and sobbing even morelustily than his wife and daughter. He stretched outhis hands pitiably as his old friend went in.

“Most gone”—he sobbed—“Hillard—the oldman is most gone. You've come jus' in time to see yourold friend breathe his las' an' to witness his will,” andhe broke out sobbing afresh, in which Aunt Sally andTilly and the dog, all of whom had followed the Bishopin, joined.

The Bishop took in the situation at a glance. Thenhe broke into a smile that gradually settled all over hiskindly face.

“What—what?” said Uncle Davy between his sobs—“Iain't a dyin', Hillard? Oh, yes, I be. Sally andTilly both say so.”

“Now, look aheah, Davy, it ain't so. I've seed hundredsdie—yes, hundreds—strong men, babes—womenand little tots, strong ones, and weak and frailones, given to tears, but I've never seed one die yetsheddin' a single tear, let alone blubberin' like a calf.It's agin nature. Davy, dyin' men don't weep. It's alwaysall right with 'em. It's the one moment of all theirlives, often, that everything is all right, seein' as theydo, that all life has been a dream—all back of deathjes' a beginnin' to live, an' so they die contented. No—no,Davy, if they've lived right they want to smile, notweep.[Pg 279]”

There was an immediate snuffing and drying of tearsall around. Uncle Davy looked sheepishly at AuntSally, she passed the same look on to Tilly, and Tillypassed it to the coon dog. Here it rested in its birthplace.

“Come to think of it, Hillard,” said Uncle Dave aftera while, “but I believe you are right.”

Tilly came back, and she and Aunt Sally nodded theirheads: “Yes, Hillard, you're right,” went on UncleDavy, “Tilly and Sally both say so.”

“Hillard,—you kno', Hillard—the old man's beenthinkin' he'd go sudden-like a long time.” He raised hiseyes to heaven: “Yes, Lord, thy servant is even ready.”

“Last night I felt a kind o' flutterin' of my heart an'I cudn't breathe good. I thought it was death—death,—Hillard,on the back of his pale horse. Tilly andSally both thought so.”

The Bishop laughed. “That warn't death on theback of a horse, Davy—that was jus' wind on the stomachof an ass.”

This was too much for Uncle Davy—especially whenTilly and Sally made it unanimous by giggling outright.

“Then I sed my will an' Tilly writ it down an', oh,Hillard, I am so anxious to hear you read it. I wantersee how it'ull feel fer a man to have his will read afterhe is dead—an'—an' how his widder takes it,” he[Pg 280]added, glancing at Aunt Sally—“an' his friends. Iwanter heah you read it, Hillard, in that deep organway of yours,—like you read the Old Testament. InthatIn-the-Beginning-God-Created-the-Heaven-an'-the-Earth-Kindervoice! Drap your voice low like a organ,an' let the old man hear it befo' he goes. I fixed it whenI thought I was a-dyin'.”

“All yo' needs,” said the Bishop going to his saddlebags, “is a good straight whiskey. I keep a little—avery, very little bit in my saddle bags, for jes' sech occasionsas these. It's twenty years old,” he said, “an'genuwine old Lincoln County. I keep it only for folksthat's dyin',” he winked, “an' sometimes, Davy, I feelmighty like I'm about to pass away myself.”

He poured out a very small medicine glass of it, shiningand shimmering in the morning light like a bigruby,—and handed it to Uncle Davy.

“You say that's twenty years old, Hillard?” askedUncle Davy as he wiped his mouth on the back of hishand and again held the little glass out entreatingly:

“Hillard, ain't it mighty small for its age—'pearsto me it orter be twins to make it the regulation size.Don't you think so?”

The Bishop gave him another and took one himself,remarking as he did so, “I was pow'ful flustrated when Iheard you was dyin' again, Davy, an' I need it to stiddymy nerves. Now, fetch out yo' will, Davy,” he added.[Pg 281]

As he took it the Bishop adjusted his big spectacles,buttoned up his coat, and drew himself up as he did inthe pulpit. He blew his nose to get a clear sonorousnote:

“I've got a verse of poetry that I allers tunes myvoice up to the occasion with,” he said. “I do it sorterlike a fiddler tunes up his fiddle. It's a great poem an'I'll put it agin anything in the Queen's English for realthunder music an' a sentiment that Shakespeare an' Miltonnor none of 'em cud a writ. It stirs me like our parkof artillery at Shiloh, an' it puts me in tune with thegreat dead of all eternity. It makes me think of Cap'nTom an' Albert Sidney Johnston.”

Uncle Davy sat up solemnly, keenly, expectantly.Tilly and Aunt Sally sat subdued and sad, with that airof solemn importance and respect which might be expectedof a dutiful daughter and bereaved widow onsuch an occasion. It was too solemn for Uncle Davy.He began to whimper again: “I didn't think I would[Pg 282]ever live to see the day when I'd hear my own will readafter I was dead, an' Hillard a-readin' it around myown corpse. It's Tilly's handwrite,” he explained, ashe saw the Bishop scrutinizing the testament closely.“I can't write, as you kno', but I've made my mark atthe end, an' I want you to witness it.”

“'In the name of God, amen: I, Davy Dickey, ofthe County of ——, and State of Alabama, beingof sound mind and retentive memory, but knowing theuncertainty of life and the certainty of death, do herebymake and ordain this—my last will and testamen—'”

Uncle Davy had lain back, his eyes closed, his handsclasped, drinking it all in.

“O, Hillard—Hillard, read it agin—it makes meso happy! It does me so much good. It sounds likethe first chapter of Genesis, an' Daniel Webster's replyto Hayne an' the 19th Psalm all put together.”

“So happy—so happy—” sobbed Uncle Davy, inwhich Aunt Sally and Tilly and the coon dog joined.

“'First,'” read on the Bishop, following closelyTilly's pretty penmanship; “'Concerning that part ofme called the soul or spirit which is immortal, I will itback again to its Maker, leaving it to Him to do as Hepleases with, without asking any impertinent questionsor making any fool requests.'”

The Bishop paused. “That's a good idea, Davy—Givin'it back to its Maker without asking any impert'n'entquestions.”

“'Second,'” read the Bishop, “'I wills to be buried[Pg 283]alongside of Dan'l Tubbs, on the Chestnut Knob, thesame enclosed with a rock wall, forever set aside for mean' Dan'l and running west twenty yards to a blackjack, then east to a cedar stump three rods, then southto a stake twenty yards and thence west back to me an'Dan'l. I wills the fence to be built horse high, bullstrong and pig tight, so as to keep out the Widow Simmon'sold brindle cow; the said cow having pestered usnigh to death in life, I don't want her to worry us backto life after death.

“'Third. All the rest of the place except that occupiedas aforesaid by me an' Dan'l, and consisting oftwenty acres, more or less, I will to go to my dutifulwife, Sally Ann Dickey, providing, of course, that shedo not marry again.'”

“David?” put in Aunt Sallie, promptly, wiping hereyes, “I think that last thing mout be left out.”

“Well, I don't kno',” said Uncle Davy—“you sho'lyain't got no notion of marryin' agin, have you, Sally?”

“No—no—” said Aunt Sallie, thoughtfully, “butthere aint no tellin' what a po' widder mout have to do ifpushed to the wall.”

“Well,” sagely remarked Uncle Davy, “we'll jes' letit stan' as it is. It's like a dose of calomel for disorderof the stomach—if you need it it'll cure you, an' if youdon't it won't hurt you. This thing of old folks fallin'in love ain't nothin' but a disorder of the stomach anyhow.”

Aunt Sally again protested a poor widow was oftenpushed to the wall and had to take advantage of circumstances,but Uncle Davy told the Bishop to read on.[Pg 284]

“'Fourth. I give and bequeath to my devoteddaughter, Tilly, and her husband, Charles C. Biggers,all my personal property, including the crib up in theloft, the razor my grandfather left me, the old mareand her colt, the best bed in the parlor, and—'”

“Not for a will,” he said. “You see this is supposedto happen and be read after you're dead. Yousee Charles has been to see her twice and writ a poem onher eyes.”

The Bishop frowned: “You'll have to watch thatBiggers boy—he is a wild reckless rake an' not inTilly's class in anything.”

“S-h-h—not yet,” said Uncle Davy, “but he'scomin' to it as fast as a lean hound to a meat block.He's got the firs' tech now—silly an' poetic. Aftera while he'll get silly an' desperate, an' jes' 'fo' he killshisse'l Tilly'll fix him all right an' tie him up for life.The good Lord makes every man crazy when he is ripefor matrimony, so he can mate him off befo' he comesto.”

The Bishop shook his head: “I am glad I cameout here to-day—if for nothin' else to warn you to letthat Biggers boy alone. He don't study nothin' but fasthorses an' devilment.”

“I never seed a man have a wuss'r case,” said Aunt[Pg 285]Sally. “Won't Tilly be proud of herse'f as the daughterof Old Judge Biggers? An' me—jes' think of meas the grandmother of Biggerses—the riches' an' fines'family in the land.”

“You forgit, Davy,” said Aunt Sally—“this is yo'will—you'll be dead.”

“I did forgit,” said Uncle Davy sadly—“but I'dsho' love to live an' take one of them little Biggerses onmy knees an' think his gran'pap had bred up to this.Me an' old Judge Biggers—gran'paws of the samekids! Now, you see, Hillard, he met Tilly at a partyan' he tuck her in to supper. The next day he writher a poem, an' I think it's a pretty good start on thegran'pap business.”

The Bishop smiled: “It does look like he loves her,”he added, dryly. “If I was the devil an' wanted toketch a woman I'd write a poem to her every day an' liebetween heats. Love lives on lies.”

“Now, I've ca'culated them things out,” said UncleDavy, “an' it'll be this away: Tilly is as pretty as apeach an' Charlie is gittin' stuck wus'n wus'n every day.By the time I am dead they will be married good an'hard. I am almost gone as it is, the ole man he's liableto drap off any time—yea, Lord, thy servant is readyto go—but I do hope that the good master will let melive long enough to hold one of my Biggers grandboyson my knees.”

“All I've got to say,” said the Bishop, “is jus' towatch yo' son-in-law. Every son-in-law will stan'[Pg 286]watchin' after the ceremony, but yours will stan' it allthe time.”

“'Lastly,'” read the Bishop, “'I wills it that thingsbe left just as they be on the place—no moving aroundof nothing, especially the well, it being eighty foot deep,and with good cool water; and finally I leave anythingelse I've got, mostly my good will, to the tender merciesof the lawyers and courts.'”

The Bishop witnessed it, gave Uncle Davy anothertoddy, and, after again cautioning him to watch youngBiggers closely, rode away.

CHAPTER XV

EDWARD CONWAY

Across the hill the old man rode to Millwood, andas he rode his head was bent forward in troubledthought.

He had heard that Edward Conway had come to thesorest need—even to where he would place his daughtersin the mill. None knew better than Hillard Wattswhat this would mean socially for the granddaughtersof Governor Conway.

Besides, the old preacher had begun to hate the milland its infamous system of child labor with a hatredborn of righteousness. Every month he saw its degradation,its slavery, its death.

He preached, he talked against it. He began to bepointed out as the man who was against the mill. Ominousrumors had come to his ears, and threats. It waswhispered to him that he had better be silent, and someof the people he preached to—some of those who hadchildren in the mill and were supported in their lazinessby the life blood of their little ones—these were hisbitterest enemies.

To-day, the drunken proprietor of Millwood sat in hisaccustomed place on the front balcony, his cob-pipe inhis mouth and ruin all around him.

Like others, he had a great respect for the Bishop—a[Pg 288]man who had been both his own and his father's friend.Often as a lad he had hunted, fished, and trapped withthe preacher-overseer, who lived near his father's plantation.He had broken all of the stubborn colts in theoverseer's care; he had ridden them even in some of theirfiercest, hardest races, and he had felt the thrill of victoryat the wire and known the great pride which comesto one who knows he has the confidence of a brave andhonest man.

To-day, as he saw the Bishop ride up, he thought ofhis boyhood days, and of Tom Travis. How often hadthey gone with the old man hunting and fishing! Howhe reverenced the memory of his gentleness and kindness!

The greatest desire of Hillard Watts had been toreform Edward Conway. He had prayed for him,worked for him. In spite of his drunkenness the oldman believed in him.

“God'll save him yet,” he would say. “I've prayedfor it an' I kno' it—tho' it may be by the crushingof him. Some men repent to God's smile, some to Hisfrown, and some to His fist. I'm afraid it will take ablow to save Ned, po' boy.”

Conway was drunker than usual to-day. Thingsgrew worse daily, and he drank deeper.

It is one of the strangest curses of whiskey that asit daily drags a man down, deeper and deeper, it makeshim believe he must cling to his Red God the closer.[Pg 289]

He met the old overseer cordially, in a half drunkenendeavor to be natural. The old man glanced sadly upat the bloated, boastful face, and thought of the beautifulone it once had been. He thought of the fine, brilliantmind and marveled that with ten years of drunkennessit still retained its strength. And the Bishop rememberedthat in spite of his drinking no one had everaccused Edward Conway of doing a dishonorable thing.“How strong is that man's character rooted for good,”he thought, “when even whiskey cannot undermine it.”

The old man was struck with the developing beauty ofHelen—he had not seen her for a year. Lily huntedin his pockets for candy, as she had always done—andfound it—and Helen—though eighteen and grown,sat thoughtful and sad, on a stool by his side.

“Ned,” he said, as he stroked Helen's hand, “thisgirl looks mo' like her mother every day, an' you knowshe was the handsomest woman that ever was raised inthe Valley.”

Conway took his pipe out of his mouth. He droppedhis head and looked toward the distant blue hills. WhatMemory and Remorse were whispering to him the oldman could only guess. Silently—nodding—he satand looked and spoke not.

“She ain't gwineter be a bit prettier than my littleLil, when she gits grown,” said a voice behind them.

It was Mammy Maria who, as usual, having dressed[Pg 290]the little girl as daintily as she could, stood nearby tosee that no harm befell her.

“Wal, Aunt Maria,” drawled the Bishop. “Whardid you come from? I declar' it looks like ole times tosee you agin'.”

There is something peculiar in this, that those unlettered,having once associated closely with negroes,drop into their dialect when speaking to them. Perhapsit may be explained by some law of language—somerule of euphony, now unknown. The Bishop unconsciouslydid this; and, from dialect alone, one could nottell which was white and which was black.

Aunt Maria had always been very religious, and theBishop arose and shook her hand gravely.

“Mighty po'ly—mighty po'ly”—she sighed. “Itlooks lak the Cedars of Lebanon is dwarfed to the scrubpine. The old time religin' is passin' away, an' I'mall that's lef' of Zion.”

“Yes, you see befo' you all that's lef' of Zion. I'sebeen longin' to see you an' have a talk with you—thinkin'maybe you cud he'p me out. You kno' me andyou is Hard-shells.”

“We 'blieves in repentince an' fallin' from grace, an'backslidin' an' all that,” she went on. “Well, they'velopped them good ole things off one by one an' theydon't 'bleeve in nothin' now but jes' jin'in'. They thinkjes' jin'in' fixes 'em—that it gives 'em a free pass into[Pg 291]the pearly gates. So of all ole Zion Church up at thehill, sah, they've jes' jined an' jined around, fust onechurch an' then another, till of all the ole Zion Churchthat me an' you loved so much, they ain't none lef' butParson Shadrack, the preacher, sister Tilly, an' me—Wewus Zion.”

“Wewus,” said Aunt Maria, sadly—“but now thereain't but one lef'.I'm Zion. It's t'arrable, but it'strue. As it wus in the days of Lot, so it is to-day inSodom.”

Aunt Maria's eyes kindled: “It's t'arrable, but it'strue—last week Parson Shadrack deserts his own wifean' runs off with Sis Tilly. It looked lak he moutertuck me, too, an' kept the fold together as Abraham didwhen he went into the Land of the Philistines. Butthank God, if I am all that's lef', one thing is mightyconsolin'—I can have a meetin' of Zion wherever I is.If I sets down in a cheer to meditate I sez to myself—'Bekeerful, Maria, for the church is in session.' WhenI drink, it is communion—when I bathes, it is baptism,when I walks, I sez to myself: 'Keep a straightgait, Maria, you are carryin' the tabbernackle of allgoodness.' Aunt Tilly got the preacher, but thankGod, I got Zion.”

“But I mus' go. Come on, Lily,” she said to thelittle girl,—“let ole Zion fix up yo' curls.”

She took her charge and curtsied out, and the Bishopknew she would die either for Zion or the little girl.[Pg 292]

“Ned,” said the Bishop, “I tell you a man ain'taltogether friendless when he's got in his home a creatureas faithful as she is. She'd die for that child.That one ole faithful 'oman makes me feel like liftin'my hat to the whole nigger race. I tell you when I getto heaven an' fail to see ole Mammy settin' around theRiver of Life, I'll think somethin' is wrong.”

The Bishop was silent a while, and then he asked:“Ned, it can't be true that you are goin' to put themgirls in the factory?”

“It's all I can do,” said Conway, surlily—“I'll beturned out of home soon—out in the public road.Everything I've got has been sold. I've no'where to go,an' but for Carpenter's offer from the Company of thecottage, I'd not have even a home for them. The onlycondition I could go on was that—”

“If I had my way they'd not work there a day,”—theold man replied hastily. “But it's different withme, an' you know it. My people take to it naturally.I am a po' white, an underling by breedin' an' birth, an'if my people build, they must build up. But you—youare tearing down when you do that. Po' as I am,I'd rather starve than to see little children worked todeath in that trap, but Tabitha sees it different, andshe is the one bein' in the world I don't cross—the[Pg 293]General”—he smiled—“she don't understand, she'sbuilt different.”

He stopped again. He did not say that what littlehe did have went to the poor and the sorrow-stricken ofthe neighborhood. He did not add that in his home,besides its poverty and hardness, he faced daily theproblem of far greater things.

“Some of us has been so used to benefits,” said theold man, “that it's only when they've withdrawn thatwe miss 'em. We're always ready to blame God for whatwe lose, but fail to remember what He gives us. Wekno' what diseases an' misfortunes we have had, we neverknow, by God's mercy, what we have escaped. Deathis around us daily—in the very air we breathe—andyet we live.

“I'll talk square with you, Ned—though you mayhate me for it. Every misfortune you have, fromrheumatism to loss of property, is due to whiskey.Let it alone. Be a man. There's greatness in youyet. You'd have no chance if you was a scrub. Butno man can estimate the value of good blood in manor hoss—it's the unknown quantity that makes himready to come again. For do the best we can, at lastwe're in the hands of God an' our pedigree.”

“Do I? Every man has a chance who trusts God an'[Pg 294]prays. You can't down that man. Your people weremen—brave an' honest men. They conquered themselvesfirst, an' all this fair valley afterwards. Theyovercame greater obstacles than you ever had, an' inbringin' you into the world they gave you, by the verylaws of heredity, the power to overcome, too. Why doyou grasp at the shadow an' shy at the form? Youkeep these hound dogs here, because your father rodeto hounds. But he rode for pleasure, in the lap ofplenty, that he had made by hard licks. You ride,from habit, in poverty. He rode his hobbies—it wasall right. Your hobbies ride you. He fought chickensfor an hour's pastime, in the fullness of the red bloodof life. You fight them for the blood of the thing—asthe bred-out Spaniards fight bulls. He took hiscocktails as a gentleman—you as a drunkard.”

Conway looked at him in wonder akin to fear. Evenas the idolaters of old looked at Jeremiah and Isaiah.

“Why—why is it”—went on the old man earnestly,rising and shaking his finger ominously—“that twogenerations of cocktails will breed cock-fighters, and twogenerations of whiskey will breed a scrub? Do youknow where you'll end? In bein' a scrub? No, no—youwill be dead an' the worms will have et you—but”—hepointed to the house—“you are fixin' to makescrubs of them—they will breed back.

“Go back to the plough—quit this whiskey and bethe man your people was. If you do not,” he said risingto go—“God will crush you—not kill you, butmangle you in the killin'.[Pg 295]”

“He has done that already,” said Conway bitterly.“He has turned the back of His hand on me.”

“Not yet”—said the Bishop—“but it will fall andfall there.” He pointed to Helen, whose queenly headcould be seen in the old parlor as she trummed out asad love song.

Conway blanched and his hand shook. He felt anameless fear—never felt before. He looked around,but the old man was gone. Afterwards, as he rememberedthat afternoon, he wondered if, grown as the oldman had in faith, God had not also endowed him withthe gift of prophecy.

CHAPTER XVI

HELEN'S DESPAIR

An hour afterward, the old nurse found Helenat the piano, her head bowed low over the oldyellow keys. “It's gittin' t'wards dinner time,chile,” she said tenderly, “an' time I was dressin' myqueen gal for dinner an sendin' her out to get roses inher cheeks.”

“Oh, Mammy, don't—don't dress me that way anymore. I am—I am to be—after this—just a millgirl, you know?”

“You may be for a while, but you'll always be aConway”—and the old woman struck an attitude withher arms akimbo and stood looking at the portraitswhich hung on the parlor wall.

“That—that—makes it worse, Mammy.” Shewiped away her tears and stood up, and her eyes tookon a look Aunt Maria had not seen since the old Governorhad died. She thought of ghosts and grew nervousbefore it.

“If my father sends me to work in that place—ifhe does—” she cried with flaming eyes—“I shall feelthat I am disgraced. I cannot hold my head up again.Then you need not be surprised at anything I do.[Pg 297]”

“It ain't registered that you're gwine there yet,”and Mammy Maria stroked her head. “But if youdoes—it won't make no difference whar you are norwhat you have to do, you'll always be a Conway an' alady.”

An hour afterwards, dressed as only Mammy Mariacould dress her, Helen had walked out again to the rockunder the wild grape vine.

How sweet and peaceful it was, and yet how changedsince but a short time ago she had sat there watchingfor Harry!

“Harry”—she pulled out the crumpled, tear-stainednote from her bosom and read it again. And the readingsurprised her. She expected to weep, but insteadwhen she had finished she sat straight up on the mossyrock and from her eyes gleamed again the light beforewhich the political enemies of the old dead Governorhad so often quailed.

Nor did it change in intensity, when, at the sound ofwheels and the clatter of hoofs, she instinctively droppeddown on the moss behind the rock and saw through thegrape leaves one of Richard Travis's horses, steaminghot, and stepping,—right up to its limit—a clippinggait down the road.

She had dropped instinctively because she guessed itwas Harry. And instinctively, too, she knew the girlwith the loud boisterous laugh beside him was Nellie.

The buggy was wheeled so rapidly past that sheheard only broken notes of laughter and talk. Thenshe sat again upon her rock, with the deep flush in hereyes, and said:[Pg 298]

She tore his note into fragments, twisted and rolledthem into a ball and shot it, as a marble, into the gulchbelow.

Then, suddenly she remembered, and reaching overshe looked into a scarred crevice in the rock. Twicethat summer had Clay Westmore left her a quaint lovenote in this little rock-lined post-office. Quaint indeed,and they made her smile, for they had been queer mixturesof geology and love. But they were honest—andthey had made her flush despite the fact that she didnot love him.

Still she would read them two or three times and sighand say: “Poor Clay—” after every reading.

A big sob sprang up into her throat and the Conwaylight of defiance, that had blazed but a few momentsbefore in her eyes, died in the depths of the cloud oftears which poured between it and the open.

A cruel, dangerous mood came over her. It envelopedher soul in its sombre hues and the steel of it struckdeep.

She scarcely remembered her dead mother—onlyher eyes. But when these moods came upon HelenConway—and her life had been one wherein they had[Pg 299]fallen often—the memory of her mother's eyes came toher and stood out in the air before her, and they weresombre and sad, and full, too, of the bitterness of hopesunfulfilled.

All her life she had fought these moods when theycame. But now—now she yielded to the subtle charmof them—the wild pleasure of their very sinfulness.

“And why not,” she cried to herself when the consciousnessof it came over her, and like a morphine fiendcarrying the drug to his lips, she knew that she alsowas pressing there the solace of her misery.

“Why should I not dissipate in the misery of it,since so much of it has fallen upon me at once?

“Mother?—I never knew one—only the eyes ofone, and they were the eyes of Sorrow. Father?”—shewaved her hand toward the old home—“drunk-wrecked—hewould sell me for a quart of whiskey.

“Then I loved—loved an image which is—mud—mud”—shefairly spat it out. “One poor friend Ihad—I scorned him, and he has forgotten me, too.But I did know that I had social standing—that myname was an honored one until—now.”

She had been walking rapidly down the road towardthe house. So rapidly that she did not know howflushed and beautiful she had become. She was swingingher hat impatiently in her hand, her fine hair halffalling and loose behind, shadowing her face as rosy sunsetclouds the temple on Mt. Ida. A face of moreclassic beauty, a skin of more exquisite fairness, flushed[Pg 300]with the bloom of youth, Richard Travis had never beforeseen.

And so, long before she reached him, he reined in histrotters and sat silently watching her come. What agraceful step she had—what a neck and head and hair—halfbent over with eyes on the ground, unconsciousof the beauty and grace of their own loveliness.

She almost ran into his buggy—she stopped with alittle start of surprise, only to look into his clean-cutface, smiling half patronizingly, half humorously, andwith a look of command too, and of patronage withal,of half-gallant heart-undoing.

It was the look of the sharp-shinned hawk hoveringfor an instant, in sheer intellectual abandon and physicalexuberance, above the unconscious oriole bent upon itsmorning bath.

He was smiling down into her eyes and repeating halfhumorously, half gallantly, and altogether beautifully,she thought, Keats' lines:

“No—no—you are hot and tired and you shallnot walk.... I will give you just a little spin[Pg 301]before Mammy Maria calls you to dinner.... Yes,Lizzette and Sadie B. always do their best when apretty girl is behind them.”

How refreshing the air—hot and tired as she was.And such horses—she had never before ridden behindanything so fine. How quickly he put her at her ease—howintellectual he was—how much of a gentleman.And was it not a triumph—a social triumph for her?A mill girl, in name, to have him notice her? It madeher heart beat quickly to think that Richard Travisshould care enough for her to give her this pleasure andat a time when—when she always saw her mother'seyes.

Timidly she sat by him scarce lifting her eyes tospeak, but conscious all the time that his eyes weredevouring her, from her neck and hair to her slipperedfoot, sticking half way out from skirts of old lace-trimmedlinen.

No—he would have her at home directly. Yes, he'dhave her there before the old nurse missed her.

She knew the trotters were going fast, but she didnot know just how fast, until presently, in a cloud ofwhirling dust they flew around a buggy whose horse,trot as fast as it could, seemed stationary to the speedthe pair showed as they passed.

It was Harry and Nellie. She glanced coldly at him,and when he raised his hat she cut him with a smile ofscorn. She saw his jaw drop dejectedly as RichardTravis sang out banteringly:[Pg 302]

It was a good half hour, but it seemed but a fewminutes before he had her back at the home gate, hercheeks burning with the glory of that burst of speed,and rush of air.

He had helped her out and stood holding her handas one old enough to be her father. He smiled and,looking down at her glowing face, and hair, and neck,repeated:

Then he changed as she thanked him, and said:“When you go into the mill I shall have many pleasantsurprises for you like this.”

He bent over her and whispered: “I have arrangedfor your pay to be double—we are neighbors, youknow—your father and I,—and a pretty girl, likeyou, need not work always.”

The color went from her cheeks. Then it came againin a crimson tide, so full and rich, that Richard Travis,like Titian with his brush, stood spellbound before thework he had done.

Fearing he had said too much, he dropped his voiceand with a twinkle in his eye said:[Pg 303]

All her timidity vanished—her hanging of the head,her silence, her blushes. Instead, there leaped into hereyes that light which Richard Travis had never seenbefore—the light of a Conway on mettle.

“I do not blame you,” he said. “I shall be a—fatherto you if you will let me.”

As he drove away he turned and looked at her slippingacross the lawn in the twilight. In his eyes wasa look of triumphant excitement.

The mention of Harry brought back all her bitterrecklessness to Helen. She was but a child and herroad, indeed, was hard. And as she turned at the oldgate and looked back at the vanishing buggy she said:

“Had he asked me this evening I'd—yes—I'd goto the end of the world with him. I'd go—go—go—andI care not how.”

Richard Travis was in a jolly mood at the suppertable that night, and Harry became jolly also, impertinentlyso. He had not said a word about his cousin beingwith Helen, but it burned in his breast, and heawaited his chance to mention it.

“I have thought up a fable since I have been atsupper, Cousin Richard. Shall I tell you?”

“Well,” began Harry unabashed, and with many[Pg 304]sly winks and much histrionic effort, “it is called the'Fox and the Lion.' Now a fox in the pursuit randown a beautiful young doe and was about to devour herwhen the lion came up and with a roar and a sweep ofhis paw, took her saying ...”

“'Get out of the way, you whelp,'” said his cousin,carrying the fable on, “for I perceive you are not evena fox, but a coyote, since no fox was ever known to rundown a doe.”

The smile was gradually changed on his face to acruel sneer, and Harry ceased talking with a suddennessthat was marked.

CHAPTER XVII

THE WHIPPER-IN

When the mill opened the next day, there waswork for Jud Carpenter. He came in and approachedthe superintendent's desk briskly.

“Four, and two of them spinners. Carpenter, youmust go at once and see about it. They are playingoff, I am sure.”

“Bud Billings—plague his old crotchety head—.He kno's that machine's got to run, whether no.Narthin's the matter with him—bet a dollar his wifelicked him last night an' he's mad about it.”

“That will do us no good,” said Kingsley—“whathe is mad about. That machine must be started at once.The others you can see afterwards.”

In half an hour he was back again. His hat was off,his face was red, his shaggy eyebrows quivered withangry determination, as, with one hand in the collar ofthe frightened Bud, he pulled the slubber into the superintendent'spresence.[Pg 306]

Following her husband came Mrs. Billings—a small,bony, wiry, black-eyed woman, with a firmly set mouthand a perpetual thunder-cloud on her brow—perhapsthe shadow of her coarse, crow-black hair.

While Jud dragged him, she carried a stick and proddedBud in the rear. Nor was she chary in abuse.

Jerked into the superintendent's presence, Bud's scaredeyes darted here and there as if looking for a door tobreak through, and all the time they were silently protesting.His hands, too, joined in the protest; one ofthem wagged beseechingly behind appealing to hisspouse to desist—the other went through the same motionin front begging Jud Carpenter for mercy.

They halted as quickly as they entered. Bud's eyessought the ceiling, the window, the floor,—anywherebut straight ahead of him.

His wife walked up to the superintendent's desk—shewas hot and flushed. Her small black eyes, one of whichwas cocked cynically, flashed fire, her coarse hair fellacross her forehead, or was plastered to her head withperspiration.

It was pathetic to look at Bud, with his deep-set,scared eyes. Kingsley had never heard him speak aword, nor had he even been able to catch his eye. Buthe was the best slubber in the mill—tireless, pain-staking.His place could not be filled.

Bud was really a good-natured favorite of Kingsleyand when the superintendent saw him, scared and pant[Pg 307]ing,his tongue half out, with Jud Carpenter's hand stillin his collar, he motioned to Jud to turn him loose.

The slubber never spoke, but glanced at his wife, whostood glaring at him. Then she broke out in a thin,drawling, daring, poor-white voice—a ring of impertinenceand even a challenge in it:

“I'll tell you'uns what's the matter with Bud. BudBillings is got what most men needs when they beginto raise sand about their vittels for nothin'. I've busteda plate over his head.”

She struck an attitude before Kingsley which plainlyindicated that she might break another one. It wasalso an attitude which asked: “What are you goingto do about it?”

Bud nodded emphatically—a nod that spoke morethan words. It was a positive, unanimous assertion onhis part that the plate had been broken there.

“Ne'ow, Mister Kingsley, you know yo'se'f that Budis mighty slow mouthed—he don't talk much an' I haveto do his talkin' fur him. Ne'ow Bud don't intend forto be so mean”—she added a little softer—“but everymonth about the full of the moon, Bud seems to thinksomehow that it is about time fur him to make a foolof hisse'f again. He wouldn't say nothin' fur a month—heis quiet as a lam' an' works steady as a clock—thenall to once the fool spell 'ud hit him an' then somecrockery 'ud have to be wasted.[Pg 308]

“They ain't no reason for it, Mister Kingsley—Budcyant sho' the rappin' of yo' finger fur havin'sech spells along towards the full of the moon. Budcyant tell you why, Mister Kingsley, to save his soul—'ceptthat he jes' thinks he's got to do it an' put me tothe expense of bustin' crockery.

“I stood it mighty nigh two years arter Bud and mewas spliced, thinkin' maybe it war ther bed-bugs a-bitin'Bud, long towards the full of the moon. So I watchedthat pint an' killed 'em all long towards the first quarterwith quicksilver an' the white of an egg. Wal, Budnever sed a word all that month. He never opened hismouth an' he acted jes' lak a puf'fec' gentleman an'a dutiful dotin' husband—(Bud wiped away a tear)—untilthe time come for the fool spell to hit 'im,an 'all to once you never seed sech a fool spell hit aman befo'.

“What you reckin' Bud done, Mister Kingsley? BudBillins thar, what did he do? Got mad about his biscuits—it'sthe funny way the fool spell allers hits him,he never gits mad about anything but his biscuits.Why I cud feed Bud on dynamite an' he'd take it allright if he cu'd eat it along with his biscuits. Onct Iput concentrated lye in his coffee by mistake. I'd neverknowed it if the pup hadn't got some of it by mistakean' rolled over an' died in agony. I rushed to the millthinkin' Bud ud' be dead, sho'—but he wa'nt. Henever noticed it. I noticed his whiskers an' eyebrowswas singed off an' questioned 'im 'bout it and he 'lowedhe felt sorter quare arter he drunk his coffee, an' fulllike, an' he belched an' it sot his whiskers an' eyebrows[Pg 309]a-fiah, which ther same kinder puzzled him fur a while;but it must be biscuits to make him raise cain. It happenedat the breakfas' table. Mind you, Mister Kingsley,Bud didn't say it to my face—no, he never saysanything to my face—but he gits up an' picks up thecat an' tells ther cat what he thinks of me—his ownspliced an' wedded wife—sland'in' me to the cat.”

She shook her finger in his face—“You know you did,Bud Billins—an' what you reckin he told ther cat,Mister Kingsley—told her I was a—a—”

Bud looked sheepishly around—he tried even to run,but Jud Carpenter held him fast. She shook her fingerin his face. “I heard you say it, Bud Billins, youknow I did an' I busted a plate over yo' head.”

“But, my dear Madam,” said Kingsley, “that was noreason to treat him so badly.”

“Oh, it wa'nt?” she shrieked—“to tattle-tale tothe house-cat about yo' own spliced an' wedded wife?In her own home an' yard—her that you've sworn tolove an' cherish agin bed an' board—ter call her aheifer?”

She slipped her hand under her apron and produceda deadly looking blue plate of thick cheap ware. Hereyes blazed, her voice became husky with anger.

“You don't understand me, my dear Madam,” saidKingsley quickly. “I meant that it was no reason why[Pg 310]you should continue to treat him so after he has sufferedand is sorry. Of course you have got to control Bud.”

“Wal it was mighty nigh a year befo' Bud paid anymo' 'tention to the cat. The full moon quit 'fectin'him—he even quit eatin' biscuits. Then the spellcommenced to come onct a year an' he cu'dn't pass overblackberry winter to save his life. Mind you he neversed anything to me about it, but one day he ups an'gits choked on a chicken gizzerd an' coughs an' wheezesan' goes on so like a fool that I ups with the cheer an'comes down on his head a-thinkin' I'd make him coughit up. I mout a bin a little riled an' hit harder'n Iorter, but I didn't mean anything by it, an' he didcough it up on my clean floor, an' I'm willin' to sayagin' I was a little hasty, that's true, in callin' him alop-sided son of a pigeon-toed monkey, for Bud riledme mighty. But what you reckin he done?”

“You kno' you done it, Bud Billins—I followed youan' listened when you tuck up the cat an' you whisperedin the cat's year that your spliced an' wedded wife wasa—a—she devil!”

“It tuck two plates that time, Mister Kingsley—that'sthe time Bud didn't draw no pay fur two weeks.

“Wal, that was over a year ago, an' Bud he's beena behavin' mighty well, untwell this mornin'. It's truehe didn't say much, but he sed 'nuff fur me to see therspell was acomin' on an' I'd better bust it up befo' itgot into his blood an' sot 'im to cultivate the company[Pg 311]of the cat. I seed I had to check the disease afore itgot too strong, fur I seed Bud was tryin' honestly totaper off with them spells an' shake with the cat if hecu'd, so when he kinder snorted a little this mornin' becausehe didn't have but one aig an' then kinder began tolook aroun' as if he was thinkin' of mice, I busted a saucerover his head an' fotched 'im too, grateful la'k an'happy, to be hisse'f agin. I think he's nearly c'woredan' I'm mighty glad you is, Bud Billins, fur it's costin'a lot of mighty good crockery to c'wore you.

“Now you all jes' lem'me 'lone, Mister Kingsley—lem'memanage Bud. He's slo' mouthed as I'm tellin'you, but he's gittin' over them spells an' I'm gwinterc'wore him if I hafter go into the queensware bus'nesson my own hook. Now, Bud Billins, you jes' go inthere now an' go to tendin' to that slubbin' machine, an'don't you so much as look at a cat twixt now an' nextChristmas.”

Bud needed no further admonition. He bolted forthe door and was soon silently at work.

CHAPTER XVIII

SAMANTHA CAREWE

But Jud Carpenter did not finish his work by startingthe slubbing machine. Samantha Carewe,one of the main loom women, was absent. Goingover to her cottage, he was told by her mother, aglinty-eyed, shrewd looking, hard featured woman—thatSamantha was “mighty nigh dead.”

“Oh, she's mighty nigh dead, is she,” said Jud witha tinge of sarcasm—“I've heurn of her bein' mightynigh dead befo'. Well, I wanter see her.”

The mother looked at him sourly, but barred thedoorway with her form. Jud fixed his hard cunningeyes on her.

“Well, cyant you go an' tell her that Mister JudCyarpenter is here an' 'ud like to kno' if he can be ofany sarvice to her in orderin' her burial robe an' coffin,or takin' her last will an' testerment.”

With that he pushed himself in the doorway, rudelybrushing the woman aside. “Now lem'me see that gyrl—”he added sternly—“that loom is got to run oryou will starve, an' if she's sick I want to kno' it. I'veseed her have the toe-ache befo'.”

The door of the room in which Samantha lay wasopen, and in plain view of the hall she lay with a look[Pg 313]of pain, feigned or real, on her face. She was awoman past forty—a spinster truly—who had beenin the mill since it was first started, and, as she camefrom a South Carolina mill to the Acme, had, in fact,been in a cotton mill, as she said—“all her life.” Forshe could not remember when, as a child even, she hadnot worked in one.

Her chest was sunken, her shoulders stooped, herwhole form corded and knotted with the fight againstmachinery. Her skin, bronzed and sallow, looked notunlike the hard, fine wood-work of the loom, oiled withconstant use.

“The hurtin' was so bad,” said her mother, “that Ihad to put a hot rock on her stomach, last night.”

She motioned to a stone lying on the hearth. Judglanced at it—its size staggered him.

“Good Lord! an' you say you had that thing on herstomach? Why didn't you send her up to the mill an'let us lay a hot steam engine on her?”

“No, she aint eat a blessed thing, hardly, to-day,”said her mother—“jes' seemed to have lost her appetitefrom a to izzard.”

“I wish the store'd keep wild cherry bark and whiskey[Pg 314]—somethin'to make us eat. We cyant work unless wecan eat,” said Samantha, woefully.

“Great Scott,” said Jud, “what we want to do is tokeep you folks from eatin' so much. Lem'me see,” headded after a pause, as if still thinking he'd get to thesource of her trouble—“Yistidday was Sunday—youdidn't have to work—now what did you eat for breakfast?”

“Well, lem'me see,” said Miss Samantha, countingon her fingers—“a biled mackrel, some fried bacon,two pones of corn bread—kinder forced it down.”

“O, Lor'. Jes' cu'dn't eat nothin' fur dinner,” shewailed. “If the Company'd only get some cherry barkan' whiskey”—

“At dinner,” said Mrs Carewe, stroking her chin—“wehad some sour-kraut—she eat right pe'rtly ofthat—kinder seemed lak a appetizer to her. Shemixed it with biled cabbage an' et right pe'rtly of it.”

“An' some mo' buttermilk—it kinder cools mystomach,” whined Miss Samantha. “An' hog-jowl, an'corn-bread—anything else Maw?”

“A raw onion in vinegar,” said her mother—“It's[Pg 315]the only thing that seems to make you want to eat alittle. An' reddishes—we had some new reddishes furdinner—didn't we, Samanthy?”

“Good Lord,” snapped Jud—“reddishes an' buttermilk—nowonder you needed that weight on yourstomach—it's all that kept you from floatin' in theair. Cyant eat—O good Lord!”

“Well, 'bout nine o'clock I thought I'd eat a little,to keep me from gittin' hungry befo' day, so I et a rawonion, an' some black walnuts, and dried prunes, an'—an'—”

“A few apples we had in the cellar,” added hermother, “an' a huckleberry pie, an' buttermilk—”

Jud jumped up—“Good Lord, I thought you wasa fool when you said you put that stone on her stomach,but now I know you done the right thing—you mighthave anchored her by a chain to the bed post, too, incase the rock didn't hold her down. Now look here,”he went on to Mrs. Carewe, “I'll go to the sto' an' sendyou a half pound of salts, a bottle of oil an' turbb'ntine.Give her plenty of it an' have her at the mill by to-morrow,or I'll cut off all your rations. As it is Idon't see that you need them, anyway, to eat”—hesneered—“for you 'aint got no appetite at all.'[Pg 316]”

From the Carewe cottage Jud went to a small yellowcottage on the farthest side of the valley. It was thehome of John Corbin, and Willis, his ten-year-old son,was one of the main doffers. The father was lounginglazily on the little front verandah, smoking his pipe.

The man arose with more than usual alacrity. “I'llsee that he is there—” he declared—“it's as much aswe can do to live on what they makes, an' I don't wantno dockin' for any sickness if I can he'p it.”

Willis, a pale over-worked lad, was down with tonsillitis.Jud heard the father and mother in an angrydispute. She was trying to persuade him to let theboy stay at home. In the end hot words were used,and finally the father came out followed by the paleand hungry-eyed boy.

“He'd better die at the mill at work than here athome,” the father added brutally, as Jud led him off,“fur then the rest of us will have that much ahead tolive on.”

CHAPTER XIX

A QUICK CONVERSION

It happened that morning that the old Bishop wason his daily round, visiting the sick of Cottontown.He went every day, from house to house,helping the sick, cheering the well, and better than allthings else, putting into the hearts of the disheartenedthat priceless gift of coming again.

For of all the gifts the gods do give to men, thatis the greatest—the ability to induce their fallen fellowman to look up and hope again. The gift to spurothers onward—the gift to make men reach up. Hisflock were all mill people, their devotion to him wonderful.In the rush and struggle of the strenuous worldaround them, this humble old man was the only beingto whom they could go for spiritual help.

To-day in his rounds, one thing impressed him moresadly than anything else—for he saw it so plainlywhen he visited their homes—and that was that withall their hard work, from the oldest to the youngest,with all their traffic in human life, stealing the budalong with the broken and severed stem—as a matterof fact, the Acme mills paid out to the people but verylittle money. Work as they might, they seldom sawanything but an order on a store, for clothes and pro[Pg 318]visionssold to them at prices that would make a Jewpeddler blush for shame.

In one of the cottages the old man found a brokendown little thing of seven, sick. For just such tripshe kept his pockets full of things, and such wonderfulpockets they would have been to a healthful naturalchild! Ginger cakes—a regular Noah's Ark, andapples, red and yellow. Sweet gum, too, which he hadhimself gathered from the trees in the woods. Andthere were even candy dolls and peppermints.

“Oh, well, maybe I can help her, po' little thing,”the Bishop said when the mother conducted him in. Butone look at her was enough—that dead, unmeaninglook, not unconscious, but unmeaning—deadened—adisease which to a robust child would mean fever anda few days' sickness—to this one the Bishop knewit meant atrophy and death. And as the old manlooked at her, he thought it were better that she shouldgo. For to her life had long since lost its individuality,and dwarfed her into a nerveless machine—the littleframe was nothing more than one of a thousand monumentsto the cotton mill—a mechanical thing, whichmight cease to run at any time.

“How old is she?” asked the Bishop, sitting downby the child on the side of the bed.

“We put her in the mill two years ago when she wasseven,” said the mother. “We was starvin' an' had to[Pg 319]do somethin'.” She added this with as much of anapologetic tone as her nature would permit. “We toldthe mill men she was ten,” she added. “We had to doit. The fust week she got two fingers mashed off.”

The Bishop was silent, then he said: “It's bes' alwaysto tell the truth. Liar is a fast horse, but henever runs but one race.”

Although there were no laws in Alabama againstchild labor, the mill drew the lines then as now, if possible,on very young children. Not that it cared for thechild—but because it could be brought to the milltoo young for any practical use, unless it was wisebeyond its age.

He handed the little thing a ginger man. She lookedat it—the first she had ever seen,—and then at thegiver in the way a wild thing would, as if expectingsome trick in the proffered kindness; but when he triedto caress her and spoke kindly, she shrank under thecover and hid her head with fear.

It was not a child, but a little animal—a wild beingof an unknown species in a child's skin—the missinglink, perhaps; the link missing between the natural,kindly instinct of the wild thing, the brute, the monkey,the anthropoid ape, which protects its young even atthe expense of its life, and civilized man of to-day, thespeaking creature, the so-called Christian creature, whosells his young to the director-Devils of mills and machineryand prolongs his own life by the death of hisoffspring.

Biology teaches that many of the very lowest forms[Pg 320]of life eat their young. Is civilized man merely a case,at last, of reversion to a primitive type?

She hid her head and then peeped timidly from underthe cover at the kindly old man. He had seen a foxdriven into its hole by dogs do the same thing.

She did not know what a smile meant, nor a caress,nor a proffered gift. Tremblingly she lay, under thedirty quilt, expecting a kick, a cuff.

The Bishop sat down by the bedside and took out apaper. “It'll be an hour or so I can spend,” he saidto the mother—“maybe you'd like to be doin' abouta little.”

“Come to think of it, I'm pow'ful obleeged to you,”she said. “I've all my mornin' washin' to do yit, onlyI was afraid to leave her alone.”

“You do yo' washin'—I'll watch her. I'm a prettygood sort of a hoss doctor myse'f.”

The child had nodded off to sleep, the Bishop wasreading his paper, when a loud voice was heard in thehallway and some rough steps that shook the littleflimsily made floor of the cottage, and made it rock withthe tramp of them. The door opened suddenly and JudCarpenter, angry, boisterous, and presumptuous, entered.The child had awakened at the sound of Carpenter'sfoot fall, and now, frightened beyond control,she trembled and wept under the cover.

There are natural antipathies and they are God-given.They are the rough cogs in the wheel of things. Butuneven as they are, rough and grating, strike them offand the wheel would be there still, but it would not[Pg 321]turn. It is the friction of life that moves it. Andmovement is the law of life.

Antipathies—thank God who gave them to us! Butfor them the shepherd dog would lie down with the wolf.

The only man in Cottontown who did not like theBishop was Jud Carpenter, and the only man in the worldwhom the Bishop did not love was Jud Carpenter. Andmany a time in his life the old man had prayed: “OGod, teach me to love Jud Carpenter and despise hisways.”

Carpenter glared insolently at the old man quietlyreading his paper, and asked satirically. “Wal, whatails her, doctor?”

“Mill-icious fever,” remarked the Bishop promptlywith becoming accent on the first syllable, and scarcelyraising his eyes from the paper.

Carpenter flushed. He had met the Bishop too oftenin contests which required courage and brains not tohave discovered by now that he was no match for theman who could both pray and fight.

“They aint half as sick as they make out an' I'vecome to see about it,” he added. He felt the child'spulse. “She ain't sick to hurt. That spinner is idleover yonder an' I guess I'll jes' be carryin' her back.Wuck—it's the greatest tonic in the worl'—it's theHostetter's Bitters of life,” he added, trying to befunny.

The Bishop looked up. “Yes, but I've knowed mento get so drunk on bitters they didn't kno' a mill-damfrom a dam'-mill!”

Carpenter smiled: “Wal, she ain't hurt—guess[Pg 322]I'll jes' git her cloze on an' take her over”—still feelingthe child's wrist while she shuddered and hid underthe cover. Nothing but her arm was out, and from thenervous grip of her little claw-like fingers the old mancould only guess her terrible fear.

“You sho'ly don't mean that, Jud Carpenter?” saidthe Bishop, with surprise in his heretofore calm tone.

“Wal, that's jus' what I do mean, Doctor,” remarkedCarpenter dryly, and in an irritated voice.

“Jud Carpenter,” said the old man rising—“I ama man of God—it is my faith an' hope. I'm gettin'old, but I have been a man in my day, an' I've still gotstrength enough left with God's he'p to stop you. Youshan't tech that child.”

In an instant Carpenter was ablaze—profane, abusive,insolent—and as the old man stepped betweenhim and the bed, the Whipper-in's anger overcame allelse.

The child under the cover heard a resounding whackand stuck her head out in time to see the hot blood leapto the old man's cheeks where Carpenter's blow hadfallen. For a moment he paused, and then the childsaw the old overseer's huge fist gripping spasmodically,and the big muscles of his arms and shoulders rollingbeneath the folds of his coat, as a crouching lion's skinrolls around beneath his mane before he springs.

Again and again it gripped, and relaxed—grippedand relaxed again. Mastering himself with a greateffort, the old man turned to the man who had slappedhim.[Pg 323]

Even the child was surprised when Carpenter, halfwickedly, in rage, half tauntingly slapped the othercheek with a blow that almost sent the preacher reelingagainst the bed. Again the great fist gripped convulsively,and the big muscles that had once pitched theMountain Giant over a rail fence worked—rolled beneaththeir covering.

“What else kin I do for you at the request of yo'Master?” sneered Carpenter.

“As He never said anything further on the subject,”said the old man, in a dry pitched voice that told howhard he was trying to control himself, “I take it Heintended me to use the same means that He employedwhen He run the thieves an' bullies of His day out ofthe temple of God.”

