THE MAN FROM JERICHO

BY EDWIN CARLILE LITSEY

NEW YORK
THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY
1911

Copyright, 1911, by
The Neale Publishing Company

TO
PADRE FRANÇOIS
Humanitarian and Friend
from his Loving Son

CONTENTS

[CHAPTER I]
[CHAPTER II]
[CHAPTER III]
[CHAPTER IV]
[CHAPTER V]
[CHAPTER VI]
[CHAPTER VII]
[CHAPTER VIII]
[CHAPTER IX]
[CHAPTER X]
[CHAPTER XI]
[CHAPTER XII]
[CHAPTER XIII]
[CHAPTER XIV]
[CHAPTER XV]
[CHAPTER XVI]
[CHAPTER XVII]
[CHAPTER XVIII]

THE MAN FROM JERICHO

CHAPTER I

There had been a thunder-shower in the middle of the afternoon, but it had passed away about five o'clock, accompanied by sullen rumbles and intermittent flashes of uncertain lightning. Then the sun burst forth and poured its light over the drenched Kentucky landscape. It showed millions of diamonds and pearls strung upon the bending blades of bluegrass; broad expanses of molten silver where the ponds lay, and smaller mirrors of the same metal where puddles had formed from the recent downpour. It showed boundless hoards of gold where the nasturtiums were banked in a crimson mass, and the mottled bells of the rank trumpet-vines sent forth a silent summons to the answering sunshine. In the vivid green of a large oak tree a pair of orioles wove a wonderful pattern of living flame as they darted about among the boughs. Two honey-bees crawled out upon the tiny porch of their little home, and, being assured by the instinct which God gave them that the storm was over, arose on buzzing wings to seek some distant store of sweets.

His attention being drawn by the sunlight bursting suddenly through the window of the library where he sat reading—to be exact, it fell upon the open page before his eyes—Major Thomas Dudley closed the book, leaving one long forefinger between the leaves to mark the spot where he had been interrupted, and turned to look outdoors. The scene which was spread before him brought a peaceful but sad smile to his face. For two hundred feet or more the broad yard sloped very gently down to the highway, from which it was separated by an iron fence of ornamental design, but now much worn, and sadly bent and twisted in places. This yard was carpeted with a luxuriant expanse of bluegrass in which no alien growth was allowed to find root. There were a number of majestic trees, of the oak and maple variety, and a few shrubs, nicely trimmed. A gravel driveway came up one side from the road, led by the old portico in front, and from thence disappeared towards the rear in the direction of the stable. Through the open window came the odour of honeysuckle, heavy and sweet; the vine grew near the corner of the house. It was not a very sightly shrub, and it marred the wonderful correctness of the lawn no little, but the Major had his reasons for letting it alone. As a matter of fact, the Major's wife had planted it many years before, when their love-dream was at its height. Now she was gone, but it remained, and it helped to keep fresh and vigorous the memories which made Thomas Dudley's daily life a benediction to all who came within its radius.

As the perfume from the tiny white and yellow flowers crept subtly to his nostrils—fine, delicate nostrils they were, like those of a well-bred horse—a hungry, beseeching look stole over the old gentleman's face. He leaned forward and placed one hand upon the window-sill, while his eyes half closed, and his countenance became transfigured. Then, had any been watching, they would have seen his lips move, as though they were shaping words.

At this point the sound of shuffling feet was heard coming from the hall running through the center of the house. Another moment a throat was cleared in the doorway, and an apologetic voice spoke.

"Beg pahd'n, suh; but de Prince am 'peah to be bettah, suh. I went to de stable ez soon ez de rain quit to tek a look at 'im, 'n' he hab come to be feed, suh, sho'!"

"Peter! Peter! What's this you're telling me? The Prince eating again!"

With remarkable activity the Major arose to his feet and faced about, eyeing with undisguised elation the figure in the doorway. It was that of a very old negro, bowlegged and bent. His face was brown, wrinkled and kindly in expression, with tiny corkscrews of gray hair, each totally isolated, dispersed over it. His head was flat and bald, but for a fringe of white wool shaped like the tonsure of a monk. He wore a rusty pair of trousers, so patched that it was impossible to tell what their original material had been; a brown hickory shirt tolerably new, and suspenders made of strips of bed-ticking. His huge feet were encased in a pair of old shoes, slit almost into shreds at the toes for the benefit of the "mis'ry" which he frequently had there. Such was Peter, faithful servant to the Dudleys before, during, and since the Civil War.

"Eatin', suh; eatin'!" he answered, with vehemence, replying to his master's question and accompanying the first and last words with a forward jerk of his head, by way of emphasis.

"This is good news you bring me, boy; we must have a look at him. He's the best bred horse in the Commonwealth," he added, to himself, as he turned aside to place his book upon a table, carefully noting the page as he did so. "It would be a pity in more ways than one for him to die by accident or foul play." Then aloud—"Have you seen your mistress recently?"

"Not since dinner, suh. I'ze heerd her say afo'time, do, dat she laks a nap in de rainy ebenin'."

From somewhere above a voice broke out singing as Peter spoke. The tune was a popular air of the day, lilting and free. The tones were those of a young woman, for they rang with irrepressible vitality, and there was hope and laughter and faith and happiness in them. The Major had started forward, but now he stopped and his head sank as under a benediction. Likewise did Peter's, for he always reflected his master. Thus they stood, types of the bond and the free, while that tender voice rang on above them as its owner moved about the room, for they could plainly hear her light footsteps going to and fro.

In his younger years the Major must have been a man to command any one's notice. Now, as he stood with his chin sunk in his stock under the spell of present enchantment and precious recollections of the past, one could behold the remnants of a magnificent physical being. He was exceedingly tall, long of limb and square-shouldered. His hands were slender and white; his face naturally grave and thoughtful. He was clean shaven except for close cropped mustache and carefully cut imperial, both white. His complexion was ruddy, but whether this was natural or acquired it is not for us to say. Certain it is, however, that Peter mixed his mint juleps three times a day a few minutes before each meal. Certain it is, also, that never in his long life had Major Dudley taken more whiskey at one time than was good for him. He held that it was a Kentucky gentleman's prerogative to drink, in moderation, and he had the profoundest contempt for the weakling who would bestialize himself by getting drunk. "Whiskey, suh," he would say, "is like every other luxury; to be used, not abused."

The singing ceased, and there was the patter of feet on the stair.

"She's awake, Peter," said the Major; "get my hat." Then as he stepped into the hall—"News, daughter!" he cried, to the vision in pink and white muslin descending the curved stairway. "Peter reports that the Prince is eating. Will you go with me to see him?"

A little croon of delight escaped the vision, and the next instant she had settled like a butterfly upon the Major's broad breast. "I knew he would get well!" she exclaimed, rising on tiptoe and pulling with both her hands on the shoulders of her father in a vain attempt to reach his lips with hers. He, seeing her purpose, caught her around the waist and lifted her bodily, though there was a matter of a hundred and twenty pounds to reckon with, and gave her the caress with a hearty smack.

"You'll have to learn to bring a stool along with you!" he panted; "I'm getting too old to lift such a buxom lass." But he smiled denial of his speech and patted her cheek fondly.

Peter presenting his stove-pipe hat with a low bow, the Major took it, placed it upon his sparse gray locks, and drawing his daughter's hand through his arm they passed out upon the long back porch, which had an eastern exposure, but was shaded all along its length by a species of vine which grew luxuriantly every summer. Peter preceded them, and Peter in motion was a sight to behold. It is useless to attempt to describe his method of locomotion. To one unfamiliar with the peculiar gait of a "befo' de wah" negro I can give no adequate picture of the old darkey as he shambled along over the large flat stones laid in a row which formed a walk to the gate of the lot wherein stood the stable. Behind him came the stately form of Major Dudley, and by his side Miss Julia, his only child, whose feet had just passed those elusive portals which give into the magical realms of young womanhood.

"What has been the matter with The Prince, daddy?" queried the young lady, lifting an annoyed and earnest countenance which Nature had blessed, or banned, however one may regard unusual beauty.

A deep furrow was immediately visible on Major Dudley's forehead, indenting his brow just above his nose. It only came when he was angry, or intensely worried. His gray eyes gleamed with subdued resentment, and for the space of a few steps he did not answer.

"We do not know," he said, then, but he kept his eyes set straight ahead, instead of looking at his questioner.

"But you have suspicions, daddy, dear," she pleaded, coming closer to him, and pressing his arm gently. "Have you a right—have you the wish to keep these from me? Am I not Major Dudley's daughter, and is not your blood my blood? The Prince has been very sick. Corn and hay don't make a horse ill. What do you fear, daddy?"

The old man stopped and faced his daughter. She was quite serious now. Her firm chin, her positive but pliant mouth, her deep brown eyes which showed courage, and the waving wealth of her chestnut hair, all made a quick pride rush to the Major's heart, and brought a satisfied smile to his mouth. His stern eyes melted into tenderness and love.

"My child, you shall know all I know; all I suspect, rather, for nothing is positive. We—Peter and I—fear an attempt has been made to poison The Prince."

"Daddy!"

The word struggled through an indrawn breath of horror.

"The horse's symptoms indicated this. Peter found him in time for an antidote which he administered to be beneficial, else I fear we would have lost him. We examined the feed which had been given him last night, and found some of it mixed with a whitish powder. In view of this we could come to only one conclusion."

"Who—"

The sentence which the girl's lips started to frame died with the first word. Her lips met firmly, and a slow dread gathered in her eyes.

From the highway not far off came the sound of a horse's hoofs, running at full speed. The Major was facing the road, and the girl turned to see a horseman dash furiously along the pike and disappear behind a fringe of trees which bordered the road farther on. Julia turned to her father, and saw written plainly upon his face a confirmation of her fears.

