The Law of the Land
Of Miss Lady, Whom It Involved in Mystery, and of John Eddring, Gentleman of the South, Who Read Its Deeper Meaning: A Novel (2024)

Produced by Duncan Harrod, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks

and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

[Illustration: MISS LADY]

THE LAW OF THE LAND

Of Miss Lady, whom it involved in mystery, and ofJohn Eddring, gentleman of the South, whor*ad its deeper meaning

A NOVEL

By

EMERSON HOUGH

Author of

The Mississippi Bubble
The Way to the West

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

ARTHUR I. KELLER

COPYRIGHT 1904

EMERSON HOUGH

TO R.E.B.TO T.A.D.

CONTENTS

BOOK I

CHAPTER

I Miss LADY
II MULEY
III THE VISITOR
IV A QUESTION OF VALUATION
V CERTAIN PROBLEMS
VI THE DRUM
VII THE BELL
VIII THE VOLCANO
IX ON ITS MAJESTY'S SERVICE
X MISS LADY OF THE STAIR
XI COLONEL CALVIN BLOUNT'S PROPOSAL
XII A WOMAN SCORNED
XIII JOHN DOE vs. Y.V.R.R.
XIV NUMBER 4
XV THE PURSUIT
XVI THE TRAVELING BAG
XVII MISS LADY AND HENRY DECHERD
XVIII MISFORTUNE

BOOK II

I THE MAKING OF THE WILDERNESS

BOOK III

I EDDRING, AGENT OF CLAIMS II THE OPINIONS OF CALVIN BLOUNT III REGARDING LOUISE LOISSON IV THE RELIGION OF JULES V DISCOVERY VI THE DANCER VII THE SUMMONS VIII THE STOLEN STEAMBOAT IX THE ACCUSER X THE VOYAGE XI THE WILDERNESS XII THE HOUSE OF HORROR XIII THE NIGHT IN THE FOREST XIV AT THE BIG HOUSE XV CERTAIN MOTIVES XVI THE NEW SHERIFF XVII THE LAW OF THE LANDXVIII MISS LADY AT THE BIG HOUSE XIX THREE LADIES LOUISE XX THE LID OF THE GRAVE XXI THE RED RIOT OF YOUTH XXII AMENDE HONORABLE

THE LAW OF THE LAND

CHAPTER I

MISS LADY

Ah, but it was a sweet and wonderful thing to see Miss Lady dance, astrange and wondrous thing! She was so sweet, so strong, so full ofgrace, so like a bird in all her motions! Now here, now there, andback again, her feet scarce touching the floor, her loose skirt, heldout between her dainty fingers, resembling wings, she swam throughthe air, up and down the room of the old plantation house, as thoughshe were indeed the creature of an element wherein all wasimponderable, light and free of hampering influences. Darting,nodding, beckoning, courtesying to something that she saw—it musthave moved you to applause, had you seen Miss Lady dance! You mighthave been restrained by the feeling that this was almost too unreal,too unusual, this dance of the young girl, all alone, in front of thegreat mirror which faithfully gave back the passing, flying figureline for line, flush for flush, one bosom-heave for that of theother. Yet the tall white lilies in the corner saw; and the tallwhite birds, one on each side of the great cheval glass, saw also,but fluttered not; since a lily and a stork and a maiden may each betall and white, and each may understand the other subtly.

Miss Lady stood at length, tall and white, her cheeks rosy withal,her blown brown hair pushed back a bit, one hand lightly resting onher bosom, looking—looking into the mirror, asking of it somequestion, getting, indeed, from it some answer—an answer embodying,perhaps, all that youth may mean, all that the morning may bring.

For now the sun of the South came creeping up apace, and saw MissLady as it peered in through the rose lattice whereon hung scores offragrant blossoms. A gentle wind of morning stirred the lace curtainsat the windows and touched Miss Lady's hair as she stood there,asking the answer of the mirror. It was morning in the great room,morning for the southern day, morning for the old plantation whosebell now jangled faintly and afar off—morning indeed for Miss Lady,who now had ceased in her self-absorbed dance. At this very moment,as she stood gazing into the mirror, with the sunlight and the rosesthus at hand, one might indeed have sworn that it was morning forever, over all the world!

Miss Lady stood eager, fascinated, before the glass; and in thepresence of the tall flowers and the tall birds, saw something whichstirred her, felt something which came in at the window out of theblue sky and from the red rose blossoms, on the warm south wind.Impulsively she flung out her arms to the figure in the glass.Perhaps she felt its beauty and its friendliness. And yet, an instantlater, her arms relaxed and sank; she sighed, knowing not why shesighed.

Ah, Miss Lady, if only it could be for ever morning for us all! Nay,let us say not so. Let us say rather that this sweet picture of MissLady, doubled by the glass, remains to-day imperishably preserved inthe old mirror—the picture of Miss Lady dancing as the bird flies,and then standing, plaintive and questioning, before her own image,loving it because it was beautiful and friendly, dreading it becauseshe could not understand.

Miss Lady had forgotten that she was alone, and did not hear the stepat the door, nor see the hand which presently pushed back thecurtain. There stepped into the room, the tall, somewhat full figureof a lady who stood looking on with eyes at first surprised, thencynically amused. The intruder paused, laughing a low, well-fed,mellow laugh. On the moment she coughed in deprecation. Miss Ladysprang back, as does the wild deer startled in the forest. Her handswent to her cheeks, which burned in swift flame, thence to drop toher bosom, where her heart was beating in a confusion of throbs,struggling with the reversed current of the blood of all her tallyoung body.

"Mamma!" she cried. "You startled me." "So it seems," said the new-comer. "I beg your pardon. I did not mean to intrude upon yourdevotions."

She came forward and seated herself-a tall woman, a trifle full offigure now, but still vital of presence. Her figure, deep-chested,rounded and shapely, now began to carry about it a certain air ofease. The mouth, well-bowed and red, had a droop of the samesignificance. The eyes, deep, dark and shaded by strong brows, helddepths not to be fathomed at a glance, but their first message wasone of an open and ready self-indulgence. The costume, flowing, looseand easy, carried out the same thought; the piled black hair did notdeny it; the smile upon the face, amused, half-cynical, confirmed it.Here was a woman of her own acquaintance with the world, you wouldhave said. And in the next breath you must have asked how she couldhave been the mother of this tall girl, at whom she now smiled thusmockingly.

"I was just—I was—well, I was dancing, mamma," said Miss Lady. "Itis so nice." This somewhat vaguely.

"Yes," said her mother; "why?"

"I do not know," said Miss Lady, frankly, and turning to her withsudden courage. "I was dancing. That is all."

"Yes, I know."

"Well, is it any crime, mamma, I should like to ask?" This withspirit, and with eyes showing themselves able to flash upon occasion.

"Not in the least, my dear. Indeed, I am not at all surprised. I knewit was coming."

"What was coming, mammal? What do you mean?"

"Why, that this was going to happen—that you were going to dance. Itwas nearly time."

"I do not know what you mean."

"It was always thus with the Ellisons," said the other woman. "Allthe Ellisons danced this way once in their lives. All the girls doso. They're very strange, these Ellison girls. They dance becausethey must, I suppose. It's as natural as breathing, for them. Youcan't help it. It's fate. But listen, child. It is time I took youmore in hand. You will be marrying before long—"

"Mamma!" Miss Lady blushed indignantly. "How can you talk so? Idon't know—I didn't—I shan't—"

"Tut, tut. Please don't. It is going to be a very warm day. I reallycan't go into any argument. Take my word, you will marry soon; or ifyou don't, you will reverse all the known horoscopes of the family.That, too, is the fate of the Ellison girls—certain marriage! Ouronly hope is in some miracle. It is time for me to take you in hand.Listen, Lady. Let me ask you to sit a trifle farther back upon thatchair. So, that is better. Now, draw the skirt a little closer. Thatis well. Now, sit easily, keep your back from the chair; try to keepyour feet concealed. Remember, Lady, you are a woman now, and thereare certain rules, certain little things, which will help you somuch, so much."

Mrs. Ellison sighed, then yawned, touching her white teeth with thetip of her fan. "Dear me, it certainly is going to be warm," she saidat last. "Lady, dear, please run and get my book, won't you? You knowyour darling mamma is getting so—well, I won't say fat, God forbid!but so—really—well, thank you."

Miss Lady fled gladly and swiftly enough. For an instant she halted,uncertain, on the wide gallery, her face troubled, her attitudeundecided. Then, in swift mutiny, she sprang down the steps and wasoff in open desertion. She fled down the garden walk, and presentlywas welcomed riotously by a score of dogs and puppies, long since herfriends.

Left alone, the elder lady sat for a moment in thought. Her face nowseemed harder in outline, more enigmatical. She gazed after the girlwho left her, and into her eyes came a look which one must havecalled strangely unmaternal—a look not tender, but hard,calculating, cold.

"She is pretty," she murmured to herself half-aloud. "She is going tobe very pretty—the prettiest of the family in generations, perhaps.Well-handled, that girl could marry anybody. I'll have to be carefulshe doesn't marry the wrong one. They're headstrong, these Ellisons.Still, I think I can handle this one of them. In fact, Imust." She smiled gently and settled down into a half-reverie,purring to herself. "Dear me!" she resumed at length, starting up,"how warm it grows! Where has that girl gone? I do believe she hasrun away. Delphine! Ah-h-h-h, Delphine!"

There came no audible sound of steps, but presently there stood, justwithin the parted draperies, the figure of the servant thus calledupon. Yet that title sat ill upon this tall young woman who now stoodawaiting the orders of her mistress. Garbed as a servant she was, yetheld herself rather as a queen. Her hair, black and luxuriant, wasstraight and strong, and, brushed back smoothly from her temples asit was, contrasted sharply with a skin just creamy enough toestablish it as otherwise than pure white. Egyptian, or Greek, or ofunknown race, this servant, Delphine, might have been; but had it notbeen for her station and surroundings, one could never have suspectedin her the trace of negro blood. She stood now, a mellow-tintedstatue of not quite yellow ivory, silent, turning upon her mistresseyes large, dark and inscrutable as those of a sphinx. One lookingupon the two, as they thus confronted each other, must have calledthem a strange couple. Why they should be mistress and servant wasnot a matter to be determined upon a first light guess. Indeed, theyseemed scarcely such. From dark eye to dark eye there seemed to passa signal of covert understanding, a signal of doubt, or suspicion, orarmed neutrality, yet of mutual comprehension.

"Delphine," said Mrs. Ellison, presently, "bring me a glass of wine.And from now on, Delphine, see to it that you watch that girl. Tellme what she does. There's very little restraint of any kind here onthe plantation, and she is just the age—well, you must keep meinformed. You may bring the decanter, Delphine. I really don't feelfit for breakfast."

CHAPTER II

MULEY

In the warm sun of the southern morning the great plantation lay asthough half-asleep, dozing and blinking at the advancing day. Theplantation house, known in all the country-side as the Big House,rested calm and self-confident in the middle of a wide sweep ofcleared lands, surrounded immediately by dark evergreens and theoccasional primeval oaks spared in the original felling of theforest. Wide and rambling galleries of one height or another crawledhere and there about the expanses of the building, and again paused,as though weary of the attempt to circumvent it. The strong whitepillars, rising from the ground floor straight to the third story,shone white and stately, after that old southern fashion, thatGrecian style, simplified and made suitable to provincial purses bythose Adams brothers of old England who first set the fashion inearly American architecture. White-coated, with wide, cool, greenblinds, with ample and wide-doored halls and deep, low windows, theBig House, here in the heart of the warm South-land, was above allthings suited to its environment. It was a home taking firm hold uponthe soil, its wide roots reaching into traditions of more than onegeneration. Well toward the head of the vast Yazoo-Mississippi Delta,the richest region on the face of the whole earth, the Big Houseruled over these wide acres as of immemorial right. Its owner,Colonel Calvin Blount, was a king, an American king, his right torule based upon full proof of fitness.

In the heart of the only American part of America, the Big House,careless and confident, could afford to lie blinking at the sun, orat the broad acres which blinked back at it. It was all so safe andsure that there was no need for anxiety. Life here was as it had beenfor generations, even for the generation following the upheaval ofthe Civil War. Open-handed, generous, rich, lazily arrogant, kindlyalways, though upon occasions fiercely savage, this life took holdupon that of a hundred years ago. These strings of blacks, who now,answering the plantation bell, slowly crawled down the lane to theoutlying fields, might still have been slaves. This lazy plow,tickling the opulent earth, might have been handled by a slave ratherthan by this hired servitor, whose quavering, plaintive song, brokenmid-bar betimes, now came back across the warm distances which laytrembling in the rays of the advancing sun. These other dark-skinnedservants, dawdling along the galleries, or passing here and yonderfrom the detached quarters of kitchen, and cook-room, and laundry andsleeping-rooms—they also humming musically at their work, too fullof the sun and the certainty of comfort to need to hurry even with asong—all these might also have been tenants of an old-time estate,giving slow service in return for a life of carelessness andirresponsibility. This was in the South, in the Delta, the garden ofthe South, the garden of America; a country crude, primitive,undeveloped in modern ways, as one might say, yet by right entitledto its own assuredness. It asked nothing of all the world.

All this deep rich soil was given to the people of that land byFather Messasebe. Yards deep it lay, anciently rich, kissed by a sunwhich caused every growing thing to leap into swift fruition. Theentire lesson of the scene was one of an absolute fecundity. Thegrass was deep and green and lush. The sweet peas and the roses andthe morning-glories, and the honeysuckles on the lattice, hung ranksdeep in blossoms. A hundred flocks of fowl ran clucking and chirpingabout the yard. Across the lawn a mother swine led her brood ofsqueaking and squealing young. A half-hundred puppies, toddlers orhalf-grown, romped about, unused fragments of the great hunting packof the owner of this kingdom. Life, perhaps short, perhaps rude,perhaps swiftly done, yet after all life—this was the message of itall. The trees grew vast and tall. The corn, where the stalks couldstill be seen, grew stiff and strong as little trees. The cotton,through which the negroes rode, their black kinky heads level withthe old shreds of ungathered bolls, showed plants rank and coarseenough to uphold a man's weight free of the ground. This sun and thissoil—what might they not do in brooding fecundity? Growth,reproduction, the multifold—all this was written under that skywhich now swept, deep and blue, flecked here and there with soft andfleecy clouds, over these fruitful acres hewn from the primevalforest.

The forest, the deep, vast forest of oak and ash and gum and ghostlysycamore; the forest, tangled with a thousand binding vines andbriers, wattled and laced with rank blue cane—sure proof of a soilexhaustlessly rich—this ancient forest still stood, mysterious andforbidding, all about the edges of the great plantation. Here andthere a tall white stump, fire-blackened at its foot, stood, even infields long cultivated, showing how laborious and slow had been thewhittling away of this jungle, which even now continually encroachedand claimed its own. The rim of the woods, marked white by thedeadened trees where the axes of the laborers were reclaiming yetother acres as the years rolled by, now showed in the morning sundistinctly, making a frame for the rich and restful picture of theBig House and its lands. Now and again overhead there swung slowly anoccasional great black bird, its shadow not yet falling straight onthe sunlit ground, as it would at midday, when the puppies of thepack would begin their daily pastime of chasing it across the fields.

This silent surrounding forest even yet held its ancient creatures—the swift and graceful deer, the soft-footed panther, the shamblingblack bear, the wild hog, the wolf, all manner of furred creatures,great store of noble wild fowl—all these thriving after the fecundfashion of this brooding land. It was a kingdom, this wild world, arealm in the wilderness; a kingdom fit for a bold man to govern, aman such as might have ruled in days long gone by. And indeed the BigHouse and its scarcely measured acres kept well their master as theyhad for many years. The table of this Delta baron was almostexclusively fed from these acres; scarce any item needful in his liferequired to be imported from the outer world. The government ofAmerica might have fallen; anarchy might have prevailed; a dozenstates might have been taken over by a foreign foe; a score of statesmight have been overwhelmed by national calamity, and it all hadscarce made a ripple here in this land, apart, rich, self-supportingand content. It had always been thus here.

But if this were a kingdom apart and self-sufficient, what meant thisthing which, crossed the head of the plantation—this double line,tenacious and continuous, which shone upon the one hand dark, andupon the other, where the sun touched it, a cold gray in color? Whatmeant this squat little building at the side of these rails whichreached out straight as the flight of a bird across the clearing andvanished keenly in the forest wall? This was the road of the ironrails, the white man's perpetual path across the land. It clung closeto the ground, at times almost sinking into the embankment now grownscarcely discernible among the concealing grass and weeds, althoughthe track itself had been built but recently. This railroad sought toefface itself, even as the land sought to aid in its effacement, asthough neither believed that this was lawful spot for the path of theiron rails. None the less, here was the railroad, ineradicable,epochal, bringing change; and, one might say, it made a blot uponthis picture of the morning.

An observer standing upon the broad gallery, looking toward theeastward and the southward, might have seen two figures just emergingfrom the rim of the forest something like a mile away; and might thenhave seen them growing slowly more distinct as they plodded up therailway track toward the Big House. Presently these might have beendiscovered to be a man and a woman; the former tall, thin, dark andstooped; his companion, tall as himself, quite as thin, and almost asbent. The garb of the man was nondescript, neutral, loose; his hatdark and flapping. The woman wore a shapeless calico gown, and on herhead was a long, telescopic sunbonnet of faded pink, from which shemust perforce peer forward, looking neither to the right nor to theleft.

The travelers, indeed, needed not to look to the right or the left,for the path of the iron rails led them directly on. Now and againclods of new-broken earth caused them to stumble as they hobbledloosely along. If the foot of either struck against the rail, itsowner sprang aside, as though in fear, toward the middle of thetrack. Slowly and unevenly, with all the zigzags permissible withinthe confining inches of the irons, they came on up toward the squatlittle station-house. Thence they turned aside into the plantationpath and, still stumbling and zigzagging, ambled up toward the house.They did not step to the gallery, did not knock at the door, or,indeed, give any evidences of their intentions, but seated themselvesdeliberately upon a pile of boards that lay near in the broad expanseof the front yard. Here they remained, silent and at rest, fittingwell enough into the sleepy scene. No one in the house noticed themfor a time, and they, tired by the walk, seemed content to rest underthe shade of the evergreens before making known their errand. Theysat speechless and content for some moments, until finally a mulattohouse-servant, passing from one building to another, cast a look intheir direction, and paused uncertainly in curiosity. The man on theboard-pile saw her.

"Here, Jinny! Jinny!" he called, just loud enough to be heard, andnot turning toward her more than half-way. "Come heah."

"Yassah," said the girl, and slowly approached.

"Get us a little melk, Jinny," said the speaker.

"We're plumb out o' melk down home."

"Yassah," said Jinny; and disappeared leisurely, to be gone perhapshalf an hour.

There remained little sign of life on the board-pile, the bonnet tubepointing fixedly toward the railway station, the man now and thenslowly shifting one leg across the other, but staring out at nothing,his lower lip drooping laxly. When the servant finally brought backthe milk-pail and placed it beside him, he gave no word of thanks.The sunbonnet shifted to include the mulatto girl within its fullvision, as the latter stood leaning her weight on one side-bent foot,idly wiping her hands upon her apron.

"Folks all well down to yo' place, Mistah Bowles?" said she, affably.

"Right well."

"Um-h-h." Silence then fell until Jinny again found speech.

"Old Bess, that's the Cunnel's favoright dawg, you-all know, she donehave 'leven puppies las' night."

"That so?"

"Yassah. Cunnel, he's off down on the Sun-flowah."

"Um-h-h."

"Yassah; got most all his dawgs wid 'im. We goin' to haveb'ah meat now for sho',"—this with a wide grin.

"Reckon so," said the visitor. "When's Cunnel coming back, youreckon?"

"I dunno, suh, but he sho' won't come back lessen he gets a b'ah. Ifyou-all could wait a while, yon-all could take back some b'ah meat,if you wantuh."

"Um-h-h," said the man, and fell again into silence. To allappearances, he was willing to wait here indefinitely, forgetful ofthe pail of milk, toward which the sun was now creeping ominouslyclose. The way back home seemed long and weary at that moment. Hislip drooped still more laxly, as he sat looking out vaguely.

Not so calm seemed his consort, she of the sun-bonnet. Eestored tosome extent by her tarrying in the shade, she began to shift andhitch about uneasily upon the board-pile. At length she leaned a bitto one side, reached into a pocket and, taking out a snuff-stick anda parcel of its attendant compound, began to take a dip of snuff,after the habit of certain of the population of that region. Thisdone, she turned with a swift jerk of the head, bringing to bear thetube of her bonnet in full force upon her lord and master.

"Jim Bowles," she said, "this heah is a shame! Hit's a plumb shame!"

There was no answer, save an uneasy hitch on the part of the personso addressed. He seemed to feel the focus of the sunbonnet boringinto his system. The voice in the bonnet went on, shot straighttoward him, so that he might not escape.

"Hit's a plumb shame," said Mrs. Bowles, again.

"I know it, I know it," said her husband at length, uneasily. "Thatis, about us having to walk up heah. That whut you mean?"

"Yassir, that's whut I do mean, an' you know it."

"Well, now, how kin I help it? We kain't take the only mewel we gotand make the nigg*r stop wu'k. That ain't reasonable. Besides, youdon't think Cunnel Blount is goin' to miss a pail o' melk now andthen, do you?"

A snort of indignation greeted this supposition.

"Jim Bowles, you make me sick," replied his wife. "We kin get melkheah as long as we want to, o' co'se; but who wants to keep a-comin'up heah, three mile, for melk? It ain't right."

"Well, now, Sar' Ann, how kin I help it?" said Jim Bowles. "The cowis daid, an' I kain't help it, an' that's all about it. My God,woman!" this with sudden energy, "do you think I kin bring a cow tolife that's been kilt by the old railroad kyahs? I ain't no'vangelist."

"You kain't bring old Muley to life," said Sarah Ann Bowles, "butthen—"

"Well, but then! But whut? Whut you goin' to do? I reckon you dowhut you do, huh! You just walk the track and come heah after melk, Ireckon, if you want it. You ought to be mighty glad I come along tokeep you company. 'Tain't every man goin' to do that, I want to tellyou. Now, it ain't my fault old Muley done got kilt."

"Ain't yo' fault!"

"No, it ain't my fault. Whut am I goin' to do? I kain't get no othehcow right now, an' I done tol' you so. You reckon cows grows onbushes?"

"Grows on bushes!"

"Yes, or that they comes for nuthin'?"

"Comes for nuthin'!"

"Yes, Sar' Ann, that's whut I said. I tell you, it ain't so fur tocome, ain't so fur up heah, if you take it easy; only three mile. An'Cunnel Blount'll give us melk as long as we want. I reckon he wouldgive us a cow, too, if I ast him. I s'pose I could pay him out o' thenext crop, if they wasn't so many things that has to be paid out'nthe crop. It's too blame bad 'bout Muley." He scratched his headthoughtfully.

"Yes," responded his spouse, "Muley was a heap better cow than you'llever git ag'in. Why, she give two quo'ts o' melk the very mawnin' shewas kilt—two quo'ts. I reckon we didn't have to walk no three milethat mawnin', did we? An' she that kin' and gentle-like—oh, we ain'tgoin' to git no new cow like Muley, no time right soon, I want totell you that, Jim Bowles."

"Well, well, I know all that," said her husband, conciliatingly, atrifle easier now that the sunbonnet was for the moment turned aside."That's all true, mighty true. But what kin you do?"

"Do? Why, do somethin'! Somebody sho' ought to suffer for this heah.This new fangled railroad a-comin' through heah, a-killin' things, an'a-killin' folks! Why, Bud Sowers said just the other week he heardof three darkies gittin' kilt in one bunch down to Allenville. Theystandin' on the track, jes' talkin' an' visitin' like. Didn't noticenuthin'. Didn't notice the train a-comin'. 'Biff!' says Bud; an' thahwas them darkies."

"Yes," said Mr. Bowles, "that's the way it was with Muley. She justwalk up out'n the cane, an' stan' thah in the sun on the track, tosort o' look aroun' whah she could see free fer a little ways. Then,'long comes the railroad train, an' biff! Thah's Muley!"

"Plumb daid!"

"Plumb daid!"

"An' she a good cow for us for fo'teen yeahs! It don't look exactlyright, now, does it? It sho' don't"

"It's a outrage, that's whut it is," said Sar' Ann Bowles.

"Well, we got the railroad," said her husband, tentatively.

"Yes, we got the railroad," said Sar' Ann Bowles, savagely, "an' whutyearthly good is it? Who wants any railroad? Whut use have we-all gotfer it? It comes through ouah farm, an' scares ouah mewel, an' itkills ouah cow; an' it's got me so's I'm afeared to set foot outsid'nouah do', lessen it's goin' to kill me, too. Why, all the way up heahthis mawnin', I was skeered every foot of the way, a-fear-in' thatthere ingine was goin' to come along an' kill us both!"

"Sho'! Sar' Ann," said her husband, with superiority. "It ain't timefer the train yit—leastwise I don't think it is." He looked aboutuneasily.

"That's all right, Jim Bowles. One of them ingines might come along'most any time. It might creep up behin' you, then, biff! Thah's JimBowles! Whut use is the railroad, I'd like to know? I wouldn't becaught a-climbin' in one o' them thah kyars, not fer big money.Supposin' it run off the track?"

"Oh, well, now," said her husband, "maybe it don't, always."

"But supposin' it did?" The front of the telescope turned toward himsuddenly, and so perfect was the focus this time that Mr. Bowlesshifted his seat and took refuge upon another board at the other endof the board-pile, out of range, albeit directly in the ardentsunlight, which, warm as it was, did not seem to him so burning as theblack eyes in the bonnet, or so troublous as the tongue which went onwith its questions.

"Whut made you vote fer this heah railroad?" said Sarah Ann,following him mercilessly with the bonnet tube. "We didn't want norailroad. We never did have one, an' we never ought to a-had one. Youlisten to me, that railroad is goin' to ruin this country. Thah ain'ta woman in these heah bottoms but would be skeered to have a babygrow up in her house. Supposin' you got a baby; nice little baby,never did harm no one. You a-cookin' or somethin'—out to the smoke-house like enough; baby alone fer about two minutes. Baby crawls outon to the railroad track. Along comes the ingine, an' biff! Thah'syo' baby!"

Mrs. Bowles shed tears at this picture which she had conjured up, andeven her less imaginative consort became visibly affected, so thatfor a moment he half straightened up.

"Hit don't look quite right," said he, once more. "But, then, whutyou goin' to do? Whut kin we do, woman?" he asked fiercely.

"Why, if the men in these heah parts was half men," said his wife, "Itell you whut they'd do. They'd git out and tear up every foot ofthis heah cussed railroad track, an' throw it back into the cane.That's whut they'd do."

"Sho' now, would you?" said Jim Bowles.

"Shore I would. You got to do it if things keeps on this-away."

"Well, we couldn't, lessen Cunnel Blount said it was all right, youknow. The Cunnel was the friend of the road through these heahbottoms. He 'lowed it would help us all."

"Help? Help us? Huh! Like to know how it helps us, killin' ouah cowan' makin' us walk three mile of a hot mornin' to git a pail o' melkto make up some co'hn bread. You call that a help, do you, JimBowles? You may, but I don't an' I hain't a-goin' to. I got somesense, I reckon. Railroad! Help! Huh!"

Jim Bowles crept stealthily a little farther away on his own side ofthe board-pile, whither it seemed his wife could not quite so readilyfollow him with her transfixing gaze.

"Well, now, Sar' Ann," said he, "the Cunnel done tol' me hit was allright. He said some of ouah stock like enough git kilt, 'cause youknow these heah bottoms is growed up so close like, with cane an' allthat, that any sort of critters like to git out where it's open, so'sthey kin sort o' look around like, you know. Why, I done seen fourdeer trails whils' we was a-comin' up this mawnin', and I seen whah ab'ah had come out an' stood on the track. Now, as fer cows, an' asfer nigg*rs, why, it stands to reason that some of them is shoregoin' to git kilt, that's all."

"An' you men is goin' to stand that from the railroad? Why don't youmake them pay for whut gits kilt?"

"Well, now, Sar' Ann," said her husband, conciliatorily, "that's justwhut I was goin' to say. The time the fust man come down through heahto talk about buildin' the railroad, he done said, like I tol' youCunnel Blount said, that we might git some stock kilt fer a littlewhile, till things kind o' got used to it, you know; but he 'lowedthat the railroad would sort o' pay for anything that got kilt like,you know."

"Pay! The railroad goin' to pay you!" Again the remorseless sunbonnetfollowed its victim and fixed him with its focus. "Pay you! I didn'tnotice no money layin' on the track where we come along this mawnin',did you? Yes, I reckon it's goin' to pay you, a whole heap!" Thescorn of this utterance was limitless, and Jim Bowles felt hisinsignificance in the untenable position which he had assumed.

"Well, I dunno," said he, vaguely, and sighed softly; all of whichirritated Mrs. Bowles to such an extent that she flounced suddenlyaround to get a better gaze upon her master. In this movement, herfoot struck the pail of milk which had been sitting near, andoverturned it.

"Jinny," she called out, "you, Jinny!"

"Yassam," replied Jinny, from some place on the gallery.

"Come heah," said Mrs. Bowles. "Git me another pail o' melk. I donespilled this one."

"Yassam," replied Jinny, and presently returned with the refilledvessel.

"Well, anyway," said Jim Bowles at length, rising and standing withhands in pockets, inside the edge of the shade line of theevergreens, "I heard that thah was a man come down through heah a fewdays ago. He was sort of takin' count o' the critters that done gotkilt by the railroad kyahs."

"That so?" said Sarah Ann, somewhat mollified.

"I reckon so," said Jim Bowles. "I 'lowed I'd ast Cunnel Blount 'boutthat sometime. 0' co'se it don't bring Muley back, but then—-"

"No, hit don't," said Sarah Ann, resuming her original position. "Andour little Sim, he just loved that Muley cow, little Sim, he did,"she mourned.

"Say, Jim Bowles, do you heah me?"—this with a sudden flirt of thesunbonnet in an agony of actual fear. "Why, Jim Bowles, do you knowthat ouah little Sim might be a-playin' out thah in front of ouahhouse, on to that railroad track, at this very minute? S'pose,s'posen—along comes that thah railroad train! Say, man, whut youstandin' there in that thah shade fer? We got to go! We got to githome! Come right along this minute, er we may be too late."

And so, smitten by this sudden thought, they gathered themselvestogether as best they might and started toward the railroad for theirreturn. Even as they did so there appeared upon the northern horizona wreath of smoke rising above the forest. There was the far-offsound of a whistle, deadened by the heavy intervening vegetation; andpresently, there puffed into view one of the railroad trains stillnew upon this region. Iconoclastic, modern, strenuous, it wabbledunevenly over the new-laid rails up to the station-house, where itpaused for a few moments ere it resumed its wheezing way to thesouthward. The two visitors at the Big House gazed at it open-mouthedfor a time, until all at once her former thought crossed the woman'smind. She turned upon her husband.

"Thah it goes! Thah it goes!" she cried. "Right on straight to ouahhouse! It kain't miss it! An' little Sim, he's sho' to be playin' outthah on the track. Oh, he's daid right this minute, he sho'ly is!"

Her speech exercised a certain force upon Jim Bowles. He stepped onthe faster, tripped upon a clod and stumbled, spilling half the milkfrom the pail.

"Thah, now!" said he. "Thah hit goes ag'in. Done spilt the melk.
Well, hit's too far back to the house now fer mo'. But, now, mebbe
Sim wasn't playin' on the track."

"Mebbe he wasn't!" said Sarah Ann, scornfully. "Why, o' co'se hewas."

"Well, if he was," said Jim Bowles, philosophically, "why, Sar' Ann,from whut I done notice about this yeah railroad train, why—it'stoo late, now."

He might perhaps have pursued this logical course of thought further,had not there occurred an incident which brought the conversation toa close. Looking up, the two saw approaching them across the lawn,evidently coming from the little railway station, and doubtlessdescended from this very train, the alert, quick-stepping figure of aman evidently a stranger to the place. Jim and Sarah Ann Bowlesstepped to one side as he approached and lifted his hat with apleasant smile.

"Good morning," said the stranger. "It's a fine day, isn't it? Canyou tell me whether or not Colonel Blount is at home this morning?"

"Well, suh," said Jim Bowles, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "He ah,an' he ain't. He's home, o' co'se; that is, he hain't gone away nowhah, to co'te er nothin'. But then ag'in, he's out huntin', goneafteh b'ah. I reckon he's likely to be in 'most any day now."

"'Most any day?"

"Yessah. You better go on up to the house. The Cunnel will be rightglad to see you. You're a stranger in these parts, I reckon? I'd beglad to have you stop down to my house, but it's three mile down thetrack, an' we hatter walk. You'd be mo' comfo'table heah, I reckon.Walk on up, and tell 'em to give you a place to set. My woman an'me, I reckon we got to git home now, suh. It's somethin' might bemighty serious."

"Yas, indeed," murmured Mrs. Bowles, "we got to git along."

"Thank you," said the stranger. "I am very much obliged to you,indeed. I believe I will wait here for just a little while, as yousay. Good morning, sir. Good morning, madam."

He turned and walked slowly up the path toward the house, as theothers pursued their way to the railroad track, down which theypresently were plodding on their homeward journey. There was at leasta little milk left in the pail when finally they reached their logcabin, with its yard full of pigs and chickens. Eagerly they scannedthe sides of the railway embankment as they drew near, looking forsigns of what they feared to see. One need not describe the fiercejoy with which Sarah Ann Bowles fell upon little Sim, who waspresently discovered, safe and dirty, knocking about upon the kitchenfloor in abundant company of puppies, cats and chickens. As to thereproaches which she heaped upon her husband in her happiness, it islikewise unnecessary to dwell thereupon.

"I knowed he would be kilt," said Sarah Ann.

"But he hain't," said her husband, triumphantly. And for one time intheir married life there seemed to be no possible way in which shemight contradict him, which fact for her constituted a situationsomewhat difficult.

"Well, 'tain't yo' fault ef he hain't," said she at length. The restof her revenge she took upon the person of little Sim, whom shealternately chastened and embraced, to the great and grieved surpriseof the latter, who remained ignorant of any existing or pendingrelation upon his part with the methods or the instruments of modernprogress.

CHAPTER III

THE VISITOR

The new-comer at the Big House was a well-looking figure as headvanced up the path toward the white-pillared galleries. In heightjust above middle stature, and of rather spare habit of body, alert,compact and vigorous, he carried himself with a half-military self-respect, redeemed from aggressiveness by an open candor of face andthe pleasant, forthright gaze of kindly blue-gray eyes. In spite of acertain gravity of mien, his eyes seemed wont to smile upon occasion,as witnessed divers little wrinkles at the corners. He was smooth-shaven, except for a well-trimmed dark mustache; the latter offeringa distinct contrast to the color of his hair, which, apparently notin full keeping with his years, was lightly sprinkled with gray. Yethis carriage was assuredly not that of middle age, and indeed, thetotal of his personality, neither young nor old, neither callow noracerb, neither lightly unreserved nor too gravely severe, offeredcertain problems not capable of instant solution. A hurried observermight have guessed his age within ten years but might have been wrongupon either side, and might have had an equal difficulty inclassifying his residence or occupation.

Whatever might be said of this stranger, it was evident that he wasnot ill at ease in this environment; for as he met coming around thecorner an old colored man, who, with a rag in one hand and a bottlein the other, seemed intent upon some errand at the dog kennelbeyond, the visitor paused not in query or salutation, but tossed hisumbrella to the servant and at the same time handed him histraveling-bag. "Take care of these. Bill," said he.

Bill, for that was indeed his name, placed the bag and umbrella uponthe gallery floor, and with the air of owning the place himself,invited the visitor to enter the Big House.

"The Cunnel's not to home, suh," said Bill. "But you bettah come inand seddown. I'll go call the folks."

"Never mind," said the visitor. "I reckon I'll just walk around alittle outside. I hear Colonel Blount is off on a bear hunt."

"Yassah," said Bill. "An' when he goes he mostly gits b'ah. I'seright 'spondent dis time, though, 'deed I is, suh."

"What's the matter?"

"Why, you see, suh," replied Bill, leaning comfortably back against agallery post, "it's dis-away. I'm just goin' out to fix up old Hec'sfoot. He's ouah bestest b'ah-dog, but he got so blame biggoty, las'time he was out, stuck his foot right intoe a b'ah's mouth. Now,Hec's lef' home, an' me lef home to 'ten' to Hec. How kin CunnelBlount git ary b'ah 'dout me and Hec along? I'se right 'spondent,dat's whut I is."

"Well, now, that's too bad," said the stranger, with a smile.

"Too bad? I reckon it sho' is. Fer, if Cunnel Blount don't git nob'ah—look out den, I kin tell you."

"Gets his dander up, eh?"

"Dandah—dandah! You know him? Th'ain't no better boss, but ef hegoes out huntin' b'ah an' don't get no b'ah—why, then th' ain't noreason goin' do foh him."

"Is Mrs. Blount at home, Bill?"

"Th'ain't no Mrs. Blount, and I don't reckon they neveh will be.Cunnel too busy huntin' b'ah to git married. They's two ladies heah,no relation o' him; they done come heah a yeah er so ago, and they-all keeps house fer the Cunnel. That's Mrs. Ellison and her dahteh,Miss Lady. She's a pow'ful fine gal, Miss Lady."

"I don't know them," said the visitor.

"No, sah," said Bill. "They ain't been heah long. Dese heah low-downnigg*rs liken to steal the Cunnel blin', he away so much. One day, hegits right mad. 'Lows he goin' to advehtize fer a housekeepah-lady.Then Mas' Henry 'Cherd—he's gemman been livin' couple o' yeahs 'erso down to near Vicksburg, some'rs; he's out huntin' now with theCunnel—why, Mas' 'Cherd he 'lows he knows whah thah's a lady, jus'the thing. Law! Cunnel didn't spec' no real lady, you know, jes'wantin' housekeepah. But long comes this heah lady, Mrs. Ellison, an'brings this heah young lady, too—real quality. 'Miss Lady' we-allcalls her, right to once. Orto see Cunnel Cal Blount den! 'Now, Ireckon I kin go huntin' peaceful,' says he. So dem two tuk holt. Beenheah ever since. Mas' 'Cherd, he has in min' this heah yallah gal,Delpheem. Right soon, heah come Delpheem 'long too. Reckon she runsthe kitchen all right. Anyways we's got white folks in the parlah,whah they allus orto be white folks."

"Well, you ought to thank your friend—what is his name—duch*erd—
Decherd? Seems as though I had heard that name, below somewhere."

"Yas, Mas' Henry 'Cherd. We does thank him. He sut'nly done fix usall up wid women-folks. We couldn't no mo' git erlong 'dout MissLady now, 'n we could 'dout me, er the Cunnel. But, law! it don'tmake no diff'ence to Cunnel Blount who's heah or who ain't heah, hejest gotter hunt b'ah. You come 'long wid me, I could show you b'ahhides up stairs, b'ah hides on de roof, b'ah hides on de sheds, b'ahhides on de barn, and a tame b'ah hitched to the cotton-gin ovahthah."

"He seems to make a sort of specialty of bear, doesn't he? Got apretty good pack, eh?"

"Pack? I should say we has! We got the bestest b'ah pack inMiss'ippi, er in de whole worl'. We sho' is fixed up fer huntin'.But, now, look heah, two three days ago the railroad kyahs done runovah a fine colt whut de Cunnel was raisin' fer a saddle hoss—kiltit plumb daid. That riled him a heap. 'Damn the railroad kyahs,' sezhe. An' den off he goes huntin', sort o' riled like. Now, ef he comesback, and ef he don't git no b'ah, why, you won't see old Bill'round heah fer 'bout fo' days."

"You seem to know him pretty well."

"Know him? I orto. Raised wid him, an' lived heah all my life. Now,when you see Cunnel Blount come home, he'll come up 'long dat lane,him an' de dogs, an' dem no 'count nigg*rs he done took 'long widhim; an' when he gits up to whah de lane crosses de railroad track,ef he come ridin' 'long easy like, now an' den tootin' his hawn toso'ht o' let us know he's a-comin'—ef he do dat-away, dat's allright,—dat's all right." Here the garrulous old servant shook hishead. "But ef he don't—well den—"

"That's bad, if he doesn't, eh?"

"Yassah. Ef he don' come a-blowin' an' ef he do come a-singin',den look out! I allus did notice, ef Cunnel Blount 'gins to sing'ligious hymns, somethin's wrong, and somethin' gwine ter drap. Hehain't right easy ter git along wid when he's a-singin'. But if you'll'scuse me, suh, I gotter take care o' old Hec. Jest make yourself tohome, suh,—anyways you like."

The visitor contented himself with wandering about the yard, until atlength he seated himself on the board-pile beneath the evergreentrees, and so sank into an idle reverie, his chin in his hand, andhis eyes staring out across the wide field. His face, now in repose,seemed more meditative; indeed one might have called it almostmournful. The shoulders drooped a trifle, as though their owner forthe time forgot to pull himself together. He sat thus for some time,and the sun was beginning to encroach upon his refuge, when suddenlyhe was aroused by the faint and far-off sound of a hunting horn. Thatthe listener distinguished it at such a distance might have arguedthat he himself had known hound and saddle in his day; yet he readilycaught the note of the short hunting horn universally used by thesouthern hunters, and recognized the assembly call for the huntingpack. As it came near, all the dogs that remained in the kennel yardsheard it and raged to escape from their confinement. Old Bill camehobbling around the corner. Steps were heard on the gallery, and thevisitor's face showed a slight uneasiness as he caught a glimpse of acertain spot now suddenly made alive by the flutter of a soft gownand the flash of a bunch of scarlet ribbons. Thither he gazed asdirectly as he might in these circ*mstances.

"Dat's her! dat's Miss Lady!" said Bill to his new friend, in a lowvoice. "Han'somest young lady in de hull Delta. Dey'll all be rightglad ter see de Cunnel back. He's got a b'ah sho', fer he's comin' a-blowin'."

Bill's joy was not long-lived, for even as the little cavalcade camein view, a tall figure on a chestnut hunting horse riding well inadvance, certain colored stragglers following, and the party-coloredpack trotting or limping along on all sides, the music of thesummoning horn suddenly ceased. Looking neither to the right nor tothe left, the leader of the hunt rode on up the lane, sitting looseand careless in the saddle, his right hand steadying a short rifleacross the saddle front. He rode thus until presently those at theBig House heard, softly rising on the morning air, the chant of anold church hymn: "On Jordan's strand I'll take my stand, An-n-n—"

"Oh, Lawd!" exclaimed Bill. "Dat's his very wustest chune." Sayingwhich he dodged around the corner of the house.

A QUESTION OP VALUATION

Turning in from the lane at the yard gate, Colonel Calvin Blount andhis retinue rode close up to the side door of the plantation house;but even here the master vouchsafed no salutation to those whoawaited his coming. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, lean andmuscular; yet so far from being thin and dark, he was spare ratherfrom physical exercise than through gaunt habit of body; hiscomplexion was ruddy and sun-colored, and the long mustache hangingacross his jaws showed a deep mahogany-red. Western ranchman onemight have called him, rather than southern planter. Scotch-Irish,generations back, perhaps, yet southern always, and by birth-rightAmerican, he might have been a war-lord of another land and day. Nofeudal baron ever dismounted with more assuredness at his own hall,to toss careless rein to a retainer. He stood now, tall and straight,a trifle rough-looking in his careless planter's dress, but everyinch the master. A slight frown puckered up his forehead, giving tohis face an added hint of sternness.

Behind this leading figure of the cavalcade came a younger man. Inage perhaps at the mid thirties, tall, slender, with dark hair andeyes and with a dark mustache shading his upper lip, Henry Decherd,formerly of New Orleans, for a few years dweller in the Delta,sometime guest of Colonel Blount at the Big House plantation andcompanion of the hunt, made now a figure if not wholly eye-filling,at least handsome and distinguished. His dress was neat to the vergeof foppishness, nor did it seem much disordered by the hardships ofthe chase. Upon his clean-cut face there sat a certain arrogance, asof one at least desirous of having his own way in his own sphere. Notan ill-looking man, upon the whole, was Henry Decherd, though hisreddish-yellow eyes, a bit oblique in their setting, gave theimpression alike of a certain touchiness of temper and anunpleasantly fox-like quality of character. There was an air notbarren of self-consciousness as he threw himself out of the saddle,for it might have been seen that under his saddle, and not that ofColonel Blount, there rested the black and glossy hide of the greatbear which had been the object of the chase. Decherd stood with hishand resting on the hide and gazed somewhat eagerly, one might havethought, toward the gallery whence came the flash of scarlet ribbons.

Colonel Blount busied himself with directions as to the horses anddogs. The latter came straggling along in groups or pairs or singles,some of them hobbling on three legs, many showing bitter wounds. Thechase of the great bear had proved stern pastime for them. Of half ahundred hounds which had started, not two-thirds were back again, andmany of these would be unfit for days for the resumption of theirsavage trade. None the less, as the master sounded again, loud andclear, the call for the assembly, all the dogs about the place, youngand old, homekeepers and warriors, came pouring in with headsuplifted, each pealing out his sweet and mournful music. ColonelBlount spoke to dozens of them, calling each by its proper name.

"Here, Bill," he called to that worthy, who had now ventured toreturn from his hiding-place, "take them out to the yard and fix themup. Now, boys, go around to the kitchen and tell them to give yousomething to eat."

In the confusion of the disbandment of the hunt, the master of theBig House had as yet hardly found time to look about him, but now, asthe conclave scattered, he found himself alone, and turning,discovered the occupant of the board-pile, who arose and advanced,offering his hand.

"This is Colonel Blount, I presume," said he.

"Yes, sir, that's my name. I beg your pardon, I'm sure, but I didn'tknow you were there. Come right on into the house and sit down, sir.Now, your name is—?"

"Eddring," said the new-comer. "John Eddring. I am just down on themorning train from the city."

"I'm right glad to see you, Mr. Eddring," said Colonel Blount,extending his hand. "It seems to me I ought to know your family. Overround Hillsboro, aren't you? Tell me, you're not the son of old DanH. Eddring of the Tenth Mississippi in the war?"

"That was an uncle of mine."

"Is that so, is that so? Why, Dan H. Eddring was my father's friend.They slept and fought and ate together for four years, until myfather was killed in the Wilderness."

"And my uncle before Richmond; John Eddring, my father, long before,at Ball's Bluff."

"I was in some of that fighting myself," said Colonel Blount, rubbinghis chin. "I was a boy, just a boy. Well, it's all over now. Come onin. I'm mighty glad to see you." Yet the two, without plan, had nowwandered over toward the shade of the evergreen, and presently theyseated themselves on the board-pile.

"Well, Colonel Blount," said the visitor, "I reckon you must have hada good hunt."

"Yes, sir, there ain't a b'ah in the Delta can get away from thosedogs. We run this fellow straight on end for ten miles; put himacross the river twice, and all around the Black Bayou, but the dogskept him hot all the time, I'm telling you, for more than five milesthrough the cane, clean beyond the bayou."

"Who got the shot, Colonel?" asked Eddring—a question apparentlymost unwelcome.

"Well, I ought to have had it," said Blount, with a frown ofdispleasure. "The fact is, I did take a flying chance from horseback,when the b'ah ran by in the cane half a mile back of where theykilled him. Somehow I must have missed. A little while later I heardanother shot, and found that young gentleman there, Mr. Decherd, hadbeat me in the ride. But man! you ought to have heard that pack fortwo hours through the woods. It certainly would have raised your hairstraight up. You ever hunt b'ah, sir?"

"A little, once in a while, when I have the time."

"Well, you don't go away from here without having a good hunt. Youjust wait a day or so until my dogs get rested up."

"Thank you, Colonel, but I am afraid I can't stay. You see, I am downhere on a matter of business."

"Business, eh?"—Well, a man that'll let business interfere with ab'ah hunt has got something wrong about him."

"Well, you see, a railroad man can't always choose," said his guest.

"Railroad man?" said Colonel Blount. A sudden gloom fell on his ruddyface. "Railroad man, eh? Well, I wish you was something else. Now, Ihelped get that railroad through this country—if it hadn't been forme, they never could have laid a mile of track through here. But now,do you know what they done did to me the other day, with their damnedold railroad?"

"No, sir, I haven't heard."

"Well, I'll tell you—Bill! Oh, Bill! Go into the house andget me some ice; and go pick some mint and bring it here to thisgentleman and me—Say, do you know what that railroad did? Why, itjust killed the best filly on my plantation, my best running stock,too. Now, I was the man to help get that railroad through the Delta,and I—"

"Well, now, Colonel Blount," said the other, "the road isn't a badsort of thing for you-all down here, after all. It relieves you ofthe river market and it gives you a double chance to get out yourcotton. You don't have to haul your cotton twelve miles back to theboat any more. Here is your station right at your door, and you canload on the cars any day you want to."

"Oh, that's all right, that's all right. But this killing of mystock?"

"Well, that's so," said the other, facing the point and ruminatinglybiting a splinter between his teeth. "It does look as if we hadkilled about everything loose in the whole Delta during the lastmonth or so."

"Are you on this railroad?" asked Blount, suddenly.

"I reckon I'll have to admit that I am," said the other, smiling.

"Passenger agent, or something of that sort, I reckon? Well, let metell you, you change your road. Say, there was a man down below herelast week settling up claims—Bill! Ah-h, Bill! Where you gone?"

"Yes," said Eddring, "it certainly did seem that when we built thisroad every cow and every nigg*r, not to mention a lot of white folks,made a bee-line straight for our right-of-way. Why, sir, it was asolid line of cows and nigg*rs from Memphis to New Orleans. How couldyou blame an engineer if he run into something once in a while? Hecouldn't help it."

"Yes. Now, do you know what this claim settler, this claim agent mandid? Why, he paid a man down below here two stations—what do youthink he paid him for as fine a heifer as ever eat cane? Why,fifteen dollars!"

"Fifteen dollars!"

"Yes, fifteen dollars."

"That looks like a heap of money for a heifer, doesn't it, Colonel
Blount?"

"A heap of money? Why, no. Heap of money? Why, what you mean?"

"Heifers didn't bring that before the road came through. Why, youwould have had to drive that heifer twenty-five miles before youcould get a market, and then she wouldn't have brought over twelvedollars. Now, fifteen dollars, seems to me, is about right."

"Well, let the heifer go. But there was a cow killed three milesbelow here the other day. Neighbors of mine. I reckon that claimagent wouldn't want to allow any more than fifteen dollars for JimBowles' cow, neither."

"Maybe not."