The child thought they were embracing. It wasthe old hold and the double hip-thrust, by which theoverseer had conquered so often before in his manhood'sprime. Nor was his old-time strength gone. It camein a wave of righteous indignation, and like the gust ofa whirlwind striking the spars of a rotting ship. Neverin his life had Carpenter been snapped so nearly in two.It seemed to him that every bone in his body broke whenhe hit the floor.... It was ten minutes beforehis head began to know things again. Dazed, he openedhis eyes to see the Bishop sitting calmly by his side bathinghis face with cold water. The blood had been runningfrom his nose, for the rag and water were colored.His head ached.[Pg 324]

Jud Carpenter had one redeeming trait—it was anappreciation of the humorous. No man has ever beenentirely lost or entirely miserable, who has had a touchof humor in him. As the Bishop put a pillow underhis head and then locked the door to keep any one elseout, the ridiculousness of it all came over him, and hesaid sillily:

“Jud Carpenter,” said the Bishop, his face whitewith shame, “for God's sake don't tell anybody I donethat—”

Jud smiled as he arose and put on his hat. “I canstan' bein' licked,” he added good naturedly—“becauseI remember now that I've run up agin the old championof the Tennessee Valley—ain't that what theyuseter call you?—but it does hurt me sorter, to thinkyou'd suppose I'd be such a damned fool as to tell it.”

He felt the child's wrist again. “'Pears lak she'sgot a little fever since all this excitement—guess I'lljes' let her be to-day.”

The mother never did understand from the child justwhat happened. When she came in the Bishop had herso much better that the little thing actually was playingwith his ginger cake dolls, and had eaten one ofthem.

It was bed time that night before the child finally[Pg 325]whispered it out: “Maw, did you ever see two menhug each other?”

“Why, the Bishop he hugged Jud Carpenter sohard he fetched the bleed out of his nose!”

It was her first and last sight of a ginger-man. Twodays later she was buried, and few save the old Bishopknew she had died; for Cottontown did not care.

CHAPTER XX

A LIVE FUNERAL

The next Sunday was an interesting occasion—votedso by all Cottontown when it was over.There was a large congregation out, caused bythe announcement of the Bishop the week before.

“Nex' Sunday I intend to preach Uncle Dave Dickey'sfuneral sermon. I've talked to Dave about it an'he tells me he has got all kinds of heart disease with afair sprinklin' of liver an' kidney trouble an' that heis liable to drap off any day.

“I am one of them that believes that whatever bouquetswe have for the dead will do 'em mo' good ifgiven while they can smell; an' whatever pretty thingswe've got to say over a coffin had better be said whilstthe deceased is up an' kickin' around an' can hear—an'so Dave is pow'ful sot to it that I preach his fun'ralwhilst he's alive. An' I do hope that next Sundayyou'll all come an' hear it. An' all the bouquets youexpect to give him when he passes away, please fetchwith you.”

To-day Uncle Dave was out, dressed in his long-tailjeans frock suit with high standing collar and bigblack stock. His face had been cleanly shaved, and hishair, coming down to his shoulders, was cut square awayaround his neck in the good old-fashioned way. He sat[Pg 327]on the front bench and looked very solemn and deeplyimpressed. On one side of him sat Aunt Sally, and onthe other, Tilly; and the coon dog, which followed themeverywhere, sat on its tail, well to the front, looking thevery essence of concentrated solemnity.

But the coon dog had several peculiar idiosyncrasies;one of them was that he was always very deeply affectedby music—especially any music which soundedanything like a dinner horn. As this was exactly theway Miss Patsy Butts' organ music sounded, no soonerdid she strike up the first notes than the coon dogjoined in, with his long dismal howl—much to thedisgust of Uncle Dave and his family.

This brought things to a standstill, and all theHillites to giggling, while Archie B. moved up and tookhis seat with the mourners immediately behind the dog.

Tilly looked reproachfully at Aunt Sally; Aunt Sallylooked reproachfully at Uncle Dave, who passed the reproachon to the dog.

“There now,” said Uncle Dave—“Sally an' Tillyboth said so! They both said I mustn't let him come.”

“Be quiet Dave,” said the Bishop, sitting near—“itstrikes me you're pow'ful lively for a corpse. It'snatural for a dog to howl at his master's fun'ral.”

The coon dog had come out intending to enter fullyinto the solemnity of the occasion, and when the organstarted again he promptly joined in.

“I'm sorry,” said the Bishop, “but I'll have to risean' put the chief mourner out.[Pg 328]”

It was unnecessary, for the chief mourner himselfarose just then, and began running frantically aroundthe pulpit with snaps, howls and sundry most painfulbarks.

Those who noticed closely observed that a clothes-pinhad been snapped bitingly on the very tip end of histail, and as he finally caught his bearing, and wentdown the aisle and out of the door with a farewell howl,they could hear him tearing toward home, quite satisfiedthat live funerals weren't the place for him.

Everybody looked at Archie B., who looked up froma New Testament in which he was deeply interested,surprised and grieved.

“Ma,” she whispered, “I've heard o' fun'rals in Irelan'where they passed around refreshments—d'yereckin this is goin' to be that kind? I'm gittin' pow'fulhungry.”

“It may be a little onusual,” he said, “to preach aman's fun'ral whilst he's alive, but it will certn'ly dohim mo' good than to preach it after he's dead. If[Pg 329]we're goin' to do any good to our feller man, let's doit while he's alive.

“Come to think about it, but ain't we foolish an' hypocriticalthe way we go on over the dead that we haveforgot an' neglected whilst they lived?

“If we'd reverse the thing how many a po' creaturethat had given up the fight, an' shuffled off this mortalcoil fur lack of a helpin' han' would be alive to-day!

“How many another that had laid down an' quit inthe back stretch of life would be up an' fightin'! Why,the money spent for flowers an' fun'rals an' monumentsfor the pulseless dead of the world would mighty nighfeed the living dead that are always with us.

“What fools we mortals be! Why, we're not a bitbetter than the heathen Chinee that we love to sendmissionaries to and call all kinds of hard names. TheChinee put sweet cakes an' wine an' sech on the gravesof their departed, an' once one of our missionaries askedhis servant, Ching Lu, who had just lost his brother an'had put all them things on his grave, when he thoughtthe corpse 'ud rise up an' eat them; an' Ching Lu toldhim he thought the Chinee corpse 'ud rise up an' eathis sweetmeats about the same time that the Melicanman's corpse 'ud rise up an' smell all the bouquets ofsweet flowers spread over him.

“David Dickey, the subject of this here fun'ral discourse,was born on the fourth day of July, 1810, of[Pg 330]pious, godly parents. Dave as a child was always agood boy, who loved his parents, worked diligentlyand never needed a lickin' in his life”—

“Hold on, Bishop,” said Uncle Davy, rising andprotesting earnestly—“this is my fun'ral an' I ain'ta-goin' to have nothin' told but the exact facts: Jes'alter that by sayin' I was atollerbul good boy,tollerbuldiligent, with a big sprinklin' o' meanness an' lazinessin me, an' that my old daddy,—God bless his memoryfor it—in them days cleared up mighty nigh a tenacre lot of guv'ment land cuttin' off the underbrush formy triflin' hide.”

Uncle Dave sat down. The Bishop was confused amoment, but quickly said: “Now bretherin, there's anothergood p'int about preachin' a man's fun'ral whilsthe's alive. It gives the corpse a chance to correct anyerrors. Why, who'd ever have thought that good oldUncle Dave Dickey was that triflin' when he was young?Much obliged, Dave, much obliged, I'll try to tell theexact facts hereafter.”

“In manner Uncle Dave was approachable an' witha kind heart for all mankind, an' a kind word an' ahelpin' han' for the needy. He wastollerbul truthful”—wenton the Bishop—with a look at Uncle Davy asif he had profited by previous interruptions.

“Tell it as it was, Hillard,”—nodded Uncle Dave,from the front bench—“jes' as it was—no lies atmy fun'ral.”

“Tollerbul truthful,” went on the Bishop, “on allsubjects he wanted to tell the truth about. An' I'm[Pg 331]proud to say, bretherin, that after fifty odd years ofintermate acquantance with our soon-to-be-deceasedbrother, you cu'd rely on him tellin' the truth in allthings except”—

“Tell it as it was, Hillard—no—filigree work atmy fun'ral—” said Uncle Dave.

—“Except,” went on the Bishop, “returnin' anylittle change he happen'd to borry from you, or swoppin'horses, or tellin' the size of the fish he happened toketch. On them p'ints, my bretherin, the lamentedcorpse was pow'ful weak; an' I'm sorry to have to tellit, but I've been warned, as you all kno', to speak theexact facts.”

“Hillard Watts,” said Uncle Dave rising hotly—“that'sa lie an' you know it!”

“Sit down, Dave,” said the Bishop calmly, “I'vebeen preachin' fun'rals fur fifty years an' that is thefus' time I ever was sassed by a corpse. You knowit's so an' besides I left out one thing. You're alwaystellin' what kinder weather it's gwinter be to-morrowan' missin' it. You burnt my socks off forty years agoon the only hoss-trade I ever had with you. You oweme five dollars you borrowed ten years ago, an' younever caught a half pound perch in yo' life that youdidn't tell us the nex' day it was a fo' pound trout. Soset down. Oh, I'm tellin' the truth without any filigree,Dave.”

Aunt Sally and Tilly pulled Uncle Dave down whilethey conversed with him earnestly. Then he arose andsaid:

“Hillard, I beg yo' pardon. You've spoken the truth[Pg 332]—Sallyand Tilly both say so. I tell yo', bretherin,”he said turning to the congregation—“it'd be a goodthing if we c'ud all have our fun'ral sermon now andthen correctly told. There would be so many pointsbrought out as seen by our neighbors that we neversaw ourselves.”

“The subject of this sermon”—went on the Bishop—“thelamented corpse-to-be, was never married butonce—to his present loving widow-to-be, and he neverhad any love affair with any other woman—she bein'his fust an' only love—”

“Set down, David Dickey,” whispered Aunt Sally,hotly, as she hastily jerked him back in his seat with asnap that rattled the teeth in his head:

“If you get up at this time of life to make any post-morteman' dyin' declaration on that subject in mypresence, ye'll be takin' out a corpse sho' 'nuff!”

“An' the only child he's had is the present beautifuldaughter that sits beside him.”

“David, I am very sorry to say, had some veryserious personal faults. He always slept with his mouthopen. I've knowed him to snore so loud after dinnerthat the folks on the adjoining farm thought it was thedinner horn.”

“Now Hillard,” said Uncle Dave, rising—“do youthink it necessary to bring in all that?”

“A man's fun'ral,” said the Bishop, “ain't intendedto do him any good—it's fur the coming generation.[Pg 333]Boys and girls, beware of sleepin' with yo' mouth openan' eatin' with yo' fingers an' drinkin' yo' coffee out ofthe saucer, an' sayin'them molasses an'I wouldn't chooseany when you're axed to have somethin' at the table.

“Brother Dave Dickey had his faults as we all have.He was a sprinklin' of good an' evil, a mixture of diligencean' laziness, a brave man mostly with a few yallercrosses in him, truthful nearly always, an' lyin' mostlyfur fun an' from habit; good at times an' bad at others,spiritual at times when it looked like he cu'd see rightinto heaven's gate, an' then again racked with greatpassions of the flesh that swept over him in waves of hotdesires, until it seemed that God had forgotten to makehim anything but an animal.

“But he aimed to do right, an' he strove constantlyto do right, an' he prayed constantly fur help to doright, an' that's the main thing. If he fell he riz agin,fur he had a Hand outstretched in his faith that cu'dlift him up, an' knew that he could go to a Father thatalways forgave—an' that's the main thing. Let usremember, when we see the faults and vices of others—thatwe see only what they've done—as Bobby Burnssays, we don't kno' what they have resisted. Give 'emcredit for that—maybe it over-balances. Balancin'—ah,my bretherin, that's a gran' thing. It's the thingon which the whole Universe hangs—the law of balance.The pendulum every whar swings as fur backas it did furra'd, an' the very earth hangs in space by[Pg 334]this same law. An' it holds in the moral worl' as well asthe t'other one—only man is sech a liar an' so bigotedhe can't see it. But here comes into the worl' a manor woman filled so full of passion of every sort,—passionsthey didn't make themselves either—regularthunder clouds in the sky of life. Big with the rain,the snow, the hail—the lightning of passion. Aspark, a touch, a strong wind an' they explode, they fallfrom grace, so to speak. But what have they donethat we ain't never heard of? All we've noticed is theexplosion, the fall, the blight. They have stirred thesky, whilst the little white pale-livered untempted cloudsfloated on the zephyrs—they've brought rain that madethe earth glad, they've cleared the air in the very fallof their lightnin'. The lightnin' came—the fall—butgive 'em credit fur the other. The little namby-pamby,white livered, zephyr clouds that is so divinean' useless, might float forever an' not even make ashadow to hide men from the sun.

“So credit the fallen man or woman, big with lifean' passion, with the good they've done when you debit'em with the evil. Many a 'oman so ugly that shewasn't any temptation even for Sin to mate with her,has done more harm with her slanderin' tongue an' hypocrisythan a fallen 'oman has with her whole body.

“We're mortals an' we can't he'p it—animals, an'God made us so. But we'll never fall to rise no mo' 'lesswe fail to reach up fur he'p.

“What then is our little sins of the flesh to the biggoodness of the faith that is in us?

“For forty years Uncle Dave has been a consistent[Pg 335]member of the church—some church—it don't matterwhich. For forty years he has trod the narrer path,stumpin' his toe now an' then, but allers gettin' up agin,for forty years he has he'ped others all he cu'd, beencharitable an' forgivin', as hones' as the temptationwould permit, an' only a natural lie now an' then as tothe weather or the size of a fish, trustin' in God to makeit all right.

“An' now, in the twilight of life, when his sun is'most set an' the dews of kindness come with old age,right gladly will he wake up some mornin' in a betterlan', the scrub in him all bred out, the yaller streakgone, the sins of the flesh left behind. An' that'sabout the way with the most of us,—no better an' maybewuss—Amen!”

“Oh, Hillard—Hillard,” he said, “say all thatover agin about the clouds an' the thunder of passion—sayall the last part over agin—it sounds so good!”

The congregation thronged around him and shook hishand. They gave him the flowers they had brought;they told him how much they thought of him, howsorry they would be to see him dead, how they had alwaysintended to come to see him, but had been so busy,and to cheer up that he wasn't dead yet.

“No”—said Uncle Dave, weeping—“no, an' nowsince I see how much you all keer fur me I don't b'lieve—I—Iwanter die at all.”

CHAPTER XXI

JACK AND THE LITTLE ONES

No one would ever have supposed that the bigblacksmith at the village was Jack Bracken.All the week he worked at his trade—so fullof his new life that it shone continually in his face—hisface strong and stern, but kindly. With hisleathern apron on, his sleeves rolled up, his hairy breastbare and shining in the open collar, physically helooked more like an ancient Roman than a man ofto-day.

His greatest pleasure was to entice little children tohis shop, talking to them as he worked. To get themto come, he began by keeping a sack of ginger snapsin his pockets. And the villagers used to smile at thesight of the little ones around him, especially aftersunset when his work was finished. Often a half dozenchildren would be in his lap or on his knees at once, andthe picture was so beautiful that people would stop andlook, and wonder what the big strong man saw in allthose noisy children to love.

They did not know that this man had spent his life ahunted thing; that the strong instinct of home and childrenhad been smothered in him, that his own little boyhad been taken, and that to him every child was asaint.[Pg 337]

But they soon learned that the great kind-hearted,simple man was a tiger when aroused. A small childfrom the mill, sickly and timid, was among those whostopped one morning to get one of his cakes.

Not knowing it was a mill child on its way to work,Jack detained it in all the kindness of his heart, and thelittle thing was not in a hurry to go. Indeed, it forgotall about the mill until its father happened along anhour after it should have been at work. His name wasJoe Hopper, a ne'er-do-well whose children, by workingat the mill, supported him in idleness.

Catching the child, he berated it and boxed its earssoundly. Jack was at work, but turning, and seeingthe child chastised, he came at the man with quiet fury.With one huge hand in Joe Hopper's collar, he boxedhis ears until he begged for mercy. “Now go,” saidJack, as he released him, “an' know hereafter how itfeels for the strong to beat the weak.”

Of all things, Jack wanted to talk with MargaretAdams; but he could never make up his mind to seekher out, though his love for this woman was the love ofhis life. Often at night he would slip away from theold preacher's cabin and his cot by Captain Tom's bed,to go out and walk around her little cottage and seethat all was safe.

James, her boy, peculiarly interested Jack, but itwas some time before he came to know him. He knewthe boy was Richard Travis's son, and that he alone hadstood between him and his happiness. That but forhim—the son of his mother—he would never havebeen the outlaw that he was, and even now but for this[Pg 338]son he would marry her. But outlaw that he was,Jack Bracken had no free-booting ideas of love. Neverdid man revere purity in woman more than he—thatone thing barred Margaret Adams forever from his life,though not from his heart.

He felt that he would hate James Adams; but insteadhe took to the lad at once—his fine strange ways, hisdignity, courage, his very aloofness and the sorrow hesaw there, drew him to the strange, silent lad.

One day while at work in his shop he looked up andsaw the boy standing in the door watching him closelyand with evident admiration.

“Come in, my lad,” said Jack, laying down his bighammer. “What is yo' name?”

“Well, I don't know that that makes any difference,”he replied smiling, “I might ask you what is yours.”

He smiled: “I guess you an' I could easily understan'each other, lad—what can I do for you?”

“I wanted you to fix my pistol for me, sir—and—andI haven't anything to pay you.”

Jack looked it over—the old duelling pistol. Heknew at once it was Colonel Jeremiah Travis's. Theboy had gotten it somehow. The hair-spring triggerwas out of fix. Jack soon repaired it and said:

“I didn't mean that,” said the boy, flushing. “Ihave no money, but I want to pay you, for I need thispistol—need it very badly.”

The boy did not smile. He ran his hand in hispocket and handed Jack a thin gold ring, worn almostto a wire; but Jack paled, and his hand shookwhen he took it, for he recognized the little ring hehimself had given Margaret Adams years ago.

“It's my mother's,” said the boy, “and some mangave it to her once—long ago—for she is foolishabout it. Now, of late, I think I have found out whothat man was, and I hate him as I do hell itself. I amdetermined she shall never see it again. So take it, orI'll give it to somebody else.”

“If you feel that way about it, little 'un,” said Jackkindly, “I'll keep it for you,” and he put the preciousrelic in his pocket.

“Now, look here, lad,” he said, changing the subject,“but do you know you've got an' oncommon ac'rate gunin this old weepon?”

“It's the salt of the earth,” said Jack, “an' I'll betit's stood 'twixt many a gentleman and death. Can youshoot true, little 'un?”

“Some has been kind enough to give me that character”—hesaid promptly. “Want me to give you afew lessons?”

The boy warmed to him at once. Jack took him behindthe shop, tied a twine string between two treesand having loaded the old pistol with cap and powderand ball, he stepped off thirty paces and shot the stringin twain.

“Good,” said the boy smiling, and Jack handed him[Pg 340]the pistol with a boyish flush of pride in his own face.

“Now, little 'un, it's this away in shootin' a weeponlike this—it's the aim that counts most. But withmy Colts now—the self-actin' ones—you've got tocal'c'late chiefly on another thing—a kinder thing thatain't in the books—the instinct that makes the han' an'the eye act together an' 'lowin', at the same time, forthe leverage on the trigger.” The lad's face glowedwith excitement. Jack saw it and said: “Now I'llgive you a lesson to-day. Would you like to shoot atthat tree?” he asked kindly.

Jack had to smile. “In time—little 'un—in timeyou might. You're a queer lad,” he said again laughing.“You aim pretty high.”

To humor him, Jack tied the string again, and theboy stepped up to the mark and without taking aim,but with that instinct which Jack had just mentioned,that bringing of the hand and eye together unconsciously,he fired and the string flew apart.

“You damned little cuss,” shouted Jack enthusiastically,as he grabbed the boy and hugged him—“tomake a sucker of me that way! To take me in likethat!”

“Oh,” said the boy, “I do nothing but shoot thisthing from morning till night. It was my great grandfather's.”

But another thing happened which cemented the tiemore strongly. One Saturday afternoon Jack took acrowd of his boy friends down to the river for a plunge.The afternoon was bright and warm; the frost of themorning making the water delightful for a shortplunge. It was great sport. They all obeyed him andswam in certain places he marked off—all exceptJames Adams. He boldly swam out into the deep currentof the river and came near losing his life. Jackplunged in in time to reach him, but had to dive to gethim, he having sunk the third time. It required hardwork to revive him on the bank, but the man was strongand swung the lad about by the heels till he got thewater out of his lungs, and his circulation started again.James opened his eyes at last, and Jack said, smiling:“That's all right, little 'un, but I feared onct, you wasgone.”

He took the boy home, and then it was that for thefirst time for fifteen years he saw and talked to thewoman he loved.

“Mother,” said the boy, “this is the new blacksmiththat I've been telling you about, and he is great guns—justpulled me out of the bottom of the Tennesseeriver.”

Jack laughed and said: “The little 'un ca'n't swimas well as he can shoot, ma'am.”

There was no sign of recognition between them, nothingto show they had ever seen each other before, butJack saw her eyes grow tender at the first word he uttered,and he knew that Margaret Adams loved himthen, even as she had loved him years ago.[Pg 342]

He stayed but a short while, and James Adams neversaw the silent battle that was waged in the eyes of each.How Jack Bracken devoured her with his eyes,—thecomely figure, the cleanliness and sweetness of the littlecottage—his painful hungry look for this kind ofpeace and contentment—the contentment of love.

And James noticed that his mother was greatly embarrassed,even to agitation, but he supposed it was becauseof his narrow escape from drowning, and ittouched him even to caressing her, a thing he had neverdone before.

It hurt Jack—that caress. Richard Travis's boy—shewould have been his but for him. He felt a terriblebitterness arising. He turned abruptly to go.

Margaret had not spoken. Then she thanked himand bade James change his clothes. As the boy wentin the next room to do this, she followed Jack to thelittle gate and stood pale and suffering, but not able tospeak.

“Good-bye,” he said, giving her his hand—“youknow, Margaret, my life—why I am here, to be nearyou,—how I love you, have loved you.”

“Jack,” she whispered sadly—“some day you'llknow—some day you'll understand that there arethings in life greater even than the selfishness of yourown heart's happiness.[Pg 343]”

“They can't be,” said Jack bitterly—“that's whatall life's for—heart happiness—love. Why, hungerand love, them's the fust things; them's the man an'the woman; them's the law unto theyselves, the animal,the instinct, the beast that's in us; the things thatmakes God excuse all else we do to get them—we haveto have 'em. He made us so; we have to have 'em—it'sHis own doin'.”

“But,” she said sweetly—“suppose it meant anotherto be despised, reviled, made infamous.”

“They'd have to be,” he said sternly, for he wasthinking of Richard Travis—“they'd have to be, forhe made his own life.”

“Oh, you do not understand,” she cried. “And youcannot now—but wait—wait, and it will be plain.Then you'll know all and—that I love you, Jack.”

CHAPTER XXII

THE BROKEN THREAD

For the first time in years, the next Sunday thelittle church on the mountain side was closed,and all Cottontown wondered. Never beforehad the old man missed a Sabbath afternoon since thechurch had been built. This was to have been Baptistday, and that part of his congregation was sorely disappointed.

For an hour Bud Billings had stood by the little gatelooking down the big stretch of sandy road, expectingto see the familiar shuffling, blind old roan coming:

“Sum'pins happened to Ben Butler,” said Bud atlast—and at thought of such a calamity, he sat downand shed tears.

His simple heart yearned for pity, and feeling somethingpurring against him he picked up the cat andcoddled it.

“You seem to be cultivatin' that cat again, BudBillings,” came a sharp voice from the cabin window.

Bud dropped the animal quickly and struck out acrossthe mountain for the Bishop's cabin.

But he was not prepared for the shock that came tohis simple heart: Shiloh was dying—the Bishop himselftold him so—the Bishop with a strange, set, hardlook in his eyes—a look which Bud had never seen[Pg 345]there before, for it was sorrow mingled with defiance—inthat a great wrong had been done and done over hisprotest. It was culpable sorrow too, somewhat, in thathe had not prevented it, and a heart-hardening sorrowin that it took the best that he loved.

“She jes' collapsed, Bud—sudden't like—wiltedlike a vi'let that's stepped on, an' the Doctor says she'sgot no sho' at all, ther' bein' nothin' to build on. Shedon't kno' nothin'—ain't knowed nothin' since lastnight, an' she thinks she's in the mill—my God, it'sawful! The little thing keeps reaching out in her deliriuman' tryin' to piece the broken threads, an' thenshe falls back pantin' on her pillow an' says, pitful like—'thethread—the thread is broken!' an' that's jes'it, Bud—the threadis broken!”

Tears were running down the old man's cheeks, andthat strange thing which now and then came up in Bud'sthroat and stopped him from talking came again. Hewalked out and sat under a tree in the yard. He lookedat the other children sitting around stupid—numbed—withthe vague look in their faces which told that asorrow had fallen, but without the sensitiveness to knowor care where. He saw a big man, bronzed and hard-featured,but silent and sorrowful, walking to and fro.Now and then he would stop and look earnestly throughthe window at the little still figure on the bed, and thenBud would hear him say—“like little Jack—like littleJack.”

The sun went down—the stars came up—but Budsat there. He could do nothing, but he wanted to bethere.[Pg 346]

When the lamp was lighted in the cabin he could seeall within the home and that an old man held on a largepillow in his lap a little child, and that he carried heraround from window to window for air, and that thechild's eyes were fixed, and she was whiter than the pillow.He also saw an old woman, lantern-jawed andghostly, tidying around and she mumbling and grumblingbecause no one would give the child any turpentine.

And still Bud sat outside, with that lump in his throat,that thing that would not let him speak.

Late at night another man came up with saddle bags,and hitching his horse within a few feet of Bud, walkedinto the cabin.

He was a kindly man, and he stopped in the doorwayand looked at the old man, sitting with the sick childin his lap. Then he pulled a chair up beside the oldman and took the child's thin wrist in his hand. Heshook his head and said:

“When you get through with your remedy and giveher up,” said the old man slowly—“I'm gwinter trymine.”

The Doctor looked at the old man sorrowfully, andafter a while he went out and rode home.

Then the old man sent them all to bed. He alonewould watch the little spark go out.

And Bud alone in the yard saw it all. He knew he[Pg 347]should go home—that it was now past midnight, butsomehow he felt that the Bishop might need him.

He saw the moon go down, and the big constellationsshine out clearer. Now and then he could see the oldnurse reach over and put his ear to the child's mouthto see if it yet breathed. But Bud thought maybe hewas listening for it to speak, for he could see the oldman's lips moving as he did when he prayed at church.And Bud could not understand it, but never before inhis life did he feel so uplifted, as he sat and watched theold man holding the little child and praying. And allthe hours that he sat there, Bud saw that the old manwas praying as he had never prayed before. The intensityof it increased and began to be heard, and thenBud crept up to the window and listened, for he dearlyloved to hear the Bishop, and amid the tears that randown his own cheek, and the quick breathing which camequicker and quicker from the little child in the lap, Budheard:

“Save her, oh, God, an' if I've done any little thingin all my po' an' blunderin' life that's entitled to creditat Yo' han's, give it now to little Shiloh, for You canif You will. If there's any credit to my account in theBook of Heaven, hand it out now to the little one robbedof her all right up to the door of death. She that isnamed Shiloh, which means rest. Do it, oh, God,—takeit from my account if she ain't got none yet herse'f,an' I swear to You with the faith of Abraham thathenceforth I will live to light a fire-brand in this valleythat will burn out this child slavery, upheld now by ig[Pg 348]noranceand the greed of the gold lovers. Save littleShiloh, for You can.”

Bud watched through the crisis, the shorter andshorter breaths, the struggle—the silence when, only byholding the lighted candle to her mouth, could the oldman tell whether she lived or not. And Bud stood outsideand watched his face, lit up like a saint in the lightof the candle falling on his silvery hair, whiter thanthe white sand of Sand Mountain, a stern, strong facewith lips which never ceased moving in prayer, the eyesriveted on the little fluttering lips. And watching thestern, solemn lips set, as Bud had often seen the whitestern face of Sunset Rock, when the clouds loweredaround it, suddenly he saw them relax and break silently,gently, almost imperceptibly into a smile which madethe slubber think the parting sunset had fallen there;and Bud gripped the window-sill outside, and swallowedand swallowed at the thing in his throat, and stood terselywiggling on his strained tendons, and then almostshouted when he saw the smile break all over the oldman's face and light up his eyes till the candle's flickeringlight looked pale, and saw him bow his head andheard him say:

“Lord God Almighty ... My God ... Myown God ... an' You ain't never gone backon me yet.... 'Bless the Lord all my soul, an'all that is within me; bless His Holy Name!'”

Bud could not help it. He laughed out hysterically.And then the old face, still smiling, looked surprisedat the window and said: “Go home, Bud. God is theGreat Doctor, an' He has told me she shall live.[Pg 349]”

Then, as he turned to go, his heart stood still, for heheard Shiloh say in her little piping child voice, but, oh,so distinctly, and so sweetly, like a bird in the forest:

“Pap, sech a sweet dream—an' I went right up tothe gate of heaven an' the angel smiled an' kissed mean' sed:

CHAPTER XXIII

GOD WILL PROVIDE

In a few days Shiloh was up, but the mere shadowof a little waif, following the old man around theplace. She needed rest and good food and clothes;and Bull Run and Seven Days and Appomattox andAtlanta needed them, and where to get them was theproblem which confronted the grandfather.

Shiloh's narrow escape from death had forever settledthe child-labor question with him—he would starve,“by the Grace of God,” as he expressed it, before oneof them should ever go into the mill again.

He had a bitter quarrel about it with Mrs. Watts;but the good old man's fighting blood was up at last—thathatred of child-slavery, which had been so longchoked by the smoke of want, now burst into a blazewhen the shock of it came in Shiloh's collapse—a blazewhich was indeed destined “to light the valley with atorch of fire.”

On the third day Jud Carpenter came out to seeabout it; but at sight of him the old man took downfrom the rack over the hall door the rifle he had carriedthrough the war, and with a determined gesture hestopped the employment agent at the gate: “I am aman of God, Jud Carpenter,” he said in a strange voice,rounded with a deadly determination, “but in the name[Pg 351]of God an' humanity, if you come into that gate aftermy little 'uns, I'll kill you in yo' tracks, jes' as a bis'nbull 'ud stamp the life out of a prowlin' coyote.”

And Jud Carpenter went back to town and spread thereport that the old man was a maniac, that he had losthis mind since Shiloh came so near dying.

“O Jack, Jack,” he said one night, “if I jes' hadsome of that gold you had!”

“I earned it,”—he said simply—“this week—shoeinghorses—it's the sweetest money I ever got.”

“Why, Jack,” said the Bishop—“this will feed usfor a week. Come here, Tabitha,” he called cheerily—“comean' see what happens to them that cast theirbread upon the waters. We tuck in this outcast an'now behold our bread come back ag'in.”

The old woman came up and took it gingerly. Shebit each dollar to test it, remarking finally: “Why,hit's genuwine!”—

“Why, hit's mo' money'n I've seed fur years,” shesaid—“I won't hafter hunt fur 'sang roots to-morrow.”

“Jack,” said the Bishop, after the others had retired,and the two men sat in Captain Tom's cabin—“Jack,I've been thinkin' an' thinkin'—I must make somemoney.”

“That's a lot of money,” said the outlaw quickly.“A heap fur you to need.”

“It's not fur me,” he said—“I don't need it—Iwouldn't have it for myself. It's for him—see!” hepointed to the sleeping man on the low cot. “Jack,I've been talkin' to the Doctor—he examined Cap'nTom's head, and he says it'd be an easy job—that it'sa shame it ain't been done befo'—that in a city to theNorth,—he gave me the name of a surgeon there whocould take that pressure from his head and make himthe man he was befo'—theman, mind you, theman hewas befo'.”

“Then there's Shiloh,” went on the old man—“it'llmean life to her too—life to git away from the mill.

“Cap'n Tom and Shiloh—I must have it, Jack—Imust have it. God will provide a way. I'd give myhome—I'd give everything—just to save them two—Cap'nTom and little Shiloh.”

Jack Bracken stood before him, clutching the handleof his big Colt's revolver, and his hat was pulled lowover his eyes. He was flushed and panting. A glitterwas in his eyes, the glitter of the old desperado spiritreturned.

“Bishop,” he said, “ever' now and then it comesover me ag'in, comes over me—the old dare-devil feelin'.”He held up his pistol: “All week I've missedsomethin'. Last night I fingered it in my sleep.”

He pressed it tenderly. “Jes' you say the word,”he whispered, “an' in a few hours I'll be back here with[Pg 353]the coin. Shipton's bank is dead easy an' he is a moneydevil with a cold heart.” The old man laughed andtook the revolver from him.

“It's hard, I know, Jack, to give up old ways. Imust have made po' Cap'n Tom's and Shiloh's case outterrible to tempt you like that. But not even for them—no—no—noteven for them. Set down.”

Jack sat down, subdued. Then the Bishop pulledout a paper from his pocket and chuckled.

“Now, Jack, you're gwinter have the laugh on me,for the old mood is on me an' I'm yearnin' to do this jes'like you yearn to hold up the bank ag'in. It's the oldinstinct gettin' to wurk. But, Jack, you see—this—mine—ain'tso bad. God sometimes provides in an onexpectedway.”

The old man chuckled again. Then Jack saw hisface turn red—as if half ashamed: “Why should Iblame you, Jack, fur I'm doin' the same thing mightynigh—I'm longin' for the flesh pots of Egypt. As Irode along to-day thinkin'—thinkin'—thinkin'—howcan I save the children an' Cap'n Tom,how can I get alittle money to send Cap'n Tom off to the Doctor—an'also repeatin' to myself—'The Lord will provide—Hewill provide—' I ran up to this, posted on a tree,an' kinder starin' me an' darin' me in the face.”

He laughed again: “Jes' scolded you, Jack, butsee here. See how the old feelin' has come over me atsight of this bragging, blow-hard challenge. It makesmy blood bile.

“Race horse?—Why, Richard Travis wouldn't[Pg 354]know a real race horse if he had one by the tail. It'sdisgustin'—these silk-hat fellers gettin' up a three-corneredrace, an' then openin' it up to the valley—knowin'they've put the entrance fee of fifty dollars so highthat no po' devil in the County can get in, even if hehad a horse equal to theirs.

“Three thousan' dollars!—think of it! An' thenRichard Travis rubs it in. He's havin' fun over it—healways would do that. Read the last line ag'in—inthem big letters:

“Fine fun an' kinder sarcastic, but, Jack, Ben Butlercu'd make them blooded trotters look like steers ledto slaughter.”

“If I had the entrance fee I'd do it once—jes' oncemo' befo' I die? Once mo' to feel the old thrill of victory!An' for Cap'n Tom an' Shiloh. God'll provide,Jack—God'll provide!”

CHAPTER XXIV

BONAPARTE'S WATERLOO

Bonaparte lay on the little front porch—theloafing place which opened into Billy Buch'sbar-room. Apparently, he was asleep and baskingin the warm Autumn sunshine. In reality he wasdoing his star trick and one which could have originatedonly in the brains of a born genius. Feigning sleep, hethus enticed within striking distance all the timid countrydogs visiting Cottontown for the first time, andviewing its wonders with a palpitating heart. Then,like a bolt from the sky, he would fall on them, appalledand paralyzed—a demon with flashing teeth and abbreviatedtail.

When finally released, with lacerated hides and woundedfeelings, they went rapidly homeward, and they toldit in dog language, from Dan to Beersheba, that Cottontownwas full of the terrible and the unexpected.

And a great morning he had had of it—for alreadythree humble and unsuspecting curs, following threehumble and unsuspecting countrymen who had walkedin to get their morning's dram, had fallen victims to hisguile.

Each successful raid of Bonaparte brought forthshouts of laughter from within, in which Billy Buch,the Dutch proprietor, joined. It always ended in Bona[Pg 356]partebeing invited in and treated to a cuspidor of beer—thedrinking, with the cuspidor as his drinking horn,being part of his repertoire. After each one BillyBuch would proudly exclaim:

Then Bonaparte would reel around in a half drunkenswagger and go back to watch for other dogs.

“I tell you, Billy,” said Jud Carpenter—“Jes'watch that dog. They ain't no dog on earth his e'kalwhen it comes to brains. Them country dogs aflyin' upthe road reminds me of old Uncle Billy Alexander whopaid for his shoes in bacon, and paid every spring inadvance for the shoes he was to get in the fall. Butone fall when he rid over after his shoes, the neighborssaid the shoemaker had gone—gone for good—toTexas to live—gone an' left his creditors behin'.Uncle Billy looked long an' earnestly t'wards the settin'sun, raised his han's to heaven an' said: 'Good-bye,my bacon!'”

Bonaparte had partaken of his fourth cuspidor ofbeer and was in a delightful state of swagger and fightwhen he saw an unusual commotion up the street. Whatwas it, thought Bonaparte—a crowd of boys and mensurrounding another man with an organ and leading alittle devil of a hairy thing, dressed up like a man.

His hair bristled with indignation. That little thingdividing honors with him in Cottontown? It was notto be endured for a moment![Pg 357]

Bonaparte stood gazing in indignant wonder. Heslowly arose and shambled along half drunkenly to seewhat it all meant. A crowd had gathered around thething—the insignificant thing which was attractingmore attention in Cottontown than himself, the championdog. Among them were some school boys, and oneof them, a red-headed lad, was telling his brother allabout it.

“Now, Ozzie B., this is a monkey—the furst you'veever seed. He looks jes' like I told you—sorter likea man an' sorter like a nigger an' sorter like a groun'hog.”

“The pretties' thing I ever seed,” said Ozzie B.,walking around and staring delightedly.

Then two men came out of the bar-room—one, thebar-keeper, fat and jolly, and the other lank and withmalicious eyes.

“Look out, mister,” said the tender-hearted Ozzie B.to the Italian, “watch this here dog, Bonaparte; he'sterrible 'bout fightin'. He'll eat yo' monkey if he getsa chance.”

“Monk he noo 'fear'd ze dog,” grinned the Italian.“Monk he whup ze dog.”

“Vot's dat?” exclaimed Billy Buch—“Vot's dat,man, you say? Mine Gott, I bet ten to one dat Ponyparteeats him oop!”

To prove it Bonaparte ran at the monkey savagely.[Pg 358]But the monkey ran up on the Italian's shoulder, wherehe grinned at the dog.

The Italian smiled. Then he ran his hand into adirty leathern belt which he carried around his waist—andslowly counted out some gold coins. With a smilefresh as the skies of Italy, full of all sweetness, gentlenessand suavity:

Billy gasped and grasped Jud around the neck wherehe clung, with his Dutch smile frozen on his lips. Jud,with collapsed under jaw, looked sheepishly around.Bonaparte tried to stand, but he, too, sat down in aheap.

“We will do it, suh,” said Jud, who was the first torecover, and who knew he would get his part of it fromBilly.

“We will!” barked Bonaparte, recovering his equilibriumand snarling at the monkey.

Archie B. ran hastily around to him, made a crossmark in the road with his toe and spat in it.

“You're a fool as usual, Ozzie B.,” he said, shakinghis brother. “Can't you see that Italian knows whathe's about? If he'd risk that twenty, much as he lovesmoney, he'd risk his soul.Venture pee-wee under thebridge—bam—bam—bam![Pg 359]”

Ozzie B. grew quieter. Somehow, what Archie B.said always made things look differently. Then ArchieB. came up and whispered in his ear: “I'm fur themonkey—the Lord is on his side.”

Then Archie B. hunted for his Barlow pocket knife.Around his neck, tied with a string, was a small greasy,dirty bag, containing a piece of gum asafœtida and aten-dollar gold piece. The asafœtida was worn tokeep off contagious diseases, and the gold piece, whichrepresented all his earthly possessions, had been givenhim by his grandmother the year she died.

Archie B. was always ready to “swap sight underseen.” He played marbles for keeps, checkers for apples,ran foot-races for stakes, and even learned hisSunday School lessons for prizes.

The Italian still stood, smiling, when a small red-headedboy came up and touched him on the arm. Heput a ten-dollar gold piece into the Italian's hand.

“Put this in for me, mister—an' make 'em put upa hundred mo'. I want some of that lucre.”

“Jes' wait till we come back,” said Jud. “'Helaughs bes' who laughs las'.'”

Within the bar-room they wiped the cold perspirationfrom their faces and looked speechlessly into each other'seyes. Billy spoke first.

Bonaparte was positive—only let him get to themonkey, he said with his wicked eyes.

Billy looked at Bonaparte, big, swarthy, sinewy andsavage. He thought of the little monkey.

“I'm kinder afraid we'll wake an' find it a dream,Billy—hurry up. Get the cash.”

Billy was thoughtful: “Tree hun'd'd dollars—Jud—eef—eef—”he shook his head.

“Now, Billy,” said Jud patronizingly—“that's nonsense.Bonaparte will eat him alive in two minutes.Now, he bein' my dorg, jes' you put up the coin an' letme in on the ground floor. I'll pay it back—if welose—” he laughed. “If we lose—it's sorter like sayin'if the sun don't rise.”

“Dat ees so, Jud, we peek eet oop in de road. Buteef we don't peek eet oop, Billy ees pusted!”

The news had spread and a crowd had gathered tosee the champion dog of the Tennessee Valley eat up amonkey. All the loafers and ne'er-do-wells of Cottontownwere there. The village had known no such excitementsince the big mill had been built.

They came up and looked sorrowfully at the monkey,[Pg 361]as they would look in the face of the dead. But, consideringthat he had so short a time to live, he returnedthe grin with a reverence which was sacrilegious.

“So han'sum—so han'sum,” said Uncle Billy Caldwell,the squire. “So bright an' han'sum an' to die soyoung!”

There was an electric flash of red as Archie B. ranaround the tree and kicked the sobs back into his brother.

The crowd yelled derisively: “What the monkeydoes to Bonaparte—that's too good?”

“Boy,” said Uncle Billy kindly—“don't you knowit's ag'in nachur—why, the dorg'll eat him up!”

“That's rot,” said Archie B. disdainfully. Thenhotly: “Yes, it wus ag'in nachur when David killedGoliath—when Sampson slew the lion, and when welicked the British. Oh, it wus ag'in nachur then, butit looks mighty nach'ul now, don't it? Jes' you waitan' see what the monkey does to Bonaparte. I tell you,Uncle Billy, the Lord's on the monkey's side—can'tyou see it?”

Uncle Billy smiled and shook his head. He was interruptedby low laughter and cheers. A villager haddrawn a crude picture on a white paste-board and was[Pg 362]showing it around. A huge dog was shaking a lifelessmonkey and under it was written:

Archie B. seized it and spat on it derisively: “Oh,well, that's the way of the worl',” he said. “God makesone wise man to see befo', an' a million fools to see afterwards.”

The depths of life's mysteries have never yet beensounded, and one of the wonders of it all is that onesmall voice praying for flowers in a wilderness of thornsmay live to see them blossom at his feet.

“I've seed stranger things than that,” remarked UncleBilly thoughtfully. “The boy mout be right.”

And now Jud and Billy were seen coming out of thestore, with their hands full of gold.

“Eet's robbery—eet's stealin'”—winked Billy atthe crowd—“eet's like takin' it from a babe—”

With one accord the crowd surged toward the backlot, where Bonaparte, disgusted with the long delay,had lain down on a pile of newly-blown leaves and slept.Around the lot was a solid plank fence, with one gateopen, and here in the lot, sound asleep in the sunshine,lay the champion.

The Italian brought along the monkey in his arms.Archie B. calmly and confidently acting as his bodyguard.Jud walked behind to see that the monkey didnot get away, and behind him came Ozzie B. sobbing inhis hiccoughy way:

He could go no farther than the gate. There hestood weeping and looking at the merciless crowd.[Pg 363]

Bonaparte was still asleep on his pile of leaves. Judwould have called and wakened him, but Archie B. said:“Oh, the monkey will waken him quick enough—lethim alone.”

In the laugh which followed, Jud yielded and ArchieB. won the first blood in the battle of brains.

The crowd now stood silent and breathless in one cornerof the lot. Only Ozzie B.'s sobs were heard. In thefar corner lay Bonaparte.

The Italian stooped, and unlinking the chain of themonkey's collar, sat him on the ground and, pointing tothe sleeping dog, whispered something in Italian intohis pet's ear.

The crowd scarcely drew its breath as it saw the littleanimal slipping across the yard to its death.

Within three feet of the dog he stopped, then springingquickly on Bonaparte, with a screeching, bloodcurdlingyell, grabbed his stump of a tail in both hands,and as the crowd rushed up, they heard its sharp teethclose on Bonaparte's most sensitive member with thedeadly click of a steel trap.

The effect was instantaneous. A battery could nothave brought the champion to his feet quicker. Withhim came the monkey—glued there—a continuationof the dog's tail.

Around and around went Bonaparte, snarling andhowling and making maddening efforts to reach themonkey. But owing to the shortness of Bonaparte'stail, the monkey kept just out of reach, its hind legsbraced against the dog, its teeth and nails glued to thetwo inches of tail.[Pg 364]

Around and around whirled Bonaparte, trying tothrow off the things which had dropped on him, seemingly,from the skies. His growls of defiance turned tobarks, then to bowls of pain and finally, as he ran nearto Archie B., he was heard to break into yelps of frightas he broke away dashing around the lot in a whirlwindof leaves and dust.

“Sick him, Bonaparte, grab him—turn round an'grab him!” shouted Jud pale to his eyes, and shakingwith shame.

Jud rushed and tried to head the dog, but the championseemed to have only one idea in his head—to getaway from the misery which brought up his rear.

Around he went once more, then seeing the gate open,he rushed out, knocking Ozzie B. over into the dust, andwhen the crowd rushed out, nothing could be seen excepta cloud of dust going down the village street, in the hindmost cloud of it a pair of little red coat tails flappingin the breeze.

Then the little red coat tails suddenly dropped out ofthe cloud of dust and came running back up the road tomeet its master.

Billy stood also looking with big Dutch tears in his[Pg 365]eyes. He watched the cloud of dust go over the distanthills. Then he waved his hand sadly—

Thinking he had done something worthy of a penny,he added to Billy Buch's woe by taking off his comicalcap and passing it around for a collection.

He was honest in it, but the crowd took it as irony,and amid their laughter Jud and Billy slipped away.

Uncle Billy, the stake-holder, in handing the moneyover to the Italian, remarked:

“Breens uppa dar”—smiled the Italian as he putten eagles into Archie B.'s hand. All of which madeArchie B. vain, for the crowd now cheered him as theyhad jeered before.

“Come, let's go, Ozzie B.,” he said. “They ain'tno man livin' can stand too much heroism.”

CHAPTER XXV

A BORN NATURALIST

Archie B. trotted off, striking a path leadingthrough the wood. It was a near cut to thelog school house which stood in an old field,partly grown up in scrub-oaks and bushes.

Down in the wood, on a clean bar where a mountainstream had made a bed of white sand, he stopped, pulledoff his coat, counted his gold again with eyes whichscarcely believed it yet, and then turned handspringsover and over in the white sand.

This relieved him of much of the suppressed steamwhich had been under pressure for two hours. Thenhe sat down on a log and counted once more his gold.

Ozzie B., pious, and now doubly so at sight of hisbrother's wealth, stood looking over his shoulder:

“It was the good Lord done it,” he whispered reverently,as he stood and looked longingly at the gold.

“Of course, but I helped at the right time, that's theway the Lord does everything here.”

Then Archie B. went down into his coat pocket andbrought out a hollow rubber ball, with a small hole inone end. Ozzie B. recognized his brother's battery ofGypsy Juice.

“-S-h-h—Ozzie B. It don't pay to show yo' hand[Pg 367]even after you've won—the other feller might rememberit nex' time. 'Taint good business sense. But Ipumped it into Bonaparte at the right time when hewas goin' round an' round an' undecided whether he'dtake holt or git. This settled him—he got. TheLord was on the monkey's side, of course, but He neededGypsy Juice at the right time.”

Then he showed Ozzie B. how it was done. “So, withyo' hand in yo' pocket—so! Then here comes Bonaparteround an' round an' skeered mighty nigh to therunnin' point. So—then sczit! It wus enough.”

Ozzie B. shuddered: “You run a terrible risk doin'that. They'd have killed you if they'd seen it, Jud an'Billy. An' all yo' money up too.”

“Of course,” said his brother, “but Ozzie B., whenyou bluff, bluff bold; when you bet, bet big; when yousteal, steal straight.”

“Archie B.—Archie B., jes' look at the sun! Itmust be 'leven o'clock an—an think what we'll ketchfor bein' late at school. Oh, but I clean forgot—oh—”

“Hold on, hold on!” said his brother running andcatching Ozzie B. in the coat collar. “Now you sho'lyain't goin' to be sech a fool as that? It's too late to gonow; we'll only ketch a whuppin'. We are goin' toplay hookey to-day.”

But Ozzie B. only shook his head. “That's wrong[Pg 368]—sowrong. The Lord—He will not bless us—mawsays so. Oh, I can't, Archie B.”

“Now look here, Ozzie B. The Lord don't expec'nobody but a fool to walk into a tan-hidin'. If you goto school now, old Triggers will tan yo' hide, see?Then he'll send word to paw an' when you get home to-nightyou'll git another one.”

“You've got to lie, Ozzie B. They's times wheneverybody has got to lie. Afterwards when it's all overan' understood they can square it up in other ways.When a man or 'oman is caught and downed it's allover—they can't tell the truth then an' get straight—an'there's no come ag'in! But if they lie an' brazen itout they'll have another chance yet. Then's the timeto stop lyin'—after yo' ain't caught.”

“Oh, I can't,” said Ozzie B., trying to pull away.“I must—must go to school.”

“Rats”—shouted Archie B., seizing him with bothhands and shaking him savagely—“here I am argu'in'with you about a thing that any fool orter see when Icu'd a bin yonder a huntin' for that squirrel nest I wustellin' you about. Now what'll happen if you go toschool? Ole Triggers'll find out where you've beenan' what a-doin'—he'll lick you. Paw'll know allabout it when you git home—he'll lick you.”