"He?" she breathed, awesomely.

"Or an emissary. He is our only enemy, and in all his stable of thoroughbreds he has not one that can approach The Prince!"

"Would he dare?"

"Anything, little girl.—Come."

At the door of The Prince's stall they stopped, and looked in eagerly. The horse recognized them, and whinnied feebly. Peter, with curry-comb and brush, was going over the splendid animal vigorously, though not a speck showed on his shining coat.

"Better, suh! Better, young missus!"

The old negro spoke encouragingly between the grunts caused by his exertion.

"He am beginnin' to tek notice. He et mos' he feed, 'n' he 'peared right glad to see me. I wush I c'd lay dese brack han's on de low-down skunk whut tech 'im! I'd break his naik!"

The Prince was standing a little stiffly, and his slender, patrician head hung lower than it should, but his breathing was not labored, and his eyes were bright and beaming with intelligence.

"He'll come, Peter; he'll come!" said the Major, warmly. "He had a close call, but your prompt action saved him. You're a good boy, Peter, and I commend you!"

Peter grinned his appreciation, and rubbed the satin limbs with renewed vigour.

"Yassuh, he'll come all right, 'n' w'en de race hit come, he'll beat eb'ry one ob 'em! De hoss ain't folded whut kin tech 'im!"

"I believe you, boy. Only once in a lifetime is a hoss born like The Prince."

Julia slipped into the stall as her father was speaking and going up to the noble brute, put both arms around his neck and cuddled her check upon his shoulder.

"Poor old fellow!" she murmured. "Have they used you badly because you belonged to us? Never mind. They shan't do it again. Miss Julia loves you, and all of us love you, and we are going to take care of you."

The horse turned and muzzled the sleeve of her dress understandingly.

The girl withdrew her arms and stroked his nose gently. As she rejoined her father there were tears in her eyes.

"Put a new padlock on his door tonight, Peter," cautioned the Major, as he turned to go, "and see that there are no loose planks which a sneakin' assassin might prize off."

"I'll fix 'im so tight dat a gnat can't git in!" was the emphatic reply. "Dey shan't git nigh 'im ag'in!"

Julia was quiet as she and her father returned to the big house. Though her tongue was idle, her mind was busy. She was trying to elucidate this mystery of the attack on The Prince. Her father had said in as many words that he believed Devil Marston was at the bottom of it, but why should Devil Marston be so bitter against them? Half forgotten incidents came back to her—things which had been glozed over or dismissed with a laugh. Marston had been at their home several times, but all at once he stopped coming. She remembered it now. The last time he came was at night, and she had seen him only long enough to speak to him in the hall as she was starting upstairs. She recalled now some loud words being spoken by him; the regulated tones of her father in reply, and that night the Major had paced his room till nearly morning. When she asked for an explanation the following day, her father had put her off by saying it was purely a business matter which it was best she should not know about. She had let it go at that at the time, although she wondered that a business call should have been so stormy. Now she realized that something was being kept from her; that her father was shielding her through love and mercy from something she had a right to know. That had been in her girlhood, though only two years ago. But since then her mother had died, and during the following two years, which had brought her to twenty, she felt that she had grown to be a woman. She had met successfully the responsibility of caring for the house, and she felt that she could equally meet any other responsibility touching her family.

As they passed into the long hall again, the Major laid aside his hat and turned to the open library door to resume his reading. Julia gently detained him.

"Daddy, what's the trouble between Mr. Marston and us?"

The old man's face grew very grave.

"Who spoke of trouble, lassie?"

"Would a friend attempt so vile a thing as was attempted last night? He has grounds for his conduct, or thinks he has. I want to know it all. I'm sure you never harmed any of his, or him. Then why does the man hate us? He must be very wicked, for no honorable enemy would employ such underhand methods of attack. Now tell me all about it, won't you?"

Major Dudley tilted her chin with his bent forefinger, and gazed long and earnestly into the fearless eyes upheld to meet his own.

"There are some things little girls shouldn't know," he said, finally.

"Little girls, indeed!" she exclaimed, almost petulantly. "Won't you ever realize that I'm a woman, though a young one, and can't you trust your only daughter with a family secret, daddy dear?"

It was quite evident that her feelings were on the verge of being wounded, for her lips were a little unsteady, and her eyes were reproachful.

The reply came in a soft, reminiscent voice.

"'Twas yesterday you were in pinafores, chasing butterflies by day and fire-flies by night, out yonder on the lawn. Are you really twenty?"

"Yes, sir; and I demand it as my right to share your burdens. They will be lighter so, for us both."

The Major sighed, and lifted his hand to his forehead.

"You are right, and I promise that you shall know. But not now—not now."

"In a day or two, then?"

"Yes, in a day or two. Run along now and gather some flowers."

He bent to receive her kiss, and stood watching her as she moved with a free, swift step out onto the portico, into the yard, and over to a side fence where a mass of nasturtiums were rioting in a wealth of variegated colors.

"That is where her life should be," he murmured to himself; "spent among blooming flowers, listening to the birds, caressed by sun and wind. Now she demands of me the story of Devil Marston's hate, and I have to tell her. Why do innocent children have to grow up and taste of bitterness? Why must she know of man's inhumanity, injustice and greed? O my little Julia, I would keep you from every thorn if I could! This old breast would gladly take all that were meant for you, and not mind the sting! But that is not God's way, and His way is best. Poor child! I wish it could be otherwise."

He passed slowly into the library, and sat down with his book.

After the frugal evening meal, which Aunt Frances, Peter's spouse, served with due punctiliousness, the Major sought his room, pleading fatigue. Really he sat alone, thinking, for a long time before going to bed. It was past ten o'clock when he finally arose, and going to a south window, looked out in the direction of the stable. The night was star-lit only, so he did not see a stealthy figure climb the rail fence enclosing the barn lot, and move swiftly across the intervening space to The Prince's door.

CHAPTER II

As a town, Macon did not differ materially from its sister towns of like size throughout the State. It is true it was located on the border of the bluegrass, and this alone gave it a distinction which the penny-royal and mountain districts did not possess. The corporate limits of the place held about three thousand souls—black and white—and nobody ever got in a hurry. A quiet air of indolent aristocracy pervaded the town. Shops were opened late, and if any one wished to buy, they were served courteously and languidly, but there was no "drumming for trade." For all of its lazy atmosphere, it might have been located farther south. But its people were good people, on the whole, although they permitted saloons, and went wild over horse racing. And, best of all, they reverenced their women. A lady on the streets of Macon had respectful right of way. It may have been that they were duly proud of these three things, for they knew full well that nowhere in the world were nobler or more beautiful women, faster horses, or better whiskey.

The nabobs of central Kentucky were a distinct and exclusive class in the years preceding the great Civil strife which freed the colored race. They had friends about them constantly, near and from a distance. They gave large banquets and more often drank immoderately; they dressed in expensive and fashionable clothes, and had body servants galore. Each gentleman had a personal valet, to shave him every morning, attend to his wardrobe and be always within call. Another servant groomed his favorite horse, brought it around and held the stirrup while his master mounted, and was always on the spot when his master returned to have the bridle reins thrown to his waiting hands.

Then came the war scourge, and the old order passed. Homes were broken up; houses were pillaged and burned, bought and sold. Of the several stately homes surrounding Macon, but one or two remained in the family after the war.

The Dudleys were an old family, proud as could be, and holding manual labor a disgrace. This faulty doctrine was due to heredity and training, and detracted in no way from the sterling manhood and womanhood which ran with the name. They had been wealthy people generations gone, living freely and without stint. Then came the days when one of them became a black sheep and killed a man while in liquor. It took most of the vast estate to save him from the gallows. When the war ended Major Thomas Dudley found that he had little left save a wife and child, the homestead, a half dozen horses of purest racing strain, and an eighty acre farm which would grow with equal abundance hemp, tobacco, corn or wheat. He would not work; he could not work. Had a Dudley's hand ever touched the handle of a plow? Never! Welcome genteel starvation rather than ignoble toil! In the meantime the family had to live in befitting manner. One by one the servants, enticed by their new-found freedom, drifted away. At length only Peter and Aunt Frances were left, and the Major knew that his body servant would never go, for between these two was that subtle, adamantine bond which rarely existed, but which, once formed, was indissoluble.

Julia grew to girlhood, and the question of her education came up. There had never been a Dudley, male or female, who had not received a complete college course. The Major avowed that Julia should go to boarding school, and he signed away the remaining eighty acres with a hand which did not tremble in order that the traditions of his family should remain inviolate. Julia, ignorant of the sacrifice which had been made for her, went away three successive years, coming back the last time to find her mother dying. After Mrs. Dudley had been laid to rest in the little cemetery east of town, the daughter stepped into her place in the management of the household. Up to this time she had supposed her father had plenty, but the fact that they were almost poverty stricken became quickly revealed to her now. She met the situation with a brave and smiling face, and employed every art she knew to cut down expenses. About this time a number of shares of stock in the thriving Bank of Macon were placed on the market. Then Major Dudley severed the last tie which bound him to the old life. He was getting too old to give his horses proper attention. He sold them, every one, retaining only a colt not quite a year old, and bought the bank stock. He had figured out that the dividends which this would bring would barely keep them in food and clothing, and pay the taxes on the home. The colt which he had held back from the sale he had given to Julia at its birth, and this was The Prince, the last member of the stables which in years gone by had been the wonder of all Kentucky.

