M glad you got back.” Rayburn's sister, Mrs. Lampson, said to him at breakfast the morning following his return on the midnight train. “We are having a glorious meeting at our church.”

“Oh, is that so?” said the young man, sipping his coffee. “Who is conducting it?”

“Brother Maynell,” answered Mrs. Lampson, enthusiastically, a tinge of color in her wan, thin face. “He's a travelling evangelist, who has been conducting revivals all over the South. It is really remarkable the interest he has stirred up. We are holding prayer-meetings morning and afternoon, though only the ladies meet in the afternoon. I conducted the meeting yesterday.”

“Oh no; did you, really? Why, sis—”

“Don't begin to poke fun at me,” said Mrs. Lamp-son. “I know I didn't do as well as some of the others, but I did the best I could, because I felt it was my duty.”

“I was not going to make fun,” said Miller, soothingly; “but it seems mighty strange to think of you standing up before all the rest, and—”

“It was not such a very hard thing to do,” said the lady, who was older than her brother by ten years. She had gray hairs at her temples, and looked generally as if she needed out-door exercise and some diversion to draw her out of herself.

Rayburn helped himself to the deliciously browned, fried chicken, in its bed of cream gravy, and a hot puffy biscuit.

“And how does Mr. Lapsley, the regular preacher, like this innovation?” he questioned. “I reckon you all pay the new man a fee for stirring things up?”

“Yes; we agreed to give him two hundred dollars, half of which goes to an orphan asylum he is building. Oh, I don't think brother Lapsley minds much, but of course it must affect him a little to see the great interest brother Maynell has roused, and I suppose some are mean enough to think he could have done the same, if he had tried.”

“No, it's clearly a case of a new broom,” smiled Rayburn, buttering his biscuit. “Old Lap might get up there and groan and whine for a week and not touch a mourner with a ten-foot pole. The other chap knows his business, and part of his business is not to stay long enough to wear out his pet phrases or exhaust his rockets. I'm sorry for Lapsley; he's paid a regular salary, and is not good for any other sort of work, and this shows him up unfairly. In the long run, I believe he 'll get as many into the church as the other man, and they will be more apt to stick. Sister, that's the trouble with these tin-pan revivals. The biggest converts backslide. I reckon you are working over old material now.”

Mrs. Lampson frowned and her lip stiffened.

“I don't like your tone in speaking of such things,” she said. “Indeed, Rayburn, I have been deeply mortified in the last week by some remarks that have been made about you. I didn't intend to mention them, but you make me do it.”

“Oh, I knew they wouldn't let me rest,” said Miller; “they never do in their annual shake-ups.”

“Brother, you are looked on by nearly all religious workers in town as a dangerous young man—I mean dangerous to the boys who are just growing up, because they all regard you as a sort of standard to shape their conduct by. They see you going to balls and dances and playing cards, and they think it is smart and will not be interested in our meetings. They see that you live and seem to prosper under it, and they follow in your footsteps. I am afraid you don't realize the awful example you are setting. Brother May-nell has heard of you and asked me about you the other day. Some people think you have been in Atlanta all this time to avoid the meeting.”

“I didn't know it was going on,” said Miller, testily. “I assure you I never run from a thing like that. The best thing to do is to add fuel to the fire—it burns out quicker.”

“Well, you will go out to meeting, won't you?” insisted the sweet-voiced woman. “You won't have them all thinking you have no respect for the religion of our father and mother—will you?”

Rayburn squirmed under this close fire.

“I shall go occasionally when there is preaching,” he said, reluctantly. “I would be out of place at one of the—the knock-down and drag-out shouting-bees.” Then, seeing her look of horror at the words which had unthoughtedly glided from his lips, he strove to make amends. “Oh, sister, do—do be reasonable, and look at it from my point of view. I don't believe that's the way to serve God or beautify the world. I believe in being happy in one's own way, just so that you don't tread on the rights of other people.”

“But,” said Mrs. Lampson, her eyes flashing, “you are treading on the rights of others. They are trying to save the souls of the rising generation in the community, and you and your social set use your influence in the other direction.”

“But what about the rights of my social set, if you want to call it by that name?” Miller retorted, warmly. “We have the right to enjoy ourselves in our way, just as you have in yours. We don't interfere—we never ask you to close up shop so we can have a dance or a picnic, but you do. If we dare give a party while some revivalist is filling his pockets in town the revivalist jumps on us publicly and holds us up as examples of headlong plungers into fiery ruin. There is not a bit of justice or human liberty in that, and you 'll never reach a certain element till you quit such a course. Last year one of the preachers in this town declared in the pulpit that a girl could not be pure and dance a round dance. It raised the very devil in the hearts of the young men, who knew he was a dirty liar, and they got up as many dances out of spite as they possibly could. In fact, some of them came near knocking the preacher down on the street. I am a conservative sort of fellow, but I secretly wished that somebody would slug that man in the jaw.”