Ozzie B. only shook his head: “It's my duty—hateto do it, Archie B.—but it's my duty. If theLord wills me a lickin' for tellin' the truth, I'll, I'llhafter take it—” and he looked very resigned.[Pg 369]

“There was Casabianca, Archie B.—him that stoodon the burnin' deck”—he ventured timidly.

“Tarnashun!” shouted his brother—“an' I hope heis still standin' on a burnin' deck in the other worl'—don'tmention that fool to me!—to stay there an' gitblowed up after the ship was afire an' his dad didn't sho'up.” He spat on a mark: “Venture pee-wee underthe bridge—bam—bam—bam.”

“Another gol-darn id'jut, Ozzie B., like his dad thatput him up to it. Why, if the ole man had missed, thetwo would'er gone down in history as the champion assan' his colt. The risk was too big for the odds. Why,he didn't have one chance in a hundred. Besides, themfellers actin' the fool don't hurt nobody but theyselves.Now you—”

Archie B. lowered his voice to a gentle persuasivewhisper: “Don't do it, ole man—come now—bereasonable. If we stay here in the woods, Triggers'llthink we're at home. Dad will think we're in school.They'll never know no better. It's wrong, but we'llhave plenty o' time to make it right—we've got sixmonths mo' of school this year. Now, if you do go—you'llbe licked twice an'—an', Ozzie B., I'll git lickedwhen paw hears of it to-night.”

“Yes, of course; if a man don't look out for his own[Pg 370]hide, whose goin' to do it for him? Come now, oleman.”

Ozzie B. was silent. His brother saw the narrowforehead wrinkling in indecision. He knew the differenthabits—not principles—of his nature were atwork for mastery. Finally the hypocrite habit prevailed,when he said piously: “We have sowed thewind, Archie B.—we'll hafter reap the whirlwind, likepaw says.”

“Go!” shouted his brother. “Go!” and he helpedhim along with a kick—“Go, since I can't save you.You'll reap the whirlwind, but I won't if my brains cansave me.”

He sat down on a log and watched his brother godown the path, sobbing as usual, when he felt that hewas a martyr. He sat long and thought.

“It's bad,” he sighed—“a man cu'd do so much mo'in life if he didn't hafter waste so much time arguin'with fools. Well, I'm here fur the day an' I'll learnsomethin'. Now, I wanter know if one squirrel er twosquirrels stays in the same hole in winter. Then there'sthe wild-duck. I wanter kno' when the mallards gosouth.”

In a few minutes he had hid himself behind a tree ina clump of brush. He was silent for ten minutes, sosilent that only the falling leaves could be heard. Thenvery cautiously he imitated the call of the gray squirrel—once,twice, and still again. He had not long towait. In a hole high up in a hickory a little gray headpopped out—then a squirrel came out cautiously—firstits head, then half of its body, and each time it[Pg 371]moved looking and listening, with its cunning, brighteyes, taking in everything. Then it frisked out witha flirt of its tail, and sat on a limb nearby. It was followedby another and another. Archie B. watched themfor a half hour, a satisfied smile playing around his lips.He was studying squirrel. He saw them run into thehole again and bring out each a nut and sit on a nearbylimb and eat it.

“That settles that,” he said to himself. “I thoughtthey kept their nuts in the same hole.”

There was the sound of voices behind him and thesquirrels vanished. Archie B. stood up and saw an oldman and some children gathering nuts.

“It's the Bishop an' the little mill-mites. I'll betthey've brought their dinner.”

“I've tuck the kids out of the mill an' I'm givin' 'emtheir fus' day in the woods. Shiloh, there, has beenmighty sick and is weak yet, so we're goin' slow. Mightyglad to run upon you, Archie B. Can't you sho' Shilohthe squirrels? She's never seed one yet, have you,pet?”

“No,” said Shiloh thoughtfully. “Is they like themlittle jorees that sayWake-up, pet! Wake-up, pet?[Pg 372]Oh, do sho' me the squirrel! Mattox, ain't this jes'fine, bein' out of the mill?”

Archie B.'s keen glance took in the well-filled lunchbasket. At once he became brilliantly entertaining.In a few minutes he had Shiloh enraptured at the wood-lorehe told her,—even Bull Run and Seven Days, Atlantaand Appomattox were listening in amazement, sointeresting becomes nature's story when it finds a reader.

And so all the morning Archie B. went with them,and never had they seen so much and enjoyed a day asthey had this one.

And the lunch—how good it tasted! It was a newlife to them. Shiloh's color came in the healthful exercise,and even Bull Run began to look out keenly fromhis dull eyes.

After lunch Shiloh went to sleep on a soft carpet ofBermuda grass with the old man's coat for a blanket,while the other children waded in the branch, and gatherednuts till time to go back home.

It was nearly sun-down when they reached the gateof the little hut on the mountain.

“We must do this often, Archie B.,” said the Bishop,as the children went in, tired and hungry, leaving himand Archie B. at the gate. “I've never seed the little'uns have sech a time, an' it mighty nigh made meyoung ag'in.”

All afternoon Archie B. had been thinking. All dayhe had felt the lumpy, solid thing in the innermostdepths of his jeans pocket, which told him one hundreddollars in gold lay there, and that it would need an explanationwhen he reached home or he was in for the[Pg 373]worst whipping he ever had. Knowing this, he had notbeen thinking all the afternoon for nothing. The oldman bade him good-night, but still Archie B. lingered,hesitated, hung around the gate.

“No-o—thank you, Bishop, but I'd—I'd like to,really tho', jes' to git a little spirt'ul g'idance”—aphrase he had heard his father use so often.

Archie B. rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I'm—I'm—thinkin'of j'inin' the church, Bishop.”

“Bless yo' h'art—that's right. I know'd you'dquit yo' mischeev'us ways an' come in—an' I honor youfur it, Archie B.—praise the Lord!”

“But a thing happened to-day, Bishop, an' it's worryin'me very much. It makes me think, perhaps—I—ain't—ain'tworthy of—the bestowal of—thegrace—you know, the kind I heard you speak of?”

“Well, now; it's this—jes' suppose you wus goin'along now—say to school, an' seed a dorg, say hisname was Bonaparte, wantin' to eat up a little monkey;an' a lot of fellers, say like Jud Carpenter an'Billy Buch, a-bettin' he cu'd do it in ten minutes an'a-sickin' him on the po' little monkey—this big savagedorg. An' suppose now you feel sorry for the monkeyan' somethin'—you can't tell what—but somethin'mighty plain tells you the Lord wus on the monkey'sside—so plain you cu'd read it—like it told David[Pg 374]—an'the dorg wus as mean an' bostful as Goliath wus—”

“Archie B., my son, I'd a been fur the monkey, I sho'would,” said the Bishop impressively.

“Now, what happened? I'm mighty inter'sted—oh,that is good. I'm bettin' the monkey downed him,the Lord bein' on his side.”

“But, s'pose furst,” went on Archie B. argumentatively,“that you wanted to give some money fur alittle church that you wanted to j'ine—up on the mountainside, a little po'-fo'k church, that depended oncharity—”

“I understan's, I understan's, Archie B., that wusthe Lord's doin's,—ten to one on the monkey, Archie—tento one!”

“An' that you had ten dollars in gold around yo'neck in a little bag, given you by your ole Granny whenshe died—an' knowin' how the Lord wus for the monkey,an' it bein' a dead cinch, an' all that—an' thesefellers blowin' an' offerin' to bet ten to one—an' seein'you c'ud pick it up in the road—all for the littlechurch, mind you, Bishop—”

“Archie B.,” exclaimed the old man excitedly,“them bein' the facts an' the thing at stake, with thatole dorg an' Jud Carpenter at the bottom of it, I'd aput it up on the monkey, son—fur charity, you know,an' fur the principle of it,—I'd a put it up, Archie B.,if I'd lost ever' cent![Pg 375]”

“Exactly, Bishop, an' I did—at ten to one—thinkof the odds! Ten to one, mighty nigh as great as wusag'in David.”

“An' you won, of course, Archie B., you won in awalk?” said the old man breathlessly. “God was furyou an' the monkey.”

Archie B. smiled triumphantly and pulled out hishandful of gold. The old man sat down on a log,dazed.

“Archie B., sho'ly, sho'ly, not all that? An' lickedthe dorg, an' that gang, an' cleaned 'em up?”

Archie B. told him the story with all the quaint histrionictalent of his exuberant nature.

“An' Bonaparte went down the road with the monkeyholt his tail—the champion dorg—an' you wonall that?”

“All fur charity, Bishop, except, you know, part furkeeps as a kinder nes' egg.”

“Of co-u-r-se—Archie B., of—course, no harm inthe worl'—if—if—my son—if you carry out youroriginal ideas, or promise, ruther; it won't work if yougo back on yo' promise to God. 'God moves in a mysteriousway his wonders to perform,'” added the Bishopsolemnly.

“Do you know, Archie B., I prayed for this las'night? Now you tell me God don't answer prayers?”

He was silent, touched. Seldom before had a prayerof his been answered so directly.[Pg 376]

“Fur charity, Archie B., fur charity. I'll take it,an' little you know what this may mean.”

Archie B. was silent. So far so good, but it wasplain from his still thoughtful looks that he had onlyhalf won out yet. He had heard the old man speak,and there had been a huskiness about his voice.

“Now there is paw, Bishop—you know he ain't jeslike you—he don't see so far. He might not understan'it. Would you mind jes' droppin' him a line, youknow? I'll take it to him—in case he looks at thething differently, you know, fur whut you write will goa long way with him.”

The old man smiled: “Of course, Archie B.—hemust understan' it. Of course, it 'ud never do to havehim spile as good a thing as that—an' fur charity, allfur the Lord—”

“An' why I didn't go to school, helpin' you all inthe woods,” put in Archie B.

And he scribbled a few lines on the fly leaf of hisnote book for Archie B. to take home:

Archie B. struck out across the fields jingling hisremaining gold and whistling. At home it was as heexpected. Patsy met him at the gate. One look intoher expectant face showed him that she was delighted atthe prospect of his punishment. It was her hope deferred,now long unfulfilled. He had always gottenout before, but now[Pg 377]—

“Walk in, Mister Gambler, Mr. Hookey—walk in—pawis waitin' fur you,” she said, smirking.

The Deacon stood in the door, silent, grim, determined.In his hand were well-seasoned hickories. Byhim stood his wife more silent, more grim, more determined.

“Pull off yo' coat, Archie B.,” said the Deacon, “I'mgwinter lick you fur gamblin'.”

“Pull off yo' coat, Archie B.,” said his mother, “I'mgoin' to lick you fur playin' hookey.”

“Pull it off, Archie B.,” said his sister bossily, “I'mgoin' to stan' by an' see.”

“That's all right,” he said, “Many a man has beenlicked befo' fur bein' on the Lord's side.”

“You mean to tell me, Archie B. Butts, you bet ona dorg fight sho' nuff,” said his father, nervously handlinghis hickories.

“Yes, I done all that—fur charity,” he said boldly,and with a victorious ring in his voice.

His father paled at the thought of it: “An' lost it,Archie B., lost it, my son. Oh, I mus' teach you howsinful it is to gamble.”

Archie B. replied by running his hand deep down[Pg 378]into his pocket and bringing up a handful of gold—fiveeagles!

His father dropped the switches and stared. Hismother sat down suddenly in a chair and Patsy reachedout, took it and counted it deliberately:—

“That's jes' ha'f of it,” said Archie B. indifferently.“I gave the old Bishop five of 'em—fur—charity.Here's his note.”

The Deacon read it and rubbed his chin thoughtfully:“That's a different thing,” he said after awhile. “Entirely different proposition, my son.”

“Yes, it 'pears to be,” said his mother counting thegold again. “We'll jes' keep three of 'em, Archie B.They'll come in handy this winter.”

“Patsy, fetch him in the hot waffles an' syrup—thelad 'pears to be a leetle tired,” said his mother.

“How many whippings did you git, Archie B.?”whispered his brother as Archie B., after entertainingthe family for an hour, all about the great fight, crawledinto bed: “I got three,” went on Ozzie B. “Triggersfust, then paw, then maw.”

“I can't see why that was,” wailed Ozzie B. “Idone nothin' an'—an'—got all—all—the—lickin'!”

“You jes' reaped my whirlwind,” sneered his brother—“Allfools do![Pg 379]”

But later he felt so sorry for poor Ozzie B. becausehe could not lie on his back at all, that he gave him oneof his beautiful coins to go to sleep.

CHAPTER XXVI

BEN BUTLER'S LAST RACE

It was the last afternoon of the fair, and the greatrace was to come off at three o'clock.

There is nothing so typical as a fair in the TennesseeValley. It is the one time in the year when everybodymeets everybody else. Besides being the harvesttime of crops, of friendships, of happy interchange ofthought and feeling, it is also the harvest time of perfectedhorseflesh.

The forenoon had been given to social intercourse,the display of livestock, the exhibits of deft womenfingers, of housewife skill, of the tradesman, of themerchant, of cotton—cotton, in every form and shape.

At noon, under the trees, lunch had been spread—abountiful lunch, spreading as it did from the soft grassof one tree to that of another—as family after familyspread their linen—an almost unbroken line of friedchicken, flanked with pickles and salad, and all the richprofusion of the country wife's pantry.

And now, after lunch, the grand stand had beenquickly filled, for the fame of the great race had spreadup and down the valley, and the valley dearly loved ahorse-race.

Five hundred dollars was considered a large purse,but this race was three thousand![Pg 381]

Three thousand! It would buy a farm. It wouldbuy thirty mules, and twice that many steers. It wouldmake a family independent for life.

And to-day it was given to see which one, of threerich men, owned the best horse.

Sturdy farmers with fat daughters, jaded wives, andlusty sons who stepped awkwardly on everything onthe promenade, and in trying to get off stepped onthemselves. They went about, with broad, strong,stooping shoulders, and short coats that sagged in themiddle, dropping under-jaws, and eyes that were kindlyand shrewd.

The town people were better dressed and fed than thecountry people, and but only half way in fashion betweenthe city and country, yet knowing it not.

The infield around the judges' stand, and in front ofthe grand-stand, was thronged with surreys and buggies,and filled with ladies and their beaux. A ripple of excitementhad gone up when Richard Travis drove upin a tally-ho. It was filled with gay gowns and alivewith merriment and laughter, and though Alice Westmorewas supposed to be on the driver's box with theowner, she was not there.

Tennesseans were there in force to back Flecker's gelding—Trumps,and they played freely and made muchnoise. Col. Troup's mare—Trombine—had her partisanswho were also vociferous. But Travis's entry,Lizzette, was a favorite, and, when he appeared on thetrack to warm up, the valley shouted itself hoarse.[Pg 382]

Then Flecker shot out of the draw-gate and spunmerrily around the track, and Col. Troup joined himwith Trombine, and the audience watched the three trotterswarm up and shouted or applauded each as it spunpast the grand-stand.

Then the starting-judge held up a silk bag in thecenter of the wire. It held three thousand dollars ingold, and it swung around and then settled, to a shining,shimmering silken sack, swaying the wire as it flashedin the sun.

The starting-judge clanged his bell, but the drivers,being gentlemen, were heedless of rules and drove onaround still warming up.

The starting-judge was about to clang again—thistime more positively—when there appeared at thedraw-gate a new comer, the sight of whose horse andappointments set the grand-stand into a wild roar ofmingled laughter and applause.

As he drove demurely on the track, he lifted quaintlyand stiffly his old hat and smiled.

He was followed by the village blacksmith, whose verylooks told that they meant business and were out forblood. The audience did not like the looks of this blacksmith—hewas too stern for the fun they were having.But they recognized the shambling creature who followedhim as Bud Billings, and they shouted with laughterwhen they saw he had a sponge and bucket!

Cottontown wanted to laugh, but it was too tired. Itmerely grinned and nudged one another. For Travishad given a half holiday and all Cottontown was there.[Pg 383]

The old man's outfit brought out the greatestlaughter. The cart was a big cheap thing, new andbrightly repainted, and it rattled frightfully. The harnesswas a combination—the saddle was made of softsheep skin, the wool next to the horse, as were also thehead-stall of the bridle, the breast-strap and the breeching.The rest of it was undressed leather, and the oldman had evidently made it himself.

But Ben Butler—never had he looked so fine. Blind,cat-hammed and pacing along,—but his sides were slickand hard, his quarters rubber.

The old man had not been training him on the sandystretches of Sand Mountain for nothing.

A man with half an eye could have seen it, but thefunny people in the grand-stand saw only the harness,and the blind sunken eyes of the old horse. So theyshouted and cat-called and jeered. The outfit ambledup to the starting judge, and the old driver handed himfifty dollars.

The Bishop ran his hand in his pocket, while Budheld Ben Butler's head and kept saying with comicalseriousness: “Whoa—whoa, sah!”

Pending it all, and seeing that more talk was coming,Ben Butler promptly went to sleep. Finally theold man brought out a faded poster. It was Travis'schallenge and conditions.[Pg 384]

“Jes' read it,” said the old driver, “an' see if I ain'tunder the conditions.”

The starting judge read: “Open to the TennesseeValley—trot or pace. Parties entering, other than thematch makers, to pay fifty dollars at the wire.”

“Phew!” said the starting judge, as he scratchedhis head. Then he stroked his chin and re-read theconditions, looking humorously down over his glassesat the queer combination before him.

The audience took it in and began to shout: “Lethim in! Let him in! It's fair!”

Flecker, good-natured and fat, his horse in a warming-upfoam, laughed till he swayed in the sulky. Col.Troup, dignified and reserved, said nothing. But Travisswore.

“It's preposterous!—it will make the race a farce.We're out for blood and that purse. This is no comedy,”he said.

The old man only smiled and said: “I'm sorry tospile the sport of gentlemen, but bein' gentlemen, Iknow they will stan' by their own rules.”

“It's here in black and white, Travis,” said the starter,“You made it yourself.”

“Oh, hell,” said Travis hotly, “that was mere formand to satisfy the Valley. I thought the entrance feewould bar any outsider.[Pg 385]”

“Let him start, let the Hill-Billy start!” shoutedthe crowd, and then there was a tumult of hisses, groansand cat-calls.

Then it was passed from mouth to mouth that it wasthe old Cottontown preacher, and the excitement grewintense.

It was the most comical, most splendid joke everplayed in the Valley. Travis was not popular, neitherwas the dignified Col. Troup. Up to this time thecrowd had not cared who won the purse; nor had theycared which of the pretty trotters received the crown.It meant only a little more swagger and show and moneyto throw away.

But here was something human, pathetic. Here wasa touch of the stuff that made the grand-stand kin tothe old man. The disreputable cart, the lifeless, blindold pacer, the home-made harness, the seediness of itall—the pathos.

Here was the quaint old man, who, all his life, hadgiven for others, here was the ex-overseer and the ex-trainerof the Travis stables, trying to win the pursefrom gentlemen.

“Ten to one,” said a prosperous looking man, as helooked quietly on—“the Bishop wants it for charityor another church. Like as not he knows of somepoverty-stricken family he's going to feed.”

“If that's so,” shouted two young fellows who werelistening, and who were partisans of Flecker of Ten[Pg 386]nessee,“if that's the way of it, we'll go over and takea hand in seeing that he has fair play.”

They arose hastily, each shifting a pistol in his pocket,and butted through the crowd which was throngedaround the Judge's stand, where the old man sat quietlysmiling from his cart, and Travis and Troup were talkingearnestly.

“Damned if I let Trombine start against such acombination as that, sah. I'll drive off the track now,sah—damned if I don't, sah!”

But the two young men had spoken to big fat Fleckerof Tennessee, and he arose in his sulky-seat and said:“Now, gentlemen, clear the track and let us race. Wewill let the old man start. Say, old man,” he laughed,“you won't feel bad if we shut you out the fust heat,eh?”

“No,” smiled the Bishop—“an' I 'spec you will.Why, the old hoss ain't raced in ten years.”

Some rowdy had crowded around the old cart andattempted to unscrew the axle tap. But some onereached over the head of the crowd and gripped himwhere his shoulder and arm met, and pulled him forwardand twirled him around like a top.

It was enough. It was ten minutes before he couldlift up his arm at all; it felt dead.

The crowd were for the old man. They still shouted[Pg 387]—“Fairplay, fair play—let him start,” and they camethronging and crowding on the track.

“Clear the track,” cried the starting-judge to adeputy sheriff in charge—“I'll let him start.”

“Why, damn him,” he said, “we'll lose him the firstheat. I'll shut him out myself.”

“We will, sah, we will!” said Col. Troup. “But ifthat rattling contraption skeers my mare, I'll appeal tothe National Association, sah. I'll appeal—sah,” andhe drove off up the stretch, hotter than his mare.

And now the track was cleared—the grand standhummed and buzzed with excitement.

It was indeed the greatest joke ever played in theTennessee Valley. Not that there was going to be anychange in the race, not that the old preacher had anychance, driving as he did this bundle of ribs and ugliness,and hitched to such a cart—but that he daredtry it at all, and against the swells of horsedom. Therewould be one heat of desperate fun and then—

A good-natured, spasmodic gulp of laughter ran clearthrough the grand-stand, and along with it, from excitedgroups, from the promenade, from the track andinfield and stables, even, came such expressions as these:

The old man had a habit when keyed to high pitch,emotionally, of talking to himself. He seemed to regardhimself as a third person, and this is the way hetold it, heat by heat:

“Fus' heat, Ben Butler—Now if we can manageto save our distance an' leave the flag a few yards, we'llbe doin' mighty well. Long time since you stretchedthem ole muscles of yo's in a race—long time—an'they're tied up and sore. Ever' heat'll be a wuck outto you till you git hot. If I kin only stay in till you githot—(Clang—clang—clang). That's the starter'sbell. Yes—we'll score now—the fus' heat'll be ourwuss. They've got it in fur us—they'll set the pacean' try to shet us out an', likely es not, do it. God he'pus—Shiloh—Cap'n Tom—it's only for them, BenButler—fur them. (Clang!—Clang!) Slow there—heh—heh—Steady—ah-h!”

They had scored down for the first time, but the hot-headshad been too fast for the old ambler. In theirdesire to shut him out, they rushed away like a whirlwind.The old pacer followed, rocking and rolling inhis lazy way. He wiggled, shuffled, skipped, and whenthe strain told on the sore old muscles, he winced, andwas left at the wire!

“Go back, gentlemen, go back,” shouted the starter,“and try again. The old pacer was on a break”—Clang—clang—clang!and he jerked his bell vigorously.

Travis was furious as he drove slowly back. “I hadto pull my mare double to stop her,” he called to thestarter. “We were all aligned but the old pacer—whydidn't you let us go?”

“Because I am starting these horses by the rules,Mr. Travis. I know my business,” said the starterhotly.

They all turned again and came down, the numberson the drivers' arms showing 1, 2, 3, 4—Travis, Troup,Flecker, and the old Bishop, respectively.

“Ben Butler, ole hoss, this ain't no joke—you mus'go this time. We ain't goin' to meetin'—Stretch themole legs as you did!—oh, that's better—ef we couldonly score a few more times—look!—ah!”

They came down the third time. “Now, thank God,he's jes' beginnin' to unlimber,” chuckled the old man asthe old pacer, catching on to the game and warming to[Pg 390]his work, was only a length behind at the wire, as theyscored the fourth time, when Flecker's mare flew up inthe air and again the bell clanged.

The crowd grew impatient. The starter warned themthat time was up and that he'd start them the next timethey came down if he had the ghost of a chance.

Again they aligned and came thundering down. Theold man was pale and silent, and Ben Butler felt thelines telegraphing nervous messages to his bitted mouth;but all he heard was: “Shiloh—Cap'n Tom—Steady,old hoss!”

It sounded like a gun-shot in the old man's ears.There was a whirr of wheels, a patter of feet grapplingwith dirt and throwing it all over him—another whirrand flutter and buzz as of a covey flushed, and thefield was off, leaving him trailing.

“Whew, Ben Butler, we're in fur it now—the Lord'a-mussy on our souls! Take the pole—s'artenly,—it'sall yowin, since you're behin'! Steady ole hoss,there's one consolation,—they're breakin' the wind foryou, an' thank God!—yes Ben Butler, look! they'reafter one other,—they're racin' like Tam O'Shanter an'cookin' each other to a gnat's heel—Oh, Lord whatfools! It'll tell on 'em—if we can only save our distance—thisheat—jes' save our distance—Wh-o-p,sah! Oh, my Lord, told you so—Troup's mare's upan' dancin' like a swamp rabbit by moonlight. Who-op,sah, steady ole hoss—there now we've passed him—Trombineand Lizette ahead—steady—let 'em go, bigdevil, little devil, an' pumpin' each other—Go now, go[Pg 391]old hoss, now's the time to save our distance—go oldhoss, step lively now—'tain't no meetin', no SundaySchool—it's life, bread and a chance for Cap'n Tom!Oh, but you ain't forgot entirely, no-no,—ain't forgotthat you come in answer to prayer, ain't forgot that halfin one-one, ain't forgot yo' pious raisin', yo' pedigree.Ain't forgot you're racin' for humanity an' a chance,ain't forgot—there! the flag—my God and safe!”

He had passed the flag. Lizzette and Trombine werealready at the wire, but poor Troup—his mare hadnever been able to settle after her wild break, and shecaught the flag square in the face.

The crowd met the old pacer with a yell of delight.He had not been shut out—marvel of marvels!

Bud and Jack met him with water and a blanket.How proud they were! But the heavy old cart hadtold on Ben Butler. He panted like a hound, he staggeredand was distressed.

“He'll get over that,” said the old driver cheerily toBud's tearful gaze—“he ain't used to it yet—ten years,think of it,” and Jack led Ben Butler blanketed away.

1st Heat:Trumps, 1st;Lizzette, 2nd;Ben Butler,3rd;Trombine distanced.Time, 2:17½.

Then he heard a man swearing elegantly. It wasCol. Troup. He was sitting in his sulky in front of thegrand stand and talking to Travis and the genialFlecker:

“A most unprofessional thing, gentlemen,—damned[Pg 392]unprofessional, sah, to shut me out. Yes, sah, to shutout a gentleman, sah, an' the first heat, sah, with hishorse on a break.”

“What!” said Flecker excitedly—“you, Col'nel?Shut out—why, I thought it was the old pacer.”

“I swear I did, too, Colonel,” said Travis apologetically.“I heard something rattling and gallopingalong—I thought it was the old pacer and I drove likethe devil to shut him out!”

He walked around and swore for ten minutes. Thenhe quieted down and began to think. He was shut out—hismoney was gone. But—“By gad, sah,” he saidcracking his whip—“By gad I'll do it!”

Ten minutes later as Ben Butler, cooled and calm,was being led out for the second heat, Col. Troup puffedboisterously up to the Bishop: “Old man, by gad,sah, I want you to use my sulky and harness. It's ahundred pounds lighter than that old ox-cart you'vegot. I'm goin' to he'p you, sah, beat that pair of shortdogs that shets out a gentleman with his horse on abreak, sah!”

And that was how the old man drew first blood andcame out in a new sulky and harness.

They got the word at the first score, Trumps andLizzette going at it hammer and tongs—Ben Butler,as usual, trailing.[Pg 393]

“Steady, old hoss, steady agin'—jes' save our distance,that's all—they've done forgot us—done forgotus—don't know we're here. They'll burn up eachother an' then, oh, Ben Butler, God he'p us! Cap'nTom, Cap'n Tom an' Shiloh! Steady, whoa there!—Lord,how you're lar'nin'! How the old clip is comin'agin! Ho—hi—there ole hoss—here we are—whata bresh of speed he's got—hi—ho!”

And the grand-stand was cheering again, and as theold man rode up the judges hung out:

The old man looked at it in wonder: “Two fifteenan' not shet out, Ben Butler? Only five lengths behind?My God, can we make it—can we make it?”

Trumps now had two heats. As the race was bestthree out of five, one more heat meant that Flecker ofTennessee would win the race and the purse. But whenthe old man glanced at Trumps, his experienced eye toldhim the gallant gelding was all out—he was distressedgreatly—in a paroxyism of thumps. He glanced atLizzette. She was breathing freely and was fresh. Hisheart fell.

“Trumps is done fur, Ben Butler, but Lizzette—whatwill Travis do?—Ah, ole hoss, we're up ag'in it!”

It was too true, as the next heat proved. AwayTrumps and Lizzette went, forgetful of all else, while[Pg 394]the old man trailed behind, talking to, soothing, coaxingthe old horse and driving him as only a master could.

“They're at it ag'in—ole hoss, what fools! Whoa—steadythere! Trumps is done fur, an' you'll see—Nosand left in his crops, cooked—watch an' see, oh,my, Ben Butler—there—he's up now—up an' donefur—Go now—move some—hi—”

Trumps and Lizzette had raced it out to the headof the stretch. But Trumps was not equal to the clipwhich Travis had made cyclonic, knowing the horse wassadly distressed. Trumps stood it as long as flesh andblood could, and then jumped into the air, in a heart-broken,tired break. It was then that the old man beganto drive, and moving like well-balanced machinery, theold pacer caught again the spirit of his youth, as theold time speed came back, and leaving Trumps behindhe even butted his bull-dog nose into the seat of Lizzette'ssulky, and clung determinedly there, right up tothe wire, beaten only by a length.

Travis bit his lip—“what did it all mean? He hadwon the heat. Trumps was shut out, and there theywere yelling for the old pacer!”

“Great hoss! great! great!” yelled Bud as hetrotted along bringing the blanket.[Pg 395]

The old man bowed his head in the sulky-seat, a moment,amid the crash of the band and the noise of thecrowd:

“Dear God—my Father—I thank Thee. Not forme—not for Ben Butler—but for life—life—forShiloh—and Cap'n Tom. Help us—old and blind—helpus! O God—”

Col. Troup grasped his hand. The Tennesseans,followers of Flecker, flocked around him. Flecker, too,was there—chagrined, maddened—he too had joinedhis forces with the old Bishop.

“Great Scott, old man, how you do drive! We'vehedged on you—me and the Colonel—we've put upa thousand each that you'll win. We've cooked ourselvesgood and hard. Now drive from hell to breakfastnext heat, and Travis is yo' meat! Fools that we were!We've cut each other to pieces like a pair of cats tiedby the tails. Travis is at your mercy.”

“Yes, sah, Flecker is right. Travis is yo' meat,sah,” said the Colonel, solemnly.

The old man walked around with his lips moving silently,and a great pulsing, bursting, gripping pain inhis heart—a pain which was half a hope and halfdespair.

The crowd was on tip-toe. Never before had such arace been paced in the Tennessee Valley. Could he takethe next heat from Lizzette? If he could, he had herat his mercy.

Grimly they scored down. Travis sullen that he hadto fight the old pacer, but confident of shutting himout this time. Confident and maddened. The old man,[Pg 396]as was his wont in great emergencies, had put a bulletin his mouth to clinch his teeth on. He had learned itfrom Col. Jeremiah Travis, who said Jackson did itwhen he killed Dickinson, and at Tallapoosa, and atNew Orleans.

And he heard Travis whirl away with a bitter cursethat floated back. Then the old man shot out in thelong, stealing, time-eating stride the old pacer had, andcoming up just behind Lizzette's sulky he hung there ina death struggle.

One quarter, half, three-quarters, and still they swungaround—locked—Travis bitter with hot oaths and theold man pale with prayer. He could see Travis's eyesflashing lightning hatred across the narrow space betweenthem—hatred, curses, but the old man prayed on.

He reached out in the old way, lifted his horse bysheer great force and fairly flung him ahead!—

“Flu-r-r-r!” it was Lizzette's breath as he wentby her. He shot his eyes quickly sideways as sheflailed the air with her forefeet within a foot of hishead. Her eyes glowed, sunken,—beat—in theirsockets; with mouth wide open, collapsed, frantic, inheart-broken dismay, she wabbled, staggered and quit!

But that instant in the air with her mouth wide openwithin a foot of the old man's head her lower teethexposed, the old driver saw she was only four years old.Why had he noticed it? What mental telepathy in[Pg 397]great crises cause us to see the trifles on which often thedestiny of our life hangs?

Ben Butler, stubborn, flying, was shaking his gameold head in a bull-dog way as he went under the wire.It maddened him to be pulled up.

“So, softly, softly old fellow! We've got 'em licked,you've got religin' in yo' heels, too. Ain't been goin'to church for ten years for nothin'!”

The old man wanted to shout, and yet he was actuallyshedding tears, talking hysterically and trembling allover. He heard in a dazed way the yells and thunderfrom the grand-stand. But he was faint and dizzy, andworst of all, as he laughed to himself and said: “Kindersissy an' soft in spots.”

Jack and Bud had Ben Butler and were gone. Nowonder the grand-stand pulsed with human emotion.Never before had anything been done like this. Theold, blind pacer,—the quaint old preacher—the thingthey were going to shut out,—the pathos, the splendorof it all,—shook them as humanity will ever be shakenwhen the rejected stone comes up in the beauty of purestmarble. Here it was:

What a record it was for the old pacer! Startingbarely able to save his distance, he had grown in speedand strength and now had the mare at his mercy—thetwo more heats he had yet to win would be a walk aroundfor him.

“Oh, by gad, sah,” shouted Col. Troup, pompously.[Pg 398]“I guess I've hedged all right. Travis will pay mythousand. He'll know how to shet out gentlemen thenex' time. Oh, by gad, sah!”

Then the old preacher did something, but why henever could explain. It seemed intuition when hethought of it afterwards. Calling Col. Troup to himhe said: “I'm kinder silly an' groggy, Col'nel, butI wish you'd go an' look in her mouth an' see how oldLizzette is.”

“Oh, I dunno, Col'nel—but when a thing comes onme that away, maybe it's because I'm so nervous an'upsot, but somehow I seem to have a second sight whenI git in this fix. I wanted you to tell me.”

“What's it got to do with the race, sah! There isno bar to age. Have you any susp—”

“Oh, no—no—Col'nel, it's jes' a warnin', an intuition.I've had 'em often, it's always from God. Ib'leeve it's Him tellin' me to watch, watch an' pray. Ihad it when Ben Butler come, thar, come in answer toprayer—”

Colonel Troup smiled and walked off. In a shortwhile he sauntered carelessly back:

The Colonel smiled and whispered: “Oh, how cookedshe is! Dead on her feet, dead. Don't drive yo' olepacer hard—jes' walk around him, sah. Do as you[Pg 399]please, you've earned the privilege. It's yo' walk overan' yo' money.”

The fifth heat was almost a repetition of the fourth,the old pacer beating the tired mare cruelly, pacing herto a standstill. It was all over with Lizzette, anyonecould see that. The judges hung out:

Travis's face was set, set in pain and disappointmentwhen he went to the stable. He looked away off, hesaw no one. He smoked. He walked over to the stallwhere they were cooling Lizzette out.

In the next stall stood Sadie B. She had been drivenaround by Jud Carpenter, between heats, to exercise her,he had said. She was warmed up, and ready for speed.

Travis stood watching Lizzette cool out. Jud cameup and stood looking searchingly at him. There wasbut a glance and a nod, and Travis walked over to thegrand-stand, light-hearted and even jolly, where hestood in a group of society folks.

He was met by a protest of feminine raillery: “Oh,our gloves, our candy! Oh, Mr. Travis, to get beat thatway!”

He laughed: “I'll pay all you ladies lose. I wasjust playing with the old pacer. Bet more gloves andcandy on the next heat!”

Travis smiled and walked off. He turned at the gateand threw them back a bantering kiss.[Pg 400]

“It does me good—kinder unkeys me,” he said toBud and Jack. He put his ear to the old horses' flank—itpulsed strong and true.

Then he laughed to himself. It vexed him, for itwas half hysterical and he kept saying over to himself:

Some one touched his arm. It was Jack: “Bishop,Bishop, time's up! We're ready. Do you hear thebell clanging?”

“Here, you're kinder feeble, weak an', an' sortersilly. Why, Bishop, you're recitin' poetry—” saidJack apologetically. “A man's gone when he does that—here!”

“Jes' a swaller or two, Bishop,” he said coaxingly,as one talking to a child—“Quick, now, you're notyo'self exactly—you've dropped into poetry.”

“I guess I am a little teched, Jack, but I don't needthat when I can get poetry, sech poetry as is now inme. Jack, do you want to hear the gran'est verse everwrit in poetry?[Pg 401]”

“No—no, Bishop, don't! Jack Bracken's yo'friend, he'll freeze to you. You'll be all right soon.It's jes' a little spell. Brace up an' drop that stuff.”

Feebly he leaned on Jack, the tears ran down hischeek: “'Tain't weakness, Jack, 'tain't that—it's joy,it's love of God, Whose done so much for me. It's theglory, glory of them lines—Oh, God—what a lineof poetry!”

Ben Butler stood ready, the bell clanged again. Jackhelped him into the sulky; never had he seen the oldman so feeble. Travis was already at the post.

They got the word immediately, but to the old man'sdismay, Travis's mare shot away like a scared doe,trotting as frictionless as a glazed emery wheel.

The old man shook up Ben Butler and wondered whyhe seemed to stand so still. The old horse did his best,he paced as he never had before, but the flying thing[Pg 402]like a red demon flitted always just before him, a thingwith tendons of steel and feet of fire.

“Oh, God, Ben Butler, what is it—what? Haveyou quit on me, ole hoss?—you, Ben Butler, you thatcome in answer to prayer? My God, Cap'n Tom,Shiloh!”

At the half, at the three-quarters: “Now ole hoss!”And the old horse responded gamely, grandly. Hethundered like a cyclone bursting through a river-bed.Foot by foot, inch by inch, he came up to Travis'smare. Nose to nose they flew along. There was asavage yell—a loud cracking of Travis' whip in theblind horse's ears. Never had the sightless old horsehad such a fright! He could not see—he could onlyhear the terrible, savage yell. Frightened, he forgot,he dodged, he wavered—

It was a small trick of Travis', for though the oldpacer came with a rush that swept everything before it,the drive had been made too late. Travis had the heatwon already.

Still there was no rule against it. He could yell andcrack his whip and make all the noise he wished, and ifthe other horse was frightened, it was the fault of hisnerves. Everybody who knew anything of racing knewthat.

But he had won the heat! What did he care? Hecould scarcely stop his mare. She seemed like a bird and[Pg 403]as fresh. He pulled her double to make her turn andcome back after winning, and as she came she still foughtthe bit.

As he turned, he almost ran into the old pacer jogging,broken-hearted behind. The mare's mouth waswide open, and the Bishop's trained eye fell on the longtusk-like lower teeth, flashing in the sun.

Startled, he quivered from head to foot. He wouldnot believe his own eyes. He looked closely again.There was no doubt of it—she was eight years old!

In an instant he knew—his heart sank, “We'rerobbed, Cap'n Tom—Shiloh—my God!”

Travis drove smilingly back, amid hisses and cheersand the fluttering of ladies' handkerchiefs in the boxes.

“How about the gloves and candy now?” he calledto them with his cap in his hand.

When Flecker of Tennessee saw the time hung out,he jumped from his seat exclaiming: “Six heats andthe last heat the fastest? Who ever heard of a tiredmare cutting ten seconds off that way? By the eternal,but something's wrong there.”

“Six heats an' the last one the fastest—By gad,sah,” said Col. Troup. “It is strange. That mare Lizzetteis a wonder, an' by gad, sah, didn't the old pacercome? By gad, but if he'd begun that drive jus' fiftyyards sooner—our money”—

Flecker groaned: “We're gone, Colonel—onethousand we put up and the one we hedged with.[Pg 404]”

“By gad, sah, but, Flecker, don't you think Lizzettewent smoother that last heat? She had a differentstride, a different gait.”

Flecker had not noticed it. “But it was a smallthing,” he said—“to frighten the old horse. No ruleagainst it, but a gentleman—”

The old man went slowly back to the stable. He saidnothing. He walked dazed, pale, trembling, heart-broken.But never before had he thought so keenly.

Should he expose Travis?—Ruin him, ruin him—here?Then there passed quickly thoughts of Cap'nTom—of Miss Alice. What a chance to straightenevery thing out, right every wrong—to act for Justice,Justice long betrayed—for God. For God? Andhad not, perhaps, God given him this opportunity forthis very purpose? Was not God,—God, the evermerciful but ever just, behind it all? Was it not Hewho caused him to look at the open mouth of the firstmare? Was it not He giving him a chance to right awrong so long, so long delayed? If he failed to speakout would he not be doing every man in the race awrong, and Cap'n Tom and Shiloh, and even Miss Alice,so soon to marry this man—how it went through him!—evenGod—even God a wrong!

He trembled; he could not walk. He sat down; Jackand Bud had the horse, the outlaw's eyes flashing fire ashe led him away. But Bud, poor Bud, he was following,broken-hearted, blubbering and still saying betweenhis sobs: “Great—hoss—he skeered him![Pg 405]”

The grand-stand sat stupefied, charged to the explosivepoint with suppressed excitement. Six terrible heatsand no horse had won three. But now Lizzette and BenButler had two each—who would win the next, thedecisive heat. God help the old preacher, for he had nochance. Not after the speed that mare showed.

Colonel Troup came up: “By gad, sah, Bishop—don'tgive up—you've got one mo' chance. Be asgame as the ole hoss.”

“We are game, sir—but—but, will you do as Itell you an' swear to me on yo' honor as a gentlemannever to speak till I say the word? Will you swear tokeep sacred what I show you, until I let you tell?”

“Go,” said the old man quickly, “an' look in themouth of the mare they are jes' bringin' in—the marethat won that heat. Go, an' remember yo' honor pledged.Go an' don't excite suspicion.”

The old man sat down and, as he waited, he thought.Never before had he thought so hard. Never had sucha burden been put upon him. When he looked up ColonelTroup stood pale and silent before him—pale withclose-drawn lips and a hot, fierce, fighting gleam in hiseyes.

“You've explained it, sah—” he said. Then hefumbled his pistol in his pocket. “Now—now, giveme back my promise, my word. I have two thousand[Pg 406]dollars at stake, and—and clean sport, sah,—cleansport. Give me back my word.”

The Colonel sat down so still that it was painful.He was calm but the Bishop saw how hard the fightwas.

Then the old man broke out: “I can't—O God, Ican't! I can'tmake a character, why should Itakeone? It's so easy to take a word—a nod—it is gone!And if left maybe it 'ud come agin. Richard Travis—itlooks bad—he may be bad—but think what hemay do yet—if God but touch him? No man's sobad but that God can't touch him—change him. Wemay live to see him do grand and noble things—an'God will touch him,” said the old man hotly, “he willyet.”

“If you are through with me,” said Colonel Troup,coolly, “and will give me back my promise, I'll go andtouch him—yes, damn him, I'll shoot him as he shouldbe.”

Colonel Troup flushed: “What'll you do, then?Let him rob you an' me, sah? Steal my two thousand,and Flecker's? Your purse that you've already won—yours—yours,right this minute? Rob the publicin a fake race, sah? You've won the purse, it is yours,sah. He forfeited it when he brought out that othermare. Think what you are doing, sah!”

“Cap'n Tom an' Shiloh, too”—winced the old man.“But I forgot—you don't kno'—yes”—and he[Pg 407]smiled triumphantly. “Yes, Col'nel, I'll let him doall that if—if God'll let it be. But God won't let itbe!”

Colonel Troup arose disgusted—hot. “What doyou mean, old man. Are you crazy, sah? Give meback my word—”

“Wait—no—no,” said the Bishop. “Col'nel,you're a man of yo' word—wait!”

The Colonel swore soundly. He walked around anddamned everything in sight. He fumbled his pistol inhis pocket, and wondered how he could break his wordand yet keep it.

Bud, the tears running down his cheeks—was rubbingBen Butler down, and saying: “Great hoss—greathoss!”

“Me, me give it up, Jack? Me an' Ben Butler quitlike yeller dogs? Why, we're jes' beginnin' to fight—withGod's help.”

“It was a small trick, that yellin' and frighteningthe ole hoss,” said Jack.

“Ben Butler,” said the old man, as he stepped backand looked at the horse, “Ben Butler, I've got you now[Pg 408]where God's got me—you can't see an' you can't hear.You've got to go by faith, by the lines of faith. ButI'll be guidin' 'em, ole hoss, as God guides me—byfaith.”

The audience sat numbed and nerveless when theyscored for the last heat. The old pacer's gallant fighthad won them all—and now—now after winning twoheats, with only one more to win—now to lose at last.For he could not win—not over a mare as fresh andfull of speed as that mare now seemed to be. And she,too, had but one heat to win.

But Col. Troup had been thinking and he stopped theold man as he drove out on the track.

“Been thinkin', parson, 'bout that promise, an' I'llstrike a bargain with you, sah. You say God ain't goin'to let him win this heat an' race an' so forth, sah.”

“Well, sah, if God does let Travis win, I take it fromyo' reasoning, sah, that he's a sorry sort of a God tostand in with a fraud an' I'll have nothin' to do withHim. I'll tell all about it.”

“If that's the way you think—yes,” said the oldman, solemnly—“yes—tell it—but God will neverstan' in with fraud.”

Off they went as before, the old pacer hugging themare's sulky wheels like a demon. Even Travis hadtime to notice that the old man had done something to[Pg 409]steady the pacer, for how like a steadied ship did hefly along!

Driving, driving, driving—they flew—they foughtit out. Not a muscle moved in the old man's body.Like a marble statue he sat and drove. Only his lipskept moving as if talking to his horse, so close thatTravis heard him: “It's God's way, Ben Butler, God'sway—faith,—the lines of faith—'He leadeth me—Heleadeth me'!”

Up—up—came the pacer fearless with frictionlessgait, pacing like a wild mustang-king of the desert,gleaming in sweat, white covered with dust, rolling likea cloud of fire. The old man sang soft and low:

Inch by inch he came up. And now the home stretch,and the old pacer well up, collaring the flying mare andpacing her neck to neck.

Travis smiled hard and cruel as he drew out his whipand circling it around his head, uttered again, amidfierce crackling, his Indian yell: “Hi—hi—there—ho—ha—ho—hi—hi—e—e!”

But the old pacer swerved not a line, and Travis,white and frightened now with a terrible, bitter fearthat tightened around his heart and flashed in his eyeslike the first swift crackle of lightning before the blowof thunder, brought his whip down on his own mare,[Pg 410]welting her from withers to rump in a last desperatechance.

They thundered along, Travis whipping his mare atevery stride. She stood it like the standard-bred shewas, and never winced, then she forged ahead farther,and farther, and held the old pacer anchored at herwheels, and the wire not fifty feet away!

There was nothing left for the old man to do—withtears streaming down his cheeks he shouted—“BenButler, Ben Butler—it's God's way—the chasteningrod—” and his whip fell like a blade of fire on the oldhorse's flank.

It stung him to madness. The Bishop striking him,the old man he loved, and who never struck! He shookhis great ugly head like a maddened bull and sprang savagelyat the wire, where the silken thing flaunted in hisface in a burst of speed that left all behind. Nor couldthe old man stop him after he shot past it, for his flankfluttered like a cyclone of fire and presently he went downon his knees—gently, gently, then—he rolled over!

His driver jumped to the ground. It was all he knewexcept he heard Bud weeping as he knelt on the groundwhere the old horse lay, and saying: “Great hoss—greathoss!”

Then he remembered saying: “Now, Bud, don't cry—ifhe does die, won't it be glorious, to die in harness,giving his life for others—Cap'n Tom—Shiloh?Think of it, Bud, to die at the wire, his race won, his[Pg 411]work finished, the crown his! O Bud, who would notlove to go like Ben Butler?”

But he could not talk any more, for he saw JackBracken spring forward, and then the gleam of a whiskeyflask gleamed above Ben Butler's fluttering nostrilsand Jack's terrible gruff voice said: “Wait till he'sdead fust. Stand back, give him air,” and his greathat fluttered like a windmill as he fanned the gaspingnostrils of the struggling horse.

The old man turned with an hysterical sob in histhroat that was half a shout of joy.

There was a grip like a vise on his shoulders. Heturned and looked into the eyes of the old man and sawa tragic light there he had never seen before.

“Don't—for God's sake don't, Richard Travis,don't tempt me here, wait till I pray, till this devil goesout of my heart.”

And then in his terrible, steel-gripping way, he pulledRichard Travis, with a sudden jerk up against his ownpulsing heart, as if the owner of The Gaffs had been achild, burying his great hardened fingers in the man'sarm and fairly hissing in a whisper these words: “Ifhe dies—Richard Travis—remember he died for you ... ittuck both yo' mares to kill him—no—no—don'tstart—don't turn pale ... you are safe ... Imade Col'nel Troup give me his word ... he'dnot expose you ... if Ben Butlerwon an' he saved his money. I knew what it 'ud mean[Pg 412] ... thatlast heat ... that it 'ud kill him ... butI drove it to save you ... to keepTroup from exposin' yo' ... I've got his word.An' then I was sure ... as I live, I knew that Godwill touch you yet ... an' his touch will be asquickening fire to the dead honor that is in you ... Go!Richard Travis.... Go ... don'ttempt me agin....”

He remembered later feeling very queer because heheld so much gold in a bag, and it was his. Then hebecame painfully acute to the funny thing that happened,so funny that he had to sit down and laugh. Itwas on seeing Ben Butler rising slowly to his feet andshaking himself with that long powerful shake he hadseen so often after wallowing. And the funniest thing!—twoballs of cotton flew out of his ears, one hittingFlecker of Tennessee on the nose, the other ColonelTroup in the eye.

“By Gad, sah,” drawled Colonel Troup, “but now,I see. I thought he cudn't ah been made of flesh an'blood, sah, why damme he's made of cotton! An' yousaved my money, old man, an' that damned rascal's nameby that trick? Well, you kno' what I said, sah, a gentlemanan' his word—but—but—” he turned quicklyon the old man—excitedly, “ah, here—I'll give youthe thousand dollars I hedged now ... if you'llgive me back my promise—damned if I don't! Won'tdo it? No? Well, it's yo' privilege. I admire yo'charity, it's not of this world.”

And then he remembered seeing Bud sitting in theold cart driving Ben Butler home and telling every[Pg 413]bodywhat they now knew: “Great hoss—G-r-e-a-thoss!”

And the old horse shuffled and crow-hopped along,and Jack followed the Bishop carrying the gold.

