HE mass-meeting at Springtown was a most important event. It was held in the court-house in the centre of the few straggling houses which made up the hamlet. The entire Bishop family, including the servants, attended. Pole Baker brought his wife and all the children in a new spring-wagon. Darley society was represented, as the Springtown Gazette afterwards put it, by the fairest of the fair, Miss Dolly Barclay, accompanied by her mother and father.

The court-house yard was alive with groups of men eagerly talking over the situation. Every individual whose land was to be touched by the proposed road was on hand to protect his rights. Pole Baker was ubiquitous, trying to ascertain the drift of matters. He was, however, rather unsuccessful. He discovered that many of the groups ceased to talk when he entered them. “Some 'n' s up,” he told Alan and Miller in the big, bare-looking court-room. “I don't know what it is, but I smell a rat, an' it ain't no little one, nuther.”

“Opposition,” said Miller, gloomily. “I saw that as soon as I came. If they really were in favor of the road they'd be here talking it over with us.”

“I'm afraid that's it,” said Alan. “Joe Bartell is the most interested, and he seems to be a sort of ringleader. I don't like the way he looks. I saw him sneer at Wilson when he drove up just now. I wish Wilson hadn't put on so much style—kid gloves, plug hat, and a negro driver.”

“No, that won't go down with this crowd,” agreed Miller. “It might in the slums of Boston, but not with these lords of the mountains. As for Bartell, I think I know what ails him. He's going to run for the legislature and thinks he can make votes by opposing us—convincing his constituency that we represent moneyed oppression. Well, he may down us, but it's tough on human progress.”

Alan caught Dolly's eye and bowed. She was seated near her father and mother, well towards the judge's stand. She seemed to have been observing the faces of the two friends, and to be affected by their serious expressions. Adele sat at the long wood stove, several yards from her parents, who appeared quite as if they were in church waiting for service to begin. Abner Daniel leaned in the doorway opening into one of the jury-rooms. Wilson had given him a fine cigar, which he seemed to be enjoying hugely.

At the hour appointed for the meeting, to open, a young man who held the office of bailiff in the county, and seemed proud of his stentorian voice, opened one of the windows and shouted:

“Come in to court! Come in to court!” and the motley loiterers below began to clatter up the broad stairs and fall into the seats. Joe Bartell, a short, thick-set man in the neighborhood of fifty, with a florid face and a shock of reddish hair, led about twenty men up the aisle to the jury-benches at the right of the stand. They were the land-owners whose consent to grant the right of way was asked. Stern opposition was clearly written on the leader's brow and more or less distinctly reflected on the varying faces of his followers.

“Ef we needed it, it ud be a different matter,” Miller overheard him say in a sudden lull, as the big room settled down into sudden quiet, “but we kin do without it. We've got along so fur an' we kin furder. All of us has got good teams.”

Wilson, in his crisp, brusque way, made the opening speech. He told his hearers just what his company proposed to do and in much the same cold-blooded way as he would have dictated a letter to his stenographer, correctly punctuating the text by pauses, and yet, in his own way, endeavoring to be eloquent. He and his capital were going to dispel darkness where it had reigned since the dawn of civilization; people living there now would not recognize the spot ten years from the day the first whistle of a locomotive shrilled through those rocky gorges and rebounded from those lofty peaks—silent fingers pointing to God and speaking of a past dead and gone. All that was needed, he finished, was the consent of the property-owners appealed to; who, he felt confident, would not stand in their own light. They looked like intelligent men, and he believed they did not deceive appearances.

He had hardly taken his seat when Joe Bartell stood up. Alan and Miller exchanged ominous glances. They had at once recognized the inappropriateness of Wilson's speech, and did not like the white, twitching sneer on Bartell's smooth-shaven face. It was as if Bartell had been for a long time seeking just such an opportunity to make himself felt in the community, and there was no doubt that Wilson's almost dictatorial speech had made a fine opening for him.

