S Henry, Aunt Maria's husband, who was the chief farm-hand, was busy patching fences the next morning, Bishop sent over for Pole Baker to drive the spring-wagon. Alan sat beside Pole, and Abner and Bishop and Mrs. Bishop occupied the rear seats.

Alan knew he could trust Pole, drunk or sober, and he confided his plans to the flattered fellow's ears. Pole seemed to weigh all the chances for and against success in his mind as he sat listening, a most grave and portentous expression on his massive face.

“My opinion is the feller 'll be thar as shore as preachin',” he said. “But whether you git his wad or not, that's another question. Miller's as sharp as a briar, an', as he says, if Wilson gits to talkin' about that land to any o' these hill-Billies they 'll bu'st the trade or die tryin'. Jest let 'em heer money's about to change hands an' it 'll make 'em so durn jealous they 'll swear a lie to keep it away from anybody they know. That's human natur'.”

“I believe you are right,” said Alan, pulling a long face; “and I'm afraid Wilson will want to make some inquiries before he closes.”

“Like as not,” opined the driver; “but what I'd do, ef I was a-runnin' it, would be to git some feller to strike up with 'im accidental-like, an' liter'ly fill 'im to the neck with good things about the property without him ever dreamin' he was bein' worked.”

The two exchanged glances. Alan had never looked at the man so admiringly. At that moment he seemed a giant of shrewdness, as well as that of physical strength.

“I believe you are right, Pole,” he said, thoughtfully.

“That's what I am, an', what's more, I'm the one that could do the fillin', without him ever knowin' I had a funnel in his mouth. If I can't do it, I 'll fill my hat with saft mud an' put it on.”

Alan smiled warmly. “I 'll mention it to Miller,” he said. “Yes, you could do it, Pole—if any man on earth could.”

Driving up to Miller's office they found the door open, and the owner came out with a warm smile of greeting and aided Mrs. Bishop to alight. “Well,” he smiled, when they had taken seats in the office. “We have gained the first step towards victory. Wilson is at the hotel. I saw his name on the register this morning.”

The elder Bishops drew a breath of relief. The old man grounded his heavy walking-stick suddenly, as if it had slipped through his inert fingers.

“I'm trustin' you boys to pull me through,” he said, with a shaky laugh. “I hain't never treated Alan right, an' I'm heer to confess it. I 'lowed I was the only one in our layout with any business sense.”

“So you are willing to accept the loan?” said Miller.

“Willin'? I reckon I am. I never slept one wink last night fer feer some 'n' 'll interfere with it.”

Miller reflected a moment and then said: “I am afraid of only one thing, and that is this: Not one man in a million will make a trade of this size without corroborating the statements made by the people he is dealing with. Wilson is at breakfast by this time, and after he is through he may decide to nose around a little before coming to me. I'm afraid to go after him; he would think I was over-anxious. The trouble is that he may run upon somebody from out in the mountains—there are a lot in town already—and get to talking. Just one word about your biting off more than you can chaw, Mr. Bishop, would make 'im balk like a mean mule. He thinks I'm favoring him now, but let him get the notion that you haven't been holding that land for at least a hundred thousand an' the thing would bu'st like a bubble.”

Alan mentioned Pole Baker's proposition. Miller thought it over for a moment, his brow wrinkled, and then he said: “Good!—a good idea, but you must call Pole in and let me give him a few pointers. By George! he could keep Wilson away from dangerous people anyway.”

Alan went after Pole, and Miller took him into his consultation-room in the rear, where they remained for about fifteen minutes. When they came out Pole's face was very grave. “I won't forget a thing,” he said to Miller. “I understand exactly what you want. When I git through with 'im he 'll want that land bad enough to pay anything fer it, an' he won't dream I'm in cahoot with you, nuther. I can manage that. I ain't no fool ef I do have fits.”

“Do you remember my description of him?” asked Miller.

“You bet I do—thick-set, about fifty, bald, red-faced, sharp, black eyes, iron gray hair, an' mighty nigh always with a cigar in his mouth.”

“That's right,” laughed Miller, “now do your work, and we won't forget you. By all means keep him away from meddlesome people.”

When Pole had left the office and Miller had resumed his revolving-chair Mrs. Bishop addressed him, looking straight into his eyes.