And then such a funny thing: Ben Butler, frightenedat a mule braying in his ear, ran away and threwBud out!

When the old man heard it he sat down and laughedand cried—to his own disgust—“like a fool, sissyman,” he said, “a sissy man that ain't got no nerve.But, Lord, who'd done that but Ben Butler?”

CHAPTER XXVII

YOU'LL COME BACK A MAN

It was after dark when the old man, pale, and his kneesstill shaking with the terrible strain and excitementof it all, reached his cabin on the mountain.The cheers of the grand-stand still echoed in his ears,and, shut his eyes as he would, he still saw Ben Butler,stretched out on the track struggling for the littlebreath that was in him.

Jack Bracken walked in behind the old man carryinga silken sack which sagged and looked heavy.

The grandfather caught up Shiloh first and kissedher. Then he sat down with the frail form in his armsand looked earnestly at her with his deep piercing eyes.

“Where's the ole hoss,” began his wife, her eyes beginningto snap. “You've traded him off an' I'll betyou got soaked, Hillard Watts—I can tell it by thatpesky, sheepish look in yo' eyes. You never cu'd tradehorses an' I've allers warned you not to trade the oleroan.”

“Wal, yes,” said the Bishop. “I've traded him forthis—” and his voice grew husky with emotion—“forthis, Tabitha, an', Jack, jes' pour it out on the tablethere.”

It came out, yellow waves of gold. The light shoneon them, and as the tired eyes of little Shiloh peeped[Pg 415]curiously at them, each one seemed to throw to her akiss of hope, golden tipped and resplendent.

The old woman stood dazed, and gazing sillily. Thenshe took up one of the coins and bit it gingerly.

“In God's name, Hillard Watts, what does all thismean? Why, it's genuwine gold.”

“It means,” said the old man cheerily, “that Shilohan' the chillun will never go into that mill ag'in—thatold Ben Butler has give 'em back their childhood an'a chance to live. It means,” he said triumphantly,“that Cap'n Tom's gwinter have the chance he's beenentitled to all these years—an' that means that God'llbegin to unravel the tangle that man in his meanness haswound up. It means, Tabitha, that you'll not have towuck anymo' yo'self—no mo', as long as you live—”

The old woman clutched at the bed-post: “Me?—notwuck anymo'? Not hunt 'sang an' spatterdock an'clean up an' wash an' scour an' cook an'—”

They lifted her on the bed and bathed her face. Itwas ten minutes before she came around and said feebly:

“Oh, no, Tabitha, I wouldn't die fur that,” he saidsoothingly. “It's terrible suddent like, I kno', an'hard fur you to stan', but try to bear it, honey, fur oursakes. It's hard to be stricken suddent like with riches,an' I've never seed a patient get over it, it is true.[Pg 416]You'll be wantin' to change our cabin into an ole Colonialhome, honey, an' have a carriage an' a pair ofroached mules, an' a wantin' me to start a cotton factoryan' jine a whis'-club, whilst you entertain the CottontownPettico't Club with high-noon teas, an' cut up alot o' didoes that'll make the res' of the town laugh.But you mus' fight ag'in it, Tabitha, honey. We'lljes' try to live as we've allers lived an' not spend ourmoney so as to have people talk about how we're throwin'it at the ducks. You can get up befo' day as usual an'hunt 'sang on the mountain side, and do all the otherthings you've l'arnt to do befo' breakfast.”

This was most reassuring, and the old woman feltmuch better. But the next morning she complainedbitterly:

“I tested ever' one o' them yaller coins las' night,they mout a put a counterfeit in the lot, an' see heah,Hillard—” she grinned showing her teeth—“I woremy teeth to the quick a testin' 'em!”

The next week, as the train took the Bishop away, hestood on the rear platform to cry good-bye to Shilohand Jack Bracken who were down to see him off. Byhis side was a stooped figure and as the old man jingledsome gold in his pocket he said, patting the figure on theback:

PART FIFTH.—THE LOOM

CHAPTER I

A NEW MILL GIRL

The autumn had deepened—the cotton had beenpicked. The dry stalks, sentinelling the searedground, waved their tattered remnants of unpickedbolls to and fro—summer's battle flags whichhad not yet fallen.

Millwood was astir early that morning—what therewas of it. One by one the lean hounds had arisen fromtheir beds of dry leaves under the beeches, and, shakingthemselves with that hound-shake which began at theirnoses and ended in a circular twist of their skeleton tails,had begun to hunt for stray eggs and garbage. Yettheir master was already up and astir.

He came out and took a long drink from the jug behindthe door. He drank from the jug's mouth, andthe gurgling echo sounded down the empty hall:Guggle—guggle—gone!Guggle—guggle—gone! Itsaid to Edward Conway as plainly as if it had a voice.

He sat down on his favorite chair, propped his feetupon the rotten balcony's rim and began to smoke.

Conway glanced into the room. The oldest sister was[Pg 420]dressed in a plain blue cotton gown—for to-day shewould begin work at the mill. Conway remembered it.He winced, but smoked on and said nothing.

“'Tain't no use—'tain't no use,” sobbed the littleone—“My mammy's gone—gone!”

Such indeed was the fact. Mammy Maria had gone.All that any of them knew was that only an hour beforeanother black mammy had come to serve them, and allshe would say was that she had come to take MammyMaria's place—gone, and she knew not where.

Conway winced again and then swore under his breath.At first he had not believed it, none of them had. Butas the morning went on and Mammy Maria failed toappear, he accepted it, saying: “Jus' like a niggah—whoever heard of any of them havin' any gratitude!”

Helen was too deeply numbed by the thought of themill to appreciate fully her new sorrow. All she knew—allshe seemed to feel—was, that go to the mill shemust—go—go—and Lily might cry and the worldmight go utterly to ruin—as her own life was going:

Then the mother instinct of Helen—that latentmotherhood which is in every one of her sex, howeveryoung—however old—asserted itself for the first time.

She soothed the younger child: “Never mind, Lily,I am going to the mill only to learn my lesson this week—nextweek you shall go with me. We will not beseparated after that.”

Breakfast was soon over and then the hour came—thehour when Helen Conway would begin her new life.This thought—and this only—burned into her soul:To-day her disgrace began. She was no longer a Conway.The very barriers of her birth, that which hadbeen thrown around her to distinguish her from thecommon people, had been broken down. The foundationof her faith was shattered with it.

For the last time, as a Conway, she looked at the fieldsof Millwood—at the grim peak of Sunset Rock above—theshadowed wood below. Until then she did not knowit made such a difference in the way she looked at things.But now she saw it and with it the ruin, the abandonmentof every hope, every ambition of her life. As shestood upon the old porch before starting for the mill,she felt that she was without a creed and without a principle.

“I would do anything,” she cried bitterly—“I carefor nothing. If I am tempted I shall steal, I know Ishall—I know I shall”—she repeated.

It is a dangerous thing to change environments forthe worse. It is more dangerous still to break downthe moral barrier, however frail it may be, which ourconscience has built between the good and the evil in us.Some, reared under laws that are loose, may withstandthis barrier breaking and be no worse for the change;but in the case of those with whom this barrier of theirmoral belief stands securely between conscience and forbiddenpaths, let it fall, and all the best of them willfall with it.

For with them there are no degrees in degradation[Pg 422]—nocaste in the world of sin. Headlong they rush tomoral ruin. And there are those like Helen Conway,too blinded by the environment of birth to know thatwork is not degradation. To them it is the loweringof every standard of their lives, standards which idlenesshas erected. And idleness builds strange standards.

If it had occurred to Helen Conway—if she had beenreared to know that to work honestly for an honest livingwas the noblest thing in life, how different wouldit all have been!

And so at last what is right and what is wrong dependmore upon what has gone before than what followsafter. It is more a question of pedigree and environmentthan of trials and temptations.

And yet, as her father drove her in the old shamblingbuggy across the hill road to the town, there stood out inher mind one other picture which lingered there all dayand for many days. She could not forget it nor cast itfrom her, and in spite of all her sorrow it uplifted heras she had been uplifted at times before when, readingthe country newspaper, there had blossomed among itsdry pages the perfume of a stray poem, whose incenseentered into her soul of souls.

It was a young man in his shirt sleeves, his faceflushed with work, his throat bare, plowing on the slopeof the hillside for the fall sowing of wheat.

What a splendid picture he was, silhouetted in the risingsun against the pink and purple background ofsunbeams![Pg 423]

It was Clay Westmore, and he waved his hand in hisslow, calm forceful way as he saw her go by.

The mill had been running several hours when Kingsleylooked up, and saw standing before him at his officewindow a girl of such stately beauty that he stood lookingsillily at her, and wondering.

He did not remember very clearly afterwards anythingexcept this first impression; that her hair wasplaited in two rich coils upon her head, and that neverbefore had he seen so much beauty in a gingham dress.

He remembered, too, that her eyes, which held himspellbound, wore more an expression of despair andeven desperation than of youthful hope. He could notunderstand why they looked that way, forerunners asthey were of such a face and hair.

And so he stood, sillily smiling, until Richard Travisarose from his desk and came forward to meet her.

She nodded at him and tried to smile, but Kingsleynoticed that it died away into drawn, hard lines aroundher pretty mouth.

“It is Miss Conway,” he said to Kingsley, taking herhand familiarly and holding it until she withdrew it witha conscious touch of embarrassment.

“She is one of my neighbors, and, by the way, Kingsley,she must have the best place in the mill.”

Kingsley continued to look sillily at her. He hadnot heard of Helen—he did not understand.

“I've been thinking it out,” went on Travis, “andthere is a drawing-in machine ready for her. I understandMaggie is going to quit on account of her health.”

“I, ah—” began Kingsley—“Er—well, I neverheard of a beginner starting on a drawing-in machine.”

“I have instructed Maggie to teach her,” said Travisshortly. Then he beckoned to Helen: “Come.”

She followed Richard Travis through the mill. Hewatched her as she stepped in among the common herdof people—the way at first in which she threw up herhead in splendid scorn. Never had he seen her so beautiful.Never had he desired to own her so much asthen.

“The exquisite, grand thing,” he muttered. “AndI shall—she shall be mine.”

Then her head sank again with a little crushed smileof helpless pity and resignation. It touched evenTravis, and he said, consolingly, to her:

“You are too beautiful to have to do this and youshall not—for long. You were born to be queen of—well,The Gaffs, eh?”

He laughed and then he touched boldly her hair whichlay splendidly around her temples.

The drawer-in is to the loom what the architect is tothe building. And more—it is both architect andfoundation, for as the threads are drawn in so must thecloth be.

The work is tedious and requires skill, patience, quickness,and that nicety of judgment which comes with in[Pg 425]tellectof a higher order than is commonly found inthe mill. For that reason the drawer-in is removedfrom the noise of the main room—she sits with anotherdrawer-in in a quiet, little room nearby, and, withher trained fingers, she draws in through the eyelets thethreads, which set the warp.

Maggie was busy, but she greeted him with a quaint,friendly little smile. Helen noticed two things abouther at once: that there was a queer bright light in hereyes, and that beneath them glowed two bright red spots,which, when Travis approached, deepened quickly.

“Yes, I am going to leave the mill,” she said, afterTravis had left them together. “I jus' can't stan' itany longer. Mother is dead, you know, an' father is aninvalid. I've five little brothers and sisters at home.I couldn't bear to see them die in here. It's awful onchildren, you know. So I've managed to keep 'ema-goin' until—well—I've saved enough an' with thehelp of—a—a—friend—you see—a very nearfriend—I've managed to get us a little farm. We'reall goin' to it next week. Oh, yes, of course, I'll beglad to teach you.”

She glanced at Helen's hands and smiled: “Yo'hands don't look like they're used to work. They're sowhite and beautiful.”

Helen was pleased. Her fingers were tapering andbeautiful, and she knew her hands were the hands ofmany generations of ladies.

“I have to make a living for myself now,” she saidwith a dash of bitterness.

“If I looked like you,” said Maggie, slyly and yet[Pg 426]frankly, “I'd do something in keeping with my place.I can't bear to think of anybody like you bein' here.”

Helen was silent and Maggie saw that the tears wereready to start. She saw her half sob and she pattedher cheek in a motherly way as she said:

“Oh, but I didn't mean to hurt you so. Only I dohate so to see—oh, I am silly, I suppose, because I amgoing to get out of this terrible, terrible grind.”

Her pale face flushed and she coughed, as she bentover her work to show Helen how to draw in the threads.

“Now, I'm a good drawer-in, an' he said onct”—shenodded at the door from which Travis had gone out—“thatI was the best in the worl'; the whole worl'.”She blushed slightly. “But, well—I've made no fortuneyet—an' somehow, in yo' case now—you see—somehowI feel sorter 'fraid—about you—like somethin'awful was goin' to happen to you.”

“Oh, it ain't nothin',” she said trying to be cheerful—“I'llsoon get over this ... out in the air. I'mweak now and I think it makes me nervous an' skeery.... I'llthrow it off that quick,” she snapped herfingers—“out in the open air again—out on the littlefarm.” She was silent, as if trying to turn the subject,but she went back to it again. “You don't know howI've longed for this—to get away from the mill. It'sday in an' day out here an' shut up like a convict. Itain't natural—it can't be—it ain't nature. If anybodythinks it is, let 'em look at them little things overon the other side,” and she nodded toward the main room.“Why, them little tots work twelve hours a day an'[Pg 427]sometimes mo'. Who ever heard of children workin' atall befo' these things come into the country? Now, I'veno objection to 'em, only that they ought to work grownfolks an' not children. They may kill me if they can,”she laughed,—“I am grown, an' can stan' it, but Ican't bear to think of 'em killin' my little brothers an'sisters—they're entitled to live until they get grownanyway.”

“Oh, but they can't hurt me,” she laughed, as ifashamed of her cough; “this is bothersome, but it won'tlast long after I get out on the little farm.”

She stopped talking and fell to her work, and for twohours she showed Helen just how to draw the threadsthrough, to shift the machine, to untangle the tangledthreads.

It was nearly time to go home when Travis came tosee how Helen was progressing. He came up behind thetwo girls and stood looking at them work. When theylooked up Maggie started and reddened and Helen sawher tighten her thin lips in a peculiar way while theblood flew from them, leaving a thin white oval ring inthe red that flushed her face.

“You are doing finely,” he said to Helen—“youwill make a swift drawer-in.” He stooped over andwhispered: “Such fingers and hands would draw inanything—even hearts.”

Helen blushed and looked quickly at Maggie, overwhose face the pinched look had come again, but Maggiewas busy at her machine.[Pg 428]

“I remember when I came here five years ago,” wenton Maggie after Travis had left, “I was so proud an'happy. I was healthy an' well an' so happy to thinkI cu'd make a livin' for the home-folks—for daddyan' the little ones. Oh, they would put them in themill, but I said no, I'll work my fingers off first. Let'em play an' grow. Yes, they've lived on what I havemade for five years—daddy down on his back, too,an' the children jus' growin', an' now they are bigenough and strong enough to he'p me run the littlefarm—instead”—she said after a pause—“insteadof bein' dead an' buried, killed in the mill. That wasfive years ago—five years”—she coughed and lookedout of the window reflectively.

“Daddy—poor daddy—he couldn't help the treefallin' on his back an' cripplin' him; an' little Buddy,well, he was born weakly, so I done it all. Oh, I am notbraggin' an' I ain't complainin', I'm so proud to do it.”

Helen was silent, her own bitterness softened by thestory Maggie was telling, and for a while she forgot herselfand her sorrow.

It is so always. When we would weep we have onlyto look around and see others who would wail.

“When I come I was as rosy as you,” Maggie wenton; “not so pretty now, mind you—nobody could beas pretty as you.”

“But I'll get my color back on the little farm—I'llbe well again.” She was silent a while. “I kno' youare wonderin' how I saved and got it.” Helen saw herface sparkle and the spots deepen. “Mr. Travis has[Pg 429]been so kind to me in—in other ways—but that's abig secret,” she laughed, “I'm to tell you some day, orrather you'll see yo'self, an' then, oh—every thing willbe all right an' I'll be ever so much happier than I amnow.”

“Mightn't I kiss you once,—you're so pretty an'fresh?” And she kissed the pretty girl half timidly onthe cheek.

“It makes me so happy to think of it,” she went onexcitedly, “to think of owning a little farm all by ourselves,to go out into the air every day whenever youfeel like it and not have to work in the mill, nor askanybody if you may, but jus' go out an' see thingsgrow—an' hear the birds sing and set under the prettygreen trees an' gather wild flowers if you want to. Tokeep house an' to clean up an' cook instead of foreverdrawin'-in, an' to have a real flower garden of yo' own—yo'very own.”

They worked for hours, Maggie talking as a childwho had found at last a sympathetic listener. Twilightcame and then a clang of bells and the shaft abovethem began to turn slower and slower. Helen lookedup wondering why it had all stopped so suddenly. Shemet the eyes of Travis looking at her.

“I am to take you home,” he said to her, “thetrotters are at the door. Oh,” as he looked at her work—“why,you have done first rate for the day.”

He had not seen Maggie and he stood looking at Helen[Pg 430]with such passionate, patronizing, commanding, masterfuleyes, that she shrank for a moment, sideways.

Then he laughed: “How beautiful you are! Thereare queens born and queens made—I shall call you thequeen of the mill, eh?”

He reached out and tried to take her hand, but sheshrank behind the machine and then—

“Oh, Maggie!” she exclaimed—for the girl's facewas now white and she stood with a strained mouth as ifready to sob.

CHAPTER II

IN THE DEPTHS

All the week the two girls worked together at themill; a week which was to Helen one long nightmare,filled, as it was, with the hum and roar ofmachinery, the hot breath of the mill, and worst of all,the seared and deadening thought that she was disgraced.

In the morning she entered the mill hoping it mightfall on and destroy her. At night she went home toa drunken father and a little sister who needed, in herchildish sorrow, all the pity and care of the elder one.

And one night her father, being more brutal thanever, had called out as Helen came in: “Come in, mymill-girl!”

Richard Travis always drove her home, and each nighthe became more familiar and more masterful. She felt,—sheknew—that she was falling under his fascinatinginfluence.

There is a depth deeper even than the sin—the depthwhere the doer ceases to care.

Indeed, she was beginning to make herself believe thatshe loved him—as he said he wished her to do—andas he loved her, he said; and with what he said and what[Pg 432]he hinted she dreamed beautiful, desperate dreams of thefuture.

She did not wonder, then, that on one drive she hadpermitted him to hold her hand in his. What a stronghand it was, and how could so weak a hand as her's resistit? And all the time he had talked so beautifullyand had quoted Browning and Keats. And finally hehad told her that she had only to say the word, and leavethe mill with him forever.

But where, she did not even care—only to getaway from the mill, from her disgrace, from her drunkenfather, from her wretched life.

And another night, when he had helped her out ofthe buggy, and while she was close to him and lookingdownward, he had bent over her and kissed her on theneck, where her hair had been gathered up and hadleft it white and fair and unprotected. And it sent ahot flame of shame to the depths of her brain, but shecould only look up and say—“Oh, please don't—pleasedon't, Mr. Travis,” and then dart quickly into theold gate and run to her home.

But within it was only to meet the taunts and sneersof her father that brought again the hot Conway bloodin defying anger to her face, and then she had turnedand rushed back to the gate which Travis had just left,crying:

But she heard only the sound of his trotters' feet upthe road, and overcome with the reflective anguish of it[Pg 433]all, she had tottered and dropped beneath the tree uponthe grass—dropped to weep.

After a while she sat up, and going down the longpath to the old spring, she bathed her face and handsin its cool depths. Then she sat upon a rock whichjutted out into the water. It calmed her to sit there andfeel the rush of the air from below, upon her hot cheeksand her swollen eyes.

The moon shone brightly, lighting up the water, therocks which held the spring pool within their fortress ofgray, and the long green path of water-cresses, stretchingaway and showing where the spring branch ran tothe pasture.

Glancing down, she saw her own image in the water,and she smiled to see how beautiful it was. There washer hair hanging splendidly down her back, and in themirror of water beneath she saw it was tinged with thatdivine color which had set the Roman world afire in Cleopatra'sdays. But then, there was her dress—her milldress.

She sighed—she looked up at the stars. They alwaysfilled her with great waves of wonder and reverence.

“Is mother in one of you?” she asked. “Oh,mother, why were you taken from your two little girls?and if the dead are immortal, can they forget us ofearth? Can they be indifferent to our fate? Howcould they be happy if they knew—” She stopped andlooking up, picked out a single star that shone brighterthan the others, clinging so close to the top of SunsetRock as to appear a setting to his crown.[Pg 434]

“I will imagine she is there”—she whispered—“inthat world—O mother—mother—will you—cannotyou help me?”

She was weeping and had to bathe her face again.Then another impulse seized her—an impulse of childhood.Pulling off her stockings, she dipped her feet inthe cool water and splashed them around in sheer delight.

The moonbeams falling on them under the waterturned the pink into white, and she smiled to see how likethe pictures of Diana her ankles looked.

She had forgotten that the old spring was near thepublic road and that the rail fence was old and fallen.Her revery was interrupted by a bantering, half drunken,jolly laugh:

She sprang up in shame. Leaning on the old fence,she saw Harry Travis, a roguish smile on his face. Shethought she would run, then she remembered her barefeet and she sat down on the grass, covering her ankleswith her skirt. At first she wanted to cry, then shegrew indignant as he came tipsily toward her and satdown by her side.

She was used to the smell of whiskey on the breath.Its slightest odor she knew instantly. To her it was thesmell of death.

“Got to the Gov'nor's private bottle to-night,” hesaid familiarly, “and took a couple of cocktails. Goingover to see Nellie, but couldn't resist such beauties as”—hepointed to her feet.[Pg 435]

“It was mean of you to slip upon me as you did,” shesaid. Then she turned the scorn of her eyes on himand coolly looked him over, the weak face, the boyish,half funny smile, the cynical eyes,—trying to be a manof the world and too weak to know what it all meant.

The Conway spirit had come to her—it always didin a critical moment. She no longer blushed or evenfeared him.

“How, how,” she said slowly and looking him steadilyover, “did I ever love such a thing as you?”

He moved up closer. “You will have to kiss me forthat,” he said angrily. “I've kissed you so often Iknow just how to do it,” and he made an attempt tothrow his arms around her.

She sprang away from him into the spring branch,standing knee deep in the water and among the water-cresses.

He arose hot with insolence: “Oh, you think youare too good for me now—now that the Gov'nor hasset his heart on you. Damn him—you were mine beforeyou were his. He may have you, but he will takeyou with Cassius' kisses on your lips.”

He sprang forward, reached over the rock and seizedher by the arm. But she jerked away from him andsprang back into the deeper water of the spring. Shedid not scream, but it seemed that her heart would burstwith shame and anger. She thought of Ophelia, andas she looked down into the water she wiped away indifferentlyand silently the cool drops which had splashedup into her face, and she wondered if she might not be[Pg 436]able to drop down flat and drown herself there, and thusend it all.

“I hate you,” she said, looking up steadily into hiseyes and moving back out of his reach.

The water had wet her dress, and she stooped anddipped some of it up and bathed her hot cheeks.

“If I had a brother,—oh, if I even had a father,”she said, looking at him with a flash of Conway fire inher eyes—“and you did—you would not live tillmorning—you know you wouldn't.”

She stood now knee-deep in water. Above her thehalf-drunken boy, standing on the rock which projectedinto the spring, emboldened with drink and maddenedby the thought that she had so easily given him up,had reached out and seized her around the neck. Hewas rough, and it choked her as he drew her to him.

She screamed for the first time—for she thought sheheard hoof beats coming down the road; then she hearda horseman clear the low fence and spur into the springbranch. The water from the horse's feet splashed overher. She remembered it only faintly—the big glasses—theold straw hat,—the leathern bag of samplesaround his shoulders.

“Most unusual,” she heard him say, with more calmnessit seemed to Helen than ever: “Quite unusual—insultinglyso!”

Instinctively she held up her arms and he stooped in[Pg 437]the saddle and lifted her up and set her on the stonecurbing on the side farthest from Harry Travis.

Then he turned and very deliberately reached overand seized Harry Travis, who stood on the rock, nearlyon a line with the pommel of the saddle. But the handthat gripped the back of Harry's neck was anythingbut gentle. It closed around the neck at the base ofthe brain, burying its fingers in the back muscles withparalyzing pain and jerked him face downward acrossthe saddle with a motion so swift that he was there beforehe knew it. Then another hand seized him andrammed his mouth, as he lay across the pommel of thesaddle, into the sweaty shoulders below the horse'swithers, and he felt the horse move out and into theroad and up to the crossing of the ways just as a buggyand two fast bay mares came around the corner.

The driver of the bays stopped as he saw his cousinthrown like a pig over the pommel and held there kickingand cursing.

“I was looking for him,” said Richard Travis quietly,“but I would like to know what it all means.”

The big glasses shone in kindly humor. They did notreflect any excitement in the eyes behind them.

“I am afraid it means that he is drunk. Perhaps hewill tell you about it. Quite unusual, I must say—heseemed to be trying to drown a young lady in a spring.”

Richard Travis took it in instantly, and as Clay rodeaway he heard the cousin say: “You damned yellowcur—to bear the name of Travis.”

CHAPTER III

WORK IN A NEW LIGHT

It was an hour before Clay Westmore rode back toMillwood. He had been too busy plowing thatday to get, sooner, a specimen of the rock he hadseen out-cropping on Sand Mountain. At night, aftersupper, he had ridden over for it.

He flushed with the strength of it all as he put it inhis satchel—the strength of knowing that not evenpoverty, nor work, nor night could keep him from accomplishinghis purpose.

Then he rode back, stopping at Millwood. For hethought, too, that he might see Helen, and while hehad resolved not to force himself on her after what shehad said when he last saw her, still he wished very muchto see her now and then.

For somehow, it never got out of his deductive headthat some day she would learn to love him. Had heknown the temptation, the despair that was hers, hewould not have been so quietly deliberate. But she hadnever told him. In fact, he had loved her from adistance all his life in his quiet way, though now, byher decree, they were scarcely more than the best offriends. Some day, after he had earned enough, hewould tell her just how much he loved her. At present[Pg 439]he could not, for was he not too poor, and were not hismother and sister dependent upon him?

He knew that Harry Travis loved her in a way—alove he was certain would not last, and in the fullnessand depths of his sincere nature, he felt as sure of ultimatelywinning her, by sheer force of strength, of consistencyand devotion, as he was that every great thingin life had been done by the same force and would be tothe end of time.

As sure as that, by this same force, he, himself, wouldone day discover the vein of coal which lay somewherein the beautiful valley of the Tennessee.

And so he waited his time with the easy assurance ofthe philosopher which he was, and with that firm faithwhich minds of his strength always have in themselvesand their ultimate success.

It surprised him, it is true—hurt him—when hefound to what extent Harry Travis had succeeded inwinning the love of Helen. He was hurt because he expected—hoped—shewould see further into thingsthan she had. And counting all the poverty and hardshipsof his life, the Sunday afternoon when he had lefther in the arbor, after she had told him she was engagedto Harry Travis, he could not remember when anythinghad been so hard for him to bear. Later he had heardhow she had gone to work in the mill, and he knew thatit meant an end of her love affair with Harry.

To-night something told him it was time to see heragain, not to tell her of his own love, and how it wouldnever change, whether she was mill girl or the mistressof Millwood, but to encourage her in the misery of it all.[Pg 440]

Work—and did not he himself love to work? Wasit not the noblest thing of life?

He was surprised when he saw what had just happened;but all his life he had controlled himself to such adegree that in critical moments he was coolest; and sowhat with another might have been a serious affair, hehad turned into half retributive fun, but the deadliestpunishment, as it afterwards turned out, that he couldhave inflicted on a temperament and nature such asHarry Travis'. For that young man, unable to standthe gibes of the neighborhood and the sarcasm of hisuncle when it all became known, accepted a position inanother town and never came back again.

To have been shot or floored in true melodramaticstyle by his rival, as he stood on a rock with a helplessgirl in his clutch, would have been more to his likingthan to be picked up bodily, by the nape of his neck,and taken from the scene of his exploits like a pig acrossa saddle.

Helen was dressed in her prettiest gown when Clayrode back to Millwood, after securing the samples hehad started for. She knew he was coming and so shetied a white scarf over her head and went again to herfavorite seat beneath the trees.

“I don't know how to thank you, Clay,” she said, ashe swung down from his saddle and threw his leathernbag on the grass.

“Now, you look more like yourself,” he smiled ad[Pg 441]miringly,as he looked down on her white dress andauburn hair, drooping low over her neck and shoulders.

“Tell me about yourself and how you like it at themill,” he went on as he sat down.

“Oh, you will not be willing to speak to me now—nowthat I am a mill-girl,” she added. “Do you know?Clay—”

“I know that, aside from being beautiful, you havejust begun to be truly womanly in my sight.”

“Oh, Clay, do you really think that? It is the firstgood word that has been spoken to me since—since my—disgrace.”

He turned quickly: “Your disgrace! Do you callit disgrace to work—to make an honest living—to beindependent and self-reliant?”

He picked up his bag of samples and she saw that hishands had become hard and sunburnt from the plowhandles.

“Helen,” he went on earnestly, “that is one of thehide-bound tyrannies that must be banished from ourSouthland—banished as that other tyranny, slavery,has been banished—a sin, which, with no fault of ourown, we inherited from the centuries. We shall neverbe truly great—as God intended we should be great—untilwe learn to work. We have the noblest and sunniestof lands, with more resources than man now dreamsof, a greater future than we know of if we will onlywork—work and develop them. You have set an examplefor every girl in the South who has been thrownupon her own resources. Never before in my life haveI cared—so—much—for you.[Pg 442]”

“Then you do care some for me?” she asked pleadingly.She was heart-sick for sympathy and did notknow just what she said.

He flushed and started to speak. He looked at her,and his big glasses quivered with the suppressed emotionswhich lay behind them in his eyes.

But he saw that she did not love him, that she wasbegging for sympathy and not for love. Besides, whatright had he to plan to bring another to share his poverty?

He mounted his horse as one afraid to trust himselfto stay longer. But he touched her hair in his awkward,funny way, before he swung himself into thesaddle, and Helen, as she went into the desolate home,felt uplifted as never before.

CHAPTER IV

MAGGIE

It was Maggie's last day at the mill, and she hadbeen unusually thoughtful. Her face was morepinched, Helen thought, and the sadness in hereyes had increased.

Helen had proved to be an apt pupil, and Maggiedeclared that thereafter she would be able to run hermachine without assistance.

It was Saturday noon and Maggie was ready to go,though the mill did not shut down until six that day.And so she found herself standing and looking withtearful eyes at the machine she had learned to love, atthe little room in which she had worked so long, supportingher invalid father and her little ones—asshe motherly called the children. It had been hard—sohard, and the years had been long and shewas so weak now, compared to what she had been. Howhappy she had thought the moment of her leavingwould be; and yet now that it had come—now—shewas weeping.

“I didn't think,” she said to Helen—“I didn't thinkI'd—I'd care so to leave it—when—when—the time—came.”

She turned and brushed away her tears in time to seeTravis come smiling up.[Pg 444]

“Why, Maggie,” he said playfully flipping the tipof her ear as he passed her. “I thought you left usyesterday afternoon. You'll not be forgetting us nowthat you will not see us again, will you?”

She flushed and Helen heard her say: “Forget you—ever?Oh, please, Mr. Travis—” and her voicetrembled.

“Oh, tut,” he said, frowning quickly—“nothinglike that here. Of course, you will hate to leave theold mill and the old machine. Come, Maggie, youneedn't wait—you're a good girl—we all know that.”

He turned to Helen and watched her as she drew inthe threads. Her head was bent over, and her greatcoil of hair sat upon it like a queen on a throne.

Travis smiled an amused smile when he thought ofit—an ironical sneering smile; but he felt, as he stoodthere, that the girl had fascinated him in a strange way,and now that she was in his power, “now that Fate, orGod has combined to throw her into my arms—almostunasked for—is it possible that I am beginning to fallin love with her?”

He had forgotten Maggie and stood looking at Helen.And in that look Maggie saw it all. He heard her sitdown suddenly.

“I would go if I were you, Maggie—you are agood girl and we shall not forget you.”

“May I stay a little while longer?” she asked. “Iwon't ever come back any more, you know.[Pg 445]”

“Remember, I am to take you home to-night. Butit will be later than usual, on account of the pay-roll.”

As he shut the door Maggie turned, and her heartbeing too full to speak, she came forward and droppedon her knees, burying her face in Helen's lap. “Youmust not notice me,” she said—“don't—don't—oh,don't look at me.”

Then she looked into Helen's face. “Do you know—oh,will you mind if I speak to you—or perhaps Ishouldn't—but—but—don't you see that he lovesyou?”

“I am foolish—sick—nervous—I know I am sillyan' yet I don't see how he could help it—you are soqueenly—beautiful—so different from any that arehere. He—he—has forgotten me—”

“I mean,” she stammered, “he used to notice us commongirls—me and the others—”

“Oh, don't pay no 'tention to me,” she said. “I, Ifear I am sick, you know—sicker than I thought,” andshe coughed violently.

She lay with her head in Helen's lap. “Please,” shesaid timidly, looking up into Helen's face at last—“pleaselet me stay this way a while. I never knew a[Pg 446]mother—nobody has ever let me do this befo', an' I amso happy for it.”

Helen stroked her face and hair anew, and Maggiekneeled looking up at her eagerly, earnestly, hungrily,scanning every feature of the prettier girl with worshippingeyes.

“How could he he'p it—how could he he'p it,” shesaid softly—“yes—yes—you are his equal and sobeautiful.”

Maggie arose quickly: “Good-bye—let me kiss youonce mo'—I feel like I'll never see you again—an'—an'—I'velearned to love you so!”

Then Maggie passed quickly out, and with her eyesonly did she look back and utter a farewell which carriedwith it both a kiss and a tear. And something elsewhich was a warning.

CHAPTER V

PAY-DAY

When Helen went in Kingsley sat at the Superintendent'sdesk, issuing orders on the Secretary andTreasurer, Richard Travis, who sat at his desk near byand paid the wages in silver.

Connected with the mill was a large commissary orstore—a cheap modern structure which stood in anotherpart of the town, filled with the necessaries of lifeas well as the flimsy gewgaws which delight the heartof the average mill hand. In establishing this store,the directors followed the usual custom of cotton-millsin smaller towns of the South; paying their employeespart in money and part in warrants on the store. It isneedless to add that the prices paid for the goods were,in most cases, high enough to cut the wages to theproper margin. If there was any balance at the endof the month, it was paid in money.

Kingsley personally supervised this store, and hisannual report to the directors was one of the strongfinancial things of his administration.

A crowd of factory hands stood around his desk, andthe Superintendent was busy issuing orders on the store,[Pg 448]or striking a balance for the Secretary and Treasurerto pay in silver.

They stood around tired, wretched, lint- and dust-covered,but expectant. Few were there compared withthe number employed; for the wages of the minors wentto their parents, and as minors included girls undereighteen and boys under twenty-one, their parents werethere to receive their wages for them.

These children belonged to them as mercilessly as ifthey had been slaves, and despite the ties of blood, nomaster ever more relentlessly collected and appropriatedthe wages of his slaves than did the parents the pitifulwages of their children.

There are two great whippers-in in the child slaveryof the South—the mills which employ the children andthe parents who permit it—encourage it. Of these twothe parents are often the worse, for, since the late enactmentof child labor laws, they do not hesitate to stultifythemselves by false affidavits as to the child's real age.

Kingsley had often noticed how promptly and evenproudly the girls, after reaching eighteen, and the boystwenty-one, had told him hereafter to place their wagesto their own credit, and not to the parent's. Theyseemed to take a new lease on life. Decrepit, drawn-faced,hump-shouldered and dried up before their time,the few who reached the age when the law made themtheir own masters, looked not like men and women whostand on the threshold of life, but rather like over-workedmiddle-aged beings of another period.

They stood around the office desk, awaiting their[Pg 449]turn. The big engine had ceased to throb and the shuttlesto clatter and whirl. The mill was so quiet thatthose who had, year in and year out, listened to its clatterand hum, seemed to think some overhanging calamitywas about to drop out of the sky of terrible calm.

She came forward, a bony, stoop-shouldered womanof thirty-five years who had been a spooler since she wasfifteen.

“Seventy-seven hours for the week”—he went onmechanically, studying the time book, “making six dollarsand sixteen cents. Rent deducted two dollars.Wood thirty-five cents. Due commissary for goods furnished—here,Mr. Kidd,” he said to the book-keeper,“let me see Miss Smith's account.” It was shoved tohim across the desk. Kingsley elevated his glasses.Then he adjusted them with a peculiar lilt—it was hisway of being ironical:

“Oh, you don't owe the store anything, Miss Smith—justeleven dollars and eighty cents.”

The woman stood stoically—not a muscle moved inher face, and not even by the change of an eye did sheindicate that such a thing as the ordinary human emotionsof disappointment and fear had a home in theheart.

“Mother was sick all last month,” she said at last in avoice that came out in the same indifferent, unvaryingtone. “I had to overdraw.”

Kingsley gave his eye-glasses another lilt. They saidas plainly as eye-glasses could: “Well, of course, Imade her sick.” Then he added abruptly: “We will[Pg 450]advance you two dollars this week—an' that will beall.”

“I hoped to get some little thing that she could eat—somerelish,” she began.

“Not our business, Miss Smith—sorry—very sorry—buttry to be more economical. Economy is thegreat objective haven of life. Emerson says so. AndBrowning in a most beautiful line of poetry says thesame thing,” he added.

“The way to begin economy is to begin it—Emersonis so helpful to me—he always comes in at theright time.”

“That's all,” and he pushed her the order. She tookit, cashed it and went hurriedly out, her poke bonnetpulled over her face. But there were hot tears and asob under her bonnet.

And so it went on for two hours—some drawingnothing, but remaining to beg for an order on the storeto keep them running until next week.

One man with six children in the mill next came forwardand drew eighteen dollars. He smiled complacentlyas he drew it and chucked the silver into hispocket. This gave Jud Carpenter, standing near, achance to get in his mill talk.

“I tell you, Joe Hopper,” he said, slapping the manon the back, “that mill is a great thing for the mothersan' fathers of this little settlement. What 'ud we do ifit warn't for our chillun?”

“It useter be,” said Jud, looking around at his crowd,[Pg 451]“that the parents spoiled the kids, but now it is the kidsspoilin' the parents.”

“I never did know before,” went on Jud, “what thatold sayin' really meant: 'A fool for luck an' a po'man for chillun.'”

“I tell you, when I married,” said Jud, “I seed nothin'but poverty an' the multiplication of my part of theearth ahead of me—poverty, I tell you, starvation an'every new chile addin' to it. But since you started thismill, Mister Kingsley (Kingsley smiled and bowedacross the desk at him), I've turned what everybody said'ud starve us into ready cash. And now I say to theyoung folks: 'Marry an' multiply an' the cash willbe forthcomin'.'”

This was followed by loud laughs, especially fromthose who were blessed with children, and they filed upto get their wages.

Jim Stallings, who had four in the mill, was countedout eleven dollars. As he pocketed it he looked at Judand said:

“Oh, no, Jud; it don't pay to raise chillun. I wish Ihad the chance old Sollerman had. I'd soon make oldVanderbilt look like shin plaster.”

In the doorway he cut a pigeon-wing in which histhin, bowed legs looked comically humorous.

Jud Carpenter was a power in the mill, standing ashe did so near to the management. To the poor, ignorantones around him he was the mouth-piece of themill, and they feared him even more than they didKingsley himself, Kingsley with his ironical ways andlilting eye-glasses. With them Jud's nod alone wassufficient.

They were still grouped around the office awaitingtheir turn. In the faces of some were shrewdness, cunning,hypocrisy. Some looked out through dull eyes,humbled and brow-beaten and unfeeling. But all ofthem when they spoke to Jud Carpenter—Jud Carpenterwho stood in with the managers of the mill—becameat once the grinning, fawning framework of ahuman being.

“Yes, boys,” said Jud patronizingly as Stallings wentout, “this here mill is a god-send to us po' folks who'vegot chillun to burn. They ain't a day we ortenter gitdown on our knees an' thank Mr. Kingsley an' MisterTravis there. You know I done took down that sign Iuseter have hangin' up in my house in the hall—thatsign which said,God bless our home? I've put up anotherone now.”

“What you done put up now, Jud?” grinned a tallweaver with that blank look of expectancy which settlesover the face of the middle man in a negro minstreltroupe when he passes the stale question to the end man,knowing the joke which was coming.

“Why, I've put up,” said Jud brutally, “'Suffer[Pg 453]Little Children to Come Unto Me.' That's scripturalauthority for cotton mills, ain't it?”

The paying went on, after the uproarious laughterhad subsided, and down the long row only the clinkingof silver was heard, intermingled now and then with theshrill voice of some creature disputing with Kingsleyabout her account. Generally it ran thus: “It cyant bethet away. Sixty hours at five cents an hour—wal,but didn't the chillun wuck no longer than that? Icyant—I cyant—I jes' cyant live on that little bit.”

Such it was, and it floated down the line to Helen likethe wail of a lost soul. When her time came Kingsleymet her with a smile. Then he gave her an order andTravis handed her a bright crisp ten-dollar bill.

She looked at him in astonishment. “But—but,”she said. “Surely, I didn't earn all this, did I? Maggie—youhad to pay Maggie for teaching me thisweek. It was she who earned it. I cannot take it.”

Kingsley smiled: “If you must know—though wepromised her we would not tell you,” he said—“no,Miss Conway, you did not earn but five dollars this week.The other five is Maggie's gift to you—she left ithere for you.”

And he led her out to where the trotters stood. Helifted her in, pressing her hand as he did so—but shedid not know it—she burned with a strange fullnessin her throat as she clutched her money, the first she[Pg 454]had ever earned, and thought of Maggie—Maggie,dying and unselfish.

Work—it had opened a new life to her. Work—andnever before had she known the sweetness of it.

“Oh, father,” she said when she reached home, “Ihave made some money—I can support you and Lilynow.”

“I had a mess o' trouble gittin' that gal into themill. Huh! but ain't she a beaut! I guess you 'ortertip me for throwin' sech a peach as that into yo' arms.Oh, you're a sly one—” he went on whisperingly—“thesmoothest one with women I ever seed. But you'llhave to thank me for that queen. Guess I'll go downan' take a dram. I want to git the lint out of mythroat.”

“I'll be down later,” said Travis as he looked at hiswatch. “Charley Biggers and I. It's our night tohave a little fun with the boys.”

The clinking of silver, questions, answers, and expostulationswent on. In the midst of it there was thesudden shrill wail of an angry child.

Then came a cruel slap which was heard all over theroom, and the boy of ten, a wild-eyed and unkemptthing, staggered and grasped his face where the blowfell.

“Take that, you sassy meddling up-start—you be[Pg 455]longto me till you are twenty-one years old. What'ud you do with a ginger man 'cept to eat it?” Hecuffed the boy through the door and sent him flyinghome.

It was Joe Sykes, the wages of whose children kepthim in active drunkenness and chronic inertia. He wasthe champion loafer of the town.

In a short time he had drawn a pocketful of silver,and going out soon overtook Jud Carpenter.

“I tell you, Jud, we mus' hold these kids down—weheads of the family. I've mighty nigh broke myselfdown this week a controllin' mine. Goin' down to takea drink or two? Same to you.”

CHAPTER VI

THE PLOT

Jud Carpenter and Joe Hopper were soonthere, and the silver their children had earnedat the mill began to go for drinks.

The drinks made them feel good. They resolved tofeel better, so they drank again. As they drank thetalk grew louder. They were joined by others from thetown—ne'er-do-wells, who hung around the bar—andothers from the mill.

And so they drank and sang and danced and playedcards and drank again, and threw dice for more drinks.

It was nearly nine o'clock before the Bacchanal laughbegan to ring out at intervals—so easily distinguishedfrom the sober laugh, in that it carries in its closingtones the queer ring of the maniac's.

Only the mill men had any cash. The village loafersdrank at their expense, and on credit.

“And why should we not drink if we wish,” said oneof them. “Our children earned the money and do wenot own the children?”

Twice only were they interrupted. Once by the wifeof a weaver who came in and pleaded with her husbandfor part of their children's money. Her tears touchedthe big-hearted Billy Buch, and as her husband was too[Pg 457]drunk to know what he was doing, Billy took whatmoney he had left and gave it to the wife. She had asick child, she told Billy Buch, and what money she hadwould not even buy the medicine.

Billy squinted the corner of one eye and looked solemnlyat the husband: “He ha'f ten drinks in himag'in, already. I vill gif you pay for eet all for thechild. An' here ees one dollar mo' from Billy Buch.Now go, goot voman.”

The other interruption was the redoubtable Mrs. Billings;her brother, also a slubber, had arrived early, buthad scarcely taken two delightful, exquisite drinks beforeshe came on the scene, her eyes flashing, her hairdisheveled, and her hand playing familiarly with somethingunder her apron.

“Mine Gott!” said Billy, turning pale. “Eet esMeeses Billings an' her crockery.”

Half a dozen jubilants pointed out a long-haired manat a center table talking proudly of his physical strengthand bravery.

“Cris Ham?” beckoned Mrs. Billings, feeling nervouslyunder her apron. “Come with me!”

“You will come now,” she said, and her hands beganto move ominously beneath her apron.

“To be sho',” he said as he walked out with her. “Ididn't know you felt that away about it, sis.”

It was after ten o'clock when the quick roll of a[Pg 458]buggy came up to the door, and Richard Travis andCharley Biggers alighted.

They had both been drinking. Slowly, surely, Traviswas going down in the scale of degeneracy. Slowlythe loose life he was leading was lowering him to thelevel of the common herd. A few years ago he wouldnot have thought of drinking with his own mill hands.To-night he was there, the most reckless of them all.Analyzed, it was for the most part conceit with him;the low conceit of the superior intellect which wouldmingle in infamy with the lowest to gain its ignoranthomage. For Intellect must have homage if it has todrag it from the slums.

Charley Biggers was short and boyish, with a fat,round face. When he laughed he showed a fine set ofbig, sensual teeth. His eyes were jolly, flighty, insincere.Weakness was written all over him, from a derbyhat sitting back rakishly on his forehead to the small,effeminate boot that fitted so neatly his small effeminatefoot. He had a small hand and his little sensual facehad not a rough feature on it. It was set off by apudgy, half-formed dab of a nose that let his breathin and out when his mouth happened to be shut. Hiseyes were the eyes of one who sees no wrong in anything.

They came in and pulled off their gloves, daintily.They threw their overcoats on a chair. Travis glancedaround the circle of the four or five who were left andsaid pompously:

“Come up, gentlemen, and have something at my expense.”Then he walked up to the bar.[Pg 459]

They came. They considered it both a pleasure andan honor, as Jud Carpenter expressed it, to drink withhim.

“It is a good idea to mingle with them now andthen,” whispered Travis to Charley. “It keeps me solidwith them—health, gentlemen!”

“Joe Hopper can't rise, gentlemen, Joe is drunk, an'—an'a widderer, besides,” hiccoughed Joe from below.

Joe had been a widower for a year. His wife, afterbeing the mother of eleven children, who now supportedJoe in his drunkenness, had passed away.

“Don't keer, Jud—I'm jes'—jes' beginnin' to feelit now”—and he wept afresh.

It was too much for Charley Biggers, and he alsowept. Travis looked fixedly at the ceiling and recitedportions of the Episcopal burial service. Then Judwept. They all wept.

“Gentlemen,” said Travis solemnly, “let us drink tothe health of the departed Mrs. Hopper. Here's toher!”

This cheered all except Joe Hopper—he refused tobe comforted. They tried to console him, but he onlywept the more. They went on drinking and left himout, but this did not tend to diminish his tears.[Pg 460]

“Oh, Mister Hopper, shet up,” said Jud peremptorily—“closeup—I've arranged for you to marry agrass-widder.”

They all roared. Then Jud winked at Travis andTravis winked at the others. Then they sat around atable, all winking except poor Joe, who continued toweep at the thought of being a grasshopper. He didnot quite understand how it was, but he knew that insome way he was to be changed into a grasshopper,with long green wings and legs to match.

“Gentlemen,” said Jud seriously—“it is our dutyto help out po' Joe. Now, Joe, we've arranged it foryou to marry Miss Kate Galloway—the grass-widder.”

This brought on thundering roars of laughter anddrinks all around. Only Joe wept—wept to think hischildren would be katydids.

“Now, Joe, it's this way. I've talked it all over andarranged it. That's what we've met for to-night—ain'tit, gents?” said Jud.

“Now, Joe, you mus' dry yo' tears an' become reconciled—we'vegot a nice scheme fixed for you.[Pg 461]”

“I'll never be reconciled—never,” wailed Joe.“Liza's dead an'—I'm a grasshopper.”

“Now, wait till I explain to you—but, dear, devotedfriend, everything is ready. The widder's been seenan' all you've got to do is to come with us and get her.”

“She's a mighty handsome 'oman,” said Jud, winkinghis eye. “Dear—dear frien's—all—I'm feelin'reconciled already”—said Joe.

“Joe, dear, dear Joe—we have had thy welfare atheart, as the books say. We wanted thee to become amillionaire. Thou hast eleven children to begin with.They pay you—”

“Well, now, Joe—it's all arranged—you marrythe widder an' in the course of time you'll have elevenmo'. That's another eighteen dollars—or thirty-sixdollars a week clear in the mills.”

“Now, but I hadn't thought of that,” said Joe enthusiastically—“that'sa fact. When—when did yousay the ceremony'd be performed?”

“Hold on,” said Jud, “now, we've studied this thingall out for you. You're a Mormon—the only one ofus that is a Mormon—openly.”

“Openly—” he went on—“you've j'ined the Mormonchurch here up in the mountains.”

“That's only on account of the Grand Jury and thelaw—not yo' religion. You see—you'll marry an' goto Utah—but—es the kids come you'll sen' 'em alldown here to the mills—every one a kinder livin'coupon. All any man's got to do in this country to gitrich is to marry enough wives.”

“Can I do that—do the marryin' in Utah an' keepsendin' the—the chilluns down to the mill?” His eyesglittered.