"Well, never mind about the cow, either; but look here. A nigg*r losthis wife down there, killed by these steam cars—looks like thenigg*rs get fascinated by them cars. But here's Bill coming at last.Now, Mr. Eddring, we'll just make a little julep. Tell me, how do youmake a julep, sir?"

Eddring hitched a little nearer on the board-pile. "Well, ColonelBlount," said he, "in our family we used to have an old silver mug—sort of plain mug, you know, few flowers around the edge of it—beenin the family for years. Now, you take a mug like that, and let itlie in the ice-box all the time, and when you take it out, it's sortof got a white frost all over it. Now, my old daddy, he would takethis mug and put some fine ice into it,—not too fine. Then he'd takea little cut loaf sugar, in another glass, and he'd mash it up in alittle water—not too much water—then he'd pour that in over theice. Then he would pour some good corn whisky in till all theinterstices of that ice were filled plumb up; then he'd put somemint—"

"Didn't smash the mint? Say, he didn't smash the mint, did he?" said
Colonel Blount, eagerly, hitching over toward the speaker.

"Smash it? I should say not, sir! Sometimes, at certain seasons ofthe mint, he might just sort of take a twist at the leaf, to sort ofrelease a little of the flavor, you know. You don't want to be roughwith mint. Just twist it gently between the thumb and finger. Thenyou set it in nicely around the edge of the glass. Sometimes just alittle powder of fine sugar around on top of the mint leaves, andthen—"

"Sir," said Colonel Blount, gravely rising and taking off his hat,"you are welcome to my home!"

Eddring, with equal courtesy, arose and removed his own hat.

"For my part," resumed Blount, judicially, "I rather lean to a pieceof cut glass, for the green and the crystal look mighty finetogether. I don't always make them with any sugar on top of the mint.But, you know, just a circle of mint—not crushed—not crushed, mindyou—just a green ring of fragrance, so that you can bury your nosein it and forget your troubles. Sir, allow me once more to shake yourhand. I think I know a gentleman when I see one."

Oddly enough, this pleasant speech seemed to bring a shade of sadnessto Eddring's face. "A gentleman?" said he, smiling slightly. "Well,don't shake hands with me yet, sir. I don't know. You see, I'm arailroad man, and I'm here on business."

"Damn it, sir, if it was only your description of a julep, if it wasonly your mention of that old family silver mug, devoted to thatsacred purpose, sir, that would be your certificate of characterhere. Forget your business. Come down here and live with me. We'll gohunting b'ah together. Why, man, I'm mighty glad to make youracquaintance."

"But wait," said Eddring, "there may be two ways of looking at this."

"Well, there's only one way of looking at a julep," said Blount, "andthat's down the mint. Now, I'll show you how we make them down herein the Sunflower country."

"But, as I was a-saying—" and here Blount set down the glassesmidway in his compounding, and went on with his interruptedproposition; "now here was that nigg*r that lost his wife. Of coursehe had a whole flock of children. Now, what do you think that claimagent said he would pay that nigg*r for his wife?"

"Well, I—"

"Well, but what do you reckon?"

"Why, I reckon about fifteen dollars."

"That's it, that's it!" said Blount, slapping his hand upon the boarduntil the glasses jingled. "That's just what he did offer; fifteendollars! Not a damned cent more."

"Well, now, Colonel Blount," said Eddring, "you know there's a heapof mighty trifling nigg*rs loose in this part of the world. You see,that fellow would marry again in a little while, and he might get aheap better woman next time. There's a lot of swapping wives amongthese nigg*rs at best. Now, here's a man lost his wife decent andrespectable, and there's nothing on earth a nigg*r likes better thana good funeral, even if it has to be his own wife. Now, how manynigg*r funerals are there that cost fifteen dollars? I'll bet you ifthat nigg*r had it to do over again he'd a heap rather be rid of herand have the fifteen dollars. Look at it! Fine funeral for one wifeand something left over to get a bonnet for his new wife. I'll betthere isn't a nigg*r on your place that wouldn't jump at a chancelike that."

Colonel Blount scratched his head. "You understand nigg*rs all right,
I'll admit," said he. "But, now, supposing it had been a white man?"

"Well, supposing it was?"

"We don't need to suppose. There was the same thing happened to awhite family. Wife got killed—left three children."

"Oh, you mean that accident down at Shelby?"

"Yes, Mrs. Something-or-other, she was. Well, sir, damn me, if thatinfernal claim agent didn't have the face to offer fifteen dollarsfor her, too!"

"Looks almost like he played a fifteen dollar limit all the time,doesn't it?" said Eddring.

"It certainly does. It ain't right."

"Well, now, I heard about that woman. She was a tall, thin creature,with no liver left at all, and her chills came three times a week.She wouldn't work; she was red-headed and had only one straight eye;and as for a tongue—well, I only hope, Colonel Blount, that you andI will never have a chance to meet anything like that. Of course, Iknow she was killed. Her husband just hated her before she died, butblame me, just as soon as she was dead, he loved her more than ifshe was his sweetheart all over again. Now, that's how it goes. Say, Iwant to tell you, Colonel Blount, this road is plumb beneficent, ifonly for the fact that it develops human affection in such a way asthis. Fifteen dollars! Why, I tell you, sir, fifteen dollars was morethan enough for that woman!" He turned indignantly on the board-pile.

"I reckon," said Colonel Blount, "that you would say that about myneighbor Jim Bowles' cow?"

"Certainly. I know about that cow, too. She was twenty years old andon her last legs. Road kills her, and all at once she becomes a dreamof heifer loveliness. I know."

"I reckon," said Colonel Blount, still more grimly, "I reckon if thatdamned claim agent was to come here, he would just about say thatfifteen dollars was enough for my filly."

"I shouldn't wonder. Now, look here, Colonel Blount. You see, I'm arailroad man, and I'm able to see the other side of these things. Wecome down here with our railroad. We develop your country. We giveyou a market and we put two cents a pound on top of your cottonprice. We fix it so that you can market your cotton at five dollars abale cheaper than you used to. We double and treble the price ofevery acre of land within thirty miles of this road. And yet, if wekill a chance cow, we are held up for it. The sentiment against thisroad is something awful."

"Oh, well, all right," said Blount, "but that don't bring my fillyback. You can't get Himyah blood every day in the week. That fillywould have seen Churchill Downs in her day, if she had lived."

"Yes; and if she had, you would have had to back her, wouldn't you?You would have trained that filly and paid a couple of hundred forit. You would have fitted her at the track and paid several hundredmore. You would have bet a couple of thousand, anyway, as a matter ofprinciple, and, like enough, you'd have lost it. Now, if this roadpaid you fifteen dollars for that filly and saved you twenty-fivehundred or three thousand into the bargain, how ought you to feelabout it? Are you twenty-five hundred behind, or fifteen ahead?"

Colonel Calvin Blount had now feverishly finished his julep, and asthe other stopped, he placed his glass beside him on the board-pileand swung a long leg across so that he sat directly facing hisenigmatical guest. The latter, in the enthusiasm of his argument,swung into a similar position, and so they sat, both hammering on theboard between them.

"Well, I would like to see that damned claim agent offer mefifteen dollars for that filly," said Blount. "I might take fifty,for the sake of the road; but fifteen—why, you see, it's not themoney; I don't care fifteen cents for the fifteen dollars, but it'sthe principle of the thing. T'aint right."

"Well, what would you do?"

"Well, by God, sir, if I saw that claim agent—"

"Well, by God, sir, I'm that claim agent; and I do offer youfifteen dollars for that filly, right now!"

"What! You—"

"Yes, me!"

"Fifteen dollars!"

"Yes, sir, fifteen dollars."

Colonel Blount burst into a sudden song—"On Jor-dan's strand I'lltake my stand!" he began.

"It's all she's worth," interrupted the claim agent.

Blount fairly gasped. "Do you mean to tell me," said he, in forcedcalm, "that you are this claim agent?"

"I have told you. That's the way I make my living. That's my duty."

"Your duty to give me fifteen dollars for a Himyah filly!"

"I said fifteen."

"And I said fifty."

"You don't get it."

"I don't, eh? Say, my friend,"—Blount pushed the glasses away, hischoler rising at the temerity of this, the only man who in many ayear had dared to confront him. "You look here. Write me a check forfifty; and write it now."

"I've heard about that filly," said the claim agent, "and I've comehere ready to pay you for it. Here you are."

Blount glanced at the check. "Why, it's fifteen dollars," said he,"and I said fifty."

"But I said fifteen."

"Look here," said Blount, his calm becoming still more menacing, aswith a sudden whip of his hand he reached behind him. Like a flash hepulled a long revolver from its holster. Eddring gazed into the roundaperture of the muzzle and certain surrounding apertures of thecylinder. "Write me a check," said Blount, slowly, "and write it forfifty. I'll tear it up when I get it if I feel like it, but no manshall ever tell me that I took fifteen dollars for a Himyah filly.Now you write it."

He spoke slowly. His pistol hand rested on his knee, now suddenlydrawn up. Both voice and pistol barrel were steady.

The eyes of the two met, and which was the braver man it had beenhard to tell. Neither flinched. Eddring returned a gaze as direct asthat which he received. The florid face back of the barrel held agleam of half-admiration at witnessing his deliberation. The claimagent's eye did not falter.

"You said fifty dollars, Colonel Blount," said he, just a suggestionof a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Don't you think there hasbeen a slight misunderstanding between us two? If you are so blamedparticular, and really want a check for fifty, why, here it is." Hebusied himself a moment, and passed over a strip of paper. Even as hedid so, the ire of Colonel Blount cooled as suddenly as it had gainedwarmth. A sudden contrition sat on his face, and he crowded the paperinto his pocket with an air half shamefaced.

"Sir—Mr. Eddring," he began falteringly.

"Well, what do you want? You've got your check, and you've got therailroad. We've paid our little debt to you."

"Sir," said Blount. "My friend—why, sir, here is your julep."

"To hell with your julep, sir!"

"My friend," said Blount, flushing, "you serve me right. I amforgetting my duties as a gentleman. I ask you into my house."

"I'll see you damned first," said Eddring, hotly.

"Right!" cried Blount, exultingly. "You're right. You're one of thefighting Eddrings, just like your daddy and your uncle, sure asyou're born! Why, sir, come on in. You wouldn't punish the son ofyour uncle's friend, your own daddy's friend, would you?"

But the ire of Eddring was now aroused. A certain smoldering fire,long with difficulty suppressed, began to flame in spite of him.

"Bring me out a plate," said he, bitterly, "and let me eat on thegallery. As you say, I am only a claim agent. Good God, man!" andthen of a sudden his wrath arose still higher. His own hand made aswift motion. "Give me back that check," he said, and his extendedhand presented a weapon held steady as though supported by the limbof a tree. "You didn't give me a fair show."

[Illustration: "EDDRING GAZED INTO THE ROUND APERTURE OF IHE MUZZLE]

"Well, by the eternal!" half whispered Colonel Calvin Blount tohimself. "Ain't he a fighting chicken?"

"Give it to me," demanded Eddring; and the other, astounded, humbled,reached into his pocket.

"I will give it to you, boy," said he, soberly, "and twenty like it,if you'll forget all this and come into my house. I'm mighty sorry. Idon't want the money. You know that. I want you. Come on in, man."He handed back the slip of paper. "Come on in," he repeated.

"I will not, sir," said Eddring. "This was business, and you made itpersonal."

"Oh, business!" said Blount.

"Sir," said John Eddring, "the world never understands when a man hasto choose between being a business man and a gentleman. It does notalways come to just that, but you. see, a man has to do what he ispaid to do. Can't you see it is a matter of duty? I can't afford tobe a gentleman—"

"And you are so much one, my son," said Calvin Blount, grimly, "thatyou won't do anything but what you know is right. My friend, I won'task you in again, not any more, right now. But when you can, comeagain, sir, some day. When you can come right easy and pleasant, myson, why, you know I want you."

John Eddring's hard-set jaw relaxed, trembled, and he dared notcommit himself to speech. With a straight look into Colonel Blount'seyes, he turned away, and passed on down the path, Blount lookingafter him more than half-yearningly.

So intent, indeed, was the latter in his gaze upon the recedingfigure that he did not hear the swift rush of light feet on thegallery, nor turn until Miss Lady stood before him. The girl swepthim a deep courtesy, spreading out the skirt of her biscuit-coloredgown in mocking deference of posture.

"Please, Colonel Cal," said she, "since he can't hear the dinnerbell, would he be good enough to tell whether or not he will come inand eat? Everything is growing cold; and I made the biscuits."

Calvin Blount put out his hand, and a softer shade came upon hisface. "Oh, it's you, Miss Lady, is it?" said he. "Yes, I'm back homeagain. And you made the biscuits, eh?"

"You are back home," said Miss Lady, "all but your mind. I called toyou several times. Who is that gentleman you are staring at? Whydoesn't he come in and eat with us?"

Colonel Blount turned slowly as Miss Lady tugged at his arm. "Who ishe?" he replied half-musingly. "Who is he? You tell me. He refused toeat in Calvin Blount's house; that's why he didn't come in, MissLady. He says he's the cow coroner on the Y. V. road, but I want totell you, he's the finest fellow, and the nearest to a gentleman,that ever struck this country. That's what he is. I'm mighty troubledover his going away, Miss Lady, mighty troubled." And indeed his facegave warrant to these words, as with slow footsteps and frowningbrow, he yielded to the pressure of the light hand on his arm, andturned toward the gallery steps.

CHAPTER V

CERTAIN PROBLEMS

After his midday meal, Colonel Calvin Blount, wandering aimlesslyand none too well content about the yard, came across one of hisservants, who was in the act of unrolling the fresh bear hide andspreading it out to dry. He kicked idly at a fold in the hide.

"Look here, Jim," he said suddenly, "Mr. Decherd killed this b'ah,didn't he?"

"Yassah," said Jim.

"And he shoots a rifle; and here are three holes—buckshot holes—inthe hide. And you had a gun loaded with buckshot. Did you lend it toMr. Decherd?"

"No, sah," said Jim, turning his head away.

"Look here, boy," said Blount. "There is no liar, black or white, cango out with my dogs; because my dogs don't lie and I don't. Now, tellme about this."

"Well, Cunnel," said the boy, half ready to blubber, "the b'ah wasfaihly a-chawin' ol' Fly up. He wus right at me, an' I ran up closeso's not to hurt ol' Fly, and I done shot him."

"That's all right," said Colonel Blount. "How about the rest?"

"Well, sah, I had the b'ah mos' skinned, when up comes Mr. 'Cherd.'That's my b'ah,' said he. 'Co'se it is,' says I. Then he 'lowed he'dgive me two dollahs ef I said he was de man dat killed de b'ah."

Blount stared reflectively at a knot-hole in the side of the barn.

"Jim," said he, at length, "give me the two dollars. I'll take careof that." So saying, he swung on his heel and turned away.

The day was now far advanced, and the great white house had grownsilent. As Blount entered, he met no one at first, but finally at thedoor of a half-darkened room midway of the hall, he heard the rustleof a gown and saw approaching him the not uncomely figure of thequasi-head of the menage, Mrs. Ellison. The latter moved slowly andeasily forward, pausing at the doorway, where, so framed, shepresented a picture attractive enough to arrest the attention of evena bear-hunting bachelor.

"I am glad to see you back, Colonel," said she. "I am always souneasy when you are away;" she sighed.

Blount felt himself vaguely uncomfortable, but was not quite able toturn away.

"I was just in my room," said Mrs. Ellison, "as I heard you passingby. I had a little headache."

"That's too bad," said Colonel Blount, and turned again to go. Theunspoken invitation of the other still restrained him. She leanedagainst the door, soft-eyed, her white hand waving an effective fan,an attractive, a seductive picture.

"Why don't you ever come in and sit down and talk to me for aminute?" said she, at length. "I scarcely see you at all any more."

Blount gathered an uneasy hint of something, he knew not what; yet hefollowed her back into the half-darkened room, and presently, seatednear her, and wrapped in his own enthusiasms, forgot all but the bearchase, whose incidents he began eagerly to relate. His vis-a-vis satlooking at him with eyes which took in fully the careless strength ofhis tall and strong figure. For some time now her eyes had rested onthis same figure, this man who had to do with work and the chase,with hardship and adventure, and never anything more gentle—this manwho could not see!

"You must be more careful," said Mrs. Ellison. "But still, you aresafely back, and I'm glad you had good luck."

"Well, I don't know what you would call good luck," said Blount. "Thefact is, I had a little trouble, coming in."

"Trouble? In what way?"

"Well, it happened this way," said he, with a quick glance about him."I don't like to mention such things, but I suppose you ought toknow. This was about a couple of negroes back in the country a way.You know, I am a sort of deputy sheriff, and I was called on to do alittle work with those same negroes. I suppose you know, ma'am, thatthose negroes used to run this whole state a few years ago, thoughthey ain't studying so much about politics to-day."

"I know something of that," said Mrs. Ellison. "That was soon afterthe war, they tell me. But they gave that up long ago. They don'tbother with politics now."

"No," resumed Blount. "They're not studying so much as they used to.Not long ago I had a number of northern philanthropists down here,who came down to look into the "conditions in this district." I saidI'd show them everything they wanted; so I sent out for some of myfield hands. I said to one of them, "Bill," said I, "these gentlemenwant to ask you some questions. I suppose your name is William HenryArnold, isn't it?" "Yassah," said Bill. "You was county supervisorhere some years ago, wasn't you, Bill?' 'Yassah,' said Bill. I said,'I beg your pardon, Mr. William Henry Arnold, but will you pleasestep up here to my desk and write your name for these gentlemen?''Why, sho'! boss,' said he, 'you know I kain't write mah name.''That's all,' said I.

"'Now, gentlemen,' said I, 'exhibit number two is Mr. GeorgeWashington Sims. 'George,' said I, 'you used to be our countytreasurer, didn't you?' He said he did. 'Who paid the taxes, then,George?' said I. 'Why, boss, you white folks paid most of 'um.' 'Allright, Mr. George Washington Sims,' said I, 'you step up here andwrite your name for these gentlemen.' He just laughed. 'That'll do,'said I.

"'Exhibit number three,' said I to these northern philanthropists,'is our late distinguished fellow citizen, Abednego Shadrach Jones.He was our county clerk down here a while back. 'Nego, who paid thetaxes, time you was clerk?' He was right uncomfortable. 'Why, boss,'said he, 'you paid most of 'um, you an' the white folks in heah. Nonigg*h man had nothin' to pay taxes on.'

"'You know that we white folks had to pay for the schools andbridges, and the county buildings—had to pay salaries—had to paythe county clerk and the janitor—had to pay everything?' I said tohim. 'Yassah,' said Nego.

"'You were elected legally, and we white folks couldn't out-vote you,nohow?' 'Yassah,' said he. 'I s'pose we wus all 'lected legal 'nough.I dunno rightly, but dey all done tol' me dat wuz so.'

"'Nego,' said I, 'step up here to your boss' desk and write your
name, just like you do when I give you credit for a bale of cotton.'
Nego he steps up and he makes a mark, and a mighty poor mark at that.
'You can go,' I said to him.

"'Now, gentlemen,' said I to them, 'do you want exhibits number fourand five and six?' And they allowed they didn't.

"There was one fellow in the lot who stepped up to me and took myhand. He was a Federal colonel in the war, but he said to me,'Colonel Blount, I beg your pardon. You have made this plainer to methan I ever saw it before. It would be the ruin of this country ifyou gave over the control of your homes and property and let them berun by people like these. You have solved this problem foryourselves, and you ought to be left to solve it all the time. As forus folks from the North, we are a lot of ignorant meddlers; and asfor me, I'm going home.'"

Blount fell silent, musing for a time. "Some folks say, 'Educate thenegro,'" he resumed finally, "they say 'Uplift him.' They say 'Givehim a chance.' So do I. I will give him more than a chance. I willlet the negroes do all they can to help themselves, and I'll do thebalance myself. But they can't rule me, until they are better than Iam; and that's going to be a long while yet. Constitution or noconstitution, government or no government, the black rule can't anddon't go in the Delta! It wouldn't be right.

"Now, I'll tell you about those two poor fellows to-day," hecontinued. "There was Tom Sands, who works on a plantation abouttwelve miles from here. He has been getting drunk and beating hiswife and scaring his children for about three months. Judge Williamshad him up not long ago and bound him over to keep the peace, andwhen I last saw the judge he told me to take this negro up, if I wasgoing by there any time, and bring him up and put him in jail for awhile, until he got to behaving himself again. You know we have to dothese things right along, to keep this country quiet.

"Well, when we were coming in from the hunt, we passed within a fewmiles of his cotton patch, and I rode over to see him. He was out inthe field, and I found him and told him he had to come along. Herefused to come. He swore at me—and he was not even a countysurveyor in the old days! Then I ordered him in the name of the lawto come along. He picked up a piece of fence rail and started at me.I had to get down off my horse to meet him. I own I struck him righthard. There was another boy, a big black negro, that must have comein here lately from some other part of the country, a big, stoop-shouldered fellow—well, he started for me, too. I took up the samepiece of fence rail and knocked him down.

"I ought not to have told you this, ma'am," said Blount, rising. "Butthen, maybe it's just as well that I did. You never can tell whatwill come out of these things. We live over a black volcano in thiscountry all the time. Now, I didn't bring in either one of myprisoners. I hoped that maybe they would take this fence railargument as a sort of temporary equivalent to a term in jail. But to-morrow I'm going down in there and bring that Sands boy in. We neverdare give an inch in a matter of this kind."

"Do you think they will make any trouble?" said Mrs. Ellison.

"Never you mind about the trouble part of it," said Blount, quietly."I reckon he'll come in. I'm going to take a wagon this time. Sothat's the kind of luck we had on this b'ah hunt."

He arose to go, and left Mrs. Ellison sitting still in the shadedroom, her fan now at rest, her eyes bent down thoughtfully, but herfoot tapping at the floor. The incidents just related passed quicklyfrom her mind. She remembered only that, as they talked, this man'seye had wandered from her own. He was occupied with problems ofpolitics, of business, of sport, and was letting go that great gamefor a strong man, the game of love! She could scarce tell at themoment whether she most felt for him contempt or hatred—or somethingfar different from either.

At length she arose and paced the room, swiftly as the press ofstrange events which were hurrying her along. Indeed, she might,without any great shrewdness, have found warning in certain thingshappening of late in and around the Big House; but Alice Ellison evermost loved her own fancy as counsel. The blacks might rise if theyliked; Miss Lady might do as she listed, after all. Delphine andyoung Decherd might go their several ways; but as for her, and as forthis man Calvin Blount—ah, well!

She yawned and stretched out her arms, feline, easy, graceful, and soat length sank into her easy chair, half purring as she shifted nowand again to a more comfortable position.

CHAPTER VI

THE DRUM

John Eddring, the heat of his late encounter past, sat moodilystaring out from the platform of the little station to which he hadreturned. He was angry with all the world, and angry with himselfmost of all. It had been his duty to deal amicably with a man of theposition of Colonel Calvin Blount, yet how had he comported himself?Like a school-boy! But for that he might have been the accepted guestnow, there at the Big House, instead of being the only man ever knownto turn back upon its door. But for his sudden choler, he reflected,he might perhaps at this very moment be within seeing and speakingdistance of this tall girl of the scarlet ribbons, the very samewhose presence he had vaguely felt about the place all that morning,in the occasional sound of a distant song, or the rush of feet uponthe gallery, or the whisk of skirts frequently heard. The memory ofthat picture clung fast and would not vanish. She was so verybeautiful, he reflected. It had been pleasanter to sit at table insuch company than thus here alone, hungry, like an outcast.

He felt his gaze, like that of a love-sick boy, turning again andagain toward the spot where he had seen her last. The realization ofthis angered him. He rebuked himself sternly, as having been unworthyof himself, as having been light, as having been unmanly, in thusallowing himself to be influenced by a mere irrational fancy. Hesummoned his strength to banish this chimera, and then with suddenhorror which sent his brow half-moist, he realized that his facultiesdid not obey, that he was thinking of the same picture, that his eyeswere still coveting it, his heart—ah, could there be truth in thesestories of sudden and uncontrollable impulses of the heart? The verywhisper of it gave him terror. His brow grew moister. For him, JohnEddring—what could the world hold for him but this one thing ofduty?

Duty! He laughed at the thought. These two iron bands before his eyesirked his soul, binding him, as they did, hard and fast to anotherworld full of unwelcome things. There came again and again to hismind this picture of the maid with the bright ribbons. He gazed atthe distant spot beneath the evergreens where he had seen her. Hecould picture so distinctly her high-headed carriage, the straightgaze of her eyes, the glow on her cheeks; could restore so clearlythe very sweep of the dark hair tumbled about her brow. Smitten ofthis sight, he would fain have had view again. Alas! it was as when,upon a crowded street, one gazes at the passing figure of him whosepresence smites with the swift call of friendship—and turns, only tosee this unknown friend swallowed up in the crowd for ever. Thus hadpassed the view of this young girl of the Big House; and thereremained no sort of footing upon which he could base a hope of abetter fortune. Henceforth he must count himself apart from all BigHouse affairs. He was an outcast, a pariah. Disgusted, he rose fromhis rude seat at the window ledge and walked up the platform. Hefound it too sunny, and returned to take a seat again upon a brokentruck near by.

There was a little country store close to the platform, so built thatit almost adjoined the ware-room of the railway station; this beingthe place where the colored folk of the neighborhood purchased theirsupplies. At the present moment, this building seemed to lack much ofits usual occupancy, yet there arose, now and again, sounds of lowconversation partly audible through the open window. The voices werethose of negroes, and they spoke guardedly, but eagerly, with somepeculiar quality in their speech which caught the sixth sense of theSoutherner, accustomed always to living upon the verge of a certaindanger. The fact that they were speaking thus in so public a place,and at the mid-hour of the working day, was of itself enough toattract the attention of any white dweller of that region.

"I tell yuh," said one, "it's gone fah 'nough. Who runs de fahms, whomakes de cotton, who does de wu'k for all dis heah lan'? Who used torun de gov'ment, and who orter now, if it ain't us black folks? Deythrow us out, an' dey won't let us vote, an' we-all know we gotterright to vote. Dey say a nigg*r ain't fitten ter do nothin' but wu'k,wu'k, wu'k. nigg*r got good a right to live de way he want ter as dewhite man is. Now it's time fer change. De Queen, you-all knows, shedone say de time come fer a change."

A low growl, as from the throats of feeding beasts, greeted thiscomment. Footfalls, shuffling, approached the speaker.

"Tom Sands is daid, dat's whut he is," resumed the first speaker,"leastways as good as daid, 'cause he's just a-layin' thah an' kain'tmove er speak. An' look at me, look at my haid. De ol' man hit himpow'ful hahd, an' ef he didn't hit me jest de same, it wasn't nofault o' his'n, I tell you. He jes' soon killed bof of us nigg*rsthah as not. Whaffor? He want we-all to come inter town an' gitfined, git into jail ag'in." More growls than one greeted this, andthen there came silence for a while.

"My ol' daddy done tol' me twenty-five yeah ago," said the firstspeaker, "dat de time was a-goin' ter come. Dey wus onct a white manf'om up Norf come all over dis country, fifty yeah ago, an' hepreached it ter de nigg*rs befo' de wah dat some day de time gwinecome. We wus ter raise up all over the Souf an' kill all de whitefolks, an' den all de white women—

"We wus ter kill all de white men," at length resumed the same voice."De white men f'om de Norf wus ter ride intoe de towns den an' roball de banks an' divide de money wid we-all, an' dey wus to open desto's and give ebery nigg*r all de goods he want wifout payingnuthin' fer 'em; and den nigg*r ain't gwine to wu'k no mo'.

"Dat white man and his folks, my ol' daddy said, fifty yeah ago, deywu'k secret all over the Souf, from Tenn'ssee ter Louisian'. Dat wasfifty yeah ago, but my ol' daddy say when he was a piccaninny, disheah thing got out somehow an' de white folks down Souf dey cotch diswhite man f'om de Norf, an' done hang him, an' dey done hang and burna heap o' nigg*rs all over de Souf.

"Dat wus long time befo' de wah. Dey tol' us-all dat de time wuz sho'comin' den; but den de preachers and de doctors dey tol' us-all itmightn't be come den, but it would come some day. Den 'long come dewah, an' de preachers an' de doctors an' de white folks up Norf deydone tol' us, nigg*r gwine ter be free, not to have ter wu'k no mo'.Huh! Now look at us! We wu'k jest as hard as we ever did, an' we gitno mo' fer it dan whut we eat an' weah. We kain't vote. Dey donerobbed us outen dat. We kain't be nobody. We kain't git 'long. Wehatter wu'k jest same, wu'k, wu'k, wu'k, all de time. nigg*r jest aswell be daid as hatter wu'k all de time—got no vote, ner nuthin'.Dat's whut de Queen she done tol' me right plain las' meetin' we had.She say white folks up Norf gwine to help nigg*r now, right erlong.Things gwine be different now, right soon."

Murmurs, singularly stirring, peculiarly ominous, answered thisextended speech. Encouraged, the orator went on. "We ain't good asslaves, we-all ain't. We wu'k jest ez hahd. Dey gin us a taste o' dewhite bread, an' den dey done snatch it 'way f'om us. We want ter belike white folks. Up Norf dey tell us we gwine ter be, but down heahdey won't let us."

Now suddenly the voice broke into a wail and rose again in a half-chant. Evidently the storekeeper was absent, perhaps across the wayfor his dinner. The building was left to the blacks. Withoutpremeditation, those present had dropped into one of those "meetings"which white men of that region never encourage.

"Dey brung us heah in chains, O Lord!" shouted the orator. "Yea, inchains dey done weigh us down! O Lord, make us delivery. O Lord,smite down ouah oppressohs."

"Lord! Lord! yea, O Lord, smite down!" responded the ready chorus.And there were sobs and strange savage gutterals which no white earmay ever fully understand. The white listener on the station platformunderstood enough, and his eager face grew tense and grave. A meetingof the blacks, thus bold at such a time, meant nothing but danger,perhaps danger immediate and most serious.

The wild chant rose and fell in a sudden gust, and then the voicewent on. "De time is heah; I seen it in a dream, I seen it in avision f'om de Lord. De Lord done tell it to de Queen, and done sayter me, 'Rise, rise and slay mightily. Take de land o' de oppressoh,take his women away f'om him an' lay de oppressoh in de dus'! Ceasedy labors, Gideon, cease an' take dy rest! Enter into de lan', OGideon, an' take it foh dyself! O, Lord, give us de arm of deAvengeh. I seen it, I seen it on de sky! I done seen it foh yeahs,an' now I seen it plain! De moon have it writ on her face las' night,de birds sing it in de trees, de chicken act it in his talk dis vehymawnin'. De dog he howl it out las' night. De sun he show it plaindis vehy day. De trees say it, now weeks an' weeks. All de worl' sayto nigg*r now, jes' like he heah it fifty yeah ago, jes' like he heahit in de wah we made—'De Time, de Time!' I heah it in my ears. Ikain't heah nuthin' else but dat—'De Time, de Time am heah!' Nuthin'but jes' dis heah, 'De Time, de Time am heah!'"

And now there ensued a yet stranger thing. There was no further voiceof the orator; but thee arose a wild, plaintive sound of chanting, asong which none but those who sang it might have understood. Itssavage unison rose and fell for just one bar or so, and then sank tosudden silence. There came a quick shuffling of feet in separation.The group fell apart. The store was empty! Out in the open air, underthe warm summons of the sun, there passed a merry, laughing group ofnegroes, happy, care-free, each humming the burden of some simplesong, each slouching across the road, as though ease and the warm sunfilled all his soul! Dissimulation and secretiveness, seeded insavagery, nourished in oppression, ingrained in the soul forgenerations, are part of a nature as opaque to the average Caucasianeye as is the sable skin of Africa itself.

They scattered, but a keen eye followed them. Eddring saw that theybegan to come together again at different points, group joininggroup, and all bending their steps toward the edge of the surroundingforest. Had the owner of the Big House, or any planter thereabout,seen this gathering at the midday hour, when the people should havebeen at their work, he would assuredly have stopped them and madesharp questioning. But at the moment the storekeeper was at homeasleep in his noonday nap; the owner of the Big House had problems ofhis own, and, as it chanced, none of the neighboring planters was atthe railroad station. John Eddring, now fully alert, looked sharplyabout him, then slipped down from the railway platform. He crossed alittle field by a faint path, and hurried off to the shadow of thewoods, his course paralleling the forest road as nearly as might be.

At half-past three that afternoon, at a point five miles from therailway station, there was enacted a scene which might more properlyhave claimed as its home a country far distant from this. Yet therewas something fitting in this environment. All around swept theheavy, solemn forest, its giant oaks draped here and there with thefunereal Spanish moss. A ghostly sycamore, a mammoth gum-tree now andthen thrust up a giant head above the lesser growth. Smaller trees,the ash, the rough hickory, the hack-berry, the mulberry, and in theopen glades the slender persimmon and the stringy southern birchescrowded close together. Over all swept the masses of thick canegrowth, interlaced with tough vines of grape and creeping, thornedbriers. It was the jungle. This might have been Africa itself!

And it might have been Africa itself which produced the sound thatnow broke upon the ear—a deep, single, booming note which caused thebrooding air of the ancient wood to shiver as though in apprehension.There had been faint forest sounds before that note broke out: thesmall birds running up and down the tree-trunks had chirped andchattered faintly; the squirrels on the nut trees had dropped somebits of bark which rustled faintly as they fell from leaf to leaf; arabbit ambling across the way had left a vine a-tremble as itdisappeared, and a far-off crow had uttered its hoarse note as italighted on a naked limb. But as this deep, reverberant, single noteboomed out across the jungle, there came a sudden hush of all nature.It was as though each living thing caught terror at the sound. Onlyfar above, as though they heard a summons, the black-winged buzzardsidly circled over.

The note came again, single, deep, vibrant, smiting a world gonesilent. There had been the interval of a full minute between the twoechoes of the giant drum. A minute followed before it spoke again.And thus there boomed out across the jungle, deep, solemn, ominous,miles-wide in its far-reaching quality, this note of the savage drum;the drum never made by white hands, never seen by the eyes of whitemen; the drum whose note has never yet been heard in the North, butwhich some day, perhaps, may be; whose note is not yet understood bythose of the North, over-wise, arrogant in the arrogance of an utterignorance, who may yet one day hear its strange and frenzied summons!

The drum spoke on—the drum of the savage people, of the ancientsavage tribes. The rolling vibration of its speech swung andextended, causing the leaves to shiver in its strange power. Thesound could have been heard for miles—was heard for miles. Slippingdown the little leafy paths in the cane, pushing along the edges ofthe highway for a time, ready to step out of sight upon the instantdid occasion arise for concealment; coming down the paths made bydeer and bear and panther; moving slowly but speedily and withconfidence through this cover of vine and jungle, to which the blackman takes by instinct, but which is never really understood by thewhite man; knowing the secrets of this savage wilderness, yielding toits summons and to this summons of the compelling drum, whose noteshivered and throbbed through all the heavy air of the afternoon—these people, these inhabitants of the jungle, slipped and slunk andhesitated and came on, until at last this little, secret, unknownbuilding which served as their hidden temple was fairly packed withthem; and a circle, open-eared, alert for any sudden danger, made ahuman framing half-hidden in the shrouding of the mighty canes.

One blast of the horn of white hunter or of chance traveler, and thespot had been deserted on the instant, its peopling vanished beyonddiscovery. But there was no horn of hunter, no sound even of tinklingcow-bell, no voice of youth in song or conversation. Only the soundof the great drum, the drum made years ago and hidden in a spot knownto few, spoke out its sullen summons, slowly, in savage deliberation.Its sound had a carrying quality of its own, unknown in white men'sinstruments. It was heard at the Big House, five miles away, thoughit was not recognized as an actual and distinct sound, white ears notbeing attuned to it. Even here at the hidden temple it seemed notmore than the whisper of a sound, scarce louder than it appearedmiles away. It was bell and drum in one, and trump of doom as well.

The drum spoke on, the drum of the jungle. It whispered of revenge tothose who crept up to the dusky drummer and stood waiting to drink inat each long interval this deep intoxicating stimulus, the note ofthe priestly drum. And each deep throb of the drum carried a greaterfrenzy, a frenzy still suppressed, yet mysteriously growing. The riotof the ominous clanging sank into the blood of these people, thoughstill it only caused them to shiver and now and then to sob—to sob!these giants, these tremendous human beings, these black or bronzeTitans of the field, transplanted—in time, perhaps, to have theirvengeance of the ages! They stood, their eyes rolling, their mouthsslavering slightly, the muscles of their shoulders now and againrolling or relaxing, their hands coming tight together, palm smittento palm, jaw clenched hard upon its fellow.

The drum spoke on. Inside the low log building certain preparationsprogressed, mummeries peculiar to the tribesmen, not to be described,strange, grotesque, sickening, horrible. A few donned fantasticuniforms cut out from colored oil-cloths. They placed upon theirheads plumed hats of shapes such as white men do not create. Theybuckled about their bodies belts spangled with bits of shining thingssuch as white men do not wear. They drew slowly together and passedapart. They seated themselves now, in long rows, upon logs hewn outas benches, on either side of the long room; but restless of this,they rose again and again to pace, walking, walking, uneasy, anxious.Now and then an arm was flung up. Outside, where ranks of eyes gazedunwinking, hypnotized, upon the door of the temple, there rose nosound save now and then this strange sobbing.

And still the drum throbbed on, the drum of the jungle, whose soundnot all white men have heard as yet. The forest shivered across itsmiles of matted growth, as it heard the growling voice which called,"The Time! The Time!" Relentless, measured, so spoke the savage drum.

CHAPTER VII

THE BELL

Meanwhile at the Big House there was no suspicion of what was goingforward in the forest beyond; indeed the occupants had certainproblems of their own to absorb them. A strange unrest seemed inpossession of the place. Decherd had disappeared for a time. Mrs.Ellison, in her own room, rang and called in vain for Delphine. Themaster himself, moody and aloof, took saddle and rode across thefields; but if there were fewer hands at labor than there should havebeen, he did not notice the fact as he rode on, his hat pulled downover his face, and his mind busy with many things, not all of whichwere pleasing to him.

As for Miss Lady, she occupied herself during the afternoon muchafter the fashion of any young girl of seventeen left thus, withoutcompanions of her own sex and age. She strolled about the yard,finding fellowship with the hounds, with the horses in theneighboring pasture. She looked up in pensive question at the clouds,feeling the soft wind, the hot kiss of the sun on her cheek. Upon hersoul sat the melancholy of youth. In her heart arose unansweredqueries of young womanhood.

Now, as to this young man, Henry Decherd, thought Miss Lady, whyshould he trouble her by being continually about when she did notcare for him? Why had he been so eager, even from the first day whenhe met her at the Big House? What had he to do with her coming to theBig House? Why did her mother now leave her with him, and, thenagain, capriciously call her away from him? And why should sheherself avoid him, dismiss him, and then wonder whither he had gone?

Miss Lady, with one vague thought or another in her mind, wanderedidly back to the great drawing-room where but an hour ago she hadlast seen Henry Decherd. He was not there as she peered in at thedoor; wherefore she needed no excuse, but stepped in and dropped intoa chair which offered invitation in the depths of the half-darkenedroom.

A beautiful girl was Miss Lady, round of throat and arm, alreadystately, quite past the days of flat immaturity. A veritable younggoddess one might have called her, with her high, short mouth andupright head, and her shoulders carried back with a certainhaughtiness. Yet only a gracious, pensive goddess might have had thiswistfulness in the deep eyes, this little pensive droop of the mouthcorners, this piteous quality of the eye which left one saying thathere, after all, was a maiden most like to the wild deer of theforest, strong, beautiful, yet timid; ready to flee, yet anxious toconfide.

As she sat thus, the idle gaze of Miss Lady chanced upon an objectlying on the floor, fallen apparently by accident from the near-bytable. She stooped to pick it up, examining it at first carelesslyand then with greater interest. It was a book, a little old-fashionedbook, in the French language, the covers now broken and faded, thoughonce of brave red morocco. The type was old and quaint, and the paperyellow with age. Miss Lady had never seen this book before, and now,failing better occupation, fell to reading in it. Presently shebecame so absorbed that once more she was surprised by the quietapproach of Mrs. Ellison. The latter paused at the door, looked inand coughed a second time. Miss Lady started in surprise.

"You frightened me, mamma," said she, "coming up so close. You arealways frightening me that way. Do you think I need watching all thetime?"

"Well, you know, my child, we must not keep Colonel Blount waitingfor his dinner."

"But tell me, what book is this, mamma?" said Miss Lady to her. "It'sFrench. See, I can read some of it. It is about people in St. Louisyears and years ago. It tells about a Louise Loisson—isn't that apretty name!—who was a captive among the Indians, or something ofthat sort. She was an heiress, like enough, too, I can't make outjust what, but certainly well-born. I think her father was a count,or something. Mamma, you should have insisted upon my taking upFrench more thoroughly when I was at the Sisters'. Now, this is thestrangest thing."

"Nonsense, child. Can't you spend your time better than fooling withsuch trash?"

"It isn't trash, mamma. The girl went to France, to Paris, and shedanced—she was famous."

Mrs. Ellison shifted uneasily. "You are old enough to begin readingbooks of proper sort. I don't know how you pick up such notions asthis," said she.

"Is not the book yours, mamma?"

"Why, no, of course not. I don't know whose it is."

How much it might have saved Mrs. Ellison later had she now simplypicked up this book, admitted its ownership and so concealed it forever! How much, too, that had meant in the life of Miss Lady, itschance finder! Yet this was not to be. Fate sometimes teaches a womanto say the thing which at the instant relieves, though it laterdamns. It was Mrs. Ellison's fate to deny all knowledge of thislittle volume.

"Come, we must hurry, my child," she repeated. Miss Lady resolved tocome back after dinner and look further into this interesting book.Mrs. Ellison resolved the same. Her interest in the little volume wasfar greater than she cared to evince. She hesitated. Her eyes turnedto it again and again, her hands longed to clutch it. Once more inher possession, she resolved that never in the future should it beleft lying carelessly about, to fall into precisely the wrong hands.She hurried Miss Lady away from the place.

"Go and get ready for dinner," she commanded, "and try to look yourbest to-night; you know we've Mr. Decherd, and perhaps other company.That girl Delphine has run away, and I had to look after thingsmyself; I don't want you to disgrace me—"

"I'll try not," said Miss Lady, coolly, and swept her a mockingcourtesy.

Mrs. Ellison gazed after her with ill-veiled hostility, but turnedaway presently, quite as anxious as she was angry. This girl was aproblem, and a dangerous one as well.

Things were not going smoothly at the Big House. Sam, the curly-headed, embryonic butler, who gazed out over Colonel Blount's dinner-table each evening in solemn dignity, knew that something was wrongwith his people that evening, though he could not tell what. Some ofthem talked too much. Miss Lady laughed too much. The boss was toothoughtful, and young Massa Decherd—whom Sam had never learned tolike—was too scowling. Little Sam was almost relieved when a knocksummoned him without, and he betook his ten years of dignity fromColonel Blount's right hand, to learn what might be wanted at thedoor.

"What is it, Sam?" asked Colonel Blount.

"M-m-m-m-man outside, sah, h-h-h-he wants to see you, sah."

"Well, Sam, if there is a gentleman outside, why don't you ask him tocome in and eat with us? Don't you know your manners, Sam? Why do Igive you this place to run if you can't ask a gentleman to come inand sit at your table when we are having dinner?"

"D-d-did as-s-s-sk him, sah," said Sam, "b-b-but he wouldn't c-c-c-come in; n-n-n-no, sah, wouldn't c-c-c-come in."

"What, wouldn't come in, eh?"

"No, sah, s-s-s-says you must come out, sah. W-w-w-wants to see you,sah. H-h-h-he won't wait."

It was the claim agent of the Y. V. railroad who stood on the galleryawaiting the appearance of Colonel Blount. The latter looked at himquietly for a moment, and held out his hand.

"Come in," said he, "you are just in time for dinner. I'm glad to seeyou back."

"Colonel Blount," said Eddring, in spite of himself grown againswiftly choleric, "damn your dinner! I have come back because as awhite man I've got to tell you what you ought to know." There was aneagerness in his tone whose import was recognized by Blount.

"What's up?" said he, shortly. "nigg*rs?"

"Yes, down below there."

"Down towards the Sands' place?"

"Yes, they've been holding a meeting all the afternoon; they've got aregular church over there in the cane. They've got a leader thistime, of some sort; I can't find out who it is, but it all meanstrouble. There has been a plot going on for a long time. They thinkyou have been too rough with them, and, in fact, I reckon they arejust generally right desperate and dangerous. They've heard a lot ofthis political and educational talk from up North, and it's done whatmight have been expected all along. The nigg*rs are up. They aregoing to march on your house to-night. Why, haven't you heard theirinfernal drum going all the evening! This is insurrection, I tellyou!"

"Come in," said Blount, simply. "I thank you."

"I don't want any thanks," said Eddring, "I am telling you thisbecause you are a white man and so am I. It is my duty."

Blount reached out his hand again. "Not necessary," said Eddring; butthe older man threw a long arm over his shoulders, so that for aninstant they looked into each other's eyes; then quickly Eddringturned and caught Blount by the hand.

"I can't come in," said he, "until you take back this infernalvoucher we were wrangling over."

"Oh, well," said Blount, "I will take it, if that will please you, oryou may keep it, if that will please you better. There's no time forthat sort of thing now. Come in and sit down at my table—and nowyou, Sam, run and tell Mollie to ring the big plantation bell, andkeep it ringing until I tell her to stop."

John Eddring thus came back to the Big House which lately he had leftin anger; and as he entered the great dining-room he saw once morehis coveted picture, the image of the morning, the tall young girlwith the brown ruff of hair rolling back from the smooth brow, abovethe clear-seeing dark eyes. Here again, by miracle, had come hisfriend, to meet him in the smother of the grimy way of life! Yet hethought the girl looked at him but coldly as he stood wearily apart.He felt himself unaccredited, a man of no station. Again there sweptover him the feeling of his own insufficiency, his own failure of alllife's things worth having. It seemed to him that in this younggirl's gaze there called out to him the cool, insolent tone ofpitiless youth, saying: "I know you not; you are not my friend."

Himself simple and direct in good masculine sort, he knew little ofsuch thing as coquetry, nor knew that the soul feminine might hidemuch curiosity, if not interest, behind a glance indifferentlyturned, a word calmly or coolly spoken. And so he raged, unhappy inhis own ignorance, and most of all unhappy for that, now disobedientto all his mandates, there surged up in his heart a great anddangerous longing, the mutiny of a soul too long crushed down by theiron hand of the commonplace,—the iron hand of this thing calledDuty.

Out of this sudden conflict, and out of this sudden misery, he couldformulate no better course of action to set him straight; and in theuneasy silence, tense, overstrung, he almost longed for that physicalaction which he knew must presently follow.

But now there pealed out suddenly upon the air of evening the mightyclangor of the great bell, the one used only in time of stress at theBig House, which soon sent all else silent. High and clear arose thenote, ringing out for a moment and then silent, only to resume. Thedinner in the great hall passed with few explanations vouchsafed, andpresently Mrs. Ellison hurried Miss Lady away. Eddring, dimly awarethat now in spite of himself he was established on some sort offooting in the Big House, none the less reflected that the occasioncounted for but little from a social standpoint. He caught himselflooking at the door where the tall young woman had disappeared. Forthe time he forgot his own station, and his own errand in that place.He forgot no more than an instant, for there came to him the swiftfeeling that a grave peril impended for this girl, for all the whitewomen of the house. From that moment his problems became savagelyimpersonal. He was simply one of a few men called upon to defend ahome, and the women of that home. He asked his soul as to his fitnessfor the task, and rejoiced grimly that he found himself calm andready for this thing which was now his duty.

Colonel Calvin Blount scarcely spoke, yet he gladly welcomed hisneighbor, the storekeeper, Ben Buckner, who now came strolling up tothe gallery steps; and he smiled with yet greater pleasure when hepeered out of the window into the twilight and saw riding up to thegate his other neighbor, Jim Bowles, who carried across the saddle infront of him a long rifle. Behind Bowles, on the family mule, sat hiswife, Sarah Ann, dipping snuff vigorously.

"Good even', Cunnel," said Bowles, alighting, "I heah you-all got ab'ah this mawnin'. I just brung my own gun 'long heah, 'lowin' Imight see somethin' 'long the road, even if it is gittin' a littledark." Blount smiled grimly. No mention was made of the ringing ofthe bell until Blount himself explained.

"You-all know something is up," said he.

"Yas, sah," said Buckner, evincing no great curiosity.

"Well, there's trouble enough on hand right now. We need every whiteman we can get. Bowles, take your wife inside to get something toeat, and you, Ben, go back and get your women-folks; and don't forgetyour Winchester."

The bell spoke on. The plantation paths now began to blacken withslowly moving figures, but within the Big House there was noconfusion. Colonel Blount paced slowly up and down the gallery.Hearing footfalls, he turned.

"Oh, it's you, Decherd, is it? I'm right glad you're going home to-morrow morning, and not to-night. We need men who can shoot. I willgive you something for every black head you can make a hole in to-night. What would you like? Say about two dollars?" Decherd gulpedand reddened, and made such shamefaced defense as he could. There wasan ugly look of ill temper on his face, but he found Calvin Blount ahard man to approach with any masculine asperities.

"The next time," said Blount to him, quietly, "if I were you, Mr.Decherd, and I heard the Blount pack going out, I don't believe Iwould ride along." He was away before Decherd could frame reply. Atthat instant Eddring appeared on the gallery calling out to him.

"Listen, listen to it," cried Eddring, "don't you hear it? That'stheir drum; it's coming closer."

The little party of white men faced toward the sound.

"Here, Bill," cried Blount. "Call the ladies here to me at once." Heturned to them, as presently they appeared, questioning him.

"Never mind," he said, "there's going to be a little trouble, but wecan handle it. It's out of the difficulty with that Sands nigg*r thatI was telling you about, Mrs. Ellison. Now, here, you and Miss Ladytake these two pistols, and go into Miss Lady's room. No matter whathappens, you stay there until you are called. If any one tries to getinto the room, wait until he gets almost in, then shoot, and shootstraight. Don't be scared, and keep quiet; well take care of you,these gentlemen and myself. I must tell you that it was my friend Mr.Eddring here who brought the news and warned us. You ought to thankhim, but not now; get on into that room."

The women took the weapons, and Eddring noticed that of the two Mrs.Ellison seemed the more frightened. The younger one was pale, but hereye did not flicker or falter. She looked straight at each man, atBowles and Buckner, both impassive, at Calvin Blount, now beginningto flush under his fighting choler; yes, and at last at him, JohnEddring, pale and serious, but steady as the door-jamb against whichhe leaned.