Peter, born to the care of fine horses, shadowed The Prince day and night. Though well up in the seventies, he had broken the young horse to the saddle, and that without a fall. Then, shrewd old rascal that he was, one balmy night he had ridden the colt out to the race track, one mile from the town limits, and tested his speed. He had no watch wherewith to time the exploit, but he needed none, for had he not seen races ever since he was two feet tall! The result had been marvelous. The Prince almost ran from under him, and he must needs cling on with heels and hands when the horse was in motion. When he slipped from his back in an ecstasy of joy, Peter knew that he stood beside the greatest race-horse that had ever touched Kentucky soil! The old darkey was wild with delight, and could hardly wait till morning to tell the Major of his discovery. Major Dudley's face beamed when the news was given him.

"Keep it still, Peter," he counselled, "and watch him. There'll be racing here in July next year."

Winter passed and the Spring came again, and Peter hied himself and The Prince to the race track as soon as the earth became solid. He went always at night, and always alone, but a rumour began to spread through Macon and the county in general that Major Dudley's colt was a marvel, and could make a mile in two minutes flat. Certainly the story lost nothing by its constant re-telling, and while few believed it true, yet everyone confided it to his neighbor as a matter of gossip.

Then came the night of the cowardly attempt upon The Prince's life.

The evening express from the north was due at Macon a quarter till eleven. The night of the day upon which Major Dudley had promised to his daughter a revelation of certain things which had been kept hidden from her, this train was running fifteen minutes late. The engineer was trying to make the time up, and in consequence the coaches were swaying and jerking over the rather imperfect roadbed. Crouched in the corner of a seat next the window sat a young man. It would have been impossible to form any idea of his physical appearance from the uncouth position which he had assumed. It was quite evident from this that he was traveling entirely alone. He had slipped down in his seat until his head was below the top of its back. His long legs were flexed so that his knees rested against the back of the seat in front of him. His shoulders, unusually broad and square, drooped somewhat, as from weariness; his chin was sunk upon his shirt front, and his cap was pulled well down over his eyes, so that only a portion of his face could be seen. The line of shadow slanted across his face sharply just at the cheek bone, revealing below it a smoothly shaven surface, and a chin as square and resolute as the shoulders. In common with the majority of his fellow-passengers, he was dozing. The conductor came unsteadily up the aisle, fumbled at his cap band for the piece of paper sticking in it, then, observing that the man was asleep, he shook him gently by the shoulder. The sleeper aroused readily, and in response to "Your's next station," nodded his head, and turned, as one will do the blackest night, to look out the window. This not with the purpose of seeing anything, but from some inexplicable force within.

But the young man did see something—a dull glow was discernible in the sky, apparently a great distance away. To a sleep-befuddled brain it looked very much like the rose tints of morning, and John Glenning mechanically pulled out his watch, to smile at his stupidity the next moment, for it was not yet eleven. He glanced about the car and brought himself to an erect sitting posture with a quick exercise of the great fund of reserve strength which he undoubtedly possessed. His shoulders went back squarely against the seat, and his feet sought the floor. Then, as he pushed the cap off his eyes, his face became visible. It was a strong face, with jaw- and cheek-bones showing prominently. The forehead was good, almost square, and over one eye was a crescent-shaped scar, not livid, but standing out plainly against the white skin. His hair was black and straight, and his face wore a half melancholy expression, which seemed habitual.

After a casual and disinterested survey of the compartment, he turned to the window again, placed his elbow upon the sill, and looked out into the night. The glow in the distance was still there. He judged it to be a fire, although no flames were yet visible. Just a dull red vapor seemed suspended, like an immense ruby, against the black draped breast of the sky, and on all sides of it the stars shone like rare gems. As this poetic thought struck Glenning, he smiled, as though pleased at the conception, and just then a long blast of the whistle told him that they were approaching his station. A moment later the door was flung open, admitting a rush of pure, sweet night air into the stuffy coach, and the flagman passed through, touching alternate seats with either hand to steady himself, and shouting "Macon! Macon!"

Women began to rouse soundly sleeping children, men to stretch their arms and remark to their neighbors, and John also began to get himself together. He was near the door, and as the train came to a halt with jangling bell and escaping steam, he grasped his suit case and safely made his exit before the aisle became crowded.

The place was entirely new to him, for his home had been in the north end of the State. The engine had stopped at the edge of a bisecting street, and just in front of it an arc light was suspended, which threw his surroundings into view uncertainly. Back of him was the bulk of a water tank; to the front, and at one side, the station. People were hurrying to board the train, and packages and trunks were being hastily dumped from the open door of the express car onto a truck drawn alongside. A number of forms moved vaguely about—that pitiful, shiftless class which no small town can eliminate, who had merely come to "see the train come in." All this Glenning saw in the twinkling of an eye, and then he started briskly up the crushed rock space which served for a platform. Opposite the tender of the engine were two or three men, one of them a negro, standing abreast, toeing an invisible line and bawling lustily the names of different hotels. Glenning stopped for a moment in front of a row of hands eagerly outstretched, and just then the words "Union House!" came to his ears through the din of jumbled voices. He remembered suddenly that a friend had told him this was the best hotel in the place, so he resigned his suit case to the care of the one who had yelled "Union House!" and fell in with the straggling line of people streaming up town.

Above the babel of the hotel criers, and the slow, muffled puffs of the inert engine, a new sound now throbbed through the air—the clanging, tumultuous notes of a sharp-toned bell, rung with fury. The people nearest John pricked up their ears, and he heard the sinister query, "Where's the fire?" "Where's the fire?" repeated on all sides. No one knew, and those who had been from home, and had returned on the train, hastened their steps, some breaking into a run, for none knew whose household goods were in danger. The panic spirit seized Glenning, too, for henceforth his life was to be in this place, and with these people, and he found himself running with the others. Covering a short square, they turned into the main street of Macon, where confusion reigned. Men were dashing about in the middle of the street, shouting to each other, and an ancient fire engine had just been dragged into view, with the hook-and-ladder wagon trailing in its wake. Glenning ran towards the engine, which had halted in the center of the highway, and at which some striplings were tugging in a vain effort to move it.

"Where's the horses? Where's the fire company?" demanded the new-comer, hurriedly, stopping in perplexity.

"Men is the hosses that pull this old water-bug!" volunteered one of the youths, ceasing his efforts to move the antiquated vehicle; "'n' the fire comp'ny's anybody that's got spunk 'nough to fight fire!"

As these words were spoken a number of men reached the scene, some of them bareheaded and wearing only shoes, trousers and shirts, and pounced upon the engine like wolves upon a carcass.

"Come on!" "Lend a hand!" "Git holt!" "Push!" "Pull!"

These and divers other excited exclamations rang out, and in the cupola directly overhead the brazen tongued bell sent out its warning, appeal and encouragement in vibrant and deafening tones.

Glenning needed no spurring on. His hands were the first to fall into place, and with rumble and rush the Macon Fire Company started on its errand of succour. The hook-and-ladder wagon, being lighter, was dragged along by half grown boys, who took a keen delight in emulating, both in speed and endurance, their elders in the lead. To the accompaniment of yelping dogs, men in vehicles and men on horseback, the procession rushed madly up Main street, rudely disturbing the calm serenity of the summer night. As he ran, doing his full stint of work, and more, the athletic stranger cast his eyes about in a vain effort to locate the conflagration. He turned to the man running nearest him.

"Do you suppose it's out? I can see no sign of it now."

"No; it ain't out! Cemetery hill's in the way. There's been nothin' to put it out. An old white man, a girl and two old niggers couldn't do much with a house on fire!"

Glenning noticed from the straggling houses and vacant lots that they were nearing the edge of town.

"Where is it, anyway?" he asked. "In the country?"

The man puffed and blew before making reply.

"Mile from the court house, ever'body says. I b'lieve it's a mile and a quarter. Seems like three or four tonight!"

He dashed the perspiration from his eyes, and settled to his work afresh. John looked at him again, and in the dim starlight, to which his eyes had become accustomed, he saw that the man was young and soft. His hands showed white, his face was purple from exertion, and his breathing was stertorous.

"Pretty tough on a fellow who stays indoors, isn't it?" queried Glenning, pleasantly.

"You—bet! Stranger, ain't you?"

"Just came on the train tonight."

"You must be—mightily interested—in these people!"

"I'm going to make this place my home."

"Uh-huh. I know you—now. You're the—new doctor!"

"Yes. My name's John Glenning."

"Pleased to—meet you—doctor! I'm Tom Dillard. Work—in bank!"

"I'm glad to know you. You're my first acquaintance here. It's harder work pushing a fire engine than it is pushing a pen, isn't it?"

Mr. Dillard grinned acquiescence.

"Con—siderable!" he gasped.

"Whose house is it that's burning?" continued Glenning.

"Must be—Major Dudley's; no other house out—here close."

At this juncture they rounded a sharp curve in the road, and came in full view of the fire, now close at hand.

"Stable!" exploded Mr. Dillard, and everybody redoubled their exertions at the same moment, rendering further conversation out of the question.

The surrounding landscape was brilliantly lighted by the leaping flames, and Glenning saw that they were sweeping by a large, well kept lawn, back of which rose a most pretentious old home. On they dashed to a gate, which some thoughtful person had previously opened, and which let into a meadow adjoining the stable lot. The people who had started in buggies and on horseback had all arrived, and a number of them now came forward to relieve the men who had brought the engine out. Most of these willingly resigned their places, but Glenning stuck to his, and Dillard, who was preparing to step aside, gathered fresh courage, and remained also. The old engine was rushed furiously across the meadow and into the lot, in the midst of a shrill bedlam of excited cries, most of them conveying directions and suggestions entirely futile. In one corner of the lot, near the doomed stable, an old negro was waving his arms frantically and jumping up and down, yelling at every jump in a high falsetto.

"Hyar's de well! Hyar's de well! Hyar's de well! Bring de ingine hyar; Hyar's de water! Hyar's de well!"