“Then there's Miss Carewe”—he went on—“youhaf'ter cal'clate on feedin' several wives in one, withher. But say eleven mo' by her. That's thirty-sevenmo'.”

“Hold on,” said Travis with feigned anger. “Holdon. Joe is fixin' to start a cotton-mill of his own.That'll interfere with the Acme. No—no—we mustvote it down. We mustn't let Joe do it.”

Joe had already attempted to rise and start after hiswives. But in the roar of laughter that followed he satdown and began to weep again for Liza.

It was nearly midnight. Only Travis, Charley Biggersand Jud remained sober enough to talk. Charleywas telling of Tilly and her wondrous beauty.

“Now—it's this way,” he hiccoughed—“I've gotto go off to school—but—but—I've thought of aplan to marry her first, with a bogus license andpreacher.[Pg 463]”

“What's the matter with you takin' yo' queen at thesame time?” asked Jud of Travis.

Travis, drunk as he was, winced to think that hewould ever permit Jud Carpenter to suggest what hehad intended should only be known to himself. Histongue was thick, his brain whirled, and there were gapsin his thoughts; but through the thickness and heavinesshe thought how low he had fallen. Lower yet when,despite all his vanishing reserve, all his dignity and exclusiveness,he laughed sillily and said:

CHAPTER VII

MRS. WESTMORE TAKES A HAND

The daughter arose from the piano andkissed her mother, holding for a moment thepretty face, crowned with white hair, between her twopalms.

The last of the sentence came so slowly that it sankalmost into silence, as of one beginning a sentence andbecoming so absorbed in the subject as to forget thespeech. Then she turned again to the piano, as if tohide from her mother the sorrow which had crept intoher face.

“You should cease to think of that. Such things aredreams—at present we are confronted by very disagreeablerealities.”

“Dreams—ah, mother mine”—she answered withforced cheeriness—“but what would life be withoutthem?”

“For one thing, Alice”—and she took the daughter'splace at the piano and began to play snatches ofan old waltz tune—“it would be free from all the morbidunnaturalness, the silliness, the froth of things.There is too much hardness in every life—in the world[Pg 465]—inthe very laws of life, for such things ever to havebeen part of the original plan. For my part, I thinkthey are the product of man and wine or women or morphineor some other narcotic.”

“Oh, no, mother. 'Tis the dreams that make therealities. Not a great established fact exists but it wasonce the vision of a dreamer. Our dreams to-day becomethe realities of to-morrow.”

“Do you believe Tom is not dead—that he will oneday come back?” asked her mother abruptly.

It was twilight and the fire flickered, lighting up thelibrary. But in the flash of it Mrs. Westmore sawAlice's cheek whiten in a hopeless, helpless, stricken way.

Then she walked to the window and looked out on thedarkness fast closing in on the lawn, clustering denseraround the evergreens and creeping ghostlike toward thedim sky line which shone clear in the open.

The very helplessness of her step, her silence, hernumbed, yearning look across the lawn told Mrs. Westmoreof the death of all hope there.

“I should not have hurt you so, Alice. I only wantedto show you how worse than useless it is ... butto change the subject, I do wish to speak to you of—ourcondition.”

Alice was used to her mother's ways—her brilliancy—herpointed manner of going at things—her quickchange of thought—of mood, and even of tempera[Pg 466]ment.An outsider would have judged Mrs. Westmoreto be fickle with a strong vein of selfishness and even ofegotism. Alice only knew that she was her mother; whohad suffered much; who had been reduced by poverty toa condition straitened even to hardships. To help herthe daughter knew that she was willing to make anysacrifice. Unselfish, devoted, clear as noonday in herown ideas of right and wrong, Alice's one weakness washer blind devotion to those she loved. A weakness beautifuland even magnificent, since it might mean a sacrificeof her heart for another. The woman who givesher time, her money, her life, even, to another givesbut a small part of her real self. But there is somethingtruly heroic when she throws in her heart also.For when a woman has given that she has given all; andbecause she has thrown it in cold and dead—a lifelessthing—matters not; in the poignancy of the givingit is gone from her forever and she may not recall iteven with the opportunity of bringing it back to life.

She who gives her all, but keeps her heart, is as apriest reading mechanically the Sermon on the Mountfrom the Bible. But she who gives her heart never totake it back again gives as the Christ dying on the Cross.

Alice took the paper and glanced at it. She flushedand thrust it into her pocket. They were silent a whileand Mrs. Westmore sat thinking of the past. Aliceknew it by the great reminiscent light which gleamed inher eyes. She thought of the time when she had servants,money, friends unlimited—of the wealth and in[Pg 467]fluenceof her husband—of the glory of Westmoreland.

Every one has some secret ambition kept from theeyes of every living soul—often even to die in itskeeper's breast. It is oftenest a mean ambition of whichone is ashamed and so hides it from the world. It isoften the one weakness. Alice never knew what was hermother's. She did not indeed know that she had one,for this one thing Mrs. Westmore had kept inviolatelysecret. But in her heart there had always rankled asecret jealousy when she thought of The Gaffs. It hadbeen there since she could remember—a feeling cherishedsecretly, too, by her husband: for in everythingtheir one idea had been that Westmoreland should surpassThe Gaffs,—that it should be handsomer, betterkept, more prosperous, more famous.

Now, Westmoreland was gone—this meant the lastof it. It would be sold, even the last hundred acres ofit, with the old home on it. Gone—gone—all herformer glory—all her family tradition, her memories,her very name.

Remained in all its intactness—its beauty—its wellequipped barns with all the splendor of its former days.For so great was the respect of Schofield's army forthe character of Colonel Jeremiah Travis that his homeescaped the torch when it was applied to many othersin the Tennessee Valley. And Richard Travis had beenshrewd enough after the war to hold his own. Joiningthe party of the negro after the war, he had been itspolitical ruler in the county. And the Honorable Rich[Pg 468]ardTravis had been offered anything he wanted. Atpresent he was State Senator. He with others calledhimself a Republican—one of the great party of Lincolnto which the negroes after their enfranchisementunited themselves. It was a fearful misnomer. TheRepublican party in the South, composed of ninety-nineignorant negroes to one renegade white, about as trulyrepresented the progressive party of Lincoln as a blackvampire the ornithology of all lands. Indeed, since thewar, there has never been in the South either a Republicanor a Democratic party. The party line is notdrawn on belief but on race and color. The white men,believing everything they please from free trade to protection,vote a ticket which they call Democratic. Thenegroes, and a few whites who allied themselves withthem for the spoils of office, vote the other ticket. Neitherof them represent anything but a race issue.

To this negro party belonged Richard Travis—andthe price of his infamy had beenHonorable before hisname.

But Mrs. Westmore cared nothing for this. Sheonly knew that he was a leader of men, was handsome,well reared and educated, and that he owned The Gaffs,her old rival. And that there it stood, a fortune—arefuge—a rock—offered to her and her daughter,offered by a man who, whatever his other faults, wasbrave and dashing, sincere in his idolatrous love for herdaughter. That he would make Alice happy she didnot doubt; for Mrs. Westmore's idea of happiness wasin having wealth and position and a splendid name.[Pg 469]Having no real heart, how was it possible for her toknow, as Alice could know, the happiness of love?

An eyeless fish in the river of Mammoth Cave mightas well try to understand what light meant.

He would make Alice happy, of course he would; hewould make her happy by devotion, which he was eagerto give her with an unstinted hand. Alice needed it,she herself needed it. It was common sense to acceptit,—business sense. It was opportunity—fate. Itwas the reward of a life—the triumph of it—to haveher old rival—enemy—bound and presented to her.

And nothing stood between her and the accomplishmentof it all but the foolish romance of her daughter'syouth.

“With The Gaffs, with Richard Travis and his moneywould come all I wish, both for her and for me. Oncemore I would hold the social position I once held: oncemore I would be something in the world. And Alice,of course, she would be happy; for her's is one of thosetrusting natures which finds first where her duty pointsand then makes her heart follow.”

But Mrs. Westmore wisely kept silent. She did notthink aloud. She knew too well that Alice's sympathetic,unselfish, obedient spirit was thinking it over.

She sat down by her mother and took up a pet kittenwhich had come purring in, begging for sympathy. Shestroked it thoughtfully.

“So many people,” the mother said after a while,“have false ideas of love and marriage. Like ignorant[Pg 470]people when they get religion, they think a great andsudden change must come over them—changing theirvery lives.”

She laughed her ringing little laugh: “I told youof your father's and my love affair. Why, I was engagedto three other men at the same time—positivelyI was. And I would have been just as happy with anyof them.”

Her mother laughed and tapped the toe of her shoeplayfully against the fender: “It was a silly reason;he swam the Tennessee River on his horse to see me oneday, when the ferry-boat was a wreck. I married him.”

“Yes, but I knew your father was brave. You cannotlove a coward—no woman can. But let a man bebrave—no matter what his faults are—the rest is all aquestion of time. You would soon learn to love him asI did your father.”

“He says there are threats against his life—his andAunt Charity's. He had a terrible dream last night,and he would have me to interpret it.”

“They have been very unhappy all day—you knowthe negroes have been surly and revengeful since theelection of Governor Houston—they believe they will[Pg 471]be put back into slavery and they know that Uncle Biscovoted with his white friends. It is folly, of course—butthey beat Captain Roland's old body servant nearly todeath because he voted with his old master. And UncleBisco has heard threats that he and Aunt Charity will bevisited in a like manner. I think it will soon blow over,though at times I confess I am often worried aboutthem, living alone so far off from us, in the cabin in thewood.”

“Why, he said an angel had brought him water todrink from a Castellonian Spring. Now, I don't knowwhat a Castellonian Spring is, but that was the word heused, and that he was turned into a live-oak tree, old andmoss-grown. Then he stood in the forest surroundedby scrub-oaks and towering over them and other meantrees when suddenly they all fell upon him and cut himdown. Now, he says, these scrub-oaks are the radicalnegroes who wish to kill him for voting with the whites.You will laugh at my interpretation,” she went on. “Itold him that the small black oaks were years that stillstood around him, but that finally they would overpowerhim and he would sink to sleep beneath them, aswe must all eventually do. I think it reassured him—but,mamma, I am uneasy about the two old people.”

They were silent at last: “When did you say Richardwas coming again, Alice?[Pg 472]”

“To-morrow night—and—and—I hear Clay inhis laboratory. I will go and talk to him before bedtime.”

She stooped and kissed her mother. To her surprise,she found her mother's arms around her neck and heardher whisper brokenly:

“Alice—Alice—you could solve it all if you would.Think—think—what it would mean to me—to allof us—oh, I can stand this poverty no longer—thisfight against that which we cannot overcome.”

She burst into a flood of tears. Never before hadAlice seen her show her emotions over their condition,and it hurt her, stabbed her to the vital spot of all obedienceand love.

And Mrs. Westmore wrote a note to Richard Travis.It did not say so in words but it meant: “Come andbe bold—you have won.”

CHAPTER VIII

A QUESTION BROUGHT HOME

“I shall go to Boston next week to meet the directorsof the mill and give in my annual report.”

The three had been sitting in Westmoreland librarythis Sunday night—for Richard Travis came regularlyevery Sunday night, and he had been talkingabout the progress of the mill and the great work itwas doing for the poor whites of the valley. “I imagine,”he added, “that they will be pleased with the reportthis year.”

“But are you altogether pleased with it in all itsfeatures?” asked Alice thoughtfully.

“Just this, mother, and I have been thinking of talkingto Richard about it for some time.”

She flushed under his gaze and added: “If I wasn'tsaying what I am for humanity's sake I would be willingto admit that it was impertinent on my part. But areyou satisfied with the way you work little children inthat mill, Richard, and are you willing to let it go onwithout a protest before your directors? You have[Pg 474]such a fine opportunity for good there,” she added in allher old beautiful earnestness.

“Oh, Alice, my dear, that is none of our affair. NowI should not answer her, Richard,” and Mrs. Westmoretapped him playfully on the arm.

“Frankly, I am not,” he said to Alice. “I think itis a horrible thing. But how are we to remedy it?There is no law on the subject at all in Alabama—”

Travis laughed: “You will find that it cuts a smallfigure with directors when it comes in conflict with thedividends of a corporation.”

“They have seen the evils of it and they have a lawagainst child labor. The age is restricted to twelveyears, and every other year they must go to a publicschool before they may be taken back into the mill.But even with all that, the law is openly violated, as it isin England, where they have been making efforts tothrottle the child-labor problem for nearly a century,and after whose law the New England law was patterned.”

“Why, certainly—and it would be the same here.If we had a law the lazy parents of many of them wouldswear falsely to their children's ages.[Pg 475]”

“It has not been found yet,” he added. “What isto prevent two designing parents swearing that an eightyear old child is twelve—and these little poor whites,”he added with a laugh, “all look alike from eight tosixteen—scrawny—hard and half-starved. In manycases no living man could swear whether they are sixor twelve.”

“If you really should make it a rule to refuse allchildren under twelve,” she added, “tell me how manywould go out of your mill.”

She started: “That is terrible—terrible! Couldn'tyou—couldn't you bring the subject up before thedirectors for—for—”

“Do you know,” he added quickly, “how many idleparents these hundred and twenty-five children support—actuallysupport? Why, about fifty. Now doyou see? The whole influence of these fifty peoplewill be to violate the law—to swear the childrenare twelve or over. Yes, I am opposed to it—so isKingsley—but we are powerless.”

“My enthusiasm has been aroused, of late, on the[Pg 476]subject,” Alice went on, “by the talks and preaching ofmy old friend, Mr. Watts.”

Travis frowned: “The old Bishop of Cottontown,”he added ironically—“and he had better stop it—hewill get into trouble yet.”

“And I don't suppose one should do a corporationharm,” she said quickly,—“even to do humanitygood?”

“Oh, Alice, let us drop so disagreeable a subject,”said her mother. “Come, Richard and I want somemusic.”

“Any way,” said Alice, rising, “I do very much hopeyou will bring the subject up in your visit to thedirectors. It has grown on me under the talks of theold Bishop and what I have seen myself—it has becomea nightmare to me.”

“I don't think it is any of our business at all,”spoke up Mrs. Westmore quickly.

“Suppose—suppose—that our poverty had cometo us then, and you and papa had died and left brotherand me alone and friendless. Then suppose we hadbeen put into that mill to work fourteen hours a day—we—yourown little ones—brother and I[Pg 477]”—

Mrs. Westmore sprang up with a little shriek andput her hands over her daughter's mouth.

Richard Travis shrugged his shoulders: “I hadnot thought of it that way myself,” he said. “Thatgoes home to one.”

Richard Travis was always uplifted in the presence ofAlice. It was wonderful to him what a difference in hisfeelings, his behavior, his ideas, her simple presence exerted.As he looked at her he thought of last night'sdebauch—the bar-room—the baseness and vileness ofit all. He thought of his many amours. He saw thepurity and grandeur of her in this contrast—all herqueenliness and beauty and simplicity. He even thoughtof Maggie and said to himself: “Suppose Alice shouldknow all this.... My God! I would have nomore chance of winning her than of plucking a starfrom the sky!”

He thought of Helen and it made him serious.Helen's was a different problem from Maggie's. Maggiewas a mill girl—poor, with a bed-ridden father.She was nameless. But Helen—she was of the sameblood and caste of this beautiful woman before him,whom he fully expected to make his wife. There wasdanger in Helen—he must act boldly, but decisively—hemust take her away with him—out of the State,the South even. Distance would be his protection, andher pride and shame would prevent her ever letting herwhereabouts or her fate be known.

Cold-bloodedly, boldly, and with clear-cut reasoning,all this ran through his mind as he stood looking atAlice Westmore.[Pg 478]

We are strangely made—the best of us. Men havelooked on the Madonna and wondered why the artisthad not put more humanity there—had not given hera sensual lip, perhaps. And on the Cross, the Christwas thinking of a thief.

“Next Sunday, do you remember—Alice—nextSunday night you are to tell me—to fix the day,Sweet?”

“Did mother tell you that?” she asked. “Sheshould let me speak for myself.”

But somehow he felt that she would. Indeed heknew it as he kissed her hand and bade her good-night.

Richard Travis had ridden over to Westmoreland thatSunday night, and as he rode back, some two miles away,and within the shadows of a dense clump of oaks whichbordered the road, he was stopped by two dusky figures.They stood just on the edge of the forest and cameout so suddenly that the spirited saddle mare stoppedand attempted to wheel and bolt. But Travis, controllingher with one hand and, suspecting robbers, haddrawn his revolver with the other, when one of themsaid:

The two men, one a negro and the other a mulatto,[Pg 479]came up to his saddle-skirt and stood waiting respectfully.

“We did, sir,” said the mulatto, “but the boys are allout here in the woods, and we wanted to hold them together.We didn't know when you would come home.”

“Oh, it's all right,” said Travis pettishly—“onlyyou came near catching one of my bullets by mistake. Ithought you were Jack Bracken and his gang.”

The mulatto smiled and apologized. He was a brightfellow and the barber of the town.

“We wanted to know, sir, if you were willing for usto do the work to-night, sir?”

“Why bother me about it—no need for me to know,Silos, but one thing I must insist upon. You may whipthem—frighten them, but nothing else, mind you,nothing else.”

Travis bent low over the saddle and talked earnestlyto the man a while. It was evidently satisfactory tothe other, for he soon beckoned his companion andstarted off into the woods.

“Yes—but the toughest we could get. I'll not staymyself to see it. I don't like such work, sir—onlysome one has to do it for the cause—the cause of freedom,sir.”

“Of course—why of course,” said Travis. “Old[Pg 480]Bisco and his kind are liable to get all you negroes putback into slavery—if the Democrats succeed again asthey have just done. Give them a good scare.”

“We'll fix him to-night, boss,” said the black one,grinning good naturedly. Then he added to himself:“Yes, I'll whip 'em—to death.”

“I heard a good deal of talk among the boys, to-night,sir,” said the mulatto. “They all want you forCongress next time.”

“Do your work quietly to-night—Just a goodscare—If you disturb”—he pointed to the roof ofWestmoreland in the distance showing above the beechtops. “You know how foolish they are about old Biscoand his wife—”

“They'll never hear anything.” He walked off, sayingto himself: “A nigger who is a traitor to his raceought to be shot, but for fear of a noise and disturbin'the ladies—I'll hang 'em both,—never fear.”

Uncle Bisco and his wife were rudely awakened. Itwas nearly midnight when the door of their old cabinwas broken open by a dozen black, ignorant negroes,who seized and bound the old couple before they couldcry out. Bisco was taken out into the yard under a[Pg 481]tree, while his wife, pleading and begging for her husband'slife, was tied to another tree.

“Bisco,” said the leader, “we cum heah to pay youback fur de blood you drawed frum our backs whilst youhilt de whip ob slabery an' oberseed fur white fo'ks.An' fur ebry lick you giv' us, we gwi' giv' you er dozenon your naked back, an' es fur dis ole witch,” said thebrute, pointing to old Aunt Charity, “we got de plaindocyments on her fur witchin' Br'er Moses' little gal—desame dat she mek hab fits, an' we gwi' hang her to alim'.”

The old man drew himself up. In every respect—intelligence,physical and moral bravery—he was superiorto the crowd around him. Raised with the bestclass of whites, he had absorbed many of their virtues,while in those around him were many who were but afew generations removed from the cowardice of darkestAfrica.

“I nurver hit you a lick you didn't deserve, suh, Inurver had you whipped but once an' dat wus for stealin'a horg which you sed yo'se'f you stole. You kendo wid me es you please,” he went on, “you am mennyan' kin do it, an' I am ole an' weak. But ef you hes gotenny soul, spare de po' ole 'oman who ain't nurver dunnothin' but kindness all her life. De berry chile yousay she witched hes hed 'leptis fits all its life an' Cheerityain't dun nuffin' but take it medicine to kwore it. Don'thurt de po' ole 'oman,” he exclaimed.

“Let 'em do whut dey please wid me, Bisco,” shesaid: “Dey can't do nuffin' to dis po' ole body but sen'de tired soul on dat journey wher de buterful room is[Pg 482]already fix fur it, es you read dis berry night. Butspare de ole man, spare 'im fur de secun' blessin' whichGord dun promised us, an' which boun' ter cum bekaseGord can't lie. O Lord,” she said suddenly, “rememberthy po' ole servants dis night.”

But her appeals were fruitless. Already the “witchcouncil” of the blacks was being formed to decide theirfate. And it was an uncanny scene that the moonlooked down on that night, under the big trees on thebanks of the Tennessee. They formed in a circle aroundthe “Witch Finder,” an old negro whose head was aswhite as snow, and who was so ignorant he could scarcelyspeak even negro dialect.

Both his father and mother were imported from Africa,and the former was “Witch Finder” for his tribethere. The negroes said the African Witch Finder hadimparted his secret only to his son, and that it had thusbeen handed down in one family for many generations.

The old negro now sat upon the ground in the centerof the circle. He was a small, bent up, wiry-lookingblack, with a physiognomy closely resembling a dog's,which he took pains to cultivate by drawing the plaits ofhis hair down like the ears of a hound, while he shapedhis few straggling strands of beard into the under jaw ofthe same animal. Three big negroes had led him, blind-folded,into the circle, chanting a peculiar song, themusic of which was weird and uncanny. And now as hesat on the ground the others regarded him with thegreatest reverence and awe. It was in one of the mostdismal portions of the swamp, a hundred yards or twofrom the road that led to the ferry at the river. Here[Pg 483]the old people had been brought from their homes andtied to this spot where the witch council was to be held.Before seating himself the Witch Finder had drawnthree rings within a circle on the ground with the thighbone of a dog. Then, unbuttoning his red flannel shirt,he took from his bosom, suspended around his neck, akind of purse, made from the raw-hide of a calf, withwhite hair on one side and red on the other, and fromthis bag he proceeded to take out things which wouldhave given Shakespeare ideas for his witch scene in Macbeth.A little black ring, made of the legs of the blackspider and bound together with black horse hair; a blackthimble-like cup, not much longer than the cup of anacorn, made of the black switch of a mule containingthe liver of a scorpion. The horny head and neck ofthe huge black beetle, commonly known to negroes asthe black Betsy Bug; the rattle and button of a rattlesnake;the fang-tooth of a cotton-mouth moccasin, theleft hind foot of a frog, seeds of the stinging nettle,and pods of peculiar plants, all incased in a little sackmade of a mole's hide. These were all given sufficientcharm by a small round cotton yarn, in the center ofwhich was a drop of human blood. They were placedon the ground around him, but he held the ball of cottonyarn in his hand, and ordered that the child bebrought into the ring. The poor thing was frightenednearly to death at sight of the Witch Finder, and whenhe began slowly to unwind his ball of cotton threadand chant his monotonous funeral song, she screamedin terror. At a signal from the “Witch Finder,” AuntCharity was dragged into the ring, her hands tied be[Pg 484]hindher. The sight of such brutality was too muchfor the child, and she promptly had another fit. Noother evidence was needed, and the Witch Finder declaredthat Aunt Charity was Queen of Witches. Thecouncil retired, and in a few minutes their decision wasmade: Uncle Bisco was to be beaten to death with hickoryflails and his old wife hung to the nearest tree.Their verdict being made, two stout negroes came forwardto bind the old man to a tree with his arms aroundit. At sight of these ruffians the old woman broke outinto triumphant song:

And it was well that she sang that song, for it stoppedthree horsemen just as they forded the creek and turnedtheir horses' heads into the lane that led to the cabin.One who was tall and with square shoulders sat his horseas if born in the saddle. Above, his dark hair wasstreaked with white, but the face was calm and sad,though lit up now with two keen and kindly eyes whichglowed with suppressed excitement. It was the face ofsplendid resolve and noble purpose, and the horse herode was John Paul Jones. The other was the village[Pg 485]blacksmith. A negro followed them, mounted on a raw-bonepony, and carrying his master's Enfield rifle.

The first horseman was just saying: “Things lookmighty natural at the old place, Eph; I wonder if theold folks will know us? It seems to me—”

He pulled up his horse with a jerk. He heard singingjust over to his left in the wood. Both horsemensat listening:

“Do you know that voice, Eph?” cried the man infront to his body servant. “We must hurry”; and hetouched the splendid horse with the heel of his ridingboot.

But the young negro had already plunged two spursinto his pony's flanks and was galloping toward thecabin.

It was all over when the white rider came up. Twobrutes had been knocked over with the short heavy barrelof an Enfield rifle. There was wild scatteringof others through the wood. An old man was clingingin silent prayer to his son's knees and an old woman wasclinging around his neck, and saying:[Pg 486]

Then they looked up and the old man raised his handsin a pitiful tumult of joy and fear and reverence as hesaid:

CHAPTER IX

THE PEDIGREE OF ACHIEVEMENT

Man may breed up all animals but himself. Striveas he may, the laws of heredity are hidden.“Like produces like or the likeness of an ancestor”is the unalterable law of the lower animal. Notso with man—he is a strange anomaly. Breed himup—up—and then from his high breeding will comereversion. From pedigrees and plumed hats and ruffledshirts come not men, but pygmies—things whichin the real fight of life are but mice to the eagles whichhave come up from the soil with the grit of it in theircraws and the strength of it in their talons.

We stop in wonder—balked. Then we see that wecannot breed men—they are born; not in castles, butin cabins.

And why in cabins? For therein must be the solution.And the solution is plain: It is work—workthat does it.

From the loins of great horses come greater horses;for the pedigree of work—achievement—is there.Unlike man, the race-horse is kept from degeneracy bywork. Each colt that comes must add achievement to[Pg 488]pedigree when he faces the starter, or he goes to theshambles or the surgeon.

Why may not man learn this simple lesson—thelesson of work—of pedigree, but the pedigree ofachievement?

The son who would surpass his father must do morethan his father did. Two generations of idleness willbeget nonentities, and three, degenerates.

The preacher, the philosopher, the poet, the ruler—itmatters not what his name—he who first solves theproblem of how to keep mankind achieving will solve theproblem of humanity.

And now to Helen Conway for the first time in her lifethis simple thing was happening—she was working—shewas earning—she was supporting herself and Lilyand her father. Not only that, but gradually she waslearning to know what the love of one like Clay meant—unselfish,devoted, true.

If to every tempted woman in the world could begiven work, and to work achievement, and to achievementindependence, there would be few fallen ones.

All the next week Helen went to the mill early—shewanted to go. She wanted to earn more money andkeep Lily out of the mill. And she went with alight heart, because for the first time in her life sinceshe could remember, her father was sober. Helen'searnings changed even him. There was something sonoble in her efforts that it uplifted even the drunkard.In mingled shame and pride he thought it out: Supportedby his daughter—in a mill and such a daughter!He arose from it all white-lipped with resolve:[Pg 489]“I will be a Conway again!” He said it over and over.He swore it.

It is true he was not entirely free from that sickening,sour, accursed smell with which she had associatedhim all her life. But that he was himself, thathe was making an earnest effort, she knew by his neatlybrushed clothes, his clean linen, his freshly shaved face,his whole attire which betokened the former gentleman.

He kissed his daughters at the breakfast table. Hechatted with them, and though he said nothing aboutit, even Lily knew that he had resolved to reform.

After breakfast Helen left him, with Lily sitting onher father's lap, her face bright with the sunshineof it:

Conway started. The very intonation of her voice,her gesture, was of the long dead mother.

Tears came to his eyes. He kissed her: “Neveragain, little daughter, will I take another drop.”

She looked at him seriously: “Say with God'shelp—” she said simply. “Mammy Maria said itwon't count unless you say that.”

Never was an Autumn morning more beautiful toHelen as she walked across the fields to the mill. She[Pg 490]had learned a nearer way, one which lay across hill andfield. The path ran through farms, chiefly The Gaffs,and cut across the hills and meadow land. Throughlittle dells, amid fragrant groves of sweet gum and maples,their beautiful many-colored leaves now scatteredin rich profusion around. Then down little hollowswhere the brooks sputtered and frothed and foamedalong, the sun all the time darting in and out, as thewaters ran first in sunshine and then in shadow. Andabove, the winds were so still, that the jumping of thesquirrel in the hickories made the only noise among theleaves which still clung to the boughs.

She was earning a living—she was saving Lily fromthe mill and her father from temptation.

Her path wound along an old field and plunged intoscrub cedar and glady rocks. A covey of quail sprangup before her and she screamed, frightened at the suddenthunder of their wings.

Then the path ran through a sedge field, white withthe tall silvered panicled-leaves of the life-everlasting.

Beyond her she saw the smoke-stack of the mill, and ashort cut through a meadow of The Gaffs would soontake her there.

Through the bars she went, intent only on soon reachingthe mill beyond and glorying in the strong richsmell of autumn in leaf and grass and air.

“What a beautiful horse that is in the pasture,” shethought, and then her attention went to a meadow lark[Pg 491]flushed and exultant. She heard shouts, and now—whywas Jim, the stable boy, running toward her so fast,carrying a pitchfork in his hands and shouting: “Whoa—there,Antar—Antar,—you, sir!”

And the horse! One look was enough. With earslaid back, and mouth wide open, with eyes blazing withthe fire of fury he was plunging straight at her.

Helpless, she turned in sickening doubt, to feel thather limbs were limp in the agony of fear. She heardthe thunder of the man-eating stallion's hoofs just behindher and she butted blindly, as she sank down, intosome one who held bravely her hand as she fell, and thenext instant she heard a thundering report and smelta foul blast of gunpowder. She looked up in time tosee the great horse pitch back on his haunches, rear,quiver a moment and strike desperately at the air withhis front feet and fall almost upon her.

When she revived, the stable boy stood near by thedead stallion, pale with fright and wonder. A half-grownboy stood by her, holding her hand.

“You are all right now,” he said quietly as he helpedher to arise. In his right hand he held a pistol andthe foul smoke still oozed up from the nipple where theexploded cap lay shattered, under the hammer.

He was perfectly cool—even haughtily so. Hescarcely looked at Helen nor at Jim, who kept sayingnervously:

The boy laughed an ironical laugh. Then he walkedup and examined the shot he had made. Squarely be[Pg 492]tweenthe great eyes the ball had gone, and scarcely hadthe glaring, frenzied eye-balls of the man-eater beenfixed in the rigid stare of death. He put his fingers onit, and turning, said:

“And what will Mr. Travis say? Well, tell him firstof all that this man-eating stallion of his caught thebullet I had intended for his woman-eating master—thisbeing my birth-day. And tell him, if he asks youwho I am, that last week I was James Adams, but nowI am James Travis. He will understand.”

He came over to Helen gallantly—his blue eyes shiningthrough a smile which now lurked in them:

Then, taking her hand as if she had been his bigsister, he led her along the path to the road and tosafety.

CHAPTER X

MARRIED IN GOD'S SIGHT

Night—for night and death, are they not one?A farm cabin in a little valley beyond themountain. An Indian Summer night in November,but a little fire is pleasant, throwing its cheerfullight on a room rough from puncheon floor to axe-hewnrafters, but cleanly-tidy in its very roughness.It looked sinewy, strong, honest, good-natured. Therewas roughness, but it was the roughness of strength.Knots of character told of the suffering, struggles andprivations of the sturdy trees in the forest, of seamstwisted by the tempests; rifts from the mountain rocks;fibre, steel-chilled by the terrible, silent cold of winterstars.

And now plank and beam and rafter and roof madeinto a home, humble and honest, and giving it all backagain under the warm light of the hearth-stone.

On a bed, white and beautifully clean, lay a fragilecreature, terribly white herself, save where red live coalsgleamed in her cheeks beneath the bright, blazing, fever-fireburning in her eyes above.

She smiled because a little one—a tiny, sickly littlegirl—had come up to the bed and patted her cheek andsaid: “Little mother—little mother![Pg 494]”

There were four other children in the room, and theysat around in all the solemn, awe-stricken sorrow ofdeath, seen for the first time.

Then a man in an invalid chair, helpless and with abroken spine, spoke, as if thinking aloud:

“She's all the mother the little 'uns ever had, Bishop—'pearslike it's cruel for God to take her from them.”

“God's cruelty is our crown,” said the old man—“we'llunderstand it by and by.”

Then the beautiful woman who had come over themountain arose from the seat by the fireside, and cameto the bed. She took the little one in her arms andpetted and soothed her.

The child looked at her timidly in childish astonishment.She was not used to such a beautiful womanholding her—so proud and fine—from a world thatshe knew was not her world.

“No—no—Miss Alice,” and then she smiled sobrightly and cheerfully that the little one in Alice Westmore'sarms clapped her hands and laughed: “Littlemother—be up, well, to-morrow.”

Little Mother turned her eyes on the child quickly,smiled and nodded approval. But there were tears—tearswhich the little one did not understand.

An hour went by—the wind had ceased, and with itthe rain. The children were asleep in bed; the fatherin his chair.

A cold sweat had broken out on the dying girl's foreheadand she breathed with a terrible effort. And in it[Pg 495]all the two watchers beside the bed saw that there wasan agony there but not the fear of death. She kepttrying to bite her nails nervously and saying:

“Tell me, Maggie,” said the old man, bending lowand soothing her forehead with his hands, “tell uswhat's pesterin' you—maybe it hadn't oughter be.You mustn't worry now—God'll make everything right—tothem that loves him even to the happy death.You'll die happy an' be happy with him forever. Thelittle 'uns an' the father, you know they're fixed here—inthis nice home an' the farm—so don't worry.”

“That's it!... Oh, that's it!... I gotit that way— ... all for them ... but it'sthat that hurts now....”

He bent down over her: “Tell us, child—me an'Miss Alice—tell us what's pesterin' you. You mustn'tdie this way—you who've got such a right to behappy.”

The hectic spark burned to white heat in her cheek.She bit her nails, she picked at the cover, she lookedtoward the bed and asked feebly: “Are they asleep?Can I talk to you two?”

Then she beckoned to the old preacher, who kneltby her side, and he put his arms around her neck andraised her on the pillow. And his ear was close to herlips, for she could scarcely talk, and Alice Westmoreknelt and listened, too. She listened, but with a griping,strained heartache,—listened to a dying confession[Pg 496]from the pale lips, and the truth for the first time cameto Alice Westmore, and kneeling, she could not rise, butbent again her head and heard the pitiful, dying confession.As she listened to the broken, gasping words,heard the heart-breaking secret come out of the ruinsof its wrecked home, her love, her temptation, her ignorancein wondering if she were really married by thelaws of love, and then the great martyrdom of it all—givingher life, her all, that the others might live—aterrible tightening gathered around Alice Westmore'sheart, her head fell with the flooding tears and she kneltsobbing, her bloodless fingers clutching the bed of thedying girl.

“Don't cry,” said Maggie. “I should be the oneto weep, ... only I am so happy ... tothink ... I am loved by the noblest, best, of men, ... an'I love him so, ... only he ain't here; ... butI wouldn't have him see me die. Now—now ... whatI want to know, Bishop, ...” shetried to rise. She seemed to be passing away. Theold man caught her and held her in his arms.

Her eyes opened: “I—is—” she went on, in theagony of it all with the same breath, “am ... amI married ... in God's sight ... aswell as his—”

The old man held her tenderly as if she were a child.He smiled calmly, sweetly, into her eyes as he said:

“Oh, yes—yes—” she smiled, “an' now—even[Pg 497]now I love him up—right up—as you see ... tothe door, ... to the shadow, ... to thevalley of the shadow....”

“For them—my little ones—they had no mother,you kno'—an' Daddy's back. Oh, I didn't mind thework, ... the mill that has killed ...killed me, ... but, ... but was I”—hervoice rose to a shrill cry of agony—“am I married inGod's sight?”

Alice quivered in the beauty of the answer which cameback from the old man's lips:

“As sure as God lives, you were—there now—sleepand rest; it is all right, child.”

Then a sweet calmness settled over her face, and withit a smile of exquisite happiness.

She fell back on her pillow: “In God's sight ... married ... married ... my—Oh,I have never said it before ... but now, ... can't I?”

She tried to reach under her pillow to draw out something,and then she smiled and died.

When Alice Westmore dressed her for burial an hourafterwards, her heart was shaken with a bitterness ithad never known before—a bitterness which in a manwould have been a vengeance. For there was the smilestill on the dead face, carried into the presence of God.[Pg 498]

“It is your's,” she wrote calmly, terribly calm—“fromthe girl who died believing she was your wife.I am helping bury her to-day. And you need not cometo Westmoreland to-morrow night, nor next week, norever again.”

And Richard Travis, when he read it, turned white tohis hard, bitter, cruel lips, the first time in all his life.

For he knew that now he had no more chance to recallthe living than he had to recall the dead.

CHAPTER XI

THE QUEEN IS DEAD—LONG LIVE THE QUEEN

All that week at the mill, Richard Travis hadbeen making preparations for his trip to Boston.Regularly twice, and often three times ayear, he had made the same journey, where his reportto the directors was received and discussed. After that,there were always two weeks of theatres, operas, wine-suppersand dissipations of other kinds—though neverof the grossest sort—for even in sin there is refinement,and Richard Travis was by instinct and inheritancerefined.

He was not conscious—and who of his class everare?—of the effects of the life he was leading—thetightening of this chain of immoral habits, the searingof what conscience he had, the freezing of all that wasgenerous and good within him.

Once his nature had been as a lake in midsummer,its surface shimmering in the sunlight, reflecting somethingof the beauty that came to it. Now, cold, sordid,callous, it lay incased in winter ice and neither couldthe sunlight go in nor its reflection go out. It slepton in coarse opaqueness, covered with an impenetrablecrust which he himself did not understand.

“But,” said the old Bishop more than once, “Godcan touch him and he will thaw like a spring day. There[Pg 500]is somethin' great in Richard Travis if he can only betouched.”

But vice cannot reason. Immorality cannot deduce.Only the moral ponders deeply and knows both the premisesand the conclusions, because only the moral thinks.

Vice, like the poisonous talons of a bird of prey, whileit buries its nails in the flesh of its victim, carries alsothe narcotic which soothes as it kills.

And Richard Travis had arrived at this stage. Atfirst it had been with him any woman, so there was aromance—and hence Maggie. But he had tired ofthese, and now it was the woman beautiful as Helen, orthe woman pure and lovely as Alice Westmore.

What a tribute to purity, that impurity worships it themore as itself sinks lower in the slime of things. It isthe poignancy of the meteorite, which, falling from astar, hisses out its life in the mud.

The woman pure—Alice—the very thought of hersent him farther into the mud, knowing she could notbe his. She alone whom he had wanted to wed all hislife, the goal of his love's ambition, the one woman inthe world he had never doubted would one day be hiswife.

Her note to him—“Never ... never ... again”—hekept reading it over, stunned, and pale,with the truth of it. In his blindness it had never occurredto him that Alice Westmore and Maggie wouldever meet. In his blindness—for Wrong, daring as asnake, which, however alert and far-seeing it may be inthe hey-day of its spring, sees less clearly as the Summeradvances, until, in the August of its infamy, it[Pg 501]ceases to see altogether and becomes an easy victim forall things with hoofs.

Then, the poignant reawakening. Now he lay in themud and above him still shone the star.

The star—his star! And how it hurt him! It wasthe breaking of a link in the chain of his life.

Twice had he written to her. But each time his notescame back unopened. Twice had he gone to Westmorelandto see her. Mrs. Westmore met him at the door,cordial, sympathetic, but with a nervous jerk in the littlemetallic laugh. His first glance at her told him sheknew everything—and yet, knew nothing. Alice waslocked in her room and would not see him.

“But, oh, Richard,” and again she laughed her littleinsincere, unstable, society laugh, beginning withbrave frankness in one corner of her mouth and endingin a hypocritical wave of forgetfulness before it hadtime to finish the circle, but fluttering out into a cynicaltwitching of a thing which might have been a smile ora sneer—

She pressed his hand sympathetically. The mouthsaid nothing, but the hand said plainly: “Do notdespair—I am working for a home at The Gaffs.”

He pitied her, for there was misery in her eyes andin her laugh and in the very touch of her hand. Miseryand insincerity, and that terrible mental state whenweakness is roped up between the two and knows, foronce in its life, that it has no strength at all.

And she pitied him, for never before on any human[Pg 502]face had she seen the terrible irony of agony. Agonyshe had often seen—but not this irony of it—thisagony that saw all its life's happiness blasted and knewit deserved it.

And then there happened what always happens to thething in the mud—he sank deeper—desperatelydeeper.

Now—now he would have Helen Conway. He wouldhave her and own her, body and soul. He would takeher away—as he had planned, and keep her away.That was easy, too—too far away for the whisper of itever to come back. If he failed in that he would marryher. She was beautiful—and with a little more age andeducation she would grace The Gaffs. So he mightmarry her and set her up, a queen over their heads.

This was his determination when he went to the millthe first of the week. All the week he watched her,talked with her, was pleasant, gallant and agreeable.But he soon saw that Helen was not the same. Therewas not the dull wistful resignation in her look, and despairhad given way to a cheerfulness he could not understand.There was a brightness in her eyes which madeher more beautiful.

The unconscious grip which the shamelessness of itall had over him was evidenced in what he did. He confidedhis plans to Jud Carpenter, and set him to workto discover the cause.[Pg 503]

“See what's wrong,” he said significantly. “I amgoing to take that girl North with me, and away fromhere. After that it is no affair of yours.”

“Anything wrong?” He had reached the point ofhis moral degradation when right for Helen meant wrongfor him.

“But jes' wait till I see him ag'in—down there. I'llmake him drunk enough. Then you'll see a change inthe Queen—hey?”

And he laughed knowingly. With a little more bitternessshe would go to the end of the world with him.

It was that day he held her hands in the old familiarway, but when he would kiss her at the gate she still fled,crimson, away.

The next morning Clay Westmore walked with her tothe mill, and Travis lilted his eyebrows haughtily:

“If anything of that kind happens,” he said to himself,“nothing can save me.”

He watched her closely—how beautiful she lookedthat day—how regally beautiful! She had comewearing the blue silk gown, with the lace and beadswhich had been her mother's. In sheer delight Traviskept slipping to the drawing-in room door to watch herwork. Her posture, beautifully Greek, before the machine,so natural that it looked not unlike a harp in herhand; her half-bent head and graceful neck, the flushedface and eyes, the whole picture was like a Titian, richin color and life.[Pg 504]

It was not the smile of happiness. He did not knowit because, being blind, he could not know. It was thehappiness of work—achievement.

It was his old, stereotyped, brazen way, but she didnot know it and blushed prettily.

“You are kind, Mr. Travis, but—but that mustn'tbe thought of. Please, but I wish you wouldn't talkthat way.”

Her hands flew very rapidly—her cheeks mantledinto a rich glow. One of the threads snapped. Shestopped, confused.

Then he walked quickly out. He went to his office,[Pg 505]but he still saw the beautiful picture. It thrilled himand then there swept up over him another picture, and hecried savagely to himself:

Nor would it leave him that day, and into the nighthe dreamed of her, and it was the same Titian picturein a background of red sunset. And her machine wasa harp she was playing. He wakened and smiled:

He watched her closely the next day, for it puzzledhim to know why she had changed so rapidly in hermanner toward him. He had ridden to Millwood tobring her to the mill, himself; and he had some exquisiteroses for her—clipped in the hot-house by his ownhands. It was with an unmistakable twitch of jealousythat he learned that Clay Westmore had already comeby and gone with her.

“I know what it is now,” he said to Jud Carpenterat the mill that morning; “she is half in love with thatslow, studious fellow.”

Jud laughed: “Say, excuse me, sah—but hangedif you ain't got all the symptoms, y'self, boss?”

“Oh, when I start out to do a thing I want to doit—and I'm going to take her with me, or die trying.”

That night when the door bell rang at Westmoreland,Jud Carpenter was ushered into Clay's workshop. He[Pg 506]sat down and looked through his shaggy eyebrows at thelint and dust and specimens of ore. Then he spat onthe floor disgustedly.

“Wal, then,” went on Jud, “I come to git you to doa job of surveying for the mill. It's a lot of timberland on the other side of the mountain—some twentymiles off. The Company's bought five thousand acresof wood and they want it surveyed. What'll youcharge?”

Clay thought a moment: “Going and coming, onhorse-back—it will take me a week,” said Claythoughtfully. “I shall charge a hundred dollars.”

“Here's fifty of it,” said Jud—“the Company isin a hurry. We want the survey by this day week.Let me see, this is Sat'dy—I'll come next Sat'dynight.”

Clay looked at him curiously. There was somethingin the tone of the man that struck him as peculiar, butJud went on in an easy way.

“You see we must have it quick. All our winterwood to run the mill is there an' we can't start into[Pg 507]cordin' till it's surveyed an' the deed's passed. Sorry tohurry you”—

He looked at his watch. It was late. He would liketo tell Helen about it—he said aloud: “Making ahundred dollars a week. If I could only keep up that—I'd—I'd—”

He blushed. And then he turned quietly and wentto bed. And that was why Helen wondered the nextday and the next, and all the next week why she did notsee Clay, why he did not come, nor write, nor send her amessage. And wondering the pang of it went into herhardening heart.

CHAPTER XII

IN THYSELF THERE IS WEAKNESS

It was the middle of Saturday afternoon, and all theweek Edward Conway had fought against the terriblethirst which was in him. Not since Mondaymorning had he touched whiskey at all, and now hewalked the streets of the little town saying over and overto himself: “I am a Conway again.”

He had come to town to see Jud Carpenter about thehouse which had been promised him—for he could notexpect to hold Millwood much longer. With his sobernesssome of his old dignity and manhood returned, andwhen Carpenter saw him, the Whipper-in knew instinctivelywhat had happened.

He watched Edward Conway closely—the clear eye,the haughty turn of his head, the quiet, commandingway of the man sober; and the Whipper-in frowned ashe said to himself:

And yet, as he looked at him, Jud Carpenter took itall in—the weakness that was still there, the terrible,restless thirst which now made him nervous, irritable, andturned his soul into a very tumult of dissatisfaction.

Carpenter, even as he talked to him, could see thefight which was going on; and now and then, in spiteof it and his determination, he saw that the reformed[Pg 509]drunkard was looking wistfully toward the bar-room ofBilly Buch.

And so, as Jud talked to Edward Conway about thehouse, he led him along toward the bar-room. All thetime he was complimenting him on his improved health,and telling how, with help from the mill, he would soonbe on his feet again.

“Let us set down here an' res', Majah, sah, it's a goodplace on this little porch. Have somethin'? Billy'sgot a mighty fine bran' of old Tennessee whiskey inthere.”

Jud watched him as he spoke and saw the fire of expectancyburn in his despairing eyes.

“No—no—Carpenter—no—I am obliged toyou—but I have sworn never to touch another drop ofit. I'll just rest here with you.” He threw up his headand Jud Carpenter saw how eagerly he inhaled the odorwhich came out of the door. He saw the quivering lips,the tense straining of the throat, the wavering eyeswhich told how sorely he was tempted.

It was cool, but the sweat stood in drops on EdwardConway's temple. He gulped, but swallowed only adry lump, which immediately sprang back into his throatagain and burned as a ball of fire.

“No—no—Carpenter,” he kept saying in a dazed,abstracted way—“no—no—not any more for me.I've promised—I've promised.”

And yet even while saying it his eyes were saying:“For God's sake—bring it to me—quick—quick.”

Jud arose and went into the bar and whispered to[Pg 510]Billy Buch. Then he came back and sat down andtalked of other things. But all the time he was watchingEdward Conway—the yearning look—turnedhalf pleadingly to the bar—the gulpings which swallowednothing.

Presently Jud looked up. He heard the tinkle ofglasses, and Billy Buch stood before them with two longtoddies on a silver waiter. The ice tinkled and glitteredin the deep glasses—the cherries and pineapplegleamed amid it and the whiskey—the rich redwhiskey!

Conway looked at the tempting glass for a momentin the terrible agony of indecision. Then remorse, fear,shame, frenzy, seized him:

“No—no—I've sworn off, Billy—I'll swear Ihave. My God, but I'm a Conway again”—and beforethe words were fairly out of his mouth he had seizedthe glass and swallowed the contents.

It was nearly dark when Helen, quitting the mill immediatelyon its closing, slipped out of a side door toescape Richard Travis and almost ran home across thefields. Never had she been so full of her life, her plansfor the future, her hopes, her pride to think her fatherwould be himself again.

Just at the gate she stopped and almost fell in theagony of it all. Her father lay on the dry grass bythe roadside, unable to walk.[Pg 511]

She knelt by his side and wept. Her heart then andthere gave up—her soul quit in the fight she was making.

With bitterness which was desperate she went to thespring and brought water and bathed his face. Thenwhen he was sufficiently himself to walk, she led him,staggering, in, and up the steps.

Jud Carpenter reached the mill an hour after dark:He sought out Richard Travis and chuckled, sayingnothing.

Travis was busy with his books, and when he had finishedhe turned and smiled at the man.

“He was sober this morning an' was in a fair way toknock our plans sky high—as to the gal, you kno'.Reformed this mornin', but you'll find him good anddrunk to-night.”

“Did you notice how much brighter, an' sech, she'sbeen for a day or two?” asked Jud.

“I notice that she has shunned me all day”—saidTravis—“as if I were poison.”

“She'll not shun you to-morrow,” laughed Jud. “Sheis your's—for a woman desperate is a woman lost—”and he chuckled again as he went out.

CHAPTER XIII

HIMSELF AGAIN

Never had the two old servants been so happyas they were that night after their rescue. Atfirst they looked on it as a miracle, in which thespirits of their young master and his body-servant, theironly son, had come back to earth to rescue them, and fora while their prayers and exhortations took on the uncannytone of superstition. But after they had heardthem talk in the old natural way and seen Captain Tomwalking in the living flesh, they became satisfied thatit was indeed their young master whom they had supposedto be dead.

Jack Bracken, with all the tenderness of one speakingto little children, explained it all to them—howhe had himself carried Captain Tom off the battle-fieldof Franklin; how he had cared for him since—evento the present time; how Ephraim would not desert hisyoung master, but had stayed with them, as cook andhouse boy. And how Captain Tom had now becomewell again.

Jack was careful not to go too much into details—especiallyEphraim having lived for two years within afew miles of his parents and not making himself known!The truth was, as Jack knew, Ephraim had become in[Pg 513]fatuatedwith the free-booting life of Jack Bracken.He had gone with him on many a raid, and gold cametoo easy that way to dig it out of the soil, as in a cottonfield.

The old people supposed all this happened far away,and in another country, and that they had all comehome as soon as they could.