"It was fortunate for us, sir, that you came," she said in a voicethat did not tremble as much as did his in stammering a reply. So shepassed on within, and the eyes of those silent men followed her.

"Now then, Bill," cried Calvin Blount, sharply, "get the hands intoline so we can count them. Here, into the kitchen there, all youpeople, every one of you. If I see a head out of the window thisnight it will get a hole put through it. Do you hear? Get under coverand stay there. Ring that bell, Bill, louder, louder! Keep it going!We'll show these people what we think, and what we'll do."

So, high over the droning sounds of sleeping evening-tide, therearose the challenge of the white man's bell, calling out to thesavage drum its answer and its defiance.

CHAPTER VIII

THE VOLCANO

At length the sound of bell and drum alike ceased. The great housewent grim and silent. The sound of the flying night-jars died away,and the chorus of crickets and katydids began as the dusk settleddown. Inside the kitchen, a detached building in which the plantationforces were now practically confined, there arose occasional soundsof half-hysterical laughter, snatches of excited talk, now and thenthe quavering of a hymn. In the kennel yards a hound, prescient,raised his voice, and was joined by another, until the whole pack,stirred by some tense feeling in the air, lifted up in tremulousunison a far-reaching wail.

After a time even the mingled calling of the pack droned away, andsilence came once more, a silence hard to endure, since now eachoccupant of the Big House knew that the assailants must be closeabout. Each man had a window assigned to his care, and so all settledfor the task ahead. An hour passed that seemed a score of hours.Then, over toward the railroad track, there came a confused sound ofmuffled footfalls in ragged unison, and presently a sort of chant,broken now and then by shoutings. Suddenly there boomed out oncemore, full and unmistakable, the voice of the great drum of Africa.The beating was now rapid and sonorous, and the sound of the drum wasaccompanied by a savage volume of cries. A mass of shadow appeared atthe end of the lane, soon lapping over into the yard in front of theBig House.

There arose near at hand answering calls, containing a scarcelyconcealed note of encouragement. At a window in the kitchen thereappeared a head and arm thrust out. Eddring saw it and pointed. "Whydon't you shoot, man?" said the slow voice of Bowles at his elbow.

"I can't; it's murder!" said Eddring, drawing away. Yet even as hedid so he saw the long brown barrel of the squirrel rifle rise leveland hang motionless. There came a sharp, thin, inadequate report, andat the kitchen window the shoulders of the unfortunate flung upwardand fell hanging. Eddring felt sick with horror, but Bowles loweredhis rifle calmly, as if this were but target practice. Not a hand inthe kitchen dared pull back into the room the body of the dead negro.

And now there came a sudden rush of feet; a medley of deep-throatedcallings came almost from the gallery edge. The assault, savage,useless, almost hopeless, had begun. Eddring remembered always thatit seemed to him that this young gentleman, Henry Decherd, was atrifle pale; that Bowles was at least a dozen feet tall; that ColonelCalvin Blount was quite turned to stone; and that he himself was notthere personally, but merely witnessing some fierce and fearfulnightmare in which others were concerned. Once he heard Mrs. Ellisoncall repeatedly to Delphine, and was dimly conscious that there wasno answer. Once, too, he saw, standing at the door, the tall figureof the young girl, Miss Lady—the white girl, the prototype ofcivilization; woman, sweet, to be shielded, to be cared for, to beprotected—yea, though it were with a man's heart-blood. And afterthis spectacle John Eddring looked about him no more, but cherishedhis rifle and used it.

About him were vague and confused sounds of a conflict of which hesaw little save that directly in front of his own window. He wasconscious of a second insignificant rifle-crack at his right, andheard other shots from Blount's window at the left. His own work hedid methodically, feeling that his duty was plain to him. He was arifleman. His firing was not aimless, but exact, careful, pitilesslyunagitated.

The black mass in front broke and scattered, and drew together againand came on. The assailants reached every portion of the front yard,hiding behind buildings, trees, anything they could find. At the rearof the house, among the barns, there arose the yelping of dogs cutdown at the kennels, and screams rang out where the maddened blacks,no longer human, were stabbing horses and cattle and leaving themhalf dead. Then there arose a sudden flicker of flame. Some voicecried out that they had fired the cotton-gin. From other buildingscloser at hand there also arose flames. From the kitchen came criesand lamentations. Here and there over the ground, plain in themoonlight, or huddled blackly in the shadows, there lay long blurswhere the rifles had done their work. Yet from a point not far fromthe corner of the gallery there came continual firing.

"That's from behind that board-pile out there," cried Blount,stepping back from his window. "We've got to get them out." Eddring,not pausing for speech, plunged out of the window, rushed across thegallery and over the narrow space to the shelter whence was comingthis close firing. His weapon spoke once and was lowered. Then hefled back as swiftly as he had gone.

"Get back in here, you fool!" cried Blount, pulling him in at thewindow as he returned. "How many were there?"

"Two," said Eddring, breathless. "One was a woman."

"Woman!" cried Blount; "what woman?"

There was no time to ponder as to this, for now shouts sounded behindthem. The crashing of glass and cries of fear came from the roomwhere the women had been left. The men hurried thither, and as theygained the door, a black face appeared at the broken pane. Once moreEddring felt hesitation at what seemed simple murder, yet still hisrifle was rising when he felt a sudden dizziness assail him. A longarm pushed him away. He saw the brown barrel of the squirrel riflerising into line once more. The black at the window fell back, shotthrough the forehead. Sarah Ann handed Jim Bowles another bullet. "Ialways did love you, ol' man," said Sarah Ann, as he blew the smokefrom the long barrel of his rifle before reloading.

Eddring saw and heard thus much, but presently he sank half-unconscious, not knowing the puzzle of the shot which had struck himhere so far toward the interior of the house. After a time the horrorof it all drew to its climax and passed on. Buckner, the storekeeper,slipped down to the railroad station and set going an imperativeclicking on the wire. Two hours later there came a special train,whose appearance put an end to the conflict. Dawn found the enginefuming at the station-house, and dawn saw the Big House stillstanding, charred a little at one corner, near which lay the body ofthe unfortunate who had sought to apply the brand. Eddring, stillfaint and dizzy, but not seriously hurt, sat at a little tableopposite Colonel Blount, who, himself gray and gaunt, had paused fora time in his uneasy walk about the premises. A mocking-bird on thetrellis without the door trilled its song high and sweet, as thoughthe coming sunshine could reveal nothing of that which had beenthere.

CHAPTER IX

ON ITS MAJESTY'S SERVICE

John Eddring, one morning, a month, or so after the Big Housebattle, sat in the offices devoted to the use of the division claimagent of the Y. Y. lines, whose headquarters were situated in a squatbuilding around which went on the scattered industries of the cityknown as the industrial capital of a certain region of the South.Beyond these dingy confines might have been seen other structures yetmore squat and dreary, from which issued the lines of iron railswhich led out into the South, rails which even here paralleled theshores of the great river, as though dependent upon it formaintenance and guidance. The mighty flood, unmindful, swept towardthe South, its tawny mane far out in midstream wrinkled by the breathof an up-stream air.

Beyond the nearest bend there arose, above the cover of the grayforest, the dense smoke of a steamer, and near at hand there came nowand again the coughing roar of the whistles of yet other river boats.Slow smoke issued also from steamers tied up at the levee, where,under low wooden canopies, lay piles and rows of brown-cased cottonbales, continually increased in number by other bales brought up inlong drays, each drawn by a single mule. Above the hot wharves rosethe slope of close stone riprapping, fence against Father Messasebe,who now and then, in spirit of sport or of forgetfulness, reached outfor his immemorial tribute of the soil. The sun was reflected fromthis wall down on the depot building and the wharf floor beyond.Across the water came the strumming of a banjo, and the low note ofsinging also arose from the rooms where workmen shuffled about withtruck and hook, shifting the cotton bales. An inspector, almost theonly white man at the wharf, moved slowly from bale to bale, rippingthe covers with his knife and probing with his cotton auger into themiddle of each bale to test its quality. Mules dozed about withlopping ears. Nowhere was there haste; neither here nor on thestreet; nor in the railway offices beyond, where sat John Eddring,agent of the personal injury department of this southern railway.

The room was not attractive, with its few chairs, its rows of letterfiles, its desks and copying presses. The table at which Eddring satwas worn and lacking in polish. Upon the wall hung a map showing thedivers lines of the Y. V. railroad; a chart depicting the streetcrossings in the city of New Orleans; an engineer's elevation of abridge somewhere on the line. Severely professional were thesesurroundings; as was indeed the central figure in the room, who nowsat at his desk opening the morning mail. He looked up presently asthere came a knock at the door, and soon was on his feet, hat inhand; for the first caller of the day proved to be a lady. Apparentlyshe was an acquaintance of the claim agent, who addressed her byname.

"Come in, Mrs. Wilson," he said pleasantly.

Mrs. Wilson, just arrived from a small town down the railroad, hadbrought with her her sister, her mother and four children, not tomention a neighbor who had come along to do a little shopping.Eddring employed himself in getting a sufficient number of chairs forthis little body of visitors. Inquiries as to the health of himselfand his family ensued, reciprocated politely by Eddring, who askedafter Mrs. Wilson's kith and kin and the leading citizens of hertown. These preliminaries were long, but the claim agent wasapparently well acquainted with them and regarded them as necessary.

"Well, now, Mr. Eddring," said Mrs. Wilson, "I've come in heah thismawnin' to see you about ouah hawse. You know ouah Molly hawse gotkilt down at the depot two weeks ago by the railroad kyahs. Ideclare, I felt so bad I sat down and cried; I couldn't get supperthat day. We was so much attached to Molly—why, Mr. Eddring, youdon't know how bad we-all did feel about that hawse. It don't seemright to us nohow."

"No, things do go wrong sometimes, Mrs. Wilson," said Eddring,soothingly. "Now, I know that horse. Mr. Wilson drove me behind herthe other day when I was down at your town. Good horse. A little oldand a trifle lame, if I remember right." He smiled pleasantly.

"Lame! Why, Molly never was lame a day in her whole life. She neverdid have no lameness at all, unless it was a sort of hitch now andthen like, but you couldn't call it right lame. Now, Mr. Wilsondidn't come up. I tol' him you was a mighty nice man and you wouldn'tlet a lady get the worst of a business deal. I thought we could talkit over and you would do about what was right. Now, two hundreddollars—"

"Two hundred dollars! Why, my dear madam, you know I can get youanother horse—"

"Get us another hawse like Molly! I'd like to know where you can geta hawse that's been in ouah family twenty years for any two hundreddollars! Why, Mr. Eddring, I always thought you was a fair-mindedgentleman."

"Don't call me that, don't call me a gentleman," said Eddring, "anddon't you call me fair-minded! But now, just look here. We didn'task that Molly horse to get on our track. We didn't want to kill her,now, did we? All we wanted was to steam up there to the platform, andput off some groceries and let off a few passengers. We didn't want tokill anybody's horse. Now, I know Molly has been in your family along time; a good horse, I don't deny it. We couldn't make it rightwith you if we paid you a thousand dollars; so just let's forget itand try to be friends. Let me give you a check for forty dollars."

"Forty dollars!"

"Now, then, Mrs. Wilson, this is not to be for Molly, it's justtrying to be friendly. I want to feel free to come down and sit atyour table and look you all in the face."

"I don't see how you could do that, and only pay me forty dollars,
Mr. Eddring." A grieved look sat on the lady's face.

"Well, now, I reckon I could, if I just saw you dressed up in a newgown that I saw in the window down at the store this morning. Ireckon I could, if I saw hanging in your hall that hat that I sawthis morning, down on the street."

"Do you think forty dollars would buy them, Mr. Eddring?" asked Mrs.
Wilson.

"Surely it would, and leave you enough to pay for your whole trip uphere, and buy some things for the children besides. Now, look here, Idon't want you to think I'm offering that to pay you for Molly. Iain't paying for any horses for Mr. Wilson. He is a gentleman thatdon't need ask favors of anybody, and he's going to pick out his ownhorses. You tell him I said he was a good judge of a horse. I want youto tell him I scorn to offer you money for this here Molly horse ofyours—I scorn to do so. Mr. Wilson will make more than two hundreddollars in a day or so, the way cotton is going up this week. I justthrow in this forty dollars—here is the voucher for it—so as to showyou I am your friend. Now, if you ever want any shopping done up hereany time; Mrs. Wilson, just write to me and I'll do the best I can.I'd go right down to the store with you to look at that dress, if itwasn't that I have to be right busy here for a while. Good-by, Mrs.Wilson, good-by, madam. Good-by to you all. I am glad you all came in.Good-by, little folks; here's something;" and each, small handreceived a silver piece from the claim agent.

Mrs. Wilson passed out with a puzzled expression on her face. On thestairway she sighed. "Well, he is a nice man, anyhow," said she, toher companion.

This little party had scarce disappeared before there came anothervisitor, this time a fat colored woman of middle age, who labored upthe stair and halted at the door.

"Come in, auntie," called the claim agent, from Ms desk, "what's thematter?"

"You know whut's the matter, Mr. Edd'ron," said the caller. "You'membehs me?"

"Yes," said the claim agent, "you had a baby run down at the streetcrossing yesterday. We sent it to the hospital. How is it gettingalong?"

"Hit's daid, Mr. Edd'ron. Yas sah, my lil' Gawge is daid."

"What? Oh, pshaw!"

"Yas sah, lil' Gawge done die six o'clock dis maw-nin'." She shookwith sobs. The claim agent dropped his own face into his hands. Theweary look came back again into his eyes. At last he turned and wentup to the black woman where she stood sobbing, and extended his hand.

"There, there, auntie," he said, "I'm sorry, mighty sorry. Now,listen. I can't settle this thing this morning. Here is ten dollarsof my own money to help bury the boy decently. As soon as I can, Iwill take up the matter, and I will settle it the best I can for you.Now, go away; please, go away."

The negro woman ceased her sobbing as she took the bill.

"Ten dollahs," said she, "ten dollahs for dat baby! Dat'll buhy himright fine, it sho' will, Mr. Edd'ron. You'se a fine man, Mr.Edd'ron, 'deed you is."

Eddring smiled bitterly. He paced up and down the room, his head bentdown. Presently he turned to his assistant.

"Go on over to the depot," said he, "and see if there is any moremail. I don't think I will do any letters just now."

Left alone, he continued to pace up and down, until at length heheard steps and again a knock at the door, after the custom inbusiness in that region. This time there entered the tall form of hiswhilom friend, Colonel Calvin Blount, from his plantation down theroad. Him he saluted right gladly and asked eagerly regarding hishealth.

"I am well, right well," said Blount, "Just came up to see about alittle cotton. It looks like twelve cents before long."

"Well, with cotton at twelve cents you ought not to have any quarrelwith the world, Colonel Blount."

"Well, now," replied Blount, "I need about everything I can get toput my place in order again. It's some months now since we had ourlittle war down there, and I haven't got together half the hands Ineed yet. Some of my people cleaned out and we never did hearanything more of them. We've got plenty of nigg*rs in jail down thereyet; but that ain't the way we want it. We want 'em to get out ofjail and into the fields at work. They'd rather stay in jail. Theyget as much to eat, and more time to rest."

"Well, they did raise trouble that time, didn't they?" said Eddring."What do you suppose started them, Colonel? Who was it put them up todo it?" Blount shook his head.

"That's the puzzle," said he. "It was some one with brains; and notthe kind of brains that grows under kinky hair, either."

The two men sat silent for a time. "Oh, by the way," said Blount, atlength, "I was just going to say I brought up Mrs. Ellison and MissLady with me this morning. I left them over at the hotel right now.Do you know, Eddring, that girl has grown up to be a plumb beauty!She's handsome enough to just scare you. Why, I never did know therewas so many young men in this whole town before that were acquaintedwith me. Looks like she was a public menace to business on thestreets. Pine girl. And just as good as she's handsome!"

Eddring felt the blood surge up into his face, but he made nocomment. He knew that the one unsafe thing for him to do was to seeagain this same Miss Lady, and yet against this decision all theriotous blood of his heart surged out in protest. He took a swiftturn to the window.

"By Jove, Colonel," he cried, "out there goes that fellow Jim Hargis,from over near Jewelville. He's got that brag dog of his along."

"Dog? What dog?" cried Blount.

"There, that's the one," said Eddring, pointing out a man passing by,who was accompanied by a pepper-and-salt foxhound. "Do you see thatdog? Well, Jim Hargis says that's the coldest-nosed hound ever run atrail, and he's got five hundred dollars to bet his equal don't livein the South."

"Humph," sneered Blount, "I reckon he never did see my old Hec."

"Hec! Why, he says he'd make Hec look like a pot-licker if he evergot mixed up with his dog."

"What! My old Hec! Five hundred dollars! Say, you just holler tohim, while I run down stairs." And away went the irate Colonel, hishands fumbling in his pockets.

Eddring did not stay to see the result of his stratagem. Instead, ashe found himself alone, he walked up in front of the little mirrorwhich hung upon the wall. He gazed straight into it, examining withfrowning face the reflection which he witnessed. He ran a hand acrossthe gray-tinged hair, turned up a corner of the mustache with areflective finger, man-fashion, and looked eagerly, searchingly, atthe face which confronted him. It was a face slightly lined, a trifletired. He stood there thinking, questioning this image. As he turnedaway he sighed.

The wind rustled the dingy curtains at the dingy window, as he flunghimself discontentedly into a chair, A bar of sunlight lay across thefloor; at the window there came the sound of a song bird from a near-by tree; but these signs and sounds of an outdoor world John Eddringdid not note. He felt nothing but the grim imprisonment of thesedusty walls. In his soul was revolt, rebellion. He smote his handhard upon the papers which, lay before him on the desk.

"This, this," he exclaimed aloud, "this is all my life! Good God! itis to buy life, human life, human sufferings, and to buy them cheap!I swear, I can see blood on every voucher that I sign! That's mybusiness. I must buy these things cheap; and they say I don't buythem cheap enough—they want me to put in my whole heart, and honor,and principles. Here is my salary for the month." Pie drew the slipof paper toward him and sat looking at it. "And here is the lastcorrespondence from the superintendent. Complaints, all of it. Once Ithought I should succeed. Success-yes, I have succeeded—in beingabsolutely wretched every day of my life. God! God! Is this all?"

He pushed the papers from him and half rose, leaning over the desk,resting on his hands.

"Success," he muttered again to himself. "What is it? I gave up thelaw and I took the salary." He paused and sighed. "At any rate," heresumed, musing still aloud, "my old mother has had a roof over herhead, and has had three meals a day. Well, it's made me old. Isuppose I oughtn't to mind, but oh, damn everything! Damn everything,I say!" He scattered the papers with a blow of his hand, andwhirling, stood once more before the mirror, which seemed to havesome unusual interest for him. He did not at first hear the step ofthe visitor who now entered the door and came gently up behind him.

"Confound you!" cried he, suddenly, as at length he caught thefootfall. "What do you mean by coming in like that?"

The frail and gray-haired lady who halted at this salutation was asmuch startled as himself. "Why, John!" said she. "Why, John!"

Turning, Eddring caught her by the hand, his face flushed.

"Mother!" he cried, "I thought it was the clerk."

"Why, John," repeated Mrs. Eddring, "I didn't know that you everswore."

"I don't, mother, except sometimes. The fact is—well, today I justhad to."

"You were thinking of something else."

"Well, yes. I beg your pardon. I was just feeling pretty good overthe way business matters were going, and—well, the truth is, I wasjust a little—well, a little exuberant, you know."

Mrs. Eddring seated herself and looked about her at the dingy littleoffice, which ever seemed to her poor housing for one who, in herbelief, was the greatest man in all the world.

"I beg your pardon, John," said she, "for intruding in your businesshours, but I was down-town to-day, and I thought I would just drop into see you." She gazed at him keenly, noting with a mother's eye theworn look on his face.

"I don't think you've been looking well lately, John," said she.
"Does your arm still trouble you?"

"Why, of course not, it's all well. Why, I'm feeling fine, fine! Youand I ought to be feeling well these days, for you know we have justfinished paying for our house, and everything is looking perfectlysplendid all around. You didn't know I had a raise in my salary lastmonth, did you?" He turned his back, as he said this last, that hismother might not discover on his face so palpable a falsehood.

"Is that so, John?" she said. "Why, I'm so glad!" A faint spot ofcolor came into the faded cheeks, and the old eyes brightened. "Well,I'm sure you deserved it. They couldn't pay you more than you'reworth."

"No," said Eddring, grimly, "they are not apt to." His mother caughtno hidden meaning, but went on.

"You're a good business man, John, I know," said she, "and I know youhave always been a gentleman in your work." Here spoke the old South,its pride visible in the lift of the white crowned head, and theflash of an eye not yet dimmed in spite of the gentleness of thepale, thin face.

Eddring gulped a bit. "Well, you know, in business," said he, "afellow pretty near has to choose—"

"And you have always chosen to be a gentleman."

"As near as I could, mother," said he, gravely. "I have just done thebest I could. Now, as I was saying, I am feeling mighty fine to-day.Everything coming out so well—the truth is—"

"John," said his mother, sharply, "why do you say 'the fact is,' and'the truth is'? You don't usually do that."

He did not answer, and there went on the subtle self-communings ofthe mother-brain, exceedingly difficult to lead astray. For the timeshe did not voice her thought, but approaching him, placed a handupon his shoulder, and brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead.

"Pretty gray, isn't it, mother?" said he, smiling at her.

"Nonsense! Is that what you were thinking about?"

"Well, you see, I'm getting—"

"No, you're not! You don't look a day over twenty-five."

"That's right. That's right," said he, blithely. "I am twenty-five,exactly twenty-five; and they're raising my salary right along.What'll it be when I'm fifty?"

"You ought to have a new necktie, John," said his mother, smoothingdown the lapel of his coat. "A rising man, like you, my son, mustalways remember little things."

"That's right," said he. "That's right. You know I'm so careless. Thetruth is—"

"There you go again, John! Now why are you so particular to tell methat what you are saying to me is the truth? Just as if you ever inyour life said anything which wasn't true."

He did not answer, but hurriedly turned away, that the keen eyesmight not examine his face too closely. She followed him.

"John," said she, sharply, "tell me, what's the trouble? Tell me thetruth."

"I have," said he. The words choked him, and she knew it. He evadedonce more the attack of her eyes, but again she followed him, herface now very pale, her lips trembling.

"Boy," said she, "tell me, what is it? Is there a woman? Is thereanybody?"

"Nobody in all the world but you," he declared bravely. It was of noavail, and he knew it, as the keen eyes finally found his own.

"John!" said his mother, "you have not been telling me the truth."

"Well, I know it," said he, calmly, and with far greater happiness."Of course I haven't. Who said I was? O, Lord! you can't foola woman any way on earth. Now here—"

"Who is this girl?" asked his mother, with a certain sternness as shegazed at him directly; "for of course I knew very well what was thematter. I suppose I shall have to face this some day, though it hasbeen so long—"

Eddring looked her straight in the face in return, and this timewithout flinching.

"The dearest girl in the world," said he. "But I reckon she's not forme."

"Who is she? Where is she? Where did you meet her? Have you apicture?"

"I don't need one."

"What's her name—her family? Of course—"

"She hasn't any family. I don't know where she came from."

"John!"

"Well, it's true."

"But you could not expect—"

"I expect nothing!" cried he, again striking his clenched hand uponthe table. "Here is my world. Oh, well, you know now if I ever swear,and why."

Her lip trembled. "I never knew you did," said she. "John, tell me,have you ever spoken to her?"

"Good God! no, never. How could I? What have I to offer a girl likeher? Who am I? What am I?"

She caught his head in her arms and drew his face down to her bosom.
"There, there," said she. "There, there, now."

But presently he broke from her, and swung out into the room, erectand active once more, a sudden triumph in his carriage, a brighterglance in the eye for a time grown dull.

"Pshaw! Here," said he, "here I am, pitying myself! That isn't a goodthing for a man to do. A man oughtn't to complain. He ought to takehis medicine."

"Look," he cried, coming to her again, "maybe the world is justloving me, that's all, and doesn't know. Maybe it's the same as itwas when I scratched my face on your breast-pin when I was a baby,when your arms were around my neck. You did not mean it. Maybe lifedoes not mean it. Maybe it's just loving us all the time.

"Come, now, you shall see this girl who is of no family. Come withme. She is here, right in town, this very day."

"Where is she, John?"

"Why, Colonel Blount told me that she and her mother were over atthe hotel. Could we call? Wouldn't it be all right if we did?"

"If the ladies are strangers in town," said Mrs. Eddring, slowly,"and if they are friends of yours, then I will call on them withyou."

"Come!" said he, feverishly. "Come!"—then suddenly: "Tell me, mammy,does my hair look so awfully gray?"

"John," said she, "there isn't a gray hair in it. Come on, what areyou waiting for?"

Eddring had turned, and was fumbling at a drawer in his desk. Heraised a face flushed and conscious-looking. "The fact is, mother,I've got a new necktie right here, and—and I want to put it on."

CHAPTER X

MISS LADY OF THE STAIR

"I have always told you, Lady," said Mrs. Ellison, "how a girl whohasn't any fortune can best achieve things. Of course, it's aquestion of a man. When she has found the man, it rests with her. Shemust let herself out and yet keep herself in hand. Emotion, but nottoo much, and at the right time—that's the scheme for a girl whowants to succeed."

"How you preach, mamma!" said Miss Lady, petulantly. "You are alwaystalking to me about the men. As if I cared a straw!"

"You ought to care, Lady. Men! Why, there's nothing in the world fora woman except the men."

Miss Lady said nothing, but went on adjusting a pin which she tookfrom among several others held in her mouth. At length she patteddown her gown, and frowned with a sigh of satisfaction, as she lookeddown over her long and adequate curves. Discovering a wrinkle in theskirt of her gown, she smoothed it out deftly with both hands.

"There are not very many gentlemen to bother about down at the Big
House now, mamma," said she; "at least, not since Mr. Decherd left.
But then, he's coming back. Did you know that?"

Mrs. Ellison's face showed a swift gleam of satisfaction. "I hope hewill," said she. "But, after all, we must sometime go somewhere else.Now, New Orleans, or New York perhaps. You are almost prettysometimes, Lady. We could do things with you, in the right place."

Miss Lady stamped her foot upon the floor in sudden fury. "Mamma,"cried she, "when you talk this way I fairly hate you!"

"You talk like all the foolish Ellisons," said the other, slowly."Now, I could tell you things, when the time came. But, meantime, youforget that you and I have absolutely no resources."

"Excepting me!" This with white scorn.

"Excepting you." This with frank cynicism.

Miss Lady controlled herself with difficulty. "At least," said she,"we have a home with Colonel Blount. He has always said he wanted usto stay, and that he couldn't do without us. Now"—and she laughedgaily—"if Colonel Blount didn't have a red mustache, I might marryhim, mightn't I?"

"Be done with such talk," said Mrs. Ellison, sharply, "You'd muchbetter think about Mr. Decherd. And yet,"—she frowned and nervouslybit her finger-tips as she turned away. Miss Lady made no answerexcept to go over again to stand before the mirror, where sheexecuted certain further pattings and smoothings of her apparel.

The two were occupied, in these somewhat dingy quarters in the hotel,in preparing for their sallying out upon a shopping expedition in thecity, an event of a certain interest to plantation dwellers. Mrs.Ellison paused in her own operations to extract from a hand-bag aflask, wherefrom she helped herself to a generous draft. Miss Ladycaught the flask from her.

"You disgust me, mamma," said she. "How often have I told you!"

"You were not quick enough, my dear," said Mrs. Ellison, calmly."Now, I was saying that you were born for lace and satins. Promiseme, Lady, no matter what happens, that if you ever get them, you willgive me a few things for myself, won't you? Sometimes—sometimes I amnot certain." She smiled as she spoke. There might have been politicoverture, or beseeching, or threat, or deadly sarcasm in her speech.Miss Lady could not tell; and it had taken, indeed, a keen student todefine the real meaning of the enigmatical face of Alice Ellison,woman not yet forty, ease-loving, sensuous, yet for this time almosttimorous.

"Now, a good, liberal man," began Mrs. Ellison presently, however,"is the best ambition for any young woman. For some reasons, we mightdo better than remain at the Big House longer. We will see, my dear,we'll see." And so they stepped out into the hall.

It was a vision when Miss Lady came down the stair. Young men who sawher removed their hats, and old men thanked God that the day ofmiracles was not gone; so fair was Miss Lady as, with head high, andbody slow and stately beyond her years, and foot light and firm, shecame down the little stairway, and glorified it with youth and thespirit of the morning.

Miss Lady had indeed, within the last few months, rapidly grown upinto compellingly beautiful young womanhood. Much of the girlishnesswas gone and the firmer roundness of full femininity had taken itsplace. Her neck, a column of white above its frill of laces, rosestrong and fine. Her hair, unlighted by the sun, was dark and full ofvelvet shadows. Her eyes, with long lashes softly falling, offeredthe shadows and the mysteries of the dawn. Her figure asked smallaid, and, needing none, carried, and was not made by, the well-cutgown of light silken weave, dotted here and there with small redfleur-de-lis. A maze of long scarlet ribbons hung from Miss Lady'swaist, after a fashion of her own, and for purposes perhaps remotelyconnected with a tiny fan which now appeared, and now again was lost.A cool, sweet ripeness was reflected in the spot of color here andthere upon the fawn-colored wide brim of the hat, upon the smoothcheek, on the lips of the short and high curved mouth. As she walked,there was heard the whispering rustle of the Feminine; that soundindefinable, which creeps upon man's unwitting senses and enslaveshim, he knows not how or when or why.

Well enough all this served to set in tumult the pulses of at leastone who saw Miss Lady, fresh as a little white cloud, warm as a tinyspot of yellow sunlight, cool and mysterious as the morning, thusframed as a picture on the stair.

John Eddring and his mother, unannounced by reason of theslothfulness of a negro messenger, sat in the hotel waiting-room,which served as the "ladies' parlor," opening out near the foot ofthe stairway. And so it chanced that they saw Miss Lady and hercompanion as they descended. It seemed to Eddring that this vision onthe stair was the most beautiful thing in all the world. He wassmitten at once dumb and motionless. He felt his mother's hand on hisarm.

"John," said she, "did you see that girl? She was perfectlybeautiful!" The touch aroused him. She saw it all written in hisface.

"She?" he murmured. "Miss Lady!" and presently sprang after, toreturn a moment later with the two ere they had left the hall.Whereupon followed all manner of helpless, hopeless, banal andinadequate commonplaces, out of which Eddring blankly remembered onlythat the visit of Miss Lady to the city was to terminate thatevening, at the departure of the down train. And so, after all,little remained for him but a present parting, though all his soulcried out for speech with Miss Lady alone, for the sight of her faceonly. It was as though within the moment all the energies of his lifehad been directed into a new channel, whose insufficient walls werethreatened with destruction by the flooding torrent. The primeval manarose, exulting, sure; and so, in a moment, John Eddring knew why theworld was made, and by what tremendous enginery of imperious desireit is driven on its way. Work, riches, art, music, architecture, thevast industrialism of an age, all this thing called progress—all,all were for this alone, this thing of love! The atmosphere about himthrilled, vibrant with this message of the universe. The interspacesof all things seemed lambent, and therein fixed centrally was thisineffaceable and ineffable picture. He gazed, and as he gazed therecame to him but one thought: For ever.

"John," said Mrs. Eddring, when they were again alone, "that's asweet girl, a very sweet girl. Did you notice how she thankedme—as being the elder lady, you know—for our call? I think—"Eddring started, only half-hearing her.

"But that lady, her mother," went on Mrs. Eddring, "I can't tell, yetfor some reason I do not fully understand her. But—" and here shegained conviction, "you need not tell_ me!_ There is familysomewhere back of that girl, my son. She's good enough. She's—"

"Good enough!" cried John Eddring. "Good enough! What do you mean?"

"Ah, my boy," said Mrs. Eddring, sighing, "I know. I presume, I hope,that you feel quite as the general did, when I was a girl. SometimesI have thought the world was changing in such matters. I shall wantto see this young lady again, and often. We must inquire—but here Iam, talking with you, when of course you must be back at your work.I'll leave you now."

"Work!" cried John Eddring. "Work!"

CHAPTER XI.

COLONEL CALVIN BLOUNT'S PROPOSAL.

The mild winter of the Delta region wore itself gradually away, andnow again the sun was high in the mid-arc of the sky, glowing so warmthat the earth, rich and teeming, seemed once more to quiver underits ardor. The sloth of ease and comfort was in the air. The big beesdroned among the flowers at the lattice, and out in the glaringsunlight the lusty co*cks led their bands betimes, crowing each hisloud defiance. In the pastures, under the wide-armed oaks, the cattleand horses stood dozing. Life on the old plantation seemed, afterall, to have set on again much in its former quiet channels. Ifwithin the year there had been insubordination, violence, deathhereabout, the scene no longer showed it. The Delta, less than aquarter white, more than three-quarters black, was once more at rest,and waiting.

This was the scene over which Miss Lady looked out one day as she satin a big rocking-chair in the shade, in a favorite spot of the widegallery, feeling dreamily, if not definitely, the spirit of the idlelandscape which lay shimmering in the sun. Her gaze gained directnessand comprehension at last.

This, thought Miss Lady, was the world! It was all the world for her.This, so far as she could see, was to be her fate—to sit and lookout over the wide reaches of the cotton fields, to hear the negroessing their melodies, to watch the lazy life of an inland farm. Thiswas to be the boundary of her world, this white and black rim of theforest hedging all about. This lattice was to shut in her life forever. She might meet no white woman but her mother, no white man.Things were not quite clear to Miss Lady's mind to-day. She sank backin the chair, and all the world again seemed vague, confused,shimmering, like this scene over which she gazed. She sighed, herfoot tapping at the gallery floor. Sometimes it seemed to Miss Ladythat she must break out into cries of impatience, that she must fly,that she must indeed seek out a wider world. What was that world, shewondered, the world out there beyond the rim of the ancient forestthat hedged her in? What did it hold for a girl? Was there life init? Was there love in it? Was there answer in it?

The old bear-dog, Hec, came around the corner of the house from hisnapping in the shade, and sat looking up in adoration at hisdivinity, inquiring mutely whether that divinity would permit acommon warrior like himself to come and kiss her hand. She saw himfinally and extended one hand idly; at which Hec dropped his ears,wagged his tail uncertainly, and came on slowly up the stair. Henozzled his head tentatively against her knee; and so, receivingsanction, went into delighted waggings, licking tenderly the softwhite hand which stroked his head.

"Oh, Hec, dear old Hec," said Miss Lady, "I am so lonesome!" AndHec, understanding vaguely that all was not quite well with hisdivinity, uplifted his voice in deep regret. "I am so lonesome,"repeated Miss Lady, softly, to herself.

A step on the gallery caused her to turn. Colonel Blount crossed thelength of the gallery and paused at her side. "Miss Lady," said he,"you just literally honey my b'ah-dogs up so all the time, that aftera while I'll be ashamed to call the pack my own. I'm almost afraidnow to take them out hunting, for fear some of them will get hurt;and you always make such a fuss about it."

"You get them all bitten and cut up," said Miss Lady. "How do youthink that feels?"

"I know how it feels," said Blount, slowly. "As to dogs, I thinkthere are times when it's a sort of relief to them. You can't changethe way the world is made, Miss Lady. How'd you like to sit here forever and never get a chance to see anything outside of this hereyard?"

Unconsciously, he had come close to a certain mark. "I should die,"said Miss Lady, simply. "I was just thinking—"

"What were you thinking?" said Blount, suddenly.

"I don't blame Hec, after all. I should die if I had to stay here forever, with just nothing to do—nothing—nobody—"

Blount suddenly pulled up his chair and sat down close at hand.

"Tell me, Miss Lady, what do you mean?" said he. "Tell me, child.
Ain't you happy here?"

"Well, I don't know."

"Yes, you do know; and I asked you if you weren't happy."

"Maybe you don't understand all about girls, Colonel Calvin," said
Miss Lady.

"I don't reckon I do. I don't reckon God A'mighty does, either,hardly. I thought you and your mother were contented here. You'vemade it a sort of heaven for me. I 'lowed it would run along for everthat-away."

Silence fell between them. "Miss Lady," said Blount, finally, "I cameout here this morning on purpose to hunt you up. Now, listen. You sayyou're not happy here. I have been nothing but happy ever since youcame. For a long time I didn't know why. I didn't know why I kept onasking where was Miss Lady at, where was Miss Lady gone to. 'Now,where is Miss Lady?' I found myself asking this very morning. Aboutan hour ago I found myself asking that mighty strong. Then I just setmyself down, right out there on the board-pile, and done reasoned itall out. Then I found out why I was asking that question so much. Ifound out why I never did get married, Miss Lady. The reason was, Inever wanted to, till now."

Miss Lady was looking far away now, out across the fields. Her facewas pale, save for a small red spot in either cheek. She moved asthough she would have turned to face this man whose eyes she felt,yet this she was unable to do. She heard the voice go on, softer thanshe had ever known it before.

"Miss Lady," said Calvin Blount, "now listen to me. I've grown updown here like any savage. I haven't been much better than my olddaddy, nor much different; and every man ought to grow better thanhis dad, if he can. I have driven the nigg*rs to work, and I havebeen comfortable on what they raised. I can see it's right rough downhere, though. I never used to think so. All I wanted in the world wasrain enough to make the cotton sure, and mast enough to make theb'ahs come. I was happy, or thought I was, until you came, though Ireckon I never really knew what that word meant before. I never didsee a woman I liked as well as my pack of dogs. This place was goodenough for me. Now, listen. I was fool enough to think for oneminute, Miss Lady, for just one minute, that it was good enough foryou. I thought maybe you and I could understand a heap of thingstogether. Now, I hear you say that you're lonesome, that you're nothappy here. Happy? Why, I tell you, Miss Lady, I am half-dying oflonesomeness right now, right here in my own home, on my own ground,in the only place in God A'mighty's world where I am fit to live."

"You must not," said Miss Lady, and turned toward him eyes in whichstood sudden tears. "I must go. I must go away."

"Listen, I tell you," said Blount again, sternly, and put out a handas she would have risen. "You go away? Where would you go? What wouldyou do? Now, wait till I get done. Here," he cried almost savagely,"stand up here like I tell you, and listen to what I've got to say!Stand right there!" He drew in one grasp from his pocket hishandkerchief and his gauntlet gloves, and swept a place clean uponthe gallery floor before her.

"Stand right there, Miss Lady," said he, with all his oldimperiousness. "Stand in that place where I done made it clean andeasy for you, like I want to make the whole world clean and easy foryou always. I'd like to smooth it that-away for you, always. Now,look at me, Miss Lady. I ain't a coward, at least I never was tillnow, and maybe not now; for I came here as soon as I knew how thisthing was, though God knows I wanted to get on my horse and ride theother way as fast as I could. I came here because I wouldn't havebeen a man if I hadn't come, if I hadn't said this to the first womanI ever thought twice about."

"Don't, don't, please! please!" cried Miss Lady, pushing out herhands, but he commanded her again, sternly.

"Stop," said he. "There's one time when a man has a right to say hissay, and say it all. I've got to tell you this. I've got to offermyself to you in marriage, Miss Lady. I've got to ask that of you;and, God pity me, I've got to give myself my own answer. Listen!Stop! It ain't for you to answer. It's for me.

"Now, look at me. I'm strong. I'm not afraid of any living thing,except you. I'm old, but there's younger men that's no better. I'mrich enough. I've got two thousand acres of the best land in theDelta, and that's the best on earth. There's money enough here totake you anywhere you want to go in all the world. I couldn't be meanto no woman. It's in my nature to feel that a woman is a thing to betook care of, for ever and for ever—that oughtn't to work, thatoughtn't to worry, that ought to just be! I don't know much aboutwomen, but I always did feel that-away. You'd never have to worryabout that. I wouldn't lie to you, not for any reason. No man shouldever raise a breath against you. If"—he swept a hand over his face,but still went on.

"Listen," he said, "Miss Lady Ellison, I, Calvin Blount, old CalvinBlount, this sort of man like I told you, I offer myself to you, andall I have, for your own. I offer you that—" The girl's eyes lookedup at him, swimming now all the more in tears. His face wasdistorted, but he went on. "Don't," said he, "please don't! Listen,here's the answer. By the Eternal, you can't and you shan't marryold Cal Blount! It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be right, MissLady," said he again, presently. "It's right for me to tell you that Inever thought twice of any other woman, that in my soul I love you,that I never shall know a happy day without you; but it's right, too,for me to give myself the answer, and I do. And it's No, Miss Lady,it's No!" He turned away. Miss Lady felt about her blindly and droppedher head on the rail of the chair, sobbing.

"I can't help it. I can't help things, Colonel Cal," said she, "butthen, but then—"

"Yes, child; yes, Miss Lady," said Calvin Blount,gently, "but then, but then! I never did know much, but I'm learnin'.I'm man enough now to know all about what you mean when you say 'butthen.' Come, it's all over. But I can't bear to see you cry. Pleasestop, Miss Lady. Don't do that."

Miss Lady could not stop. She buried her face in her hands. She halffelt the touch of a hand, very light, upon her head, a touch givenbut once, and swiftly withdrawn. She heard him continue. "This homeis yours," said he, "and you can stay here, I'll go out into thewoods again. You need not fret and you need not fear. We couldn't,maybe, both stay here together now. Or, it may be there's a biggerworld for you somewhere, and you want to go there. I won't stand inyour way, and I'll help you all I can. I'm done talking about this,now and for ever. But if you don't stop crying, I'll get on my horseright now, and I'll ride out in the woods and I never will come backagain."

Miss Lady put out her hand to him.

"Sir," said she, half-whispering, "I didn't know that men were thisway. It's different from what I thought. But you must remember," andshe smiled wanly, "you must remember always only that it was you whor*fused yourself. Please think of it that way, Mr. Cal."

Old Hec ventured up the steps again and stood looking dumbly from oneto the other of these two. At last he deserted his master and wentover and laid his big head on Miss Lady's lap, looking up at her withquestioning eyes.

[Illustration: SHE HALF FELT THE TOUCH OF A HAND, VERY LIGHT, UPON
HER HEAD.]

CHAPTER XII

A WOMAN SCORNED

As Colonel Blount passed from the gallery into the house he cameunder the gaze of a close observer. Mrs. Ellison, for reasons of herown watchful and suspicious, had heard these agitated voices on thegallery, and, had it been possible without detection, would not havebeen in the least above eavesdropping. This being impossible, she wasforced to draw her own conclusions, based in part upon her ownsuspicions. The droop of this man's shoulders, the drawn look of hisface, spoke plainly enough for her. Hardly had the sound of hisfootsteps died away before she was out of the door of her room and bythe side of Miss Lady, who still sat, pensive and downcast, in herrocking-chair on the gallery.

Miss Lady was not prepared for the spectacle which thus met her gaze,this woman with clenched hands and distorted face, and attitude whichspoke only of antagonism and threat. There came a swift catch at herheart, for this was the woman to whom of natural right she should nowhave fled in search of consolation. It seemed to her now as thoughall her world had known a sudden change. It was as when some tendercreature, fresh risen from the earth, ventures into the strange, newworld of the air, to flutter its brief day. Eternity seems to stretchbefore it, an eternity of joy hinted in the first glance at this newuniverse which it attains. Yet comes the sun, the sudden, blightingsun, the same influence which has broken the brooding envelope ofanother world and brought this gentle being into its new life, andthis cruel sun withers at once the tender creature in all its hopeand youthfulness and beauty, ending its bright day ere it as yet isnoon. Thus seemed the universe to Miss Lady, no longer young, care-free, joyous, but now suddenly grown old. One look, one sudden flashof her inner comprehension, and she knew it to be for everestablished that this woman, her mother, was her mother no more! Why,she knew not, yet this was sure, she was not her mother, but herenemy. How dubiously swam all the world about poor Miss Lady at thatinstant! She knew, even before the enraged woman at her side hadformulated her emotion into speech.

"So now, you treacherous little cat," said Mrs. Ellison, between hershut teeth, "you've been at work, have you? Oh, I might have known itall along. You've been trying to undermine me, have you? Why, do youthink I'll let a little minx, a little half-baked brat like you, keepme out of getting the man I want? I'll show you, Miss Lady girl!"

"Stop! Wait! What are you saying?" cried Miss Lady.

"You'll listen to what I am saying," cried Mrs. Ellison. "You've beenleading him on, and now you presume to reject him—to reject the roofover your head and the bread in your mouth. Why, I never thought ofhim seriously for you! You've ruined us both in every way, yourselfand me. Why, can't you see that if we stayed here he had to be forone or the other of us? And could you not know that I wanted him formyself? Oh, don't say 'wait'—don't speak to me! I know it all aswell as if I had seen it. Now, you've got to walk, that's all."

"Oh, mamma, mamma," cried Miss Lady, "do not!"

"'Oh, mamma, mamma!'" mocked the other; "stop your tongue, girl, anddon't you dare to call me 'mamma' again. I am not your mother, andnever was!"

Miss Lady gasped and went pale, but the cruel voice went on. "Youdon't know what you are, or who you are. You're nothing, you'renobody! You had no chance except what I could give you, and you'llnever know now what a chance that was! I would have made you, girl. Iwould have done something with you, something for us both—but notnow, ah, no, not now! You, to cut me out from the only man I everreally did want!"

Miss Lady rose, suddenly aflame with resentment, and feeling acourage which came she knew not whence.

"Madam," said she, with calmness in spite of her anger, "I don't knowwhat you mean by this, but I am certain you are telling the truth. Iwill not talk to you at all. You degrade us both. As to ColonelBlount, I never said a word, I never did the first thing—I didn't—Ididn't tell him anything—I could not help—"

"You could not help! You could not help! Of course you could nothelp! Neither can I help. But the main thing, after all, is that youhave thrown away a home for both of us—"

"Madam," said Miss Lady, now very quiet and calm, "there is only onething certain in all the world to me at this moment, and that is thatyou do not love me, that you never will, and that I don't feel towardyou as I should. It is as you say. I could not stay here now; I shallhave to go somewhere. Colonel Blount himself knows that. He said so."

"Your mother!" resumed Mrs. Ellison, laughing shrilly, "I am about asmuch your mother"—she began, but caught herself up; "you are nobody,I say, and you'll have to go take care of yourself as best you can.You don't know what you're throwing away, young woman. If you hadleft things to me there would have been none of this trouble. Now Ishall have to go too, for I would die rather than stay here now. Ihate that man!"

Miss Lady for a moment saw the naked soul of this woman whom she hadcalled her mother, even as at that moment she saw her own soul; andbetween this which she saw and that which remained in her own bosom,she recognized no kinship. Problems there were for her, but this wasnot one of them.

"Madam," said she at length, with a dignity beyond her years, "youare right. We must go, both of us; but we shall not go together."

She turned to leave the gallery, and as she passed, gazed straightinto the face of Mrs. Ellison. She saw there a swift change. The redrage, the anger, the jealousy were gone. Haggard, with eyes shiftingas though in search of refuge, the woman showed now nothing so muchas a pale terror! Miss Lady unconsciously followed her gaze. There,near a door at the farther end of the gallery, quiet, impassive,stood the girl Delphine. She did not speak, but gazed at Mrs. Ellisonwith eyes wherein there might have been seen a certain somber fire.

"I—I did not call, Delphine," stammered Mrs. Ellison. "No, no, I didnot call."

Silent as before, Delphine turned back. With swift intuition MissLady caught the conviction that some relationship existed betweenthese two which she herself did not understand. A sudden sense ofinsecurity possessed her, mingled with the reflection that the masterof the Big House was ignorant of what arrested drama was here goingon under his own roof. If she dared but tell the master what shesuspected—ah! then perhaps this comfortable landscape, which butlately she had found monotonous, might again enfold her sweetly andsafely; and never again would she call it aught but satisfying. Yetevery instinct told her that to the master of the Big House she couldgo no more. Thus she pondered, and as she pondered her panic fearincreased to a blind terror, overwhelming every other emotion. Butone resolve remained—as soon as might be, she must fly, and find ahiding spot unknown to any of those who had been her associates inthis place which for a time she had called home.

CHAPTER XIII

JOHN DOE VERSUS Y.V.R.R.

There are but few of the humble who are untrustworthy. Continuallywe discover the great truth that faithfulness and loyalty are generalhuman traits, nowhere more so than among those from whom they shouldnot be expected; nowhere more so than among those who are debarredfrom hope. The great captains of industry so-called, themselves blownfull of pride of circ*mstance, prate often of the inefficiencies ofhuman cattle; yet continually the wonder remains that these samecattle continue to do that which their conscience tells them is rightfor them to do, and to do it for the sake of the doing. The lives ofall of us are daily put in charge of beings entitled fully to anIago-like hatred, who might hate for the very sake of hating; yetthese are the faithful ones, who do right for the sake of its doing.When one of these forsakes his own creed—then it is that dangerexists for all. It is the unfaithfulness of the humble which is theunusual, the fateful, the tremendous thing.

There was small active harm in the somewhat passive soul of JohnEddring's assistant, William Carson, the large-handed young man whoacted as clerk and stenographer and rendered more or less blunderingservice about the office. Perhaps there was more of curiosity thanevil in his nature. It was curiosity in the first place which gavehim personal knowledge of a certain list of judgment claims againstthe Y.V. railway, which the chief agent of that road had recentlycautioned Eddring, division agent, to keep revised up to date and tohold close under cover as a matter of absolute secrecy. These thingswere more or less familiar to William Carson through his acquaintancewith the correspondence of the office. This very injunction ofsecrecy inflamed his curiosity to the point of action. In the absenceof his chief, he rummaged through the office papers until heunearthed these lists, and to these latter he gave a more carefulscrutiny than he had accorded many other matters under his immediatecharge. He figured up the totals of the unpaid claims, and thefigures startled him. He reflected that so much money in one sumwould represent very many things to him personally. This established,he reflected further that it was in the first place most unrighteousto withhold these sums from the lawful claimants, and in the secondplace, to withhold them from himself. He was sure that the companydid not need, and ought not to have, this money. If only, thoughtWilliam Carson, these judgments might be collected, and if only—butbeyond this thought his brain was not shrewd enough to travel.

It needed a bolder mind, and this, as it chanced, was at hand, afterthe devil's fashion in such affairs. Henry Decherd had known Carsonin the community where he had lived before his removal to the city.The two had since then met by chance now and again on the street orelsewhere. Once, when Eddring chanced to be out of town, theyhappened to meet and paused for a conversation longer than usual.There came a hint from Carson, a word of quick inquiry from Decherd,a flush of timorous guilt upon the face of the unfaithful humble one;and presently these two repaired to the office of the claim agent,locked the door behind them, and soon were absorbed in certain linesand columns of figures which had been prepared by Carson.