“I don't see,” she said, in a timid, hesitating way, and yet with a note of firmness dominating her tone—“I don't see why we have to go through all this trickery to make the trade. Ef the land is good security fer the money we needn't be afeerd of what the man will find out. Ef it ain' t good security I don't want his money as fer as I'm concerned.”

“I was jest thinkin' that, too,” chimed in her husband, throwing a troubled glance all round. “I want money to help me out o' my scrape, but I don't want to trick no man, Yankee or what not, into toatin' my loads. As Betsy says, it seems to me if the land's wuth the money we needn't make such a great to-do. I'm afeerd I won't feel exactly right about it.”

The young men exchanged alarmed glances.

“You don't understand,” said Miller, lamely, but he seemed to be unprepared for views so heretical to financial dealings, and could not finish what he had started to say.

“Why,” said Alan, testily, “the land is worth all Wilson can make out of it with the aid of his capital and the railroad he proposes to lay here. Father, you have spent several years looking up the best timbered properties, and getting good titles to it, and to a big lumber company a body of timber like you hold is no small tiling. We don't want to cheat him, but we do want to keep him from trying to cheat us by getting the upper hand. Rayburn thinks if he finds out we are hard up he 'll try to squeeze us to the lowest notch.”

“Well,” sighed Mrs. Bishop, “I'm shore I never had no idea we'd resort to gittin' Pole Baker to tole anybody around like a hog after a yeer o' corn. I 'lowed we was going to make a open-and-shut trade that we could be proud of, an' stop folk's mouths about Alfred's foolish dealin' s. But,” she looked at Abner, who stood in the doorway leading to the consultation-room, “I 'll do whatever brother Ab thinks is right. I never knowed 'im to take undue advantage of anybody.”

They all looked at Abner, who was smiling broadly.

“Well, I say git his money,” he replied, with a short, impulsive laugh—“git his money, and then ef you find he's starvin', hand 'im back what you feel you don't need. I look on a thing like this sorter like I did on scramblin' fer the upper holt in war-times. I remember I shot straight at a feller that was climbin' up the enemy's breastworks on his all-fours. I said to myse'f, ef this ball strikes you right, old chap, 'fore you drap over the bank, yo're one less agin the Confederacy; ef it don't you kin pop away at me. I don't think I give 'im anything but a flesh-wound in the back—beca'se he jest sagged down a little an' crawled on—an' that's about the wust you could do fer Wilson. I believe he ort to hold the bag awhile. Alf's hung on to it till his fingers ache an' he's weak at the knees. I never did feel like thar was any harm in passin' a counterfeit bill that some other chap passed on me. Ef the government, with all its high-paid help, cayn't keep crooked shinplasters from slidin' under our noses, it ortn't to kick agin our lookin' out fer ourse'ves.”

“You needn't lose any sleep about the Southern Land and Timber Company, Mrs. Bishop,” said Miller. “They will take care of themselves—in fact, we 'll have to keep our eyes peeled to watch them even if we get this loan. Wilson didn't come up here for his health.”

“Oh, mother's all right,” said Alan, “and so is father, but they must not chip in with that sort of talk before Wilson.”

“Oh no, you mustn't,” said Miller. “In fact, I think you'd better let me and Alan do the talking. You see, if you sit perfectly quiet he 'll think you are reluctant about giving such big security for such a small amount of money, and he will trade faster.”

“Oh, I'm perfectly willin' to keep quiet,” agreed the old man, who now seemed better satisfied.

Pole Baker left the office with long, swinging strides. There was an entrance to the Johnston House through a long corridor opening on the street, and into this Pole slouched. The hotel office was empty save for the clerk who stood behind the counter, looking over the letters in the pigeon-holed key-rack on the wall. There was a big gong overhead which was rung by pulling a cord. It was used for announcing meals and calling the porter. A big china bowl on the counter was filled with wooden tooth-picks, and there was a show-case containing cigars. Pole glanced about cautiously without being noticed by the clerk, and then withdrew into the corridor, where he stood for several minutes, listening. Presently the dining-room door opened and Wilson strolled out and walked up to the counter.

“What sort of cigars have you got?” he said to the clerk.

“Nothing better than ten, three for a quarter,” was the respectful reply, as the clerk recognized the man who had asked for the best room in the house.