Whether his penetrating tones reached the relief party, or whether some person nearer to hand gave the information, does not matter. But the engine was quickly rolled in position and the hose unwound. Peter seized the end of the hose which was being borne towards him, and plunged it into the well's black mouth.

"More! More!" he screamed, tugging at the sinuous rubber tube like a madman. "De water's down dah! Come on wid it!"

Willing hands unwound the coil, and Peter paid it out. Down went the hose, and presently the old negro jumped to his feet.

"Pump!" he shrieked; "put de water dah!"

Then, for fear he would not be understood, he ran like a monkey towards the burning building. Stopping just outside the radius of the fiercest heat, he pointed towards an open door.

"Dah! In dah! Pour hit in dah! De Prince won' come out! I try git 'im out, but he won' come! Pump de water on 'im!"

In the midst of his exhortations a score of hands grasped the handles and began to pump. But no water came! In vain the long handles went up and down. Something had gone wrong with the mechanism of the machine. A blacksmith was present, and he began an examination. In the meanwhile the fire grew prodigiously, and suddenly a horse's unearthly scream of terror and pain rent the air. Few had ever heard this sound before, and it struck a note of horror upon every soul assembled there. The cry of a horse in mortal distress is utterly indescribable, but it is a demon tone which makes cowards of strong men. The mixed crowd drew back in fear, thinking the imprisoned animal might make a sudden break and trample them in his rush. Even the smith, who had been vainly searching for the hitch in the pumping gear of the engine, crawled from under the useless thing and retreated with the others. So it happened, almost without his knowing it, that John Glenning was left standing alone by the deserted engine. The intense glare showed up his figure well. He was tall and lean, but his shoulders had a look of great strength, and his face, upon which the light was dancing, was calm and purposeful. The old negro had sunk to the ground, and with his face hidden in his crossed arms, was rocking to and fro, moaning ceaselessly. Following the horse's awful scream, and the subsequent rush backward, fell a dead silence, disturbed only by the cracking and snapping of seasoned wood as the fire ate up its fibres, and the low undertone of Peter's dolorous wails. Then plainly to Glenning's ears came a woman's muffled sobs, and he heard a voice tense with distress exclaim—

"My poor Prince! O my poor Prince!"

John wheeled half way around abruptly, and looked in the direction from whence the voice had come. He beheld two people standing partly aside, and well back. A tall, erect old man whose disordered apparel indicated the haste with which he had dressed, and a girl clinging despairingly to his arm, clad only in a white night robe with a shawl thrown about her shoulders and held tightly over her breast with one clenched hand. The old man's face was mask-like, but there was a deep furrow in the middle of his forehead, and his eyes blazed with repressed anger. The young woman was pitiful to the respectful but penetrating eyes of Glenning. Her hair, braided for the night, hung over her shoulder, down to her waist. Her face was drawn with anguish which she could not hide, and in her big eyes was a living sorrow. As he looked at her she caught his gaze, and upon that instant she left the old man's side, ran a few steps forward, and with both arms stretched towards him, with her hands clasped, her voice rang out in an agony of entreaty.

"Save The Prince! O, save him if you are a man! If he is burned to death it will kill me! He is there—there!"

She pointed towards the open doorway before which a red veil was shimmering and waving, then turned to the old man, threw her arms around his neck and hid her face on his breast, while her whole form shook with uncontrollable sobs.

Dazed for a moment by this direct appeal, and by the very evident beauty of his petitioner, Glenning stood without moving. Then from the huddled crowd, apathetic and silent, burst the figure of a man, running towards the stable. He came swiftly, and Glenning saw only a low, heavily-built person. But as he sped by the new doctor saw his face, and shuddered. It was dark, brutish, treacherous, devilish. Then the man was gone towards the open door. The girl had turned in time to behold this man's actions, and on her countenance was repulsion and disgust. The onrushing form had nearly reached his goal when a sudden shifting of the breeze concentrated the flames and dashed them into his face with a spiteful hiss. He stopped as though smitten, staggered and fell back, choked and coughing. With his hands to his face he reeled over into a patch of weeds, calling hoarsely for water. Glenning looked at the girl again, and in her eyes was a dumb appeal. The man's mouth squared in quick decision, and in a second his lassitude became transformed into vigorous action. He took off his coat with a few dextrous movements, and holding it as a shield before his face, quickly drew near the door now guarded by a wall of shifting fire.

He felt the hot air rushing into his lungs as he advanced, but he never flinched. Drawing a deep breath, he leaped hard, and passed over the jealously guarded portals. Faintly to his ears came the resounding cheer which accompanied this feat. But he had sterner work before him than to receive merely the praise of those who watched him from a safe distance. He was alone in a fiery furnace; caged with a maddened animal. He realized that his work must be done at once, or he would perish miserably.

Outside, the crowd inched nearer. Renewed silence had succeeded Glenning's successful entrance into the stall of The Prince, and under this strange stillness they came closer, in a body, breathing awesomely and straining their eyes to see. But the waving curtain of flame baffled their peering gaze. Only once they saw a dark, writhing bulk beyond the gleaming barrier, then this was hidden. Major Dudley and Julia had not changed their positions. But upon his face now shone the light of hope, while the girl's was stony with despair and dread. The brief moments were as leaden-footed hours, and time changed into eternity for the anxious hearted watchers. No sound now but the crackling of wood and the subtle swish of flames, and far off in the shadows at the rear of the lot a subdued coughing, where Devil Marston crouched and nursed his scorched lungs, and cursed the unknown man who had gone where he could not go. The stable was large, and the conflagration was now at its height, and it presented a gorgeous, if harrowing, spectacle. Red and yellow and dun streamers shot skyward, shaking out their serpentine lengths, wrapping and twining about each other, dying if a breath of wind touched them, only to be succeeded by others, fiercer and longer and more vivid. Crawling, hissing, crimson serpents of heat disported over the trembling roof of the building, and myriad of sparks would rise on columns of rose-tinted smoke when a bit of timber dropped. And deep in the very heart of all this hell, burned, blinded, suffocated and weak, a brave soul wrestled with imminent and torturing death, because a woman had looked twice into his eyes and asked for help, if he were a man!

There came a change. Less than a minute had elapsed since Glenning had committed himself to almost certain death. Then the watchers saw a movement at the flame-hung door. An indistinguishable something seemed trying to force its way out. At this moment, as though fortune truly favored the brave, the veering wind caught the red curtain and drew it aside as gently as though done by a lady's hand. Out from the inferno within sprang a man, his clothing covered with little red tongues, his face blackened and his hair singed and disordered. After him, with the man's coat bound over his head, the sleeves tied under his throat, completely blindfolding him, came The Prince. Glenning swung on to his halter, and as the falling sparks nipped the horse afresh he reared hugely and lunged forward with demoniacal fury. The man's spent strength could not cope with this final outburst. The horse bore him down, rushed over him, and the crowd scattered right and left to seek safety.

Peter, with a shrill cry of joy, ran to the prostrate figure and drew it farther away from the fire. As he laid the rescuer of The Prince down Julia was there to receive his head in her lap. Her face was white as the gown she wore, but her voice was clear as she spoke.

"Peter, go for a doctor! Daddy, bring some water, please."

She gently placed her hand upon the smoke-grimed forehead, and while the crowd lingered to await the outcome, Devil Marston stole away with curses deep and vile, and set his dark face towards home.

CHAPTER III

When Glenning opened his eyes the next morning he lay quiet a long time, staring at the figure seated by his bedside. At first he was at a total loss to understand where he was, but a sharp pain in his lungs when he breathed, and sundry irritating, prickly places about his face and head, brought back to him the events of the past night. But he was a philosophical fellow, and while he felt a deep gratitude welling up in his heart for young Tom Dillard, he could not help smiling at the appearance his newly-found friend presented that morning. It was quite plain to Glenning's still befuddled intellect that Dillard had elected to stay with him and take care of him during the night. The bank clerk's figure was almost corpulent in daylight, and this was emphasized by the attitude he had assumed. He had evidently determined not to go to sleep, but the relaxation and absolute quiet succeeding the excitement at the burning of the stable had proven too much for him. Now he sat with his heels on a rung of the chair, his knees drawn up, while his head had sunk forward till it almost touched them. In this position he bore a striking resemblance to a butterball, and when Glenning first saw him he was slumbering with much effort, because his breathing was hampered by his cramped posture. There was something in it all over-poweringly funny to John, and presently he chuckled aloud. Whereupon his watcher gave a little snort and opened his eyes, round, blue, and innocent as a child's.

"Bless me, if I haven't been asleep!" exclaimed Dillard, a bit sheepishly. Then—"How are you feeling, doctor?"

"Chipper as a lark—considering!" was the hearty answer. "But I hope I'll never come closer to hell than I did last night," he added.

Dillard shivered at the recollection, and a look of commiseration crept to his face.

"It's clear past me how you did it," he replied, candidly. "Log chains and a traction engine couldn't have pulled me in that place. But you've fixed yourself all right with the people, I guess. I'll bet your name has gone all over this old town long before now."

"I didn't do it for what the people would think, though I do want their good will. But did you see the look on that girl's face when she spoke? I couldn't have done anything else. Where are we?—hotel?"

"Yes, this is your room at the Union House. We thought you were out of the game for good at first. You don't remember anything after the horse ran over you? Well, the Dudley's old nigger, Peter, dragged you away from the heat, and Miss Julia made a pillow of her lap for your head. They were for taking you up to the house and caring for you, for you did them a greater service than you'll ever know when you pulled that obstreperous colt out of the fire. But I knew that wouldn't do, because they're not situated to entertain well folks, let alone sick ones, so I got a buggy, piled you in, and drove here as fast as I could. As luck would have it, old Doctor Kale was passing just as we got here—had been making a country call—and I hailed him. We got you up here and brought you around, though I don't suppose you remember anything about it, for you were kind o' flighty. Old Kale washed you off and patched you up, and gave you something to make you sleep soundly. I volunteered to sit up with you and watch, but I played the devil a-doin' it! Kale said he'd call around again this mornin' to see you. He's a gruff old cuss, but good hearted. He often swears at his men patients if they don't obey him to the letter. I tell you this now, so you won't be surprised at anything he may say to you."