"This ain't for ten years, nor half of it," said the latter, atlength. "But you can see it runs up to a good lot of money. Lookhere." Decherd gave a long whistle as he looked at the footings ofthe columns of figures.

"And they're all unpaid claims," he said. "Judgments from one end ofthe line to the other, it looks like. By Jove, it does seem that theroad had to pay for about everything in the Delta, doesn't it?"

"Oh, it don't have to pay these things, don't you worry," saidCarson. "It don't need no sympathy, this road don't. It will takecare of itself, all right. These ain't claims that's going to bepaid, but ones that ain't going to be paid. They're ones that's injudgment and can be collected; but the owners of these judgments don'tseem to know their rights. They don't collect. Maybe they're dead ormoved away, or maybe they've forgotten all about it, or maybe theirlawyers haven't taken pains to tell them—you can't tell about allthese things. Every big accident that happens on the road, there's alot of judgments taken against the road; but they don't all get paid,as you see. That is one of the secrets of our business."

"A pretty situation of affairs, isn't it?" said Decherd. "Looks likethe road would have to pay, if these claims were fought."

"I should say so. These judgments are on the court records all theway from here to New Orleans, and they're all as good as gold. Thecompany can't dodge out of one of them, if a fellow takes enough.interest to get around and collect. Most of them are air-tight. Somehave gone on appeal to upper courts, but we don't bother to appealthese little ones. And, you know, there ain't a court in the Deltathat wouldn't cinch the road if it got a chance."

"How much do they foot up?" said Decherd again, reaching out his handfor the papers.

"About eighty thousand dollars, or something like that. Why, if afellow—"

"A fellow couldn't push the whole thing at once, you know; he wouldbe discovered the first thing," said Decherd. The other pricked uphis ears eagerly.

"Suppose he was caught," said he, "what could they do? If I want togo down to John Jones' cabin, down somewhere in the cane-brakes, andgive him five dollars for a judgment that he has forgot about, or isscared to try to collect, why, I get the judgment, and it's legal,ain't it? Or suppose I just poke him up to collect it and he gives mehalf? That's legal, ain't it? And who can help it, even if anybodyknew? Why, say, if I was Mr. Eddring there, knowing what he doesabout these claims, do you reckon I'd be working very long? I reckonnot. I'd go in along this line of road and I'd get some fellow tohunt up these claims, a few at a time, and I'd see that the companypaid these judgments!" He swelled up at the thought of his owndaring. "Why, Mr. Eddring," he went on, "he could stand in on bothsides—draw a salary from the company, an' divide with the nigg*rsand the white folks that has claims against the road. It's easy,especially with the nigg*rs, because they never do know what's goingon, anyhow."

Decherd puckered up his lips, and paused for a time in thought.Carson went on. "I wouldn't ask anything better than this," said he,"to get plumb rich in about two or three years."

Decherd walked up and down slowly, his finger pressed to his chin inthought. His face was worn and haggard. His clothing had taken on aseedy cast not formerly common to him. Apparently things might havebeen better with him in a financial way. Perhaps he saw a way to mendmatters. "Halves?" said he at length, suddenly looking straight intoCarson's face.

The clerk flushed a dull red. The conspiracy was formed. "Why, yes,"said he, his voice half-trembling. "I reckon that would be aboutright."

"Well, then, give me the lists," said Decherd. "I'm up and down theroad in the Delta now and then. I'll take care of these things. Asfor you, whatever you see or hear, keep your mouth shut, or it'll bethe worse for you."

"Sure," said Carson, and endeavored to laugh.

CHAPTER XIV

NUMBER 4

One day not long subsequent to the little meeting of Decherd andCarson in Eddring's office, there chanced to be in the same southerncity one James Thompson, traveling representative of a furnishinghouse in the North, he being then engaged in completing his regularbusiness trip through that part of the country. Mr. Thompson, itseemed, found himself in need of a traveling-bag, and, fancying themerchandising possibilities of the place, stepped into a prominentshop on the main street at a late hour of the afternoon, andproceeded to satisfy his somewhat exacting personal taste. Heselected a bag of alligator leather, of what seemed to him suitabledimensions and trimmings.

"This will do me, I think," said he, "about as long as I need one.
I'm going to quit the road and settle down before long."

"You better haf your name-cart put on it, anyvays," said thesalesman. "It's more stylish."

But Mr. Thompson was in a hurry and could not wait for that. He wasobliged to leave the city that night on train Number 4, the NewOrleans Limited on the Y. V. railroad. Presently, he chuckled tohimself, he would not be taking train Number 4 any more, but would besleeping at home in his own bed, and not obliged to get up in themorning until he felt like it. His season's work was nearly over, andafter that he intended to retire from the house and start up in abusiness of his own; all of which are very comforting reflections toone who is past fifty, and who has been "on the road" for many years.

In due time Mr. Thompson, smoking a comfortable cigar, ambled up tothe gate beyond which stood Number 4 in the railway station. Hetossed his alligator bag to the porter at the car step, who placed itamong others on the platform of the car. Mr. Thompson then ambledinto the car and sought out the smoking-compartment, heaving a sighof content as he settled down to the enjoyment of his cigar.

The conductor of Number 4 looked at his watch, raised his hand andcried out "All aboard!" shortly and sharply. In the waiting-room ofthe station a negro train-caller sang out, "All abo-o-oh-d!" in along-drawn minor, which sounded rather as warning than as invitation.The caller, as he completed his last round, sprang aside to escapethe rush of a young man who ran through the gate just in time tocatch the moving train. He threw his own hand-bag up on the platformfor the porter's care, and also passed back into the train. Thislate-comer was Henry Decherd.

As Number 4 rolled out to the southward, the usual little comedy of arailway train at night-time began. An old lady asked the porter adozen times what time the "kyars would get to N'Yawlns." Two floridgentlemen leaned together in one seat and discussed cotton, cotton,cotton. In yet another berth two young farmers were having theirfirst experience in high life, and were eager to try the experienceof actually going to sleep upon the cars while the same continuedtheir forward progress—a thing which had seemed impossible to them.Not removing their clothing, they venturesomely pulled off theirshoes, and thereafter, in some fashion, managed to squeeze togetherinto the same berth. "Why, I'm a-layin' mighty comf'table now,"exclaimed one presently, to his own evident surprise andgratification.

"So'm I," exclaimed the other. Silence then for a little while, whenagain the first voice was heard: "Why, my feet's right wahm!"

"So's mine!" replied his friend, in equal delight and surprise.

"I reckon I'll take my shoes inside," said the first speaker,presently.

"So'll I," said the second; after which there came silence.

In another part of the car was a lady with a little child, whichjumped and squirmed about, and made eyes at all mankind, includingJames Thompson. The latter made eyes in turn, and waggled his fingersat the youngster, which trilled and gurgled as it danced up and down,now hiding its face, again springing up into view above the back ofthe plush-covered seat.

"I have three of my own back home, madam," said Mr. Thompson, goingup to the mother of the child. "Come here, baby, and give me a kiss;because I'm a poor man who can't be kissed by his own little girl."The child kissed him gleefully and sweetly a dozen times; andperhaps, after all, that was shriving and absolution for JamesThompson. Not all of us go down into the valley of the shadow withthe kiss of innocence on our lips.

Number 4 steamed on to the southward. She crossed the flat bottomswhere the great river was hedged out by the levees; edged off againtoward the red clay hills and finally, leaving this fringe of littleeminences, plunged straight and deep into the ancient forests of theDelta, whose flat floor lay out ahead for many miles. Number 4 wasnow in the wilderness. Panther, and fox, and owl went silent when thewild scream of Number 4 was heard; of Number 4, carrying its burdenof the ancient comedy and tragedy of life, its hates, and loves, andmysteries, its sordid, its little and its tremendous things.

Later in the night Number 4 groaned and creaked and protested at thestop for the little siding of the Big House plantation, eighty milesfrom the point where she had begun her flight. Her brake shoes groundso sternly that the heavy oaken beams whined at the strain put onthem; yet obedient to the hand of man, she did stop, though it wasbut to discharge a single passenger.

Henry Decherd hurried out into the darkness like some creature hardpursued. Number 4 swept on, clacking, rumbling, screaming. The shriekof her whistle, heard now and again, was loud, careless, imperious,self-assured.

But what meant this hoarse and swiftly broken note, as though Number4 were caught in sudden mortal fear? What meant this broken,quavering wail, as though the monster were suddenly arrested by anutter agony? What, sounding far across the sullen forest, was thisrending and crashing roar? Number 4 had been here, hurrying onward.But now—now where and what was Number 4?

Meeting her fate, Number 4 plunged, ground, shivered, shortened andthen fell apart, shattered like a house of toys. For an instant thewilderness heard no sound, until there arose, terrible in its volume,the wail of a general human agony. There was no answer save that,borne far upon the humid air of the night, there came the solemncalling of the deep-throated hunting pack of the Big House kennels.Each night the pack called out their defiance to Number 4 as sheswept by with her roar and rattle and the imperious challenge of herwhistle. She was their enemy. But now they knew that evil had beendone, that life was in jeopardy; even as they knew that the mighty atlast had fallen.

CHAPTER XV

THE PURSUIT

It was a strange party that took breakfast at the Big House table onthe morning after the railway wreck. All these guests, injured orwell, crippled or whole, were gay and talkative. Gestures, hystericalsmiles marked their conduct. Their faces showed no spell of horror.Men had looked at the long row of dead on the platform at thestation. "That is my father," said one; and another, "This is mysister," but they spoke impersonally, and only to satisfy thecuriosity of others. There was no room for an individual terror. Awoman with both arms broken and her head heavily bound sat laughing,and again raised her voice in a hymn of thanksgiving.

The broken-hearted search, the frenzied efforts at relief occupiedall comers far into the morning. It was long before any one thoughtof asking the cause of the disaster; yet presently reason sufficientwas discovered. The broken railway train covered with its wreckagethe immediate cause of the accident: a pile of timbers erectedcarefully and solidly between the rails. Seeing this, after a time,there began to mount in the jarred and dazed senses of these humanbeings a sullen desire for justice or revenge.

Among the first to seek the head of the train where the wreckingtimbers lay was John Eddring, who arrived on the early train from thecity. By virtue of his office as agent of the personal injurydepartment, he at once began to possess himself of such facts asmight be of use later on. With face pale, but steady, he traversedthe entire length of the shattered train, examining, inquiring,making a record of the dead and injured, and in some cases examiningpapers and effects for purposes of identification.

There was in particular one victim, a large, well-looking man, whohad been killed in the forward compartment of one of the sleepingcars, he being the only one who suffered death or extreme injury inthat car. Close by was his hand-bag, but this bore no card andoffered no distinguishing mark serving to identify its owner. Theporter could remember only that this gentleman had got on at the cityand had not yet been "checked up." The porter was sure that this washis valise, for he had himself brought it in from the platform.

"Thompson, James Thompson," said a newspaper worker, one of those whomysteriously appeared before the accident was many hours old. "Here'shis accident insurance card. Got it in his pocketbook. It's twelvethousand to his wife, anyhow, I reckon. Davenport, Iowa; that's hishome."

Eddring felt it his duty to examine more thoroughly the effects ofthis victim. The hand-bag held absolutely no items of personalequipment. Its sole contents were a small and curiously bound littlevolume, printed in the French language, and a bundle of papers oflegal size, typewritten and backed in the form of railway documents.Eddring could not conceal a start as he glanced at these papers.Hurriedly he thrust into his pocket papers, book and all.

He had reason for surprise. Here, in this nameless package in thecare of this stranger, James Thompson of Davenport, Iowa, was a fulllist of the outstanding judgment claims against the Y. V. railwaythroughout his own division; a list of whose existence he supposed noone except himself had any knowledge whatever! Attached to thepackage of papers there was a letter written in a woman's hand. Hastyand professional as was his glance, and much disturbed as he was bythe discovery which accompanied his finding of the letter, the wordswhich met his eyes carried a shock such as he had not known in allthe years of service in his eventful calling.

"Dearest," ran the communication, not wholly ill written: "Dearest,you said you would come last week, but you did not. I am uneasy. Areyou forgetting me? Does that girl mean more to you than I do—doeseither of them? Why, they don't know how to love. You know I would doanything for you if you kept on in the old way, but you shall notleave me. You say you have to 'keep things in careful shape.' I havewished a thousand times that girl had been out of the way long ago.Then you would have to depend on me now for everything, love and all.You say you will divide it all with me when we get it. What do I careabout that? Let it all go, and let us go and live somewhere togetherand be happy as we were.

"Now if you are not telling me the truth, you are getting yourselfinto trouble, and you will have enough of that anyhow. As for madam,it's not you she wants any more. Yet she can't bear to have you lookat the girl. You don't know women very much. Now she has forgottenher part, let her make it up with old man Blount and let the girl go.You and I can fight it out the way we started to before they evercame down here. I say one string to a bow is better than two. Youwill have to choose between these strings.

"If I ever feel certain that you are lying to me, I'll do what oughtto have been done, and then I won't care. You can have all the moneyif you ever get it, but I am going to have all of you, and nodividing with anybody. I have no place in the world here, and amstanding everything and waiting and hoping. Sometime people will hearfrom me. Sometimes I hate myself and you, and all the world. I woulddo big things if I once started. The best thing you can do is to comedown here to me right soon. We must have a talk, and, besides, I wantto see you."

The letter bore no signature, save a scrawled mark or sign, whichEddring did not pause to examine at the moment. Indeed he had no timeto ponder or to speculate, for even as he folded the letter andplaced it in his pocket with the other articles taken from thevalise, he heard a sudden cry, and, going forward, joined again thegroup that had formed about the pile of fatal timbers at the head ofthe wreck. Some one showed him a handkerchief, a sodden bit of linenwhich had been taken from under the heap of logs. It was a woman'shandkerchief, and as Eddring spread it out on his hand he noted inone corner a curious embroidered mark. At this he gazed intently,with a vague feeling that somewhere he had seen a similar markbefore. It was like some rude monogram or crest.

"If you don't mind," said he, quietly, "I should like to have thathandkerchief. It might be useful with other evidence which I have inmy possession." None offered objections, and Eddring presently movedaway. He felt a certain mental uneasiness which he could not fullyformulate; but presently all speculation was carried from his mind bythe crowding of events about him.

There had by this time appeared the sheriff of Tullahoma County, whobrought with him the most practical agencies of justice possible forthat peculiar country, three dogs known widely as skilled followersof human trails. To the sheriff Eddring now offered the newlydiscovered handkerchief. The latter held it out to the dogs, whichsniffed at it gravely, and sniffed also at the place where it hadbeen found under the derailing timbers. The sheriff went about hisduties methodically, now moving back all the spectators so that thedogs might have full opportunity in their work.

The tail of the lead dog at length began to move slowly from side toside. He walked a pace or so down the bank and paused, the other twocoming to him. The sheriff pointed silently. Distinctly marked in thesoil was the print of a shoe—a woman's shoe, long, narrow. All threeof the dogs now moved toward a gap in the row of stumps which formeda rude hedge for the cleared right of way. At this little gap thenarrow footprint was seen again, with others made by bare feet. Atthe edge of the wood, there came a long, low, sobbing call from thelead dog, and presently the others wailed their confirmation; so thatthe trail was now steadily begun.

They followed the dogs for miles, across glade and ridge and opening,through jungles of vines and matted cane; and presently they cameupon paths which converged, separated and converged again, as mighthave been in the jungle about a village of the Black Continent. Theywent on and on, and finally they came out, as John Eddring in hisheart knew they presently would, at the edge of a little hiddenopening, surrounded by a wall of deep green cane. There before themstood a long, low, log structure, which he himself could havedescribed in advance. Upon the door, done in the blind, morbidegotism of crime, which so often leaves open sign and signal for itsown undoing, there showed, cut deep in the jamb, a rude sign,cabalistic, mysterious, fetish-like. To Eddring it seemed for theinstant to be the same mark as that upon the handkerchief. He couldnot explain these things in his own mind. Others of the party weremore interested in pointing out once more, in the confusion offootprints before the building, the imprint of the same narrow shoe.Eddring was striving to connect this imprint with the mark on thehandkerchief and on the door, with certain things which he had heardon this very spot long before; and with that glimpse of a woman'sgarb in the darkness at the time of the night attack on the BigHouse.

There was no time to ponder upon these things. The dogs passed overthe trampled ground in front of the building, sniffed at the door,circled the building, sniffed at the windows, passed slowly into theempty room when the door was opened for them. Then they drew apartagain, and, wailing once more solemnly, headed back along a pathwhich presently brought all into the plain road to the railwaystation. The procession moved more rapidly now, and presently it hadcrossed the railway track and turned into the lane which led up tothe Big House, the dogs threading without hesitation the maze offootprints which covered all the ground thereabout. They came on withheads down and tails slowly moving, now and again giving utterance totheir long and mournful note, until presently they and those whofollowed them were met at the yard gate by Colonel Blount, who camedown to greet the sheriff of the county, whom he knew very well.

"Jim," said he, "I know you and your dogs, and I know what you'redoing. It's all right, but I want to warn you to be mighty carefulabout my own dogs. They won't run with any other pack, and they'llkill a strange dog just as sure as they can get to him."

The sheriff looked at him and shook his head, as if to say thatjustice must have its course. Blount made no further objection, andthe three trailing dogs, entering the gate, now crossed the lawn andpassed around the corner of the house toward the quarters of theservants, beyond which lay the kennels of the fighting Big Housepack. The baying of these dogs, penned up, had been incessant. Theycould tolerate no thought of intelligence other than their own atthis work. They were born and trained to fight, and knew no kinshipwith their species. It had been better for Jim Peters, sheriff ofTullahoma, had he taken the advice of the master of the Big House;for as he turned into the yard at the rear of the house, theprediction of the latter came true, and so swiftly that none saw howit chanced.

Who loosed the gate no one ever knew; but certainly it was opened,and the fighting bear-pack came boiling out, eager for any foe. Therewas ineffectual shouting over a mass of writhing, snarling creaturesof many colors. In a moment the solemn-faced emissaries of justicelay dead and mangled on an unfinished trail. Blount caught thesheriff's hand as it moved toward his revolver.

"It's no use shooting the dogs, Jim," said he. "You've run the trailfair to here, and you know I'll help you run it to the end. I don'tknow what to say. Hell's broke loose in the Delta."

CHAPTER XVI

THE TRAVELING-BAG

The sheriff turned upon Blount his grave face, and for a time madeno answer. "You're right, Cal," said he, at length. "Things are baddown here. It's no nigg*r planned this thing. But if it wasn't, thenwho did?"

"I don't know," said Blount. "Some day, my friend, we'll find out,and then we'll see whether or not there's any law left in the Deltafor people who do things like that." He pointed toward the spot wherea long line of men were now busily engaged in removing from the railsthe fragments of what had been train Number 4.

"Come into the house, men," said Blount, presently. "Let's getsomething to eat." There had been more than a hundred persons takenin as guests at the Big House that day, but even yet the hospitalityof the old planter's home was not quite exhausted. The two ladies ofthe house had abundance to do in caring for the injured, but theservant, Delphine, had become the presiding spirit of the householdin these hours of stress. In some way Delphine brought partial orderout of the chaos, and the great table still was served.

By this time there had begun the pitiful procession which was toempty the Big House of its company. The tracks were nearly cleared bythe wrecking crew, and long rows of fires were consuming the brokenevidences of the ruin that had been wrought. The injured had beencared for as best might be by the physicians of the relief train, andthis train, with its burden of the living and the dead, now startedon its journey northward. The day of Number 4 was done. The iron waywould soon again have its own. Another Number 4, screaming, exultant,defiant, would again pursue its course across the wilderness.

Naturally, in hours so crowded with perplexities, the master of theBig House had had small time to specialize his hospitality. Thedemands of the living, the needs of the suffering, the eagerness ofall in the search for the author of this disaster, kept him, as wellas others, so occupied that he scarce knew what was going forward. Hehad not known that Henry Decherd was about the place until he saw himseated at his own table. He made no inquiries, supposing that Decherdmight have been a passenger on the train; yet he greeted thisuninvited guest none too warmly, even in that sanctuary. Deeherdthought best later to explain his presence. He had been on thewrecked train, he said to Colonel Blount, but had by some miracleescaped. He was on his way to New Orleans, and wished to take thefirst train down as soon as traffic was resumed. He hoped that he wasnot intruding too much if he once more dropped in on his old friend.To this Colonel Blount listened grimly and said no word, onlysweeping his hand toward the table. "Eat," said he, and so turnedaway. He would have done as much for a strange hound in his yard, andDecherd knew it.

It was well on in the afternoon when John Eddring, still busy withhis confused mass of papers, was in turn approached at the tablewhere he sat by this same Henry Decherd. The latter carried in hishand a traveling-bag which he extended toward the claim agent. "Mr.Eddring." said he, "I found this bag in my room, but it isn't mine.They tell me you've got track of a lot of things. Did you seeanything of an alligator bag about like this?"

"Why do you ask?" said Eddring, quietly.

"Well, I know you're claim agent on the road," said Decherd. "Youseem to be getting ready for a lot of trouble later on. I didn't knowbut you might have seen my bag among others. Nothing in it much—afew collars and brushes, you know; things I could use now if I hadthem."

"Would you let me see this bag?" said Eddring. Decherd, somewhatuneasily, as it seemed to Eddring, opened the valise and displayedits contents. "This seemed to belong to some fellow by the name ofThompson," said he, as he rummaged among the articles. "Maybe he hasgone back to the city—maybe he's got my bag. See, here's a letteraddressed to him, 'James Thompson, Davenport'—" Eddring glanced atthe handwriting. It bore no resemblance to that of another letterwhich at that moment rested in his own pocket. His face half-flushed.He begged the dead man's pardon. This, he felt assured, was fromJames Thompson's wife. The other letter, he felt with swiftconviction, was from a woman different. Yes, and to a different man.Yet he held his own counsel as to this.

"I shouldn't wonder if it were your bag that I've got in my own room,Mr. Decherd," said he. He rose and led the way, and Decherd,perforce, must follow. "Is this yours?" He held up to Decherd's viewthe valise which had once contained the book and papers earliermentioned. Eddring looked narrowly into Decherd's face. He saw itsuddenly change color, going from pale to sallow.

Decherd made a distinct effort at recovering himself. "Y-yes, that'sit—it looks like it, anyhow," said he.

Eddring handed him the valise. Decherd pressed the spring of the lockand looked into the interior.

"Why, it's empty!" cried he. "What in—"

"Yes," said Eddring, simply, "it's empty." Decherd cast at him oneswift, veiled look, under which Eddring saw all the covert venom of adangerous serpent that is aroused. "It's not my bag, anyhow," saidDecherd, regaining his composure. "I thought it was, but mine had myname on the plate."

"Yes?" said Eddring. "I am sorry I can't help you. Well, if the bagisn't yours, I'll just keep it. I don't doubt the owner will be foundin time." The eyes of the two met fairly now; and from that instantthere was issue joined between them.

CHAPTER XVII

MISS LADY AND HENRY DECHERD

Why Henry Decherd should have remained so long at the Big House atthis particular time might have found plausible answer in any of adozen ways. There were reasons indeed why Decherd should be covertlypleased at matters as he now found them. Colonel Blount touched hispride keenly enough by practically ignoring his presence, yet he madeamends by continuing moody and aloof, spending little time about thehouse. John Eddring had long since taken his departure for the city.Mrs. Ellison was rarely visible about the house. There was anatmosphere of uneasiness, an unsettled discontent over all things.Yet, for the oblique purposes of Henry Decherd, matters could nothave been better arranged. So much being established, he played hischosen part at least with boldness. In spite of all this recentstress and strain, in spite of this continuing trace of sadness andanxiety which lay over all, Henry Decherd none the less knew verywell that there was now at hand the best and perhaps the lastopportunity which, he might expect for the carrying out of a certainintention which, above all other purposes, worthy or unworthy, hadlong possessed his soul. At times he was absent from the Big House,none knew where; for in the careless bigness of that place there wereno locks upon the doors and no hours for the spreading of the table.Each came and went as he pleased. In no other situation could Decherdhave found things shaped better to his plan.

That plan, the sole motive which could have kept him at that time inthat certain locality, was to speak alone with Miss Lady. Even thusfavored by circ*mstances, he found this purpose difficult toaccomplish. Now it was Colonel Blount who passed moodily across theyard; or it was Mrs. Ellison who accosted him just as he started tofollow the young girl down the hall or out on the gallery. Once ortwice the girl Delphine stopped him in some such errand and held himon one pretext or another in some corner of the place. Yet Decherd,involved as was the game he played, persisted and at length had hismore immediate wish.

He came upon Miss Lady at last in the twilight on the big gallery,when the birds were chirping all about and the insects were attuningtheir nightly orchestra. He walked directly up to her.

"Miss Lady," he said suddenly, without parley or preface, "ah, Miss
Lady, how glad I am to find you at last!"

The girl drew back from him, at once divining the import of his airand tone; but he went on.

"I've waited so long," said he. "There's always been some one about.Couldn't you see—don't you see what it is that brings me to you!" Hewould have caught her hand in his own feverish one, but again shedrew away, looking at him with startled eyes.

"Dearest," he went on, "listen. I can't do without you. I have lovedyou ever since first I saw you. Come, tell me—"

Even the icy silence of the girl scarce served to check him. Therewas, indeed, evident on his face the existence of an emotion asgenuine as could be conceived in a soul like his. It was, moreover,the very devil's instant for approaching this poor girl, hopeless,outcast, overstrung, altogether and piteously in need of comfort. Atthat time Miss Lady could count upon no friend in all the world. Shehad no confidante, no counselor. That, of all possible moments, wasthe most fortunate time for a man like Henry Decherd, even had thesweet beauty and helplessness of this girl not wrung from him respectas well as an unrestrained and passionate regard. What was it, then,which at that moment intervened between these two? What was thehidden guidance that came to Miss Lady at that time? She herselfcould not explain. She could not have told what caused her to trembleas though of an ague—could not have told why, though she sought tosee clearly the face of this man who came to her with the words of alover, there seemed to fall between them some interposing veil,rendering his features uncertain, indistinct. Craving and needing afriend at this hour of her life, none the less she saw not now thatfriend.

"No," she called out, frightened. "No! Do not!" And that was all thatshe could think, as all that she could do was to move yet fartheraway.

He would not accept repulse, but followed on with eager andimpassioned words. "I love you!" he whispered. "Come, what is thisplace to you? There's a big world full of things to see and do! We'llbe married, we'll travel, we shall see the world. You shall know whatlove can mean—what life really is! Miss Lady, dearest—"

After all, by the will of the immortal gods, who sometimes have incare the welfare of the Miss Ladys of this earth, Henry Decherd erredin these very proofs of a passion sincere as he was capable offeeling. A too hasty ardor failed where a calmer friendship had gonefurther toward winning a heart-sore, helpless girl. The balance ofthe issue, for a moment trembling in his favor, was, within theinstant, quite destroyed.

"Sir," said Miss Lady, and he paused as she freed her hand andstepped back from him, strangely cold and calm, "I have given you nopossible right—"

"But you don't understand. Listen, I tell you," he began again.

"I can not listen; it is not right for me to listen. I am tootroubled with many things to listen to you now. You don't know who Iam. I do not know, myself, who I am. You've been deceived by her—youdon't know. I have no mother, as I thought I had. I am going awayfrom here to-morrow. I don't know where I shall go, but I know Ishall not stay here. It's wrong for me to stay. It's wrong for me tolisten to yon. I can't tell you all I've heard." Miss Lady's liptrembled.

"Did she tell you? Has Mrs. Ellison—" cried Decherd, suddenlyflushing. But Miss Lady was too much disturbed to notice his speechor his changed expression. She could only reiterate, "I am goingaway."

"Oh, come now," said he, his voice again gaining confidence and hisface showing relief as he glanced about him. "Come, you are onlytired. I ought not to have troubled you this way, this evening, but Icould not help it—I could not wait. I was afraid—but then to-morrow—I'll see you to-morrow. Think, Miss Lady, think—"

"I have thought," said Miss Lady, with sudden decision. "I havethought; and as for to-morrow, there'll be none for me at this place.I'm going away at once. I must begin life all over again. It has beenwrong for me to live here at all. Why did you ask us to come here? Wewould have been better off where we were, even if we were poor andhelpless."

"It's been heaven here since you came."

"Oh, it was kind of you to get mamma and me a home here. It has beenhome. It has been so sweet. I love it—I shall always love it. It isbig and free here for everybody. One can live here—one could livehere if it were right. Colonel Blount is a splendid man, a grand man—"

"Yes?"

"Yes, yes, a splendid man."

"But you'll not stay here?" There was well-nigh as much eagerness asregret in his tone. She did not note it.

"No, I can not," she replied. "I can't tell you everything—I don'twant to tell you everything. No one is to blame, I suppose. It's allbecause I have just grown up, and find I'm in the wrong place. I havebeen living along here just—just like one of the blacks out there inthe fields—without—without taking thought. If it were honest, if Icould do anything, if I belonged to any one and could feel that insome way I earned the right to—to—not take thought, then it wouldbe different."

"That's what I say! That's as I want to have it," he began; but shewould not listen.

"But it isn't right," she went on. "I can't tell you everything. Ican't even tell you about Mrs. Ellison. Perhaps you have beendeceived. Ask her. Go ask Colonel Blount, and he may tell you what helikes. But for me, just forget me. I couldn't love you—I couldn'tlove any one now. I am cold, all through."

The plaintiveness of her speech touched even this man. He held outhis arms. "No, no," she cried, as she drew back. "I tell you, theworld has gone to pieces. I must find a new one. I am not myself, Iam lost; I don't know what I am." Again for a half-instant, touchedas he was, Decherd went near to forgetting the lover. There wasalmost exultation on his face as he saw how fortune was now favoringhim in his plans. There was nothing he wished so much as that MissLady might leave the Big House at once and for ever.

"I can't tell who I am!" the girl repeated, as though in an agony ofentreaty. "I'm some one else! It's so strange. I must go—"

"But where would you go?" said he.

"I do not know; somewhere."

"But then? Why, what could you do, alone? Think—here am I offeringyou all you need, a home in some other place, comfort, safety, someone to care for you—why, perhaps it might mean riches before long—Iwill tell you—you'll find it hard enough alone."

"Yes, it will be new and hard," said Miss Lady, with a wan smile. "Ihave never thought very much for myself. Some one has always seemedready to do things for me. I can't do very much. But then, you know,sometimes the things you can't do show you the way to things that youcan."

"You are obstinate," cried Decherd, angry now, as only a weak manwould have been. "I'll follow you, wherever you go! The time willcome when you will be glad enough to see me."

"Mr. Decherd," said Miss Lady, straightening into a quick aloofness,"you said you loved me. That sounds to me as if in some way you werethreatening me."

"Well, I will," he reiterated sullenly. "You'd better think."

Miss Lady shook her head slowly from side to side. "I am frightened,"
she said. "Perhaps some girls would not be. But, in some way, though
I am easy to frighten, I don't seem easy to frighten from things that
I think I ought to do."

Knowing now that he had found obstacle in this girl's will not thusto be overcome, Decherd allowed his anger to get the better of him.

"Go, then!" he cried brutally.

"Sir," said Miss Lady, "you yourself may go now, if you please;" andshe stood so unagitated, so composed and certain of herself, certainas well of his obedience, that Decherd knew here was a womandifferent from any with whom he had hitherto had to do. Flinging outhis hands in anger at his own mistake, his own folly, he turned andstrode away. Miss Lady, sinking into the chair, gazed out at a worldnow grown indistinct and shadowy, full of the terrors of uncertainty.

Decherd knew himself beaten for the time, when he left her. Butthough he promised it to himself, he did not follow Miss Lady at thattime; for before another moon had lit the mysterious realm of theforest beyond which lay an unknown world, Miss Lady was indeed gone.Carrying with her not even a clear knowledge of her own past,doubting her own parentage, doubting almost her own identity;helpless, unprepared, and all too ignorant of the world from whichsuch as she should for ever be shielded and protected, she had leftthe only spot on earth she knew as home, the only place where shecould claim a friend, and fared out into the unknown! It was as ifsome evil harpy of the air had swooped down and borne her into thepathless sky, as though the earth or the waters had closed over herand left no trace. The simple and the sincere, those most direct andfrank, ofttimes are most difficult to follow in their actions whenthey take counsel wholly of themselves. Miss Lady had no involvedmotive, none but the one direct and imperative, no means except theone immediately at hand. Hence, so impelled, so guided, shedisappeared completely, impossible as that might have seemed. Noteven in the piteous little note which Colonel Calvin Blount latercrushed in his hand, did she give any clue to her destination.

Henry Decherd did not take the down train on that day. Had he takenMiss Lady's declarations seriously, and suspected a deliberateintention on her part, he might have watched the only avenue ofescape possible for her. But this he did not do.

In truth the plans of Henry Decherd himself, quasi guest atthe Big House, guest tolerated, guest under suspicion, were at thattime of a nature singularly intricate, and demanding all his skilland resources. It was certain that Decherd did not disappear withMiss Lady—so much was left to comfort Colonel Calvin Blount. It wascertain also that he said no adieus to his long-time host, nor gaveany hint as to his own departure. Yet it was clearly proved by manyof the servants about the Big House that Decherd was seen mounted andriding to the westward at an early hour of the same morning in whichMiss Lady was thought to have left the place.

This fact, indeed Decherd himself, was well-nigh forgotten in thegrief which now came to the master of the Big House. Troubled asColonel Calvin Blount was, there was born, and there remained, in hismind the unshakable belief that Miss Lady had not of her own willgone with Henry Decherd.

CHAPTER XVIII

MISFORTUNE

How narrow and inefficient are sometimes all the ways of fate andlife! By how small a margin, passing upon the crowded ways of life,do we ofttimes miss the friend who comes with running feet to meetus! The very train which bore Miss Lady from the Big House broughtdown from the northward John Eddring, eagerly bent upon an errand ofhis own—John Eddring, for weeks restless, harried and driven of hisown heart, and now fully committed to a purpose whereon depended allhis future happiness. He must find Miss Lady, must see her once more;must tell her this one thing indisputably sure, that the paths ofearth had been shaped solely that they two might walk therein forever! He must tell her of his loneliness, of his ambitions; and ofthis, his greatest hope. Desperately in haste, he scarce could waituntil the train pulled up at the little station. He sprang off on theside opposite from the station, and ran up the lane.

Ah! blind one, not to see, not to feel, not to know that the dearestdweller of the Big House was here, directly at hand upon the platform,unseen, but upon the point of stepping aboard the train which hadbrought him, and which was now to carry her away. Miss Lady, layingher plans well, had practically concealed herself until the verymoment of the arrival of the train. And so now these two passed,their feet thereafter running far apart.

Colonel Blount received his guest with a strikingly haggard look uponhis face; yet at first he made no explanations. He saw Eddringglancing round, and knew whom he sought.

"She isn't here," the planter said very quietly, and handed him thenote which he had but a few moments earlier discovered. Eddring'sface went as bloodless as his own as he read the few simple lines.

"What's the reason of this?" he cried fiercely. "When did she go?"

"I don't know," said Blount, "unless it was right now. She may havebeen right by you—right there at the train for all I know; and Ireckon like enough that's just how it happened."

"Where's Decherd?"

"I don't know—gone somewhere. He didn't go with her."

"But Mrs. Ellison?"

"She's not gone," said Blount, grimly, "but she's going. I don'tcount her in any more. Here's the key to Mrs. Ellison's room. It'sbetter she shouldn't see any one this morning."

"But Blount—why, Cal, my friend—what does all this mean?"

"I don't know. All I can say is, hell's broke loose down here."

They passed down the hall together toward Blount's office room.

"By the way," said the latter, "here's a telegram that got here justbefore you did. It's come from the city on a repeat order and musthave passed you on your way. It's railroad business, I reckon."

Eddring tore open the sleazy gray envelope and read the message. Hisface was hardened into deep lines as he looked up at his friend, andwithout comment handed over the bit of paper. The message read asfollows:

"Eddring, Division Superintendent Personal Injury Department,——-:
You are temporarily relieved duties your office by Allen, of
Hillsboro, pending investigation irregularities charged your
division. Strong developments of claims long considered abated.
Letter. Dix, Agent."

The two men looked at each other for a moment. Blount extended hishand, and Eddring, gulping, took it.

"God!" he gasped, as he looked at the two bits of paper in his hand.
"Did more wrong and misery ever come to a fellow all at once than
I've got here in these?"

"I know what this telegram means," he said, "and it's all a mistake.In a week or so I'd have put the whole thing before them. But now,they suspect me of being a thief, and I'll never work another day forthem, exonerated or unexonerated."

"Well, what of that?" Blount speke hotly. "You're lucky to lose thatjob—I've been hoping for a long time that cussed railroad would fireyou. There's bigger things in the world for you than drudging alongon a salary. You just go ahead and set up office for yourself—fight'em every chance you get; give 'em hell; I'll stake you till you geton your feet. But damn it, boy, that's not what's bothering me—it'sthat girl—she's got to be found."

"She's got to be found," Eddring repeated. Even Calvin Blount, littleused as he was to searching beneath the surface, knew that Eddringhad ceased to give the railroad a thought.

Blount looked at him keenly.

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

THE MAKING OP THE WILDERNESS

In the northern pine-lands Father Messasebe murmured to himself,whispering among his rush-environed shores.

"You have taken from me my own," murmured Father Messasebe. "You haveswept away my children. You have made child's roads for yourselvesalong my courses. You have had freedom with me, the Father of theWaters. You, small, have had your liberties with me—with me, who amgreat, ancient, abiding. But now, since you have taken away my redwilderness, I shall make for myself a black wilderness. In timebetween these two there shall lie a wilderness of that which once waswhite!"

And so Father Messasebe, the mighty, the ancient, the abiding, calledupon the spirits of the air, which are his kin, and upon the spiritsof the earth, which are his friends, and these made cause. The smalldrop of dew, which hung upon the green beard of the wild rice-plant,dropped down into the hands of Father Messasebe. It did not tarry, ashad once been its wont, upon the mossy floor of the wilderness, buthastened on. It met rain-drops shaken from the trees, these dropsalso hastening. The fountains, once slow and deliberate among theroots of the ancient forest floor, tarried not now upon their beds,but hurried on to join the dew and the rain in a great journeying.The ravaged forest gave up its springs. The brooks ran dry, and leftbarren the penetralia of the tamaracks and cedars. All these hurriedon, little flow meeting little flow, and they joining yet others; andso finally a great flood joined itself to others great, and thisvolume coursed on through lake and channel, and surged along all theroot-shot banks of the great upper water-ways.

The floods passed on, making a merriment which grew more savage andexultant. The scarred and whitening trees stood silent, watching thewaters pass; and the round hills smiled not as their feet were washedhigh with the hurrying floods. And when Father Messasebe at lengthcame into the country where tall hills stood, neither did these hillsprotest, but joined in that which was now forward, and sent down redand gray and brown trickles of their own to augment the tawny waters.And then the country of low hills, which had no trees, sent out itssluggish streams also, across the deep loam-lands, to stain stillfurther the once clean stream of Messasebe. And word went abroad thatFather Messasebe had rebelled—word that reached the white-toppedmountains far in the West; and these mountains, loyal, sent theirwhite waters down until they, too, grew red, but still tarried not,and rolled on to meet the general stream. And the green mountains inthe East, also loyal, sent their floods as well; until FatherMessasebe, hating gathered all his armies, marched on and on, to makeanew a wilderness of his own.

Thus the floods came at length to a wide land covered with greattrees, a land deep and rich, filled with all manner of growing andbrooding things; a land of fat soil carried thither no one knowswhence; a land apart and prepared. So Messasebe, having traveled manymiles, came to a country inhabited by the slow snake, by the otter,and the beaver, the panther, the deer, the bear—many children whomhe long had loved.

Along the edge of this lower land there ran low earthen fences madeby the white man, who had laid claim upon the kingdom of the Fatherof the Floods—vainly-builded fences of earth, hopelessly seeking tohedge out the imperious flow of Messasebe, the ancient, the enduring.Father Messasebe, seeing these things, called back to the followinglegions of his children that here was time for sport. And all thewaters laughed loud and long, dallying with their prey.

"In the North they have robbed me," said Father Messasebe to hislegions. "Here in the South they would bind me. Ho! now for the gameof letting in the floods, of making anew my wilderness.

"For a wilderness," said Father Messasebe, "the world has ever had.And whether gentle overpower barbarian, or barbarian in turn overcastthe gentle, always there will be a wilderness, and out of it willcome combat.

"But the World is ancient and abiding," said Father Messasebe to hischildren, "and the World cares no whit for those things sometimescalled good and new. In the years, that which is new becomes old.Only the World and its children endure. Only the old prevails. Onlythe wilderness, and the combat of weak and strong, remain for ever.

"And at all combat," said Father Messasebe to his children, "theWorld smiles, knowing that the strong must win; and knowing that intime the strong will become weak. Wherefore let us build ourwilderness for a time, like to that which will one day rise againalong all my shores, great trees growing where cities are to-day.

"Only in the ages," said Father Messasebe to his children, "do theweak come to be the strong. Wherefore must the strong prevail, eachin his own day. It is the Law!"

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

EDDRING, AGENT OP CLAIMS

Some three years subsequent to that mysterious departure of MissLady in search of a world beyond the rim of the confining forest,there sat in his office, one fine morning in June, no less a personthan John Eddring, formerly claim agent of the Y.V. railway. Eddringlooked older, more wearied. He seemed disappointed in his years offruitless search, in the following of false clues, in the death ofnew hopes. And yet from the man's clear eye there shone a certaingrim comfort of accomplishment.

He was now surrounded, as before, with the customary paraphernalia ofa business office. A few desks, a cabinet letter-file, a typewriterstand or two, a chart, a picture askew upon the wall—this mightstill have been the office of the Y.V. railway. Indeed, there wasprinted upon the office door the modest sign, "John Eddring, Agent ofClaims."

Yet this was no longer the office of Eddring, claim agent of therailway. There had been change. Eddring, agent of claims, was inbusiness for himself, and upon the other side of the pretty game ofcross purposes. That which he had taken for calamity had proved goodfortune. The world had loved him, even as it tried him. The advice ofhis old mother he had discovered to be almost prophetic. At last hefound himself making use of that legal profession which had formerlybeen but one of the adjuncts of his earlier occupation. He had openedoffice for himself, and now paid service to no man.

Eddring had made it his especial care, from the beginning of thiswork, to undertake that less esteemed branch of the law which has todo with the collection of claims, and, naturally or by choice, hefound himself concerned more commonly with the claims of the weakagainst the strong. Collection law is little esteemed as against thebetter paid and vaster practice of the corporation law; yet Eddringhad succeeded. To his own surprise, and that of others, he began tofind his humble way of life pleasant and desirable. His business hadwidened rapidly, and, to his own wonder, now began to offer him aview into wide avenues of employment. Occupied not only with manyminor matters, but with more considerable prosecutions, John Eddring,agent of claims, was possessor of a business yielding him four-foldthe yearly value of his former salary on the Y.V. road.

As to the latter, it had promptly withdrawn charges which presentlyit found impossible to prove. The head men of the railway were keenenough, after all. They studied the growing list of judgmentscollected against the road throughout the Delta country, but theycould find no trace of John Eddring behind these claims. No system ofdetectives, no hired espionage could belie the truth. Finallyconvinced, they did the unusual and somewhat handsome thing ofwriting their former claim agent a full letter of apology and ofasking his return to his late employment, at a salary preciselydouble that which he had resigned. Eddring had replied to this that,though agent of claims, he could not find it in his heart to serve asa corporation claim agent. So, he had labored on, prosperous to ajust extent, and happy as only that man can be who finds work whichgives him delight in the doing, and which offers a future built uponthe honest accomplishment of the present.

On this morning Eddring, humming contentedly as he went about hiswork at the humble desk before him, heard a knock and a shufflingtread which by instinct he knew belonged to some member of thecolored race. "Come in," said he, without looking up.

"Good mawnin', Mas' Edd'ern," said the newcomer.

"Oh, it's you, is it, Jack?" said Eddring. "Well, come in."

Jack by profession was a local expressman, owner of a rickety wagonand a tumble-down mule. He was coffee-colored in complexion. His feetprojected quaintly behind as well as in front. His lips projectedalso, as did his eyes, wide-rimmed and bulging. His trousers were toolong for him, and his coat hung limp from his stooped shoulders. Hisspeech was low and soft. Not an heroic figure, you would have said,yet, as it seemed, a person possessed of a certain history.

"Where did you come from, Jack?" said Eddring. "I thought you were injail up at Jackson."

"No, sah, Mas' Edd'ern," replied Jack. "Dem folks up thah never didput me in jail at all. I got tired of it, an' at las' I jest walkedon home."

As to the case of Jack, there had recently been enacted, on thepublic square of this southern city, a tawdry little tragedy in brownand coffee color, having to do with the fascinations of a certaindamsel known in her own circles as the "gold-tooth girl." The latterhad, in her earlier days, drifted northward, where she had learnedmany things, among these the fact that the white race is exceedinglydifficult to imitate, desirable though such imitation may seem. Themistress of Sally chanced to be the possessor of a gold-crownedtooth, and nothing would do Sally herself except the same ornament.Having persuaded a dentist to sacrifice one of her splendid bits ofivory, she became so enamored of her own dazzling smile that perforceshe must return again to the South, where such radiance would in alllikelihood meet with a better reception. To such charms it was smallwonder that Jack, a man of certain solidity and stability of businessamong his kind, should have fallen victim. Jack and Sally had livedtogether some six months before Jack had come into Mr. Eddring'soffice and asked for the loan of a six-shooter. This latter he hadreturned a couple of hours later, with the calm remark that he hadjust shot a "yaller nigg*r" who had been "pesterin' 'round his wife."Jack's arrest and trial followed quickly. Eddring, out of friendship,took his case, and promptly lost it, it being the argument of theprosecuting attorney that "we can't have shooting here on the streetsby nigg*rs." Pending the argument for a new trial, Jack had been sentto Jackson jail, where he met with the difficulty of one for whomthere seems to be no place in the social system.

"Dem white folks up thah never would let me in jail at all," said he,complainingly. "When I got thah, de jailah man and his wife wuz rightsick, and dey warn't no one to take care o' things. I ain't bad atnussin' folks, so I jest turned in an' nussed dat jailah man an' hisfolks fer 'bout six weeks. I soht o' run dat jail, up dah, fer awhile, myself. De jailah was too po'ly to enjoy wu'kkin' vehy hahd,so I tuk de keys, an' when dey didn't need me at nights, ovah at hishouse, I allus locked myse'f in reg'lar every night, so's to feel Iwuz doin' right, you know. In de mawnin', right early, I madebreakfast foh dem, an' fix dem up like. Fin'lly, dey got well, an' Igiye de keys to de jailah er de she'iff, er whoever he wuz, and I sezI reckon he bettah lock me up now, and he sez to me, 'Go long, youdamn nigg*r, I ain't a-goin' to lock you up at all. I couldn't,'says he to me. It looks like dere ain't no place fer a nigg*r."

"Well, Jack," suggested Eddring, trying not to smile, "why don't youwalk across the bridge there, over into Arkansas, and get clear ofthis whole thing for good?"

"Now, Mas' Edd'ern, whut makes you talk like dat? You know I wouldn'do dat an' leave you heah, 'sponsible fer me."

"Well," said Eddring, "in some ways your case does seem a littleirregular, but perhaps the court would fix it up now and let you stayright where you are. You go and get your mule and wagon, if you canfind them, and go to work again. I'll see Judge Baines this evening,and tell him just what you have told me. Go on, now. I suppose youare going to take that woman back to live with you?"

"Oh, yessah. I kain't help dat nohow. I done licked her dis mawnin',fust thing I done. She's a heap more humble and con-trite now."

At this Eddring grumbled and turned back to his work. Still Jackhesitated. A certain gravity sat on his face.

"Mas' Edd'ern," said he, finally, "kin you tell me why de rivah isout all ovah de lan' down below, and why dere's so many peoplewu'kkin' tryin' to stop de breaks?"

"No," said Eddring. "I know there's a big overflow, and it's gettingworse."

"Mas' Edd'ern," said Jack, stepping close to him, "dar's been a heapof devil-ment to wu'k down dah."

"What do you know about it?"

"I knows a heap about it. De nigg*rs all over in dah is gittin'mighty bad. Now, my wife she done tol' me dat dis mawnin',—she'sa-feelin' mighty con-trite."

"What did she tell you about it?"

"Well, Mas' Edd'ern, you know, sah, dere's a heap o' things aboutblack folks dat white folks kain't understand an' nevah will. Youknow fer ovah fifty yeahs black folks has been thinkin' sometimedey'd run dis country. All de time dere's some 'ligious doctah, orpreacheh or other, tellin' dem dat. Now, dat sort o' thing been goin'on down dah fer long while. Dere's a sort o' woman, conjuh woman,'mongst dem. Dey call her de Queen now.

"Now, while I wuz up at Jackson, my wife she done had a heap o' truckwid dem nigg*rs f'om down in dah. My wife tol' me all about dis yerQueen. She tol' me all about the devil-ment dat's been goin' on andis a-gwine to go on down in dat country. Hit's right in whah CunnelBlount lives. I've knowed for yeahs, o' co'se, how frien'ly you two isto each otheh. Now, Mas' Edd'ern, you've been right good to me. I dessthought—seein' dat I couldn't pay you nohow—I'd tell you dis heah,and you could do whut you liked. De trufe is, nigg*rs down heah beengittin' mighty biggoty lately, dey get so much 'couragement f'om upNorf. Massa Edd'ern, dey sho'ly do think dey gwine ter run dis countryatter while. O' co'se every nigg*r whut's got any sense knowsdiff'rent f'om dat, but it seem like dey allus wuz a heap o' triflin'nigg*rs whut ain't willin' to wu'k, but is willin' to make trouble.I dess thought I'd tell you 'bout dis heah."

Eddring turned at his desk for a moment. "Take this over to thetelegraph office at once, Jack," said he. "It's a message to ColonelBlount. I want to see him; and I want you to stay around, so I canget you when he comes up."

CHAPTER II

THE OPINIONS OF CALVIN BLOUNT

It was nearly noon of the following day before Colonel CalvinBlount, in response to the summons of Eddring, presented himself atthe office of the latter. He was Calvin Blount grown still more gauntand gray and grizzled, though his eye lacked nothing of itsaccustomed fire. He seated himself, and cast one long leg across theother, as he threw his hat into a chair, in response to Eddring'sinvitation.

"First," said Eddring, "tell me about yourself. It has been quite awhile since I've been down at your place, hasn't it?"

"Well, as to the place," replied Blount, "it's pretty much gone topieces. You know my idea is that the chief end of man is to go b'ahhunting, and he oughtn't to be guilty of contributory negligence bystaying at home too much. There's been no one to run the place, and Ihaven't cared. Least said about it, the best, I reckon."