“I'm really afraid you are worse than ever,” sighed Mrs. Lampson. “I don't know what to do with you.” She laughed good-naturedly as she rose and stood behind his chair, touching his head tenderly. “It really does make me rather mad,” she confessed, “to hear them making you out such a bad stripe when I know what a wonderful man you really are for your age. I really believe some of them are jealous of your success and standing, but I do want you to be more religious.” When Miller reached his office about ten o' clock and had opened the door he noticed that Craig's bank on the corner across the street was still closed. It was an unusual occurrence at that hour and it riveted Miller's attention. Few people were on the street, and none of them seemed to have noticed it. The church-bell in the next block was ringing for the revivalist's prayer-meeting, and Miller saw the merchants and lawyers hurrying by on their way to worship. Miller stood in his front door and bowed to them as they passed. Trabue hustled out of his office, pulling the door to with a jerk.

“Prayer-meeting?” he asked, glancing at Miller.

“No, not to-day,” answered Miller; “got some writing to do.”

“That preacher's a hummer,” said the old lawyer. “I've never seen his equal. He'd 'a' made a bang-up criminal lawyer. Why, they say old Joe Murphy's converted—got out of his bed at midnight and went to Tim Slocum's house to get 'im to pray for 'im. He's denied thar was a God all his life till now. I say a preacher's worth two hundred to a town if it can do that sort of work.”

“He's certainly worth it to Slocum,” said Miller, with a smile. “If I'd been denying there was a God as long as he has, I'd pay more than that to get rid of the habit. Slocum's able, and I think he ought to foot that preacher's bill.”

“You are a tough customer, Miller,” said Trabue, with a knowing laugh. “You'd better look out—May-nell's got an eye on you. He 'll call out yore name some o' these days, an' ask us to pray fer you.”

“I was just wondering if there's anything wrong with Craig,” said Miller. “I see his door's not open.”

“Oh, I reckon not,” said the old lawyer. “He's been taking part in the meeting. He may have overslept.”

There was a grocery-store near Miller's office, and the proprietor came out on the sidewalk and joined the two men. His name was Barnett. He was a powerful man, who stood six feet five in his boots; he wore no coat, and his suspenders were soiled and knotted.

“I see you-uns is watchin' Craig's door,” he said. “I've had my eye on it ever since breakfast. I hardly know what to make of it. I went thar to buy some New York exchange to pay for a bill o' flour, but he wouldn't let me in. I know he's thar, for I seed 'im go in about an hour ago. I mighty nigh shook the door off'n the hinges. His clerk, that Western fellow, Win-ship, has gone off to visit his folks, an' I reckon maybe Craig's got all the book-keepin' to do.”

“Well, he oughtn't to keep his doors closed at this time of day,” remarked Miller. “A man who has other people's money in his charge can' t be too careful.”

“He's got some o' mine,” said the grocer, “and Mary Ann Tarpley, my wife's sister, put two hundred thar day before yesterday. Oh, I reckon nothin' s wrong, though I do remember I heerd somebody say Craig bought cotton futures an' sometimes got skeerd up a little about meetin' his obligations.”

“I have never heard that,” said Rayburn Miller, raising his brows.

“Well, I have, an' I've heerd the same o' Winship,” said the grocer, “but I never let it go no furder. I ain't no hand to circulate ill reports agin a good member of the church.”

Miller bit his lip and an unpleasant thrill passed over him as Trabue walked on. “Twenty-five thousand,” he thought, “is no small amount. It would tempt five men out of ten if they were inclined to go wrong, and were in a tight.”

The grocer was looking at him steadily.

“You bank thar, don't you?” he asked.

Miller nodded: “But I happen to have no money there right now. I made a deposit at the other bank yesterday.”

“Suspicious, heigh? Now jest a little, wasn't you?” The grocer now spoke with undisguised uneasiness.

“Not at all,” replied the lawyer. “I was doing some business for the other bank, and felt that I ought to favor them by my cash deposits.”

“You don't think thar's anything the matter, do you?” asked the grocer, his face still hardening.

“I think Craig is acting queerly—very queerly for a banker,” was Miller's slow reply. “He has always been most particular to open up early and—”

“Hello,” cried out a cheery voice, that of the middle-aged proprietor of the Darley Flouring Mills, emerging from Barnett's store. “I see you fellows have your eye on Craig's front. If he was a drinking man we might suspicion he'd been on a tear last night, wouldn't we?”

“It looks damned shaky to me,” retorted the grocer, growing more excited. “I'm goin' over there an' try that door again. A man 'at has my money can't attract the attention Craig has an' me say nothin'.”