“Fellow-citizens, an' ladies an' gentlemen,” he began, “we are glad to welcome amongst us a sort of a second savior in our Sodom an' Gomorry of cracker-dom. What the gentleman with the plug hat an' spike-toe shoes ain't a-goin' to do fer us the Lord couldn't. He looks nice an' talks nice, an', to use his words, I don't believe he deceives appearances. I 'll bet one thing, an' that is 'at he won't deceive us. Accordin' to him we need 'im every hour, as the Sunday-school song puts it. Yes, he's a-goin' to he'p us powerful an' right off. An', fellow-citizens, I'm heer to propose a vote o' thanks. He's from away up in Boston, whar, they tell me, a nigger sets an' eats at the same table with the whites. When his sort come this away durin' the war, with all the'r up-to-date impliments of slaughter, they laid waste to ever'thing they struck, shot us like rabbits in holes, an' then went back an' said they'd had a good hunt. But they've been livin' high up thar sence the war an' the'r timber is a-playin' out, an' they want some more now, an' they want it bad. So they send the'r representatives out to find it an' lay hold of it. How does he happen to come heer? As well as I kin make out, old Alf Bishop, a good man an' a Southern soldier—a man that I hain't got nothin' agin, except maybe he holds his head too high, made up his mind awhile back that lumber would be in demand some day, an' he set to work buyin' all the timber-land he could lay his hands on. Then, when he had more'n he could tote, an' was about to go under, he give this gentleman a' option on it. Well, so fur so good; but, gentlemen, what have we got to do with this trade? Nothin' as I kin see. But we are expected to yell an' holler, an' deed 'em a free right of way through our property so they kin ship the timber straight through to the North an' turn it into cold Yankee coin. We don't count in this shuffle, gentlemen. We git our pay fer our land in bein' glad an' heerin' car-bells an' steam-whistles in the middle o' the night when we want to sleep. The engynes will kill our hogs, cattle, an' hosses, an' now an' then break the neck o' some chap that wasn't hit in the war, but we mustn't forget to be glad an' bend the knee o' gratitude. Of course, we all know the law kin compel us to give the right of way, but it provides fer just and sufficient payment fer the property used; an', gentlemen, I'm agin donations. I'm agin' em tooth an' toe-nail.”

There was thunderous and ominous applause when Bartell sat down. Wilson sat flushed and embarrassed, twirling his gloves in his hands. He had expected anything but this personal fusillade. He stared at Miller in surprise over that gentleman's easy, half-amused smile as he stood up.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “and ladies,” he added, with a bow to the right and left. “As many of you know, I pretend to practise law a little, and I want to say now that I'm glad Mr. Bartell ain't in the profession. A lawyer with his keen wit and eloquence could convict an innocent mother before a jury of her own children. [Laughter.] And that's the point, gentlemen; we are innocent of the charges against us. I am speaking now of my clients, the Bishops. They are deeply interested in the development of this section. The elder Bishop does hold his head high, and in this case he held it high enough to smell coming prosperity in the air. He believed it would come, and that is why he bought timber-lands extensively. As for the accused gentleman from the Hub of the Universe, I must say that I have known of him for several years and have never heard a word against his character. He is not a farmer, but a business man, and it would be unfair to judge him by any other standard. He is not only a business man, but a big one. He handles big things. This railroad is going to be a big thing for you and your children. Yes, Wilson is all right. He didn't fight in the late unpleasantness. He tells the women he was too young; but I believe he hadn't the heart to fight a cause as just as ours. His only offence is in the matter of wearing sharp-toed shoes. There is no law against 'em in Atlanta, and he's simply gotten careless. He is ignorant of our ideas of proper dress, as befitting a meek and lowly spirit, which, in spite of appearances, I happen to know Wilson possesses. However, I have heard him say that these mountains produce the best corn liquor that ever went down grade in his system. He's right. It's good. Pole Baker says it's good, and he ought to know. [Laughter, in which Pole joined good-naturedly.] That reminds me of a story,” Miller went on. “They tell this of Baker. They say that a lot of fellows were talking of the different ways they would prefer to meet death if it had to come. One said drowning, another shooting, another poisoning, and so on; but Pole reserved his opinion to the last. When the crowd urged him to say what manner of death he would select, if he had to die and had his choice, he said: 'Well, boys, ef I had to go, I'd like to be melted up into puore corn whiskey an' poured through my throat tell thar wasn't a drap left of me.'[Laughter and prolonged applause.] And Wilson said further, gentlemen and ladies, that he believed the men and women of this secluded section were, in their own way, living nearer to God than the inhabitants of the crowded cities. Wilson is not bad, even if he has a hang-dog look. A speech like Bartell's just now would give a hang-dog look to a paling-fence. Wilson is here to build a railroad for your good and prosperity, and he can' t build one where there is nothing to haul out. If he buys up timber for his company, it is the only way to get them to back him in the enterprise. Now, gentlemen of the opposition, if there are any here to-day, don't let the thought of Wilson's possible profit rob you of this golden opportunity. I live at Darley, but, as many of you know, this is my father's native county, and I want to see it bloom in progress and blossom like the rose of prosperity. I want to see the vast mineral wealth buried in these mountains dug out for the benefit of mankind wherever God's sunlight falls.”