Wilson thrust his fingers into his vest-pocket and drew out a cigar. “I guess I can make what I have last me,” he said, transferring his glance to Pole Baker, who had shambled across the room and leaned heavily over the open register. “Want to buy any chickins—fine fryin' size?” he asked the clerk.

“Well, we are in the market,” was the answer. “Where are they?”

“I didn't fetch 'em in to-day,” said Pole, dryly. “I never do till I know what they are a-bringin'. You'd better make a bid on a dozen of 'em anyway. They are the finest ever raised on Upper Holly Creek, jest this side o' whar old man Bishop's lumber paradise begins.”

Pole was looking out of the corner of his eye at the stranger, and saw his hand, which was in the act of striking a match, suddenly stay itself.

“We don't bid on produce till we see it,” said the clerk.

“Well, I reckon no harm was done by my axin',” said Pole, who felt the eyes of the stranger on him.

“Do you live near here?” asked Wilson, with a smile half of apology at addressing a stranger, even of Pole's humble stamp.

“No.” Pole laughed and waved his hand towards the mountains in the west, which were plainly discernible in the clear morning light. “No, I'm a mountain shanghai. I reckon it's fifteen mile on a bee-line to my shack.”

“Didn't you say you lived near old Mr. Bishop's place?” asked Wilson, moving towards the open door which led to the veranda.

“I don't know which place o' his'n you mean,” said Pole when they were alone outside and Wilson had lighted his cigar. “That old scamp owns the whole o' creation out our way. Well, I 'll take that back, fer he don't own any land that hain't loaded down with trees, but he's got territory enough. Some thinks he's goin' to seceed from the United States an' elect himself President of his own country.”

Wilson laughed, and then he said: “Have you got a few minutes to spare?”

“I reckon I have,” said Pole, “ef you've got the mate to that cigar.”

Wilson laughed again as he fished the desired article from his pocket and gave it and a match to Pole. Then he leaned against the heavy railing of the banisters. “I may as well tell you,” he said, “I'm a dealer in lumber myself, and I'd like to know what kind of timber you have out there.”

Pole pulled at the cigar, thrust it well into the corner of his mouth with the fire end smoking very near his left eye, and looked thoughtful. “To tell you the truth, my friend,” he said, “I railly believe you'd be wastin' time to go over thar.”

“Oh, you think so.” It was a vocal start on the part of Wilson.

“Yes, sir; the truth is, old man Bishop has simply raked into his dern clutch ever' acre o' fine timber out that away. Now ef you went east, over t'other side o' the mountains, you mought pick out some good timber; but as I said, old man Bishop's got it all in a bag out our way. Saw-mill?”

“No, I don't run a saw-mill,” said Wilson, with an avaricious sparkle in his eye. “I sometimes buy timbered lands for a speculation, that's all.”

Pole laughed. “I didn't see how you could be a saw-mill man an' smoke cigars like this an' wear them clothes. I never knowed a saw-mill man to make any money.”

“I suppose this Mr. Bishop is buying to sell again,” said Wilson, tentatively. “People generally have some such idea when they put money into such property.” Pole looked wise and thoughtful. “I don't know whether he is or not,” he said. “But my opinion is that he 'll hold on to it till he's in the ground. He evidently thinks a good time's a-comin'! Thar was a feller out thar t'other day with money to throw at cats; he's been tryin' to honeyfuggle the old man into a trade, but I don't think he made a deal with 'im.”

“Where was the man from?” Wilson spoke uneasily. “I don't railly know, but he ain't a-goin' to give up. He told Neil Fulmore at his store that he was goin' home to see his company an' write the old man a proposition that ud fetch 'im ef thar was any trade in 'im.”

Wilson pulled out his watch.

“Do you happen to know where Mr. Rayburn Miller's law office is?” he asked.

“Yes; it's right round the corner. I know whar all the white men in this town do business, an' he's as white as they make 'em, an' as straight as a shingle.”

“He's an acquaintance of mine,” said Wilson. “I thought I'd run in and see him before I leave.”

“It's right round the corner, an' down the fust side street, towards the court-house. I 'ain't got nothin' to do; I 'll p'int it out.”

“Thank you,” said Wilson, and they went out of the house and down the street together, Pole puffing vigorously at his cigar in the brisk breeze.

“Thar you are,” said Pole, pointing to Miller's sign. “Good-day, sir; much obleeged fer this smoke,” and with his head in the air Pole walked past the office without looking in.