The miller pulled his little turf of gray beard and winked at Rayburn.

“You been scarin' Barnett,” he said, with a tentative inflection. “He's easily rattled. By-the-way, now that I think of it, it does seem to me I heard some of the Methodists talkin' about reproving Craig an' Winship for speculatin' in grain and cotton. I know they've been dabblin' in it, for Craig always got my market reports. He's been dealin' with a bucket-shop in Atlanta.”

“I'm going over there,” said Miller, abruptly, and he hurried across in the wake of the big grocer. The miller followed him. On the other side of the street several people were curiously watching the bank door, and when Barnett went to it and grasped the handle and began to shake it vigorously they crossed over to him.

“What's wrong?” said a dealer in fruits, a short, thick-set man with a florid face; but Barnett's only reply was another furious shaking of the door.

“Why, man, what's got into you?” protested the fruit-dealer, in a rising tone of astonishment. “Do you intend to break that door down?”

“I will if that damned skunk don't open it an' give me my money,” said Barnett, who was now red in the face and almost foaming at the mouth. “He's back in thar, an' he knows it's past openin' time. By gum! I know more 'n I'm goin' to tell right now.”

This was followed by another rattling of the door, and the grocer's enormous weight, like a battering-ram, was thrown against the heavy walnut shutter.

“Open up, I say—open up in thar!” yelled the grocer, in a voice hoarse with passion and suspense.

A dozen men were now grouped around the doorway. Barnett released the handle and stood facing them.

“Somethin' s rotten in Denmark,” he panted. “Believe me or not, fellows, I know a thing or two. This bank's in a bad fix.”

A thrill of horror shot through Miller. The words had the ring of conviction. Alan Bishop's money was in bad hands if it was there at all. Suddenly he saw a white, trembling hand fumbling with the lower part of the close-drawn window-shade, as if some one were about to raise it; but the shade remained down, the interior still obscured. It struck Miller as being a sudden impulse, defeated by fear of violence. There was a pause. Then the storm broke again. About fifty men had assembled, all wild to know what was wrong. Miller elbowed his way to the door and stood on the step, slightly raised above the others, Barnett by his side. “Let me speak to him,” he said, pacifically. Barnett yielded doggedly, and Rayburn put his lips to the crack between the two folding-doors.

“Mr. Craig!” he called out—“Mr. Craig!”

There was no reply, but Rayburn heard the rustling of paper on the inside near the crack against which his ear was pressed, and then the edge of a sheet of writing-paper was slowly shoved through. Rayburn grasped it, lifting it above a dozen outstretched hands. “Hold on!” he cried, authoritatively. “Til read it.” The silence of the grave fell on the crowd as the young man began to read.

“Friends and citizens,” the note ran, “Winship has absconded with every dollar in the vaults, except about two hundred dollars in my small safe. He has been gone two days, I thought on a visit to his kinfolks. I have just discovered the loss. I'm completely ruined, and am now trying to make out a report of my condition. Have mercy on an old man.”

Rayburn's face was as white as that of a corpse. The paper dropped from his hand and he stepped down into the crowd. He was himself no loser, but the Bishops had lost their all. How could he break the news to them? Presently he began to hope faintly that old Bishop might, within the last week, have drawn out at least part of the money, but that hope was soon discarded, for he remembered that the old man was waiting to invest the greater part of the deposit in some Shoal Creek Cotton Mill stock which had been promised him in a few weeks. No, the hope was groundless. Alan, his father, Mrs. Bishop, and—Adele—Miller's heart sank down into the very ooze of despair. All that he had done for Adele's people, and which had roused her deepest, tenderest gratitude, was swept away. What would she think now?

His train of thought was rudely broken by an oath from Barnett, who, with the rage of a madman, suddenly threw his shoulder against the door. There was a crash, a groan of bursting timber and breaking bolts, and the door flew open. For one instant Miller saw the ghastly face and cowering form of the old banker behind the wire-grating, and then, with a scream of terror, Craig ran into a room in the rear, and thence made his escape at a door opening on the side street. The mob filled the bank, and did not discover Craig's escape for a minute; then, with a howl of rage, it surged back into the street. Craig was ahead of them, running towards the church, where prayer-meeting-was being held, the tails of his long frock-coat flying behind him, his worn silk hat in his convulsive grasp.

“Thar he goes!” yelled Barnett, and he led the mob after him, all running at the top of their speed without realizing why they were doing so. They gained on the fleeing banker, and Barnett could almost touch him when they reached the church. With a cry of fear, like that of a wild animal brought to bay, Craig sprang up the steps and ran into the church, crying and groaning for help.

A dozen men and women and children were kneeling at the altar to get the benefit of the prayers of the ministers and the congregation, but they stood up in alarm, some of them with wet faces.

