HAT afternoon the breeze swerved round from the south, bringing vague threats About three o' clock Alan, his his mother and father were in the front yard, looking at the house, with a view to making some alterations that had been talked of for several years past.

“I never had my way in anything before,” Mrs. Bishop was running on, in the pleased voice of a happy child, “and I'm glad you are goin' to let me this once. I want the new room to jut out on this side from the parlor, and have a bay-window, and we must cut a wide foldin'-door between the two rooms. Then the old veranda comes down and the new one must have a double floor, like Colonel Sprague's on the river, except ours will have round, white columns instead o' square, if they do cost a trifle more.”

“She knows what she wants,” said Bishop, with one of his infrequent smiles, “and I reckon we'd save a little to let her boss the job, ef she don't hender the carpenters by too much talk. I don't want 'em to put in a stick o' lumber that ain't the best.”

“I'm glad she's going to have her way,” said Alan. “She's wanted a better house for twenty years, and she deserves it.”

“I don't believe in sech fine feathers,” said Bishop, argumentatively. “I'd a leetle ruther wait till we see whether Wilson's a-goin' to put that road through—then we could afford to put on a dab or two o' style. I don't know but I'd move down to Atlanta an' live alongside o' Bill, an' wear a claw-hammer coat an' a dicky cravat fer a change.”

“Then you mought run fer the legislatur',” spoke up Abner Daniel, who had been an amused listener, “an' git up a law to pen up mad dogs at the dangerous part o' the yeer. Alf, I've always thought you'd be a' ornament to the giddy whirl down thar. William was ever' bit as green as you are when he fust struck the town. But he had the advantage o' growin' up an' sorter ripenin' with the place. It ud be hard on you at yore time o' life.”

At this juncture Alan called their attention to a horseman far down the road. “It looks like Ray Miller's mare,” he remarked. “This is one of his busy days; he can' t be coming to fish.”

“Railroad news,” suggested Abner. “It's a pity you hain't connected by telegraph.”

They were all now sure that it was Miller, and with no little curiosity they moved nearer the gate.

“By gum! he's been givin' his mare the lash,” said Abner. “She's fairly kivered with froth.”

“Hello, young man,” Alan called out, as Miller dismounted at a hitching-post just outside the fence and fastened his bridle-rein. “Glad to see you; come in.”

Miller bowed and smiled as he opened the gate and came forward to shake hands.

“We are certainly glad you came, Mr. Miller,” said Mrs. Bishop, with all her quaint cordiality. “Ever since that day in the office I've wanted a chance to show you how much we appreciate what you done fer us. Brother Ab will bear me out when I say we speak of it mighty nigh ever'day.”

Miller wore an inexpressible look of embarrassment, which he tried to lose in the act of shaking hands all round the group, but his platitudes fell to the ground. Abner, the closest observer among them, already had his brows drawn together as he pondered Miller's unwonted lack of ease.

“Bring any fishing-tackle?” asked Alan.

“No, I didn't,” said the lawyer, jerking himself to that subject awkwardly. “The truth is, I only ran out for a little ride. I've got to get back.”

“Then it is business, as brother Ab said,” put in Mrs. Bishop, tentatively.

Miller lowered his eyes to the ground and then raised them to Alan's face.

“Yes, it's railroad business,” said Abner, his voice vibrant with suspense.

“And it's not favorable,” said Alan, bravely. “I can see that by your looks.”

Miller glanced at his mare, and lashed the leg of his top-boots with his riding-whip. “No, I have bad news, but it's not about the railroad. I could have written, but I thought I'd better come myself.”

“Adele!” gasped Mrs. Bishop. “You have heard—”

“No, she's well,” said Miller. “It's about the money you put in Craig's bank.”

“What about that?” burst from old Bishop's startled lips.

“Craig claims Winship has absconded with all the cash. The bank has failed.”

“Failed!” The word was a moan from Bishop, and for a moment no one spoke. A negro woman at the wash-place behind the house was using a batting-stick on some clothing, and the dull blows came to them distinctly.

“Is that so, Ray?” asked Alan, calm but pale to the lips.

“I'm sorry to say it is.”

“Can anything at all be done?”

“I've done everything possible already. We have been telegraphing the Atlanta police all morning about tracing Winship, but they don't seem much interested. They think he's had too big a start on us. You see, he's been gone two days and nights. Craig says he thought he was on a visit to relatives till he discovered the loss last night.”

“It simply spells ruin, old man,” said Alan, grimly. “I can see that.”

Miller said nothing for a moment—then:

“It's just as bad as it could be, my boy,” he said. “I see no reason to raise false hopes. There is a strong feeling against Craig, and no little suspicion, owing to the report that he has been speculating heavily, but he has thrown himself on the protection of his church, and even some of his fellow-members, who lose considerably, are standing by him.”

Here old Bishop, with compressed lips, turned and walked unsteadily into the house. With head hanging low and eyes flashing strangely, his wife followed him. At the steps she paused, her sense of hospitality transcending her despair. “You must stay to early supper, anyway, Mr. Miller,” she said. “You could ride back in the cool o' the evening.”

“Thank you, but I must hurry right back, Mrs. Bishop,” Miller said.

“And Dolly—does she know?” asked Alan, when his mother had disappeared and Abner had walked to the hitching-post, and stood as if thoughtfully inspecting Miller's mare. Miller told him of their conversation that morning, and Alan' s face grew tender and more resigned.

“She's a brick!” said Miller. “She's a woman I now believe in thoroughly—she and one other.”

“Then there is another?” asked Alan, almost cheerfully, as an effect of the good news that had accompanied the bad.

“Yes. I see things somewhat differently of late,” admitted Miller, in an evasive, non-committal tone. “Dolly Barclay opened my eyes, and when they were open I saw—well, the good qualities of some one else. I may tell you about her some day, but I shall not now. Get your horse and come to town with me. We must be ready for any emergency.”

Abner Daniel came towards them. “I don't want to harm nobody's character,” he said; “but whar my own kin is concerned, I'm up an' wide awake. I don't know what you think, but I hain't got a speck o' faith in Craig hisse'f. He done me a low, sneakin' trick once that I ketched up with. He swore it was a mistake, but it wasn't. He's a bad egg—you mind what I say; he won't do.”

“It may be as you say, Mr. Daniel,” returned Miller, with a lawyer's reserve on a point unsubstantiated by evidence, “but even if he has the money hidden away, how are we to get it from him?”

“I'd find a way,” retorted Daniel, hotly, “so I would.”

“We 'll do all we can,” said Miller.

Daniel strode into the house and Alan went after his horse. Miller stood at the gate, idly tapping his boot with his whip.

“Poor Mrs. Bishop!” he said, his eyes on the house; “how very much she resembled Adele just now, and she is bearing it just like the little girl would. I reckon they 'll write her the bad news. I wish I was there to—soften the blow. It will wring her heart.”