"Who is your housekeeper now?" asked Eddring.

"No one, unless you call it that girl Delphine that used to work forMrs. Ellison. She came back there a while ago, and said she hadn'tany place to live, and wanted to go to work, so I told her to takehold. I don't care. I've been livin' out in the woods most of thetime. There's more b'ahs now than you ever did see. You ought to comedown and have a hunt. The high water has driven 'em all up to theridges, and we can just get all of 'em we want."

"Well, I like to hunt once in a while," said Eddring, placing thetips of his fingers together judicially, "but, you see, I'm a poorman, and I have to do a little work once in a while, Now, you've gotthat big plantation of yours—"

"Plantation!" snorted Blount; "yes, about half my fields are grown upin sassafras brush. I rented out a thousand acres to the best nigg*rsI had, and I give 'em mules and machinery and a stake at the store,and I told 'em to go ahead, and we'd split even at the end of theyear. It's no use. I've got to begin all over again, the same as Idid when I first started in there. It don't take long for thatcountry to slide back into brush, if you don't keep after it. Itwould be cane and sassafras and cat briers all over to-day, so far asthe nigg*rs are concerned. Why, man, if you opened the gates ofHeaven and showed them to Mr. nigg*r, yon couldn't get him in, unlessyou kicked him in."

"You don't seem exactly in accord with the modern idea of upliftingthe colored race, this morning, do you, Colonel?"

"No, I don't. Now, I wish our friends from the North would do one oftwo things, either leave Mr. nigg*r alone, or else take him up North,and live with him themselves. You know what happened down at my placelast month?"

"No, anything new?"

"No, nothing new, only another one of them investigatin' partiesfrom up North. They had a good fat new educator, half-nigg*r,half-white, this time—educated a heap more'n I am. He was the kingbee in that lot of evangelizers and elevators. Well, I took them outover my farms and showed them the sassafras shoots coming up wherethe cotton ought to be. 'Gentlemen,' said I, 'here's an instance ofwhat an intelligent and industrious race can do. Here's the bestplantation in the Delta turned over to these people to make or break.This is the richest soil in the world. They had half of all theycould raise, and they had their living guaranteed them. Nobodyguarantees me a living, not even God A'mighty. They didn't putup a dollar, nor an ounce of brains, nor a bit of worry. Now, didthey work, or did they sit in the shade and loaf? You look around andtell me.'

"The big half-white man began to preach to me, and I says to him,'Before you go on, I just want to ask you two questions. First, howmuch of you is nigg*r, and how much is white? Second, do you want toquit running a college up North, and come down here and take hold ofthis plantation, and so help out three hundred fellow-citizens ofyours who are a heap more interested in the nigg*r question than youare yourself?' I asked that fellow that. That's when he shrunk some."

Eddring smiled, but it was a serious smile, for the South has smallinclination to jest over questions such as these.

"Well, about all the fellow could do was to fall back on his old songabout education uplifting the race. 'That's all right,' I said tohim. 'I'll pay my share of that. But we've got to wait until yourmillennium comes. It's no use saying it has come, when it hasn't.It's going to take a long time before you get the real usefuleducating done.'

"I got riled, talking to him, and at last I called up one of my fieldhands—he had ruined twenty acres of the best cotton land I had—andI took him by the ear and pulled out a bunch of his hair. Said I tohim, 'Sam, is your hair like mine! Would it ever get like mine?''No, boss,' said he, 'not in a hundred yeahs.' He laughed at me.

"Then I said to that white fellow from the North, 'How hard do youwork? I want to know that.' He began to swell up a little at that.Well, I put it to him this way. Says I, 'There was a man came downthrough here a few years ago, and he got plumb rich. He told allthese poor black people all around that for fifty cents he'd sellthem a bottle of stuff that would make their hair straight like awhite man's, in less'n a month. He always put it about a month ahead,so that he'd have time to get away. Now, that hair tonic man was whatI call a professional benefactor of the nigg*r race,' said I. 'He gotpaid for it, just the same as you do. And,' says I, 'he'll straightenout their hair with his hair tonic just about as soon as you'llstraighten out their problem with your particular kind of ointment—for which you are getting better paid than he did.'

"That riled the fellow plenty, but I went on talking to him. 'Theonly difference between you and him,' says I to him, 'is that he waswhole white and was running a straight bluff, and you are part white,and are running a half-way sort of bluff. You pray to God A'mighty somuch about this that you have just about got yourself half-persuadedthat you're honest. Do you reckon that you have got God A'mightypersuaded that way, too?' said I to him. That made an awfuldisturbance in the evangelizing and elevating outfit, and finally Igot out of patience. Says I to them, 'I don't want to forget that youare visitors at my place. You white folks can come to my table, ifyou want to, or you can eat with the oppressed and downtrodden out inmy kitchen, if you like that better. Your fellow-citizen, with thespecialty of elevating the downtrodden, can't eat at my table. Afteryou get it fixed up the way that suits you best, and have had yourdinner, I want you-all to go out and take one more look at thesassafras that's growing on as fine a cotton land as ever lay out ofdoors. If you can elevate my nigg*rs so that they'll work, why goahead and do it. God knows they need it. Learn 'em geometry, learn'em to write poetry, send 'em to Europe to learn painting, but pleaseput somewhere in your college a department showing how to dig upstumps and chop sassafras roots. 'You'll pardon me,' says I, 'forI'm a plain man; but I just want to say that that's the kind ofelevating that the black race in America needs most. But whatever youdo, don't be foolish. Don't say to me that that's done which you andI both know ain't done.'"

Both Eddring and Blount were silent for a time. "Those folks stayedin around our country for quite a while," resumed Blount, "and theysucceeded in stirring up the nigg*rs to thinking that they were notgetting a square deal, but ought to break into politics once more.A few of us planters got together, and we were so stirred up aboutit that we thought we would do something right funny. Our countyelection was coming on, and you know we have got about ten blackvoters to one white down there. Under the Constitution we couldn'telect a white man down there in a hundred years—not if we followedthe Constitution. This time, just for a joke—but listen—do you knowwhat we did?"

"Well, it's pretty hard to tell just what Cal Blount would do,sometimes," said Eddring, "but I don't doubt you did somethingfoolish."

"No, we didn't. We just had a joke. We let them elect a nigg*rsheriff for Tullahoma County! We just 'lowed we'd give 'em a touch oflaw as a sort of object lesson to the Northern elevators. Thoughtwe'd take a shot at the educating business ourselves. The fellow'sname is Mose Taylor, and say! he's the tickledest nigg*r you ever didsee! He's about half-white, too, and he always did want to break intopolitics one way or another. Now, he's done broke in. We let him,just for a joke. Of course, when there's any need for a realsheriff, we white people allow that we'll have to use the old one—Jim Peters."

"Well, these things aren't always just exactly the best kind ofjokes," said Eddring. "You have been having nothing but trouble downthere for a long time."

"Trouble!" said Blount, "I should say we have. We've tried to keep ita white man's country, but it's been a fight every day of the year.nigg*rs stole and killed all the cattle of my neighbors down inthere, and we hung two or three nigg*rs last month for stealing cows.We put a sign on them, 'You stole a cow, cow killed you.' You've gotto make things sort of plain, you know, to these people, so's theycan understand 'em. Now, you know the trouble we had down there aboutthat train wreck. It's morally sure the nigg*rs were at the bottom ofthat, one way or another. That ain't all. I told you we were having abig overflow now. Well, the fact is, we found out a day or so agothat this overflow is mostly hand-made. They've been cutting thelevees—"

"Blount," said Eddring, quietly, "that's just why I telegraphed youto come up here. I've got a boy here who knows about the wholeproposition. They're organizing, as sure as you're born, and they'vegot a leader. They've got a Queen, they say."

"A Queen!" snorted Blount, jumping to his feet. "Queen, eh? Well,now! you look here, if we ever do get hold of that Queen, I want totell you, she'll have the uneasiest head that ever did wear any kindof crown. Queen, eh!"

"And you've got a nigg*r sheriff now! Fine machinery for the law tohave in that part of the Delta just at this time, isn't it?"

"Sheriff! What do we need of a sheriff, if we get down to thebottom of this devilment? We have got to put it down, andthat's all there is to it, as you know very well. There's no two waysabout it. These disturbances, most of them due to politics, haveupset our whole country. Now, it is for us to set it right again.We've got to cut politics out, and get down to common sense, down tobusiness. The South can't wait for ever on politics, Northern orSouthern. This country's bigger than politics, and bigger thanpoliticians. You know we can count on every white man in my part ofthe Delta. Can we count on you?"

Eddring hesitated, but finally looked his friend in the face. "I'm awhite man," said he. Blount went on.

"What you tell me is not altogether news. We're going after thesepeople, and we're going to put an end to this thing once for all.We're going to have a country. Now, we want as large a numberof white gentlemen as possible. We will want you.

"Now, no matter what you are doing, or where you are, will you comewhen I send for you!"

Eddring repeated simply, "I am a white man, too."

"It's for the law, Eddring—for the country."

"Yes. I think it's for the law."

CHAPTER III

REGARDING LOUISE LOISSON

"Come out and eat with me, Cal," said Eddring. "I've some othermatters to put before you. A great many things have been so confusedin my mind that I have hardly known where to begin to straighten themout."

"I reckon you've got some new lawsuit or other on your hands," said
Blount.

"You're right. At least it may be a lawsuit, and it certainly bidsfair to be a puzzling study, lawsuit or not."

After they were seated at table in an adjoining cafe, Eddring tossedover to his friend a late copy of a New Orleans newspaper. "You seethat headline?" said he. "It's all about a dancer, Miss LouiseLoisson. You ever hear that name before?"

"Why, no, I don't seem to remember it, if I ever did."

"Well, that name is bothering me mightily just now. You knowsomething of the history of those old Y. V. damage judgments, after Ileft the road?"

"Yes, I reckon I heard something about it. Some one seems to have gothold of the list of claims, and pushed them for all they were worth.Of course, I know you hadn't anything to do with that."

"It was an odd sort of thing," said Eddring, "and it has led up to anumber of other things still more strange. Now, no one knows how thatinformation regarding the claims got out. I told you that I foundthat complete list of the claims in the valise of the mysterious man,Mr. Thompson, who was killed in the train wreck at your place. Ofcourse I turned over all this material to the company at once. Butthere must have been a duplicate list out somewhere. I had my ownsuspicions. I knew, or thought I knew, why the dogs ran that trailright up to your house. Here's one reason I had for that." He threwon the table before Blount a soiled and wrinkled bit of linen, thesame mysterious handkerchief which he had put in his pocket at thetrain wreck long ago.

"Did you ever see that before?" asked he. Blount sat up straighterand looked closely at the object, but shook his head.

"It might be Delphine's," said Eddring. At this the other man shuthis mouth hard and his face grew suddenly serious.

"Now, I say I had suspicions," resumed Eddring. "That list of claimswas never written out by that traveling man, Thompson. It might havebeen done by Henry Decherd, might it not?"

"What makes you think so?"

"Nothing, except that I believe those papers were in Henry Decherd'svalise. In fact, I know it. He did not want to claim the valise whenhe saw that I had it. This letter might very possibly have beenwritten by Delphine to Decherd. See here." He placed before Blountthe unsigned letter which he had preserved ever since the time of itsdiscovery. Blount read it through in silence, flushing a bit to seehis own name mentioned by a servant in such connection; but withoutcomment he looked quietly at Eddring, now eager in the instinct ofthe chase.

"I'll tell you frankly, Cal," said the latter, "I guessed all alongthat these two were concerned in all this business, but I couldn'tspeak. I didn't dare tell my suspicions when I had no better proofthan was possible to get at that time. I didn't want to tell thesheriff. I didn't dare tell even you what I thought. Now there wassomething else in that valise which I did not turn over to thecompany, because I did not think it was their property."

He took from his pocket the mysterious little volume, the same whichhad so strangely appeared at different times and in the hands ofdifferent parties, not all of whom were at that time known tohimself. Blount turned it over curiously in his hand.

"Funny sort of book for a traveling man to have in his valise," saidhe. "You reckon he was some sort of book collector?"

"Well, I don't reckon that Thompson was. Upon the other hand, Henry
Decherd might have been, for certain reasons. Let's see.

"Now, here is this little French book. It tells about a certainjourney made from America to France in the year 1825 by severalIndian chieftains. They went with one Paul Loise, interpreter. Withthem was a young girl, Louise Loisson—don't you see the name?—andshe is carefully described as a descendant, not of Paul Loise, but ofthe Comte de Loisson, a nobleman who came to St. Louis shortly before1825."

Blount sat up still straighter in his chair. "This here is mightystrange," said he. "Names sound right near alike."

"Yes," said Eddring. "But that Louise Loisson must have been dead,buried and forgotten half a hundred years ago. If so, what is shedoing dancing down at New Orleans to-day? As soon as I saw that namein the newspaper, I looked it up again in my little book. Then I puttogether my suspicions about the letter, and the list, and thevalise. If I hadn't seen the name in the newspaper, I might neverhave been so much interested in it; and certainly I should never haveput the matter before you."

"I am mighty glad you did. There may be a heap under all this that Iwant to know about."

"There is. And now I want you to follow me closely; because this verysame thing has come to me from another direction.

"You know that in my work I have to examine papers in all sorts ofclaim cases. Now, within the year, I ran across a United StatesSupreme Court brief, a case which came up from the Indian Nations,and which was decided not long ago. It seems that the plaintiff usedto be on the Omaha pay-rolls. Some one in the tribe, apparently as atest case, covering certain other claims, objected that the claimantwas not all Indian, indeed not Indian at all, and hence not entitledto be on the rolls; although you know Uncle Sam recognizes Indianblood to the one-two-hundred-and-fiftieth part.

"I might never have taken much interest in that suit, which Ihappened to be going over for other reasons, if I hadn't caughtsight, in the testimony, of the names of Loise and Loisson, and if Ihadn't found the name of Henry Decherd among counsel for theplaintiff!"

"Well, by jinks, that's mighty curious!" said Blount. "I didn't knowhe was a lawyer."

"Yes. He was a lawyer; so much the more dangerous, as I'll show you.Now Paul Loise was official interpreter for the United Statesgovernment at St. Louis in 1825. He was of absolutely no kinship tothe Comte de Loisson, the similarity of names being a merecoincidence, though one which has made much trouble in the recordssince that time, as I have discovered. The confusion of these twonames was one of the most singular legal blunders ever known in theSouth. It was this entanglement of the records that gave HenryDecherd his chance.

"The Comte de Loisson was a widower, and he brought with him fromFrance a young daughter. He pushed on up the Missouri River in searchof adventures, but he left this daughter, as nearly as can now belearned, in charge of the half-breed interpreter, Paul Loise, perhapswith the understanding that the latter was to obtain suitable carefor her from officials in the government employ. That was about thetime the Redhead Chief—Clark, of Lewis and Clark, you know—wasIndian commissioner at St. Louis.

"Now Paul Loise, at that time engaged in the government treaty workwith the tribes, was moving about from tribe to tribe, and he seemsto have had an Indian wife in pretty much every one of them. He alsohad a white wife, or one nearly white, whom he left at hisheadquarters in St. Louis; and it was with this woman, white orpartly white, that the young daughter of the Comte de Loisson wasleft, at least for a time. Paul Loise himself on one journey went upthe river to the place where the Omaha tribe then lived. Whether hetook this white child with him, or whether he left her in charge ofhis white wife at St. Louis, is something now very difficult toprove. This United States Supreme Court case hinges very largely onthat same question; and hence it is of great interest to us, as Iwill show you after a while."

"Well, now, couldn't this dancer down at New Orleans—some sort of
Creole like enough—have been a descendant of this Loise family of
St. Louis?" asked Blount.

"That we can't tell," replied Eddring. "As I said, the similarity ofthe names set me looking up the whole matter as soon as I could."

"Well, didn't the French girl's father ever come back after her?"

"Wait. We'll come to that. The one thing certain is that he nevercame back down the Missouri River. He disappeared absolutely, nodoubt killed somewhere by the Indians. His daughter grew up as bestshe might. She went to France, as our book shows. After a time PaulLoise, her erstwhile protector, died also. Here Louise Loissondisappears from view. She left behind her a very pretty legalquestion for others to solve, and a mightily mixed set of records toaid in the solution.

"Out of the uncertainty regarding the descendants of Paul Loise therearose a great deal of litigation. This lawsuit, which I havementioned, no doubt originated by reason of that very confusion. Now,the attorneys in that suit had a knowledge of the existence of thisvery book which you have in your hand. They stated in this brief thatthere was but one copy of this book existing in America, that in theCongressional Library at Washington. They won their case by means ofthis book as evidence; for here is full proof, printed in Paris in1825, that these Indians went to Paris, accompanied by Paul Loise,and by one Louise Loisson, a white girl, noble, and not hisdaughter; which meant that he had a mixed-blood daughter elsewhere,from whom the claimant had descent.

"How this book got into the possession of Henry Decherd—of course itdid not belong to the man Thompson-is something I can't tell. He nodoubt intended to use it for his own purposes, as I will try to showyou after a while. As to this Supreme Court case from the IndianNations, it simply proves that the claimant did have a status on thepay-rolls; and it stops at that. The case is irrefutable evidence onthe Paul Loise descent question. Perhaps Decherd, for reasons whichwe shall possibly find out, was not willing to let the matter restquite there.

"As to our little book, it is a gay one enough. It says that thechieftains from America were received with distinguished honors inthe city of Paris. They had so much champagne that three of themdied. A titled woman of France fell in love with one of them, andthere were all sorts of high jinks. As to the young girl—La BelleAmericaine they called her—it seems that Paris could not haveenough of her. She was all the rage. She taught them the dances ofthe 'sauvages.' 'Tres interessantes' the Frenchmen thoughtthese dances, it seems. That's all we know of her—she danced. Well,if Mademoiselle Louise Loisson, down at New Orleans to-day, is assuccessful with her line of dancing as her possible mamma orgrandmamma was in Paris years ago, it would certainly seem she has noreason for complaint."

Blount sank back in his chair with a deep sigh. "You were right,"said he. "It is a little hard to understand all this at first, butI'm beginning to see. And unless I'm mistaken, this thing is going tocome home mighty close to us. Decherd has surely been mixed up inthis, if this was really his book, or in his valise, as you think.Delphine is in it, too, if that letter to him means anything. Butnow, what was Decherd after?"

"I'll tell you," said Eddring, "or at least, I'll show you what Ihave discovered so far, and you can guess at the rest.

"When I got thus far along I was pretty deeply interested, as yousee, and I followed it on out, just for the love of the mystery. NowI have unearthed the fact that the Comte de Loisson did leave someproperty when he died. Soon after his arrival in the neighborhood ofSt. Louis, he bought a good-sized tract of land, down in what is nowSt. Francois County, below St. Louis. The lands at that time werethought valueless, but perhaps the Comte de Loisson had morescientific knowledge than most of the inhabitants of St. Louis atthat time. Perhaps he intended to develop his lands after he returnedfrom his adventures up the Missouri River. He never did return, andthe lands seem to have lain untouched for a generation or more, stillfor the most part considered valueless.

"Now, when I had got that far along, I took the trouble to look upthe numbers of the sections of this land. Cal, I want to tell you thatthat land to-day is in the middle of the St. Francois lead region,which is full of this new disseminated lead ore, which everybody for atime thought was only flint!"

"On Jordan's strand—" began Blount, suddenly bursting into song.

"I don't blame you for being disturbed," said Eddring, himselfsmiling. "As you see, there is something under all this. Maybe Mr.Decherd is a bigger man than we gave him credit for being. Maybe thislittle book is a bigger book than we thought it was.

"Now, you know, the entail has been abolished in the state ofMissouri. So we come directly to the question of the descent of theselead lands under a certain name. Of course, a single heir in each ofthree generations would carry the title down clear till to-day;provided, of course, that there was no escheat to the government—that all the taxes had been kept up. Very well. That means that it isat least a legal possibility for a living heir to-day to havetitle to those Loisson lead mines, which are very valuable. Cal—"and here Eddring rose, tapping with his finger on the table in frontof him, "the Louise Loisson who went to France in 1825 was the ownerof those lead mines! Now I have looked up the tax record. The taxeson these lands for several years back have been paid by HenryDecherd!"

Blount himself rose and stood back, hands in pockets, looking at thespeaker. "—I'll take my stand!" he continued with his hymn.

"For a long time," went on Eddring, "these lands, not supposed to beworth anything, were not listed by any assessor, and hence did notappear upon the tax-rolls. Thus they were not forfeited by theoriginal purchaser, who must have had his title pretty nearly directfrom Uncle Sam himself. Louise Loisson, the first, the Frenchnoblewoman dancer, owned those lead mines. If this dancer at NewOrleans be a relative of hers, a daughter or granddaughter, she won'thave to dance unless she feels like it. For I am here to tell you, asa lawyer, her claim to this tract can be proved, just as readily asthe claim to a place on the Omaha pay-rolls for a descendant of PaulLoise was proved in the United States Court five years ago, by meansof this same book on the table there before you!"

"Well now, my son, that's what an ignorant fellow like me would calla mighty pretty lawsuit," said Blount, turning over the curiouslittle red-bound volume in his hand.

"It's more than pretty," said Eddring, "it's deep, and it'simportant—important to you and me, for more reasons than one. Therehas been a heap of trouble down in the Delta, and there has been ahead to all this trouble-making. We are now entitled to our guess asto whether or not we have in this curious way located the head. If weare right, we have at least connected Henry Decherd with an attemptto secure, either for himself or some one else, the title to theselands.

"Now, whether the rightful heir, if there be any heir, knows of theexistence of these lands, or ever heard of this book, or ever heardof that Indian lawsuit, is something which we don't know. There maynot be any living descendant of the Loisson family. All we know isthat there is some one using the Loisson name; and that there issome one else who is after the Loisson estates. Now, just why thislatter has had certain associates, or just why he has done certainother acts, you and I can't say at this time. But we'll know sometime."

"The first thing to do, of course, is to go to New Orleans to seethat dancer woman."

"Of course," said Eddring. "I shall start tomorrow. As for you,Blount, you've got hint enough about what's going on in your ownneighborhood. You'd better watch that girl Delphine. What are youletting her stay around there for, anyway?"

"Because I've got to eat," said Blount, "and because I've got to havesome one to run that place. As I told you, I haven't been there muchof the time till lately. I reckon she's been boss, about as much asanybody. You know there wasn't a white woman on the place, not sinceMiss Lady left. I couldn't ever bear to try to get anybody else inthere. I just let things go."

"What became of Mrs. Ellison, after she left your place?"

"I don't know; don't ask me. I was an awful fool ever to get caughtin any such a way. I heard Mrs. Ellison went to St. Louis, but Idon't know. As I look at it now, I believe Decherd was more than halfwilling to make up to Miss Lady. I reckon maybe Mrs. Ellison didn'tlike that, though why she should care I don't know. Don't ask meabout all these things—I've had too much trouble to want to thinkabout it. All I know is that the girl was as fine a one as everlived. She was good—now I know that, and that's all I do know. Ialways thought she was Mrs. Ellison's daughter; but when the break-upcame, they allowed it wasn't that way. I never did try to figure itall out. When Miss Lady disappeared, and we-all couldn't find hernowhere, I just marked the whole thing off the slate, and went outhunting."

"Cal," said Eddring, quietly, "did you ever stop to think that thereis quite a similar sound in those three names, Loise, and Loisson,and Ellison?"

Blount threw out his hands before him. "Oh, go on away, man,"said he. "You've got me half-crazy now. I don't know where I'mstanding, nor where I've been standing. I don't feel safe in my ownhome—I haven't been safe. My whole place has gone to ruin, andall on account of this business. It's nigh about done me up, that'swhat it has. And now here you come making it worse and worse all thetime."

"But we've got to see it through together."

"Oh, I reckon so. Yes, of course we must."

"Well, now, let's just look over the matter once more," said Eddring."Let us suppose that Decherd has stumbled on this knowledge of theunclaimed Loisson estate. He works every possible string to get holdof it. He tries to get tax title—and that is where he uncovers hisown hand. Meanwhile, he tries the still safer plan of finding a legalheir. We will suppose he has two claimants. From this letter here wemay suppose that Delphine was one of them, his first one. He seems tohave learned from this Indian lawsuit, whether or not he wasconcerned other than as counsel in that lawsuit—and the record doesnot show whether or not he was—that Delphine, or his claimant,whoever that was—we'll say Delphine, for we don't know Delphine'sreal name, perhaps—could and did stick on the pay-rolls of an Indiantribe. That meant that she was Loise, and not Loisson. The UnitedStates Court records hold that absolute evidence, res adjudicata—stare decisis; which means, in plain English, that ends it. Italso means that that Indian claimant could not inherit theLoisson estate!

"Now here is an unknown woman, whom we will call Delphine, beggingDecherd not to forsake her. There would seem to have been a failureon this line of the Decherd investigation. Perhaps the result of thetest case didn't please Decherd very much, although he was on thewinning side. At least, it marked the Loise claimant off the Loissonslate. So much for claimant number one. So much for Delphine, we'llsay.

"But now, at some time or other, Miss Lady and Mrs. Ellison appearedon the scene. I don't know, any more than you do, how these threehappened to know each other, or why Decherd happened to appear sosteadily at your place, after you had so eagerly taken his suggestionand employed Mrs. Ellison as your household supervisor. But now, wewill say, Decherd takes a great notion to Miss Lady. All the timeDelphine is there watching him. She puts on a heap more airs than acolored mistress. Along about the time of the train wreck, she beginsto charge him with faithlessness. She refers vaguely, as you see inthe letter, to his interest in this other woman. Now, can that be ourMiss Lady?

"We don't know. None of us can tell, as yet, who that mysteriousother person is. Mrs. Ellison might tell us, if we could find her, orif we cared to find her."

"No, you don't," said Blount. "That woman stays off the map. The onlyone of the three we want to find is Miss Lady."

"Yes," said Eddring, "if we had Miss Lady, and if we could get Mrs.Ellison and Henry Decherd to tell the truth as Miss Lady would, thenwe would learn easily a great many things which perhaps it will costus a great deal of trouble to uncover."

"Well," said Blount, sighing, as he walked moodily across the room,"my own little world seems to be pretty much turned upside down. Ican't say you make me any happier by all this. The only thing I cansee clear is that you've got to get to New Orleans as soon as youcan. There's reasons plenty for you to go."

The two men looked at each other for a moment, but said nothing."Give me my little book," said Eddring, finally. "I fancy Mr. HenryDecherd would be glad enough to have that back in his own handsagain. There's his evidence. This is the key to his plans, whateverthey are."

Blount groaned as he swung about on his heel. "Good God! man," hesaid, "don't! To hell with your lawsuit! What do we care about mixednames, or all this underhanded work? Never mind about me and myaffairs—I'll take care of that. Man, it's Miss Lady we want. Wedon't know what has happened to her. The rest don't make anydifference."

"Yes," said John Eddring, "it's Miss Lady. The rest makes littledifference."

"Go on, then," said Blount, fiercely, smiting on the table. "Now,find out about this Louise Loisson. Maybe then you'll hear something,somewhere, that'll give you track of our Miss Lady. Start to NewOrleans at once—I'm going down home, to watch that end of the line.We're going after those levee-cutters. As I said, we may want you,and if I send for you, get to my place as fast as you can. Never mindhow you get there, but come. And man! if we could only get Miss Ladyback! If she—"

"If we could!" said John Eddring, reverently.

CHAPTER IV

THE RELIGION OF JULES

Eddring made his journey to New Orleans, as he had promised. On themorning following his arrival he took his breakfast at one of thequaint cafes of the city, a place with sanded floors and clusteredtables, and a frank view of a kitchen in full though deliberateoperation. One Jules, duck-footed, solemn and deliberate, served him,and was constituted general philosopher and friend, as had for sometime been Eddring's custom in his frequent visits to this place.

"Jules," said he, tapping the newspaper in his hand, "how about this?It seems you have a new dancer at the Odeon, very beautiful, verymysterious, very interesting!"

"Ah, Monsieur, all the young gentlemen they grow crezzy, that is nowfour, five month, Monsieur."

"Who is she, then, Jules, and what? Is she indeed very beautiful?"

"It is establish', Monsieur. No one has ever seen her face. As to hergrace and youth, it is not to doubt. She dance always in the domino,and no man may say in truth he has pass' word with Louise Loisson.She is the idol, the nouvelle sensation of the city."

"Goes masked, eh? Young, beautiful, eh? Well, I should say that's notbad advertising, at least."

"Monsieur," said Jules, earnestly, "do not say it at the club. Itwould provoke discussion, and the young gentlemen might have anger.Mademoiselle Louise is worship' in this town. At first, non! It wasthought as you say. But soon this feeling of the young men it hasshange'. It has go into devotion. Now it is religion!"

"Well, that is a pretty state of affairs, isn't it?"

"But I say to you that this Louise Loisson, she dance not like theothair femmes du ballet—absolument non." Jules became excited,spreading out his hands and letting fall his napkin.

"It is different, the quality of the dance of mademoiselle," said he."It is quelque chose, I do not know what. It is not to describe. Itmake you think, thass all. As I say, she has come to be a religion."

"But where does this divine creature live, Jules? Who is she? Come,now? you ought to tell me that much,"

Jules went on polishing a glass. "Ah, Monsieur, why you h'ask?" saidhe. "I may say so much, like this; she live with a lady in the Frenchtown—very fine, very quiet, very secret. It is the house of oldfamily which was bought by Madame Delchasse. Madame, you have know,perhaps? She was long time the bes' cook in New Orleans. She makeplenty money. When Mademoiselle Louise she first come here, she isvery poor, she have no friend. Somehow she is found by this MadameDelchasse. Monsieur and Madame Delchasse, they have once together theres'traw. Monsieur is very fond of the escargot a la Bourgogne, andone day he eat too many escargot. Madame, she run the res'traw, sellgreat many meal to the dam-yankees; sell the cook-book to the dam-yankees aussi. Thus she get rich—very rich, and buy the house onl'Esplanade. But madame is lonely. She is not receive' by the oldFrench familles. Monsieur Delchasse is dead, her shildren are dead—she is alone. She take Louise Loisson home to live. My faith! she iswatch her like the cat."

"But how about this dancing? Why does she need to dance?" queried
Eddring.

"Ah, she has dance two, t'ree time in the house of Madame Delchasse.'It is zhenius,' exclaim Madame Pelchasse at this dance; and always,and always, tou-jours, she tell of the zhenius of this jeune fillewho has come live with her. Thass all. The proprietaire of theOdeon, he fin' it hout. He insist, this jeune fille shall dance. Sheriffuse. He insist, he offer much money. At las', she say she dance ifshe have always the masque. 'Bon!' he cry, and so it is determine'.She dance always in the domino. It is most romantique, most a'mirab'.So this is now the religion of all the young men, mais, oui, thisjeune fille, Mademoiselle Louise Loisson!"

"And how does Madame Delchasse regard this public dancing by herjeune fille?"

"Monsieur, she worship' Mademoiselle Louise. But she say, 'This isart, and of art the world it is not to be deprive!' It is well forboth madame and for Mademoiselle Louise. The luxury of those room inthose old house, they far surpass the best of what one find in thenew hotel. Mademoiselle have the best cook in New Orleans. She comein her carriage, she go the same. She drive up to the gate onl'Esplanade, and the gate is close! Behold all! You know so much asany gentleman of Nouvelle Orleans—you have the tenderloin oftrout?"

After breakfast Eddring strolled over to the box office of the Odeon;but though he made diligent inquiry of the young man who met him atthe window, the latter could give him no satisfaction beyond themention of the address on the Esplanade where dwelt Madame Delchasse.He was very lukewarm in regard to further inquiries from thestranger.

The flavor of this little adventure began now to appeal to Eddring,and thus left to his own resources, he determined to assume a boldfront and call in person at the old house on the Esplanade. It beingstill early, he wandered for a time about the strange old city; butthe crooked streets and their quaint shops had lost their charm. Theancient Place d'Armes, the old Cabildo, the French market, thetumble-down buildings which house the courts of justice ceased tointerest him. He was relieved when finally he felt it proper to turnup the old Esplanade, which wandered away with its rows of whitenedtrees, out among the dignified and reticent residences of thevieux carre.

The flavor of another day came to him. This, indeed, was the sameNouvelle Orleans, he reflected, from which in an earlier daythe first Louise Loisson had set sail for France! He, by virtue ofthis old volume now resting in his pocket, was concerned with thefortunes of that earlier Louise Loisson. And yet, he acknowledged thegrowing feeling that in this matter there was coming to be for himsomething more than a professional interest. This thought he put awayas best he could, chiding himself as perpetually visionary, thoughold enough now to dream no more.

In time he arrived at the street number to which he had beendirected, and paused at the iron street gate which shielded even thecarriage drive from the public. Through the bars of the gate he couldsee a well-kept, formal lawn and the peaked roof of the close-shuttered, green-balconied dwelling beyond. There could not have beena better abode, he reflected, for this mysterious personage who hadcalled him hither on this fantastic, will-o'-the-wisp journey. Yet hepulled himself up with disgust. He dared not hope! He reprovedhimself sharply. No doubt he was to see presently a gushing orgarrulous or ignorant young woman, whose pretended modesty was but anartifice, whose real soul was set upon the adulation of the publicand the pecuniary gain received thereby. He was almost of a mind toturn away, and end his quest then and there.

He was not prepared for what was soon to happen. There came a hum ofwheels along the old roadway, and a carriage pulled up at the walk.There alighted quickly the figure of a young girl, tall, slender,round, full-chested, abounding in health and vigor. So much could beseen at a glance. As to the face of the new-comer, the eyes wereshielded by a dark blue domino, or short mask. Eddring saw beneath,this concealment a strong, round, tender chin; above, a pile of red-brown hair. He caught the flash of a sweeping bunch of scarletribbons, heard a quick rustling of skirts, saw an inscrutable faceturned toward him; and then, before he had time to think or speak, aservant had swept open the great iron gate and the young woman hadstepped within. She did not look back, but passed on rapidly up thegravel walk toward the house. And John Eddring, foolish, stunned,abashed, knew that he had seen the mysterious Louise Loisson! Ah, hehad seen more—he had seen another!

He turned as he heard a footstep and a soft voice at his elbow. Thepasserby accosted him smiling, and he recognized Jules, the duck-footed.

"Ah, Monsieur," said the latter, "I see you have also discover' theshrine. Is it not beautiful, Monsieur—this worship of a purejeune fille?"

The words brought Eddring back to his own proper senses. Forgettingall else, he sprang through the big gate, past the servant, andhastened up the walk. "Miss Lady! Miss Lady!" he cried.

CHAPTER V

DISCOVERY

"Miss Lady!" cried Eddring, yet again; and even as the hurryingfigure before him reached the gallery steps, she heard the entreatyof his voice and turned. As she did so she tore from her face theconcealing mask and stood before him, Miss Lady indeed—tall,straight, young and beautiful. Eddring moved forward impetuously,feeling all the thrill of her presence; all the lambency of woman,planet-like, far-off, mysterious. Eagerly he looked, andquestioningly, doubtingly, and then there came a quick content to hisheart. In spite of all, in spite of what might have been, this wasMiss Lady herself and none other! Sweet as of old, and ah, fit indeedfor worship! Ah, here, he cried out to himself, was that friend ofhis soul, lost now for a time, but found, now found again!

But even as he pressed forward, holding out his hands, his emotionshining in his eyes, there came a change upon Miss Lady's face.

"Ah, Mr. Eddring, it is you?" she said, and her voice had the upwardinflection, as though she carelessly addressed an inferior. "Iremember you very well, but I hardly thought to see you. Indeed, Ishould hardly have expected to see any one in just this way."

All that Eddring could do was to falter and cry out, "Yes, I havecome! I have found you!"

"Indeed? But we do not receive callers. Our plan of life has beenarranged otherwise. You might be observed even now. It would causetalk."

"Talk!" cried Eddring, now suddenly breaking into flame. "Why, letthem talk! It is time there was talk—time you talked to some of yourold friends—you, Miss Lady, who had so many friends."

"Friends!" said the girl, bitterly. "Friends!"

"Yes, friends!" cried Eddring. "Surely you know that Blount and Ihave moved heaven and earth trying to find you. Why you should go,why you should leave every one in ignorance and take up with mummerylike this—it is something no sane person can tell. You have notdone right, Miss Lady. You have not done right!"

The girl raised her head, a flame of anger upon her own cheek at thispresumption. Yet she reserved her speech, and by gesture led Eddringto a spot concealed by the ivy-covered lattice. Her cheeks burned allthe more hotly as Eddring went on.

"What mockery!" he cried.

"Yes, what mockery!" repeated Miss Lady. "What mockery that youshould say these things to me! What had I up there? What was I? I wasa servant, a dependent. Besides all that, things came up which wouldhave driven any decent girl away. I could do nothing else but go. Oh,you don't know all. You can't be just, for you don't know."

"But your mother?"

"You mean Mrs. Ellison? She was not my mother, Mr. Eddring. I thoughtyou knew that. That is one reason why I am here."

"She was not your mother? Then that was true?"

"She never was. She disappeared out of my life, and I know littleabout her now, excepting that she was the only mother I ever knew.There has been deception of some sort. There were so many sad andtroublesome things that I could no longer endure my life as it was. Iwent away. I came here, I found a home."

"But Colonel Blount?"

"Sir, he was my friend. I can only say that in justice it was betterfor me to go. He is a noble man. If ever I pained him I am sorry. Butas to friends—" she dangled the little domino on her finger, "thishas been my only friend. It has kept me from seeing even myself.Without it I should have died." There were no tears in her eyes asshe spoke. Eddring felt that he had now to do with a woman grown,sad, not light and unstable. There crowded to his tongue a thousandthings.

"That!" said he. "You, Louise Loisson—you have indeed beenmasquerading. Tell me, how did you get that name?"

"It was an accident purely," said Miss Lady. "I found it in a book,years ago. It was unusual, and I took it for that reason. I wanted toget as far away from any possibility of detection by my friends as Ipossibly could. See," she smiled bitterly, "I am Louise Loisson now,the common dancer! I make my living in that way. But for that, andfor the kindness of Madame Delchasse here, I might have starved. I amno longer any one you ever knew. Behind this mask sometimes Iforget."

Eddring looked at her with strange earnestness. "You don't know howtrue is every word you speak," said he. "There is absolute fatalityunder all this. On my honor, I believe you are Louise Loisson,born over again! But look how fate brings you and me together: I didnot know where Miss Lady Ellison had gone; I did not know who LouiseLoisson might be; by chance, by the merest chance, I wished to learn—for other reasons only. Now, see! Why, it is fate, Miss Lady! I havefound you both. Miss Lady, my dear girl, see! I have found everythingelse in the world at the same time." The pent-up yearning of his soulwas in his voice, his eyes. The girl caught swift warning.

"I shall go in," said she; but he stopped her. She tore loose thehand which he would have taken. "Go!" said she, "and never must youcome through that gate again. You were unasked, and never will beasked. You, to talk of friends! Why, you were the very last of any Iever knew whom I should have cared to see again."

"What—what is that?" He stumbled under this sudden blow.

"Oh, I have enough of men," said the girl, bitterly, "enough ofhumanity. But I will tell you this much, a friend of mine must firstof all be an honest man. You talk to me of masquerading; take off:your own mask, and let me set my foot upon it, as I have set footupon all my past! Sincerity, truth—I wonder if there is such athing left in all of God's world. I did not ask you here, I do notwelcome you here. Good-by. You must go."

He stood dumb, simply gazing at her, not understanding; and hisabsolute horror she took to be his mere confusion. Yet her eyes weremore sad than angry as she went on.

"You've prospered, Mr. Eddring, I know," said she. "What a differencefor you and me! A girl must walk so carefully, but a man may do as hepleases. You talk about fate, and that sort of thing, but no man witha life like yours can come into my life, mere dancer though I be.Before you go I want to say to you that I know the story of yourdischarge from the railroad. I know how you profited by yourknowledge of the company's affairs—know other things not publicregarding you. Since I do know these things, for you to dare to cometo me in this way seems to me the worst of effrontery."

Still Eddring stood uncomprehending, stunned. "I—I do that?" hewhispered, half to himself. "Did you think—could you believe—"

"I could believe nothing else."

"Who told you these things?" blazed he at length, as at last hisheart once more sent the blood back through his veins.

"If you wish to know, I will tell you. It was Henry Decherd. Iimagine he could furnish proof enough." She spoke defiantly, ifperhaps wearily.

"Henry Decherd!" exclaimed Eddring. "Henry Decherd! Miss Lady, is itpossible that you can stand alive under the sun of heaven and saythese things to me? Is he here? Tell me, what right—"

But now the anger of Miss Lady herself was blazing, and all thecruelty of her sex was in her tone as she answered. "I need not tellyou," said she, "but I will. Mr. Decherd is the only friend of myformer life who cared enough for me to follow and find me. And so hehas the right—"

"For what? Tell me, is there any truth in this newspaper paragraph—'There is talk about the marriage of the mysterious Louise Loisson'?Don't tell me that he—that Decherd—" He gazed steadily into hereyes, but saw there that which made him forget all his purposes,forced him to remember nothing in the world but his sudden personalmisery. And so for an instant he stood and suffered—until the sheerbigness of his soul began to reassert itself. All his love for hercame back, and he forgot even his deadly hurt in the great wave ofpity and tenderness which swept over him.

"Miss Lady," said he simply, after a time, "for myself it doesn'tmake so much difference, after all, I am one of the unlucky. But foryou, as you say, it is at least your due that you should have honestmen for your friends, and an honest man for your husband. I wantedyou to trust me. I loved you. I wanted you to believe in me. I wantedyou to marry me, Miss Lady—I will say it—and I wanted to tellyou that long ago, before you left us. That is over now. You areunjust and cruel beyond all toleration—beyond all belief. You couldby no possibility ever love me. But listen. You shall never marryHenry Decherd."

CHAPTER VI

THE DANCER

Ah, but it was a sweet and wonderful thing to see La Belle Louisedance; a strange and wonderful thing. She was so light, so strong, sofull of grace, so like a bird in all her motions. She swam throughthe air as though her feet scarce touched the floor, her loose silkenskirts resembling wings. Now on one side of the lighted stage, nowback again, nodding, beckoning, courtesying to something which shesaw—this spectacle must have moved any one of us to applause, as itdid these thousands who came to witness it. The stage has notraditions of any dance like this of La Belle Louise. It is nowdanced no more, this dance which a maid or a lily or a tall whitestork might understand, each after its own fashion.

Scores of times had La Belle Louise given this dance, each time withbut trifling variations, each time to thunders of applause, with anart so free of effort that it was above all art. But what had now,for the first time, come to La Belle Louise? Did her bosom labor inthe physical exertion of these measured steps? Was the quality oflightness and freedom lacking? Was the self-absorption, theabandonment, the impersonal, bird-like quality less to-night thanbefore? And was the subtile, cruelly just sense of the public rightin its hesitation, in its half-applause? Had there been actual changein the dancing of La Belle Louise?

The dancer looked from side to side, as though in search of some faceor figure; as though in fear, in distress. Was she actually pantingwhen she left the stage—she, La Belle Louise, the ethereal, thespirituelle, the very imponderable dream of the dance itself? Thismight have been; for presently she cast herself into the arms ofMadame Delchasse in a state bordering upon actual panic.

"Auntie!" she cried, "I can not dance! I am done with it! I shallnever dance again. I can not! I can not!" She trembled as though inactual fear or suffering as she spoke.

"Now, now, my cherished!" said the old French lady, gathering her toher ample bosom, "what is it that has come to you? You have illness?Come, we'll go at 'ome."

The dancer was slow in laying aside her silken skirts and putting onher street attire. Madame waited some time before thrusting her headthrough the half-open door, "See! my dearie," she cried, "I have thesurprise for you. Monsieur shall ride home with you. He has orderedfor to-night the second carriage, which I shall myself take—sinceyou are so soon to ride with monsieur all the time, is it not?"

The head of madame disappeared. The girl, when at last ready todepart, sat with her gaze fixed on the door; yet she started whenpresently there came a knock. Henry Decherd entered.

"Louise!" he cried, "Louise!" and would have caught her in his arms.
She repulsed him and stood back, pale and trembling.

"Oh, I say," protested Decherd, "one would think I had no right."

"You have no right to touch me," she replied. "You shall not. Go onaway with auntie in the other carriage. I will follow you home."

"Come, now," said Decherd, approaching; "this sort of thing won't do.
I don't understand what you mean."

"No, you don't understand a girl," she said.

"At least I understand how a girl ought to treat the man she is tomarry."

"Marry!" said Miss Lady, whispering to herself. "Marry!" There wassilence between them for a time, but she turned to him at length.

"I shall never dance again," said she. "Neither to-morrow, nor at anyother time, shall I set foot upon the stage again."

"You will not need to do so, when once we are married," said he. "Ishall be willing—but tell me, what's the matter to-night? You areonly tired. You will wake up again."

"Wake up!" cried she, "that is the very word. I feel as though I hadsuddenly awakened, this very night." She pressed her hands to herreddening cheeks. "Can't you see?" she cried. "To-night for the firsttime I felt them! I felt their eyes. I felt them, out there infront, as though there were many; as though there were more than one.I felt that they were women-that they were men!"

"Well, they have been there all the time," said Decherd. "It's oddyou should just realize that."

"I never did before," said she. "It kills me. Why, can't you see? Ihave been selling myself—my body, my face, my eyes, myself, alittle at a time, a little to each of them. I've been selling myself.They paid to see me. Now I can dance no more. Yes, you are right, Iam awake at last; and I tell you I am some one else. I have been in adream, it seems to me, for years. But now I can see."

"Well, let the dancing go," said Decherd, rising and coming towardher. "Never mind about that."

"Let everything go!" cried Miss Lady, fiercely. "Let everything go!Marry you? Why, sir, if indeed you understood a girl, you would notwant me to come to you feeling as I do now. Can't you see that a girlmust depend on the man she loves? I have tried to feel sure. Ihave tried to see you clearly. Now, to-night, it is just as it wasthat time years ago when you spoke to me; something comes between us.I can not see you clearly. I can not understand. And so long as thatis true, I can never, never marry you. I can not talk about it. Go! Ido not want to see you!"

A sudden alarm seized upon Henry Decherd. "Listen," he said; "listento me. I can not have you talk this way. Why, you know this sort ofthing is absolutely wrong."

"Everything's wrong!" cried Miss Lady, burying her face in her handsas she sank on a couch. "Everything is wrong! I am ashamed, I can nottell you why. I don't know why, but I have changed, all at once. I'mnot myself any more. I'm some one else. I don't know who I am!I never knew. Oh, shall I never know—shall I never understand why Iam not myself!"

Decherd caught her hands. "We shall not wait," said he, "we'll bemarried to-morrow." His voice trembled in a real emotion, although onhis face there sat an uneasiness not easily read. "Dearest, forgetall this," he repeated. "Go home and sleep, and to-morrow—"

Her eyes flashed in the swift, imperious anger wherewith upon theinstant sex may dominate sex, leaving no argument or answer. Yet inthe next breath the girl turned away, her anger faded into anxiety.She wavered, softened in her attitude.

"Oh, he told me, he told me!" murmured she to herself. "I can not—Ican not!" She seemed unconscious of Decherd's presence. But soon sheforgot her own soliloquy. Once more she looked Decherd squarely inthe face.

"I can not marry you," she said. "I will not!"

"I'll not allow you to make a fool of yourself, or of me," said
Decherd. "What do you mean—who is 'he'?"

He had his answer on the moment, not from her lips, but by one ofthose strange freaks of fate which often set us wondering in ourcommonplace lives.

There came a tap at the door, and a call boy offered a card. "It'sagainst orders, I know, ma'am," he began, "but then—"

Decherd, full of suspicion, sprang at the messenger and caught thecard before Miss Lady saw it. His swift glance gave him smallcomfort.

"Eddring!" he cried. "By God! John Eddring! So—"

"Yes," she flashed again at him. "You are rude; and there is youranswer; and here is mine to you, and him." She turned to the callboy.

"Tell the gentleman that Miss Loisson can not be seen," said she.

A ghastly look had come upon Henry Decherd's face at these words. Hisfeatures were livid in his rage. "So Eddring is here, is he!" saidhe, "and he has been talking to you! By God, I'd kill him if Ithought—"

"Carry my wrap, sir!" said Miss Lady, rising like a queen. "You maydo so much for the last time. At the gate I shall bid you good-by.Open the door!"

CHAPTER VII

THE SUMMONS

As though in a dream, Miss Lady followed Decherd to the entrance,near which stood a carriage in the narrow little street. She scarcelylooked at his face, and did not note his hurried words to the driver.Silent and distraught, she took no note of their direction as thewheels rattled over the rude flags of the medieval passageway. Thecarriage turned corner after corner in its jolting progress, andfinally trundled smoothly for a time, but Miss Lady, hoping only thatthis journey might soon end, scarce noticed where it had ended. Shesaw only that it was not at the gate of Madame Delchasse's house,and, startled at this, expostulated with Decherd, who reasoned,argued, pleaded.

Meantime, at the gate of the old house on the Esplanade, MadameDelchasse waited uneasily alone. Perhaps half an hour had passed, andmadame could scarce contain herself longer, when finally she heardthe rattle of wheels and saw descending at the curb a stranger, whohurriedly approached her carriage window.

"Pardon, Madame," said he, as he removed his hat, "this carriage is,perhaps, for the house of Madame Delchasse?"

"It is, Monsieur," said madame, frigidly. "I am Madame Delchasse."

"Pardon me, Madame," said the new-comer, "my name is Eddring, John
Eddring. I would not presume to come at such an hour were it not that
I have a message, a very urgent one, for Miss Loisson. She refused to
see me at the theater, and I came here; she must have this message.
It is not for myself that—"

Madame drew back into her carriage. "Monsieur," said she, "I say toyou, bah! and again, bah!"

"You mistake," said Eddring, hurriedly. "It is only the message whichI would have delivered. It is only on her account." Something in hisvoice caught the attention of madame, and she hesitated. "It isstrange mademoiselle do not arrive," she said. "Monsieur Decherdshould have brought her 'ome before this."

"Decherd!" cried Eddring.

"Mais oui. He is her fiance. What is it that it is to you,Monsieur?"

"Listen, listen, Madame!" cried Eddring, "We must find them. Thismessage is one of life and death. Come, your carriage—" and beforemadame could expostulate the two were seated together in madame'scarriage, and it was whirling back on the return journey to theOdeon.

Eddring fell on the doorkeeper. "Miss Loisson! Where is she? When didshe leave?" he demanded; and madame added much voluble French.