“Good-morning,” exclaimed Miller, as Wilson entered. “You are not an early riser like we are here in the country.” He introduced Wilson all round, and then gave him a chair near his desk and facing him rather than the others.

“This is the gentleman who owns the property, I believe,” said Wilson, suavely, as he indicated Bishop.

Miller nodded, and a look of cunning dawned in his clear eye.

“Yes. I have just been explaining to Mr. and Mrs. Bishop that the mere signing of a paper such as will be necessary to secure the loan will not bind them at all in the handling of their property. You know how cautious older people are nowadays in regard to legal matters. Now, Alan here, their son, understands the matter thoroughly, and his mind is not at all disturbed.”

Wilson fell into the preliminary trap. “Oh no; it's not a binding thing at all,” he said. “The payment of the money back to us releases you—that is, of course,” Wilson recovered himself, “if we make the loan.”

Several hearts in the room sank, but Miller's face did not alter in the slightest. “Oh, of course, if the loan is made,” he said.

Wilson put his silk hat on the top of Miller's desk, and flicked the ashes from his cigar into a cuspidor. Then he looked at Mrs. Bishop suddenly—“Does the lady object to smoking?”

“Not at all,” said the old lady—“not at all.”

There was a pause as Wilson relighted his cigar and pulled at it in silence. A step sounded on the sidewalk and Trabue put his head in at the door. Miller could have sworn at him, but he smiled. “Good-morning, Squire,” he said.

“I see you are busy,” said the intruder, hastily.

“Just a little, Squire. I 'll see you in a few minutes.”

“Oh, all right.” The old lawyer moved on down the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets.

Miller brought up the subject again with easy adroitness. “I mentioned your proposition to my clients—the proposition that they allow you the refusal of the land at one hundred thousand, and they have finally come round to it. As I told them, they could not possibly market a thing like that as easily and for as good a price as a company regularly in the business. I may have been wrong in giving such advice, but it was the way I felt about it.”

Without realizing it, Wilson tripped in another hole dug by Miller's inventive mind.

“They couldn't do half as well with it,” the Boston man said. “In fact, no one could, as I told you, pay as much for the property as we can, considering the railroad we have to move somewhere, and our gigantic facilities for handling lumber in America and abroad. Still I think, and our directors think, a hundred thousand is a big price.”

Miller laughed as if amused. “That's five dollars an acre, you know, but I'm not here to boom Mr. Bishop's timber-land. In fact, all this has grown out of my going down to Atlanta to borrow twenty-five thousand dollars on the property. I think I would have saved time if I hadn't run on you down there, Mr. Wilson.”

Wilson frowned and looked at his cigar.

“We are willing,” said he, “to make the loan at five per cent, per annum on two conditions.”

“Well, out with them,” laughed Miller. “What are they?”

“First,” said Wilson, slowly and methodically, “we want the refusal of the property at one hundred thousand dollars.”

A thrill of triumph passed over the silent group. Alan saw his father's face fill with sudden hope, and then it seemed to stand in abeyance as if doubt had already mastered it. Abner Daniel caught his beard in his stiff fingers and slowly slid them downward. Mrs. Bishop's bonnet hid her face, but her fingers were twitching excitedly as they toyed with the fringe of her shawl.

Miller's indifference was surprising. “For what length of time do you want the refusal of the property at that figure?” he asked, almost in a tone of contempt.

Wilson hung fire, his brow wrinkled thoughtfully.

“Till it is decided positively,” he got out finally, “whether we can get a charter and a right of way to the property.”

To those who were not following the details as closely as were Alan and Miller the reply of the latter fell discouragingly, even Abner Daniel glared in open horror of what he regarded as an unfavorable turn in the proceedings.

“That's entirely too indefinite to suit my clients,” said the lawyer. “Do you suppose, Mr. Wilson, that they want to hang their property up on a hook like that? Why, if you didn't attend to pushing your road through—well, they would simply be in your hands, the Lord only knows how long.”

“But we intend to do all we can to shove it through,” said Wilson, with a flush.

“You know that is not a business-like proposition, Mr. Wilson,” said Miller, with a bland smile. “Why, it amounts to an option without any limit at all.”