Glenning put out a blackened hand from the back of which the hair had been singed away. Dillard saw his intention, and took it readily.

"I hope you'll let me be your friend," said the new doctor, appreciation beaming in his eyes. "I can't tell you just all I feel for the way you've stuck by me, a total stranger, who had not the slightest claim upon your time, or care. But I shan't forget it. A life-long chum couldn't have done more, and I want to assure you that my gratitude is the kind that lasts. I don't know what's in store for me here, but I've come to stay. And I'm going to make good if toil, and hard work, and conscientious pains count for anything. I was climbing fast back—where I came from, but it became best for me to leave. Not because I had to. There's nothing back there I'm ashamed of. You're the first person here who's been kind to me, and I did nothing to deserve it. I shall remember it always."

He pressed the soft, flabby hand which he held, and withdrew his arm.

Dillard's face reddened at this speech. He made a few awkward movements with his hands, and then spoke, in an abashed way.

"I've done nothin', doctor, to make a fuss about, but I'll be mighty glad to be your friend. I imagine a fellow with the stuff in him that you are made of would be worth having for a friend."

He drew out his watch and looked at it, rising quickly as he noted the time.

"It's getting late. By the time I get breakfast and reach the bank it'll be close onto nine. I'm glad you're lookin' so well. Don't try to get up today. I'll call in at noon for a minute. Good-bye."

He leaned over the bed and pressed Glenning's hand again, then took his hat and withdrew, closing the door gently behind him.

When his fat friend had departed, Glenning mechanically sent his eyes around the room. It contained, besides the bed upon which he lay, the customary washstand, dresser, table and two chairs. His clothes lay upon one of these chairs, and he looked in a rather disinterested way at the scorched and burned garments, now rendered totally useless. Then his mind flew back to those awful moments in the stall with The Prince, and he shut his eyes and groaned audibly. The door to his room opened, and he heard the clinking of dishes. He looked, and saw a waiter bearing a tray to the table in the center of his room. The young fellow deposited his burden, then glanced towards the bed with respectful eyes, as some might gaze upon a hero overthrown.

"Here's your breakfast, sir. I'll bring it closer if you want me to. Mr. Dillard told us you were awake and feeling pretty well, so Mr. Travers thought you might be hungry."

"Thank you," returned Glenning. "I'll be getting up presently. You needn't wait."

The boy moved reluctantly to the door. He had his hand on the knob, then turned.

"I didn't go to the burnin' o' ol' man Dudley's barn," he vouchsafed, in a rather high, scared voice, "but if I'd knowed what you's goin' to do I wouldn't 'a' missed seein' you pull that hoss out. The town's wild about it."

Without waiting for a reply of any sort, the speaker ducked through the door and slammed it after him. It had taken a deal of courage for him to deliver his speech, but he was determined to say it.

Glenning eyed the disarray of dishes dubiously. Some of them appeared cold, while the faint odour which crept to his nostrils from the others was not at all savory. But the rich aroma of coffee blended with the other smells, and he was on the verge of making an effort to rise when there came a faint rap upon his door. It was so faint that John was not sure he had heard it. He was quite certain there had been no sound of footsteps. As he lay with his head in an expectant attitude the rap came again—two little pecking knocks, given timorously. The man on the bed relaxed, drew the cover which he had thrown partly aside up to his chin, and invited whoever it was to enter, in a fairly strong voice.

Then a most extraordinary thing happened at the door. The knob was deliberately turned, then released. Again it was turned, and the door carefully opened about two inches. It remained this way for the space of a breath or two, then the aperture was widened by perhaps another two inches. Glenning was puzzled. If some one was pranking, the sport was certainly very innocent. By almost imperceptible degrees the door kept coming open, and then a bald, brown, sleek skull, surrounded by a fringe of white wool, came within the range of vision of the watcher on the bed. Peter looked slowly all around the room, and the last object his eyes alighted upon was the man. Then he completed his entrance in a comparatively rapid manner, bobbing his head unceasingly, and being careful to see that the door was latched behind him. Then he bowed profoundly.

"Mawnin', suh! I hope you's bettuh, suh! De Prince am not hu't much, 'n' de folks feel putty peart, suh! De Lawd bress yo', suh—doctuh—'n' keep yo' twel de day o' Jedgment fo' savin' dat' deah colt whut would 'a' buhned to a cracklin' but fo' you. Yes, suh! Dis ol nigguh gwi' ax de Lawd's blessin' on you night 'n' mawnin', 'n' I'm 'bleeged to yo', suh, fo' whut you done las' night!"

Glenning had no difficulty in recognizing in his effusive caller the old negro who had played a star part in the barn lot. But there was something which claimed his attention above the volubility of Peter, and that was a square envelope, tinted a delicate blue, which the darky carried in one of his wrinkled hands.

"Thank you, old gentleman," he said, "for your interest and your kindness. I hope the Dudleys did not suffer from exposure last night."

"De young missus tek a li'l col', suh, but de Major, suh, am all right—I'm 'bleeged to yo'." He made another profound obeisance. "I wuz sent dis mawnin', suh—doctuh—by de folks to 'quiah ob yo' health, suh, 'n' gib dis lettuh into yo' han'. It was writ by de Major, 'n' gib to me by de young missus, who says, says she—'Peter, gib dis to de man whut save our Prince, 'n' to nobody else.' Here it am, suh. I cyaried it on top o' my haid under my hat right to yo' do', kase I's feared I'd lose it."

He shambled across the room and gave the missive to the hand stretched out to receive it.

"I mus' be goin' now, suh—doctuh—but I's 'spressly to ax how yo' wuz?"

"Present my sympathy and respects to your folks, and assure them I am not hurt—only a few bruises and burns which do not annoy me in the least. Say, in fact, that you left me feeling well."

"Thank yo', suh—doctuh—'n' you're a man whut is a man!"

With this parting encomium, which to his mind represented the acme of praise, Peter shuffled to the door, bowed again, and went out.

"Heigh-ho!" mused Glenning. "It seems, indeed, that 'there is a tide in the affairs of men.' From what I can hear I have started in well. Let's see what that fine looking old gentleman has to say."

Tearing the tough fibre of the paper with some difficulty, he drew out the folded sheet, and opened it. The handwriting was angular, legible, and painfully correct. The ink was brownish, as though it had been watered often. He read rapidly.

"Dear Doctor Glenning:

"This morning we learned the name of the heroic stranger who did us such unparalleled service last night upon the occasion of the burning of our stable. We wish to convey to you at the earliest moment a sense of our profound gratitude for your noble act. My daughter and I feel that we can never repay the debt under which you have placed us by your marvelous bravery. I shall call this afternoon to thank you in person, and I pray you will at all times consider our house your own. The colt is practically uninjured. It is our prayer that you have not suffered seriously.

"Your obliged and obedient servant,

"Thomas Dudley."

"Fine!" breathed Glenning. "A little stilted, perhaps, but true and sincere. He means every word. Writes like a Clay or a Webster. There's blood back of it—Kentucky bluegrass blood. And she—she did not know she was a queen of tragedy last night when she made her appeal. Who could that have been who tried to get in ahead of me? Ugh! He was a devil! When she saw him coming she looked daggers of scorn and contempt. There's something back of it all, I'll wager. Could that terrible thing dare to love her, I wonder? If he does, it's one-sided. But she's beautiful! I'd go into another burning stable tonight if she looked at me as she did then, and asked me."

As he folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope he suddenly realized that his coffee must be getting cold. He smiled at the incongruity of the thought, but he was very hungry, so he essayed to rise. The effort necessary to get onto his elbow brought numerous darting pains to a dozen places at once, and made his temples throb. But his firm jaws were not for nothing, and presently his feet were on the floor and he was standing upright, dizzy, and holding to the head of the bed. His chest burned as though coals of fire were laid upon it. He waited a few moments, battling with physical weakness, then steered an uncertain course for the washstand. How sweet was the touch of cool water on his hot, parched face! He dashed it over his head and neck and face by the handsful and felt his brain clear as if by magic. And there is magic in a basin of cold water, as anyone can testify. Directly he set about dressing. His trunk and suit case sat in a corner, and when he had donned underwear, shirt and trousers his strength left him, and he feebly sought a chair by the table and gulped down the coffee. Then, by sheer force of will, he began to eat. The food was half cold, and not good. It would not have been good had it come just from the oven, but it gave strength, nevertheless. The man felt the elation of returning vigour as he ate. His meal was not half finished when a hurried, thumping step was heard in the corridor without, his door was unceremoniously and roughly opened, and Doctor Kale entered. He was a man getting along in life; full bearded, grizzled. His beard and hair curled slightly, and beneath his rather heavy brows keen, kind eyes danced incessantly. He was not very particular as to his apparel. His clothing was baggy, and none too clean. He wore boots, with his trousers legs pulled down over them. His vest was secured by the bottom button alone. There was a row of buttons, but only one was used. This left exposed to fullest view a shirt front which had doubtless been clean when the garment to which it belonged had been first put on, but which was now flecked and streaked with yellow stains which showed plainly that its wearer used tobacco. A derby hat of a past age was on his head, and he carried a medicine case much battered from long use. His right leg was shorter than his left—rheumatism had done it—and this accounted for his peculiar gait. He stopped in blank surprise for a moment when he saw his erstwhile patient sitting up and eating, then the vials of his wrath exploded.