"Mademoiselle left with a young gentleman a half-hour ago," said thedoorkeeper. "I heard him say, 'Drive to the levee.' Perhaps theywould see the high water, yes?"

"That's likely!" cried Eddring, springing back into the carriage,"but we will go there, too." Hence their carriage also whirled aroundcorner after corner, and presently trundled along the smoother way ofthe levee. Passing between the interminably long rows of cotton-balesthey met a carriage coming away as they approached, and Eddring, uponthe mere chance of it, accosted the driver.

"Did you bring two persons, a young lady and a young man, here amoment ago?" said he.

"Not here," said the driver, pulling up. "But I took them lower downon the levee. They went on board the Opelousas Queen. You'llhave to hurry if you want to catch, them. She's done whistled, an''ll be backin' out mighty quick."

Eddring hardly waited for the end of his speech. "We must find them,"said he to madame at his side, who now was becoming thoroughlyfrightened. "There is something wrong in this. I must get thismessage to Miss Loisson, and I must find out what all this means."

A few moments later their own carriage brought up with a jerk, andEddring, dragging madame by the arm, hurried across the stage plankalmost as it was on the point of being raised.

"What do you mean?" growled the clerk to the hurried arrivals, as theQueen slowly turned out into the stream.

"Did a couple come aboard just now, a few minutes ahead of us?" cried
Eddring, taking him by the shoulder in his excitement.

"Why, yes. But they didn't come in such a hurry as you do. Where areyou going?"

"Wait," said Eddring. "What was the girl like? Tall, dark hair, worea cloak, perhaps? And the man—was he rather thin, dark—had oddisheyes?"

"Why, yes; I reckon that's who they were," grumbled the clerk.

Eddring paid no attention to him. "Madame," said he, "they must be onthe boat.

"Now look; here is my message, Madame," he resumed, as he led herapart to avoid the clerk. "You will see why I have brought you here,and why I had to find Miss Loisson and this Mr. Decherd." He handedto her two pieces of paper—messages from Colonel Calvin Blountaddressed to him at New Orleans. The first one read: "We areorganized; come quick. More levee-cutting."

"That is three days old," said Eddring. "Here is one sent yesterday.It must have gone out by boat to some railway station, for the roadsare washed out for miles in all the upper Delta. 'Shot bad in leveefight. Come quick. We have caught Delphine, ring-leader. More proofimplicating Decherd. Louise Loisson our Miss Lady. Find her; bringher. Watch Decherd. Come quick.—Calvin Blount.'

"Madame," said Eddring, "Miss Louise Loisson was once Miss LadyEllison, at the Big House plantation of Calvin Blount, in thenorthern part of Mississippi. Her friends have been looking for herfor years, but in some way have missed her. I will say to you thatshe is a young woman lawfully entitled to property in her own name.This Henry Decherd is unfit company for her, if not dangerouscompany. As to this marriage, it must not be. Madame, take thismessage to Miss Loisson; if you can, induce her to go to her old andtrue friend, Colonel Blount,—if it be not too late now for that. Iam sure you will be thankful all your life; and so will she. Findher; I will find Decherd. We must get up to Blount's place then.He's hurt. He may be killed."

Madame stood troubled, fumbling the papers in her hand. She scarcehad time to speak ere there came from the ladies' cabin a sudden rushof footsteps, and in an instant Miss Lady and she were in eachother's arms.

CHAPTER VIII

THE STOLEN STEAMBOAT

"My shild! My soul!" cried madame. "What is it? Where have you been?What is this!" She patted Miss Lady with one plump hand, even as shewept; and all Miss Lady could do in turn was to put her face on theolder woman's shoulder and sob in sheer relief.

"Why you don' come at 'ome?" cried madame, severely. "We have wait'so long. See, this boat, she don' stop. Why do you come to the boat,when you say you come at 'ome to me? Ah, Mademoiselle, you have neverdeceive' me before."

"I have not deceived you," said Miss Lady. "I did not know that wewere coming to the river-front in the carriage—I thought we weregoing home. When we got here he pleaded, he begged—it was just toride across to Algiers, and come back, he said. He said it was thelast time, the last hour that we would ever spend together. Hethreatened—what could I do, Madame? You would not have me make ascene; it was dark out there, I thought it safer to come aboard theboat—where there were lights—and other ladies. I went back to theladies' cabin. O Madame, Madame—"

Madame Delehasse threw her arms about the girl and they passed downthe long cabin of the boat. Eddring turned to the clerk, grieved andwondering.

"Can you put these ladies ashore at Algiers across the river?" askedhe. "There has been a mistake. They don't want to go up river."

"They'll have to go, now," said the clerk. "We'll put them out at theferry, up above a few miles. Best we can do. Algiers! Do you think weare running a street-car?"

"Very well," said Eddring. "Get two state-rooms, then. We'll go on upthe river. You can put us ashore sometime after daylight. We wantedto catch a train up country, but if we can't do that to-night, we'lltry it from some stopping-place up river."

There had come to Eddring the lightning-like conviction that he wasnow suddenly flung into the chief crisis of his life. He looked hardat the widening gap of black water between him and the shore, and atthe hurrying floods into which the boat was now beginning steadily toplow; but the night and the floods gave him no answer. He knew thathe had taken upon himself responsibility for two women, one of whomhe believed to have been practically a victim of abduction—thiswoman whom he had loved for years, had lost, and lost again, but whowas now here, under his care, dependent on his own courage, his ownresolution and decision. It was but for a moment that Eddringhesitated. The heart of the great boat throbbed on beneath him, buteven with her strong pulse there rose his own resolve. He left theforward deck and passed back to seek out the clerk.

"Go tell the captain of this boat to come to me," said he.

"What do you mean? Who are you?" the clerk asked.

"I must see the captain," Eddring answered with a wave of the hand,and again turned away. Perhaps it was the very stress of that momentwhich finally indeed brought Captain Wilson of the Opelousas Queeninto the presence of his enigmatical passenger.

"Well, sir?" cried Wilson, as he approached, "what can I do foryou?"

"Captain Wilson," said Eddring, quietly, "I want to take your boatoff her regular run. I have got to get up the river, and I am afraidthe roads are wiped out."

The river-man's astonishment at this bade fair to end in explosion.
"My boat!" he ejacul*ted. "Quit my run?"

"Yes," said Eddring. "I'll explain to you later the necessity I havefor getting up the river quickly—and why it means that I have gotto have your boat."

"Have my boat!" said Wilson, his voice sinking into an inarticulatewhisper. "And me with mail, and passengers, and freight to leave fromPlaquemine to St. Louis! Have my boat! Have my——"

"Put your passengers off at Baton Rouge in the morning. Transfer yourmails there. Let everything get through the best it can. It can wait.As for me, I can't wait; I must go through direct."

Wilson endeavored to look at him calmly. "If you talk that way to memuch longer," said he, "I'll say you're surely crazy."

"I'll see you about it in the morning," said Eddring, quietly. Hissingleness of purpose had its effect. Captain Wilson abruptly turnedon his heel.

Meantime Miss Lady and Madame Delchasse had drawn apart in their ownexcitement, exclaiming only against the fact that this boat, so farfrom crossing the river, was now forging steadily upstream. Along thedistant bends there could be seen the black masses of shadow, pickedout here and there by the star-like points of the channel lights;while the low banks of the western shore, dimly indicated by theferry lights, slowly slipped away.

"We are h'run away," cried Madame Delchasse. "It is not to Algiers.Ah, my angel, what fortune I am here!" Miss Lady silently pressed herhand, and they moved farther forward on the guards.

Eddring heard them talking, and knew the cause of their uneasiness.He sat apart on the forward guards planning for a further attemptwith Captain Wilson, and planning also for another meeting which heknew he might presently expect. He needed all his faculties at thatmoment, as he sat with his back to the rail, and his eyes commandingthe approaches to the deck. He was waiting for what he knew would bethe most exacting situation he had known in all his life—theencounter with Henry Decherd.

As for the latter, it had been his plan to absent himself from MissLady until after the boat should have swung well into the up-streamjourney; then, he meant to do whatever might be necessary to carryout his main purpose. Abduction, compulsion, force—none of thesethings would have caused Henry Decherd to hesitate at this time ofdesperation. Miss Lady's sudden desertion and flight to the ladies'cabin disconcerted him. The sound of Eddring's voice and that ofmadame filled him with dismay. He tried to compose himself, but foundhis nerves trembling. Hurrying to the bar, he sought aid in a glassof liquor. He knew there must be a reckoning. As he returned from thebar he met Madame Delchasse with Miss Lady, and was obliged to speak.

"Madame, how did you come here?" he stammered. "Why, where is thisboat going?"

"It is not go to Algiers, no?" said madame, freezingly. "By thistime, Monsieur Decherd, I have expect mademoiselle to be at my 'ome."

"Why, we only wanted to run across the river together. We were cominghome," protested Decherd. "We did not know this was an up-riverboat."

Madame Delchasse drew herself up magnificently. "I, ClarisseDelchasse," said she, "have arrive'. I shall take care ofmademoiselle." Decherd again began, but she interrupted him. "If itis not for this stranger, this Mr. Eddrang," said madame, "I am nothere this moment to care for mademoiselle. What care have you take?People would not talk, no? You to protect! Bah!" She slammed theglass door of the cabin in his face.

Decherd stood irresolute, ill-armed in the injustice of his quarrel.
He had not a moment to wait.

"Decherd!" The voice was John Eddring's.

Decherd turned. The silent watcher beside the rail had risen and wascoming straight toward him.

CHAPTER IX

THE ACCUSER

Henry Decherd paused under the steadfast gaze which met him.

"Decherd," said Eddring, simply, "I want to talk to you. Come and sitdown." They moved a pace or two forward, Eddring taking care that theother should sit facing the light which streamed through the glassdoors of the cabin.

"Stop! Decherd, I wouldn't do that." Eddring glanced at the handwhich Decherd would have moved toward a weapon. Eddring's own handshung idly between his knees as he leaned forward in his chair.

"I would like to know what you mean by meddling in my affairs," began
Decherd. "You are interfering—"

"Yes," said a voice, soft but very cold, "I'm interfering. I am goingto spoil your chances, Decherd. Sit down." The man thus accostedinvoluntarily sank back into a seat. Then a sudden rage caught him,and he half-started up again. This time he saw something bluegleaming dully in the idle hand which hung between Eddring's knees.

"Be careful," said the latter. "I told you not to do that. Sit down,now, and listen." An unreasoning, blind terror seized Henry Decherd,and in spite of himself, he obeyed.

"In the first place, Decherd," said Eddring, "I want to say that itwas not lucky for you when I got hold of your valise by mistake atthe Big House wreck—the time I found that list of claims, and thelittle old book in French. I have studied all those things overcarefully, together with other things. I've been thinking a greatdeal. That's why I am going to spoil your chances."

"Does she know?" whispered Decherd, hoarsely.

"No, she knows nothing about it at all. She doesn't know who she is—not even why she happened to take the name of Louise Loisson."Decherd gasped, but the cold voice went on. "You might have told hersome of these things. You might have told her who her real motherwas, and who her false mother. You might have given her a chance toknow herself. I don't fancy that you did. I don't think you told heranything which did not serve your own purposes."

"We were going to be married," began Decherd.

"We are going to be married—"

"You were, perhaps," said Eddring, "but not now. Oh, I don'tdoubt that you are willing enough to marry Louise Loisson, and todeceive her after your marriage as you did before. I don't doubt thatin the least."

"What business is it of yours?" said Decherd, now becoming moresullen than blustering.

"I can't say that it was my business at all," said Eddring. "It'saccident, largely; and surely it was not your fault that I blunderedon these matters. It was rather fate, or the occasional good fortuneof the innocent. You covered up your trail fairly well; but acriminal will always leave behind him some egotistical mark of hiscrime, either by accident or by intent. You left marks all along yourtrail, Decherd—there, there, keep quiet. I don't want to use forcewith you. I'm not going to be the agent of justice. But it won't bealtogether healthy for the man on whose shoulders a great many ofthese things are finally loaded. You were enterprising, Decherd, andyou were an abler man than I thought, far abler; but you undertooktoo much.

"Now, here's a message from Colonel Blount," Eddring resumed. "Itlooks as though things were coming pretty nearly to a show-down upthere. We are going to find out all about that. Incidentally, we aregoing to find out everything about this poor girl here, whose nameand reputation only the mercy of God kept you from ruining this verynight." The two now sat looking each other fairly and fully in theeye. For the first time in many years Henry Decherd recognized thewhip hand.

"I might as well tell you," said Eddring, "that I know about the oldLoisson estate—a great deal more than its lawful heiress does. Iknow who paid the taxes on the lands. I know as well as you do aboutthe suit in the United States Supreme Court, where you won and lostat the same time. In that case you proved your client, Delphine, tobe Indian, and therefore not French—in plain language, you provedthat she was the heiress of the Indian, Paul Loise, and thereforecould not inherit certain valuable lands of which we both know.Before you found yourself on that account forced to pin your faith tothe descendants of the French Comte de Loisson, you were willing touse either line of descent, provided it made it possible for you toget possession of these lands. You were willing to deal with a womanof mixed blood, or with one of pure blood, of noble descent. Let me befrank with you, Decherd. You were playing these girls one against theother. It was Delphine against the descendants of the Comte deLoisson—a delicate game; and you came near winning."

Decherd passed a hand across his forehead, now grown clammy, but hecould see no method either of attack or of escape, for the cold grayeye still held him, and the blue barrel hung steady beneath the idlehand, as the same steel-like voice went on:

"I will just go over the proof once more, Decherd," said Eddring,"and see if we don't look at it about alike. For instance, ifDelphine is Indian, she isn't white. Uncle Sam's Supreme Court saysshe's Indian. That's record, that's evidence. Take the two girls, oneof noble blood, the other of questionable descent, and they aretogether equal, in posse, as we will say, to these valuable lands.Do you follow me? Oh, give up thinking of your gun. I'll kill you ifyou move your hand.

"Very well, then, my friend, it comes simply to a case ofcancelation. No matter what you have told or promised either, therecan be but one heiress. Mark out one girl, and the other is equal tothat estate, we'll say. You yourself marked out Delphine when youproved her to be of Indian descent. That leaves Miss Lady as theheiress of the estate of the Comte de Loisson, doesn't it, Decherd?

"It leaves, also, two ways of getting the estate. You could marry thegirl, or kill her. You might possibly get a tax-title in the lattercase; if you killed the girl the tax-title would mature in your name.You may count that string as broken. Mrs. Ellison, we will say,wanted your paramour, Delphine, canceled, and wanted also to put theremaining claimant out of sight. Then, as mother of this heiress—the false mother, as you and I know—she thought that she wouldinherit the lands—and you.

"That was Mrs. Ellison's plan—a very ignorant plan. Then the simplematter of a marriage—or of no marriage—between Mr. Henry Decherdand this Mrs. Alice Ellison, would enable them comfortably to sharethis estate. That was the way Mrs. Ellison wanted it, perhaps. Butyou preferred to marry the true claimant, and get rid of Mrs.Ellison. That was your plan. You wanted to cancel every possibleclaimant except Miss Lady, and then you wanted to force Miss Ladyinto a marriage with you. Do I make myself clear to you, Mr. Decherd?And do I make myself clear that this country isn't big enough forboth of us? Keep quiet now. You've come to your show-down right here.

"Meantime, it was part of your scheme, as I now see, to keep MissLady away from her friends, to poison her against those friends. Youhad to live, and you were a lawyer, or a sort of a lawyer. You gothold of these judgment claims against the railroad which dischargedme. You told this girl that I stole those claims. You know you lied.For a time you deluded this poor girl, poisoning her mind, killingher nature with your deceit. None the less, you left behind you openproofs, ready-made for your own undoing. Why, this very name, thisstage name of Louise Loisson, was banner enough to bring her realfriends to her side. But you didn't know, did you, Mr. Decherd, thatI had read the little book, and that I knew the Loisson history? Isaid it was by chance I found the book. I am ready now to say it wasby fate—by justice. It's like the fetish mark on the church-door—that negro church in the woods—like the sign on Delphine'shandkerchief. Guilt always leaves a sign. Justice always finds someproof.

"Now, I have a message from Colonel Blount. Here it is. He says,'Louise Loisson our Miss Lady.' He has found out something, too, atthe other end of the line, hasn't he, Decherd? Notice, he says, 'ourMiss Lady.' She is ours, not yours. I am going to take her along withme, back to the Big House, and to her friend, Colonel Blount. Hesays, 'Watch out for Decherd.' I am watching out for him. He alsosays that they have caught the leader who has been making all thetrouble up there in the Delta, near the Big House plantation."

"Delphine!" gasped Decherd, from tightened lips, a pale horror nowwritten on every feature. "Has she talked?"

"Yes, Delphine! You were able to guess that, were you, Decherd? Thankyou. You were right. I do not know whether or not Delphine hastalked. But whether she has or not, there will presently be no chancefor you. You are at the end of your string, Decherd.

"And now, get up," said Eddring to him sharply, rising. "Get up, youdamned hound, you liar, you thief, you cur. This boat's not bigenough for you and me. The world will be barely big enough for alittle while, if you're careful. We are not afraid of you, now thatwe know you. Go back to Mrs. Ellison, if you like. You can't go backto Delphine now, and you can't speak to Miss Lady again. She isour Miss Lady. You can't stay on this boat tonight, where thatgirl is."

"So you—you're trying to cut in?" began Decherd.

Eddring did not answer.

He caught Decherd by the collar, wrenched the revolver from hispocket and pushed him down the stair, then dragged him along thelower deck. They passed a line of sleeping deck-hands too stupid toobserve them. Dragging astern of the boat, high between the two longdiverging lines of the rolling wake, there rode a river skiff at theend of its taut line.

"Those lights below are at the ferry, eight miles from town," said
Eddring. "Get into the boat."

"For God's sake, can't you get them to slow down?" whined Decherd;but Eddring shook his head. Decherd let himself over the rail of thelower deck, and for an instant the strained line bade fair to holdhis weight. Then his feet and legs dropped into the water as he andthe boat approached. Desperately he clambered on, and so fell pantingand dripping into the bow of the skiff. A moment later the boat andits huddled occupant dropped back into the night, tossing in the wakeof the churning wheels.

From above there came pouring down the somber flood of Messasebe,bearing tribute of his wilderness, in part made up of broken,worthless and discarded things.

Eddring gazed after the disappearing boat. He was relaxed, silent,worn. The grip of a great loneliness seized upon him. What had hegained? Why had he interfered? The world about him seemed void andvacant. He felt himself, no less than the other man, a worthless anddiscarded thing—a bit of flotsam on the flood of fate.

CHAPTER X

THE VOYAGE

"As to the law, Captain Wilson," said Eddring, to the master of theOpelousas Queen the following morning, as he sat in the cabin;"I'm a lawyer myself, and I want to tell you, the law is a strangething. It will, and it won't. It can, and it can't. It does, and itdoesn't. It's blind, crosseyed and clear-sighted all at the sametime. It offers a precedent for everything, right or wrong. Now, asyou say, it is unlawful for us to stop the delivery of these mails. Iknow it—big penalty for non-delivery. But let's talk it over alittle."

The Opelousas Queen was now plowing steadily up-stream, farabove Baton Rouge, meeting the crest of the greatest flood she hadever known in all her days upon the turbid waterway. Her master now,surly but none the less interested, out of sheer curiosity in thisstrange visitor, sat looking at him without present speech.

"Are you a married man, Captain Wilson?" said Eddring. "Have a cigarwith me, won't you?"

"What difference is it to you?" said Wilson, waving aside thecourtesy.

"Yes; but are you?"

"Wife died six years ago," said Wilson, gruffly. The muscles ridgedup along his jaw as he closed his lips tightly.

"Any children?" said Eddring.

"Daughter, eighteen years old; and a beauty, if I do say it."

"I reckon you love her some, don't you, Captain? Thought a heap ofyour wife, too, maybe, didn't you?"

Wilson half-rose, one hand upon his chair back, as he pounded on thetable in front of him with the other. "Now look here, Mister Who-ever-you-are, I've stood a lot of foolishness from you already," saidhe, "but those are my matters, and not yours. Get on out of here."Yet Eddring only looked at him smiling, and into his eyes there camea flash of pleasure.

"I'm mighty glad to hear you say those very words, Captain," said he;"because now I know you'd do anything in the world to help a goodgirl out of trouble, or to keep her out of it. Now, about the law.I'm sure, Captain, you believe in the higher law—the supreme law—the chivalry of the southern man, don't you?" Wilson waved him awayagain, but still gazed at him curiously. "Now listen, Captain,"Eddring persisted.

"I am listening," blurted out Wilson. "Say, man, if I had your nerve,and what I know about poker on this river, I'd own the country."

"But listen—"

"No. I just want to set here and admire you a few minutes before Itell the deck-hands to throw you into the river."

"Captain," said Eddring, pulling up his chair, "after I'm done withwhat I have on hand, you may throw me into the river, if you like. Idon't think it will make much difference. But now, don't you thinkyou're running this boat. The real commander of this boat, CaptainWilson, is the supreme law of this land—that law under which thegentlemen of the South are bound at any time and all times to givecourtesy and comfort to a woman when she needs them." Wilson lookedat him mutely, the muscles on his jaw straining up again. He jerkedhis head toward the aft state-rooms with a gesture of query. Eddringnodded.

"She's a beauty, too," said Wilson, sighing. "Reminds me of my ownwife, the way she used to look—the way my own girl looks now.You're a lucky man."

"Captain Wilson, I don't figure in this thing personally at all. Butnow I'll tell you the whole story, and let you decide for yourself."

He went on speaking slowly, evenly, gently, impersonally, tellingwhat had been the case of Miss Lady upon the very night preceding;telling how great was the stress of events at the head of the Delta,very far away, and impossible now of access. He made no offer ofpecuniary reward, but stated his case simply and asked his auditor toput himself in his own position.

As he spoke, the chair of Captain Wilson began to edge toward hisown. In the eyes of the old steamboat man there came a glistenstrange to them. His hand unconsciously reached out. "Stop!" heroared. "Give me your hand. The boat is yours! Of course she is."

Eddring was silent, for there came a lump in his own throat, as hefelt Wilson's assuring hand clap him on the shoulder.

"You're what I call a thoroughbred," said the latter. "Man, can youplay poker? You certainly can make a pair of deuces look like a fullhouse. Get up an' shake hands. You're right. The boat's yours. UncleSam can wait—the whole damned North American continent can wait—"

Eddring rose and took him by the hand.

"Well, that's my case, Captain," said he. "We've both one errand, andthat's to protect the white people of the Delta; and to get hold ofthe truth which will put this girl where she belongs. Publicnecessity is the greatest of all laws; unless it be the unwritten andgeneral law which I know you've respected all your life."

"Well, man—" Wilson broke into an uproarious laugh, "you certainlyare the yellow flower of the forest. It's mighty seldom I've laiddown to a line of talk, but I ain't ashamed to do it now. Here's theboat, and we'll run her express, as soon as we can get rid of themail and passengers up above. Any river-man knows what levee-cuttingmeans, and what it means if the nigg*rs get out of hand. I'll takeyou in—why, I know Cal Blount myself—and I couldn't look my owndaughter in the face again if I didn't do just what you say."

CHAPTER XI

THE WILDERNESS

Between the cities of Memphis and Vicksburg there lies a greatbattle-ground. It has known encounters between red men and red,between red men and white, and has known the shock of arms when whitehas been arrayed against white. Most of all, it is a battle-groundyet to be, whereon perhaps there shall be waged a conflict betweenwhite and black. Always, too, it will be the battle-ground betweencivilized man and the relapsing savagery of nature; between man andthe wilderness; between the white race and great Messasebe, Father ofthe Waters.

Father Messasebe is, after all, but weakly bound to the ways ofcommerce. His voice is always for the wild; his wish is for theancient ways. Here in the far wild country—a part of which even to-day is a more trackless and a less known wilderness than any in theheart of our remotest mountain ranges—the great river reaches out athousand clutching fingers for his own, claiming it as a home evennow for his savagery; asking it, if not for a wild red race, then forthe black one which may one day prove its savage successor.

Here is the reekingly rich soil of the great Delta—that name notmeaning the wide marshes of the actual mouth of the Mississippi, butthe fat accumulated soil of centuries caged in by that long,incurving dam of the hills which, far inland from the current of theswift water-way, begins at the head of the vast body of tangled Yazoolands, and drops down, pinching in at the base of a great "V," wherethe bluffs converge near Vicksburg. These hills spreading out oneither side hold in their wide arms an empire, the richest and mostfertile land, though perhaps still the least known, of any to befound in this America. They hold also a population little understood;a people bold, undaunted, American. These arms of the hills hold alsoa vast problem; the problem of black and white, less settled to-daythan it has been at any time these one hundred years.

Here in this land, more than two hundred miles in length and half asmuch in width, Father Messasebe extends his fingers. Sluggish bayousrun across the waste as their fancy leads them, their currentdepending upon the whim of the river, or perhaps on that of thestreams from the hill country which constitutes the great dam of theDelta. The crooked Yazoo is marked on the maps as crossing almostfrom the north to the south of this wilderness; yet the Yazoo canscarce claim a bed all its own, for it passes through many ancientbayous, and is fed by many of the old "hatchees" which the canoes ofthe red man explored long ago. Upon one side of the Yazoo comes theSunflower, deep cut into the fathomless loam; yet sometimes theSunflower is reversed in current; and the Sunflower and theHushpuckenay may be one stream or two; and the latter may run as thelevees say, or as the floods dictate; while above them both, at thehead of the Yazoo, are bayous and "passes" which make a water-wayonce continuous from the great river into its lesser parallel.

Messasebe sometimes flows peacefully through channels marked out forhim by man, yet this is but his whim; for a thousand years are asnaught to the Maker of Messasebe, and Messasebe therefore may bidehis time. But when the sport of the floods begins, and the currentsare reversed, and the streams hurry down with cross tributes from thehills, and the wild waters have forgotten all control—then is whenMessasebe the Mighty grasps and clutches with his wide fingers, andexults as of old in his wilderness!

Here in the heart of the Delta lay the Big House, a dot on the faceof things; having, however, its problems, personal or impersonal,small and great. As John Eddring knew, there was trouble at the BigHouse now. The hours passed slowly enough on the journey up theturbulent flood of the great river. The railways were in places gonefor miles. All that Eddring could do was to get by steamer as nearlyas possible opposite the Big House plantation, and then win throughby small boat as best he might, across the overflow.

Even the most diligent makers of maps can not keep pace with FatherMessasebe. Along its southernmost course there are thousands of armsand lakes and bayous where for a time the river ran until it tired,and sought new scenes, new ways across the forests and cane-brakes.The charts may show you that this river is the boundary of a certainstate; but who shall tell where or what that boundary may be? Who cantrace the filum aquae of the most erratic and arrogant riverin all the world? The river is not now as it was ten years ago, northe same to-day as it will be ten years hence. Channel and cut-offand island and main current go on in their juggling, and will do sowhen generations shall have been forgotten. When the floods are out,and when Messasebe is at his ancient game, there is no channel; thereis no map, no chart; there is a wilderness.

It was across this watery wilderness that John Eddring and his ally,Captain Wilson, urged their way on the wildest journey ever knowneven in the mad times of this great river. In a half-delirium whichset aside all reason and all reckoning, the bow of the sturdy boatwas driven against the down-coming seas, opening up one after anotherof the channel marks; parting one after another of the massed groupsof shadows; churning round bend after bend, faster and faster, dayand night, until, far up in the welter of the new waters, she forsookall charts and guides in the fury of her quest, and steamed forwardin her own fashion, black smoke belching continually from her flues,and the pant of her fuming engine bidding fair to tear out theinadequate covering of her sides. Pilot and captain let go all trackof the miles behind, looking only at those ahead. They got contemptfor ordinary dangers. So, pushing her way on, against and acrosscurrents, shaving the bends, essaying every cut-off, the boat in herstrange race hurried on, running express for the purposes of justice,and in the cause of the permanency of society.

At last they were far up the river, above the mouth of the Arkansas,and opposite the great swamps which lie between the Arkansas and theWhite upon the western side; so that now the greater portion of thejourney was well-nigh done. Eddring and Wilson, both haggard withfatigue, stood on the bridge together and gazed out over the wateryprospect.

"This overflow means millions in losses to the planters in the
Delta," said Wilson. Eddring nodded.

"If levee-cutters started this flood up in Tullahoma, and theplanters ever get hold of them, I shouldn't think it would be exactlyhealthy," added Wilson. "This means everything under water, clean tothe Yazoo. Looks like those fellows in there had had their share oftrouble lately."

"Nothing but trouble for four or five years," said Eddring. "Blackpolitics."

"Yes," said Wilson, sighing, "when Mr. nigg*r gets the notion thathe'd like to be school superintendent or county treasurer, orsomething of the kind, he's goin' to be mighty willin' to lay downthe hoe. I even think he would be willin', if he was asked, to letthe white man do the hoein', and him do the governin'." Eddring madeno answer, but gazed steadily out over the racing seas of tawnywater.

"At any rate, we'll soon be there now," said he at length. "How can Ipay you, Captain Wilson? How can I thank you?"

"Well," said Wilson, thoughtfully, "you might give me your note, theway a friend of mine, Judge Osborn, down at New Orleans, did once.That was in the war, you know, and Judge Osborn was a Confederatecolonel. He had to take passage on a river boat, and they got hung upsomewhere, and he and the Cap'n played a little poker for severaldays. Colonel couldn't win nohow. At the end of the week he owed theCap'n four hundred thousand dollars—Confederate money, of course. Atlast says he, 'See here, Cap'n, now I owe you this four hundredthousand dollars, and I can't pay you by about one hundred and fiftythousand dollars. Now, what am I going to go? Shall I give you mynote?' The Cap'n he looks at the Colonel, and says he, 'Ain't Itreated you all right, Colonel? Ain't I fed you good enough? Did Iever do you any harm?' The Colonel 'lowed he had been treated allright. 'Well, then,' says the Cap'n, 'what have you got against me?What do you want to give me your note for? Take everything I've got;take my boat, but please, sir, don't give me your note.' Now that'sthe way I feel. I don't want your thanks, and I don't want yournote."

Eddring laughed frankly. "Well, Captain," said he, "let it go thatway. I won't give you my note, nor my thanks; but when you are in mypart of the world, come and live with me. After I get through withthese things in there, I shall see you again sometime. There are somegentlemen of the Delta who will never forget Captain Wilson."

"Well," the gruff old Captain answered him, "I'll tell my little girlabout it, and I reckon I'll get my pay from her. But now I shall haveto be leavin' you before long," he resumed, as he studied again theappearance of the country into which they had now come. "We'reraisin' the Old Bend landin', or the place where it ought to be."

"Wait a minute, Captain," said Eddring, "we'll need a skiff. Put intwo or three blankets and something for coffee, if you will. It lookspretty rough in there, and we might not get through before dark."Eddring swept a hand toward the submerged forest, which, shorelessand all afloat, appeared upon their right, stretching away in everydirection as far as the eye could reach through the evening haze.

"I will fix you up the best I can," said Wilson. "But now, do youknow that country in yonder? Are you safe in going in?"

"I have hunted bear and deer all over there," said Eddring. "The maincurrent across this big bend ought to carry us inland into a bayouthat runs not far from the Big House. It is not more than twentymiles or so to the plantation. If I can strike the course of theTippohatchee bayou, a few hours ought to take us through. If it comesdark before we get there, we shall have to camp, that is all aboutit. If a fellow tried to travel through in the night-time, he mightland at Greeneville, or Vicksburg, or anywhere else."

"Well," said Wilson, "if you must go, I won't try to stop you. I'llhave the skiff fixed up."

So, finally, after her journey up the river, the Opelousas Queenrounded the thin neck of the long river bend, and with a hoarse growlof relief, rather than of signal, slowed down and reversed, plowed upthe yellow waters into billows half-white, and so lay breathingheavily, with just enough way to hold her against the current.

During the entire course of the journey, Eddring had not approachedeither Madame Delchasse or Miss Lady in personal conversation, andthe latter had proved quite as willing to avoid him. Madame Delchassehad taken great and voluble interest in matters about the boat, andwas often seen on deck. To her Eddring now sent his message, whichbrought both the ladies to the lower deck, for the first time in twodays.

"What," cried madame, "we go in that leedle boat! Ah, non! I stay bythe ship; also mademoiselle."

Miss Lady said nothing; she looked at the frail skiff, the turbulentriver, and the great woods beyond, already growing mysterious beneaththe veil of coming evening.

"Madame," said Eddring, "I can't argue about it. You must go." Heturned upon her the stern face of one who, having assumed allresponsibility, exacts in return implicit obedience.

"We shall drown," said madame.

Eddring turned gravely to the girl. "There is no danger. I can assureyou of that. I shall do my best. I am sorry that it is so. But wemust go. It is the only way to reach Colonel Blount's."

Upon Miss Lady's pale face there sat the look of one resigned withfatalism to whatever issue might appear. She made no further speech,but was the first to step into the boat. Madame Delchasse, stillgrumbling, followed clumsily. Eddring helped them in, took up theoars, and the two deck-hands, who had been holding the skiff,clambered back aboard the Queen. Eddring settled himself to theoars, and they cast off. The little skiff rocked, tossed, turned,and headed toward the shore under the strong stroke of the oars.Presently the set of the inbound current aided the oars, so that soonthey were at the fringe of the forest. Eddring rose and waved a handback to the watchers who were looking after them from the guards ofthe steamer. The Queen roared out a deep salute, and then the littleskiff passed out of sight into the wilderness.

CHAPTER XII

THE HOUSE OF HORROR

"Me, I have thought never to cook again," said Madame Delchasse,"but now I shall have the honger. See! if I had the coffee-pot andthe what-you-call the soss_-pan, I should make of this the grandpeok-neek._ This journey through the h'wood, it is fine."

As madame spoke, the little boat was hurrying forward through thehalf-submerged forest, and the party had by this time reached a pointsome miles distant from their embarkation at what had formerly beenthe river-bank. Of shores along the river proper it could hardly besaid that any remained, and at this point of pause, near to one ofthe long ridges which still here and there remained above the water,there appeared small trace of the accustomed landmarks. Here, deep inthe forest, the inset of the main current through the broken leveewas arrested by the forest itself, and by the channels of manyintersecting bayous. It was not a river, but a vast, shallow lakethat lay about them. Water was everywhere, and in this wide expanseEddring confessed to himself that he had lost his course and had nodefinite knowledge of the way to find it. It gave him pleasure to seethat the spirits of madame were buoyant, and that even Miss Lady,silent as she was for the most part, seemed to lose a portion of theapathy which had at first oppressed her.

Hoping that he might at any time reach country familiar to himself,Eddring sought to maintain the spirits of his companions by pointingout to them the unfamiliar objects of the world in which they nowfound themselves. Explaining that they were quite safe in theirlittle craft, he showed to them the repulsive moccasin snakes, whoserusty forms lay wreathed on the logs or on such dry ground as hereand there appeared. Again he showed them the log-like bulk of thealligator, lying motionless and invisible to the unpractised eye; orcalled their gaze to a group of noble wild turkeys, which craned outtheir necks from their perch on a tall dead tree.

"The game is all driven to the dry ridges," said he. "You will seethat the birds and beasts are afraid to move. Their fright makes themalmost tame. Do you see that little fellow there?"

He pointed out a wild deer, cowering beside a log on the littleisland near which they were passing. Here he stopped, anddisembarking, soon called out to them that he had seen the track of abear, fresh in the loam near-by. They being terrified at this, hereturned to the boat, and skirted the muddy edge of the ridge,showing them the footprints of the raccoon, small and baby-like, theround tread of the timber wolf, the pointed footmark of the wild hog.

"Look," said he, "here is where an otter has been playing,"—and heshowed them a little huddle of twigs and dirt scraped together at theend of a log which projected over the water. "Why does he do it?" hesaid. "I don't know. It's his way of playing. There are a great manystrange ways in the world of wild things. By to-morrow I shall havemade good hunters of you both."

"To-morrow?" cried Madame Delchasse; and Miss Lady also turned uponhim a startled and supplicating look.

"Yes," said he, "it's no use to promise what one can't be sure ofdoing. I know that we are not very far from the Big House station. Wecan't miss it, because we can't cross the railroad without knowingit, and you know the railroad would lead us directly to the place. Atthe same time, for us to attempt traveling in the night might meanthat we should get hopelessly lost. I assure you, you have no need tobe alarmed. There is plenty in the boat to keep you comfortable, and,as madame says, we will just make a picnic of it. I am sure none ofus will be the worse for a night out in the woods."

Eddring bent steadily to his oars. He was forced to admit that theircase showed small improvement as the shadows began to thicken. Hestood up in the boat at length and gazed steadily at a little ridgeof dry land which appeared before him. "I think we'll land here,"said he, "and make our camp for the night." Miss Lady edged towardmadame and laid a hand upon her arm.

"My shild," murmured madame, "yes, yes, it is the grand peek-neek; I, Clarisse Delchasse, will protect you." Rejoiced thatmatters were at least no worse with his passengers, John Eddringhelped them from the boat, and as he did so caught sight of the tearswhich stood in Miss Lady's eyes. The strain of the last few days hadbegun to tell, and as she looked into the dense shadows of the forestin this precarious spot of refuge, it seemed to her that all theworld had suddenly gone dark, and must so remain for ever. Eddringwas wretched enough without this sight, but he went methodicallyabout the work of making them both comfortable.

"First, the fire," he cried gaily; and presently under his skilledhands a tiny flame began to light up the gloom. He worked rapidly,for now night was coming on. "Watch me build the house," he cried;and soon he was absorbed in his own work of making an out-doorstructure, hunter fashion, as he had done many times in hisexpeditions in this very region. He cut some long poles and thrusttheir sharpened ends into the ground, and bending over the tops, wovethem together. Then he thatched this framework with bundles of freshgreen cane cut near at hand, and in a few moments had a sort ofwickiup. On the bottom of this he threw brush and yet morecane, and then spread down the blankets. The opening of the littlehouse was toward the fire, and presently both the women were sittingwithin, their fears allayed by the sparkle of the cheering flame.

"But, Monsieur, where you yourself sleep?" asked madame.

"Oh, my house is already built," replied Eddring, and pointed to agiant oak-tree some fifty yards away in the little glade. "You seehow the knees of the big tree stand out. Well, I just get some piecesof bark, and put them down on the ground, and then I lean backagainst the tree-trunk, and the dew doesn't bother me at all. Ofcourse, the main thing is to keep dry."

"Sir," said Miss Lady, almost for the first time accosting him, "doyou mean to say that you sit up and do not lie down to sleep at allduring the whole night? Why, you would be wretched. You must take oneof the blankets, at least."

"Not at all," said Eddring. "I have sat up that way many a night onthe hunt, and been glad enough of so good a chance. Now, you ladiesbegin to get ready for supper, if you please. Madame, I am sure thatto-night you will prepare the best meal of your career. I think wecan promise you that it will be enjoyed. Excuse me now for a while,and I will go and see about some more wood. An open fire eats up alot of wood during a night."

He disappeared down a faint path which he had detected opening intothe cane at the end of their little glade. His real purpose was toexplore this path; for there now came upon him the growing convictionthat he had seen this place before. He found the path to be plainerthan the usual "hack" of the mounted cane-brake hunter, and here andthere he caught sight of a faint blaze upon a tree. Hurrying alongthrough the enveloping foliage of the cane, he had traversed somethree or four hundred yards of this tangle before he saw a thinningof the shadows ahead of him, and came out, as he had more than halfexpected to do, at the edge of a little opening in the forest.

There, near the edge of the cleared space whose surface showed evennow the prints of many feet, he saw a long, low house of logs. It wasas he had seen it years ago! It was now, as then, the temple of thetribesmen. Around it now swept, open and uncontrollable, FatherMessasebe, building anew his wilderness.

The white men had spared this temple. Perhaps they knew that sometimeit would serve as a trap. And so it had served.

That there had been fateful happenings at this spot Eddring felt evenbefore he had stepped out into the opening before him. He wasoppressed by a heavy feeling of dread. Yet he went on, looking downclosely in the failing light at the footprints which marked theground.

These footprints blended confusedly, leading up to the door of thehouse, disappearing in the rank growth all about. And crossing thesehuman trails from one side to the other of the narrow island left bythe rising waters, there ran a strange and distinct mark, as thoughone had swept here with a mighty broom, or had dragged across theground repeatedly some soft and heavy body! In this path there weremarks of feet deeply indented, with pointed toes. This trail, thesefoot-marks, horrid, suggestive, led up to the open door. Eddringhesitated to look in. He knew the tracks of the alligators, butguessed not why these creatures should enter a building, as was nevertheir wont to do. It required determination to look into the door ofwhat he knew was a house of mystery, perhaps of horror.

Within the long room, now lighted faintly by the late twilight whichfiltered through the heavy growth about, he saw dimly the longbenches fastened to the walls, as they had been when he first sawthis place years before. In spite of himself, he started back inaffright. The benches were tenanted! He could see figures here andthere, a row of them.

Some of them were bending forward, some sitting erect. But all ofthem were motionless, the postures of all were strained, as thoughthey were bound! The house had its tenantry. But there was no centralfigure here now, no leader, no exhorter, no priest nor priestess.There was no shouting, nor any note of the savage drum. The drumitself, its head broken in, the drum of the savage tribes, lay nearthe door, its mission ended. This audience, whoever or whatever itmight be, was silent, as though sleep had made fast the eyes of all!

Eddring sprang back as he heard the scuffling of feet at the fartherend of the hall. His teeth chattered in spite of himself, as thisThing, this creature of terror, came shuffling forward in thedarkness, and with clanking jaws pushed past him, to disappear with aheavy splash in the water which now stood close at hand.

It was a house of horror. It was the place of the black man's savagereligion and of the white man's savage justice. Here the white manhad wrought sternly in the name of his civilization, and his keel,departing like that of the fierce Norseman in the ancient past, hadleft no trail on the waters lapping the shore which had known hisvisitation.

CHAPTER XIII

THE NIGHT IN THE FOREST

It was some time before Eddring could trust himself to appear beforethe companions whom he had left at the little bivouac. Night hadpractically fallen when he finally emerged into the little glade, nowwell-lighted by the fire. He paused at the edge of the cover andlooked at the picture before him. Sick at heart and full of horror ashe was from that which he had seen, none the less he felt a swiftburst of savagery come upon his own soul. What was the world to him,its strivings, its disappointments, its paltry successes? Almost hewished, for one fierce instant, that he might exchange the worldbeyond for this world near at hand. A little fire, a little shelter,and the presence of the woman whom he loved—what more could theworld give? He gazed hungrily at the figure of the tall young woman,defined well in the bright firelight. Yearning, he coveted theendurance of the picture, saying again and again to himself, "Wouldthis might last for ever, even as it is!"

Madame Delchasse meantime was adding support to her well-foundedreputation as artist in matters culinary. When presently Eddringjoined them at the fire, he was invited to a repast in which madamehad done wonders. It seemed to him that even Miss Lady began torevive under the summons of these unusual surroundings. Once, henoted, she actually laughed.

As they sat on the rude floor of cane-stalks, engaged with theirevening meal, there came suddenly from across the forest the sound ofa long, hoarse wail, ending in a tremulous crescendo; the cry of thepanther, rarely heard in that or any other region. In terror thewomen sprang to each other, and Eddring felt Miss Lady's hand closetight upon his arm in her unconscious recognition of the need of aprotector.

"What—what was it?" she cried.

"Nothing," said Eddring; "nothing but a cat."

"A cat?" cried madame. "Never did I hear the cat with voice so biglike that."

"Wasn't it a panther?" asked Miss Lady. "Will it get us?"

"Yes, Madame Delchasse," said Eddring, "it's a cat about eight feetlong—a panther, as Miss Lady says. But it's a mile away, and itdoesn't want to get any wetter than it is; and it wouldn't hurt usanyhow. I assure you, you need have not the slightest fear. Water andfire are not exactly in the panther's line, so you can rest assuredthat he will not trouble you. He wouldn't even have screamed that wayif his disposition hadn't been spoiled by all this water."

Inwardly he noted the fact that Miss Lady did not again remove to agreater distance from him. His heart leaped at her near presence, andagain there came the fierce demand of his soul, the wish that thisnight might last for ever.

Finally, building anew the fire, and showing the two how they mightbest use their blankets to make themselves comfortable, Eddringwithdrew for his vigil at the tree-trunk. Now and again he dozed,wearied by the strain and the physical exertion lately undergone.Madame Delchasse slept heavily.

Upon her couch Miss Lady lay, and watched the flickering of the fireand the heavy masses of the shadows. She could not sleep. There cameupon her the feeling of unreality in her surroundings which isexperienced by nearly all civilized human beings when thrown into theuncivilized surroundings of nature. It all seemed to her like somerapid and fevered dream. She wondered what had become of HenryDecherd, what had been the cause of his sudden departure from thesteamer. She resolved to summon courage on the morrow and to accostthis uninvited new-comer upon the scenes of her life. She ponderedagain upon this strange man; asked herself why he had sought her out,why he had left her so soon and had since then been so frigidlyaloof, even though he still carried her with him forward, virtually aprisoner. By all rights a thief, a dishonest man, ought not to be agentleman; yet strive as she might, she could recall no singleinstance where the conduct of this man had been anything but that ofa gentleman, delicate, kindly, brave, unselfish. Miss Lady could notunderstand. The shadows hung too black over all—the shadows of thepast, of the future. About her there were vague, mysterious sounds,rustlings, coughings, barkings, sometimes sullen splashes in thewater not far away. Terrors on all sides oppressed Miss Lady's soul.She had no hope; she could not understand. Her thoughts were in partupon that silent figure sitting in the darkness beside the tree. Andthen there came again the voice of the great panther, wailing acrossthe woods. Miss Lady could endure it no longer. She sprang up.

"Sir!" she cried, "Mr. Eddring, come!" And so he came and comfortedher once more, his voice grave and quiet, fearless, strong.

"I will build up the fire," said he, "and then I will sit by anothertree, closer to the camp and just back of your house. I shall bebetween you and the water, and you need not be afraid."

And then there came about a wonderful thing, which not even Miss Ladyherself could understand. She ceased to fear! She found herselfwondering at the meaning of the word "depend." In spite of herself,in spite of all the evidence in her hands to the contrary, she feltherself growing vaguely sure that she could depend upon this man.Gradually the night lost its terrors. The whispers of the leaves grewkindly and not ominous. The fire seemed to her a reviving flame ofhope. Presently she slept.

In the night the wild life of the forest went on. The barkings andrustlings and splashings still were heard, and the great cat calledagain. But all these savage things went by, passing apart, avoidingthis spot where the White Man, most savage and most potent of allanimals, had made his lair and now guarded his own.

In the night the voice of the wilderness spoke to John Eddring: "Old,old are we!" the trees seemed to whisper: "Only the strong! Only thestrong!" This seemed the whisper of the wind in its monotone. He satupright, rigid, wide-awake, his eyes looking straight before him inhis vigil, his heart throbbing boldly, strangely. All the fierceness,all the desire, all the sternness of the wilderness in its aeons ranin his blood. His heart throbbed steadily. Peace came to his soul nowas never before; since now he knew that he was of the strong, that hewas ready for life and what combat it might bring.

CHAPTER XIV

AT THE BIG HOUSE

The fire lay gray in ashes at the dawn, when Eddring awoke, and thegray reek of the cane-brake mist was over everything. The leaves ofthe trees and of the cane dripped moisture, and the dew stood also inheavy beads upon the roof of the little green-thatched house. A shortdistance apart Eddring built another fire. Presently the sleepers inthe little house awoke, and he saw emerge madame, tucking at herhair, and Miss Lady, in spite of all fresh and rosy in the wondrouspossession of youth, as though she were a Dryad born of thesesurrounding trees. There seemed to sit upon her the primeval vigor ofthe wilderness. She came to him gaily enough and said good morning asthough there had been but recent friendship and not aloofness. Shepushed back her hair, and smoothed down her skirt and combed out withher fingers the bunch of bright ribbons at her waist. She and madame,having made ablutions at the island brink, returned, all the fresherand more laughing. Eddring's heart quickened in his bosom as he sawMiss Lady smile once more.

"Come," said she, "let's explore our desert island; yonder's such apretty little path,"—and she pointed down the path which Eddring hadalready investigated.

"No," he said, "the cane is very wet; you'd better sit close by thefire, so that you will not feel the damp. Now, I will get thebreakfast; and I promise you, this is to be our last meal in theforest."

"Our last?" said madame. "What you mean?"

"In a couple of hours we shall be at the Big House," said Eddring. "Ihave looked about, and I know this place perfectly. We are only fouror five miles from the station, and the way will be plain."

"Monsieur," said madame, "I shall be almost sorry. It is the finepeek-neek. Never have I slept so before."

"I, too, have slept nicely," said Miss Lady, "and I want to thankyou. Shall we be out of the wood so soon?" There was small elation inher own voice, after all. In her soul there was a wild, inexplicablelonging that this present hour might endure. Fear was gone, in someway, she knew not how. What there might be ahead, Miss Lady did notknow. Here in the forest she felt safe.

The hurried breakfast was soon despatched and Eddring, taking aboardhis passengers once more, pushed out into the broad sea which laythrough all the heavy forest. The nearest road to the station wasunder water, and, as it offered few obstructions, Eddring for themost part followed its curves for the remainder of his boat journey.At length, as he had said, he brought up within sight of thetelegraph poles along the railway. He passed by boat even beyond thelittle station-house, and landed at the edge of what had been the BigHouse lawn.

On every side there was ruin and desolation. The rude fence of therailway track had caught and held a certain amount of wreckage. Mostof the field cabins were above the water, but others were half out ofsight, deep in the flood. Fences were well-nigh obliterated. Half ofthe Big House plantation was under water. Above all this scene ofruin, high, strong and grim, the Big House itself stood, now silentand apparently deserted. Toward it the voyagers hurried. It was notuntil they knocked at the door that they met signs of life.

In response to repeated summons there appeared at the door the gauntfigure of Colonel Calvin Blount himself, shirt-sleeved, unshaven,pale, his left arm tightly bandaged to his side, his hawk-like eyealone showing the wonted fire of his disposition. Each man threw anarm over the other's shoulder after their hands had met in silentgrasp.

"I am not too late," said Eddring. "Thank God!"

"No, not quite too late," said Blount. "There is a little left—notmuch. Who's with you?"

"The one you sent for," said Eddring, stepping aside, "and this isMadame Delchasse, the one woman, Colonel, whom you and I ought tothank with all our hearts. She has been the friend of Miss Lady whencertainly she needed one."

Blount stepped forward, a smile softening his grim face. "Oh, MissLady, Miss Lady," he cried, extending his unhampered hand. "You ranaway from us! You didn't do right! What made you? Where have youbeen? What have you been doing?" Miss Lady's eyes only filled, andshe found no speech.