“Oh, I don't know,” said Wilson, lamely. “Mr. Bishop will be interested just as we are in getting a right of way through—in fact, it would insure us of his help. We can't buy a right of way; we can't afford it. The citizens through whose property the road runs must be persuaded to contribute the land for the purpose, and Mr. Bishop, of course, has influence up here with his neighbors.”

“Still he would be very imprudent,” said Miller, “to option his property without any limit. Now here's what we are willing to do. As long as you hold Mr. Bishop's note for twenty-five thousand dollars unpaid, you shall have the refusal of the land at one hundred thousand dollars. Now take my advice”—Miller was smiling broadly—“let it stand at that.”

Wilson reflected for a moment, and then he said: “All right; let that go. The other condition is this—and it need be only a verbal promise—that nothing be said about my company's making this loan nor our securing the refusal of the property.”

“That will suit us,” said Miller. “Mr. Bishop' doesn't care to have the public know his business. Of course, the mortgage will have to be recorded at the court-house, but that need not attract attention. I don't blame Mr. Bishop,” went on Miller, in a half-confidential tone. “These people are the worst gossips you ever saw. If you meet any of them they will tell you that Mr. Bishop has bu'sted himself wide open by buying so much timber-land, but this loan will make him as solid as the Bank of England. The people don't understand his dealings, and they are trying to take it out on him by blasting his reputation for being one of the solidest men in his county.”

“Well, that's all, I believe,” said Wilson, and Miller drew a blank sheet of legal-cap paper to him and began to write. Half an hour later the papers were signed and Miller carelessly handed Wilson's crisp pink check on a New York bank to Mr. Bishop.

“There you are, Mr. Bishop,” he said, with a smile; “you didn't want any one else to have a finger in that big pie of yours over there, but you needed money, and I 'll tell you as a friend that a hundred thousand cash down will be about as well as you can do with that land. It takes money, and lots of it, to make money, and Mr. Wilson's company can move the thing faster than you can.”

“That's a fact,” said Wilson, in a tone that betrayed self-gratification. “Now we must all pull together for the railroad.” He rose and turned to Miller. “Will you come with me to record the paper?”

“Certainly,” said Miller, and they both left together.

The Bishop family were left alone, and the strain being lifted, they found themselves almost wholly exhausted.

“Is it all over?” gasped the old woman, standing up and grasping her son's arm.

“We've got his money,” Alan told her, with a glad smile, “and a fair chance for more.”

The pink check was fluttering in old Bishop's hand. Already the old self-willed look that brooked no interference with his personal affairs was returning to his wrinkled face.

“I 'll go over to Craig's bank an' deposit it,” he said to Alan. “It 'll take a day or two to collect it, but he'd let me check on it right now fer any reasonable amount.”

“I believe I'd ask him not to mention the deposit,” suggested Alan.

“Huh! I reckon I've got sense enough to do that.”

“I thought you intended to pay off the mortgage on our farm the fust thing,” ventured Mrs. Bishop.

“We can' t do it till the note's due next January,” said Bishop, shortly. “I agreed to keep the money a yeer, an' Martin Doe 'll make me hold to it. But what do you reckon I care as long as I've got some 'n' to meet it with?”

Mrs. Bishop's face fell. “I'd feel better about it if it was cleer,” she faltered. “But the Lord knows we ort to feel thankful to come out as we have. If it hadn't been fer Alan—Mr. Miller said that Alan—”

“Ef you all hadn't made sech a eternal row,” broke in Bishop, testily, “I'd 'a' had more timber-land than this. Colonel Barclay has as fine a strip as any I got, an' he's bantered me for a trade time an' agin.”

Abner Daniel seldom sneered at anybody, no matter what the provocation was, but it seemed impossible for him to refrain from it now.

“You've been lookin' fer the last three months like a man that needed more land,” he said. “Jest no furder back 'an last night you 'lowed ef you could git enough fer yore folly to raise the debt off'n yore farm you'd die happy, an' now yo' re a-frettin' beca'se you didn't buy up the sides o' the earth an' give nobody else a foothold. Le' me tell you the truth, even ef it does hurt a little. Ef Alan hadn't thought o' this heer railroad idea, you'd 'a' been the biggest human pancake that ever lay flat in its own grease.”

“I hain't said nothin' to the contrary,” admitted Bishop, who really took the reproof well. “Alan knows what I think about it.”