“And now,” added Jack, “we are going to hide withyou a week or so, until Captain Tom can lay his plans.”

“Thank God—thank God!”—said Uncle Bisco,and he would feel of his young master and say: “Jes'lak he allus wus, only his hair is a leetle gray. An'in the same uniform he rid off in—the same gran'clothes.”

Captain Tom laughed: “No, not the same, but likethem. You see, I reported at Washington and explainedit to the Secretary of War, Jack. It seemsthat Mr. Lincoln had been kind enough to write a personalletter about me to my grandfather,—they wereold friends. It was a peculiar scene—my interviewwith the Secretary. My grandfather had filed this letterat the War Department before he died, and my returnto life was a matter of interest and wonder tothem. And so I am still Captain of Artillery,” hesmiled.

In the little cabin the old servants gave him the bestroom, cleanly and sweet with an old-fashioned feather-bedand counterpane. Jack Bracken had a cot by hisbed, and on the wall was a picture of Miss Alice.

Long into the night they talked, the young man ask[Pg 514]ingthem many questions and chief of all, of Alice.They could see that he was thinking of her, and oftenhe would stop before the picture and look at it and fallinto a reverie.

“It seems to me but yesterday,” he said, “since Ileft her and went off to the war. She is not to knowthat I am here—not yet. You must hide me if sheruns in,” he smiled. “I must see her first in my ownway.”

“You see, I have been takin' keer of you so long,”said Jack after the old servants had left them to themselves,“that I can't git out of the habit. I thoughtyou wus never comin' home.”

The young Captain shook his head: “O Jack—Jack,I've seen murder enough—it seems but yesterdaysince I was at Franklin.”

“Do you know who's at the head of all this?” askedJack. “It's Richard Travis.”

“The Bishop told me all, Jack—and about mygrandfather's will. But I shall divide it with him—itis not fair.”

Jack watched the strong, tall man, as he walked toand fro in the room, and a proud smile spread over theoutlaw's face.

“It's good to be one's self again, Jack. How can Iever repay you for what you have done for me?”

“You've paid it long ago—long ago. Where wouldJack Bracken have been if you hadn't risked yo' life tocut me down, when the rope”—

Captain Tom put his hand on Jack's shoulder affectionately:“We'll forget all those horrible things—andthat war, which was hell, indeed. Jack—Jack—thereis a new life ahead for us both,” he said, smilinghappily.

“Do you remember little Jack, Cap'n Tom—himthat died? I seem to think mo' of him now thanever—”

“It is strange, Jack—but I do distinctly; an' ourhome in the cave, an' the beautiful room we had, an'the rock portico overlaid with wild honeysuckle andJackson vines overlooking the grand river.”

“Jack, do you know we must go there this week andsee it again? I have plans to carry out before makingmy identity known.”

An hour afterwards the old servants heard CaptainTom step out into the yard. It was then past midnight—themost memorable night of all their lives.Neither of the old servants could sleep, for hearingEphraim talk, and that lusty darkey had sadly mixedhis imagination and his facts.

The old man went out: “Don't be uneasy,” saidCaptain Tom. “I am going to saddle John Paul Jonesand ride over the scenes of my youth. They might see[Pg 516]me by daylight, and the moonlight is so beautiful to-night.I long to see The Gaffs, and Westmoreland,my grandfather's grave,” and then in a tenderer tone—“andmy father's; he lies buried in the flag I love.”

John Paul Jones had been comfortably housed in thelittle stable nearby. He nickered affectionately as hismaster came up and led him out.

The young officer stood a few moments looking atthe splendid horse, and with the look came a flood ofmemories so painful that he bowed his head in the saddle.

When he looked up Jack Bracken stood by his side:“I don't much like this, Cap'n Tom. Not to-night,after all we've done to them. They've got out spiesnow—I know them; a lot of negroes calling themselvesUnion League, but secretly waylaying, burning and killingall who differ with them in politics. They've madethe Klu-Klux a necessity. Now, I don't want you toturn me into a Klu-Klux to-night.”

“Ah, they would not harm me, Jack, not me, afterall I have suffered. It has all been so hazy,” he wenton, as if trying to recall it all, “so hazy until now.Now, how clear it all is! Here is the creek, yonder themountain, and over beyond that the village. And yonderis Westmoreland. I remember it all—so distinctly.And after Franklin, my God, it was so hazy, with somethingpressing me down as if I were under a housewhich had fallen on me and pinned me to the ground.But now, O God, I thank Thee that I am a man again!”

Captain Tom stood drinking it all in—the moonlight,on the roof of Westmoreland, shining throughthe trees. Then he thought of what the old Bishophad told him of Alice, the great pressure brought tobear on her to marry Richard Travis, and of her devotionto the memory of her first love.

“And for her love and her constancy, oh, God, Ithank Thee most of all,” he said, looking upward at thestars.

He mounted his horse and rode slowly out into thenight, a commanding figure, for the horse and riderwere one, and John Paul Jones tossed his head as if toshow his joy, tossed his head proudly and was in for agallop.

Captain Tom's pistols were buckled to his side, for hehad had experience enough in the early part of thenight to show him the unsettled state of affairs still existingin the country under negro domination.

There were no lights at Westmoreland, but he knewwhich was Alice's room, and in the shadow of a tree hestopped and looked long at the window. Oh, to teardown the barriers which separated him from her! Tosee her once more—she the beautiful and true—herhair—her eyes, and to place again the kiss of a newbetrothal on her lips, the memory of which, in all hissorrows and afflictions, had never left him. And nowthey told him she was more beautiful than ever. Twelveyears—twelve years out of his life—years of forgetfulness—andyet it seemed but a few months since hehad bade Alice good-bye—here—here under the crepe-myrtletree where he now stood. He knelt and kissed[Pg 518]the holy sod. A wave of triumphant happiness cameover him. He arose and threw passionate kisses towardher window. Then he mounted and rode off.

At The Gaffs he looked long and earnestly. Heimagined he saw the old Colonel, his grandfather, sittingin his accustomed place on the front porch, his feetpropped on the balcony, his favorite hound by his side.Long he gazed, looking at every familiar place of hisyouth. He knew now that every foot of it would behis. He had no bitterness in his heart. Not he, forin the love and constancy of Alice Westmore all suchthings seemed unspeakable insignificance to the glory ofthat.

In the old family cemetery, which lay hid amongthe cedars on the hill, he stood bare-headed before thegrave of his grandsire and silently the tears fell:

“My noble old grandsire,” he murmured, “if thespirits of the dead look down on the living, tell me Ihave not proved unworthy. It was his flag—myfather's, and he lies by you wrapped in it. Tell me Ihave not been unworthy the same, for I have suffered.”

And from the silent stars, as he looked up, there fellon him a benediction of peace.

Then he drew himself up proudly and gave eachgrave a military salute, mounted and rode away.

CHAPTER XIV

THE JOY OF THE MORNING

All the week, since the scene at Maggie's deathbed,Alice Westmore had remained at home,while strange, bitter feelings, such as she hadnever felt before, surged in her heart. Her brotherwas away, and this gave her more freedom to do as shewished—to remain in her room—and her mother'spresence now was not altogether the solace her heartcraved.

Of the utmost purity of thought herself, Alice Westmorehad never even permitted herself to harbor anythingreflecting on the character of those she trusted;and in the generosity of her nature, she considered allher friends trustworthy. Thinking no evil, she knewnone; nor would she permit any idle gossip to be repeatedbefore her. In her case her unsuspecting naturewas strengthened by her environment, living as she waswith her mother and brother only.

It is true that she had heard faint rumors of RichardTravis's life; but the full impurity of it had neverbeen realized by her until she saw Maggie die. ThenRichard Travis went, not only out of her life, but outof her very thoughts. She remembered him only as shedid some evil character read of in fiction or history.Perhaps in this she was more severe than necessary[Pg 520]—sincethe pendulum of anger swings always farthest inthe first full stroke of indignation. And then the surpriseof it—the shock of it! Never had she gonethrough a week so full of unhappiness, since it had cometo her, years before, that Tom Travis had been killed atFranklin.

Her mother's entreaties—tears, even—affectedher now no more than the cries of a spoiled child.

“Oh, Alice,” she said one night when she had beenexplaining and apologizing for Richard Travis—“youshould know now, child, really, you ought to know bynow, that all men may not have been created alike, butthey are all alike.”

“I do not believe it,” said Alice with feeling—“Inever want to believe it—I never shall believe it.”

“My darling,” said the mother, laying her faceagainst Alice's, “I have reared you too far from theworld.”

But for once in her life Mrs. Westmore knew that herdaughter, who had heretofore been willing to sacrificeeverything for her mother's comfort, now halted beforesuch a chasm as this, as stubborn and instinctively as awild doe in her flight before a precipice.

Twice Alice knew that Richard Travis had called; andshe went to her room and locked the door. She did notwish even to think of him; for when she did it was notRichard Travis she saw, but Maggie dying, with thepicture of him under her pillow.

In the midst of her perplexity there came to her Sat[Pg 521]urdayafternoon a curiously worded note, from the oldCottontown preacher, telling her not to forget now thathe had returned and that Sunday School lessons atUncle Bisco's were in order. He closed with a remarkwhich, read between the lines, she saw was intended towarn and prepare her for something unexpected, thegreatest good news, as he said, of her life. Then hequoted:

“And Moses stretched forth his hand over the sea,and the sea returned to his strength when the morningappeared.”

There was but one great good news that Alice Westmorecared for, and, strange to say, all the week she hadbeen thinking of it. It came about involuntarily, asshe compared men with one another.

It came as the tide comes back to the ocean, as thestars come with the night. She tried to smother it, butit would not be smothered. At last she resigned herselfto the wretchedness of it—as one when, despairing ofthrowing off a mood, gives way to it and lets it eat itsown heart out.

She could scarcely wait until night. Her heart beatat intervals, in agitated fierceness, and flushes of redwent through her cheek all the afternoon, at the thoughtin her heart that at times choked her.

Then came the kindly old man himself, his face radiantwith a look she had not seen on a face for manyweeks. After the week she had been through, this itselfwas a comfort. She met him with feigned calmness anda little laugh.

“You promised to tell me where you had been,[Pg 522]Bishop, all these weeks. It must have made you very,very happy.”

“I'll tell you down at the cabin, if you'll dress yo'very pretties'. There's friends of yo's down there youain't seen in a long time—that's mighty anxious to seeyou.”

“Oh, I do indeed feel ashamed of myself for havingneglected the old servants so long; but you cannotknow what has been on my mind. Yes, I will go withyou directly.”

The old man looked at her admiringly when she wasready to go—at the dainty gown of white, the splendidhair of dark auburn crowning her head, the big wistfuleyes, the refined face. Upon him had devolved the dutyof preparing Alice Westmore for what she would see inthe cabin, and never did he enter more fully into thesacredness of such an occasion.

And now, when she was ready and stood before himin all her superb womanhood, a basket of dainties onher arm for the old servants, he spoke very solemnly ashe handed her an ambrotype set in a large gold breast-pin.

“Why, it is mine—I gave it to—to—Tom. Hetook it to the war with him. Where”—A sob leapedinto her throat and stopped her.

“On my journey,” said the old man quickly, “Iheard somethin' of Cap'n Tom. You must prepare yo'se'ffor good news.”

Her heart jumped and the blood surged back again,[Pg 523]and she grew weak, but the old man laughed his cheerylaugh, and, pretending to clap her playfully on theshoulder, he held her firmly with his great iron hand, ashe saw the blood go out of her cheeks, leaving them aswhite as white roses:

“Down there,” he added, “I'll tell you all. ButGod is good—God is good.”

Bewildered, pale, and with throbbing heart, she lethim take her basket and lead her down the well-beatenpath. She could not speak, for something, somehow,said to her that Captain Tom Travis was alive and thatshe would see him—next week perhaps—next monthor year—it mattered not so that she would see him.And yet—and yet—O all these years—all theseyears! She kept saying over the words of the oldBishop, as one numbed, and unable to think, keeps repeatingthe last thing that enters the mind. Trembling,white, her knees weak beneath her, she followedsaying:

They had reached the large oak which shadowed thelittle cabin. She stopped suddenly in the agony ofhappiness, and the strong old man, who had been watchingher, turned and caught her with a firm grasp, whilethe stars danced frantically above her. And half-unconsciousshe felt another one come to his aid, one whotook her in his arms and kissed her lips and her eyes
[Pg 524]... and carried her into the bright fire-lighted
cabin, ... carried her in strength and happinessthat made her lay her cheek against his, ... andthere were tears on it, and somehow she lay as if shewere a child in his arms, ... a child again andshe was happy, ... and there were silence andsweet dreams and the long-dead smell of the crepe-myrtle....She did not remember again until she satup on the cot in the clean little cabin, and Tom Travis,tall and in the splendor of manhood, sat holding herhands and stroking her hair and whispering: “Alice,my darling—it is all well—and I have come back foryou, at last!”

And the old servants stood around smiling and happy,but so silent and composed that she knew that they hadbeen schooled to it, and a big man, who seemed to watchCaptain Tom as a big dog would his master, keptblowing his nose and walking around the room. Andby the fire sat the old Cottontown preacher, his backturned to them and saying just loud enough to beheard: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, ...he restoreth my soul— ... my cup runnethover....”

And then sillily, as Alice thought, she threw her armsaround the neck of the man she loved and burst intothe tears which brought the sweetness of assurance, thecalmness of a reality that meant happiness.

And for an hour she sobbed, her arms there, and heholding her tight to his breast and talking in the oldway, natural and soothing and reassuring and takingfrom her heart all fear and the shock of it, until at last[Pg 525]it all seemed natural and not a dream, ... andthe sweetness of it all was like the light which comethwith the joy of the morning.

CHAPTER XV

THE TOUCH OF GOD

The news of Captain Tom's return spread quickly.By noon it was known throughout the TennesseeValley.

The sensational features of it required prompt actionon his and Alice's part, and their decision was quicklymade: they would be married that Sunday afternoonin the little church on the mountain side and by the oldman who had done so much to make their happinesspossible.

For once in its history the little church could not holdthe people who came to witness this romantic marriage,and far down the mountain side they stood to see thebride and groom pass by. Many remembered thegroom, all had heard of him,—his devotion to his country'sflag; to the memory of his father; his gallantry,his heroism, his martyrdom, dying (as they supposed)rather than turn his guns on his brave old grandsire.And now to come back to life again—to win the womanhe loved and who had loved him all these years! Besides,there was no one in the Tennessee Valley consideredmore beautiful than the bride, and they loved her as ifshe had been an angel of light.

A stillness swept over the crowd when the carriage[Pg 527]drove up to the little church, and when the tall, handsomeman in the uniform of a captain of artillery liftedAlice out with the tenderness of all lovers in his touchand the strength of a strong lover, with a lily in hishand, the crowd, knowing his history, could not refrainfrom cheering. He lifted his cap and threw back hisiron-gray hair, showing a head proud and tender andon his face such a smile as lovers only wear. Then heled her in,—pale and tearful.

The little church had been prettily decorated thatSabbath morning, and when the old preacher came forwardand called them to him, he said the simple wordswhich made them man and wife, and as he blessed them,praying, a mocking-bird, perched on a limb near thewindow, sang a soft low melody as if one singer wishedto compliment another.

They went out hand in hand, and when they reachedthe door, the sun which had been hid burst out as abenediction upon them.

Among the guests one man had stepped in unnoticedand unseen. Why he came he could not tell, for neverbefore did he have any desire to go to the little church.

It was midnight when the news came to him thatTom Travis had returned as from the dead. It wasJud Carpenter who had awakened him that Saturdaynight to whisper at the bedside the startling news.

But Travis only yawned from his sleep and said:“I've been expecting it all the time—go somewhereand go to bed.”

After Carpenter had gone, he arose, stricken with afeeling he could not describe, but had often seen in[Pg 528]race horses running desperately until within fifty yardsof the wire, and then suddenly—quitting. He had almostreached his goal—but now one week had doneall this. Alice—gone, and The Gaffs—he must dividethat with his cousin—for his grandfather had leftno will.

Divide The Gaffs with Tom Travis?—He would assoon think of dividing Alice's love with him. In thesoul of Richard Travis there was no such word as division.

All night he thought, he walked the halls of the oldhouse, he ran over a hundred solutions of it in his mind.And still there was no solution that satisfied him, thatseemed natural. It seemed that his mind, which hadheretofore worked so unerringly, deducing things sonaturally, now balked before an abyss that was bridgeless.Heretofore he had looked into the future withthe bold, true sweep of an eagle peering from its mountainhome above the clouds into the far distance, hiseyes unclouded by the mist, which cut off the vision ofmortals below. But now he was the blindest of theblind. He seemed to stop as before a wall—a chasmwhich ended everything—a chasm, on the opposite wallof which was printed: Thus far and no farther.

Think as he would, he could not think beyond it. Hislife seemed to stop there. After it, he was nothing.

Our minds, our souls—are like the sun, which shinesvery plainly as it moves across the sky of our life ofthings—showing them in all distinctness and clearness;[Pg 529]so that we see things as they happen to us with our eyesof daylight. But as the sun throws its dim twilightshadows even beyond our earth, so do the souls of menof great mind and imagination see, faintly, beyond theirown lives, and into the shadow of things.

To-night that mysterious sight came to RichardTravis, as it comes in the great crises of life and death,to every strong man, and he saw dimly, ghostily, intothe shadow; and the shadow stopped at the terribleabyss which now barred his ken; and he felt, with thekeen insight of the dying eagle on the peak, that thething was death.

In the first streak of light, he was rudely awakenedto it. For there on the rug, as naturally as if asleep,lay the only thing he now loved in the world, the oldsetter, whose life had passed out in slumber.

All animals have the dying instinct. Man, thehighest, has it the clearest. And Travis rememberedthat the old dog had come to his bed, in the middle ofthe night, and laid his large beautiful head on his master'sbreast, and in the dim light of the smoulderingfire had said good-bye to Richard Travis as plainly asever human being said it. And now on the rug, beforethe dead gray ashes of the night, he had found the olddog forever asleep, naturally and in great peace.

His heart sank as he thought of the farewell of thenight before, and bitterness came, and sitting down onthe rug by the side of the dead dog he stroked for thelast time the grand old silken head, so calm and poised,for the little world it had been bred for, and ran hispalm over the long strong nose that had never lied to[Pg 530]the scent of the covey. His lips tightened and he said:“O God, I am dying myself, and there is not a livingbeing whom I can crawl up to, and lay my head on itsbreast and know it loves and pities me, as I love you, oldfriend.”

The thought gripped his throat, and as he thought ofthe sweetness and nobility of this dumb thing, his gentleness,faithfulness and devotion, the sureness of his lifein filling the mission he came for, he wept tears sostrange to his cheek that they scalded as they flowed, andhe bowed his head and said: “Gladstone, Gladstone,good-bye—true to your breeding, you were what yourmaster never was—a gentleman.”

And the old housekeeper found this strong man, whohad never wept in his life, crying over the old deadsetter on the rug.

And the same feeling, the second sight—the presentiment—theterrible balking of his mind that hadalways seen so clearly, ever into the future, held himas in a vise all the morning and moved him in a strangemysterious way to go to the church and see the womanhe had loved all his life, the being whose very look upliftedhim, and whose smile could make him a hero or amartyr, married to the man who came home to take her,and half of his all.

Numbed, hardened, speechless, and yet with that terriblepresentiment of the abyss before him, he had stoodand seen Alice Westmore made the wife of another.

He remembered first how quickly he had caught thetext of the old man; indeed, it seemed to him now thateverything he heard struck into him like a brand of[Pg 531]fire—for never had life appeared to him as it did to-day.

“For the hand of God hath touched me—” he keptrepeating over and over—repeating and then cursinghimself for repeating it—for remembering it.

And everything the old preacher said went searinginto his quivering soul, and all the time he kept looking—lookingat the woman he loved and seeing her givingher love, her life, with a happy smile, to another. Andall the time he stood wondering why he came to see it,why he felt as he did, why things hurt him that way,why he acted so weakly, why his conscience had awakenedat last, why life hurt him so—life that he had playedwith as an edged tool—why he could not get awayfrom himself and his memory, but ran always into it,and why at last with a shudder, why did nothing seemto be beyond the wall?

He saw her go off, the wife of another. He saw theirhappiness—unconscious even that he lived, and hecursed himself and kept saying: “The hand of Godhath touched me.”

He rode home, but it was not home. Nothing wasitself—not even he. In the watches of one night hislife had been changed and the light had gone out.

When night came it was worse. He mounted hishorse and rode—where? And he could no more helpit than he could cease to breathe.

He did not guide the saddle mare, she went herself[Pg 532]through wood sombre and dark with shadows, throughcedar trees, dwarfed, and making pungent the night airwith aromatic breath; through old sedge fields, garishin the faint light; up, up the mountain, over it; and atlast the mare stopped and stood silently by a newlymade grave, while Richard Travis, with strained hardmouth and wet eyes, knelt and, knowing that no handin the world cared to feel his repentant face in it, heburied it in the new made sod as he cried: “Maggie—Maggie—forgiveme, for the hand of God hathtouched me!”

And it soothed him, for he knew that if she were alivehe might have lain his head there—on her breast.

CHAPTER XVI

MAMMY MARIA

That Monday was a memorable day for HelenConway. She went to the mill with less bitternessthan ever before—the sting of it all wasgone—for she felt that she was helpless to the fate thatwas hers—that she was powerless in the hands ofRichard Travis:

“I will come for you Monday night. I will takeyou away from here. You shall belong to me forever—MyQueen!”

These words had rung in her ears all Saturday night,when, after coming home, she had found her fatherfallen by the wayside.

In the night she had lain awake and wondered. Shedid not know where she was going—she did not care.She did not even blush at the thought of it. She washardened, steeled. She knew not whether it meant wifeor mistress. She knew only that, as she supposed, Godhad placed upon her more than she could bear.

“If my life is wrecked,” she said as she lay awakethat Sunday night—“God himself will do it. Whotook my mother before I knew her influence? Whomade me as I am and gave me poverty with this fatalbeauty—poverty and a drunken father and this terribletemptation?[Pg 534]”

“What will become of Lily, in the mill, too?” Shebent and kissed her, and she saw that the little one,though asleep, had tears in her own eyes.

Young as she was, Helen's mind was maturer thanmight have been supposed. And the problem whichconfronted her she saw very clearly, although she wasunable to solve it. The problem was not new, indeed,it has been Despair's conundrum since the world began:Whose fault that my life has been as it is? In herdespair, doubting, she cried:

“Is there really a God, as Mammy Maria told me?Does He interpose in our lives, or are we rushed alongby the great moral and physical laws, which govern theuniverse; and if by chance we fail to harmonize withthem, be crushed for our ignorance—our ignorancewhich is not of our own making?”

“By chance—by chance,” she repeated, “but ifthere be great fixed laws, how can there be any—chance?”

The thought was hopeless. She turned in her despairand hid her face. And then out of the darkness camethe strong fine face of Clay Westmore—and his words:“We must all work—it is life's badge of nobility.”

How clearly and calmly they came to her. And thenher heart fluttered. Suppose Clay loved her—supposethis was her solution? He had never pressed his loveon her. Did he think a woman could be loved that way—scientifically—ascoal and iron are discovered?[Pg 535]

She finally slept, her arms around her little sister.But the last recollection she had was Clay's fine facesmiling at her through the darkness and saying: “Wemust all work—it is life's badge of nobility.”

It was Monday morning, and she would take Lily withher to the mill; for the child's work at the spinningframes was to begin that day. There was no alternative.Again the great unknown law rushed her along.Her father had signed them both, and in a few daystheir home would be sold.

They were late at the mill, but the little one, as shetrudged along by the side of her sister, was happierthan she had been since her old nurse had left. It wasgreat fun for her, this going to the mill with her bigsister.

The mill had been throbbing and humming long beforethey reached it. Helen turned Lily over to thefloor manager, after kissing her good-bye, and bade herdo as she was told. Twice again she kissed her, andthen with a sob hurried away to her own room.

Travis was awaiting her in the hall. She turnedpale and then crimson when she saw him. And yet, whenshe ventured to look at him as she was passing, she wasstopped with the change which lay on his face. It wasa sad smile he gave her, sad but determined. And inthe courtly bow was such a look of tenderness that withfluttering heart and a strange new feeling of upliftedness—aconfidence in him for the first time, she stoppedand gave him her hand with a grateful smile. It was asimple act and so pretty that the sadness went fromTravis' face as he said:[Pg 536]

“I was not going to stop you—this is kind of you.Saturday, I thought you feared me.”

“I am glad it was there, then,” he said simply, “forI wished you to stop, though I did not want to say so.”

He came closer to her with equal frankness, and yetwith a tenderness which thrilled her he said:

“Perhaps I was not so sure Saturday of many thingsthat I am positive of to-day.”

He smiled again, but it was not the old smile whichhad set her to trembling with a flurry of doubt andshame. It was the smile of respect. Then it left him,and in its stead flashed instantly the old conqueringlight when he said:

The change of it all, the shock of it, numbed her.She tried to smile, but it was the lifeless curl of her lipsinstead—and the look she gave him—of resignation,of acquiescence, of despair—he had seen it once before,in the beautiful eyes of the first young doe thatfell to his rifle. She was not dead when he boundedto the spot where she lay—and she gave him that look.[Pg 537]

Edward Conway watched his two daughters go outof the gate on their way to the mill, sitting with hisfeet propped up, and drunker than he had been forweeks. But indistinct as things were, the poignancy ofit went through him, and he groaned. In a dazed sortof way he knew it was the last of all his dreams ofrespectability, that from now on there was nothing forhim and his but degradation and a lower place in life.To do him justice, he did not care so much for himself;already he felt that he himself was doomed, that he couldnever expect to shake off the terrible habit which hadgrown to be part of his life,—unless, he thought, unless,as the Bishop had said—by the blow of God. Hepaled to think what that might mean. God had somany ways of striking blows unknown to man. Butfor his daughters—he loved them, drunkard though hewas. He was proud of their breeding, their beauty,their name. If he could only go and give them achance—if the blow would only fall and take him!

The sun was warm. He grew sleepy. He rememberedafterwards that he fell out of his chair and thathe could not arise.... It was a nice place tosleep anyway.... A staggering hound, withscurviness and sores, came up the steps, then on theporch, and licked his face....

When he awoke some one was bathing his face withcold water from the spring. He was perfectly soberand he knew it was nearly noon. Then he heard theperson say: “I guess you are all right now, MarseNed, an' I'm thinkin' it's the last drink you'll ever takeouten that jug.[Pg 538]”

His astonishment in recognizing that the voice was thevoice of Mammy Maria did not keep him from lookingup regretfully at sight of the precious broken jug andthe strong odor of whiskey pervading the air.

“Never mind, Marse Ned—jes' you git into thebuggy now an' I'll take you home. You see, I'vemoved everything this mohnin' whilst you slept. Thelast load is gone to our new home.”

“I thort it time to wake you up,” she went on, “an'besides I wanter talk to you about my babies.

“You'll onderstan' all that when you see the homeI've bought for us”—she said simply. “We're gwineto it now. Git in the buggy”—and she helped him toarise.

Then Edward Conway guessed, and he was silent, andwithout a word the old woman drove him out of the dilapidatedgate of Millwood toward the town.

“Mammy,” he began as if he were a boy again—“Mammy,”and then he burst into tears.

“Don't cry, chile,” said the old woman—“it's allbehind us now. I saved the money years ago, when weall wus flush—an' you gave me so much when you hadan' wus so kind to me, Marse Ned. I saved it. We'regwine to reform now an' quit drinkin'. We'se gwineto remove to another spot in the garden of the Lord, butthe Lord is gwine with us an' He is the tower of[Pg 539]strength—the tower of strength to them that trustHim—Amen. But I must have my babies—that'spart of the barg'in. No mill for them—oh, MarseNed, to think that whilst I was off, fixin' our home sonice to s'prize you all—wuckin' my fingers off to gitthe home ready—you let them devils get my babies!Git up heah”—and she rapped the horse down theback with the lines. “Hurry up—I'm gwine after'em es soon es I git home.”

It was nearly noon when a large coal-black woman,her head tied up with an immaculately white handkerchief,with a white apron to match over her new calicogown, walked into the mill door. She passed throughKingsley's office, without giving him the courtesy of anod, holding her head high and looking straight beforeher. A black thunder-cloud of indignation sat uponher brow, and her large black eyes were lit up with asarcastic light.

Before Kingsley could collect his thoughts she hadpassed into the big door of the main room, amid thewhirl and hum of the machinery, and walking straightto one of the spinning frames, she stooped and gatheredinto her arms the beautiful, fair-skinned little girl whowas trying in vain to learn the tiresome lesson of piecingthe ever-breaking threads of the bewildering, whirlingbobbins.

The child was taken so by surprise that she screamedin fright—not being able to hear the footfall or thevoice of her who had so suddenly folded her in her arms[Pg 540]and showered kisses on her face and hair. Then, seeingthe face, she shouted:

“It's Mammy Maria—oh, it's my mammy!” and shethrew her arms around the old woman's neck andclung there.

Then the floor manager came hurriedly over—forthe entire force of the mill had ceased to work, gazingat the strange scene. In vain he gesticulated his protests—thebig fat colored woman walked proudly pasthim with Lily in her arms.

In Kingsley's office she stopped to get Lily's bonnet,while the little girl still clung to her neck, sobbing.

Kingsley stood taking in the scene in astonishment.He adjusted his eye glasses several times, lilting themwith the most pronounced sarcastic lilt of which he wascapable.

He cleared his throat and jerked his pant legs up anddown. And all the time the fat old woman stood lookingat him, with the thunder-cloud on her brow and unexpressedscorn struggling for speech in her eyes.

“Ah-hem—ah-ha—Aunt Maria” for Kingsleyhad caught on to the better class of Southern ways—“informme—ah, what does all this mean?”

“I beg yo' pardon, sah—but I was not awares that[Pg 541]I had any nephew in the mill, or was related to anybodyin here, sah. I hav'nt my visitin' cyard with me, butif I had 'em heah you'd find my entitlements, on readin',was somethin' lak this:Miss Maria Conway, of Zion!”

Kingsley flushed, rebuked. Then he adjusted hisglasses again with agitated nervous attempts at a lilt.Then he struck his level and fell back on his natural instinct,unmixed, with attempts at being what he wasnot:

“Git my entitlements right, please sah. I'm the onlyold maid lady of color you ever seed or ever will seeagain. Niggahs, these days, lak birds, all git 'em amate some way—but I'm Miss Conway of Zion.”

“Ah, beg pardon, Miss Conway—Miss Conway ofZion. And where, pray, is that city, Miss Conway?I may have to have an officer communicate with you.”

“With pleasure, sah—It's a pleasure for me to he'ppeople find a place dey'd never find without help—no—notwhilst they're a-workin' the life out of innocenttots an' babes—”

“The ole woman means,” she said, looking him steadilyin the eye, “that you are dealin' in chile slavery, lawor no law; that you're down heah preachin' one thing forniggahs an' practisin' another for yo' own race; thatyo' hair frizzles on yo' head at tho'rt of niggah slavery,whilst all the time you are enslavin' the po' little whitesthat's got yo' own blood in their veins. An' now youwanter know what I come for? I come for my chile![Pg 542]”

Kingsley was too dumfounded to speak. In all hislife never had his hypocrisy been knocked to pieces socompletely.

“What does all this mean?” asked Jud Carpenterrushing hastily into the room.

“Come on baby,” said the old woman as she startedtoward the door. “I've got a home for us, an' whilstold mammy can take in washin' you'll not wuck yo' lifeout with these people.”

Jud broke in harshly: “Come, ole 'oman,—you putthat child down. You've got nothin' to support herwith.”

She turned on him quickly: “I've got mo' silver tiedup in ole socks that the Conways give me in slaverydays when they had it by the bushel, than sech as youever seed. Got nothin'? Jus' you come over and seethe little home I've got fixed up for Marse Ned an' thebabies. Got nothin'? See these arms? Do you thinkthey have forgot how to cook an' wash? Come on, baby—we'llbe gwine home—Miss Helen'll come later.”

“Put her down, old woman,” said Carpenter sternly.“You can't take her—she's bound to the mill.”

“Oh, I can't?” said the old woman as she walked outwith Lily—“Can't take her. Well, jes' look at me an'see. This is what I calls Zion, an' the Lam' an' thewolves had better stay right where they are,” she remarkeddryly, as she walked off carrying Lily in herarms.

Down through a pretty part of the town, away fromCottontown, she led the little girl, laughing now and[Pg 543]chatting by the old woman's side, a bird freed from acage.

“Oh, Mammy, it's so good to have you again—sogood, and I thought you never would come.”

They walked away from Cottontown and past prettyhouses. In a quiet street, with oaks and elms shadingit, she entered a yard in which stood a pretty and nicelypainted cottage. Lily clapped her hands with laughterwhen she found all her old things there—even her petdolls to welcome her—all in the cunningest and quaintestroom imaginable. The next room was her father's,and Mammy's room was next to hers and Helen's. Sheran out only to run into her father's arms. Small asshe was, she saw that he was sober. He took her on hislap and kissed her.

“Mammy,” asked the little girl as the old womancame out—“how did you get all this?”

“Been savin' it all my life, chile—all the moneyyo' blessed mother give me an' all I earned sence I wasfree. I laid it up for a rainy day an' now, bless God,it's not only rainin' but sleetin' an' cold an' snowin' besides,an' so I went to the old socks. It's you all's, an'all paid fur, an' old mammy to wait on you. I'm gwineto go after Miss Helen before the mill closes, else she'llbe gwine back to Millwood, knowin' nothin' of all thissurprise for her. No, sah,—nary one of yo' mother'schillun shall ever wuck in a mill.”

Conway bowed his head. Then he drew Lily to him[Pg 544]as he knelt and said: “Oh, God help me—make mea man, make me a Conway again.”

It was his first prayer in years—the beginning of hisreformation. And every reformation began with aprayer.

CHAPTER XVII

THE DOUBLE THAT DIED

Two hours before the mill closed Richard Traviscame hurriedly into the mill office. There hadbeen business engagements to be attended to inthe town before leaving that night for the North, andhe had been absent from the mill all day. Now everythingwas ready even to his packed trunk—all exceptHelen.

“He's come for her,” said Jud to himself as hewalked over to the superintendent's desk.

Then amid the hum and the roar of the mill he benthis head and the two whispered low and earnestly together.As Jud talked in excited whispers, Travis lit acigar and listened coolly—to Jud's astonishment—evencynically.

“An' what you reckin' she done—the ole 'oman?Tuck the little gyrl right out of my han's an' kerried herhome—marched off as proud as ole Queen Victory.”

“An' that's the mischief of it,” went on Jud. “Ithort she was lyin' about the home, an' I stepped downthere at noon an' I hope I may die to-night if she ain'tgot 'em all fixed up as snug as can be, an' the Majoris there as sober es a jedge, an' lookin' like a gentlemanan' actin' like a Conway. Say, but you watch yo' han'.[Pg 546]That's blood that won't stan' monkeyin' with when it'sin its right mind. An' the little home the ole 'oman'sgot, she bought it with her own money, been savin' it allher life an' now”—

A peculiar light flashed in Richard Travis' eyes.Never before had the Whipper-in seen it. It was as ifhe had looked up and seen a halo around the moon.

“To do grand things—to do grand things—likethat—negro that she is! No—no—of course youdid not understand. Our moral sense is gone—we millpeople. It is atrophied—yours and mine and all of us—thesoul has gone and mine? My God, why did yougive it back to me now—this ghost soul that has cometo me with burning breath?”

Jud Carpenter listened in amazement and looked athim suspiciously. He came closer to see if he couldsmell whiskey on his breath, but Travis looked at himcalmly as he went on: “Why, yes, of course you cursedher—how could you understand? How could youknow—you, born soulless, know that you had witnessedsomething which, what does the old preacher call him—theman Jesus Christ—something He would havestopped and blessed her for. A slave and she saved itfor her master. A negro and she loved little childrenwhere we people of much intellect and a higher civilizationand Christianity—eh, Jud, Christians”—and helaughed so strangely that Jud took a turn around theroom watching Travis out of the corner of his eyes.[Pg 547]

Jud nodded. “An' to-morrow I'll go an' fetch thelittle 'un back. Why she's signed—she's our'n forfive years.”

Travis turned quickly and Jud dodged under thesame strange light that showed again in his eyes. Thenhe laid his hand on Jud's arm and said simply: “No—no—youwill not!”

“Don't study me too closely. Things have happened—havehappened, I tell you—my God! we are alldouble—that is if we are anything—two halves tous—and my half—my other half, got lost till theother night and left this aching, pitiful, womanly thingbehind, that bleeds to the touch and has tears. Why,man, I am either an angel, a devil, or both. Don't yougo there and touch that little child, nor thrust yourdamned moral Caliban monstrosity into that sweet isle,nor break up with your seared conscience the glory ofthat unselfish act. If you do I'll kill you, Jud Carpenter—I'llkill you!”

Jud turned and walked to the water bucket, took adrink and squirted it through his teeth.

He was working for thinking time: “He's crazy—he'ssho' crazy—” he said to himself. Coming back,he said:

“Pardon me, Mr. Travis—but the oldes' gyrl—what—whatabout her, you know?”

“She's mine, isn't she? I've won her—outgeneraledthe others—by brains and courage. She should be[Pg 548]longto my harem—to my band—as the stallion ofthe plains when he beats off with tooth and hoof andneck of thunder his rival, and takes his mares.”

“Nothin'—only this”—then he lowered his voiceas he came nearer—“the ole 'oman will be after her inan hour—an' she'll take her—tell her all. Maybeyou'll see somethin' to remind you of Jesus Christ inthat.”

“Well,” went on Jud, “you'd better take her now—whilethe whole thing has played into yo' hands; butshe—the oldes' gyrl—she don't know the ole 'oman'scome back an' made her a home; that her father is soberan' there with her little sister, that Clay is away an'ain't deserted her. She don't know anything, an' whenyou set her out in that empty house, deserted, her folksall deserted her, as she'll think, don't you know she'llgo to the end of the worl' with you?”

“Well, take her and thank Jud Carpenter for theQueen of the Valley—eh?” and he laughed and triedto nudge Travis familiarly, but the latter moved away.

“She'll go to The Gaffs with you”—went on Jud.“There she's safe. Then to-night you can drive herto the train at Lenox, as we told Biggers.”

“That worked out beautifully,” said Travis aftera while, “but I'll not trust her to you or to Charley[Pg 549]Biggers. I'll take her myself—she's mine—RichardTravis's—mine—mine! I who have been buffetedand abused by Fate, given all on earth I do not want,and denied the one thing I'd die for; I'll show themwho they are up against. I'll take her, and they maytalk and rave and shoot and be damned!”

“That's the way you love to hear me talk, isn't it—togo on and say I'll take her and do as I please withher, and if it pleases me to marry her I'll set her up overthem all—heh?”

“That's one of me,” said Travis—“the old one.This is the new.” And he opened the back of his watchwhere a tiny lock of Alice Westmore's auburn hair lay:“Oh, if I were only worthy to kiss it!”

He walked into the mill and down to the little roomwhere Helen sat. He stood a while at the door andwatched her—the poise of the beautiful head, thecheeks flushed with the good working blood that nowflowed through them, the hair falling with slight disorder,a stray lock of it dashed across her forehead andsetting off the rest of it, darker and deeper, as a cloudlet,inlaid with gold, the sunset of her cheeks.

His were the eyes of a connoisseur when it came towomen, and as he looked he knew that every line of herwas faultless; the hands slender and beautifully high-born;the fingers tapering with that artistic slope of thetips, all so plainly visible now that they were at work.One foot was thrust out, slender with curved and highinstep. He flushed with pride of her—his eyes bright[Pg 550]enedand he smiled in the old ironical way, a smile ofdare-doing, of victory.

He walked in briskly and with a business-like, forwardalertness. She looked up, paled, then flushed.

He came up and stood deferentially by her side, lookingdown on her, on her beautiful head. She halfcrouched, expecting to hear something banteringly complimentary;bold, commonplace—to feel even the touchof his sensual hand on her hair, on her cheek andMyQueen—my Queen!

After a while she looked up, surprised. The excitementin her eyes—the half-doubting—half-yieldingfight there, of ambition, and doubt, and the stubbornwrong of it all, of her hard lot and bitter life, of thehidden splendor that might lie beyond, and yet the terribledoubt, the fear that it might end in a living death—these,fighting there, lit up her eyes as candles at analtar of love. Then the very difference of his attitude,as he stood there, struck her,—the beautiful dignity ofhis face, his smile. She saw in an instant that sensualismhad vanished—there was something spiritual whichshe had never seen before. A wave of trust, in her utterhelplessness, a feeling of respect, of admiration, sweptover her. She arose quickly, wondering at her own decision.

He bowed low, and there was a ringing sweetness in[Pg 551]his voice as he said: “I have come for you, Helen—ifyou wish to go.”

She met his eyes steadily, bravely: “That was neverin the bargain. That is another thing. This is barterand trade—the last ditch rather than starvation, death.This is the surrender of the earthen fort, the other theglory of the ladder leading to the skies. Understandme, you have not asked for that—it is with me andGod, who made me and gave it. Let it stay there andgo back to him. You offer me bread”—

The light Jud Carpenter saw flashed in his eyes: “Ihave read of one somewhere who turned water into wine—andthat was as difficult.”

“If—if—” she said gently—“if you had alwaysbeen this—if you would always be this”—

“A woman knows a man as a rose knows light,” hesaid simply—“as a star knows the sun. But we men—beingthe sun and the star, we are blinded by ourown light. Come, you may trust me, Sweet Rose.”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE DYING LION

“Lily has been taken home,” he said as shewalked out with him. “She is safe and willbe cared for—so will be your father. I willexplain it to you as we drive to Millwood.”

She wondered, but her cheeks now burned so that allher thoughts began to flow back upon herself as a tide,flowing inland, and forgetting the sea of things. Herheart beat faster—she felt guilty—of what, she couldnot say.

The common mill girls—were they not all lookingat her, were they not all wondering, did they not alldespise her, her who by birth and breeding should beabove them? Her lips tightened at the thought—shewho was above them—now—now—they to be aboveher—poor-born and common as they were—if—if—hebetrayed her.

He handed her quietly—reverently even, into thebuggy, and the trotters whirled her away; but not beforeshe thought she saw the mill girls peeping at herthrough the windows, and nodding their heads at eachother, and some of them smiling disdainfully. And yetwhen she looked closely there was no one at the windows.[Pg 553]

“I am afraid you will be too cold after coming froma warm mill and going with the speed we go.”

He reached under the seat and drew out a light overcoat.He threw it gently over her shoulders, driving,in his masterful way, with the reins in one hand.

The gate was down, bits of strewn paper, straw andall the debris of things having been moved, were there.The house was dark and empty, and Helen uttered a surprisedcry:

“Be calm,” he said, “I will explain. They are allsafe. They have moved. Let us go in, a moment.”

He drew the mares under a shed and hitched them,throwing blankets over them and unchecking their heads.Then he lifted her out. How strong he was, and howlike a limp lily she felt in the grasp of his hands.

The moon flashed out now and then from clouds scurryingfast, adding a ghostliness to the fading light, inwhich the deserted house stood out amid shadowy treesand weeds tall and dried. The rotten steps and balcony,even the broken bottles and pieces of crockeryshone bright in the fading light. Tears started to hereyes:

Travis caught her hand in the dark and she clung tohim. A hound stepped out from under the steps and[Pg 554]licked her other hand. She jumped and gave a littleshriek. Then, when she understood, she stroked thepoor thing's head, its eyes staring hungrily in the dimlight.

She followed Travis up the steps. Within, he strucka match, and she saw the emptiness of it all—thebroken plastering and the paper torn off in spots, adirty, littered floor, and an old sofa and a few otherthings left, too worthless to be moved.

She held up bravely, but tears were running down hercheeks. Travis struck another match to light a lampwhich had been forgotten and left on the mantel. Heattempted to light it, but something huge and blackswept by and extinguished it. Helen shrieked again,and coming up timidly seized his arm in the dark. Hecould feel her heart beating excitedly against it.

The light was turned up and showed an owl sitting onthe top of an old tester that had formerly been thecanopy of her grandmother's bed.

“Now, sit down on the old sofa,” he said. “Thereis much to say to you. We are now on the verge of atragedy or a farce, or—”

“Sometimes plays end well, where all are happy, dothey not?” she asked, smiling hysterically and sittingby him, but looking at the uncanny owl beyond. Shewas silent, then:[Pg 555]

“Oh, I—I—don't you think I am entitled now—tohave something end happily—now—once—in mylife?”

“Tell me,” she said after a while, “you have movedfather and Lily to—to—one of the Cottontown cottages?”

He arose: “In a little while I will tell you, but nowwe must have something to eat first—you see I had thislunch fixed for our journey.” He went out, over to hislap-robe and cushion, and brought a basket and placedit on an old table.

“You may begin now and be my housekeeper,” hesmiled. “Isn't it time you were learning? I daresayI'll not find you a novice, though.”

She flushed and smiled. She arose gracefully, andher pretty hands soon had the lunch spread, Travishelping her awkwardly.

It was a pretty picture, he thought—her flushedgirlish face, yet matronly ways. He watched her slyly,with a sad joyousness in his eyes, drinking it in, as onewho had hungered long for contentment and peace, suchas this.

She had forgotten everything else in the housekeeping.She even laughed some at his awkwardness andscolded him playfully, for, man-like, forgetting a knifeand fork. It was growing chilly, and while she set thelunch he went out and brought in some wood. Soon afine oak fire burned in the fireplace.

They sat at the old table at last, side by side, and atethe delightful lunch. Under the influence of the bottle[Pg 556]of claret, from The Gaffs cellar, her courage came andher animation was beautiful to him—something thatseemed more of girlhood than womanhood. He drank itall in—hungry—heart-hungry for comfort and love;and she saw and understood.

Then very quietly he told her the story of MammyMaria's return, of the little home she had prepared forthem; of her coming that day to the mill and takingLily, and that even now, doubtless, she was there lookingfor the elder sister.

She did not show any surprise—only tears cameslowly: “Do you know that I felt that something ofthis kind would happen? Dear Mammy—dear, dearMammy Maria! She will care for Lily and father.”

She could stand it no longer. She burst into childishtears and, kneeling, she put her beautiful head onTravis's lap as innocently as if it were her old nurse's,and she, a child, seeking consolation.

He stroked her hair, her cheek, gently. He felt hislids grow moist and a tenderness he never had knowncame over him.

“I have told you this for a purpose,” he whisperedin her ear—“I will take you to them, now.”

She raised her wet eyes—flushed. He watched herclosely to see signs of any battle there. And then hisheart gave a great leap and surged madly as she saidcalmly: “No—no—it is too late—too late—now.[Pg 557]I—could—never explain. I will go with you, RichardTravis, to the end of the world.”

He sat very still and looked at her kneeling there asa child would, both hands clasped around his knee, andlooking into his eyes with hers, gray-brown and gloriouslybright. They were calm—so calm, and determinedand innocent. They thrilled him with their trustand the royal beauty of her faith. There came to himan upliftedness that shook him.

“To the end of the world,” he said—“ah, you havesaid so much—so much more than I could ever deserve.”

“I have stood it all as long as I could. My father'sdrunkenness, I could stand that, and Mammy's forsakingus, as I thought—that, too. When the glory ofwork, of earning my own living opened itself to me,—Oh,I grasped it and was happy to think that I couldsupport them! That's why your temptation—why—I—”

“They were nothing,” she went on, “but to be forgotten,forsaken by—by—”

“Oh,” she flushed—“yes,—that was part of it, andthen to see—to see—you so different—with thisstrange look on you—something which says so plainlyto me that—that—oh, forgive me, but do you knowI seem to see you dying—dying all the time, and nowyou are so changed—indeed—oh please understandme—I feel differently toward you—as I would towardone dying for sympathy and love.[Pg 558]”

She hid her face again. He felt his face grow hot.He sat perfectly still, listening. At last she said:

“When I came here to-night and saw it all—empty—Ithought: 'This means I am deserted by all—hehas brought me here to see it—to know it. What canI do but go with him? It is all that is left. Did Imake myself? Did I give myself this fatal beauty—foryou say I am beautiful. And did I make you withyour strength—your conquering strength, and—Oh,could I overcome my environment?' But now—now—itis different—and if I am lost, Richard Travis—itwill be your fault—yours and God's.”

He stroked her hair. He was pale and that strangelight which Jud Carpenter had seen in his eyes thatafternoon blazed now with a nervous flash.

“That is my story,” she cried. “It is now too lateeven for God to come and tell me through you—nowsince we—you and I—oh, how can I say it—youhave taken me this way—you, so strong and brave and—grand—”

“Hush—hush—child—my God—you hurt me—shameme—you know not what you say.”

“I can understand all—but one thing,” she went onafter a while. “Why have you brought me to this—here—atnight alone with you—to tell me this—tomake me—me—oh, change in my feelings—to you?Oh, must I say it?” she cried—“tell you the truth—that—that—nowsince I see you as you are—I—I,—Iam willing to go![Pg 559]”

“Hush, Helen, my child, my God—don't crush me—don't—listen,child—listen! I am a villain—adoubly-dyed, infamous one—when you hear”—

“Let me tell you all, first. Let me finish. Afterall this, why have you brought me here to tell me this,when all you had to do was to keep silent a few morehours—take me on to the station, as you said—and—and—”

“I will tell you,” he said gently. “Yes, you haveasked the question needed to be explained. Now hearfrom my own lips my infamy—not all of it, God knows—thatwould take the night; but this peculiar part ofit. Do you know why I love to stroke your hair, whyI love to touch it, to touch you, to look into your eyes;why I should love, next to one thing of all earth, to takeyou in my arms and smother you—kill you with kisses—yourhair, your eyes, your mouth?”

“Did no one tell you, ever tell you—how much youlook like your cousin”—he stopped—he could not saythe word, but she guessed. White with shame, shesprang up from him, startled, hurt. Her heart tightenedinto a painful thing which pricked her.

“Then—then—it is not I—but my Cousin Alice—oh—I—yes—Idid hear—I should haveknown”—it came from her slowly and with a quiveringtremor.