"What in the devil do you mean by getting up, young man?" he thundered. "Get back in bed! You'll die! You won't live till night!"

He placed his case on the floor, took a handkerchief from his pocket and removed his hat, and fiercely took a turn or two up and down the room, mopping his head and face as he went. It was well for Glenning that a friend had prepared him for this visit.

"Pardon me for not rising to meet you, Doctor Kale," he said, feeling his risibles stirring, and endeavoring to maintain a steady countenance. "But I feel much better, thanks to your attention."

"Any fool could have washed the dirt off and stuck court plaster on you," growled the caller, still belligerent. "How do you know my name, and who told you you might get up?"

"The young man who spent the night with me told me you would call this morning, and I got tired lying in bed with nothing the matter with me—"

"Nothing the matter with you! Why, you're burned, and cut, and thumped, and bruised. It's a wonder the Lord let you off alive for being such an idiot. It seems to me you'd have had better sense than to go in a burning stable just to pull out one good-for-nothing horse which don't earn its hay!"

"Circumstances were such that I had no other choice," answered Glenning, a bit distantly.

"Circumstances!" sniffed Doctor Kale. "Yes, I heard about the circumstances, and when you've lived as long as I have, you won't butt your head into a little hell every time a pretty girl winks!"

The blood rushed to John's face, and even Dillard's warning did not serve to check his tongue.

"She didn't wink!" he retorted, rather hotly. "But she asked for help, and I gave it to her, as any man would!"

The caller cast a sidelong glance at the figure by the table, then stumped over to the bed and sat down upon it.

"Tom Dillard told me that you were the new doctor the Herald said was coming here to locate, and that your name was Glenning."

"Yes, John Glenning is my name, and my profession is the same as yours."

"Well, it's a damn bad one!" ejaculated Doctor Kale. "That is, the profession ain't so bad, but it's a worrisome and unappreciative life. It's a hard way to earn a living, young man, and if you hadn't started in it I'd advise you to try something else, even if it was beating rock on the county road. People expect you to be always ready, day or night, to jump up and run to them, even if you are sick yourself. Then you are the last man they want to pay when it comes time to settle, and they always think you're trying to rob them. I've worn my life away trying to serve them, and they call me a skinflint and a miser because I own one or two nigger shacks and try to save what little I make! You've come to a mighty poor place to make your fortune, and it's a mighty hard life you're beginning."

"I've practiced some already, and did not find the work hard, or uncongenial. And I also found people very obliging. But I love the work, doctor, and I suspect that counts for a great deal!"

"Love it!" snorted Doctor Kale; "I never did love it! It's slavery—a dog's life! Here, last night, I was coming in from the country tired to death and headed for bed, when that fool Dillard held me up and hauled me up here to work on you! Don't you see? Work, work, work!"

"But that's what we're put here for. Employment is our salvation. Suppose everybody stopped work. What would happen to the world?... But you did a good job with me, and you must permit me to compliment your skill."

Unknowingly Glenning had found the vulnerable spot in the old fellow's armour. His eyes took on a kinder gleam, but the look he bent on the young man was not unmixed with suspicion.

"Think I helped you, eh? Maybe I did. I've fooled around diseased and mistreated bodies the most of a lifetime, and I ought to know something, if I don't. Where're you from? The Herald said, but I can't remember."

"Jericho. It's rather in the northeastern part of the State. Not large; something like this place in population."

"D'you take this for a hamlet, young man?" fired up Doctor Kale. "Fifth class city, sir, and we're growin' by the minute."

"No offense, I'm sure," smiled Glenning. "You must remember I haven't seen your tow—city, by daylight."

"You've seen the prettiest thing in it by firelight, though."

A swift change had come over the combative features of Doctor Kale, and his wrinkled face bore a reminiscent look. There was a distant expression in his eyes; he seemed to be gazing into the past.

Glenning pushed the tray and its contents away and leaned his head on his hand.

"The prettiest woman in the county, and I might say in Kentucky," mused the man on the bed.

He got up and walked limping to his patient, and as he began an examination of hidden bandages and general physical condition his flow of talk continued in a wonderfully changed and melodious voice.

"I've known the family always. These hands were the first hands which touched that little girl when she came into the world, and I've watched her in sickness and in health up till now. Julia's as sweet as God could make her, and that's about as sweet as a woman can get. The old Major's game, and stiff, and proud as the devil, and poor as Lazarus, but he's a gentleman; a gentleman, sir, who'd pawn his last coat to pay a debt and go through the winter in his shirt sleeves. I could never get closer than arm's length to the Major, but Julia—" His voice stopped, and Glenning, stealing a glance at his face, saw that his lips were tight and he was slowly shaking his head. "She's a wonderful girl," he resumed, presently, while his hands glided deftly about here and there. "She came to me once when nobody else would have done in her place, when my greatest sorrow was on me, and I won't forget it—I won't forget it—I'll tell it to God Almighty when we stand before Him together!"

Glenning had no words in which to answer this unusual discourse. He remained silent, and presently the doctor stepped aside.

"I swear you seem fit as a fiddle!" he avowed, in his old peremptory tones. "You must be a tough nut. How do you feel? Any internal pains?"

His patient drew a long breath, and a grimace which he could not check in time shot over his face.

"Don't lie to me, you young rascal! Where does it hurt?"

"Inside; here."

The speaker placed his hand on his right lung.

"It ought to hurt there, for you've a bruise as big as a soup plate. Nothing dangerous, but you must be careful. Stay in this room for two days, anyway, and lie down most of the time. Do you promise?"

"I suppose I'll have to," replied Glenning, somewhat ruefully.

Doctor Kale thumped over to his hat and medicine case. Jamming the hat on his head till it almost rested on his ears, he grabbed his case, then swung around and gazed keenly at the new doctor.

"Are you married?" he demanded, abruptly, and in a manner which in anyone else would have been highly impertinent.

"No," was the answer, given quite gravely.

A meaningless snort greeted this inoffensive monosyllable. Then Doctor Kale began to parade the room, thumping and storming.

"Why in hell ain't you? A doctor ought to be married—adds to his respectability. And here you come sneakin' into Macon not married!"

He stopped about three feet in front of the figure in the chair.

"I may be a rascal, as some people say, but I'm no fool. You're not married, and you went into a fiery furnace to save Julia Dudley's horse. Now I've got this to say. The man who gets her has me to reckon with as well as the old Major. Damned if he don't have to prove himself, and be as clean as a white-washed wall! Good morning, sir!"

He stamped to the door, went out, slammed it furiously behind him, and was gone.

CHAPTER IV

The predominant feeling in Glenning's breast when Doctor Kale left him was one of resentment. The old fellow had presumed far beyond his rights, had gone into the future in an entirely unwarrantable way, and had given advice for which there was no thanks in the young man's heart. His resentment was heightened by the fact that Julia Dudley's face had been haunting him all morning. Certainly he did not love her. He had never exchanged a word with her; he had only seen her once, a vision of white beauty with brown, braided hair, standing like a Niobe in that night of stress and peril. He had never been of a susceptible temperament. He had work to do in the world, and love must wait. That had been his motto of renunciation, for he had a deep, strong, tender heart, charged with that priceless heritage God gives to each of his children. But when the girl with the braided hair had stepped forward in the presence of half the town and had singled him out for her cavalier in the adventure of that hour, he had felt a strange and unaccountable thrill pass through him. Her presence had been with him in the burning, blinding heat of his subsequent struggle, and the knowledge that she was waiting without for him to appear again a victor had nerved his arm and his smoke-numbed brain to success. He did not try to hide these facts from himself, but it was galling to think that a meddlesome old busy-body had also found them out, and had flung them in his face, coupled with a warning.

He shook himself together and took another view. He must not be supersensitive. The old man had been good to him. He had ministered to him and nursed him when he, himself, was worn and tired. And Dillard had said he was peculiar. But Glenning had seen the deeper, truer side to Doctor Kale for a few moments, and he knew that whatever nature he presented exteriorly, down in his heart he was a man. That personal experience of which he spoke evasively probably referred to the death of his wife. Anyhow it was something very vital; something of serious import, and John saw now that it had been shrewdly given him to assist him in formulating a proper attitude towards Miss Dudley. Old Doctor Kale loved her. Of course it was a paternal, protecting love, but it was deep as the nethermost sea, and as true as heaven. And old Doctor Kale knew that as sure as grass grew, and water ran down hill, a man and a maid will love.

Slowly through these engrossing reflections a sound crept to Glenning's brain. He had been conscious of it for several moments in an indifferent way, but all at once it assumed the tones of a conversation. He inclined his head in the direction from whence the sound came, and caught a name which made him start. He got up, alert, calm, quiet, and moved swiftly towards the cheap oak dresser. He now observed for the first time that this sat in front of a door connecting with another room, and it was from that room the voices came. There was no transom, but by moving the dresser slightly he would have access to the keyhole. This would have to be accomplished without noise. He listened. The voices had sunk to a murmur. There was no choice, and instantly his long, sinewy fingers gripped the top of the dresser on either side. Oh, how it hurt when he put forth his strength! But he lifted it, swerved it a few inches, and set it down without a sound. The exertion had racked his body with acutest pain, but he smiled grimly as he thought of what his recent caller would have said and done could he have seen him, then squatted before the keyhole and softly put his ear to the tiny aperture. In an instant his face grew grave.

"Tonight, Travers; it must be tonight," a husky, coarse voice was whispering; "it's got to be done!"

"And you want me to do it?" came the answering whisper, in a nervous, excited manner.

"Yes. There's nothing in the State that can beat my Thunderer, Daystar and Imperial Don except that long-legged devil-colt. You want to retire from business. You can do it after this summer's racing with the tips I'll give you if you'll kill Dudley's colt tonight!"