The mob checked itself at the door, but the greater part of it crowded into the two aisles, a motley human mass, many of them without coats or hats. The travelling evangelist seemed shocked out of expression; but the pastor, Mr. Lapsley, who was an old Confederate soldier, and used to scenes of violence, stood calmly facing them.

“What's all this mean?” he asked.

“I came here for protection,” whined Craig, “to my own church and people. This mob wants to kill me—tear me limb from limb.”

“But what's wrong?” asked the preacher.

“Winship,” panted Craig, his white head hanging down as he stood touching the altar railing—“Win-ship's absconded with all the money in my vault. I'm ruined. These people want me to give up what I haven't got. Oh, God knows, I would refund every cent if I had it!”

“You shall have our protection,” said the minister, calmly. “They won't violate the sacredness of the house of God by raising a row. You are safe here, brother Craig. I'm sure all reasonable people will not blame you for the fault of another.”

“I believe he's got my money,” cried out Barnett, in a coarse, sullen voice, “and the money of some o' my women folks that's helpless, and he's got to turn it over. Oh, he's got money some'r's, I 'll bet on that!”

“The law is your only recourse, Mr. Barnett,” said the preacher, calmly. “Even now you are laying yourself liable to serious prosecution for threatening a man with bodily injury when you can't prove he's wilfully harmed you.”

The words told on the mob, many of them being only small depositors, and Barnett found himself without open support. He was silent. Rayburn Miller, who had come up behind the mob and was now in the church, went to Craig's side. Many thought he was proffering his legal services.

“One word, Mr. Craig,” he said, touching the quivering arm of the banker.

“Oh, you're no loser,” said Craig, turning on him. “There was nothing to your credit.”

“I know that,” whispered Miller, “but as attorney for the Bishops, I have a right to ask if their money is safe.” The eyes of the banker went to the ground.

“It's gone—every cent of it!” he said. “It was their money that tempted Winship. He'd never seen such a large pile at once.”

“You don't mean—” But Miller felt the utter futility of the question on his tongue and turned away. Outside he met Jeff Dukes, one of the town marshals, who had been running, and was very red in the face and out of breath.

“Is that mob in thar?” he asked.

“Yes, and quiet now,” said Miller. “Let them alone; the important thing is to put the police on Winship's track. Come back down-town.”

“I 'll have to git the particulars from Craig fust,” said Dukes. “Are you loser?”

“No, but some of my clients are, and I'm ready to stand any expense to catch the thief.”

“Well, I 'll see you in a minute, and we 'll heat all the wires out of town. I 'll see you in a minute.”

Farther down the street Miller met Dolly Barclay. She had come straight from her home, in an opposite direction from the bank, and had evidently not heard the news.

“I'm on my way to prayer-meeting,” she smiled. “I'm getting good to please the old folks, but—” She noticed his pale face. “What is the matter? Has anything—”

“Craig's bank has failed,” Rayburn told her briefly. “He says Winship has absconded with all the cash in the vaults.”

Dolly stared aghast. “And you—you—”

“I had no money there,” broke in Miller. “I was fortunate enough to escape.”

“But Alan—Mr. Bishop?” She was studying his face and pondering his unwonted excitement. “Had they money there?”

Miller did not answer, but she would not be put aside.

“Tell me,” she urged—“tell me that.”

“If I do, it's in absolute confidence,” he said, with professional firmness. “No one must know—not a soul—that they were depositors, for much depends on it. If Wilson knew they were hard up he might drive them to the wall. They were not only depositors, but they lose every cent they have—twenty-five thousand dollars in a lump.”

He saw her catch her breath, and her lips moved mutely, as if repeating the words he had just spoken. “Poor Alan!” he heard her say. “This is too, too much, after all he has gone through.”

Miller touched his hat and started on, but she joined him, keeping by his side like a patient, pleading child. He marvelled over her strength and wonderful poise. “I am taking you out of your way, Miss Dolly,” he said, gently, more gently than he had ever spoken to her before.

“I only want to know if Alan has heard. Do—do tell me that.”

“No, he's at home. I shall ride out as soon as I get the matter in the hands of the police.”

She put out her slender, shapely hand and touched his arm.

“Tell him,” she said, in a low, uncertain voice, “that it has broken my heart. Tell him I love him more than I ever did, and that I shall stick to him always.”

Miller turned and took off his hat, giving her his hand.

“And I believe you will do it,” he said. “He's a lucky dog, even if he has just struck the ceiling. I know him, and your message will soften the blow. But it's awful, simply awful! I can't now see how they can possibly get from under it.”

“Well, tell him,” said Dolly, with a little, soundless sob in her throat—“tell him what I told you.”