“When I started into this with you I was dead—dead.My soul was withered within me. All womenwere my playthings—all but one. She was myQueen—my wife that was to be. I was dead, myGod—how dead I was! I now see with a clearness thatis killing me; a clearness as of one waking from sleepand feeling, in the first wave of conscience, that inconceivabletenderness which hurts so—hurts because it istender and before the old hard consciousness of materialthings come again to toughen. How dead I was, youmay know when I say that all this web now around you—fromyour entrance into the mill till now—hereto-night—in my power—body and soul—that it wasall to gratify this dead sea fruit of my soul, this thingin me I cannot understand, making me conquer womenall my life for—oh, as a lion would, to kill, though nothungry, and then lie by them, dying, and watch them,—dead!Then this same God—if any there be—Hewho you say put more on you than you could bear—Hestruck me, as, well—no—He did not strike—butground me, ground me into dust—took her out of mylife and then laid my soul before me so naked that thevery sunlight scorches it. What was it the old preachersaid—that 'touch of God' business? 'Touch—'”he laughed, “not touch, but blow, I say—a blow thatground me into star-dust and flung me into space, myheart a burning comet and my soul the tail of it, dissolvingbefore my very eyes. What then can I, a lion,dying, care for the doe that crosses my path? Thebeautiful doe, beautiful even as you are. Do youunderstand me, child?[Pg 561]”

She scarcely knew what she did. She rememberedonly the terrible empty room. The owl uncannily turningits head here and there and staring at her with itseyes, yellow in the firelight.

She dropped on the floor by him and clung again tohis knees, her head in his lap in pity for him.

“That is the story of the dying lion,” he said aftera while. “The lion who worked all his cunning and skilland courage to get the beautiful doe in his power, onlyto find he was dying—dying and could not eat. Couldyou love a dying lion, child?” he asked abruptly—“tellme truly, for as you speak so will I act—wouldmake you queen of all the desert.”

She raised her eyes to his. They were wet with tears.He had touched the pity in them. She saw him as shehad never seen him before. All her fear of him vanished,and she was held by the cords of a strange fascination.She knew not what she did. The owl lookedat her queerly, and she almost sobbed it out, hysterically:

“Oh, I could—love—you—you—who are sostrong and who suffer—suffer so”—

“You could love me?” he asked. “Then, then Iwould marry you to-night—now—if—if—that uncovering—thattouch—had not been put upon me todo nobler things than to gratify my own passion, hadnot shown me the other half which all these years hasbeen dead—my double.” He was silent.

“And so I sent to-day,” he began after a while, “fora friend of yours, one with whom you can be happierthan—the dying lion. He has been out of the county—sentout—it was part of the plan, part of the snare[Pg 562]of the lion and his whelp. And so I sent for him thismorning, feeling the death blow, you know. I sent himan urgent message, to meet you here at nine.” Heglanced at his watch. “It is past that now, but hehad far to ride. He will come, I hope—ah, listen!”

She sprang up quickly, half defiantly. The old Conwayspirit flashed in her eyes and she came to him talland splendid and with half a look of protest, half command,and yet in it begging, pleading, yearning for—sheknew not what.

“Why—why—did you? Oh, you do not know!You do not understand—love—love—can it be wonthis way—apprenticed, bargained—given away?”

“You must go with him, he loves you. He will makeyou happy. I am dying—is not part of me alreadydead?”

For answer she came to him, closer, and stood by himas one who in war stands by a comrade shot throughand ready to fall.

He put his arms around her and drew her to himcloser, and she did not resist—but as a child would,hers also she wound around his neck and whispered:

“Child—my precious one—my—oh, God, andyou—forgive me this. But let me kiss you once anddream—dream it is she”—

He released her, but she clung to him sobbing. Herhead lay on his breast, and she shook in the agony ofit all.

“You will forgive me, some day—when you know—howI loved her,” he gasped, white and with a bitterlight in his face.

They heard the steps of a man approaching the house.She sat down on the old sofa pale, trembling and withbitterness in her heart.

“Come in, Clay,” he said quietly. “I am glad thatmy man found you. We have been waiting for you.”

“I finished that survey and came as fast as I could.Your man rode on to The Gaffs, but I came here as youwrote me to do,” and Clay came in quietly, speakingas he walked to the fire.

CHAPTER XIX

FACE TO FACE WITH DEATH

He came in as naturally as if the house were stillinhabited, though he saw the emptiness of itall, and guessed the cause. But when he sawHelen, a flushed surprise beamed through his eyes and hegave her his hand.

She did not speak, as she gave him her hand, butsmiled sadly. It meant: “Mr. Travis will tell you all.I know nothing. It is all his planning.”

Clay sat down in an old chair by the fire and warmedhis hands, looking thoughtfully at the two, now and then,and wonderingly. He was not surprised when Travissaid:

“I sent for you hurriedly, as one who I knew wasa friend of Miss Conway. A crisis has arisen in heraffairs to-day in which it is necessary for her friends toact.”

“Why, yes, I suppose I can guess,” said Claythoughtfully and watching Helen closely all the whileas he glanced around the empty room. “I was onlywaiting. Why, you see—”

Helen flushed scarlet and looked appealingly atTravis. But he broke in on Clay without noticing her.[Pg 565]

“Yes, I knew you were only waiting. I think I understandyou, but you know the trouble with nearlyevery good intention is that it waits too long.”

Helen arose and, coming over, stood by Travis, herface pale, her eyes shining. “I beg—I entreat—please,say no more. Clay,” she said turning on himwith flushed face, “I did not know you were coming.I did not know where you were. Like all the others, Isupposed you too had—had deserted me.”

“Mr. Travis told me to-night,” she interrupted. “Iunderstand now. But really, it makes no difference tome now. Since—since—”

“Now look here,” broke in Travis with feigned lightness,—“Iam not going to let you two lovers misunderstandeach other. I have planned it all out and I wantyou both to make me happy by listening to one older,one who admires you both and sincerely wishes to see youhappy. Things have happened at your house,” he saidaddressing Clay—“things which will surprise you whenyou reach home—things that affect you and me andMiss Conway. Now I know that you love her, and haveloved her a long time, and that only—”

“Only our poverty,” said Clay thankfully to Travisfor breaking the ice for him.

Helen stood up quickly—a smile on her lips:“Don't you both think that before this bargain and salegoes further you had better get the consent of the oneto be sold?” She turned to Clay.

“Don't you think you have queer ideas of love—of[Pg 566]winning a woman's love—in this way? And you”—shesaid turning to Travis—“Oh youknow better.”

Travis arose with a smile half joyous, half serious,and Clay was so embarrassed that he mopped his browas if he were plowing in the sun.

“Why, really, Helen—I—you know—I havespoken to you—you know, and but for my—”

“Poverty”—said Helen taking up the word—“Andwhat were poverty to me, if I loved a man? I'dlove him the more for it. If he were dying broken-hearted,wrecked—even in disgrace,—”

Travis flushed and looked at her admiringly, while thejoyous light flashed yet deeper in his eyes.

“Come,” he said. “I have arranged all. I am notgoing to give you young people an excuse to defer yourhappiness longer.” He turned to Clay: “I shall showyou something which you have been on the track of forsome time. I have my lantern in the buggy, and wewill have to walk a mile or more. But it is pleasant to-night,and the walk will do us all good. Come.”

They both arose wonderingly—Helen came over andput her hand on his arm: “I will go,” she whispered,“if there be no more of that talk.”

He smiled. “You must do as I say. Am I not nowyour guardian? Bring your leathern sack with yourhammer and geological tools,” he remarked to Clay.

Clay arose hastily, and they went out of the old houseand across the fields. Past the boundaries of Millwoodthey walked, Travis silently leading, and Clayfollowing with Helen, who could not speak, so momentousit all seemed. She saw only Travis's fine[Pg 567]square shoulders, and erect, sinewy form, going beforethem, into the night of shadows, of trees, of rocks, ofthe great peak of the mountain, silent and dark.

He did not speak. He walked in silent thought.They passed the boundary line of Millwood, and thendown a slight ravine he led them to the ragged, flintyhill, on which the old preacher's cabin stood on theirright.

“Now,” he said stopping—“if I am correct, Clay,this hill is the old Bishop's,” pointing to his rightwhere the cabin stood, “and over here is what is left ofWestmoreland. This gulch divides them. This rangereally runs into Westmoreland,” he said with a sweep ofhis hand toward it. “Get your bearings,” he smiledto Clay, “for I want you to tell whose fortune this is.”

He lit his lantern and walking forward struck awaysome weeds and vines which partially concealed themouth of a small opening in the hillside caused by alandslide. It was difficult going at first, but as theywent further the opening grew larger, and as the lightflashed on its walls, Clay stopped in admiration andshouted:

Before them running right and left—for the cavehad split it in two, lay the solid vein of coal, shining inthe light, and throwing back splinters of ebony, to Claymore beautiful than gold.

Travis watched him with an amused smile as he hastilytook off his satchel and struck a piece off the ledge.Helen stood wondering, looking not at Clay, but at[Pg 568]Travis, and her eyes shone brilliantly and full of proudsplendor.

Clay forgot that they were there. He measured theledge. He chipped off piece after piece and examinedit closely. “I never dreamed it would be here, in thisshape,” he said at last. “Look!—and fully eightfeet, solid. This hill is full of it. The old preacherwill find it hard to spend his wealth.”

“But that is not all,” said Travis; “see how thedip runs—see the vein—this way.” He pointed tothe left.

Clay paled: “That means—it is remarkable—veryremarkable. Why, this vein should not have beenhere. It is too low to be in the Carboniferous.”He suddenly stopped: “But here it is—contrary toall my data and—and—why really it takes the lowrange of the poor land of Westmoreland. It—it—willmake me rich.”

“You haven't seen all,” said Travis—“look!”He turned and walked to another part of the small cave,where the bank had broken, and there gleamed, not theblack, but the red—the earth full of rich ore.

“And the lime rock is all over the valley,” saidTravis, “and that means, coal, iron and lime—”

“Furnaces—why, of course—furnaces and wealth.Helen, I—I—it will make Westmoreland rich. Now,in all earnestness—in all sincerity I can tell you—”

“Do not tell me anything, Clay—please do not.[Pg 569]You do not understand. You can never understand.”Her eyes were following Travis, who had walked offpretending to be examining the cave. Then she gavea shriek which sounded frightfully intense as it echoedaround.

Travis turned quickly and saw standing between himand them a gaunt, savage thing, with froth in its mouthand saliva-dripping lips. At first he thought it was apanther, so low it crouched to spring; but almost instantlyhe recognized Jud Carpenter's dog. Then itbegan to creep uncertainly, staggeringly forward, towardClay and Helen, its neck drawn and contractedin the paroxysms of rabies; its deadly eyes, staring, unearthlyyellow in the lantern light. Within two yards ofClay, who stood helpless with fear and uncertainty, itcrouched to spring, growling and snapping at its ownsides, and Helen screamed again as she saw Travis'squick, lithe figure spring forward and, grasping thedog by the throat from behind, fling himself with crushingforce on the brute, choking it as he fell.

Total darkness—for in his rush Travis threw asidehis lantern—and it seemed an age to Helen as she heardthe terrible fight for life going on at her feet, thestruggles and howls of the dog, the snapping of thehuge teeth, the stinging sand thrown up into her face.Then after a while all was still, and then very quietlyfrom Travis:

Under the light he arose, his clothes torn with toothand fang of the gaunt dog, which lay silent. He stood[Pg 570]up hot and flushed, and then turned pallid, and for amoment staggered as he saw the blood trickling from hisleft arm.

Helen stood by him terror-eyed, trembling, crushed,—witha terrible sickening fear.

“He was mad,” said Travis gently, “and I fear hehas bitten me, though I managed to jump on him beforehe bit you two.”

He took off his coat—blood was on his shirt sleeveand had run down his arm. Helen, pale and with agreat sob in her throat, rolled up the sleeve, Travis submitting,with a strange pallor in his face and the newlight in his eyes.

His bare arm came up strong and white. Above theelbow, near the shoulder, the blood still flowed where thefangs had sunk.

“There is only one chance to save me,” he saidquietly, “and that, a slim one. It bleeds—if I couldonly get my lips to it—”

He tried to expostulate, to push her off, as he felther lips against his naked arm. But she clung theresucking out the virus. He felt her tears fall on his arm.He heard her murmur:

He bent and whispered: “You are risking your ownlife for me, Helen! Life for life—death for death!”

It was too much even for his great strength, andwhen he recovered himself he was sitting on the sand ofthe little cave. How long she had clung to his arm hedid not know, but it had ceased to pain him and her ownhandkerchief was tied around it.[Pg 571]

He staggered out, a terrible pallor on his face, as hesaid: “Not this way—not to go this way. Oh, God,your blow—I care not for death, but, oh, not thisdeath?”

“Clay,” he said after a while—“Take her—takeher to your mother and sister to-night. I must bidyou both good-night, ay, and good-bye. See, you walkonly across the field there—that is Westmoreland.”

He turned, but he felt some one clinging to his hand,in the dark. He looked down at her, at the white, drawnface, beautiful with a terrible pain: “Take me—takeme,” she begged—“with you—to the end of the world—oh,I love you and I care not who knows.”

“Child—child”—he whispered sadly—“Youknow not what you say. I am dying. I shall be mad—unless—unlesswhat you have done—”

CHAPTER XX

THE ANGEL WITH THE FLAMING SWORD

It was nearly time for the mill to close whenMammy Maria, her big honest face beaming withsatisfaction at the surprise she had in store forHelen, began to wind her red silk bandana around herhead. She had several bandanas, but when Lily saw herput on the red silk one, the little girl knew she wasgoing out—“dressin' fur prom'nade”—as the oldlady termed it.

She sat on her father's lap: “And we want you tohurry up, Mammy Maria,” he said, “I want all myfamily here. I am going to work to-morrow. I'll redeemMillwood before my two years expire or I am nota Conway again.”

Mammy Maria was agitated enough. She had beenso busy that she had failed to notice how late it was.In her efforts to surprise Helen she had forgotten time,and now she feared the mill might close and Helen, notknowing they had moved, would go back to Millwood.This meant a two mile tramp and delay. She hadplenty of time, she knew, before the mill closed; but themore she thought of the morning's scene at the mill andof Jud Carpenter, the greater her misgivings. For[Pg 573]Mammy Maria was instinctive—a trait her peoplehave. It is always Nature's substitute when much intellectis wanting.

All afternoon she had chuckled to herself. All afternoon,the three of them,—for even Major Conwayjoined in, and helped work and arrange things—talkedit over as they planned. His face was clear now, andcalm, as in the old days. Even the old servant couldsee he had determined to win in the fight.

“Marse Ned's hisse'f ag'in,” she would say to himencouragingly—“Marse Ned's hisse'f—an' Zion's byhis side, yea, Lord, the Ark of the Tabbernackle!”

For the last time she surveyed the little rooms of thecottage. How clean and fresh it all was, and how theold mahogany of Millwood set them off! And now allwas ready.

It was nearly dark when she reached the mill. Ithad not yet closed down, and lights began to blaze firstfrom one window, then another. She could hear thesteam and the coughing of the exhaust pipe.

This was all the old woman had hoped—to be in timefor Helen when the mill closed.

But one thing was in her way, or she had taken heras she did Lily: She did not know where Helen's roomwas in the mill. There was no fear in the old nurse'sheart. She had taken Lily, she would take Helen. Shewould show the whole tribe of them that she would!But in which room was the elder sister?

So she walked again into the main office, fearless, andwith her head up. For was she not Zion, the Lord's[Pg 574]chosen, the sanctified one, and the powers of hell werenaught?

No one was in the office but Jud Carpenter, and toher surprise he treated her with the utmost courtesy.Indeed, his courtesy was so intense that any one butZion, who, being black, knew little of irony and lessof sarcasm, might have seen that Jud's courtesy wasstrongly savored of the two.

“Be seated, Madam,” he said with a profound bow.“Be seated, Upholder of Heaven, Chief-cook-an'-bottle-washerin the Kingdom to come! An' what may havesent the angel of the Lord to honor us with anothervisit?”

“Ah,” said Jud apologetically, “an' I hope we won'tsmell any brimstone to-night.”

“If you don't smell it to-night, you'll smell it befo'long. And now look aheah, Mister White Man, no usefor you an' me to set here a-jawin' an' 'spu'tin'. I'vecome after my other gyrl an' you know I'm gwinehave her!”

“Oh, she'll be out 'torectly, Mrs. Zion! Jes' keepyo' robes on an' hol' yo' throne down a little while.She'll be out 'torectly.”

It was soon apparent. For scarcely had the oldwoman seated herself with a significant toss of her headwhen the mill began to cease to hum and roar.[Pg 575]

She sat watching the door keenly as they came out.What creatures they were, lint-and-dust-covered totheir very eyes. The yellow, hard, emotionless facesof the men, the haggard, weary ones of the girls andwomen and little children! Never had she seen suchwhite people before, such hollow eyes, with dark, bloodlessrings beneath them, sunken cheeks, tanned to thecolor of oiled hickory, much used. Dazed, listless, theystumbled out past her with relaxed under-jaws and facesgloomy, expressionless—so long bent over looms, theyhad taken on the very looks of them—the shapes ofthem, moving, walking, working, mechanically. Women,smileless, and so tired and numbed that they had forgottenthe strongest instinct of humanity—the romanceof sex; for many of them wore the dirty, chopped-offjackets of men, their slouched black hats, their coarseshoes, and talked even in the vulgar, hard irony of themale in despair.

They all passed out—one by one—for in themwas not even the instinct of the companionship ofmisery.

Every moment the old nurse expected Helen to walkout, to walk out in her queenly way, with her beautifulface and manners, so different from those around her.

Jud Carpenter sat at his desk quietly cutting plugtobacco to fill his pipe-bowl, and watching the old womanslyly.

“Oh, she'll be 'long 'torectly—you see the drawer-inbein' in the far room comes out last.”

The last one passed out. The mill became silent, andyet Helen did not appear.[Pg 576]

The old nurse arose impatiently: “I reck'n I'll gofind her,” she said to Carpenter.

“I'd better sho' you the way, old 'oman,” he said,lazily shuffling off the stool he was sitting on pretendingto be reading a paper—“you'll never fin' the roomby yo'self.”

He led her along through the main room, hot, lint-filledand evil-smelling. It was quite dark. Then tothe rear, where the mill jutted on the side of a hill, hestopped in front of a door and said: “This is herroom; she's in there, I reckin—she's gen'ly late.”

With quickening heart the old woman entered and,almost immediately, she heard the door behind her shutand the key turn in the bolt. The room was emptyand she sprang back to the door, only to find it securelylocked, and to hear Jud Carpenter's jeers from without.She ran to the two small windows. They werehigh and looked out over a ravine.

She did not utter a word. Reared as she had beenamong the Conways, she was too well bred to act thecoward, and beg and plead in undignified tones forrelief. At first she thought it was only a cruel jokeof the Whipper-in, but when he spoke, she saw it wasnot.

“Got you where I want you, Mother of Zion,” hesaid through the key hole. “I guess you are safe theretill mornin' unless the Angel of the Lord opens the do'as they say he has a way of doin' for Saints—ha—ha—ha!”

“Wanter kno' what I shet you up for, Mother of all[Pg 577]Holiness? Well, listen: It's to keep you there till to-morrow—that'sgood reason, ain't it? You'll find alot of cotton in the fur corner—a mighty good thingfor a bed. Can't you talk? How do you like it? Iguess you ain't so independent now.”

There was a pause. The old woman sat numbly inHelen's chair. She saw a bunch of violets in her frame,and the odor brought back memories of her old home.A great fear began to creep over her—not for herself,but for Helen, and she fell on her knees by theframe and prayed silently.

Jud's voice came again: “Want to kno' now whyyou'll stay there till mornin'? Well, I'll tell you—it'llmake you pass a com'f'table night—you'll never seeMiss Helen ag'in—”

The old nurse sprang to her feet. She lost controlof herself, for all day she had felt this queer presentiment,and now was it really true? She blamed herselffor not taking Helen that morning.

“Oh, you're safe an' you'll never see her agin. Idon't mind tellin' you she has run off with RichardTravis—they'll go North to-night. You'll find otherfolks can walk off with yo' gals—'specially the han'sumones—besides yo'se'f.”

The old nurse was stricken with weakness. Her limbsshook so she sat down in a heap at the door and saidpleadingly:—“Are you lyin' to me, white man? Will—willhe marry her or[Pg 578]—”

“Did you ever hear of him marryin' anybody?”came back with a laugh. “No, he's only took a desertedyoung 'oman in out of the cold—he'll take careof her, but he ain't the marryin' kind, is he?”

The reputation of Richard Travis was as well knownto Mammy Maria as it was to anyone. She did notknow whether to believe Jud or not, but one thing sheknew—something—something dreadful was happeningto Helen. The old nurse called to mind instantlythings that had happened before she herself had leftMillwood—things Helen had said—her grief, her despair,her horror of the mill, her belief that she wasalready disgraced. It all came to the old nurse now soplainly. Tempted as she was, young as she was, desertedand forsaken as she thought she was, might notindeed the temptation be too much for her?

The mill grew strangely silent and dark. On a pileof loose cotton she fell, praying after the manner of herrace.

An hour passed. The darkness, the loneliness, thehorror of it all crept into her superstitious soul, and shebecame frantic with religious fervor and despair.

Pacing the room, she sang and prayed in a frenzy ofemotional tumult. But she heard only the echo of herown voice, and only the wailings of her own songscame back. Negro that she was, she was intelligentenough to know that Jud Carpenter spoke the truth—thatnot for his life would he have dared to say this[Pg 579]if it had not had some truth in it. What?—she did notknow—she only knew that harm was coming to Helen.

She called aloud for help—for Edward Conway.But the mill was closed tight—the windows nailed.

Another hour passed. It began to tell on the oldcreature's mind. Negroes are simple, religious, superstitiousfolks, easily unbalanced by grief or wrong.

She began to see visions in this frenzy of religiousexcitement, as so many of her race do under the nervousstrain of religious feeling. She fell into a trance.

It was most real to her. Who that has ever hearda negro give in his religious experience but recognizesit? She was carried on the wings of the morning downto the gates of hell. The Devil himself met her, temptingher always, conducting her through the region ofdarkness and showing her the lakes of fire and threateningher with all his punishment if she did not ceaseto believe. She overcame him only by constant prayer.She fled from him, he followed her, but could not approachher while she prayed.... She was rescuedby an angel—an angel from heaven ... anangel with a flaming sword. Through all the glories ofheaven this angel conducted her, praised her, and biddingher farewell at the gate, told her to go back toearth and take this:It was a torch of fire!

“Burn! burn!” said the angel—“for I shall makethe governors of Judah like an hearth of fire among thewood, and like a torch of fire on a sheaf. And theyshall devour all the people around about, on the righthand and the left; and Jerusalem shall be inhabitedagain in her own place, even in Jerusalem.[Pg 580]”

She came out of the trance in a glory of religiousfervor: “Jerusalem shall be inhabited ag'in!—theAngel has told me—told me—Burn—burn,” shecried. “Oh Lord—you have spoken and Zion hasears to hear—Amen.”

Quickly she gathered up the loose cotton and placedit at the door, piling it up to the very bolt. She strucka match, swaying and rocking and chanting: “Yea,Lord, thy servant hath heard—thy servant hathheard!”

The flames leaped up quickly enveloping the door.The room began to fill with smoke, but she retreated toa far corner and fell on her knees in prayer. Thepanels of the door caught first and the flames spreadingupward soon heated the lock around which thewood blazed and crackled. It burned through. Shesprang up, rushed through the blinding smoke, struckthe door as it blazed, in a broken mass, and rushed out.Down the long main room she ran to a low window,burst it, and stepped out on the ground:

“Jerusalem shall be inhabited again,” she shouted asshe ran breathless toward home.

CHAPTER XXI

THE GREAT FIRE

Edward Conway sat on the little porch tillthe stars came out, wondering why the old nursedid not return. Sober as he was and knew hewould ever be, it seemed that a keen sensitiveness camewith it, and a feeling of impending calamity.

“Oh, it's the cursed whiskey,” he said to himself—“italways leaves you keyed up like a fiddle or a woman.I'll get over it after a while or I'll die trying,” and heclosed his teeth upon each other with a nervous twistthat belied his efforts at calmness.

But even Lily grew alarmed, and to quiet her hetook her into the house and they ate their supper insilence.

Again he came out on the porch and sat with thelittle girl in his lap. But Lily gave him no rest, forshe kept saying, as the hours passed: “Where is she,father—oh, do go and see!”

“She has gone to Millwood through mistake,” hekept telling her, “and Mammy Maria has doubtlessgone after her. Mammy will bring her back. We willwait awhile longer—if I had some one to leave youwith,” he said gently, “I'd go myself. But she will behome directly.”

The moon came up, and Conway wrapped Lily in ashawl, but still held her in his arms. And as he satholding her and waiting with a fast-beating heart forthe old nurse, all his wasted life passed before him.

He saw himself as he had not for years—his life afailure, his fortune gone. He wondered how he hadescaped as he had, and as he thought of the old Bishop'swords, he wondered why God had been as good to himas He had, and again he uttered a silent prayer ofthankfulness and for strength. And with it the strengthcame, and he knew he could never more be the drunkardhe had been. There was something in him strongerthan himself.

He was a strong man spiritually—it had been hisinheritance, and the very thought of anything happeningto Helen blanched his cheek. In spite of the faultsof his past, no man loved his children more than he,when he was himself. Like all keen, sensitive natures,his was filled to overflowing with paternal love.

“My God,” he thought, “suppose—suppose she hasgone back to Millwood, found none of us there, thinksshe had been deserted, and—and—”

The thought was unbearable. He slipped in withthe sleeping Lily in his arms and began to put her inbed without awakening her, determined to mount hishorse and go for Helen himself.

But just then the old nurse, frantic, breathless andin a delirium of religious excitement, came in and fellfainting on the porch.

He revived her with cold water, and when she could[Pg 583]talk she could only pronounce Helen's name, and saythey had run off with her.

The old woman tried to tell Jud Carpenter's tale,and Conway heard enough. He did not wait to hear itall—he did not know the mill was now slowly burning.

“Take care of Lily”—he said, as he went into hisroom and came out with his pistol buckled around hiswaist.

He was astonished to find a fire in the hearth, a lampburning, and one of Helen's gloves lying on the table.

By it was another pair. He picked them up andlooked closely. Within, in red ink, were the initials:R. T.

Sometimes there comes to us that peculiar mentalcondition in which we are vaguely conscious that oncebefore we have been in the same place, amid the sameconditions and surroundings which now confront us.We seem to be living again a brief moment of our pastlife, where Time himself has turned back everything.It came that instant to Edward Conway.

“It was here—and what was it? Oh, yes:—'Somemen repent to God's smile, some to His frown,and some to His fist?'”—He groaned:—“This is Hisfist. Never—never before in all the history of the Conwayfamily has one of its women[Pg 584]—”

Edward Conway was sober, but he still had the instinctsof the drunkard—it never occurred to him thathe had done anything to cause it. Drunkenness wasnothing—a weakness—a fault which was now behindhim. But this—this—the first of all the Conwaywomen—and his daughter—his child—thebeautifulone. He sat still, and then he grew very calm. It wasthe calmness of the old Conway spirit returning.“Richard Travis,” he said to himself, “knows as wellwhat this act of his means in the South,—in the unwrittenlaw of our land—as I do. He has taken hischance of life or death. I'll see that it is death. Thisis the last of me and my house. But in the fall I'llsee that this Philistine of Philistines dies under itsruins.”

He arose and started out. He saw the lap robe inthe hall, and this put him to investigating. The maresand buggy he found under the shed. It was all a mysteryto him, but of one thing he was sure: “He willsoon come back for them. I can wait.”

Choosing a spot in the shadow of a great tree, he satdown with his pistol across his knees. The moon hadarisen and cast ghostly shadows over everything. Itwas a time for repentance, for thoughts of the past withhim, and as he sat there, that terrible hour, with murderin his heart, bitterness and repentance were his.

He was a changed man. Never again could he bethe old self. “But the blow—the blow,” he kept saying,“I thought it would fall on me—not on her[Pg 585]—mybeautiful one—not on a Conway woman's chastity—notmy wife's daughter—”

He heard steps coming down the path. His heartceased a moment, it seemed to him, and then beat wildly.He drew a long breath to relieve it—to calm it withcool oxygen, and then he cocked the five chamberedpistol and waited as full of the joy of killing as if theman who was now walking down the path was a wolfor a mad dog—down the path and right into the muzzleof the pistol, backed by the arm which could kill.

He saw Richard Travis coming, slowly, painfully,his left arm tied up, and his step, once so quick andactive, so full of strength and life, now was as if theblight of old age had come upon it.

In spite of his bitter determination Conway noticedthe great change, and instinct, which acts even throughanger and hatred and revenge and the maddening furyof murder,—instinct, the ever present—whispered itswarning to his innermost ear.

Still, he could not resist. Rising, he threw his pistolup within a few yards of Richard Travis's breast, hishand upon the trigger. But he could not fire, althoughTravis stood quietly under its muzzle and looked withoutsurprise into his face.

Conway glanced along the barrel of his weapon andinto the face of Richard Travis. And then he broughthis pistol down with a quick movement.

“Why don't you shoot?” said Travis at last, breakingthe silence and in a tone of disappointment.[Pg 586]

“Because you are not guilty,” said Conway—“notwith that look in your face.”

“I am sorry you saw my face, then,” he smiledsadly—“for it had been such a happy solution for itall—if you had only fired.”

“That is the only reply you could have made methat would make it obligatory on my part to answeryour question. In that reply I see there is hope foryou. So I will tell you she is safe, unharmed, unhurt.”

“I felt it,” said Conway, quietly, “for I knew it,Richard Travis, as soon as I saw your face. But tellme all.”

“There is little to tell. I had made up my mindto run off with her, marry her, perhaps, since she hadneither home nor a father, and was a beautiful youngthing which any man might be proud of. But thingshave come up—no, not come up, fallen, fallen andcrushed. It has been a crisis all around—so I sent forClay—a fine young fellow and he loves her—I hadhim meet me here and—well, he has taken her toWestmoreland to-night. You know she is safe there.She will come to you to-morrow as pure as she left,though God knows you do not deserve it.”

Something sprang into Edward Conway's throat—somethingkin to a joyous shout. He could not speak.[Pg 587]He could only look at the strange, calm, sad man beforehim in a gratitude that uplifted him. He staredwith eyes that were blinded with tears.

“Dick—Dick,” he said, “we have been estranged,since the war. I misjudged you. I see I never knewyou. I came to kill, but here—” He thrust the gripof his pistol toward Travis—“here, Dick, kill me—shootme—I am not fit to live—but, O God, howclearly I see now; and, Dick—Dick—you shall see—theworld shall see that from now on, with God's help,as Lily makes me say—Dick, I'll be a Conway again.”

The other man pressed his hand: “Ned, I believeit—I believe it. Go back to your little home to-night.Your daughter is safe. To-morrow you may beginall over again. To-morrow—”

“And you, Dick—I have heard—I can guess, butwhy may not you, to-morrow—”

“There will be no to-morrow for me,” he said sadly.“Things stop suddenly before me to-night as before anabyss—”

He turned quickly and looked toward the low lyingrange of mountains. A great red flush as of a risingsun glowed even beyond the rim of them, and then outof it shot tinges of flame.

CHAPTER XXII

A CONWAY AGAIN

It was a great fire the mill made, lighting thevalley for miles. All Cottontown was there to seeit burn, hushed, with set faces, some of anger, someof fear—but all in stricken numbness, knowing thattheir living was gone.

It was not long before Jud Carpenter was amongthem, stirring them with the story of how the old negrowoman had burned it—for he knew it was she. Indeed,he was soon fully substantiated by others whoheard her when she had run home heaping her maledictionson the mill.

Soon among them began the whisper of lynching.As it grew they became bolder and began to shout it:Lynch her!

Jud Carpenter, half drunk and wholly reckless, stoodon a stump, and after telling his day's experience withMammy Maria, her defiance of the mill's laws, her arrogance,her burning of the mill, he shouted that hehimself would lead them.

Some wanted to wait until daylight, but “Lynch her—lynchher now,” was the shout.

The people of Cottontown, hot and revengeful, nowthat their living was burned; hill dwellers who sympathizedwith them, and coming in, were eager for anyexcitement; the unlawful element which infests everytown—all were there, the idle, the ignorant, thevicious.

There had been so many lynchings in the South thatit had ceased to be a crime—for crime, the weed, cultivated—growsinto a flower to those who do the tending.

Many of the lynchings, it is true, were honest—thefrenzy of outraged humanity to avenge a terriblecrime which the law, in its delay, often had let gounpunished. The laxity of the law, the unscrupulousnessof its lawyers, their shrewdness in clearing criminalsif the fee was forthcoming, the hundreds of technicalitiesthrown around criminals, the narrowness of supremecourts in reversing on these technicalities. Allthese had thrown the law back to its source—the people.And they had taken it in their own hands. Inviolent hands, but deadly sure and retributory.

If there was ever an excuse for lynching, the Southwas entitled to it. For the crime was the result ofthe sudden emancipation of ignorant slaves, who, backedby the bayonets of their liberators, and attributing afar greater importance to their elevation than was warranted,perpetuated an unnameable crime as part of theirsystem of revenge for years of slavery. And the Southarose to the terribleness of the crime and met it withthe rifle, the torch and the rope.

Why should it be wondered at? Why should the[Pg 590]South be singled out for blame? Is it not a fact thatfor years in every newly settled western state lynch-lawhas been the unchallenged, unanimous verdict fora horse thief? And is not the honor of a white womanmore than the hide of a broncho?

But from an honest, well intentioned frenzy of justiceoutraged to any pretext is an easy step. From thequick lynching of the rapist and murderer—to be surethat the lawyers and courts did not acquit them—wasone step. To hang a half crazy old woman for burninga mill was another, and the natural consequence ofthe first.

And so these people flocked to the burning—theywho had helped lynch before—the negro-haters, whohad never owned a negro and had no sympathy—nosentiment for them. It is they who lynch in the South,who lynch and defy the law.

The great mill was in ruins—its tall black smokestacksalone stood amid its smoking, twisted mass ofsteel and ashes—a rough, blackened, but fitting monumentof its own infamy.

They gathered around it—the disorderly, the vicious,the lynchers of the Tennessee Valley.

Fitful flashes of flame now and then burst out amidthe ruins, silhouetting the shadows of the lynchers intofierce giant forms with frenzied faces from which camefirst murmurs and finally shouts of:

Above, in the still air of the night, yet hung the pallof the black smoke-cloud, from whose heart had come[Pg 591]the torch which had cost capital its money, and the millpeople their living.

They were not long acting. Mammy Maria hadflown to the little cottage—a crazy, hysterical creature—awreck of herself—over-worked in body and mind,and frenzied between the deed and the promptings ofa blind superstitious religion.

Lily hung to her neck sobbing, and the old womanin her pitiful fright was brought back partly to reasonin the great love of her life for the little child. Evenin her feebleness she was soothing her pet.

There were oaths, curses and trampling of manyfeet as they rushed in and seized her. Lily, screaming,was held by rough arms while they dragged the oldnurse away.

Into a wood nearby they took her, the rope was thrownover a limb, the noose placed around her neck.

The old woman fell on her knees, but instead of prayingfor herself, she prayed for her executioners.

They jeered—they laughed. One struck her witha stick, but she only prayed for them the more.

The words rang out even above the noise of thecrowd. Then a man, with the long blue deadly barrelof the Colt forty-four, pushed his way through them—hisface pale, his fine mouth set firm and close, andthe splendid courage of many generations of Conwaysshining in his eyes.[Pg 592]

“Stand back!—” and he said it in the old commandingway—the old way which courage has ever hadin the crises of the world.

For a moment he stood over her, his pale calm faceshowing the splendor of determination in the glory ofhis manhood restored. For a moment the very beautyof it stopped them—this man, this former sot anddrunkard, this old soldier arising from the ashes of hisburied past, a beautiful statue of courage cut out ofthe marble of manhood. The moral beauty of it—thisman defending with his life the old negro—struckeven through the swine of them.

They ceased, and a silence fell, so painful that ithurt in its very uncanniness.

Then Edward Conway said very clearly, very slowly,but with a fitful nervous ring in his voice: “Go backto your homes! Would you hang this poor old womanwithout a trial? Can you not see that she has lost hermind and is not responsible for her acts? Let the lawdecide. Shall not her life of unselfishness and gooddeeds be put against this one insane act of her old age?Go back to your homes! Some of you are my friends,some my neighbors—I ask you for her but a fair trialbefore the law.”

And one shouted above the rest: “He's put up aplea of insanity a-ready. Hang her, now!”

Edward Conway flashed hot through his paleness andhe placed himself before the bowed and moaning formwhile the crowd in front of him surged and shouted andcalled for a rope.

He felt some one touch his arm and turned to findthe sheriff by his side—one of those disreputables whoinfested the South after the war, holding office by thevotes of the negroes.

“Better let 'em have her,—it ain't worth the while.You'll hafter kill, or be killed.”

“You scallawag!” said Conway, now purple withanger—“is that the way you respect your sworn oath?And you have been here and seen all this and not raisedyour hand?”

“Do you think I'm fool enuff to tackle that crowdof hillbillies? They've got the devil in them—furthey've got a devil leadin' 'em—Jud Carpenter. Betterlet 'em have her—they'll kill you. We've got agood excuse—overpowered—don't you see?”

“Overpowered? That's the way all cowards talk,”said Conway. “Do one thing for me,” he said quickly—“tellthem you have appointed me your deputy. Ifyou do not—I'll fall back on the law of riots and appointmyself.”

“Gentlemen,” said the sheriff, turning to the crowd,and speaking half-shamedly—“Gentlemen, it's betteran' I hopes you all will go home. We don't wanter hurtnobody. I app'ints Major Conway my deputy to take[Pg 594]the prisoner to jail. Now the blood be on yo' ownheads. I've sed my say.”

A perfect storm of jeers met this. They surged forwardto seize her, while the sheriff half frightened, halfundecided, got behind Conway and said:—“It's up toyou—I've done all I cu'd.”

“Go back to your homes, men”—shouted Conway—“Iam the sheriff here now, and I swear to you by theliving God it means I am a Conway again, and the manwho lays a hand on this old woman is as good as deadin his tracks!”

For an instant they surged around him cursing andshouting; but he stood up straight and terribly silent;only his keen grey eyes glanced down to the barrel ofhis pistol and he stood nervously fingering the smallblue hammer with his thumb and measuring the distancebetween himself and the nearest ruffian who stoodon the outskirts of the mob shaking a pistol in Conway'sface and shouting: “Come on, men, we'll lynchher anyway!”

Then Conway acted quickly. He spoke a few wordsto the old nurse, and as she backed off into the nearbywood, he covered the retreat. To his relief he saw thatthe sheriff, now thoroughly ashamed, had hold of theprisoner and was helping her along.

In the edge of the wood he felt safe—with thetrees at his back. And he took courage as he heard thesheriff say:

“If you kin hold 'em a little longer I'll soon havemy buggy here and we'll beat 'em to the jail.”

But the mob guessed his plans, and the man who had[Pg 595]been most insolent in the front of the mob—a long-haired,narrow-chested mountaineer—rushed up viciously.

Conway saw the gleam of his pistol as the man aimedand fired at the prisoner. Instinctively he struck at theweapon and the ball intended for the prisoner crushedspitefully into his left shoulder. He reeled and thegrim light of an aroused Conway flashed in his eyes ashe recovered himself, for a moment, shocked, blinded.Then he heard some one say, as he felt the blood tricklingdown his arm and hand:

“Marse Ned! Oh, an' for po' ole Zion! Don't riskyo' life—let 'em take me!”

Dimly he saw the mob rushing up; vaguely it cameto him that it was kill or be killed. Vaguely, too, thatit was the law—his law—and every other man's law—againstlawlessness. Hazily, that he was the law—itsrepresentative, its defender, and then clear as theblue barrel in his hand,—all the dimness and uncertaintygone,—it came to him, that thing that made himsay: “I am a Conway again!”

Then his pistol leaped from the shadow by his sideto the gray light in front, and the man who had firedand was again taking aim at the old woman died in histracks with his mouth twisted forever into the shape ofan unspoken curse.

It was enough. Stricken, paralyzed, they fell backbefore such courage—and Conway found himselfbacking off into the woods, covering the retreat of theprisoner. Then afterward he felt the motion of buggywheels, and of a galloping drive, and the jail, and he inthe sheriff's room, the old prisoner safe for the time.

CHAPTER XXIII

DIED FOR THE LAW

And thus was begun that historical lynching in theTennessee Valley—a tragedy which well mighthave remained unwritten had it not fallen intothe woof of this story.

It is true the man was attempting to commit murderin the face of the law of the land; and in attempting ithad shot the representative of the law. It is true, also,that he had no grievance, being one of several hundredlaw-breakers bent on murder. This, too, made no difference;they neither thought nor cared;—for mobs,being headless, do not think; and being soulless, do notsuffer.

It was after midnight when he rode up on the scene.Before he arrived, Jud Carpenter had aroused the mobto do its first fury, and still held them, now doublyvengeful and shouting to be led against the jail. Butto storm a jail they needed a braver man than JudCarpenter. And they found him in Richard Travis[Pg 597]—especiallyRichard Travis in the terrible mood, the blackdespair which had come upon him that night.

Why did he come? He could not say. In him hadsurged two great forces that night—the force of eviland the force of good. Twice had the good overcome—nowit was the evil's turn, and like one hypnotized,he was led on.

He sat his horse among them, pale and calm, but witha cruel instinct flashing in his eyes. At least, so JudCarpenter interpreted the mood which lay upon him;but no one knew the secret workings of this man's heart,save God.

He had come to them haggard and blanched andwith a nameless dread, his arm tied up where the dog'sfang had been buried in his flesh, his heart bitter in thethought of the death that was his. Already he felt thedeadly virus pulsing through his veins. A hundredtimes in the short hour that had passed he suffered death—deathbeginning with the gripping throat, the shortenedbreath, the foaming mouth, the spasm!

He jerked in the saddle—that spasmodic chill ofthe nerves,—and he grew white and terribly silent atthe thought of it—the death that was his!

Was his! And then he thought: “No, there shallbe another and quicker way to die. A braver way—likea Travis—with my boots on—my boots on—andnot like a mad-dog tied to a stake.

She had gone out of his life. Could such a thing beand he live to tell it? Alice—love—ambition—thefuture—life! Alice, hazel-eyed and glorious, with[Pg 598]hair the smell of which filled his soul with perfume asfrom the stars. She who alone uplifted him—sheanother's, and that other Tom Travis!

And that mad-dog—that damned mad-dog! Andif perchance he was saved—if that virus was suckedout of his veins, it was she—Helen!

“This is the place to die,” he said grimly—“herewith my boots on. To die like a Travis and unravelthis thing called life. Unravel it to the end of thethread and know if it ends there, is snapped, is brokenor—

“Or—my God,” he cried aloud, “I never knew whatthose two little letters meant before—not till I facethem this way, on the Edge of Things!”

He gathered the mob together and led them againstthe jail—with hoots and shouts and curses; with flamingtorches, and crow-bars, with axes and old guns.

“Lynch her—lynch the old witch! and hang thatdevil Conway with her!” was the shout.

In front of the jail they stopped, for a man stood atthe door. His left arm was in a sling, but in his righthand gleamed something that had proved very deadlybefore. And he stood there as he had stood in theedge of the wood, and the bonfires and torches of themob lit up more clearly the deadly pale face, set andmore determined than before.

For as he stood, pale and silent, the shaft of a terriblepain,—of broken bone and lacerated muscle—twingedand twitched his arm, and to smother it and[Pg 599]keep from crying out he gripped bloodlessly—nervously—thestock of his pistol saying over and over:

And so standing he defied them and they halted,like sheep at the door of the shambles. The sheriff hadflown, and Conway alone stood between the frenziedmob and the old woman who had given her all for him.

He could hear her praying within—an uncannymixture of faith and miracle—of faith which saw asPaul saw, and which expected angels to come and breakdown her prison doors. And after praying she wouldbreak out into a song, the words of which nerved thelone man who stood between her and death:

And now the bonfire burned brighter, lighting upthe scene—the shambling stores around the jail on thepublic square, the better citizens making appeals invain for law and order, the shouting, fool-hardy mob,waiting for Richard Travis to say the word, and hesitting among them pale, and terribly silent with somethingin his face they had never seen there before.

Nor would he give the command. He had nothingagainst Edward Conway—he did not wish to see himkilled.[Pg 600]

And the mob did not attack, although they cursedand bluffed, because each one of them knew it meantdeath—death to some one of them, and that one mightbe—I!

A stone wall ran around the front of the jail. Asmall gate opened into the jail-yard. At the jail door,covering that opening, stood Edward Conway.

“Go back—” he said, “I am the sheriff here—Iam the law. The man who comes first into that gatewill be the first to die.”

In ten minutes they made their attack despite thecommands of their leader, who still sat his horse on thepublic square, pale and with a bitter conflict raging inhis breast.

With shouts and curses and a headlong rush they went.Pistol bullets flew around Conway's head and scatteredbrick dust and mortar over him. Torches gleamedthrough the dark crowd as stars amid fast flying cloudsin a March night. But through it all every man ofthem heard the ringing warning words:

Right at it they rushed and crowded into it like cattle—shooting,cursing, throwing stones.

Then two fell dead, blocking the gateway. Twomore, wounded, with screams of pain which threw theothers into that indescribable panic which comes to all[Pg 601]mobs in the death-pinch, staggered back carrying themob with them.

And Edward Conway stood, behind a row of cottonbales, in the jail-yard, covering still the little gateway,and the biting pain in his shoulder had a companion painin his side, where a pistol ball had ploughed through,but he forgot it as he slipped fresh cartridges into thechambers of his pistol and heard again the chant whichcame from out the jail window, like a ghost-voice fromthe clouds:

At a long distance they shot at Conway,—they hooted,jeered, cursed him, but dared not come closer, forhe had breast-worked himself behind some cotton-balesin the yard, and they knew he could still shoot.

Then they decided to batter down the stone wall first—tomake an opening they could rush through, and notbe blocked in the deadly gateway.

An hour passed, and torches gleamed everywhere.Attacking the wall farther down, they soon had it tornaway. They could now get to him. It was a perilous[Pg 602]position, and Conway knew it. Help—he must have it—helpto protect his flank while he shot in front. Ifnot, he would die soon, and the law with him.

He looked around him—but there was no solution.Then he felt that death was near, for the mob nowhated him more than they did the prisoner. Theyseemed to have forgotten her, for all their cry nowwas:

In ten minutes they were ready to attack again, butlooking up they saw a strange sight.

Help had come to Conway. On one side of him stoodthe old Cottontown preacher, his white hair reflectingback the light from the bonfires and torches in front—lightingup a face which now seemed to have lost all ofits kindly humor in the crisis that was there. He wasunarmed, but he stood calm and with a courage that wasmore of sorrow than of anger.

By him stood the village blacksmith, a man with thewild light of an old, untamed joy gleaming in his eyes—acruel, dangerous light—the eyes of a caged tigerturned loose at last, and yearning for the blood of thething which had caged him.

And by him in quiet bravery, commanding, directing,stood the tall figure of the Captain of Artillery.

When Richard Travis saw him, a cruel smile deepenedin his eyes. “I am dying myself,” it said—“why notkill him?”

Then he shuddered with the hatred of the terriblething that had come into his heart—the thing that[Pg 603]made him do its bidding, as if he were a puppet, andoverthrew all the good he had gathered there, that terriblenight, as the angels were driven from Paradise.And yet, how it ruled him, how it drove him on!

“Jim—Jim,” he whispered as he bent over hishorse's neck—“Jim—my repeating rifle over the librarydoor—quick—it carries true and far!”

As Jim sped away his master was silent again. Hethought of the nobility of the things he had done thatnight—the touch of God that had come over him inmaking him save Helen—the beautiful dreams he hadhad. He thought of it all—and then—here—now—murderingthe man whose life carried with it the life,the love of—

He looked up at the stars, and the old wonder anddoubt came back to him—the old doubt which madehim say to himself: “It is nothing—it is the end.Dust thou art, and unto dust—dust—dust—dust—”he bit his tongue to keep from saying it again—“Dust—tobe blown away and mingle with the elements—dust!And yet, I stand here—now—blood—flesh—athinking man—tempted—terribly—cruelly—poignantly—dying—ofa poison in my veins—ofsorrow in my heart—sorrow and death. Who wouldnot take the dust—gladly take it—the dust and the—forgetting.”

“'And cometh from afar,'” he whispered—“MyGod—suppose it does—and that I am mistaken in itall?—Dust—and then maybe something after dust.”

With his rifle in his hand, it all vanished and he beganto train it on the tall figure while the mob prepared tostorm the jail again—and his shot would be the signal—thistime in desperate determination to take it or die.

In the mob near Richard Travis stood a boy, carelessand cool, and holding in his hand an old pistol. RichardTravis noticed the boy because he felt that the boy's eyeswere always on him—always. When he looked downinto them he was touched and sighed, and a dream of thelong-ago swept over him—of a mountain cabin and amaiden fair to look upon. He bit his lip to keep backthe tenderness—bit his lip and rode away—out ofreach of the boy's eyes.

But the boy, watching him, knew, and he said in hisquiet, revengeful way: “Twice have I failed to kill you—butto-night—my Honorable father—to-night inthe death that will be here, I shall put this bullet throughyour heart.”

Travis turned to the mob: “Men, when I fire thisrifle—it will mean for you to charge!”

A hush fell over the crowd as they watched him. Helooked at his rifle closely. He sprang the breech andthrew out a shell or two to see that it worked properly.

“Stay where you are, men,” came that same voice theyhad heard so plainly before that night. “We are now[Pg 605]four and well armed and sworn to uphold the law andprotect the prisoner, and if you cross the dead line youwill die.”

There was a silence, and then that old voice again, thevoice that roused the mob to fury:

Again the silence fell as Richard Travis raised his rifleand aimed at the tall figure outlined closely and withmagnified distinctness in the glare of bonfire and torch.How splendidly cool and brave he looked—that tallfigure standing there, giving orders as calmly as he gavethem at Shiloh and Franklin, and so forgetful of himselfand his own safety!

