FTER supper that evening the Bishops sat out on the veranda to get the cool air before retiring. There was only one light burning in the house, and that was the little, smoky lamp in the kitchen, where the cook was washing the dishes. Bishop sat near his wife, his coat off and vest unbuttoned, his chair tilted back against the weatherboarding. Abner Daniel, who had been trying ever since supper to cheer them up in regard to their financial misfortune, sat smoking in his favorite chair near the banisters, on top of which he now and then placed his stockinged feet.

“You needn't talk that away, brother Ab,” sighed Mrs. Bishop. “Yo're jest doin' it out o' goodness o' heart. We might as well face the truth; we've got to step down from the position we now hold, an' present way o' livin'. And thar's Adele. Pore child! She said in 'er last letter that she'd cried 'er eyes out. She was bent on comin' home, but 'er uncle William won't let 'er. He said she'd not do any good.”

“An' she wouldn't,” put in Bishop, gruffly. “The sight o' you an' Alan before me all the time is enough to show me what a fool I've been.”

“You are both crossin' bridges 'fore you git to 'em,” said Abner. “A lots o' folks has come out'n scrapes wuss'n what you are in, ten to one. I'ain't never mentioned it, but my land hain't got no mortgage on it, an' I could raise a few scads, to he'p keep up yore intrust an' taxes till you could see yore way ahead.”

“Huh!” snorted his brother-in-law. “Do you reckon I'd let as old a man as you are, an' no blood kin, stake his little all to help me out of a hole that is gittin' deeper an' wider all the time—a hole I deliberately got myse'f into? Well, not much!”

“I wouldn't listen to that nuther,” declared Mrs. Bishop, “but not many men would offer it.”

They heard a horse trotting down the road and all bent their heads to listen. “It's Alan,” said Abner. “I was thinkin' it was time he was showin' up.”

Mrs. Bishop rose wearily to order the cook to get his supper ready, and returned to the veranda just as Alan Was coming from the stable. He sat down on the steps, lashing the legs of his dusty trousers with his riding-whip. It was plain that he had something of importance to say and they all waited in impatient silence.

“Father,” he said, “I've had a talk with Rayburn Miller about your land; he and I have lately been working on a little idea of mine. You know there are people who will lend money on real-estate. How would it suit you to borrow twenty-five thousand dollars on that land, giving that alone as security.”

There was a startled silence, and Bishop broke it in a tone of great irritation.

“Do you take me fer a plumb fool?” he asked. “When I want you an' Miller to dabble in my business I 'll call on you. Twenty-five thousand, I say! If I could exchange every acre of it fer enough to lift the mortgage on this farm an' keep a roof over our heads I'd do it gladly. Pshaw!”

There was another silence, and then Alan began to explain. He almost seemed to his father and mother to be some stranger, as he sat there in the half dark ness, his eyes hidden by the brim of his soft hat, and told them how he had worried over their trouble till the idea of building a railroad had come to him. Then Miller had become interested, after discouraging him, and had gone to Atlanta to see Wilson, and it remained for the next day to decide what the outcome would be in regard to the big loan.

While he talked Mrs. Bishop sat like a figure cut from stone, and Bishop leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his big face in his hands. It was as if a tornado of hope had blown over him, shaking him through and through.

“You been doin' this to he'p me out,” he gasped, “an' I never so much as axed yore opinion one way or another.”

“I'd rather see you make money out of that purchase than anything in the world,” said his son, with feeling. “People have made fun of you in your old age, but if we can build the road and you can get your hundred thousand dollars some of these folks will laugh on the other side of their faces.”

Bishop was so full of excitement and emotion that he dared not trust his voice to utterance. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, pretending to be calm, though his alert wife saw that he was quivering in every limb.

“Oh, Alan,” she cried, “don't you see how excited your pa is? You ought not to raise his hopes this way on such an uncertainty. As Mr. Miller said, there may be some slip and we'd be right back where we was, and feel wuss than ever.”

Bishop rose from his chair and began to walk to and fro on the veranda. “It ain't possible,” they heard him saying. “I won't git out as easy as that—I jest cayn't!”

“Perhaps it would be wrong to expect too much,” said Alan, “but I was obliged to tell you what we are going in town for to-morrow.”

Bishop wheeled and paused before them. “Ef Wilson puts up the money I'd have enough to lift the mortgage an' a clean twenty thousand besides to put in some good investment.”

Aunt Maria, the colored cook, came out and timidly announced that Alan's supper was on the table, but no one heard her. She crossed the veranda and touched the young man on the shoulder.

“Supper's raidy, Marse Alan,” she said, “en it's gittin' col' ergin.”

He rose and followed her into the dining-room and sat down in his accustomed place at the long table. When he had eaten he went back to the group on the veranda.

“I think I 'll go up to bed,” he told them. “My ride and running around at Darley has made me very tired. Father, get all your papers together and let's take an early start in the morning.”

But despite his feeling of weariness, Alan found he could not sleep. The bright moonlight, streaming in at his window, seemed a disturbing element. About eleven o'clock he heard some one turning the windlass at the well, and later the clatter of falling utensils in the kitchen, and the dead thump of a heavy tread below. He knew then that his father was up, and, like himself, unable to sleep. Presently Mrs. Bishop slipped into his room.

“Are you awake, son?” She spoke in a whisper that she might not disturb him if he were asleep.

He laughed. “I haven't closed my eyes; it seems to me I have gone over my conversation with Miller a thousand times.”

“I've give up tryin',” she told him, with a gratified little laugh. “I think I could, though, if your pa would 'a' kept still. He's in the kitchen now makin' him a cup o' strong coffee. He's been over them papers ever since you come up-stairs. Alan, I'm actually afeerd he couldn't stand it if that man didn't put up the money.”

“It would go hard with him,” said Alan. “Has Uncle Ab gone to sleep?”

“No; he's settin' in the door o' his room chawin' tobacco; he lays the blame on yore pa. I don't think I ever saw him so irritated before. But nobody ain't to blame but hisse'f. He's jest excited like the rest of us. I've seed 'im lie an' snore with a bigger noise goin' on around 'im 'an yore pa is a-makin'.”