HE summer ended, the autumn passed, 'and Christmas approached. Nothing of much importance had taken place among the characters of this little history. The Southern Land and Timber Company, and Wilson in particular, had disappointed Miller and Alan by their reticence in regard to the progress of the railroad scheme. At every meeting with Wilson they found him either really or pretendedly indifferent about the matter. His concern, he told them, was busy in other quarters, and that he really did not know what they would finally do about it.

“He can' t pull the wool over my eyes,” Miller told his friend, after one of these interviews. “He simply thinks he can freeze you out by holding off till you have to raise money.”

“He may have inquired into my father's financial condition,” suggested Alan, with a long face.

“Most likely,” replied the lawyer.

“And discovered exactly where we stand.”

“Perhaps, but we must not believe that till we know it. I'm going to try to checkmate him. I don't know how, but I 'll think of something. He feels that he has the upper hand now, but I 'll interest him some of these days.”

Alan's love affair had also been dragging. He had had numerous assurances of Dolly's constancy, but since learning how her father had acted the night he supposed she had eloped with Alan, her eyes had been opened to the seriousness of offending Colonel Barclay. She now knew that her marriage against his will would cause her immediate disinheritance, and she was too sensible a girl to want to go to Alan without a dollar and with the doors of her home closed against her. Besides, she believed in Alan' s future. She, somehow, had more faith in the railroad than any other interested person. She knew, too, that she was now more closely watched than formerly. She had, with firm finality, refused Frank Hillhouse's offer of marriage, and that had not helped her case in the eyes of her exasperated parent. Her mother occupied neutral ground; she had a vague liking for Alan Bishop, and, if the whole truth must be told, was heartily enjoying the situation. She was enjoying it so subtly and so heartily, in her own bloodless way, that she was at times almost afraid of its ending suddenly.

On Christmas Eve Adele was expected home from Atlanta, and Alan had come in town to meet her. As it happened, an accident delayed her train so that it would not reach Darley till ten o' clock at night instead of six in the evening, so there was nothing for her brother to do but arrange for their staying that night at the Johnston House. Somewhat to Alan' s surprise, who had never discovered the close friendship and constant correspondence existing between Miller and his sister, the former announced that he was going to spend the night at the hotel and drive out to the farm with them the next morning. Of course, it was agreeable, Alan reflected, but it was a strange thing for Miller to propose.

From the long veranda of the hotel after supper that evening the two friends witnessed the crude display of holiday fireworks in the street below. Half a dozen big bonfires made of dry-goods boxes, kerosene and tar barrels, and refuse of all kinds were blazing along the main street. Directly opposite the hotel the only confectionery and toy store in the place was crowded to overflowing by eager customers, and in front of it the purchasers of fireworks were letting them off for the benefit of the bystanders. Fire-crackers were exploded by the package, and every now and then a clerk in some store would come to the front door and fire off a gun or a revolver.

All this noise and illumination was at its height when Adele's train drew up in the car-shed. The bonfires near at hand made it as light as day, and she had no trouble recognizing the two friends.

“Oh, what an awful racket!” she exclaimed, as she released herself from Alan' s embrace and gave her hand to Miller.

“It's in your honor,” Miller laughed, as, to Alan' s vast astonishment, he held on to her hand longer than seemed right. “We ought to have had the brass band out.”

“Oh, I'm so glad to get home,” said Adele, laying her hand on Miller's extended arm. Then she released it to give Alan her trunk-checks. “Get them, brother,” she said. “Mr. Miller will take care of me. I suppose you are not going to drive home to-night.”

“Not if you are tired,” said Miller, in a tone Alan had never heard his friend use to any woman, nor had he ever seen such an expression on Miller's face as lay there while the lawyer's eyes were feasting themselves on the girl's beauty.