Then Bishop and his wife went to Craig's bank, and a moment later Miller returned, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.

“We got through, and he's gone to catch his train,” he said.

“It worked as smooth as goose-grease. I wonder what Pole Baker said to him, or if he saw him. I have an idea he did, from the way Wilson danced to our music.”

“Heer's Pole now,” said Abner, from the door. “Come in heer, you triflin' loafer, an' give an account o' yorese'f.”

“I seed 'im makin' fer the train,” laughed Pole, “an' so I sneaked in to see what you-uns done. He walked like he owned the town.”

“It went through like lightning, without a hitch or a bobble,” Abner told him. “We was jest a-won-derin' what you shot into 'im.”

“I hardly know,” Pole sniggered. “I got to talkin' to 'im an' it looked to me like I was chippin' off tan-bark with the sharpest tool I ever handled. Every lick seemed to draw blood, an' he stood an' tuck it without a start or a shiver. I said to myse'f: 'Pole Baker, yo're nothin' but a rag-tag, bob-tail mountain Hoosier, an' he's a slick duck from up North, with a gold watch-chain an' a silk beaver, but he's a lappin' up what you say like a hungry kitten does a pan o' milk. Go it, old boy, an' ef you win, you 'll he'p the finest man out o' trouble—I mean Alan Bishop, by gum—that ever lived.' It seemed to me I was filled with the fire of heaven. I could 'a' been at it yet—fer I'd jest started—but he drawed his watch on me, an' made a shoot fer this office, me with 'im, fer feer some yokel would strike up with 'im. I mighty nigh shoved 'im in at the door.”

“You did noble,” said Miller, while Pole and Alan were silently clasping hands. “Now I told you we wouldn't forget you. Go down to Wimbley's and tell him to give you the best suit of clothes he's got, and to charge them to me 'n' Alan.”

Pole drew himself up to his full height, and stared at the lawyer with flashing eyes.

“Damn yore soul,” he said; “don't you say a thing like that to me agin. I 'll have you know I've got feelin' s as well as you or anybody else. I'd cut off this right arm an' never wince to do Alan Bishop a favor, but I 'll be danged ef anybody kin look me over after I've done a little one an' pay me for it in store-clothes. I don't like that one bit, an' I ain't afeerd to say so.”

“I didn't mean any offence, Pole,” apologized Miller, most humbly.

“Well, you wouldn't 'a' said it to some men,” growled Pole, “I know that. When I want pay fer a thing like that, I 'll jest go to that corner o' the street an' look down at that rock-pile, whar Alan found me one day an' paid me out jest to keep me from bein' the laughin'-stock o' this town.”

Alan put his arm over his shoulder. “Rayburn didn't mean any harm,” he said, gently. “You are both my friends, and we've had a big victory to-day; let's not have hard feelings.”

Pole hung his head stubbornly and Miller extended his hand. Abner Daniel was an attentive listener, a half smile on his face.

“Say, Pole,” he said, with a little laugh, “you run down to Wimbley's an' tell 'im not to wrop up that suit. I'm a-owin' him a bill, an' he kin jest credit the value of it on my account.”

Pole laughed heartily and thrust his big hand into Miller's.

“Uncle Ab,” he said, “you'd make a dog laugh.”

“I believe yo' re right,” said Abner, significantly, and then they all roared at Pole's expense.

The next day Alan received the following letter from Dolly Barclay:

“DEAR ALAN,—Rayburn Miller told me in confidence of your wonderful success yesterday, and I simply cried with joy. I knew—I felt that you would win, and this is, as he says, a glorious beginning. I am so proud of you, and I am so full of hope to-day. All our troubles will come out right some day, and now that I know you love me I can wait. Rayburn would not have confided so much to me, but he said, while he would not let me tell father anything about the prospective railroad, he wanted me to prevent him from selling his tract of land near yours. You know my father consults me about all his business, and he will not dispose of that property without my knowing of it. Oh, wouldn't it he a fine joke on him to have him profit by your good judgment.”

Alan was at the little post-office in Filmore's store when he received the letter, and he folded it and restored it to its envelope with a heart filled with love and tenderness. As he walked home through the woods, it seemed to him that everything in nature was ministering to his boundless happiness. He felt as light as air as he strode along. “God bless her dear, dear little soul!” he said, fervently.