"I can't! I can't!" was the moaning reply. "I'm not too good; I'm afraid!"

"Afraid of what?" a sneering voice returned. "Of the dark, two old niggers, an old man and a girl? You're not game a bit!"

"Let me think ... let me think! How much can I make?"

"Ten thousand, easy. See here, it can be done in a minute. We've tried poison and fire, but there's no escape from a pistol bullet, unless that lank fool who last night went where I tried to go chooses to stand in the way—and I shouldn't care if he did."

"Where will the horse be?—the stable's burned flat."

"I'll find that out today and let you know soon after dark. But you'd better not do it till along towards three in the morning. Everybody will be asleep then."

"But if they should catch me, Marston? I'm supposed to be respectable!"

"Damn you for a rank coward!" was the explosive rejoinder, spoken aloud. "I know a fellow who'll do it for a ten-dollar bill!"

The heavy tramping of feet followed this harsh speech, as though the man who had spoken was leaving the room.

"Hold on, Marston!" the nervous voice protested, eagerly. "Come back a minute! And don't talk so loud. That new doctor's on this floor somewhere. I was asleep when they brought him in half dead last night, and the night clerk, Jones, put him on this floor somewhere. Be patient. A man can't risk his life and reputation without thinking about it. Sit down just a minute and let me think."

Some unintelligible grumbling was the only reply Glenning could hear, but he judged from the silence which followed that both men were still there. He took advantage of this lull in the conversation to put his eye to the keyhole. A compactly built, brutish looking man was in his line of vision, sprawled in a chair directly facing him. Glenning would have recognized anywhere the one who had vainly tried to enter The Prince's stall. He was an evil appearing man. His shoulders were very broad, and his neck was so thick and short that his round head seemed to spring from his body. He was flashily dressed, with knee length riding boots of russet leather. His face was sensual and cruel; his straight black hair grew low upon his forehead. His eyes were small and set close to his nose, and his upper teeth habitually showed, like a wolf's. A heavy scowl sat upon his features from his present ill humour. The watcher at the keyhole felt a great wave of repulsion surge over him as he beheld this being in the shape of man, and unconsciously his heart hardened. Nothing was visible of the second occupant of the room except the toe of one shoe, which kept up an incessant tattoo on the worn carpet. Two minutes passed, and Glenning noted that the figure fronting him was growing restless. The frown on his low forehead deepened into threatening furrows and he began to strike his boots with the whip he carried. Suddenly he sat upright.

"Out with it, man!" he hissed. "Don't dally here till the morning's gone! Are you going to do it or not?"

The tattoo ceased, and the foot was withdrawn from view. Then its owner came within the radius of the little circle formed by the keyhole. He walked straight to the burly figure in the chair, and bent down to whisper his decision. The man on watch could only see his back. He was a low, thin person, wearing a brown checked suit. Glenning swiftly put his ear to the little opening, and listened with the greatest intensity. It was of the utmost importance that he should hear the outcome of the plot. But only elusive murmurs reached him, and not a word could he hear. Observation was his second chance; the only one left. Again he brought his eye to bear. Both men were standing now, close together. They had come to a satisfactory understanding, for the heavy man's face had lightened, and he had one hand laid in a confiding way upon the shoulder of his confederate. Then they passed from the room, whispering as they went.

Glenning got onto his feet, found a chair, and sat down. Of one thing only was he sure—there was work before him. The rest was dark, but plain ahead lay his duty. The Dudleys must know of all that had passed in the next room. The one called Marston had spoken of poison and of fire. Then the burning of the stable had been the work of an incendiary. He was exerting every malign effort to get rid of Dudley's horse. The third trial was to occur that night. John got up and looked at his watch. It was after eleven. Major Dudley had said in his note that he would call in the afternoon. But he might not come till late, and something might happen whereby he could not come at all. The matter was most urgent and vital, admitting of no delay whatever. He knew no one who could act as a messenger on an errand of this character. Dillard had said he would drop in at noon, but he had duties of his own. He must go himself. There was no other course open. When he had come to this decision Glenning took a quick inventory of his physical condition. The wound over his right lung was his most serious hurt. The burns which he had sustained were only on the surface, and while they were quite painful, they would not prevent his proposed journey. Strange to say, his face had scarcely been touched by the fire. There was an ugly welt about two inches long upon his left cheek, and a scratch or two upon his forehead and neck; that was all. His hair was badly singed, as he discovered when he endeavored to brush it. He made his toilet as carefully as possible, finding shaving a task for a stoic, but going through with it nevertheless. By twelve he was appareled in a neat gray suit and clean linen, and feeling very much himself. He went down to the dining-room early, and was grateful to be assigned to a table in an obscure corner. It was his especial desire right now to be unnoticed, and besides he had an innate abhorrence of publicity; of being looked at and commented upon, even though favorably.

The boy who had brought his breakfast approached in a deferential way for his order, which Glenning gave with the request that it be served quickly. But before it came he began to realize the penalty of greatness. The guests of the hotel commenced to assemble, and every one that entered, male or female, big or little, cast their eyes about until they found the hero in his corner. And the painful part of it was they did not withdraw their eyes after they had found him, but gazed and gazed with truly rural interest, in which rudeness really had no place. One little girl in brown curls even ventured to point, and ask, "Mama, is that him?" before the maternal hand could grasp her arm, and the paternal voice admonish her in a loud whisper to behave. Still his dinner did not come, and he began to grow embarrassed. Finally, in desperation, he drew some old letters from his pocket and began to re-read them, finding such employment better suited to his taste than staring sillily back at the many pairs of eyes which were now beholding him. Directly a small envelope slipped from the packet in his hand and fell face upward on the table. The address was in an unformed feminine hand. He did not re-read this letter, but as he picked it up and placed it back in his breast pocket along with the others a look of dejected weariness settled heavily on his face. He forgot all those who were watching him; forgot the urgent present, as a pair of wonderful wine-brown eyes swam before him. Dishes jingled at his elbow; his dinner was being served. He must eat quickly and go. He must behave well, and let the people look as long as they wished, for they were to be his people now, and his home was to be among them. In time he was to be the family doctor for many of them.

But the grip of a past such as held him now was not the palsied touch of age. It was the strong-handed hold of vigorous youth, which tightens the more as we make resistance. Glenning shook back the straight black locks which had fallen upon his forehead, and the melancholy of his eyes became a shadow of living pain. A lassitude was upon him, weighting his spirit, leaden-like. He ate perfunctorily, choosing no dish above another, taking always the one closest to hand. He was not aware of the obsequious attentions of the waiter who stood proudly behind his chair, with mouth set in a perpetual grin. He did not hear the purring questions this worthy asked. Sometimes it was this way with him. He had fought a battle from which gods would have shrunk, and had come out clean. But the price! Sometimes he wondered, in bitterness, if it had been worth while, and then later, when quiet came, and he felt an awed sweetness stealing upon his soul, he was glad.

By force of will alone he brought his mind back to the hour before him. Then, hurriedly making an end of his dinner, he went to his room for a light cane, found and descended the parlor stairs to avoid the office and the loungers there, and started up street.

The appearance of any stranger in a town the size of Macon is always remarked. Little wonder then that John Glenning found himself, as it were, on dress parade. When he had run the gantlet of one block, which happened to be the one upon which most of the business houses were located, he turned to the right, to allay any suspicions as to his ultimate destination. He would make a detour, and come back to main street further on. The first corner which he approached was occupied by a small, weather-beaten, one-story frame house, setting slightly back in a yard poorly kept, wherein a few straggling rose bushes strove for existence. Entering the front door of this house as he passed was a slightly bent, limping figure. He recognized in a moment Doctor Kale, but whether this was his residence, or whether he was making a call, he could not determine. He was quite thankful, however, that the old doctor had not seen him, for an unpleasant situation would have developed at once. He had given his word to remain in his room for two days, and he did not feel inclined to share his secret with a comparative stranger, even though his friendly interest in the Dudleys could not be questioned.

Glenning crossed the street diagonally and resumed his eastward course, walking more rapidly. The increased circulation which his exercise occasioned caused him considerable suffering, but he set his jaws, and went on. Presently he passed the jail, a stone structure, with narrow slits for windows. Pitying any unfortunate who might be languishing in the gloomy pile this bright June day, he fell to noticing the pleasant looking houses which he passed, most of them of frame, most of them old, and possessing no decided style of architecture, but indicating thrift and cleanliness on the part of their occupants. Then he had swerved onto the main street once more, which led on in an unbroken line almost to Cemetery Hill, beyond which was the Dudley home. He passed very few people now, for it was hot at this time of the day, and not many were stirring. Then, too, it was the dinner hour. He found this walk would have been delightful under ordinary circumstances, for the pavement was lined with maple trees, which cast a continuous shade below. He passed some beautiful homes on this part of his walk; residences which showed plainly the lavish elegance of ante-bellum prosperity. He grew the least bit nervous as he crossed the railroad just this side of Cemetery Hill. It was here the pavement ended, and for the remainder of his journey he must take the pike. He was not afraid of his welcome; he knew that would be cordial and genuine, but until he should be able to make his errand known it would appear somewhat as if he had come to be thanked. His sensitive nature revolted at this. He really would have preferred to let the incident drop without discussion, but he knew that was impossible. He was now in view of the fence, the long, iron fence bent and twisted in places which bounded a large and exceedingly well kept lawn, from which arose in stately splendour, irregularly, majestic oaks, maples and elms. The lawn sloped gently upward, and on its crest was the home, looking very square, solid and dignified, with its upper and lower porticos and its rows of windows, four above and four below. There was no sign of life. Glenning went down the fence, watching for a gate. The night before he had had no time for minor things, and it was almost as though he had never seen the place before. The gate proved to be at the other corner of the yard, was double, and had a lion's head cast in the center of the iron arch which spanned it. One of the gates yielded to his touch and he went in, feeling decidedly like a trespasser. He found himself at the beginning of a graveled drive, winding picturesquely through borders of evergreens up to the front of the mansion. Unconsciously, perhaps, he put his hand to his tie to see that it was in place, then bravely set his face towards his goal.