"But now you're back," Blount went on. "You need friends, and you'vecome back to the right place. Here are three friends of yours. MadameDelchasse—" this as Miss Lady drew her companion toward him with onehand, "I am glad to see you. It you ever befriended this girl, youare our friend here. Come in, and we will take care of you the bestwe can, though we've not much left—not much left.

"You see," said he, turning toward Eddring, "that boy Jack of yourscame down with the news of this uprising that I mentioned in mymessage. He brought along his woman; and I must say that though Idon't much mind this—"—he pointed to his injured arm—"if I haveto eat that woman's cooking much longer, I'm going to die."

Then it was that Clarisse Delchasse arose grandly to the occasion.
"Monsieur Colonel," she said, as she divested herself of her bonnet,
"I have swear I would cook no more; but me? I am once the best cook
in New Orleans. I cook not for money, ah, non! but from pity!
Sir, humanity it is so outrage' by the poor cook that I have pity!
So, Monsieur, I have pity also of you. Show me this girl that can not
cook, and show me also the kitshen. Ah, we shall see whether Clarisse
Delchasse have forget!"

"Show her, Miss Lady," said Blount. "Show her. The place is yours.Oh, girl, we're glad enough to have you back. Go get that gold-toothed woman of Jack's, go get 'em all, if you can find any of 'emaround. Get Bill, he's around somewhere—get any of 'em you can find,and tell 'em to take care of you. Child, child, it's glad enough weall are to have you back again. Ah, Miss Lady, what made you goaway?"

Even as he spoke, Madame Delchasse, rolling up her cuffs, wasmarching down the hall. "By jinks!" said Blount, looking after heradmiringly. "By jinks! It looks like things were going to happen,don't it?" His strained features relaxed into a smile.

"But now come on, son," he said, turning to Eddring, "you and I havegot to have a talk. I'll tell you about some of the things thathave happened. We've been busy here in Tullahoma."

Drawing apart into another room, Blount met Eddring's hurried queriesas to his own safety, and heard in turn the strange story of the latevoyage and the incidents immediately preceding it. He told Blount ofthe discovery of Miss Lady living in the care of the old Frenchwoman,Madame Delchasse—Miss Lady, as they had both more than suspected,none other than Louise Loisson, the mysterious dancer in the city ofNew Orleans; told of the plot which he was satisfied had been themotive of Henry Decherd in inducing Miss Lady to accompany him uponthe steamer. Blount added rapid confirmation here and there, andpresently they came to a topic which could no longer be avoided.

"I know what was done," said Eddring at length, after a slight pausein the conversation. "I found the place where it all happened. That'swhere we spent the night, on the ridge, near the house."

"Did they see? Did they know?" asked Blount, nodding toward the placewhere the two women had disappeared.

"No," said Eddring. "I did not tell them. Blount, it's awful. Where'sthe law gone in this country?"

"Law?" cried Blount, fiercely, "we were the law! We sent forthat nigg*r sheriff—the one they elected for a joke—hell of a joke,wasn't it?—and he wouldn't come. We had with us the old sheriff, JimPeters, a good officer in this county, as you know, before now. Wehad with us every white voter in this precinct, every tax-payer. Wefound them, these levee-cutting, house-burning fools, right at theirwork. We left some of them dead there, and run some into the cane,and we took the balance over to that church of theirs which you saw.The water wasn't so high then as you say it is now. There was aregular fight, and the nigg*rs were plumb desperate. They had guns.Jim Bowles, down below here, was shot pretty bad, though I reckonhe'll get well. I was shot, too—not bad, but enough to make me somedizzy. Jim Peters—and I reckon he was the real officer of the law—was shot, too, so bad that he died pretty soon. Now I reckon you cantell what we found to be at the bottom of this, and who it was that'sbeen making all this deviltry here for years."

"Delphine!"

"It was nobody else," said Blount. "You talk about human tigers, andfiends, and all that kind of thing; that woman beat anything I everdid see or hear of. She was brave as a lion. Peters and Bowles and Iclosed in on her, wanting to take her, but she fought like a man, anda brave one. She had two six-shooters, and she dropped us, all threeof us; and then before the others could close in on her, she turnedloose on herself, and killed herself dead as hell. She didn't see thefinish of the others."

Eddring buried his face in his hands and inwardly thanked Providencethat he himself had not been present at such a scene.

Blount resumed presently. "Peters didn't die right away," said he."He lay there with his head propped on a coat rolled up for a piller,and he talked to us all like we was at home in the parlor. 'Keep onwith it, boys,' said he. 'Do this thorough. Make this a white man'scountry; or if you kain't, don't leave no white men alive in it.'Then after a while he turns to me and says he, 'Colonel, you know I'mnot a rich man. Now I've got a couple of mighty fine b'ah-dogs, and Iwant to give 'em to you; but if you don't mind, I'd like mighty wellif you'd send my wife over a good cow. She's going to be left inpretty poor shape, I'm afraid, for you know how things have beengoing on the plantations,' I told him I would. We was both laying onthe ground together. I told him I would take care of his folks, forhe was a friend of mine, and the right kind of man. He talked on awhile like that, and finally he says, 'Well, boys, I'm not going tolive, and you've got a heap to do right now, and I mustn't keep youfrom it. Jake,' says he, 'you Jake, come here.'—Jake was his nigg*rboy that he always kept around with him. We had three or four gooddarkies with us. My boy Bill, out there, was along, and this Jake andsome others. 'Jake,' says Jim Peters to this boy, 'come around herean' take this piller out from under my head. Lay me down, and lemmedie!' Jake he didn't want to, but Jim says to him again, 'Jake, damnyou,' says he,'do like I tell you'; so then Jake he took the pillerout, and Jim he just lay back and gasped once, 'Oh!' like that, andhe was gone. I call that dying like a gentleman," said Blount.

"The poor fools," presently went on the firm voice of the man who wasrecounting these commonplaces of the recent savage scenes, "theythink, and they told us, some of them, that they've got the Northbehind them. They think the time is going to come when they won'thave to work any more. They want to make all this Delta black, andnot white. If we could give it to them and fence them in we would bewell rid of the whole proposition, North and South alike. These poorfools say that the North will make another war and set them freeagain! There'll never be another war between the South and the North.Next time it will be North and South together, against the slaves,white and black. But as to the Delta going black, while we men inhere are left alive—well, I want to say we'll never live to see it.If the people up North could only know the trouble they make—couldonly know that that trouble lands hardest on the nigg*rs, I thinkmaybe they'd change a few of their theories. They don't understand.They think that maybe after a while they can make us people thinkthat black is white, and white is black. Carry that out, and it meansextermination, on the one side or the other.

"Law?" he went on bitterly; "I wish you'd tell me what is the law.Good God, we white men in this country are anxious enough in ourhearts to settle all these things. We want to be law-abiding, but howcan we, unless we begin everything all over again? Law? You tell me,what is the law!"

CHAPTER XV

CERTAIN MOTIVES

Miss Lady and her stout-hearted friend, Clarisse Delchasse, foundabundance at hand to engage their activities. Miss Lady ran from onepart to another of the great house which once she had known sofamiliarly. Everywhere was an unlovely disorder and confusion, whichspoke of shiftlessness and lack of care. The touch of woman's handhad long been wanting. Colonel Blount, in the hands of hisindifferent servants, had indeed seen all things go to ruin abouthim. To Miss Lady, concerned with the swift changes in her own life,wondering what the future might presently have in store for her, allthis seemed a sorry home-coming. She leaned her head against the doorand wept in a sudden sense of loneliness; yet presently she lost inpart this feeling in a greater access of pity which she felt for thehelpless master of the Big House, who had been living thus abandonedand alone. With this there came the woman-like wish to restore theplace to some semblance of a home. Even as she dried her eyes, to herentered presently madame, with her sleeves rolled to the elbow andher face aglow in the noble ardor of housekeeping.

"Voila!" she cried. "I have foun' it! I have dig it h'out. Here isthe soss-pan of copper. It was throw' away. It was disspise'. Maisoui, but now I shall cook! This house it is ruin'. Such a place Inever have seen since I begin. You and I, Mademoiselle, it is for usto make this a place fit for the to-live—but you, what is it? Ah,Mademoiselle, why you weep? Come, Come to me!" And Miss Lady wasindeed fain to lay her head upon the broad shoulders, to feel thecomforting embrace of madame's fat arms.

"H'idgit!" cried madame, suddenly, starting back.

"H'idgit congenital! H'ass most tremenjouse! Fool par excellence!"

Miss Lady gazed to her in wonder. "Auntie," she cried, "who?"

"Who should it be but the M'sieu Eddrang?" replied madame. "For atime it is like the book. Now it is not like the book. Ah, if IClarisse Delchasse, were a man, and I take the lady away from oneman, I'd h'run away with her myself, me, and I'd keep on the h'run.But M'sieu Eddrang, how is it that he does? Bah! He does not speakt'ree, four word to you the whole time on the boat. You, who havebeen the idol of the young gentilhommes of New Orleans—you,who have been worship'! Now, it is not one man, and it is notanother, although ma 'tite fille, she is alone, here in thisdesert execrable. Bah! It is for you to disspise that M'sieuEddrang. He is not grand homme. Come. I take you back to NewOrleans."

Miss Lady looked at her with a curious shade of perplexity on herface. "You mistake, auntie," said she. "I do not wish to be back atNew Orleans. I am done with the stage—I'll never dance again. I am—I'm just lonesome—I don't know why. I have been so troubled. I don'tknow where I belong. Auntie, it's an awful feeling not to know thatyou belong somewhere, or to some one."

"You billong to me," said Madame Delchasse, stoutly. "As to thath'idgit,—no, never!"

"But Mr. Eddring brought us safely through the forest," said MissLady, arguing now for him. "I don't know what became of Mr. Decherd,or why he left us, but we can't accuse Mr. Eddring of anythingungentlemanly after that time. But why was he so anxious to come? Whywas Colonel Blount so anxious? I don't understand all these things.And Mr. Eddring and Colonel Cal seem to want to talk to each other,and not to us."

"Bah! Those men!" said Madame Delchasse. "What can they do but forus? This place, it is horrible neglect'. But come, I show you mysoss-pan."

As Miss Lady had said, Blount and Eddring were long and eagerlyengaged in conversation. They were rapidly running over the new linksin the strange chain of evidence which had now for some time beenforging, Eddring being especially curious now as to Blount'sdiscoveries in connection with the girl Delphine.

"It's plain enough," said Blount, finally, "that this thing betweenDecherd and Delphine had been going on for a long time. Delphine lefta good many papers, which we found among her belongings. It's allturned out just about as we figured before you went to New Orleans;but we found one letter from Decherd to Delphine that uncovered hishand completely, and it was this, to my notion, that made Delphine sodesperate."

"Let me have that letter, Cal."

"All right, I'll get it for you after a while, along with all theother papers. It gives the whole thing away. He just told her he wasthrough with her, and with Mrs. Ellison, too. Told her he wouldn'tsend her no more money, and turned her loose to take care of herselfthe best she could. He allowed that she, and Mrs. Ellison, too, coulddo what they wanted to. That was when he told Delphine that if shemade him any trouble he'd come out and charge her with the trainwreck. He was the planner of that wreck. He knew right where thatlog-pile was at. He wanted another accident on that railroad, and hewanted Delphine mixed up in it, so he could control her after that.She was willing enough, because by that time I reckon she just abouthated all the world. And Decherd came down on that very train, andgot off at our station just before the smash. There was a littledanger in that, but at the same time it was the best way in the worldto rid himself of all suspicion. After the wreck he just mixed withthe crowd, and nobody thought of him one way or the other. Prettysmooth, wasn't it?

"Oh, he had nerve, too, that fellow did. He wasn't scared, at leastnot of these two women, although I'm right sure Mrs. Ellison and hemight have had reason to be scared of the law in some of theircarryings-on before now. It is easy enough to see that Mrs. Ellisonnever was Miss Lady's mother."

"No," said Eddring, "that couldn't have been. Some day we'll know allabout that. A good lawyer might get at the truth, even yet."

"Good lawyer?" said Blount. "How about you?"

Eddring shook his head.

"What do you mean?" asked Blount.

"Well," said Eddring, bitterly, "I told you I'd bring Miss Ladythrough, and I did. But that ends it. I am neither lawyer nor friendfor any young woman who thinks I'm a thief."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, she told me to my own face that I stole that list of judgmentclaims from my own railroad. She told me that I was dishonest. Sheforbade me ever to see her again."

"Seems like you did see her again," said Blount, philosophically."Well now, you just think over both sides of that. You want to forgetsome of the things women say."

"I'll forget nothing," replied Eddring, "I don't need any advice insuch matters as that. No man, and no woman, can accuse me in that wayand ever make it right without coming to me voluntarily and makingapology and explanation. I say voluntarily, meaning for a woman. Ifit were a man, I'd take the first steps myself."

"Oh, well, get your feathers up, if you want to," said Blount. "Isuppose every fellow is entitled to his own kind of damnedfoolishness. First thing, let's go on through with this Delphinebusiness. Now, was that girl crazy, or was she just a natural devil?Folks mostly have reasons for doing things."

"I should think this letter you mention would explain everything forDelphine," said Eddring. "She was born a good hater, and she wassurely misled and deceived for years—finally thrown over andtaunted."

"But where did they first hook up together, and what made 'em?"

"No doubt she and Decherd knew each other before either came to yourplace. Decherd's main motive was money. Delphine was no doubt hismistress, even here; but he was looking after the legal side ofmatters all the time. What he promised Delphine no one knows. Itlooks as though he and Mrs. Ellison were hunting in couple, too. Now,Mrs. Ellison had brains, and she was an attractive woman, too—fullof sex, full of love and hate, and full of unscrupulousness as well.Rather a dangerous proposition, I should say, to have right here inyour own house. Now, here was Decherd mixed up with two, or perhapsall three of these women at the same time! That took nerve."

"I should say it did," said Blount. "It was the same sort of nerve afellow has to have when he starts on across a trembling bog. He justkeeps on a-running."

"Well, he had to keep running, sure as you're born. A fine situation,all around, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Blount, tersely. "If I had known all that was going onhere, I wouldn't maybe have felt altogether easy about it."

"Well, Miss Lady's going away helped Decherd. By this time he had tolighten cargo somewhere. We don't know about his first relations withMrs. Ellison, and we don't know just how he got rid of her. Perhapshe didn't quite want to dispense with Mrs. Ellison, since he mightneed her in legal matters later on. He wanted to get rid of Delphine,but he couldn't kill her outright, and illegally, so he resolved toget her killed legally if he could! I have no doubt in the world,Cal, that Decherd planned the train wreck. Maybe he thought it meantmore damage suits; but I think as you do, his main reason was to getrid of Delphine. He probably hid the handkerchief under the log-pile.He probably was glad to see the dogs run the trail right to yourdoor. But Delphine had a nerve of her own. I have no doubt it was shewho turned your pack loose, and wiped out the sheriff's trail rightthere."

"By jinks!" said Blount, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Things werehappening, right around here."

"They were happening, and they are not done happening yet. Now, I'vebrought you Miss Lady. You take care of her. Better keep thatFrenchwoman here, too, if you can. Decherd may turn up againsometime, or maybe Mrs. Ellison, though I think Decherd's teeth arepretty well pulled, I can't act as Miss Lady's lawyer, but I'llpromise to act as your friend."

"And hers?"

"Yes, and hers," said Eddring, hesitatingly. "We are hardly throughwith all this yet."

"It's been pretty bad down here," said the old planter.

"Yes, and we know now how it happened and who was at the head of thetrouble, and what cat's-paws were used in it all. Decherd fails inhis first attempt to get rid of Delphine legally, so he stirs her upto still worse acts; tells her there is no profit in law and order,but only in destruction. He tells her how to incite these ignorantnigg*rs; how to bring up all the old talk of their day ofdeliverance, the time when they won't have to work, the time whenthey will be not only the equals, but the superiors of the whites. Hetells Delphine that she is the naturally appointed Queen of thesepeople. She is savage enough to fit in with all their savagery. Shedoes rule it as a queen. In her soul there are thoughts, wildthoughts which you and I can never understand, because we are white,and all white. Delphine is neither white nor black, neither red, norwhite, nor black. She is a product of race amalgamation, amonstrosity, a horror, the germ of a national destruction. She is aqueen—a queen of annihilation!

"And so this thing went on," resumed Eddring, after a time, "thisplotting which meant war and destruction, not for this householdalone, nor this district, nor this state, but for this nation! Whatprevented it? I'll tell you. It was our Miss Lady. It was the WhiteWoman, the white woman of America. Whatever happens, whatever standsor falls, whatever is the law or is not the law, that is the thing tobe cherished always and to be protected at any cost or any risk. Thishouse is no better than the women in it, nor is any home, nor is anynation. Lawless, American men may be, but not so the women; and inthem we reverence the law. When the women go, the nation goes. Theyare the salvation of this nation—the stronghold of its purity. Inthe commercialization and the corruption of a people the women arethe last to go. In the South we have taken care of them always. I'mnot preaching. I only say, it was our Miss Lady who, by theProvidence of God, acted here as the spirit of all that meansprogress, all that means development and civilization.

"Cal, you think I'm a visionary, that I'm a dreamer. Perhaps I am.But I think on my honor that the angel of our salvation here was onegirl who had no conception of the part she played. I have told you,she is our Miss Lady. There's nothing in this for mepersonally, but at least you and I can take off our hats to her.Maybe sometime the picture will blur and merge, so that, for us twoold fellows, Miss Lady will just mean Woman. I reckon all of us oldfellows, and all the young ones, can take care of Her."

The two sat looking at each other a moment. Ere their silence wasbroken there came the sound of a quick step down the hall, and alight tap at the door. There appeared, framed in the doorway, thefigure of Miss Lady herself; but not Miss Lady the dancer of NewOrleans, nor yet Miss Lady as recently garbed for her voyage throughthe wilderness. In her rummaging about the once familiar recesses ofthe Big House, she had come across a simple gown of lawn, which shehad worn long ago, when scarce more than a child. Now, albeitrounder, firmer and fuller of figure than when she had departed insearch of that bigger world beyond the rim of the hedging forest, itwas the same Miss Lady of the Big House once more. She had come backto her old friends, and to a world which now seemed strangely sweetand strangely dear. Her sleeves were rolled up; her hair was tumbledabout her brow, and her eyes were dancing with new merriment.

"Please, gentlemen," said she, with a dainty courtesy, "and would youcome out to dinner? You really should see what Madame Delchasse hasdone with her new sauce-pan."

Blount and Eddring both arose; there was gravity in the gaze ofeither, though the heart of either might have leaped.

"So it is you, child," said Colonel Blount; "it is you again! Just asyou went. You're Miss Lady, come back to us again." Impulsivelyforgetting everything but the one thought, he sprang to her and flunghis arm about her shoulders. And Miss Lady could not find it in herheart to shrink from such a welcome.

"Oh, I'm glad to see you—glad to see you," repeated Calvin Blount."Mr. Eddring, here, was just saying how good it is to have you backagain."

Mute, she turned her eyes toward Eddring. The short upper liptrembled; in her eyes there was more than half a suspicion ofmoisture.

"Yes, we are very glad," said John Eddring, simply. With no word sheput out her hand to each, and drew them out into the hall.

CHAPTER XVI

THE NEW SHERIFF

As Eddring and Blount sat engaged in conversation after dinner thatsame evening, they were interrupted by a sudden disturbance in thehall. "Stan' aside, you-all," cried a pompous voice. "You wantehhindeh a officah o' de law?"

Hurrying footfalls followed, and presently the face of old Bill,Colonel Blount's faithful bear-hunter, appeared at the door, "Hit'sdat fool new sheriff, Mas' Cunnel," he explained, "Mose Taylor. Why,he says he got a wah'nt fo' you. I tol' him like enough you wasbusy."

"Let him come in, Bill, let him come right along in," said CalvinBlount, suavely. "Mose Taylor, eh? That's our new sheriff," said heto Eddring. "He's our joke. Hell of a joke, ain't it?"

Presently there came to the door the form of the new sheriff, large,portly and pompous. Taylor was a mulatto who long had entertainedpolitical ambitions. The realization of one of his ambitions seemedfor this present moment to give him no especial happiness. On hisface stood beads of sudden perspiration. His office had never beforeseemed to him quite so serious as it did at this moment. At his waisthe wore a belt supporting a pair of heavy revolvers with highlyornamented handles—a present from certain admirers to one who waslooked upon as fit to do much for the elevation of his race. The newsheriff did not at that moment seem to think of these revolvers. AsMose Taylor entered the door he cast his glance backward, over hisshoulder. It did not encourage him to see his cowardly posse of blackfollowers gathered in a huddle at the edge of the overflowed lawn,beside their boat. They were waiting to see what would happen totheir leader; and their leader now heartily wished that he hadremained with them.

"Come on in, Mose," said Blount, with honey-like sweetness. "Come inand take a chair." The man sidled in. "Sit down," said Blount,"sit down! Sit down on it good; that chair ain't hot;" and thesheriff suddenly obeyed. "I always like to see the sheriff ofTullahoma County feeling easy-like in my house. Now, tell me, damnyou, what you want around here?"

"Cunnel Blount, sah—well, I got a papah, a wah'nt from co'te, f-fo'you, sah. I—I—I—didn't think you was quite so well, sah."

"Uh-huh! So that's why you came, eh? I reckon you'd be mighty glad if
I was a heap sicker, wouldn't you?"

"I dunno, sah."

"What's your warrant for, Mose?" said Calvin Blount, still quietly."Stealing hogs this time, or killing somebody's cows, maybe? Out withit. Now, damn you, can't you read your own warrant?"

"Well, sah, you-all know there wuz some killin'—my wah'nt—"

"Yes, we-all do know there was some killing, a little of it, thebeginning of it, a part of it. Now, tell me, have you thenerve—are you fool enough to come down here and try to arrest anyof us white gentlemen for what we did a few days ago? Now talk. Tellme!" Blount's face took on its red fighting-hue.

"Wait!" cried Eddring, speaking to Blount, "this is an officer of thelaw. This is the law." He rose and stepped between the two, even asthe sheriff fumbled in his pocket for the paper which had lately beenthe bolster of his courage, the warrant which in grim jest had beenissued by the court of that county to its duly instituted executiveofficer.

Blount's face was an evil thing to see. At a grasp he caught from abelt which hung at the head board of the bed a well-worn revolverwhitened where long friction on the scabbard had worn away thebluing. "Out of the way, Eddring," he cried. "Get your head out ofthe way, man!" His pistol sight followed steadily here and there,searching for a clean opening at its victim, now partly protected byEddring as the latter sprang between them. Blount sat on the edge ofthe bed, his crippled arm fast at his side, his unshaven face aflame,his red eye burning in an unspeakable rage as it shone down thepistol-barrel, grimly hunting for a vital spot on the body of the manbeyond him.

"Get out, quick," cried Eddring, and pushed the man through the door.
He sprang to Blount and pushed him in turn back upon the bed.

"It's the law!" he reiterated.

"The law be damned!" cried Calvin Blount. "Let me up! Let me at him!Him—to come around here to arrest me-that damned nigg*r! You,Bill!" he called out, raising his voice. "Throw him off my place. Killhim!" He struggled furiously with Eddring in his effort to gain thedoor.

The new sheriff of Tullahoma County was ashen in color when heemerged into the hall; and then it was only to look into the muzzleof a rifle, held steadily by old Bill. There ambled up to Bill'sside, also, Jack, and between them they laid hold of the sheriff ofthe county and pushed him out of the house and across the lawn,administering meanwhile to his body repeated deliberate and energetickicks, and thus enthusiastically propelling him into the verypresence of his waiting posse, who raised never a hand to resentthese indignities to one who had been their chosen representative forthe advancement of their race.

"I'll see 'bout dis yer, I will!" cried the sheriff, as at last hegot clear and took refuge in the boat which lay waiting at the edgeof the lawn. "I'll have you-all up for 'sistin' a officah, dat's whutI will."

"'Sistin' a officah! Who! You?" said Bill. The scorn in his voicewas infinite. "Say, you low-down scoun'rel, you say very much mo' an'I'll blow yoh head off. You're on our lan', does you know dat? Nowyou git off, right soon."

The officer of the law retreated as far as he could into the boat.
"You thought Cunnel Blount was all 'lone in bed, too weak to move,
didn't you?" resumed Bill. "Why, blame you, you couldn't 'rest
Colonel Calvin Blount, not if he was daid! Go 'long dah, now!"

Mose Taylor, the grim jest, the sardonic answer of the whites ofTullahoma County to those who deal fluently with questions of whichthey know but little, was fain to take Bill's sincere advice. Behindthe shelter of the first clump of trees, he folded his arms into aposture as near resembling that of Napoleon as he could assume. Hefrowned heavily. "Huh!" said he savagely, looking from one to anotherof the crew who made his "posse." "Huh!" he said again, and yetagain, "Huh!" A cloud sat on his soul. It seemed to him that personslike himself, earnestly engaged in settling the race problem, oughtnot to have such difficulties cast in their way.

Meantime, in the house, Eddring still confronted the rage of Colonel
Blount.

"You," panted Blount. "You! I thought you were one of us."

"I am, I am!" cried Eddring. "I was with you in what you did. I triedto get to you. It had to be done. But somewhere, Cal, we must stop.We've got to pull up. We can't fight lawlessness with worselawlessness. We must begin with the law."

A bitter smile was his answer. "Is that sort of sheriff thefoundation that you lay?" said Calvin Blount, panting, as at lengthhe threw his six-shooter upon the bed. "Let me tell you, then, thelaw is never going to stand. That's no law for the Delta."

Eddring sunk his face between his hands. "Cal," he said, "we've gotto begin. This country is being ruined, and perhaps it is partly ourown fault. Now, I am guilty as you. are; but I say, we have got togive ourselves up to the law."

"Give myself up? Why, of course I will. I was going up directly,soon as I got well, to talk it over with the judge, and arrange for atrial. All this has got to be squared up legally, of course. Butthat's a heap different from sending a nigg*r sheriff down here toarrest Cal Blount in his own house. Why, I'm one of the oldestcitizens in these here bottoms. I've carried my end of the log forfifty years, with black and white. Why, if I should go in withthat fellow, where'd be my reputation? I'd have a heap of show ofliving down here after that, wouldn't I? Why, my neighbors'd kill me,and do me a kindness at that."

"But we must begin," said Eddring, insistently, once more. "Theremust be some law. We'll go in and surrender. I'll take your case."

"You mean you'll be my lawyer at the trial?"

"Yes, I'll defend you. But as for you and me, we're for the state,after all. We've got to prosecute this entire system which prevailsdown here to-day. We're growing more and more lawless all over theSouth, all over America. Now, we don't want that. We don't believe init. Then what can we do? How can we get to the bottom of this thing?Cal, I reckon you and I are brave enough to begin."

Even as they were speaking, they heard a knock at the door, and MissLady once more stood looking in hesitatingly upon these stern-facedmen. Upon her own face there was horror, terror.

"I don't know what to do!" she cried, her hands at her temples. "Idon't know where to go. You tell me this is my home, and I havenowhere else to go, but this is a terrible place. Why, I havejust heard about what happened—about Delphine and those others. Why,sir,"—this to Eddring,—"you knew it all the time. You saw. Youknew!"

"Yes," said Eddring, "that is why I would not let you walk down thatlittle path on the island. I didn't want you to know—we didn't wantyou ever to know."

"Yes, Miss Lady," affirmed Blount, "we knew. We didn't want you toknow."

"But is there no law?" she cried. "Why do you do these things? Thepunishment is for the officers, for the courts, and not for you. Why,how can I look at you without shivering?"

"What shall we do, Miss Lady?" asked Blount, coldly. "What's theright thing to do? Listen. We've done this thing for you. You're awhite girl. The white women of this country—if we didn't do thesethings, what chance would you and your like have in this country? Now,we've done it for you, and we'll finish the way you say. You're todecide. Shall we go in and surrender? Shall we be tried? Remember, itis our own lives at stake, then."

"We will go in, and we will meet our trial," said John Eddring,rising and interrupting, even as Miss Lady buried her face in herhands. "We will begin, right here."

THE LAW OF THE LAND

One morning in the early fall, the little town of Clarksville,county-seat of Tullahoma County, was thronged with people from allthe country round about. There was in progress the trial of certainwhite citizens under indictment for murder, among these some of themost respected men of that region. The case of Colonel Calvin Blounthad been chosen as the first of many.

The court-room in the square brick court house was packed with massesof silent men. The halls were crowded. The yard of the court housewas full, and the streets were alive with grim-faced men. Thehitching racks were lined with saddle horses, and other horses andcountless mules were hitched to fences and trees even beyond theoutskirts of the town. The hotels had long since abandoned system,and every dwelling house was open and full to overflowing.

Outside of the town, or mingling in the fringes of the crowd at itsedges, there huddled even greater numbers of those of the coloredrace. Some of these were armed. The white men in the streets werearmed. None showed hurry or agitation; none shouted or gesticulated;yet the clerk of the court had a pistol in his pocket; each jurymanwas likewise equipped; the judge on the bench knew there was a pistolin the drawer of the desk before him. This gathering of the peoplewas thoughtfully prepared. It was a crisis, and was so recognized.

The silent audience was packed close up to the rail back of which wasstationed the judge's stand and jury-box. Within the railing therewas scanty room; every member of the local bar was there, and manylawyers from counties round about.

Erect in the grave-faced assemblage, there stood one man, pale offace but with burning eyes. It was John Eddring, attorney for thedefense in the case of the state against Calvin Blount, charged withmurder. His voice, clean-cut, eager, incisive, reached every cornerof the room. His gestures were few and downright. He was sweptforward by his own convictions of the truth.

Eddring was approaching the conclusion of the argument which he hadbegun the previous day. The testimony in these cases, known generallyas the "lynching cases," had long been in and had passed throughexamination, cross-examination, rebuttal and surrebuttal.

Eddring knew that he would be followed by an able man, a districtattorney conscientious in the discharge of his duty, howeverunpleasant it might be. He had therefore with the greatest careanalyzed the evidence of the state as offered, and had demonstratedthe technical impossibility of a conviction. Yet this, he knew, wouldnot upon this occasion suffice. He went on toward the heart of thereal case which he felt was then on trial before this jury of thepeople.

"Your Honor and gentlemen of the jury," he continued, "we all knowthat we are, in effect, trying today not one man, not one district,not one state, but an entire system. We are trying the South. Thelife and the liberty of the South are at stake. To prove this, thesem*n have come in and given themselves up as an atonement, as a bloodoffering like to that of old; seeking to prove that what theycontinually have coveted is not lawlessness, but the law.

"Now I say this, and I say, also, let each of us have a care lest helose touch with the eternal pillar of the truth. There it is. Itrises before you, gentlemen, that silent, somber shaft. It finds itssummit in the sky. I pray God to keep my own hand in touch thereto,and my eyes turned not aside. And my life, with that of these others,is offered freely in proof that we covet not lawlessness, but thelaw! We are white men, and where the white man has gone, there has hebuilded ever, first of all, his temple of the law. Upon whatever landthe Anglo-Saxon sets his foot, of that land he is the master, orthere he finds his grave. First he lays his hearthstone, and uponthat foundation he builds his temple of the law. A race which has nohearthstone knows no law.

"Inasmuch as God has made all manner of things diverse, setting nofence even between species and species, creating all blades of grassalike, yet not one the duplicate of another; then neither should we,being human, essay a wisdom greater than that of the eternalcompromise of life. No human document, no sum of human wisdom, noteven the Deity of all life can or does guarantee a success whichmeans individual equality in the result of effort. The chance, theopportunity—that is the law, and that is all the law. Beyond thatdid not go the intent of that Divinity which decreed the scheme underwhich this earth must endure. To war and conflict each creature isforeordained, for so runs the decree of life. But never, in thedivine wisdom, was it established that the mouth of the stream shouldbe its source; that inequality should be equality; that failureshould be success; that unfitness should mean survival.

"In reading the pages of the great and beloved Constitution ofAmerica there have been those who have juggled the import of the word'success' with the meaning of the chance to succeed.

"There was such juggling in those war amendments to thatConstitution, which to-day represent the folly of a part of America—not of all of America. Those amendments, if they be not of themselveswar measures, were at least consequences of war measures. ThisConstitution which we call supreme can, of itself, be amended—can,indeed, itself be set aside by its own servants, as was proved inthat very war whose memory is still in our minds. The Supreme Court,in the Legal Tender case, admittedly set aside the Constitution. Itdid so of necessity, and as a measure demanded by the times of war.The supreme letter of the law has not always been respected by thispeople, nor by its wisest men, by its most august servants.

"It is not the law, gentlemen, vainly to call two blades of grassidentical, vainly to call the hare and tiger alike and equal; vainlyto call, if you like, black the same as white. The law is that if itbe possible for the hare to approach its neighbor in ways desirable,it be given its chance to do so. If the black man can grow like tothe white in all human attainments, if he can grow and succeed, thenlet him have the chance to do so.

"But that same chance of betterment and advancement, that sameselfish chance to prevail and to survive, that chance to succeedgiven under the divine intent, must be accorded also to that creatureknown as the white man. If he, the white man, can prevail, cansurvive, can succeed, he, too, must have his chance. That is the law!But the chance of either white or black man is his own and is notnegotiable. That is the law! Not without fitness can there beultimate success. Not until the fullness of the years can there beattainment for any creature of this earth. That is the law! There isno tree growing in the center of this ordained universe wherefrom thefull fruit of survival and of success may be plucked and eatenwithout effort and without earning. No individual has done it. No onecan do it. Bounty and gift do not make success. It must be won!

"Is this doctrine difficult? If so, we can not change it. It is thegreat law, irrevocable and unamendable, and it is no more kind and nomore cruel than life itself is kind or cruel. It is the law. That isthe law!

"The makers of the Constitution, the amenders of the Constitution—that document subject to change, subject to being ignored, as hasbeen the case—could never, under the enduring law, guarantee successplucked as an apple for each and every man who had not earned it.Gentlemen, talk not to me of the broad charity of this nation, or ofits general justice to humanity. Call not this piece-workConstitution of ours, amended and subject to amendment, an approachto divine charity or wisdom. No; for in some of its effects it hasproved to be the most cruel and unjust measure ever known in allhuman laws.

"It was cruel and unjust to whom? To us? To the white man? No, no. Itwas cruel in that it presented a title to success, to fitness and tosurvival unto eager, ignorant hands, and then by its own limitationssnatched that title away from them again. It sought to do that whichcan not be done—to establish growth instead of the chance to grow.It was cruel. It was unjust. In the wisdom of a later day itspatchwork form must once more be changed. It must be changed as aprotection, no more against the former slaves of the South thanagainst the future slaves of the North.

"Gentlemen, if that change could be effected to-morrow by theoffering up of this life—of these lives now in your hands—I saythese lives would be laid down gladly. Take them if you will. Theyare our pledge that we covet not lawlessness, but the law; our pledgethat, having no law, we have been eager to act lawfully as we might.The reign of lawlessness and terror must end in this country. We mustcontrive some machinery of the law which shall command respect. Wemust not continually drag the name of the South—the name of America—in the mire of lawlessness. To do that is to smirch the flag—theone flag of America. But we denounce and will always denounce thatfalse decree which says that black is white; that inequality isequality; that lack of manhood is manhood itself; that the absence ofa hearthstone can mean a home; that the absence of the home can meana permanent society.

"In the future the North, packed and crowded beyond endurance, withimported and herded white slaves who in time will demand the positionof masters—as the blacks may legally demand that position here to-day—will pay her price for the right to make this plea. The Southhas already paid a thousand times for her right to make it to-day.With treasure she has paid for it; with roof-tree and hearth-tree shehas paid it dear, and with the sacred tears of women. With thesacrifice of her own future she has paid for that right. But theSouth and the North belong together, not held apart by politics, butheld together in brotherhood. In the name of all justice, let us hopethat the South shall not be asked to pay the bitterest of all prices,the misunderstanding and the alienation of those whom she loves andwould embrace as her brothers. Let us hope, in the name of mercy, ifnot of justice, that the South shall be understood as a region havinga problem, a problem which is national, and not sectional, and notpolitical. Let us in all fairness hope that our northern brotherswill understand that the South is honest in her attempt to deal withthat problem in her time, which is the time of to-day.

"Your Honor, I do not depart from my argument. I am not here for wildtalk regarding the relations of the two races. It is the ages alonewhich will decide that problem. But I am here to stand for the lawand not for lawlessness. I am here to say that our flag, the Americanflag, is for all men, and for America; not for Africa alone, or forEurope alone, but for America. It is the flag of progress, not theflag of anarchy. It is the banner of civilization and not ofsavagery. That, and not the banner of Africa or of Europe, must beour ensign to-day.

"Your Honor, and gentlemen, we are not here today to conclude thatGod set the white man over the black. We are to conclude simply thatHe set him apart from the black man. The divine right of slavery wasan impiety, and, worst of all, an absurdity. The South made thatmistake, and bitter has been the price of her folly. Yet the South,having sinned, paid the price of her sinning in all ways exacted ofher. She accepted the ruling of the North, and, as a distinguishedorator once said, surrendered 'bravely and frankly.' But she did notadmit, and please God, never will admit, that those fresh fromsavagery should govern the white men, that they should institute themachinery of the law whereunder the white man must live.

"Gentlemen, you see before you, sardonically done, the fruits of theBlack Justice. Is that the Law? If it be, then send us to our graves;for as that Black Justice formally exists to-day, Calvin Blount, andI, and these others, must go back to our fields or to our graves. Doyou wish to send us to the latter? If you do, you send these otherwhite men just as lawfully back to take up the hoe of labor, to bendtheir necks under the black yoke of African ignorance and savagery.Is that the Law? In my heart, gentlemen, I believe that those who saythis is the law have not read the history of this country, do notunderstand the theory of this country, and can not speak for itunselfishly or honestly.

"Yet, gentlemen, that is the dilemma into which our brothers of theNorth would continually thrust us. Suppose that, casting about forsome possible measure to free us from one point or the other of thatdilemma, we should seek some legal compromise which would free usfrom the letter of this oppressive law of our national Constitution.Suppose there should be proposed some general and stern limitation ofthe franchise? Such an onerous qualification must needs apply toblack and white alike. Who would be first to object to it? It wouldbe the politicians of the North, who could not afford to exact even aprepaid poll-tax as a test for a vote. In time the North will need tofree her white slaves, already turbulent and rebellious. In time shewill have to pay for them, as we of the South have paid. After thatgreat civil war which is yet to come, the men of the North mayperhaps understand more fully the meaning of that phrase 'the manhoodsuffrage' and know that manhood means survival, that good manhoodmeans the product of a good environment, a survival slowly and fitlywon. By that time, North and South, perhaps, will know that thefranchise should be as the bulwark of the law, not the destroyer ofthe law. Until that time, we of the South must continue to pay ourpart of the price of the national lawlessness; and we must continue,each commonwealth for itself as best it may, to enact laws whichshall in part lessen the intolerable weight of that which we have setup as the idol of our national laws—that Constitution, which isimpossible and not practicable, which is merciless instead of just,which is cruel instead of being kind, and most cruel to those whom itis thought to shelter. Meantime the South feels still the intolerableweight of that Constitution, the intolerable sting of the demand ofher northern brothers, that she shall be asked to endure, in the nameof this incubus, this body of the law, the continuous burglarizing ofher honor and her prosperity—the burglarizing of the house of hersociety.

"We know that it is the chiefest of cruelty and unkindness, thechiefest of madness, to incite these poor and ignorant people—everready to follow the voice of sophistry or selfishness—to believethat their burglary of the house of success is right and reasonable;because it is certain that such burglary will be met in the South bythe law, by the White Justice, and that, if need be, until eitherwhite or black man shall exist no more in this portion of America.Gentlemen, North and South owe it to America, America owes it to theworld, that there be held aloft for our worship an image of the Lawmore honorable than this. Until that time of a more honorable imagefor our worship, there must perhaps go on the enormous folly of oneportion of this nation asking another portion to destroy itself forthe sake of an unworthy race. This demand, gentlemen, I take to be anactual treason to the law and to this country.

"The white man has won his rights—why? Because he was able to do so.He accords to any other race the same privilege. That is the law ofsurvival; it is greater than any law of politics, greater than anystatute law.

"But, your Honor, these men can not be acquitted under any pleadealing with generalizations alone. The law of the land must beobserved in so far as that law exists.

"Now I ask whether at the time of the acts charged against CalvinBlount there existed any adequate machinery of the law. I havepointed out to you the precedent of the great case handled by Mr.Webster in the city of New York, in which case the statutes were setaside by the greater law of an immediate and overpowering necessity.I submit to you that necessity, the greatest of all laws, and inprecedent respected by our courts as such, would have overridden eventhe regular machinery of our laws had it been in operation. I submitfurther to you that no law existed in this country at that time; thatthe service of the law to its citizens had ceased. If the greatestcourt of the country still tolerates the burglary of the house ofsociety by this so-called manhood suffrage, which should rather becalled the per capita suffrage, then at least the lesser courts,wiser than the greater, recognize the fact that some crimes requireno warrant for arrest; that sometimes the citizen is court andexecutive in one and at once.

"As the greatest authorities of the law have written, in theorganization of society the individual never surrenders all of hisrights. He retains for ever and inalienably, after all hisdelegations to society and the law, a residuum of power for his own.He retains under the great and supreme law of all life, that sweet,that divine privilege, his chance to succeed, his chance tosurvive! No tyranny, no oppression, can overcome that sweetest andstrongest of all the Anglo-Saxon's coveted rights. Instead, he hasever risen against the law, when that law has demanded of him thislast, this ultimate and inalienable right, this principle under whichhe has builded the civilization of the world.

"In defiance of statute laws grown weak and impotent, the barons atRunnymede wrested Magna Charta from King John; in defiance of statutelaws grown weak and impotent, the free men of England wrested theirHabeas Corpus Act from King Charles; in defiance of statute lawsgrown weak and impotent, the colonists of America wrested a virginempire from King George.

"And, please God, in defiance of statute laws grown weak andimpotent, the white man will wrest from whatsoever hand may hold it,the right to protect the integrity of his race, the safety of hiswomen, the sanctity of his two-fold temple of the law!

"I therefore submit to you that a sacred exigency demanded the actionof this prisoner, of these prisoners; and I submit that this prisonerat the bar is innocent before the law. But beyond that I add my plea,with that of this honorable court, and of these gentlemen, that oneday we may have given to us an image of the Law which we may veneratein letter and in spirit, and a law capable of its own enforcement.

"As I stand before you, gentlemen, this prisoner, this cause, itsfeeble advocate, seem small and inconsiderable. But at my side I seearising the eternal pillars of the temple of the White Justice. Doyou not see them, rising solemn and stately before you, thosepillars, their heads taking hold upon the heavens? If that temple hasbeen defiled, if it has been cast down, then let us hope that Southand North will restore it again in its full majesty. And when,finally, aided, as we hope, by our brothers of the North, we, ascitizens of an ofttimes mistaken, yet eventually to be unitedAmerica, shall have builded this renewed temple of the law, then thelives of the white men of this state will be—like ours joined inthis trial before you—free pledge that the men of this country, solong charged with lawlessness, shall come and bow in that temple inreverence of that law which they have always coveted and which theycovet here to-day. Your Honor, and gentlemen of the jury, in the faceof that statement, I say that not Calvin Blount—nor any one of theseprisoners—has violated the law. And so I close with the words of theancient form of pleading: Of this we do indeed put ourselves upon thecountry."

In the silence which fell upon the room as Eddring closed, thedistrict attorney arose to present the case of the state. He beganslowly, gravely, logically. He presented the printed page of thestatutes, called attention to the formal accuracy of the proceedings,the overwhelming nature of the evidence; he explained that withoutlaw, nothing remained but anarchy. He pointed out to the jury thathere was the law, plain and unmistakable; here were the facts,obvious and uncontroverted, the convicting facts. He spoke of theinfamy which had been cast upon the name of the South by reason ofjust such deeds as these. He urged the necessity for an absolute andunyielding observance of the letter of the law, those statutes fromwhich they dared not depart. They were statutes which could not beoverswept by any glittering speciousness, or set aside by fine spuntheories as to what might or might not be a more desirable order ofaffairs. He reminded them of their oath, their sworn promise toenforce the law—this law, the law of the printed page.

[Illustration: "OF THIS WE DO INDEED PUT OURSELVES UPON THE COUNTRY."p. 358]

He spoke for two hours, and he did his duty; but he addressed himselfto men of stone, and he knew it even as he spoke. Not to be moved byhis words were these set and solemn faces. Concluding with apassionate appeal that they should protect the fair name of theircountry from the stigma of lawlessness, he resumed his seat, knowingthen the verdict which would follow.

The judge, an old man with silvery hair, turned to the jury.

"Retire, gentlemen, to consider of your verdict."

The door to the jury-room closed behind them, and left a thousandeyes fixed anxiously upon it.

They had scarcely disappeared when the knock of the foreman was heardat the door.

"Bring in the jury, Mr. Sheriff," the judge ordered.

The foreman of the jury, an unknown man, tall and stooped, withscraggly hair and beard, handed a folded paper to the clerk.

"Mr. Clerk, read the verdict," the judge ordered; and the clerk read:
"We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty."

The words were received in utter silence.

Presently all, jury and bar and spectators, filed from the court-room, quietly, not with oaths or threats of violence for those otherswho at the outskirts of the town were waiting for their answer. Andthey, the waiting ones, found their answer in this silence, and sonow slipped out into the forest. The crowds of white men in the townalso quietly melted away.

That night at the hotel the judge and certain citizens were engagedin quiet conversation.

"I think," said the judge, "that this young gentleman, Mr. Eddring,belongs somewhere in a position of trust. I believe that he can bedepended upon to think, and not merely to play politics for the sakeof office holding. We have had too much politics in the South, andtoo much in America. It's time now we did a little thinking."

"You're right about that, Judge," broke in the voice of CalvinBlount. "But it's just as he says, we've got to begin. We've got tohave some kind of law to begin under."

The judge sighed. "It is humiliating to have to resort to any sort ofsubterfuge," said he. "Of course, in law, the rule must apply toblack and white alike. I see that one of our sister states has passeda law allowing no one to vote who can not read, or who can not writeon dictation any section of the Constitution; or who has not paidstate and county taxes for two preceding years. This test is notapplied to any one who was entitled to vote in any one of the statesof the Union on January first, 1867, or at some time prior thereto.It does not apply to any legitimate lineal descendant of personsentitled to vote prior to that time. That is an evasion. Yet, as thisyoung gentleman said, we can not submit to the burglarizing of thehouse of our society. Until we may legally repel, we must legallyevade."

"Why, see here, men," broke in Blount, again, "if you'll let me sayso, Judge, there ain't no law higher than the law of poker. Now we'velet Mr. nigg*r into the game with us; or, anyhow, he's here, andsomebody gives him a few chips. He don't buy 'em for himself, and hedon't know the value of 'em. His chips ought to be good as far asthey last. The trouble with Mr. nigg*r is, he's wanting to get intoevery jack-pot with less'n a pair of deuces, and wanting to play onthe ground that his white chips are as good as the other fellow'sblue ones. Now, that ain't poker!"

"It Shirley ain't," said the tall foreman, wagging a scraggly beard.

The judge smiled softly and gravely. "No," said he. "There should bejustice to the white man as well as the black. You will notice theorder in which I place those terms."

Calvin Blount hitched his chair closer up to the table. "But now youwere saying, Judge, that we ought to do something for this youngfellow, Eddring. I have known him a long time, from the time he wasclaim agent on the railroad. I want to say he's a man and agentleman, not afraid of anything, and he wants to do what's right. Idon't think he puts money ahead of everything else in the world. Formy part, if he was my representative in the Legislature, or inCongress either, I'd feel right sure he'd represent me strictlyaccording to the legitimate rules of poker; and that's a blamedsight more than a whole lot of politicians are doing to-day, Northor South."

"It Shirley is!" again said the foreman, wagging his scraggly beard.

MISS LADY AT THE BIG HOUSE

The days wore on not ungentle at the Big House, until the mildsouthern winter had taken the place of mellow fall, and untilpresently all the land was again full of the warm, sweet smell ofspring. Softness and gentleness rested on all the world, and uponevery side were tokens that calm had come again to a land latedistraught. Slowly the signs of wreck and ruin disappeared about theplantation. The track of the receding waters was covered with a swiftverdure. The cabins, late half-submerged and deserted, again found,at least in part, a tenantry. Songs were heard once more as theplowmen resumed their labors in the fields. Green and white and pinkcolors appeared, and gracious odors, and kindly sights filled now allthe horizon. Peace, and content, and hope seemed now at hand oncemore. The master of the Big House saw about him his accustomedkingdom, and once more his subjects felt the hand of a master, if asfirm, perhaps more kindly than ever before.

As for Miss Lady, she dropped back into the life of the place asthough she had been gone but for a day. Care and responsibility satupon the brow of Madame Delchasse, but Miss Lady, not less useful inthe household economy, went about her employment as if she had neverbeen away. Of those who welcomed her back to the Big House there wasnone more thankful and adoring than the old bear-dog, Hec. At thefirst sight of his divinity, not forgotten in all these long months,Hec, himself grown very old and gray, well-nigh wriggled hisrheumatic frame apart, and lifted up his voice in a very wail ofthanksgiving. From that time on he rarely allowed Miss Lady out ofhis sight, but pursued her about the place, hobbling and whimperingwhen her feet grew too swift; nor did his homage know any change savewhen Miss Lady deserted him to bestow her attentions elsewhere,whether upon little yellow chickens, or upon some of the toddlingpuppies which filled the yard about the Big House.

Of all little helpless things, Miss Lady could not find too many forher attention. Upon one certain morning in the spring, some timeafter the late trial at the Clarksville court, Miss Lady was sittingout on the board-pile beneath the evergreen trees in the front yardof the Big House. Her wide hat, confined loosely by its strings, hadfallen back on her shoulders, so that the sun and the warm wind hadtheir way of the brown hair, and the cheeks now flushed with tendersolicitude for the three puppies she held in her lap. Yet otherpuppies scrambled at a pan of milk close by her feet, while at adistance old Hec, too dignified to engage in such procedures, lay inthe shade and gazed at her with reproachful eyes. Calvin Blount,coming about the corner of the house, stood for a while and gazed atthis picture in silence before he approached and interrupted.

"Miss Lady," said he, "you never did know how glad I am to have youback here again. Why, a while ago I didn't care what became of me, orof anything else. I wasn't even half-training my pack of dogs. Now Ihave got more'n fifty of the best hounds that ever run a trail, andwith you to take care of the cripples and the puppies, it certainlylooks like the old pack is going to last a while yet. Yes, you surelyare right useful on the place."