Richard Travis brought his rifle down—it shook so—broughtit down saying to himself with a nervouslaugh: “It is not Tom—not Tom Travis I am goingto kill—it's—it's Alice's husband of only two days—herlover—”

Even where he stood, Richard Travis could see the oldcalm, quiet and now triumphant smile lighting up TomTravis's face, and he knew he was thinking of Alice—Alice,his bride.

And then that same nervous, uncanny chill ran intothe very marrow of Richard Travis and brought his gun[Pg 606]down with an oath on his lips as he said pitifully—“Iam poisoned—it is that!”

The crowd shouted and urged him to shoot, but he satshaking to his very soul. And when it passed there camethe old half humorous, half bitter, cynical laugh as hesaid: “Alice—Alice a widow—”

It passed, and again there leaped into his eyes thegreat light Jud Carpenter had seen there that morning,and slipping the cartridges out of the barrel's breech, helooked up peacefully with the halo of a holy light aroundhis eyes as he said: “Oh, God, and I thank Thee—forthis—this touch again! Hold the little spark in myheart—hold it, oh, God, but for a little while till thetemptation is gone, and I shall rest—I shall rest.”

He raised his rifle again, this time with a flourishwhich made some of the mob think he was taking unnecessaryrisk to attract the attention of the grim blacksmithwho stood, pistol in hand, his piercing eyes scanningthe crowd. He stood by the side of Tom Travis,his bodyguard to the last.

“Jack—Jack—” kept whispering to him the oldpreacher, “don't shoot till you're obleeged to,—maybeGod'll open a way, maybe you won't have to spill blood.'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord.”

Jack smiled. It was a strange smile—of joy, in therisking glory of the old life—the glory of blood-letting,of killing, of death. And sorrow—sorrow in the new.

“Stand pat, stand pat, Bishop,” he said; “you allknow the trade. Let me who have defied the law so long,[Pg 607]let me now stand for it—die for it. It's my atonement—ain'tthat the word? Ain't that what you saidabout that there Jesus Christ, the man you saidwouldn't flicker even on the Cross, an' wouldn't let usflicker if we loved Him—Hol' him to His promise, now,Bishop. It's time for us to stand pat. No—I'll notshoot unless I see some on 'em makin' a too hasty movementof gun-arm toward Cap'n—”

Had Richard Travis looked from his horse down intothe crowd he had seen another sight. Man can thinkand do but one thing at a time, but oh, the myrmidons ofGod's legions of Cause and Effect!

Below him stood a boy, his face white in the terribletragedy of his determination. And as Richard Travisthrew up his empty rifle, the octagonal barrel of thepistol in the boy's hand leaped up and came straight tothe line of Richard Travis's heart. But before the boycould fire Travis saw the hawk-like flutter of the blacksmith'spistol arm, as it measured the distance with theold quick training of a bloody experience, and RichardTravis smiled, as he saw the flash from the outlaw'spistol and felt that uncanny chill starting in his marrowagain, leap into a white heat to the shock of the ball, andhe pitched limply forward, slipped from his horse andwent down on the ground murmuring, “Tom—Tom—safe,and Alice—he shot at last—and—thank Godfor the touch again!”

He lay quiet, feeling the life blood go out of him.But with it came an exhalation he had never felt before—aglory that, instead of taking, seemed to give himlife.

The mob rushed wildly at the jail at the flash of Jack[Pg 608]Bracken's pistol, all but one, a boy—whose old duelingpistol still pointed at the space in the air, where RichardTravis had sat a moment before—its holder nerveless—rigid—asif turned into stone.

He saw Richard Travis pitch forward off his horseand slide limply to the ground. He saw him totter andwaver and then sit down in a helpless, pitiful way,—thenlie down as if it were sweet to rest.

And still the boy stood holding his pistol, stunned,frigid, numbed—pointing at the stars.

Silently he brought his arm and weapon down. Heheard only shouts of the mob as they rushed against thejail, and then, high above it, the words of the blacksmith,whom he loved so well: “Stand back—all; Me—mealone, shoot—me! I who have so often killed thelaw, let me die for it.”

And then came to the boy's ears the terrible staccatocough of the two Colts pistols whose very fire he hadlearned to know so well. And he knew that the blacksmithalone was shooting—the blacksmith he loved so—themarksman he worshipped—the man who hadsaved his life—the man who had just shot his father.

Richard Travis sat up with an effort and looked at theboy standing by him—looked at him with frank, kindlyeyes,—eyes which begged forgiveness, and the boy sawhimself there—in Richard Travis, and felt a hurtful,pitying sorrow for him, and then an uncontrolled, hotanger at the man who had shot him out of the saddle.His eyes twitched wildly, his heart jumped in smothering[Pg 609]beats, a dry sob choked him, and he sprang forward crying:“My father—oh, God—my poor father!”

The boy, weeping, saw. Shamed,—burning—heknelt and tried to staunch the wound with a handkerchief.Travis shook his head: “Let it out, my son—letit out—it is poison! Let it out!”

The boy saw his blood on the ground and he shouted:“Blood,—my father—blood is thicker than water.”

Then the hatred that had burned in his heart for hisfather, the father who had begot him into the world, disgraced,forsaken—the father who had ruined and abandonedhis mother, was turned into a blaze of fury againstthe blacksmith, the blacksmith whom he had loved.

Wheeling, he rushed toward the jail, but met the mobpouring panic-stricken back with white faces, blanchedwith fear.

Jack Bracken stood alone on the barricade, shovingmore cartridges into his pistol chambers.

The boy, blinded, weeping, hot with a burning revenge,stumbled and fell twice over dead men lying nearthe gateway. Then he crawled along over them undercover of the fence, and kneeling within twenty feet of thegate, fired at the great calm figure who had driven themob back, and now stood reloading.

Jack did not see the boy till he felt the ball crushinto his side. Then all the old, desperate, revengeful[Pg 610]instinct of the outlaw leaped into his eyes as he quicklyturned his unerring pistol on the object from whencethe flash came. Never had he aimed so accurately, socarefully, for he felt his own life going out, and this—thiswas his last shot—to kill.

But the object kneeling among the dead arose with asmile of revengeful triumph and stood up calmly underthe aim of the great pistol, his fair hair flung back, hisface lit up with the bravery of all the Travises as heshouted:

And when Jack saw and understood, a smile brokethrough his bloodshot, vengeful eyes as starlight fallson muddy waters, and he turned away his death-seekingaim, and his mouth trembled as he said:

“Why—it's—it's the Little 'Un! I cudn't killhim—” and he clutched at the cotton-bale as he wentdown, falling—and Captain Tom grasped him, lettinghim down gently.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE ATONEMENT

And now no one stood between the prisoner anddeath but the old preacher and the tall manin the uniform of a Captain of Artillery. Anddeath it meant to all of them, defenders as well asprisoners, for the mob had increased in numbers as infury. Friends, kindred, brothers, fathers—evenmothers and sisters of the dead were there, bitter in thethought that their dead had been murdered—white men,for one old negress.

In their fury they did not think it was the law theythemselves were murdering. The very name of the lawwas now hateful to them—the law that had killed theirpeople.

Slowly, surely, but with grim deadliness they laid theirplans—this time to run no risk of failure.

There was a stillness solemn and all-pervading. Andfrom the window of the jail came again in wailing uncannynotes:—

It swept over the mob, frenzied now to the stillness ofa white heat, like a challenge to battle, like the flaunt of[Pg 612]a red flag. Their dead lay all about the gate of the rockfence, stark and still. Their wounded were few—forJack Bracken did not wound. They saw them all—dead—lyingout there dead—and they were willing todie themselves for the blood of the old woman—a negrofor whom white men had been killed.

But their wrath now took another form. It was thewrath of coolness. They had had enough of the otherkind. To rush again on those bales of cotton doublyprotected behind a rock fence, through one small gate,commanded by the fire of such marksmen as lay there,was not to be thought of.

They would burn the jail over the heads of its defendersand kill them as they were uncovered. A hundredmen would fire the jail from the rear, a hundredmore with guns would shoot in front.

It was Jud Carpenter who planned it, and soon oil andsaturated paper and torches were prepared.

“We are in for it, Bishop,” said Captain Tom, as hesaw the preparation; “this is worse than Franklin, becausethere we could protect our rear.”

He leaped up on his barricade, tall and splendid, andcalled to them quietly and with deadly calm:

“Go to your homes, men—go! But if you will come,know that I fought for my country's laws from Shilohto Franklin, and I can die for them here!”

Then he took from over his heart a small silken flag,spangled with stars and the blood-splotches of his fatherwho fell in Mexico, and he shook it out and flung itover his barricade, saying cheerily: “I am all rightfor a fight now, Bishop. But oh, for just one of my[Pg 613]guns—just one of my old Parrots that I had last weekat Franklin!”

The mob had left Richard Travis for dead, and in thefury of their defeat had thought no more of him. Butnow, the loss of blood, the cool night air revived him. Hesat up, weak, and looked around. Everywhere bonfiresburned. Men were running about. He heard their talkand he knew all. He was shot through the left lung, sonear to his heart that, as he felt it, he wondered how hehad escaped.

He knew it by the labored breathing, by the bloodthat ran down and half filled his left boot. But his was aconstitution of steel—an athlete, a hunter, a horseman,a man of the open. The bitterness of it all came backto him when he found he was not dead as he had hoped—ashe had made Jack Bracken shoot to do.

“To die in bed at last,” he said, “like a monk withliver complaint—or worse still—my God, like a maddog, unless—unless—her lips—Helen!”

He lay quite still on the soft grass and looked up atthe stars. How comfortable he was! He felt around.

A boy's overcoat was under him—a little round-about,wadded up, was his pillow.

He smiled—touched: “What a man he will make—thebrave little devil! Oh, if I can live to tell him he ismine, that I married his mother secretly—that I broke[Pg 614]her heart with my faithlessness—that she died and theother is—is her sister.”

He heard the clamor and the talk behind him. Themob, cool now, were laying their plans only on revenge,—revengewith the torch and the bullet.

Jud Carpenter was the leader, and Travis could hearhim giving his orders. How he now loathed the man—forsomehow, as he thought, Jud Carpenter stood forall the seared, blighted, dead life behind him—all theold disbelief, all the old infamy, all the old doubt andshame. But now, dying, he saw things differently.Yonder above him shone the stars and in his heart theglory of that touch of God—the thing that made himwish rather to die than have it leave him again to livein his old way.

He heard the mob talking. He heard their plans. Heknew that Jud Carpenter, hating the old preacher as hedid, would rather kill him than any wolf of the forest.He knew that neither Tom Travis nor the old preachercould ever hope to come out alive.

“When the fire gets hot,” he heard Jud Carpentersay, “they'll hafter come out—then shoot—shoot an'shoot to kill. See our own dead!”

They answered him with groans, with curses, withshouts of “Lead us on, Jud Carpenter!”

“When the jail is fired from the rear,” shouted Carpenter,“stay where you are and shoot; they've nochance at all. It's fire or bullet.”

Richard Travis heard it and his heart leaped—but[Pg 615]only for one tempting moment, when a vision of lovelinessin widow's weeds swept through that soul of hisinner sight, which sees into the future. Then the newlight came back uplifting him with a wave of joyousstrength that was sweetly calm in its destiny—glad thathe had lived, glad that this test had come, glad for thedeath that was coming.

He forgot himself, he forgot his deadly wound, thebitterness of his life, the dog's bite—all—in the gloryof this feeling, the new feeling which now would go withhim into eternity.

For, as he lay there, he had seen the bell's turret abovethe jail and his mind was quick to act.

He smiled faintly—a happy smile—the smile of theold Roman ere he leaped into the chasm before the wallsof Rome—leaped and saved his countrymen. He lovedto do difficult things—to conquer and overcome whereothers would quit. This always had been his glory—heunderstood that. But this new thing—this wanting tosave men who were doomed behind their barricade—thiswanting to give what was left of his life for them—hisenemies—this was the thing he could not understand.He only knew it was the call of something within him,stronger than himself and kin to the stars, which, clearand sweet above his head, seemed to be all that stood betweenhim and that clear Sweet Thing out, far out, inthe pale blue Silence of Things.

He reached out and found his rifle. In his coat pocketwere cartridges. His arms were still strong—he sprangthe magazine and filled it.[Pg 616]

Then slowly, painfully, he began to crawl off towardthe jail, pulling his rifle along. No one saw him but,God! how it hurt!... that star falling ... scatteringsplinters of light everywhere ... sohe lay on his face and slept awhile....

When he awoke he flushed with the shame of it:“Fainted—me—like a girl!” And he spat out theblood that boiled out of his lips.

Crawling—crawling—and dragging the heavy rifle.It seemed he would never strike the rock fence. Once—twice,and yet a third time he had to sink flat on thegrass and spit out the troublesome blood....

The fence at last, and following it he was soon in therear of the jail. He knew where the back stair was andcrawled to it. Slowly, step by step, and every stepsplotched with his blood, he went up. At the top hepushed up the trap-door with his head and, crawlingthrough, fell fainting.

But, oh, the glory of that feeling that was his now!That feeling that now—now he would atone for it all—nowhe would be brother to the stars and that SweeterThing out, far out, in the pale blue Silence of Things.

Then the old Travis spirit came to him and he smiled:“Dominecker—oh, my old grandsire, will you think Iam a Dominecker now? I found your will—in the oldlife—and tore it up. But it's Tom's now—Tom'sanyway—Dominecker! Wipe it out—wipe it out! IfI do not this night honor your blood, strike me from theroll of Travis.”

Around him was the belfry railing, waist high and[Pg 617]sheeted with metal save four holes, for air, at the base,where he could thrust his rifle through as he lay flat.

Slowly he pulled himself up, painfully he stood erectand looked down. Just below him was the barricade ofcotton bales, its two defenders, grim and silent behindthem—the two wounded ones lying still and so quiet—soquiet it looked like death, and Richard Travis prayedthat it was not.

One of them had given him his death wound, but heheld no bitterness for him—only that upliftedness, onlythe glory of that feeling within him he knew not what.

He called gently to them. In astonishment theylooked up. Thirty feet above their heads they saw himand heard him say painfully, slowly, but oh, so bravely:“I am Richard Travis, Tom, and I'll back you to thedeath.... They are to burn you out ... butI command the jail, both front and rear. Staywhere you both are ... be careful ... donot expose yourselves, for while I live you are safe ... andthe law is safe.”

And then came back to him clear and with all sweetnessthe earnest words of the old preacher:

“God bless you, Richard Travis, for He has sent youjus' in time. I knew that He would, that He'd touch yo'heart, that there was greatness in you—all in His owntime, an' His own good way. Praise God!”

Travis wished to warn the mob, but his voice wasnearly gone. He could only sink down and wait.

He heard shouts. They had formed in the rear, and[Pg 618]now men with torches came to fire the jail. Their companionsin front, hearing them, shouted back their approval.

Richard Travis thrust his rifle barrel through the airhole and aimed carefully. The torches they carriedmade it all so plain and so easy.

Then two long, spiteful flashes of flame leaped out ofthe belfry tower and the arm of the first incendiary, shotthrough and through—holding his blazing torch,leaped like a rabbit in a sack, and the torch went downand out. The torch of the second one was shot out ofits bearer's hand.

Panic-stricken, they looked up, saw, and fled. Thosein front also saw and bombarded the belfry with shot andpistol ball. And then, on their side of the belfry, thesame downward, spiteful flashes leaped out, and two men,shot through the shoulder and the arm, cried out in dismay,and they all fell back, stampeded, at the deadlinessof the spiteful thing in the tower, the gun that carriedso true and so far—so much farther than their owncheap guns.

They rushed out of its range, gathered in knots andcursed and wondered who it was. But they dared notcome nearer. Travis lay still. He could not speak now,for the blood choked him when he opened his mouth, andthe stars which had once been above him now wheeledand floated below, and around him. And that SweeterThing that had been behind the stars now seemed to surroundhim as a halo, a halo of silence which seemed to fitthe silence of his own soul and become part of him forever.It was all around him, as he had often seen it[Pg 619]around the summer moon; only now he felt it where heonly saw it before. And now, too, it was in his heart andfilled it with a sweet sadness, a sadness that hurt, it wasso sweet, and which came with an odor, the smell of thewarm rain falling on the dust of a summer of long ago.

And all his life passed before him—he lived it again—evenmore than he had remembered before—even thememory of his mother whom he never knew; but now heknew her and he reached up his arms—for he was in acradle and she bent over him—he reached up his armsand said: “Oh, mother, now I know what eternity is—it'sremembering before and after!”

Visions, too—and Alice Westmore—Alice, pityingand smiling approval—smiling,—and then a burningpassionate kiss, and when he would kiss again it wasHelen's lips he met.

And through it all the great uplifting joy, and somethingwhich made him try to shout and say: “Theatonement—the atonement—”

He knew he was sinking and he kicked one foot savagelyagainst the turret to feel again the sensation of lifein his limb. Then he struck himself in his breast with hisright fist to feel it there. But in spite of all he saw acloud of darkness form beyond the rim of the starlit horizonand come sweeping over him, coming in black wavesthat would rush forward and then stop—forward, andstop—forward and stop.... And the stops kepttime exactly with his heart, and he knew the last stop ofthe wave meant the last beat of his heart—then for[Pg 620]ward ... forthe last time.... “Oh, God,not yet!... Look!”

His heart rallied at the sight and beat faster, makingthe black waves pulse, in the flow and ebb of it....The thing was below him ... a man ... aghostly, vengeful thing, whose face was fierce in hatred ... crawling,crawling, up to the rock fence—asnake with the face ... the eyes of Jud Carpenter....

And the black wave coming in ... and he didso want to live ... just a little ... justa while longer....

He pushed the wave back, as he gripped for the lasttime his rifle's stock, and he knew not whether it was onlyvisions such as he had been seeing ... or Jud Carpenterreally crouching low behind the rock fence, hisdouble-barrel shotgun aimed ... drawing so finea bead on both the unconscious defenders ... goingto shoot, and only twenty paces, and now it rose up,aiming: “God, it is—it is Jud Carpenter ... back—back—blackwave!” he cried, “and God havemercy on your soul, Jud Carpenter....”

And, oh, the nightmare of it!—trying to pull thetrigger that would not be pulled, trying to grip a stockthat had grown so large it was now a tree—a huge tree—flowingred blood instead of sap, red blood overthings, ... and then at last ... thank God ... thetrigger ... and the flash and report ... theflash so far off ... and the reportthat was like thunder among the stars ... thestars.... Among the stars ... all around[Pg 621]him ... and Alice on one star throwing him akiss ... and saying: “You saved his life, oh,Richard, and I love you for it!” A kiss and forgiveness ... andthe two walking out with him ... outinto the dim, blue, Sweet Silence of Things,hand in hand with him, beyond even the black wave, beyondeven the rim of the rainbow that came down overall ... out—out with music, quaint, sweet, weirdmusic—that filled his soul so, fitted him ... washe ...

In the early dawn, a local company of State troops,called out by the governor, had the jail safe.

It was a gruesome sight in front of the stone wallwhere the deadly fire from Jack Bracken's pistols hadswept. Thirteen dead men lay, and the back-bone oflynching had been broken forever in Alabama.

It was the governor himself, bluff and rugged, whograsped Jack Bracken's hand as he lay dying, wrappedup, on a bale of cotton, and Margaret Adams, pale,weeping beside him: “Live for me, Jack—I love you.I have always loved you!”

“And for me, Jack,” said the old governor, touchedat the scene—“for the state, to teach mobs how to respectthe law. In the glory of what you've done, Ipardon you for all the past.”

“It is fitten,” said Jack, simply; “fitten that I shoulddie for the law—I who have been so lawless.[Pg 622]”

He turned to Margaret Adams: “You are lookin'somethin' you want to say—I can tell by yo' eyes.”

She faltered, then slowly: “Jack, he was not my son—mypoor sister—I could not see her die disgraced.”

And as his eyes grew dim, a figure, tall and in militaryclothes, stood before him, shaken with grief and saying,“Jack—Jack, my poor friend—”

Jack's mind was wandering, but a great smile lit uphis face as he said: “Bishop—Bishop—is—is—itCap'n Tom, or—or—Jesus Christ?” And so hepassed out.

And up above them all in the belfry, lying prone, butstill gripping his rifle's stock which, sweeping the jailwith its deadly protruding barrel, had held back hundredsof men, they found Richard Travis, a softenedsmile on his lips as if he had just entered into the gloryof the great Sweet Silence of Things. And by him satthe old preacher, where he had sat since Richard Travis'slast shot had saved the jail and the defenders; sat andbound up his wound and gave him the last of his oldwhiskey out of the little flask, and stopped the flow ofblood and saved the life which had nearly bubbled out.

And as they brought the desperately wounded mandown to the surgeon and to life, the old governor raisedhis hat and said: “The Travis blood—the Irish Gray—whenit's wrong it is hell—when it's right it isheaven.”

But the old preacher smiled as he helped carry himtenderly down and said: “He is right, forever right,now, Gov'nor. God has made him so. See that smile on[Pg 623]his lips! He has laughed before—that was from thebody. He is smiling now—that is from the soul. Hissoul is born again.”

The old governor smiled and turned. Edward Conway,wounded, was sitting up. The governor graspedhis hand: “Ned, my boy, I've appointed you sheriffof this county in place of that scallawag who deserted hispost. Stand pat, for you're a Conway—no doubt aboutthat. Stand pat.”

Under the rock wall, they found a man, dead on hisknees, leaning against the wall; his gun, still cocked anddeadly, was resting against his shoulder and needingonly the movement of a finger to sweep with deadly hailthe cotton-bales. His scraggy hair topped the rockfence and his staring eyes peeped over, each its own way.And one of them looked forward into a future which wasSilence, and the other looked backward into a past whichwas Sin.

CHAPTER XXV

THE SHADOWS AND THE CLOUDS

When Richard Travis came to himself after thatterrible night, they told him that for weekshe had lain with only a breath between himand death.

“It was not my skill that has saved you,” said theold surgeon who had been through two wars and whoknew wounds as he did maps of battlefields he had foughton. “No,” he said, shaking his head, “no, it was notI—it was something beyond me. That you miraculouslylive is proof of it.”

He was in his room at The Gaffs, and everythinglooked so natural. It was sweet to live again, for he wasyet young and life now meant so much more than it everhad. Then his eyes fell on the rug, wearily, and he rememberedthe old setter.

He sat up nervously in bed, trembling with thethought. The old surgeon guessed and bade him bequiet.

“You need not fear that,” he said, touching his arm.“The time has passed for fear. You were saved by theshadow of death and—the blood letting you had—and,well, a woman's lips, as many a man has been savedbefore you. You'd better sleep again now....[Pg 625]”

He slept, but there were visions as there had been allalong. And two persons came in now and then. Onewas Tom Travis, serious and quiet and very much inearnest that the patient might get well.

Another was Tom's wife, Alice, who arranged thewounded man's pillows with a gentleness and deftness asonly she could, and who gave quiet orders to the old cookin a way that made Richard Travis feel that things wereall right, though he could not speak, nor even open hiseyes long enough to see distinctly.

A month afterward Richard Travis was sitting up.His strength came very fast. For a week he had sat bythe fire and thought—thought. But no man knew whatwas in his mind until one day, after he had been able towalk over the place, he said:

“Tom, you and Alice have been kinder to me—farkinder—than I have deserved. I am going away forever,next week—to the Northwest—and begin lifeover. But there is something I wish to say to you first.”

“Dick,” said his cousin, and he arose, tall and splendid,before the firelight—“there is something I wish tosay to you first. Our lives have been far apart and verydifferent, but blood is blood and you have proved it, elseI had not been here to-night to tell it.”

He came over and put his hand affectionately on theother's shoulder. At its touch Richard Travis softenedalmost to tears.

“Dick, we two are the only grandsons that bear hisname, and we divide this between us. Alice and I haveplanned it. You are to retain the house and half the[Pg 626]land. We have our own and more than enough. Youwill do it, Dick?”

Richard Travis arose, strangely moved. He graspedhis cousin's hand. “No, no, Tom, it is not fair. NoTravis was ever a welcher. It is all yours—you do notunderstand—I saw the will—I do not want it. I amgoing away forever. My life must lead now in otherpaths. But—”

The other turned quickly and looked deep into RichardTravis's eyes. “I can see there is no use of my tryingto change your mind, Dick, though I had hoped—”

“But as I started to say, Tom, and there is no needof my mincing words, if you'll raise that boy of mine—”he was silent awhile, then smiling: “He is mine andmore of a Travis to-day than his father ever was. Ifyou can help him and his aunt—”

“He shall have the half of it, Dick, and an education,under our care. We will make a man of him, Aliceand I.”

The week before he left, one beautiful afternoon, hewalked over to Millwood for the last time. For EdwardConway was now sheriff of the county, and with the assistanceof the old bishop, whose fortune now was secured,he had redeemed his home and was in a fair wayto pay back every dollar of it.

A new servant ushered Travis in, for the good oldnurse had passed away, the strain of that terrible night[Pg 627]being too much, first, for her reason, and afterwards, herlife.

Edward Conway was away, but Helen came in presently,and greeted him with such a splendid high-born way,so simple and so unaffected that he marveled at her self-control,feeling his own heart pulsing strangely at sightof her. In the few months that had elapsed how changedshe was and how beautiful! This was not the romantic,yet buffeted, beautiful girl who had come so near beingthe tragedy of his old life? How womanly she now was,and how calm and at her ease! Could independence andthe change from poverty and worry, the strong, freefeeling of being one's self again and in one's sphere,make so great a difference in so short a while? He wonderedat himself for not seeing farther ahead. He hadcome to bid her good-bye and offer again—this time inall earnestness and sincerity, to take her with him—toshare his life—but the words died in his mouth.

The blue line of tremulous mountain was scrolledalong a horizon that flamed crimson in the setting sun.A flock of twilight clouds—flamingos of the sky—floatedtoward the sunset as if going to roost. Beyondwas the great river, its bosom as wan, where it lay in theshadow of the mountain, as Richard Travis's own cheek;but where the sunset fell on it the reflected light turned itto pink which to him looked like Helen's.

The wind came down cool from the frost-tinctured[Pg 628]mountain side, and the fine sweet odor of life everlastingfloated in it—frost-bitten—and bringing a wave ofyouth and rabbit hunts and of a life of dreams and thesweet unclouded far-off hope of things beautiful and immortal.And the flow of it hurt Richard Travis—hurthim with a tenderness that bled.

The girl stopped and drank in the beauty of it all, andhe stood looking at her, “the picture for the frame”—ashe said to himself.

It had rained and the clouds were scattered, yet sofull that they caught entirely the sunset rays and heldthem as he would that moment have loved to hold her.Something in her—something about her thrilled himstrangely, as he had often been thrilled when lookingat the great pictures in the galleries of the old world.He repeated softly to her, as she stood looking forward—tohim—into the future:

“I must bid you good-bye now and I wish you allhappiness—so much more than you have ever had inall your life.”

He took it, but he could not speak. Something shookhim strangely. He knew nothing to say. Had he spoken,he knew he had stammered and blundered.[Pg 629]

“Helen—Helen—if—if—you know once I askedyou to go with me—once—in the old, awful life.Now, in the new—the new life which you can makesweet—”

She came up close to him. The sun had set and thevalley lay in silence. When he saw her eyes there weretears in them—tears so full and deep that they hurthim when she said:

“It can never—never be—now. You made me loveyou when you could not love; and love born of despairis mateless ever; it would die in its realization. Mine,for you, was that—” She pointed to the sunset. “Itbreathed and burned. I saw it only because of clouds,of shadow. But were the clouds, the shadows, gone—”

“There would be no life, no burning, no love,” he said.“Ah, I think I understand,” and his heart sank withpain. What—why—he could not say, only he knewit hurt him, and he began to wonder.

“You do not blame me,” she said as she still held hishand and looked up into his eyes in the old way he hadseen, that terrible night at Millwood.

For reply he held her hand in both of his and then laidit over his heart. She felt his tears fall on it, tears, whicheven death could not bring, had come to Richard Travisat last, and he wondered. In the old life he never wondered—healways knew; but in this—this new life—itwas all so strange, so new that he feared even himself.Like a sailor lost, he could only look up, by day, helplesslyat the sun, and, by night, helplessly at the stars.[Pg 630]

“Helen—Helen,” he said at last, strangely shaken init all,—“if I could tell you now that I do—that Icould love—”

She put her hand over his mouth in the old playfulway and shook her head, smiling through her tears:“Do not try to mate my love with a thing that balks.”

It was simply said, and forceful. It was enough.Richard Travis blushed for very shame.

“Do you not see,” she said, “how hopeless it is? Doyou not know that I was terribly tempted—weak—maddened—desertedthat night? That now I knowwhat Clay's love has been? Oh, why do we not learnearly in life that fire will burn, that death will kill, thatwe are the deed of all we think and feel—the wish ofall we will to be?”

Travis turned quickly: “Is that true? Then let mewish—as I do, Helen; let me wish that I might love youas you deserve.”

She saddened: “Oh, but you have wished—youhave willed—too often—too differently. It can neverbe now.”

“I understand you,” he said. “It is natural—Ishould say it is nature—nature, the never-lying. I butreap my own folly, and now good-bye forever, Helen,and may God bless you and bring you that happinessyou have deserved.”

“Do you know,” she said calmly, “that I havethought of all that, too. There are so many of us in theworld, and so little happiness that like flowers it cannotgo around—some must go without.[Pg 631]”

“My child, I must go out of your life—go—andstay. I see—I see—and I only make you wretched.And I have no right to. It is ignoble. It is I who shouldbear this burden of sorrow—not you. You who havenever sinned, who are so young and so beautiful. Intime you will love a nobler man—Clay—”

She looked at him, but said nothing. She knew forthe first time the solution of her love's problem. Shewas silent, holding his hand.

“Child,” he said again. “Helen, you must do as Isay. There is happiness for you yet when I am gone—whenI am out of your life and the memory and the painof it cease. Then you will marry Clay—”

“Do you really think so? Oh, and he has loved me soand is so splendid and true.”

“Now let me go,” she said—“let me forget all mymadness and folly in learning to love one whose love wasmade for mine. In time I shall love him as he deserves.Good-bye.”

Then she broke impulsively away, and he watched herwalk back through the shadows and under the clouds.

At the turning of the path across the meadow, he sawanother shadow join her. It was Clay, and the two wentthrough the twilight together.

Travis turned. “It is right—it is the solution—healone deserves her. I must reap my past, reap it andsee my harvest blighted and bound with rotten twine.But, oh, to know it when it is too late—to know that I[Pg 632]might love her and could be happy—then to have togive it up—now—now—when I need it most. TheDeed,” he said—“we are the deed of all we think andfeel.”

CHAPTER XXVI

THE MODEL MILL

The discovery of coal and iron made both the oldBishop and Westmoreland rich. Captain Tomsent James Travis to West Point and Archie B.to Annapolis, and their records were worthy of theirnames.

And now, five years after the great fire, there mightbe seen in Cottontown, besides two furnaces, whose blazingturrets lighted the valley with Prosperity's torch—anothercotton mill, erected by the old Bishop.

Long and earnestly he thought on the subject beforebuilding the mill. Indeed, he first prayed over it andthen preached on the subject, and this is the sermon hepreached to his people the Sunday before he began theerection of The Model Cotton Mill:

“Now, it's this way, my brethren: God made cottonfor a mill. You can't get aroun' that; and the mill is togive people wuck an' this wuck is to clothe the worl'.That's all plain an' all good, because it's from God. Manmade the bad of it—child labor, and overwuck and poorpay and the terrible everlastin' grind and foul air an'dirt an' squaller an' death.

“The trouble with the worl' to-day is that it don'tcarry God into business. Why should we not be kinderan' mo' liberal with each other in business matters? We[Pg 634]are unselfish in everything but business. All social lifeis based on unselfishness. To charity we give of ourtears an' our money. For the welfare of mankind an'the advancement of humanity you can always count us onthe right side. Even to those whose characters are rottenan' whose very shadows leave dark places in life, we passthe courtesies of the hour or the palaverin' complimentsof the day. But let the struggler for the bread of lifecome along and ask us to share our profits with him, letthe dollar be the thing involved an' business shrewdnessthe principle at stake, an' then all charity is forgotten,every man for himse'f, an' the chief aim of man seems tobe to get mo' out of the trade than his brother.

“Now the soul of trade is Selfishness, an' Charitynever is invited over her doorway.

“I have known men with tears in their eyes to giveto the poor one day an' rob them the nex' in usurious interestan' rent, as cheerful as they gave the day befo'. Ihave known men to open their purses as wide as the gatesof hades for some church charity, an' then close them thenex' day, in a business transaction, as they called it—withsome helpless debtor or unexperienced widder. Thegraveyard is full of unselfish, devoted fathers an' husbandswho worked themselves to death for the comfortan' support of their own families, yet spendin' their dayson earth tryin' to beat their neighbors in the same game.

“It's funny how we're livin'. It's amusin', it is—ourethics of Christianity. We've baptised everythingbut business. We give to the church an' rob the poor.We weep over misfortune an' steal from the unfortunate.We give a robe to Charity one day and filch it the nex'.[Pg 635]We lay gifts at the altar of the Temple of Kindness forthe Virgin therein, but if we caught her out on the highwaysof trade an' commerce we'd steal her an' sell herinto slavery. An' after she was dead we'd go deep intoour pockets to put up a monument over her!

“We weep an' rob, an' smile an' steal, an' laugh an'knife, an' wring the hand of friendship while we step onher toes with our brogans of business. Can't we be hones'without bein' selfish, fair without graspin', make a profitwithout wantin' it all? Is it possible that Christ's religionhas gone into every nook an' corner of the worl'an' yet missed the great highway of business, the everydayroad of dollars an' cents, profit an' loss!

“So I am goin' to build the mill an' run it like Godintended it should be run, an' I am goin' to put, foronce, the plan of salvation into business, if it busts mean' the plan too! For if it can't stand a business test itought to bust!”

He planned it all himself, and, aided by Captain Tom,and Alice, the beautiful structure went up. Strong andairy and with every comfort for the workers. “For itstrikes me,” said the old man, “that the people whowuck need mo' comforts than them that don't—at leastthe comforts of bein' clean. The fust thing I learned ingeography was that God made three times as much wateron the surface of the earth as he did dirt. But youwouldn't think so to look at the human race. It takes usa long time to take a hint.”

The big mountain spring settled the point, and whenthe mill was finished there were hot and cold baths in itfor the tired workers. “For there's nothin' so good,[Pg 636]”said the old man, “for a hot man or a hot hoss as awarm body-wash. It relaxes the muscles an' makes themcome ag'in. An' the man that comes ag'in is the manthe worl' wants.”

In the homes of the workers, too, he had baths placed,until it grew to be a saying of the good old man “thatit was easier to take a bath in Cottontown than to takea drink.”

The main building was lofty between floor and ceiling,letting in all the light and air possible, and the floors wereof hard-wood and clean. As the greatest curse of thecotton lint was dust, atomizers for spraying the air wereinvented by Captain Tom. These were attached to themachinery and could be turned off or on as the operatorsdesired. It was most comfortable now to work in themill, and tired and hot employees, instead of loungingthrough their noon, bathed in the cool spring waterwhich came down from the mountain side and flowed intothe baths, not only in the mill, but through every cottageowned by the mill. And as the bath is the greatestcivilizer known to man, a marked difference was soonnoticed in every inhabitant of Cottontown. They werecleanly, and cleanliness begets a long list of other virtues,beginning with cleaner and better clothes and endingwith ambition and godliness.

But it was the old Bishop's policy for the wage-earners,which put the ambition there—a system neverheard of before in the ranks of capital, and first testedand proved in his Model Cotton Mill.

“There are two things in the worl',” said the Bishop,“that is as plain as God could write them without tellin'[Pg 637]it Himself from the clouds. The first is that the moneyof the worl' was intended for all the worl' that reachesout a hand an' works for it.

“It was never intended for one man, or one corporationor one trust or one king or one anything else, to ownmore than his share of the money of the worl', nomatter how they get it. Every man who piles up mo'money than he needs—actually needs—in life, robsevery other man or woman or child in the worl' thatpinches and slaves and starves for it in vain. Every manwho makes a big fortune leaves just that many wreckedhomes in his path.”

In carrying out this idea the old bishop had the millincorporated at one hundred thousand dollars, which includedall his fortune, except enough to live on andeducate his grandchildren; for he never changed hishome, and the only luxury he indulged in was a stablefor Ben Butler.

The stock was divided into shares of ten dollars each,which could be acquired only by those who worked in themill, to be held only during life-time, and earned only inpart payment for labor, given according to proficiencyand work done, and credited on wages. In this wayevery employee of the mill became a stockholder—apartner in the mill, receiving dividends on his stock inaddition to his regular wages, and every year he workedin the mill added both to his stock and dividends. Atdeath it reverted again to The Model Cotton Mill Company,to be obtained again, in turn, by other mill workers[Pg 638]coming on up the line. This made every mill worker apartner in the mill and spurred them on to do their best.

But the home idea of the bishop was the more originalone, and a far greater boon to the people. Instead ofpaying rent to the mill for their homes, as they had before,every married mill worker was deeded a home in thebeginning, a certain per cent of his wages being appropriatedeach month in part payment; in addition, tenper cent of the stock acquired, as above, by each individualhome owner, went to the payment of the home, andthe whole was so worked out and adjusted that by thetime a faithful worker had arrived at middle age, thehome, as paid for, was absolutely his and his children's,and when he arrived at old age the dividends of the stockacquired were sufficient to support him the balance of hislife.

In this way the mill was virtually resolved into a corporationor community of interests, running perpetuallyfor the maintenance and support of those who worked init. The only property actually acquired by the individualwas a home, his savings in wages, and the dividendson his stock acquired by long service and work.

Some wanted the old man to run a general store onthe same plan of community of interest, the goods andnecessities of life to be bought at first cost and only theactual expenses of keeping the store added. But hewisely shook his head, saying: “No, that will not do;that's forming a trust ag'in the tillers of the earth an'the workers in every other occupation. That's cuttin' inon hones' competition, an' if carried out everywhere[Pg 639]would shut off the rest of the worl' from a livin'. We'remakin' our livin'—let them make theirs.”

The old bishop was proud of the men he selected tocarry out his plans. Captain Tom was manager of theModel Mill.

“Now,” said the old man, after the mill had run twoyears and declared a semi-annual dividend, both years, ofeight per cent each, “now you all see what it means torun even business by the Golden Rule. Here is this bigfortune that I accidentally stumbled on, as everybodydoes who makes one—put out like God intended itsh'ud, belonging to nobody and standing there, yearafter year, makin' a livin' an' a home an' life an' happinessfor over fo' hundred people, year in an' year out,an' let us pray God, forever. It was not mine to beginwith—it belonged to the worl'. God put the coal andiron in the ground, not for me, but for everybody. An'so I've given it to everybody. Because I happened toown the lan' didn't make the treasure God put theremine, any mo' than the same land will be mine after I'vepassed away. We're only trustees for humanity for allwe make mo' than we need, jus' as we're only tenants ofGod while we live on the earth.”

As for children, the bishop settled that quickly andeffectively. His rule was that no boy or girl under sixteenshould be permitted to work in the mill, and to saveany parents, weakly inclined, from the temptation, heestablished a physical standard in weight, height andhealth.

He found afterwards there was really small need of[Pg 640]his stringent rule, for under this system of managementthe temptations of child labor were removed.

Among the good features of the mill, established byAlice Travis, was a library, a pretty little building inthe heart of Cottontown. It was maintained yearly bythe mill, together with donations, and proved to be thegreatest educational and refining influence of the mill.It was kept, for one week at a time, by each girl in themill over twenty, the privilege always being given bythe mill's physician to the girl who seemed most in needof a week's rest. It came to be a great social featurealso, and any pretty afternoon, and all Saturday afternoon,—forthe mill never ran then—could be seen therethe young girls and boys of Cottontown.

To this was afterwards added a Cottontown schoolfor the younger children, who before had been slaves tothe spinner and doffer carts.

And so it ran on several years, but still the Bishopcould see that something was lacking—that there wastoo much sickness, that in spite of only eight hours hispeople, year in and year out, grew tired and weak anddisheartened, and with his great good sense he put hisfinger on it.

“Now, it's this away,” he said to his directors, “Godnever intended for any people to work all the time betweenwalls an' floors. Tilling the soil is the naturalwork of man, an' there is somethin' in the very touch ofthe ground to our feet that puts new life in our bodies.

“The farmin' instinct is so natural in us that youcan't stop it by flood or drought or failure. Year in an'year out the farmer will plant an' work his crop in spite[Pg 641]of failure, hopin' every year to hit it the nex' time.Would a merchant or manufacturer or anybody else dothat? No, they'd make an assignment the second yearof failure. But not so with the farmer, and it showsGod intended he shu'd keep at it.

“Now, I'm goin' to give this mill a chance to raiseits own cotton, besides everything else its people needs toeat. I figger we can raise cotton cheaper than we canbuy it, an' keep our folks healthy, too.”

Near Cottontown was an old cotton plantation of fourthousand acres. It had been sadly neglected and rundown. This the bishop purchased for the company foronly ten dollars an acre, and divided it into tracts oftwenty acres each, building a neat cottage, dairy andbarn, and other outhouses on each tract—but all arrangedfor a family of four or five, and thus sprang upin a year a new settlement of two hundred families aroundCottontown. It was no trouble to get them, for thefame of The Model Mill had spread, and far more appliedyearly for employment than could be accommodated.This large farm, when equipped fully, representedfifty thousand dollars more, or an investment ofninety thousand dollars, and immediately became a valuableasset of the mill.

It was divided into four parts, each under the supervisionof a manager, a practical and experienced cottonfarmer of the valley, and the tenants were selected everyyear from among all the workers of the mill, preferencealways being given to the families who needed the outdoorwork most, and those physically weak from longwork in the mill. It was so arranged that only fifty[Pg 642]families, or one-fourth of the mill, went out each year,staying four years each on the farm. And thus everyfour years were two hundred families given the chancein the open to get in touch with nature, the great physician,and come again. After four years they went backto the mill, sunburnt, swarthy, and full of health, andwhat is greater than health,—cheerfulness—the cheerfulnessthat comes with change.

On the farm they received the same wages as when inthe mill, and each family was furnished with a mule, acow, and poultry, and with a good garden.

To reclaim this land and build up the soil was nowthe chief work of the old man; but having been overseeron a large cotton plantation, he knew his business, andset to work at it with all the zeal and good sense of hisnature.

He knew that cotton was one of the least exhaustivecrops of the world, taking nearly all its sustenance fromthe air, and that it was also one of the most easily raised,requiring none of the complicated and expensive machinerynecessary for wheat and other smaller grains.He knew, too, that under the thorough preparation ofthe soil necessary for cotton, wheat did best after it,and with clover sown on the wheat, he would soon havenature's remedy for reclaiming the soil. He also knewthat the most expensive feature of cotton raising was thepicking—the gathering of the crop—and in the childrenof Cottontown, he saw at once that he had a quicksolution—one which solved the picking problem andyet gave to each growing boy and girl three months, inthe cool, delightful fall, of healthful work, with pay more[Pg 643]than equal to a year of the old cheap labor behind thespinners. For,—as it proved, at seventy-five cents perhundred pounds for the seed cotton picked,—these childrenearned from seventy-five cents to a dollar and a halfa day. The first year, only half of the land was put incotton, attention being given to reclaiming the otherhalf. But even this proved a surprise for all, for nearlyone thousand bales of cotton were ginned, at a total costto the mill of only four cents per pound, while Cottontownhad been fed during summer with all the vegetablesand melons needed—all raised on the farm.

That fall, the land, under the clean and constant plowingnecessary to raise the cotton, was ready to sow inwheat, which in February was followed with clover—nature'sgreat fertilizer—the clover being sown broadcaston the wheat, behind a light harrow run over thewheat. The wheat crop was small, averaging less thanten bushels to the acre, but it was enough to keep allCottontown in bread for a year, or until the next harvesttime, and some, even, to sell. Behind the wheat, afterit was mowed, came the clover, bringing in good dividends.After two years, it was turned under, and then itwas that the two thousand acres of land produced fifteenhundred bales of cotton at a total cost of four cents perpound, or twenty dollars per bale. And this includedeverything, even the interest on the money and the payingof seventy-five cents per hundred pounds to theCottontown children for picking and storing the crop.

In a few years, under this rotation, the farm producedall the cotton necessary to run The Model Mill, besides[Pg 644]raising all its vegetables, fruit, and bread for all thefamilies of Cottontown.

But the most beautiful sight to the old man was to seethe children every fall picking the cotton. Little boysand girls, who before had worked twelve hours a day inthe old, hot, stifling, ill-smelling mill, now stood out inthe sunshine and in the frosty air of the mornings, eachwith sack to side, waist deep in pure white cotton, floodedin sunshine and health and sweetness.

They were deft with their fingers—the old mill hadtaught many of them that—and their pay, daily, ranfrom seventy-five cents to a dollar and a half—as muchas some of them had earned in a week of the old way.And, oh, the health of it, the glory of air and sky andsunshine, the smell of dew on the bruised cotton-heads,the rustle of the mountain breeze cooling the heatedcheeks; the healthy hunger, and the lunches in the shadeby the cool spring; the shadows of evening creepingdown from the mountains, the healthy fatigue—andthe sweet home-going in the twilight, riding beneath thesilent stars on wagons of snowy seed cotton, burrowingin bed of down and purest white—this snow of aSouthern summer—with the happy laughter of childhoodand the hunger of home-coming, and the glory andfreedom of it all!

The End.

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I.	Cotton	13
II.	Richard Travis	18
III.	Jud Carpenter	27
IV.	Food for the Factory	39
V.	The Fly Catcher Caught	50
VI.	The Flint and the Coal	64
VII.	Hillard Watts	84
VIII.	Westmoreland	92
IX.	A Mutual Understanding	103
X.	A Star and a Satellite	108
XI.	A Midnight Burial	117
XII.	Jack Bracken	127

I.	Alice Westmore	143
II.	The Real Heroes	151
III.	Franklin	154

I.	Cottontown	179
II.	Ben Butler	187
III.	An Answer to Prayer	199
IV.	How the Bishop Froze	205
V.	The Flock	209
VI.	A Bishop Militant	213
VII.	Margaret Adams	219
VIII.	Hard-shell Sunday	226
IX.	The Return	232
X.	The Swan Song of the Crepe Myrtle	239
XI.	The Casket and the Ghost	248
XII.	A Midnight Guard	254
XIII.	The Theft of a Childhood	258
XIV.	Uncle Dave's Will	275
XV.	Edward Conway	287
XVI.	Helen's Despair	296
XVII.	The Whipper-in	305
XVIII.	Samantha Carewe	312
XIX.	A Quick Conversion	317
XX.	A Live Funeral	326
XXI.	Jack and the Little Ones	336
XXII.	The Broken Thread	344
XXIII.	God Will Provide	350
XXIV.	Bonaparte's Waterloo	355
XXV.	A Born Naturalist	366
XXVI.	Ben Butler's Last Race	380
XXVII.	You'll Come Back a Man	414

I.	A New Mill Girl	419
II.	In the Depths	431
III.	Work in a New Light	438
IV.	Maggie	443
V.	Pay-day	447
VI.	The Plot	456
VII.	Mrs. Westmore Takes a Hand	464
VIII.	A Question Brought Home	473
IX.	The Pedigree of Achievement	487
X.	Married in God's Sight	493
XI.	The Queen Is Dead	499
XII.	In Thyself There Is Weakness	508
XIII.	Himself Again	512
XIV.	The Joy of the Morning	519
XV.	The Touch of God	526
XVI.	Mammy Maria	533
XVII.	The Double That Died	545
XVIII.	The Dying Lion	552
XIX.	Face To Face With Death	564
XX.	The Angel With the Flaming Sword	572
XXI.	The Great Fire	581
XXII.	A Conway Again	588
XXIII.	Died for the Law	596
XXIV.	The Atonement	611
XXV.	The Shadows and the Clouds	624
XXVI.	The Model Mill	633

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The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Bishop of Cottontown: A Story of the Southern Cotton Mills

THE

Bishop of Cottontown

A STORY OF THE SOUTHERN COTTON MILLS

BY

JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE

AUTHOR OF

“A Summer Hymnal,” “Ole Mistis,” “Songs and Storiesfrom Tennessee,” etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY THE KINNEYS

PHILADELPHIATHE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY1906

CONTENTS

PART FIRST—THE BLOOM.

PART SECOND—THE BOLL.

PART THIRD—THE GIN.

PART FOURTH—THE LINT.

PART FIFTH—THE LOOM.

PART FIRST—THE BLOOM

THE COTTON BLOSSOM

PART SECOND—THE BOLL

CHAPTER I

COTTON

CHAPTER II

RICHARD TRAVIS

CHAPTER III

JUD CARPENTER

CHAPTER IV

FOOD FOR THE FACTORY

CHAPTER V

THE FLY CATCHER CAUGHT

CHAPTER VI

THE FLINT AND THE COAL

CHAPTER VII

HILLARD WATTS

CHAPTER VIII

WESTMORELAND

CHAPTER IX

A MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING

CHAPTER X

A STAR AND A SATELLITE

CHAPTER XI

A MIDNIGHT BURIAL

CHAPTER XII

JACK BRACKEN

PART THIRD—THE GIN

CHAPTER I

ALICE WESTMORE

CHAPTER II

THE REAL HEROES

CHAPTER III

FRANKLIN

PART FOURTH—THE LINT

CHAPTER I

COTTONTOWN

CHAPTER II

BEN BUTLER

CHAPTER III

AN ANSWER TO PRAYER

CHAPTER IV

HOW THE BISHOP FROZE

CHAPTER V

THE FLOCK

CHAPTER VI

A BISHOP MILITANT

CHAPTER VII

MARGARET ADAMS

CHAPTER VIII

HARD-SHELL SUNDAY

CHAPTER IX

THE RETURN

CHAPTER X

THE SWAN-SONG OF THE CREPE-MYRTLE

CHAPTER XI

THE CASKET AND THE GHOST

CHAPTER XII

A MIDNIGHT GUARD

CHAPTER XIII

THE THEFT OF A CHILDHOOD

CHAPTER XIV

UNCLE DAVE'S WILL

PHILADELPHIA
THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY
1906