Alan hurried away after the trunks and a porter. He was almost blind with a rage that was new to him. Was Miller deliberately beginning a flirtation with Adele at a moment's notice? And had she been so spoiled by the “fast set” of Atlanta during her stay there that she would allow it—even if Miller was a friend of the family? He found a negro porter near the heap of luggage that had been hurled from the baggage-car, and ordered his sister's trunks taken to the hotel. Then he followed the couple moodily up to the hotel parlor. He was destined to undergo another shock, for, on entering that room, he surprised Miller and Adele on a sofa behind the big square piano with their heads suspiciously near together, and so deeply were they engaged in conversation that, although he drew up a chair near them, they paid no heed to him further than to recognize his appearance with a lifting of their eyes. They were talking of social affairs in Atlanta and people whose names were unfamiliar to Alan. He rose and stood before the fireplace, but they did not notice his change of position. Truly it was maddening. He told himself that Adele's pretty face and far too easy manner had attracted Miller's attention temporarily, and the fellow was daring to enter one of his flirtations right before his eyes. Alan would give him a piece of his mind at the first opportunity, even if he was under obligations to him. Indeed, Miller had greatly disappointed him, and so had Adele. He had always thought she, like Dolly Barclay, was different from other girls; but no, she was like them all. Miller's attention had simply turned her head. Well, as soon as he had a chance he would tell her a few things about Miller and his views of women. That would put her on her guard, but it would not draw out the poisoned sting left by Miller's presumption, or indelicacy, or whatever it was. Alan rose and stood at the fire unnoticed for several minutes, and then he showed that he was at least a good chaperon, for he reached out and drew on the old-fashioned bell-pull in the chimney-corner. The porter appeared, and Alan asked: “Is my sister's room ready?”

“Yes, it's good and warm now, suh,” said the negro. “I started the fire an hour ago.”

Miller and Adele had paused to listen.

“Oh, you are going to hurry me off to bed,” the girl said, with an audible sigh.

“You must be tired after that ride,” said Alan, coldly.

“That's a fact, you must be,” echoed Miller. “Well, if you have to go, you can finish telling me in the morning. You know I'm going to spend the night here, where I have a regular room, and I 'll see you at breakfast.”

“Oh, I'm so glad,” said Adele. “Yes, I can finish telling you in the morning.” Then she seemed to notice her brother's long face, and she laughed out teasingly: “I 'll bet he and Dolly are no nearer together than ever.”

“You are right,” Miller joined in her mood; “the Colonel still has his dogs ready for Alan, but they 'll make it up some day, I hope. Dolly is next to the smartest girl I know.”

“Oh, you are a flatterer,” laughed Adele, and she gave Miller her hand. “Don't forget to be up for early breakfast. We must start soon in the morning. I'm dying to see the home folks.”

Alan was glad that Miller had a room of his own, for he was not in a mood to converse with him; and when Adele had retired he refused Miller's proffered cigar and went to his own room.

Miller grunted as Alan turned away. “He's had bad news of some sort,” he thought, “and it's about Dolly Barclay. I wonder, after all, if she would stick to a poor man. I begin to think some women would. Adele is of that stripe—yes, she is, and isn't she stunning-looking? She's a gem of the first water, straight as a die, full of pluck and—she's all right—all right!”

He went out on the veranda to smoke and enjoy repeating these things over to himself. The bonfires in the street were dying down to red embers, around which stood a few stragglers; but there was a blaze of new light over the young man' s head. Along his horizon had dawned a glorious reason for his existence; a reason that discounted every reason he had ever entertained. “Adele, Adele,” he said to himself, and then his cigar went out. Perhaps, his thoughts ran on in their mad race with happiness—perhaps, with her fair head on her pillow, she was thinking of him as he was of her.

Around the corner came a crowd of young men singing negro songs. They passed under the veranda, and Miller recognized Frank Hillhouse's voice. “That you, Frank?” Miller called out, leaning over the railing.

“Yes—that you, Ray?” Hillhouse stepped out into view. “Come on; we are going to turn the town over. Every sign comes down, according to custom, you know. Old Thad Moore is drunk in the calaboose. They put him in late this evening. We are going to mask and let him out. It's a dandy racket; we are going to make him think we are White Caps, and then set him down in the bosom of his family. Come on.”

“I can't to-night,” declined Miller, with a laugh. “I'm dead tired.”

“Well, if you hear all the church bells ringing, you needn't think it's fire, and jump out of your skin. We ain't going to sleep to-night, and we don't intend to let anybody else do it.”

“Well, go it while you are young,” Miller retorted, with a laugh, and Hillhouse joined his companions in mischief and they passed on singing merrily.

Miller threw his cigar away and went to his room. He was ecstatically happy. The mere thought that Adele Bishop was under the same roof with him, and on the morrow was going to people who liked him, and leaned on his advice and experience, gave him a sweet content that thrilled him from head to foot.

“Perhaps I ought to tell Alan,” he mused, “but he 'll find it out soon enough; and, hang it all, I can' t tell him how I feel about his own sister, after all the rot I've stuffed into him.”