"You are not any gladder than I am," said Miss Lady. "I've everyreason in the world to be glad."

"Well," said Blount, seating himself apart on the end of the board-pile, "I've got a few, myself. This here is a heap better than beingin jail, or maybe getting hung."

"Don't talk about it," said Miss Lady, shuddering.

"I don't want to think—"

"Well, it was Jack Eddring got us out of it all, I reckon," saidBlount, breaking off a splinter from the board. "Did you ever stop tothink, Miss Lady, that he's a powerful fine young man?"

"Why do you always talk about him?" said Miss Lady, turning, to thesudden discomfort of one of the puppies. "Every time anything comesup—"

"Now, hold on," said Blount, "you don't say a word against that youngman while I'm around. I want to tell you that fellow has showed me aheap. He's a square, hard-working man, as honest as the day is long,straight as a string, square as they make 'em, and not afraid ofnothing on earth. I ask him to come down here and go b'ah hunting. Healways says he has to work—works harder than any nigg*r I ever hadon the place. Now that's what he done showed me. I reckon he'd be agood sort of model for this whole southern country to-day. He's proofenough to my mind that a man can work, and do his own work, and stillbe a gentleman. I've been right lazy in my time, I reckon, b'ahhunting and that sort of thing, but now I come to think it all over,I don't know but what Jack Eddring is as near right as anybody I knowof. He allows he's got something to do in this world, and he'sstarting out to do it. He sort of showed me that maybe that's aboutthe best thing a man can do with himself—just work.

"Besides, Miss Lady,"—and here Blount turned upon her suddenly,"that man's done a heap for you."

"Oh, well—" began Miss Lady.

"And he thinks a heap of you. That is,"—and here Blount undertook tosave himself from what he swiftly fancied might be indiscretion—"he's like all of us people down in here, you know. Now they tell methat up North, in the big cities where I've never been at, there's somany women that folks think they're right common. I don't believethat, nohow, for it don't stand to reason. Now we-all know that awoman is something a good ways off, and high up and hard to reach.That's the way we-all feel. But now even if we allow it that way, Iwant to say that Jack Eddring has done a heap for you, Miss Lady,that maybe you don't know about. He didn't have to do it, either."

"I never asked him to do anything—I never told him."

"No, you didn't," said Cal Blount, gravely. "You sort of allowed thathe was a meddling sneak-thief, Miss Lady. I want to say right herethat I allow a lot different from that. Now, if I know that man atall, he ain't going to come around you and make any sort of talk.You'll have to go to him."

"I'll not!" said Miss Lady, again eliciting a yelp from one of thepuppies in her lap.

"There, there, now," said Blount, gently. "Just you hold on a minute.
Don't say you will or you won't. I just want to ask you one thing,
Miss Lady. Who do you reckon you are? I know you're Miss Lady, and
that's all I want to know. But who do you think you are?"

The kindness of the keen gray eye disarmed Miss Lady. In the sheerinstinct of youth and vitality she spread out her arms wide, her faceturned up halfway toward the sky, her lips half-parted: "Oh, don'task me, Colonel Cal," said she. "I'm alive, and it's spring. I dancedin the big room this morning, Colonel Cal! Isn't it enough, just tobe alive?" Thus she evaded that question, which she had so longshunned as impossible of answer.

"Yes, it's enough, Miss Lady," said the old planter, gravely. "It'senough for you. But now, we men who are your friends have got to takecare of you. We've got to do the thinking. Now, I'm saying that JackEddring has done a heap of thinking for you that you don't knowanything about."

"Oh, I know he sort of took charge of things down there at New
Orleans. He told me a lot. And then—about Mr. Decherd—"

"Yes, about Mr. Decherd. I've never talked much to you about that,because the time hadn't come. Now I want to say that Jack Eddring hadmore right to throw that man Decherd off the boat than ever youunderstood. I'd have done it the same way, only maybe rougher. We'refriends of yours. You're ours, you know. You haven't got any mother.Thank God, you haven't got any husband. You haven't got any father.Now tell me, Miss Lady, who do you reckon Henry Decherd is, and whatdo you think he wanted to do?"

Miss Lady, suddenly sober, turned toward him a face grave andthoughtful. A certain portion of the old morbidness returned to her."It's not kind of you, Colonel Cal," said she, "to remind me that I'mnobody. I'm worse than an orphan. I'm worse than a foundling. How Iendure staying here is more than I can tell. Shall I go away again?"

"There, there, none of that," said Blount, sharply. "I'll have noneof that; and you'll understand that right away. You're here, and youbelong here. You don't go out beyond the edge of this yard and gettangled up with any more Henry Decherds, I'll tell you that.Now, there's certain things people are fitted for. There's Mrs.Delchasse, a-stewing and a-kicking all the time because she wants togo back to New Orleans. I tell her she can't go, because she's got tostay here and take care of you. Now I'm fit to hunt b'ah. I can tellby looking at a b'ah's track which way he's going to run. Same waywith Mrs. Delchasse. She can just look at a cook stove and tell whatit's going to do. You can run the rest of this house, and do it easy.We're all right, just the way we are. Now it's going to be that wayfor a while, and no other way, and I don't want no orphan talk fromyou. For the time being I'm your daddy—and nothing else.

"But now," he went on, presently, "Jack Eddring is fit to do otherthings. He's been digging around, like he maybe told you part way,for all I know, and he's found out a heap of things about you thatyou didn't know, and I didn't know. Miss Lady, as far as I know, youmay be richer than I am before long. If you think I've missed thecorn-bread you've done eat at my place, why, maybe some day we cannegotiate for you to pay for it. Now I ask you once more, whoare you? and you can't tell. How ought you to feel toward the man whocan tell you what you are, and who you are? And him a man whocan do that, not for pay, but just because you are Miss Lady. Howought you to feel in a case like that?"

Miss Lady said nothing. She only looked anxious and ill at ease.

"Now listen. I'm going to tell you what we know about you, or thinkwe know.

"We think your real name is Louise Loisson, just the name you pickedout for yourself. We think that was the name of your mother, and ofyour grandmother, too, for that matter. If all that is so, thenyou're rich, if you can prove your title; and we think you can. Tellme, what do you know about Mrs. Ellison? And what do you know aboutHenry Decherd? Were they ever married?"

A deep flush of shame sprang to Miss Lady's face as she turned aboutat this. "Colonel Cal," she began, and her voice trembled; "you hurt.All this hurts me so."

"Now hold on, child," said Blount, quickly. "None of that, either.This is strictly business. I know you are not the child of Mrs.Ellison. You are somebody else's daughter. You were in her company orher possession for a long time; just why, we can't prove yet a while.But there was something right mysterious between that fellow Decherdand Mrs. Ellison. Did you ever see them much together, as long as youwere living with Mrs. Ellison?"

"No," said Miss Lady, "never, except as they met occasionally here orthere. Mrs. Ellison traveled a great deal from time to time, when Iwas little, before we went to New Orleans, where I went to schoolwith the Sisters. She, my mother—that is, Mrs. Ellison—had moneyfrom somewhere, not always very much. Mr. Decherd told me often thathe simply was an old friend of hers. I always thought he was a lawyersomewhere in this state. Sometimes he went to St. Louis. We went toNew Orleans; and that was the last I saw of him for some years untilwe came here to the Big House."

"That's all you know?" asked Blount. "You don't remember any motherof your own?"

"Not in the least." Tears welled from her eyes, and this time Blountdid not protest.

"Miss Lady," said he, "there are some things we can't clear up yet.We can't prove just yet who was your own mother, but I want to tellyou, you were born as far above that sort of life as that there sunis above the earth. No matter how much Decherd loved you, or how muchright he had to love you, he couldn't do you anything but wrong andharm, and injury, and shame. As near as we can find out, he was aboutas bad, and about as sharp a man as ever struck this country. Wecouldn't hardly believe at first how smooth he was. Miss Lady, wecan't tell just what his relations to Mrs. Ellison were. We know theyhad some kind of an understanding. We know that he was mixed up withDelphine down here on some sort of a basis. We know that he wasrobbing the railroad here with a list of judgment claims against theroad, which he stole in some way. We know he was underneath a heap ofthis trouble with the nigg*rs down here, and that he used Delphine asa cat's-paw in that. It was his scheme to have other people stir upall the trouble they could, so he could carry on his own devilmentbehind the smoke. Now we know he was mixed up with those two womensomehow. I won't ask you any questions, and won't try to understandwhy you could have been so blind as not to know your own friends.—No, Miss Lady, come back here, and sit right down. You've got to takeyour own medicine, and some day you've got to know your own friends.Now sit down, and hold on till I tell you what I know about this."

And so, to a Miss Lady alternately shocked and ashamed, he went on totell in his own fashion, and to the best of his knowledge, the factsof the strange story which had been canvassed between himself andEddring long before. The sun was still farther up in the heavens whenhe had concluded, and when finally he rose to his feet and stooderect before her.

"So there you are, Miss Lady," said he. "You couldn't be any betterthan we knew you were all along. I don't think any more of you nowthan I ever did; and I don't believe Jack Eddring does either. Now,we don't know where this man Decherd will turn up again. You've gotto stay here until we find out about that. But this thing can't runalong this way, and it's got to be settled on a business basis. We'vegot to find Mrs. Ellison and make her tell what she knows. As toDecherd, his own rope'll hang him before long. Now, I'm going to beyour agent, your attorney-in-fact. That's what we'd call a 'nextfriend' in law, maybe, though you don't need any guardian now. Ifyou've got any better friend, you name him, but I know you haven't.Then we'll start suit to get possession of that property, which isyours. Jack Eddring will be your attorney. I'll appoint him myself,right now. He's just a little too good for you, Miss Lady, for youdidn't think he was honest; but he'll handle this case. The onlypromise I want of you is this: if you get plumb rich and independent,and able to go where you like, and marry anybody you want to, youwon't get up and go right away at once and leave us all. You won'tdo that right away, now will you, Miss Lady?"

Tears still stood in Miss Lady's eyes, as she put both her hands inthe big one extended to her. "Colonel Cal," said she, "it's a wonderthat I can know my friends, or tell the truth, or do anything that'sright. It's been deceit, and treachery, and wrong about me all thetime. I have hardly heard a true word, it seems to me, except when Iwas with the Sisters. But I think that she, Mrs. Ellison, told me onetrue thing, although she didn't mean it that way. She said, 'There'snothing in the world for a woman except the men.' That's the truth.It's been the truth for me. They're not all bad; I know now I've mettwo good ones, at least."

"You said two?" asked Blount.

Miss Lady hesitated. "Yes—two," she said, "I'm so sorry."

Blount caught the penitence of her tone and the meaning of herunfinished speech, and was content to leave his friend's case as itwas. "Miss Lady," said he, sternly, "what do you mean idling aroundhere all the morning? Can't you hear my dogs hollering? Them puppieswill just naturally starve to death, and here you are a-visitingaround in the shade, not tending to business."

It was a sober and thoughtful young woman who looked up at him. "Allmy life, Colonel Cal," said she, "there has been a sort of cloudbefore my eyes. I could not see clearly. Tell me, do you think I'llever understand, and see everything clearly, and be my real self?"

"Yes, girl," said Calvin Blount, "you'll see it all clear, some day;and I hope it won't be long. Now, I said, go feed them puppies. Andlook at old Hec, there, wanting to talk to you."

CHAPTER XIX

THREE LADIES LOUISE

In the city, as well as in the country, spring came with a sensiblecharm. John Eddring, as he gazed out of his office one morning at theslow life of the southern city and felt the breath of the warm windat the casem*nt, abandoned himself for the time to the relaxation ofthe season. Peace and content seemed to abide here also, and Eddring,looking out of his window, sighed not altogether in sadness that hisworld was proving so endurable; that it might even, in time, provecomforting. With a man's exultation, he found happiness in thecertainty that he could do his work, and that there was work for himto do—work perhaps in some sort higher than that which he hadrecently assigned to himself. Before him on his desk there lay acommunication which meant his nomination as candidate at the nextelection for the state Legislature. It was pointed out to him that inall likelihood greater honors might await him at the hands of hisdistrict, as of the county. He found in this not so much personalpride as a sense of responsibility. Yet there remained comfort in thefact that he was growing, that he was in some measure attaining. Aswith any man truly great, this left him no more selfish, no moreegotistic, than is the stringed instrument which, under the miracleof a higher power, finds itself capable of music.

Upon Eddring's desk at that moment there lay close beside the openedletter certain papers, none other than the brief in the case ofLouise Loisson against Henry Decherd, in ejectment, defendant chargedwith holding certain properties without legal title thereto. Foryears now Eddring had followed the curious and intricate question ofthe Loisson estate, and little by little he had seen the tangledskein unravel beneath his hand. There were necessary links of theevidence yet to be supplied.

As against all adverse title, there needed to be urged for his clientdescent for three generations, carried in each generation by a singlechild, who in each case bore the name of Louise Loisson—certainly astrange and singular legal contingency. There needed to be threeladies Louise; and of these he had found but two. There was no greatdifficulty in establishing the fact that the grandmother of LouiseLoisson was the daughter of the Comte de Loisson; that she returnedto Paris early in the nineteenth century; that in spite of her noblebirth she figured for some years as a danseuse in leading Continentalcities,—a dancer of strange dances. This Louise Loisson, as hediscovered, had some years later, after declining all manner oftitled suitors, married a distant cousin, by name Raoul de Loisson,of Favreuil-Chantry, France; a young nobleman of democratictendencies, who later removed to New Orleans, in the state ofLouisiana. So much for the first Louise Loisson.

Records showed that to Raoul and Louise Loisson was born onedaughter, Louise, who married one Robert Fanning, a planter andcattle dealer. But the confusion of records brought about by theCivil War left it impossible to tell what became of this LouiseLoisson-Fanning, or of either of her parents. The trail endedabruptly; nor could Eddring find any means of pursuing it further,certain as he was that, in the person of Miss Lady, he had found thethird Louise Loisson and the rightful heiress of the Loissonproperties in the mountains below St. Louis. Again he looked at hisuncompleted papers, and again he sighed.

It was well toward noon, and Eddring was busying himself about othermatters, when he heard the knock of his faithful henchman, Jack, andbade him enter.

"Lady done sent me over f'om de hotel, sah," said Jack. "I brung hertrunk up f'om de de-pot. Heah's her kyard. She's over to the hotel,an' wants you to come oveh dah."

Eddring started to his feet as he saw the name upon the card. "Tellthe lady," said he, "to come here to my own office. Tell her to comeat once, and say that I will wait for her." And thus, a half-hourlater, there appeared at his door the figure of Alice Ellison,sometime adventurous, yet not always happy, woman of fortune.

Eddring gazed at her sharply. She seemed older. Traces of dissipationshowed upon her face. Her eye, a trifle more furtive, glanced fromside to side as though she felt herself pursued. Yet in spite of all,Alice Ellison, even at her years, was a woman not wholly withoutcharm. She stood now, hesitating, her hand still upon the knob of thedoor, her face not altogether confident as she gazed at the manbefore her.

"Come in, Madam, and be seated," said Eddring. "I am very glad to seeyou."

His tone reassured her, and she entered, half-extending to him herhand.

"I—I know you are a good lawyer, Mr. Eddring," said she, "and I—well, I'm in trouble. I've a case, a very interesting one, whichmeans a great deal of money to some one. I thought that perhaps you'dlike to take my case. I have always had so much respect for you, Mr.Eddring."

She turned upon him eyes which might have been compelling enoughunder certain circ*mstances, but whose glance was lost upon the manbefore her. Eddring stepped quietly to the door, closed it and sprungthe lock. "Madam," said he, "are you alone in this case? Do you notreally mean that you and Mr. Henry Decherd are partners in thisenterprise?"

She started up. "Open the door!" she cried. "Let me out!"

"No," said Eddring; "you can not go. In one way it is effrontery foryou to come here. But in another, it was the best thing you could do.The case of yourself and this man Decherd might be taken withoutretainer by the prosecuting attorney of any of a half-dozenlocalities. You may know that I'm acquainted with many of the detailsof this case in the past; but still you have done well to come here."

"You'll not tell him—" she began.

"You mean Decherd?" She nodded, her hand at her throat. "I'm afraidof him," she said. "He'll kill me. He'll kill me some day, surely. Iwanted you—I wanted you to take care of me. I—I've always thoughtso much of you, Mr. Eddring."

She reached out to him a pitiful hand, and on her face was thehorrible mask of a woman endeavoring feminine arts while upon hersoul there sat naught but horror and personal concern. Eddring lookedat her in simple pity. "Be seated here, Madam," said he. "Be quiet,and make yourself at ease. The safest thing you can do is to tell methe whole truth. I want your story, and I must have it. That will bethe safest thing for you."

"But I don't want—I don't want any one to hear us."

"No one need hear us. We shall not need even a notary or a clerk.Talk to me freely, and afterward I will make a memorandum, which youcan attest. In the case of a contested land title, that can later beintroduced under a bill for the perpetuation of the evidence. Youmust simply tell me the truth, now, and in your own way."

The face of Alice Ellison grew more haggard. Suddenly all theweakness of her sex swept over her—all the weakness also of thewrong-doer. The comfort of the confessional seemed the sole happinesspossible for her. And so it was that she gave to Eddring the firstdirect confirmation of that which he had by piece-work reasoningconvinced himself to be the truth. He first rapidly ran over thesalient features of the Loisson story, explaining to her fully hisinterest In the same, and pointing out to her the certainty of hissuccess as well as the hopelessness of any contest on the part ofherself or Decherd. Thereafter his questions induced the other tospeak definitely.

"You were right about the book," said Alice Ellison. "It was found inthe Congressional Library by that man, by Mr. Decherd. I took it fromthere myself, and I always kept it. The first Louise Loisson marriedher cousin, I think, in about 1841, and she and her husband came toNew Orleans not long after that. Louise Loisson the second was bornin 1848 at New Orleans, and she married, as you say, this Mr.Fanning. She was not known as Louise Loisson. Raoul de Loisson turneda very ardent democrat. He was known in New Orleans, or at leastpublicly known, under the name of Ellison, which form of his name hethought was more American.

"Louise, his daughter, was also known under the name of Ellison. Shewas not married until 1874. Before her marriage she was an orphan,and you might have found, had you been lucky enough, proof of thefact that she was known on the stage of the old French Opera House,even after the close of the Civil War. Her mother died while Louise,the second Louise, was in her youth. Her father, then a major in aLouisiana regiment, was killed during the war, in the fighting nearAtlanta.

"Louise Ellison was thus, like all the other unfortunate girls ofthat family, left alone early in life. The first Louise perhapslearned her strange dancing in a school of her own somewhere in theWest. Louise Ellison the second also had her own methods. She dancedin New Orleans for a time, but went from there to Paris. They alldanced—they could not help it. It was heredity, I suppose. Thesecond one danced, like her mother—and then married."

"I thought you said she was married in New Orleans."

"Not in New Orleans, but in Paris. You know, at one time, the richplanters of Louisiana spent half the year regularly in Paris. It wasso with Robert Fanning. The story is that he met her first in Paris,dancing at one of the theaters, and creating a furore, as her motherhad before her. He learned that she was American and from NewOrleans, and year after year he urged her to marry him. She must havebeen late in her twenties before she finally did so, for that was in1874. They probably lived in Paris for a time, for it was not until1877 that they came back to Fanning's plantation, where her baby wasborn."

The hand of John Eddring, lying upon the table before him, twitchedand trembled. "And that child," said he, "was Miss Lady Ellison? Tellme, tell me at once!"

"Yes," whispered Alice Ellison, her eyes turned aside from his gaze.Eddring drew a long sigh of relief. "Thank God!" said he. "So thatwas our Miss Lady Ellison, and she was not your child. Now, tell me,as soon as you can, how did it all happen? Tell me, where did youmeet Decherd? Who was he? Was he your husband? Tell me now, as fastas you can."

Mrs. Ellison paled before his vehemence, and her voice broke a bittremulously. "Well, then, wait," said she. "I'm going to tell you.You must know all this is hard—awfully hard. If I told you this youcould put me in prison. You could do anything. Promise me that youwill not take any action."

"I promise you," said Eddring, sharply. "Tell me the truth, and helpme to put this girl where she belongs, and I'll see that you are notprosecuted. But now tell me about yourself and this man Decherd. Wereyou married? Where did you meet him?"

"I was born in the North," she went on, hesitating. "I won't tell youmy name. My family was good enough. I may have been wild when I was agirl. I won't say as to that. I was a good deal older than HenryDecherd when I first met him at New York. He attended a law schoolthere. He told me he came of good family, and he seemed able andwell-bred enough. He was infatuated with me. We—well, we left NewYork together."

"Were you married?"

"You need not know. At least we were engaged then to be married, andGod knows our lives were tangled closely enough from that time on. Wewere not very old, either of us. I presume we cared for each other—you know how that is. The trouble with him was he was following offafter all the women in the world. Some think that is strength. Anywoman who knows how to love knows it is weakness, and not strength.At any rate, it was that which made our first trouble. Meantime, hewas not regularly taking up the practice of the law. I found himpractically disowned by his family, who were Shreveport peopleoriginally. In one way or another he found a bit to do. He knewRobert Fanning and his wife through the fact that he had done legalwork of some sort for Fanning. He knew also an old lawyer, or sort ofnotary, who used to do business for Eaoul de Loisson, or RalphEllison, as he called himself, years before. I can't tell you thename of that old lawyer, but Decherd could if he wanted to. He wassomewhere down on Baronne Street in those days.

"At that time Mr. Decherd used to talk to me more freely. He told methat the old lawyer had told him that the Loissons were legal heirsto considerable lands somewhere up the river, not far from St. Louis.He said that Raoul de Loisson always laughed at that when he broughtit up, and declared that any good American ought to be able to makehis own living by himself, without counting upon his wife's fortune.Robert Fanning felt the same way. He thought he could make a livingfor his wife, without looking up the old estate, which at that timewas not known to be of any great value."

"But go on, tell me about Fanning," broke in Eddring, impatiently.

"I am going to, as well as I can. You must remember that Mr. Decherdwas then still a very young man indeed. I myself was older, as Isaid. This old notary, or lawyer, or whatever he was, had never seenme, and I do not know whether he was well acquainted or not with theLouise Ellison who was Fanning's wife. I only know that we went outto Fanning's plantation sometime about the year 1877. Mr. Fanning wasaway in Texas, and there came news of his death somewhere down in theRio Grande country, where he had gone to purchase cattle. I don'tthink his wife ever knew of his fate. Henry Decherd and I were theretogether at the plantation.

"If I told you the truth now you would not believe it. But what I amtelling you is the truth, and I will swear to it. Louise Fanning diedtwo days after her baby was born. I lay there in their house at thattime, and they told me that my baby had died. There was no one thenacting as the head of the house. The servants were all distracted.One day some one came and put this live baby, the daughter of LouiseFanning, in my arms. Oh! you don't know, but I longed so for my baby!My arms fairly ached. So then I took this one and loved it. Sir, Iwas a mother to her, a sort of mother—as good, I suppose, as I couldhave been at all—for a long time."

Eddring sat looking at her, his fingers pressed closely to his lips."What you tell me, Madam, is very, very strange," said he. "It mightperhaps have been true."

"Believe it or not," said Alice Ellison, "it is the truth, as I havetold you. There was no head to that household. There was no place toleave that little child. I took it for my own. I did not at that timeintend any wrong. I don't know whether Decherd did at that time ornot. It was there at the Fannings' that we met the girl Delphine, whohad come in there from somewhere in the Indian Nations. She was thenin her early teens, and was good-looking. I don't want to talk muchabout it, but it was then, I think, that Henry Decherd got—gotinterested in her. What he told her I don't know. He found out insome way that her name was Loise. In some way then and later he gotto looking up the name of Loise in St. Louis, where the girl said herpeople originally lived. He assumed the management of her case, alongwith some other lawyers to whom he carried it."

"But did he think she was the heiress of the Loisson estates?"

"You, as a lawyer, can tell that better than I can. In some ways hehad a good mind. He never told me much after that, except that hesaid if this case was ever decided he could not lose, no matter whichway it went. We waited, years and years, for the case to get throughthe Supreme Court."

"How did you live in the meantime, and where did you go?"

"Don't ask me that. We lived the best way we could. Decherd got moneynow and again, and for reasons of his own he sent some money, once ina while, to keep me and the child, although he practically abandonedme, and, as I think, associated the more with this girl Delphine. Heclaimed to me all the time that it was necessary for him to live inthis part of the country, in order to handle the lawsuit for her. Shemoved up here from New Orleans, I suppose to some town not far fromColonel Blount's plantation. I think he got us in there at Blount'splace because he thought it would be less expense to him. In themeantime, I had educated the girl the best I could. Sir, I loved herin a way, until I thought other men were noticing her; and then Icould not stand it."

"But you have not told me all of your story up to that time," saidEddring. "It is not easy for one absolutely to steal a child, andnever be detected and punished for it. Moreover, you have notexplained to me how you came by the name under which you were knownto all of us. You say you were not Mrs. Decherd. Then who were you?"

The woman's lip half-curled in scorn. "Henry Decherd would haveguessed that long ago," said she. "Who was to detect us? What wasthere to hinder? The Fanning family was wiped out. After the war hehad no relatives remaining. I have just told you his wife was unknownin this country. This was her first visit after her marriage inParis. When Henry Decherd and I took the baby back to New Orleans,what was there to hinder my being Louise Ellison-Fanning, the widowof Robert Fanning? Decherd was my attorney. The old notary helpedthese supposed descendants of his friend. It was he who helped usfind the lead lands in St. Francois County. The old notary was asmuch a lover of the old nobility as Raoul de Loisson was a flouter ofit."

"Ah, I begin to see," said Eddring. "I can see it unwinding now!"

"Yes, it was not difficult, but on the contrary, very simple. Acriminal, if you please, may be bold, and boldness means success.Now, it was this old notary who, through friends of his in theLouisiana Legislature, had the Ellison name changed back legally toLoisson, as the records of that state show to-day, although you havenot discovered those facts. As for me, it made little difference. Thename of Ellison was established in the state of Louisiana. I simplytook it, and wore it because I had no better. I did as many anotherwoman has done; got on as best I could. But I tell you, I loved thegirl for a long time. She was sweet and good. I felt she was my own,until the time when she began to dance; and then I knew perfectlywell that sometime the truth would come out. I could feel it. Bloodand breeding—I tell you, you can't escape that. It's all bound tocome out. I might have known—I did know. I dreaded it, all along. Ialways knew the truth would come out some day."

The two sat looking at each other in silence for a time. "Tell me therest," said Eddring, at length.

"The old lawyer died in 1879 or 1880," she went on, "but by that timeMr. Decherd knew all that he cared to learn. As I said, he was lessconfidential with me after that. That was the time when he wasinfatuated with Delphine. Everything was to his liking. He was fondof intrigue, and the more intricate it was, the better for him. Hewas not afraid—when he had only women to be afraid of. WithDelphine and me he did as he pleased, passing from one to the other.Delphine knew a part of the story, I do not know just how much. Inever dared talk too much with Delphine, for fear I might learn toomuch, or she might learn too much. I was afraid of her, and I wasmore afraid of him. When Miss Lady grew up, then I got jealous ofher—oh! I could not help it. I'm a woman, you know, and a womanlikes to be loved by some one. I got to comparing Decherd withColonel Blount; and then I—well, never mind. I need only say I wasfrightened, and I needed a friend, and I knew the Big House was thebest home we were apt to have, and the safest place. It was aterrible situation down there, and only three of us knew. Of thethree, Decherd was the only one who knew all the facts."

"I'll say for him," said Eddring, "that his boldness was startlingenough. He was a dangerous man."

"Yes, he was dangerous. But when he got started in this he could notturn back."

"Exactly what Colonel Blount said to me one time," said Eddring. "Hewas on a trembling bog, and he had to keep on running."

"Did Colonel Blount say that? Does he know everything?"

"As much as I know, or presently he will do so; I shall tell him allof this in due time."

"Where is the girl? Where is Lady now?"

"At the Big House, and safe."

"And where is Henry Decherd?"

"That I do not know. We'll hear from him some day, no doubt."

The woman looked about her, as though still in fear. "Tell me, Mr.Eddring," said she, "did you—did you ever—I mean, do you love thatgirl yourself?"

"Very much, Madam," said John Eddring, quietly,

"Are you going to marry her?"

"No."

"Then why did she give you her case?"

"I was chosen by her friend, Colonel Blount, as the lawyer bestacquainted with these facts."

"Ah! sir," said Mrs. Ellison, turning again upon him the full glanceof her dark eyes. "Why? Can you not see—do you not know? Why troublewith a half-baked chit like her? Drop it all, sir. You are lawyerenough to know that my case is as good as hers, if handled well. If Iknew one man upon whom I could depend—ah! you do not know, you willnot see!"

One hand, white, thick-palmed, shapely, approached his upon thetable. He could feel its warmth before it touched his own. Thenswiftly he caught the hand in a hard and stern grasp, lookingstraight into the eyes of its owner. "Madam," said he, "none of this!I have asked you to tell me the truth. I have told you the truth. Thetruth leaves us very far apart. You are safe; but you mustunderstand." Her eyes sank, and on her cheek the dull flushreappeared.

"Now I want you to go on and answer a few more questions," said
Eddring, finally. "I suppose that while you were all there at the Big
House you were partners, after a fashion. How much did you know of
Delphine's stirring up the negroes in that neighborhood?"

"I did not know much of it. I only guessed. I put nothing beyond
Decherd."

"Did you know anything about the levee-cutting?"

"Nothing whatever. They didn't tell me anything of that. I presume itdidn't suit Henry Decherd to tell me everything he was doing."

"I can imagine that," said Eddring. "There was a time for Decherd tolighten ship, and, as you say, he had only women to fear."

"I knew myself when the time came for me to leave him," said thewoman, now apathetically. "I went over to St. Louis soon after MissLady first left the Big House, and after Decherd followed her. I knewthat he was smitten with Miss Lady, and that there would be trouble,and that neither Delphine nor myself would be safe. I hid as best Icould, and lived as best I could. Lately I have been frightened. Ithought I would come to see you. I hoped you might help me. I don'tknow what I did think."

"You don't know where Decherd is at present?"

"No, I do not."

"Do you have any hope that he will ever care for you in any way?"

"Yes," said the woman, slowly and dully, "he cares for me. He'll carefor me. He'll find me some day, now that you've taken Miss Lady fromhim."

"And you will go back to him?"

"Never! God forbid. Love him? No!"

"Yet you think he will look you up again. Why? To get help in thislawsuit?"

"You do not know him. He knows that all his hope in this lawsuit wasgone long ago. He's not a fool. But he is going to hunt me up someday. He's going to find me; and then—he's going to kill me. He'skilled Delphine, and he's going to kill me."

The two white hands, trembling now as though with a palsy, fell onthe table in front of her. Her eyes, not seeing Eddring, gazedstaring straight in front of her. The horror of her soul was writtenupon her face. Remorse, repentance, fear for the atonement—these hadtheir way with her who was lately known as Alice Ellison, woman offortune, and now served ill by fortune's hand.

All at once she broke from her half-stupor, her overstrung nervesgiving way. A cry of terror burst from her lips. "You!" she cried,"you will not love me, you will not save me! Oh, Lady, girl—oh, isthere no one, is there no one in all the world?"

John Eddring took her firmly by the shoulders, and after a time half-quieted her.

"Wine," she sobbed; "brandy—give me something."

Eddring threw open the door. "Jack," he cried; "Jack, come here. Runacross the street for me. When you come back order a carriage. Thislady is ill."

She sat for a time, trembling. Eddring, himself agitated, completedhis hurried writing. She signed. He called a notary, and she madeoath with a hand that shook as she uplifted it.

John Eddring, possessed at length of the last thread of his mystery,helped down the stairs the trembling and terror-stricken woman whohad been the final agent of a justice long deferred. "Madam," hesaid, as he assisted her into the carriage, "I thank you for MissLady. If you ever have any need, address me; and meantime, keepcareful watch. Take care of yourself, and be sure this knowledge willnever be used against you. We shall not see you want."

She seemed not to hear him. Her eyes still stared straight in frontof her. "He's coming," she whispered. "It will be the end!"

CHAPTER XX

THE LID OF THE GRAVE

In a little room of a poor hotel situated on a back street of thecity of New Orleans, a man bent over an old trunk which had that daybeen unearthed from a long-time hiding-place. It had for years beenleft unopened. It was like opening a grave now to raise its cover.The man almost shuddered as he bent over and looked in, curious asthough these things had never before met his gaze. There was a dullodor of dead flowers long boxed up. A faint rustling as of intangiblethings became half audible, as though spirits passed out at thiscontact with the outer air.

"Twelve years ago—and this is the sort of luggage I carried then,"he mused. "What taste! What a foolish boy! Dear me. Well—what?" Hisbravado failed him. He started, fearing something. Yet presently hepeered in.

It was like a grave, yet one where some beneficent or some cruelprocess of nature had resisted the way of death and change. "Foolishboy!" he muttered, as he peered in and saw Life as it had been forhim when he had shut down the lid. "God! it's strange. There ought tobe a picture or so near the top." He touched the tray, and the deadflowers and dry papers rustled again until he started back. His face,tired, dissipated, deeply lined, went all the paler, but presently hedelved in again.

"Pictures of myself, eh? the first thing. I was always first thing tomyself. Nice, clean boy, wasn't I? Wouldn't have known it was myself.Might have been a parson, almost. Here's another. Militia uniform,all that. Might have been a major, almost. Uh-hum! High schooldiploma here—very important. Eighteen—great God, was it so long agoas that? University diploma—Latin. Can't read it now. Might havebeen a professor, mightn't I? Diploma of law school; also Latin.Certificate of admission to the bar of—. Might have been alawyer. Might have been a judge, mightn't I? Might have a home now;white, green blinds, brick walk up to the door, paling fence—thatkind of thing. Might have had a home—wife and babies—eh! Baby?Children? What? Well, I couldn't call this much of a home, could I,now?"

He unfolded some old newspapers and periodicals of a departed period,bearing proof of certain of his own handicraft. "Might have been awriter—poet—that sort of thing!" He smiled quizzically. "Not sobad. Not so bad. I couldn't do as well to-day, I'm afraid. Seem tohave lost it—let go somewhere. I never could depend on myself—nevercould depend—ah, what's this? Yes, here are the ladies, God blessthem—la-ladies—God bless 'em!"

The lower tray was filled with pictures of girls or women of alltypes, some of them beautiful, some of them coarse, most of themattractive from a certain point of view. "God! what a lot!" hemurmured. "How did I do it? By asking, I reckon. Six—six—six ofone—six of another. Women and men alike, eh? Well, I don't know. Ask'em, you win. Or, don't ask 'em, you win."

His hand fell upon the frame of a little mirror laid away in the oldtrunk. He picked it up and gazed steadily at what it revealed."Changed," he said, "changed a lot. Must have gone a pace, eh?Lawyer. Judge. Writer-man. Poet. I thought these beat all of that,"—and he looked down again at the smiling faces. He picked them up oneat a time and laid them on the bed beside him. "Alice, Nora, Clara,Kate, Margaret—I'll guess at the names, and guess at some of thefaces now. It's the same, all alike, the hunting of love: thehunting—the hunt—ing—of—love! Great thing. But of course wenever do find it, do we? Ladies, good night." This he said in half-mocking solemnity.

He bowed ironically; yet his face was more uneasy now than whollymocking. He looked once more at the trunk-tray, and found what heapparently half-feared to see. "Madam!" he whispered. "Madam! Alice!"He gazed at a face strong and full, with deep curved lips, and widejaw, and large dark eyes, deeply browed and striking, the face of awoman to beckon to a man, to make him forget, for a time—and thatwas Alice Ellison as he had known her years ago, before—before—Heturned away and would not look at this. He tried to laugh, to mock."Bless you, ladies," he said, "I've often said I would like to seeyou all together in the same room. Eh—but the finding of it—oh, wenever do find it, do we? Not love. I never could depend on myself.

"What! What's this!" he exclaimed, as his hand now touched somethingelse, a hard object in the bottom of the trunk, beneath the tray."Why, here's my old pistol. Twelve years old. I thought I'd lost it.Loaded! My faith, loaded for twelve years. Wonder if it would gooff."

He sat on the edge of the bed, looking into the trunk, the revolverin his hand. Slowly, slowly, as though against his will, his faceturned, and he found himself looking down at the pictured smilingfaces that stared up at him. The last picture seemed to frighten himwith its smile. All the pictures smiled. "Alice!" he whispered.

"My God!" cried Henry Decherd, suddenly. "They're alive! They'recoming to life!"

They stood about him now in the little room, smiling, beckoning;Alice, Nora, Kate, Jane, Margaret, all the rest, as he addressedthem. They smiled and beckoned; but he could not reply, whether tothose honest or not honest, to those deceived or undeceived.

The face of Alice Ellison, strong-jawed, dark-browed, large-eyed,stared at him steadily from behind a certain chair. He could see thather hair was wet. It hung down on her neck, on her shoulders. Itclung to her temples. Her eyes gazed at him stonily now. He saw itall again—the struggle! He heard his own accusations, and hers. Heheard her pleading, her cry for mercy; and then her cry of terror. Hesaw her face, staring up at him from the water. As he gazed, theother faces faded away into the darkness. He stood, staring, HenryDecherd, murderer of the woman whom he once had loved.

The porter of the hotel said on the next day that he rememberedhearing late in the night a sort of crash, which sounded like thedropping of a trunk lid. He did not know what it was. The lid of thegrave had fallen again for Henry Decherd!

[Illustration: "MY GOD! THEY'RE ALIVE. THEY'RE COMING TO LIFE!"]

CHAPTER XXI

THE RED RIOT OF YOUTH

The rim of the ancient forest still made the boundary of the littleworld of Miss Lady. Still she looked out beyond it in query,yearningly, longingly, though now she found herself more content thanever in her life before.

It was the daily habit of Miss Lady to ride for a time the bigchestnut saddler which Colonel Blount had devoted to her special use.Mounted thus on Cherry, she cantered each day over the fields, wherea renewed industry had now set on again. The simple field handslooked upon her as a higher being, and as their special messenger. Ifa baby was sick at a distant cabin, Miss Lady knew of it, and had theproper aid despatched. If the daughter of this or the other laborerneeded shoes and could not wait until Christmas accounting time, itwas Miss Lady who interceded with the master of the Big House.

"I couldn't get along here without you now," said that stern soul toher gruffly. "But I reckon you'd better run away again, for I'mafraid of people that I can't get along without. Besides, you'respoiling all my dogs, a-honeying of 'em up the way you do."

Miss Lady only laughed at that; though each day she looked out at theedge of her world.

Sometimes so wistfully did Miss Lady look out beyond the rim of theforest that she felt interest in the railway trains which carried hernow and then to the cities north or south of her. Sometimes, even,girl-like she would mount Cherry, jump the front fence in violationof Colonel Blount's imperative orders, and scurry down to the stationto have a look at the incoming trains. The conductors of all thesetrains knew her well, and often the brakeman or the conductor wouldhand out to her some package from the city as she rode up close tothe car step, after the train had paused. The picture of Miss Ladyand Cherry was a pleasant one, and more than one passenger peered outof a car window to see the tall girl who rode so well and who seemedso sure that all the world meant well and kindly toward her.

Miss Lady was now fully worthy to be called beautiful. She rarelyrode otherwise than bare-headed, and the high-rolled masses of herhair had grown tawnier and redder for that reason. Her figure gaveperfect lines to the scarlet jacket which so well became her. Hergauntlets fitted well the small, firm hands, and her foot was everwell-shod. Ah, indeed, in those days, when Miss Lady for the timeforgot her past unhappiness, almost at times ceased to wonder whatlay out beyond the forest, almost resigned herself to the merehappiness of a glorious young womanhood—she did indeed seem well-named as Lady, thoroughbred, titled as by right. Her eyes were wideand trustful, her lips high-curved, her cheeks pink with the rush ofthe air when Cherry galloped hard; her head was high, her gazedirect. And if, now and again, when the train had departed, MissLady, having come swiftly, she knew not why, rode back again slowly,she knew not why; if at times her eyes grew pensive as she listenedto the mockers gurgling in the dogwood or on the honeysuckle, herspirits rose again, and her face was sure to brighten when she camenear to the house and hurried Cherry up to the mounting block. Shewas the high-light in all the picture, unconsciously first in thegaze and thought of all. No woman ever was more worshiped; no, norwas ever one more fit for worship. Again, as old Jules once had said,she had become a religion!

One morning Miss Lady, her hair in its usual riot of tawny brown, herface flushed, her lips laughing as she urged Cherry's nose up to thecar side, was met by the conductor at the step, who called out to hergaily, "Company to-day." Miss Lady did not fully understand, and sowaited, looking excellently well turned out in the bright jacket andthe dainty gloves which lay on Cherry's tugging rein, as she sateasily, with the grace of a born horsewoman. And so, before sheunderstood this speech, the train passed on; and as it passed itshowed to these newly arrived passengers upon the platform thispicture of Miss Lady, one not easily to be surpassed in any land, fitlong to linger in any eye.

It was John Eddring who now gazed at this picture, and who felt riseto his lips the swift salutation of his soul, tenderer than ever nowin its instantaneous homage. He had not dreamed that she could growso beautiful. He had not known that love could mean so much—that itcould mean more than everything—that it could outweigh every humaninterest and every human resolve! His heart, long suppressed by aniron determination; his whole nature, gone a-hunger in the long fightfor success, now at once rebelled and broke all shackles in one swiftinstant of its mutiny. He knew now how unjust he had been to himself,for that he had worked and had not lived. The years broke from him,and he was young. For with him youth had not been lost, but setaside, unspent. Now it came to him all at once—the red riot of youthand love. It must have shone in his eyes, must have trembled in histouch, as he hurried over the rails at which Cherry's dainty forefeetnow were pausing, and reached up his arms to her, murmuring he knewnot what.

He helped her dismount, and caught then her gaze directed behind him.John Eddring had forgotten that his mother was with him. She cameforward now, reaching out her hand, then reaching out her arms.

"Child," said the white-haired old lady, "I've heard it all, all yourstrange story. My son has come to tell you that you have succeeded atlast. Your case is won!"

She touched Miss Lady's tumbled tawny hair with her own gentle hand."My girl," said she, "my dear girl; and you never knew your ownmother? You never knew what that was? My dear, it is very sweet tohave a mother."

Miss Lady, knowing no better thing, kissed her impulsively, and theolder lady drew her close, in such communion as only women mayunderstand. Mrs. Eddring again touched lightly the red-brown hair. "Inever had a daughter," said she. "I've only a boy. That's my boythere."

Eddring, who had meantime taken Cherry's bridle rein, was now walkingon in advance toward the lane that led to the house. The girl caughtthe old lady's hands in her own, and then threw her arms about thethin figure in a swift embrace. So, arm in arm, they also turnedtoward the lane; and which was then welcoming the other home neithercould have said.

CHAPTER XXII

AMENDE HONORABLE

"Well, what do you want, boy?" Blount gruffly asked of Eddring onthe morning after his arrival. "Are you on a still hunt for thatCongressional nomination?"

"No, it's of a heap more importance than that," said Eddring.

"Humph! Maybe. Bill, oh, Bill! Here, you go and get the bigglass mug, and a bunch of mint. Come out here, Eddring. Sit down onthe board-pile in the shade—I've been going to build a roof on mydoghouse with these boards as long as I can remember."

They had just seated themselves upon the board-pile, and were waitingfor Bill with the mint when Eddring looked up and smiled. "Who's thatcoming?" he asked, pointing down the lane.

"That? Why, I reckon that's Jim Bowles and his wife, Sar' Ann. Theycome up once in a while to get a little milk, when they ain't toodurn tired. Their cow—why, say, it was a good many years ago yourblamed railroad killed that cow. They never did get another onesince. And that reminds me, Mr. John Eddring—that reminds me—"

He fumbled in the wallet which he drew from his pocket, and producedan old and well-creased bit of paper. "Look here," said he, "you oweme for that filly of mine yet. That old railroad never did settle atall. Here it is. Fifty dollars."

"I thought it was fifteen," said Eddring, with twinkling eyes.

"That's what I said," replied Blount, solemnly, as he tore the paperin bits and dropped them at his feet. "I said fifteen! Anyway I'm inno humor to be a-quarreling about a little thing like that. Why, man,I'm just beginning to enjoy life. We're going to make a big crop ofcotton this year, I've got the best pack of b'ah-dogs I ever did haveyet, and there's more b'ah out in the woods than you ever did see."

"I suppose your ladies leave you once in a while, to go down to New
Orleans?" inquired Eddring.

"No, sir! New Orleans no more," said Blount. "Why, you know,just as a business precaution, I bought that house down there thatMadame Delchasse used to own. It's sort of in the family now. Shutoff that running down to New Orleans."

"Well, how does Madame Delchasse like that?" asked Eddring.

[Illustration: "MAY I DEPEND? TELL ME, GIRL. I CANNOT WAIT."]

"Man," said Blount, earnestly, "there's some things that seem to besort of settled by fate—couldn't come out no other way. Do yousuppose for one minute that I'm going to allow to get away from methe only woman I ever did see that could cook b'ah meat fit to eat?Well, I reckon not! Besides, what she can do to most anything issimply enough to scare you. She can take common crawfish, like thenigg*rs catch all around here—and a shell off of a mussel, and outof them two things she makes what she calls a 'kokeeyon of*ckriveese,' and—say, man! You bet your bottom dollar MadameDelchasse ain't going to get away from here. Don't matter a damn ifshe ain't got over putting hair-oil in her co*cktails, like they doat New Orleans—we won't fall out about that, either. I don't have todrink 'em. Only thing, she calls a cussed old catfish a 'poisson.'That's when we begin to tangle some. But taking it all in all—up oneside and down the other—I never did know before what good cookingmeant. Why she's got to cook—she'd die if she didn't cook. Her goback to New Orleans?—well, I reckon not!

"Why, say," continued Blount, "don't it sometimes seem that lucksort of runs in streaks in this world? All cloudy, then out comes thesun—lovely world! Now, for one while it looked like things were prettycloudy down here. But the sun's done come out again. Everything's allright, here at the Big House, now, sure's you're born. We'll go out andget a b'ah to-morrow. Come on, let's go see the dogs."

"Well, you know, I must be getting back to business before long,"began Eddring.

"Business, what business?" protested Colonel Blount. "Say, have youasked that girl yet?" He was fumbling at the gate latch as he spoke,or he might have seen Eddring's face suddenly flush red.

"Whom do you mean?" he managed to stammer.

Blount whirled and looked him full in the eye. "You know mighty wellwho I mean."

Eddring turned away. "I told you, Cal,"—he began.

"Oh, you told me! Well I could have told you a long time ago thatMiss Lady had this whole thing straightened out in her head. Do youreckon she's a fool? I don't reckon she thinks you're a thief anymore. I reckon like enough she thinks you're just a supreme damnedfool. I know I do."

"Turn 'em loose, Cal!" cried Eddring, suddenly. "Open the gates! Let'em out! I want to hear 'em holler!" The pack poured out, motley,vociferous, eager for the chase, filling the air with their wildmusic, with a riot of primeval, savage life. "Get me a horse saddled,Cal, quick," cried Eddring. "I want to feel leather under me again. Iwant to feel the air in my ears. I've got to ride, to move! Man, I'mgoing to live!"

"Now," said Blount, rubbing his chin, "you're beginning to talk. Theman that don't like a good b'ah chase once in a while is no earthlyuse to me."

But Eddring did not ride to the far forest that day. A good horseman,and now well mounted, he made a handsome figure as he galloped offacross the field. As he rode, his eye searched here and there, tillit caught sight of the flash of a scarlet jacket beyond a distantscreen of high green brier. He put his horse over the rail fence andpulled up at her side.

"You ride well," said Miss Lady, critically. "I didn't know that. Whydidn't you tell me?"

"There have been a good many things about me that you didn't know,"said Eddring, "and there's a heap of things I haven't told you."

Knowing in the instant now that a time of accounting had come, shelooked at him miserably, her eyes downcast, her hands fiddling withthe reins.

"But then, Miss Lady, you didn't know; it wasn't your fault," headded quickly.

"Oh," said the girl, impulsively taming toward him, her face veryred, "I am so sorry, I am so sorry! To think of all you have donefor us, for me. Why, every bit of safety and happiness in my life hascome through you. I have felt that, and wanted so long to tell youand to thank you. You—you didn't come!"

"Never mind, never mind," said Eddring, wishing now nothing in theworld so much as that he might have spared her this confession. "I'vecome now—oh, my girl, I've come now."

"All this time," said she, evading as long as she might, "you weretrying, you were working, all alone. Mr. Eddring, it was not merelykind of you, it was noble!" And now poor Miss Lady flushed even morehotly than ever, though her heart was lighter for the truth thustold.

Eddring looked straight on down the road ahead of them, the roadwhich broke the rim of the forest toward which they had nowunconsciously faced. At length he turned toward her.

"Miss Lady," said he, simply, "I have loved you so much, so verymuch. I've always loved you. I didn't dare admit it to myself for along time; but it's run away with me now, absolutely and for ever. Ican't look at life—I can't turn any way—I can't think of anythingin which I don't see you. It's been this way a long time, but now I'mgone. I can't pull up. Miss Lady, I couldn't go back now and beginlife over again alone. I couldn't do that now. I wouldn't want to makeyou unhappy, ever. Do you think, oh, don't you think that you coulddepend on me? Don't you think you could love me?"

Miss Lady's eyes were cast down, and her hands were busy at the reinswhich she shifted between her fingers. Cherry walked slowly and stillmore slowly, until at length Eddring laid his hand upon the bridle,and Cherry turned about an inquiring eye. He reached out his hand andtook in it the small, gray-gloved one which had half-loosed its graspupon the rein.

"Miss Lady," he whispered. And then slowly the girl lifted her eyesand looked full at him—her eyes now grown soft and gentle.

"Yes," said she, "I can depend," Her voice was very low. Yet thewoman-whisper reached to the edge of all the universe—a universerobbed of its last secret by the woman-soul. "I can see you clearly,"said Miss Lady, softly. "I see your heart. Yes. I am sure. Iunderstand—I know now who I am. And I know—I know it all. All!"

"But do you love me!" he demanded; and now Cherry's nose was drawnquite over the neck of Jerry. Miss Lady would not answer that, butturned away her face, which was now very pink. "Tell me," hedemanded, frowning in his own earnestness, and catching the bridlehand in a stern clasp, "may I depend? Tell me, girl. I can not wait."

There was a gentle breeze among the tree-tops. A mocker near bytrilled and gurgled. Eddring leaned forward. It seemed to him heheard a whisper which told him that he might be sure.

THE END