As he drew closer he discovered that the house was pretentious, and that the disposition and care of everything outdoors was peculiarly correct. He did not tarry as his feet brought him near the end of the drive, but walked with a firm tread upon the portico, removed his hat, and knocked briskly upon a panel of one of the heavy doors, both of which were open wide. Accompanying his knock, rather than following it, came the sound of the swishing of dainty drapery overhead; a sound which instantly became more audible, and mingled with it was the musical hum of a lilting tune. Glenning glanced up, his heart behaving somewhat oddly, for his position was a trifle nervous, and beheld, around the further bend of the old stairway, where it gave upon the broad landing, a flutter of garments. He knew at once who it was, and he knew she had not heard his summons at the door, for she was humming industriously, and evidently had just started to descend the stair. Across the landing she floated, to the top of the downward flight, and at that point she lifted her eyes and beheld the tall young stranger standing in the middle of the open doorway. The humming stopped abruptly, and so did Julia. She did not recognize him at that distance, for the brighter light was at his back, and his clothing was entirely different from what it had been the night before. Knowing it to be a stranger, and presuming he had called to see her father, she came very demurely and very slowly down the stair, one hand sliding gently along the mahogany rail. Glenning waited in respectful silence until she should come nearer. She had dropped her eyes, but as her feet reached the floor she lifted them in an interrogative glance, and then she saw—the singed and burned hair, the disfiguring welt upon his cheek, one or two pieces of court plaster which he had tried to remove and failed. The change which transformed this quite correct and polite young lady was electric in its rapidity. Her hands clasped and flew up under her chin, and there came a look upon her sweet face such as the man had never seen in his life before. There was gratitude, compassion, and a lingering, unconscious tenderness, and eloquent, if wordless emotion beamed in her brown eyes. For a moment each was speechless. Then Julia came forward with outheld hand.

"O, you are he!" she exclaimed, and the blood rushed up to her face, overflowing its delicate beauty with rich tints. "You saved our Prince!"

The touch of the small, cool hand in his affected Glenning strangely. It brought recollection—which was bitter—and it made this girl's presence very real—which was sweet.

She spoke again almost at once, in a somewhat calmer voice, though it was plain to see her feelings had not abated.

"My father and I are in your lasting debt. Come into the library. He will want to see you. He was going into town for that purpose later in the afternoon. Peter told us he delivered father's letter safely."

As she was speaking she led the way into the room on the right. Glenning followed, and both sat down.

"I—might have waited for him to come," said John, "but—I thought something might detain him, and an incident has arisen which makes it necessary that I see him at once. Otherwise I would not have forced myself upon you so soon after—last night."

"I am glad you have come, Mr.—Doctor—"

"Glenning, Miss Dudley."

"Doctor Glenning, for I want to speak my thanks with father's. I do not know whether I should apologize or not for appealing to you last night, for I had never seen you until that moment. But I was wild with grief at the thought of my Prince burning to death before my eyes, and when the rest gave back cowardly, and left you alone, it was borne in upon me that you would do it—that you could do it, and were not afraid. Now, when I am calm and sane, I see that I was presuming enormously—almost inhumanly, upon your manhood, for I had no right in the world to speak to you as I did, and I believe I am ashamed of it today, and think I should ask your pardon."

Her words followed each other swiftly, as though the speech was one which she wished to say quickly, before her determination to speak it wavered. The flush which had come to her face at the door had never receded, and still enveloped her features charmingly, as she sat with bent head in the cool semi-gloom of the old library.

Glenning looked on her a moment keenly before he replied. The picture she made might have stirred any man's heart. He knew she was sincere; that sufficed for the time.

"Don't speak of apologies," he answered, in a voice which had grown deeper and more vibrant. "You do not owe me any. I have read of days when men counted it a favor to serve a lady, be she friend or stranger. Let us not think those days are entirely gone—that they are as dead as the people who lived in them. Candidly, and without simulation, I was glad to do what I did for you—gladder still that you felt you might call upon me. That means more than all else, perhaps. And it was not all a duty, believe me; it was a pleasure."

A smile trembled upon her lips as she raised her head and looked squarely at him.

"And these," she said, "upon your cheek, and neck, and forehead. Your hands, blackened and burned"—her voice quivered—"your lungs perhaps scorched—what of these?"

He laughed gently.

"Let us say my body has been purged of some of its sins by fire, and let us call the marks badges of honor. They will not deface, and I shall never be sorry for them."

There was a peculiar earnestness to his tones she could not fathom. None of the young men in Macon would have made a speech like that. None of them could have understood such sentiments. She understood them but vaguely herself, yet they appeared very noble. As he spoke, she knew that she was noticing for the first time the square lines of his angular face, and the half melancholy, half humorous expression of his eyes.

"You take serious things quite lightly," she contended, "but it is difficult to answer you. You are striving not to permit your heroism to be recognized, but we know better, father and I, and you must not speak deprecatingly of it before us. It will hurt us. Shall I go for father?" She arose quietly and stood before him. "Peter is arranging new quarters for the Prince, and father is superintending the work."

"Yes, if it is convenient for him to come now. I don't think I need delay him long. You, too, had better be present, for you will be interested in my message."

"Very well. Wait just a moment."

She disappeared in the hall with light footsteps, and Glenning, with his eyes set intently upon the worn Brussels carpet in front of him, awaited her return.

CHAPTER V

The presence of a peculiarly sweet perfume, brought to his nostrils by a light zephyr floating through the open window near, caused him to look up. He could see through the casement an old and shabby honeysuckle, and it was from this the odour came, so elusive as to make him doubt its reality. He wondered why so unsightly a shrub as this had grown to be was allowed a place in the purlieus of the immaculate lawn, then his eyes came indoors. The room in which he sat was large. An old fireplace was on one side, but this was hidden by a screen. Above it was a tall mantel, with some chaste bric-a-brac, and above this the picture of a man of unusually fine appearance. A young man, whose every feature bespoke courage and determination. The remainder of the wall space was pretty much given up to book cases of various sizes and designs, and all crammed with books. A center-post mahogany table stood in the middle of the room, and this also was heavily sprinkled with books and papers, and a few magazines. Being a man, Glenning did not know that the threads in the carpet under his feet showed, nor that the haircloth with which the chairs were upholstered was worn into holes in many places. But he pricked his ears at once when he heard quick footsteps on the long side porch, and the sound of more deliberate and heavier steps coming with them. He was on his feet when Major Dudley and Julia came into the library arm in arm. A smile of genuine welcome was on the aristocratic features of the master of the place, and he came forward with more celerity than he was wont to show, clasping Glenning's hand in a grip which almost made the young fellow wince.

"You're none too soon, suh; none too soon!" he exclaimed, beaming warmest appreciation into the eyes of his caller. "Sit down, suh, sit down, while I apologize for not coming to inquire after you this morning, instead of waiting for this afternoon. You must have a constitution of adamant," he added, as the three took chairs.

"It is pretty tough," admitted Glenning. "I'm almost myself today. Still I would not have ventured to impose myself upon you this morning had it not chanced I heard something which you will be glad to know—or, at least, which you should know, for it is not pleasant news."

"One moment, suh." Then to his daughter, in a tone of greatest respect—"Julia, bid Peter mix two juleps and serve them here at once. Now, doctor, what were you going to say?"

"I shall wait for Miss Dudley's return, with your permission. That which I have to say concerns you both equally. This is a lovely old home, if you will pardon the comment."

Major Dudley took a book from the table by which he sat. Certainly not with the intention of reading, but it was a life-long habit, and if he happened to be in arm's length of a book he never failed to pick it up.

"It's a family possession, suh. The wah's done away with most of them hereabout, but we were fortunate in not being pillaged and burned, like many of our neighbors. Then a number were sold for debt, and passed into vandal hands. But before we proceed fu'ther, suh, you must let me confess my obligation—"

Glenning held up a restraining hand.

"Miss Dudley has done that," he said, "and you would please me most by not referring again to last night's adventure. I was lucky enough to get the horse out, and lucky enough to get out myself. I know all the thanks which you would utter, and I accept them. Now let's close the incident and come down to the needs of the moment, for, believe me, they are pressing."

The Major gazed in sheer amazement at the man, and before he could find his voice Julia returned, glided like a sunbeam to her chair and sat down, folding her hands in her lap.

"Peter will be here in a moment," she said, softly.

Glenning resumed talking immediately, and laid bare to the smallest detail the plot which he had heard an hour or two before. The girl's face paled in evident distress as the recital proceeded, while Major Dudley sat like an image of stone, his gray eyes fixed unwaveringly on the speaker.

"That is all," concluded John, "and I have come straight to you, for forewarned is forearmed. I judge the attack will be made between two and three in the morning."

When he ceased there was dead silence for perhaps a minute. Finally one word broke from the Major's lips—"Marston!" His eyes fell to the floor for an instant, then he lifted his head as a stag might when brought to bay.

"He is the enemy of our house, suh, and he has harassed me vilely! If I were a younger man, I'd dare him to do his worst." Then a troubled and perplexed expression came over his face, and he turned to his daughter. "Little girl, this is men's work. Had you not better leave us?"

Julia got up, went to him, and placed one hand upon his forehead and the other around his neck.

"The time has come when I must share your burdens, daddy," she said. Her face was burning, but her voice was very tender and brave. "Let's talk it over together—Doctor Glenning, you and I. Is not that best?"

She turned her gaze on the young man by the window as she put the question.