Miller sat down amid much applause, a faint part of which came even from the ranks of Bartell's faction. After this a pause ensued in which no one seemed willing to speak. Colonel Barclay rose and came to Miller.

“That was a good talk,” he whispered. “You understand how to touch 'em up. You set them to laughin'; that's the thing. I wonder if it would do any good for me to try my hand.”

“Do they know you have any timber-land over here?” asked Miller.

“Oh yes, I guess they do,” replied the Colonel.

“Then I don't believe I'd chip in,” advised Miller. “Bartell would throw it up to you.”

“I reckon you are right,” said Barclay, “but for the Lord's sake do something. It never will do to let this thing fall through.”

“I've done all I can,” said Miller, dejectedly. “Bartell's got the whole gang hoodooed—the blasted blockhead! Wouldn't he make a fine representative in the legislature?”

The Colonel went back to his seat, and Wilson came to Miller, just as Alan approached.

“It's going to fall flatter than a pancake,” said Wilson. “My company simply cannot afford to buy the right of way. Can' t you choke that illiterate fellow over there or—or buy him off?”

“He ain't that sort,” said Miller, disconsolately.

Alan glanced at his father and mother. On their wrinkled faces lay ample evidences of dejection. The old man seemed scarcely to breathe. Up to Bartell's speech he had seemed buoyantly hopeful, but his horizon had changed; he looked as if he were wondering why he had treated himself to such a bright view of a thing which had no foundation at all.

At this juncture Abner Daniel rose from his seat near the stove and slowly walked forward till he stood facing the audience. Immediately quiet reigned, for he was a man who was invariably listened to.

“Gentlemen an' ladies,” he began, clearing his throat and wiping his mouth with his long hand. “This ain't no put-in o' mine, gracious knows! I hain't got nothin', an' I don't expect to lose or gain by what is done in this matter, but I want to do what I kin fer what I think is right an' proper. Fer my part, I don't think we kin do without a railroad much longer. Folks is a-pokin' fun at us, I tell you. It's God's truth. T'other day I was over at Darley a-walkin' along the railroad nigh the turnin'-table, whar they flirt engynes round like children on a flyin'-jinny, when all at once a big strappin' feller with a red flag in his hand run up an' knocked me off'n the track kerwhallop in a ditch. It was just in time to keep me from bein' run over by a switch-engyne. He was as mad as Tucker. 'Looky' heer,' ses he, 'did you think that thing was playin' tag with you an' ud tap you on the shoulder an' run an' hide behind a tree? Say, ain't you from Short Pine Destrict, this side o' the mountains?' I told 'im he'd guessed right, an' he said, 'I'lowed so, fer thar ain't no other spot on the whirlin' globe that produces folks as green as gourds.' Well, gentlemen, that floored me; it was bad enough to be jerked about like a rag doll, but it was tough to heer my section jeered at. 'What makes you say that?' I axed 'im, as I stood thar tryin' to git a passle o' wet glass out o' my hip-pocket without cuttin' my fingers. [Laughter, led by Pole Baker, who sensed the meaning of the reference.] 'Beca'se,' ses he, 'you moss-backs over thar don't know the war's over; a nigger from over thar come in town t'other day an' heerd fer the fust time that he was free. Two men over thar swapped wives without knowin' thar was a law agin it. Half o' you-uns never laid eyes on a railroad, an' wouldn't have one as a free gift.' I turned off an' left 'im an' went up on the main street. Up thar a barber ketched me by the arm an' said, ses he: 'Come in an' le' me cut that hair. You are from Short Pine, ain't you?' I axed him why he thought so, an' he said, ses he, 'beca'se you got a Short Pine hair-cut.'' What's that?' ses I. An' he laughed at a feller cocked up in a cheer an' said: 'It's a cut that is made by the women out yore way. They jest turn a saucer upside down on the men's heads an' trim around the edges. I could tell one a mile; they make a man look like a bob-tailed mule.'[Laughter, loud and prolonged.] Yes, as I said, they are a-pokin' all manner o' fun at us, an' it's chiefly beca'se we hain't got no railroad. The maddest I ever got on this line was down at Filmore's store one day. A little, slick chap come along sellin' maps of the United States of America. They was purty things on black sticks, an' I wanted one fer the wall o' my room. I was about to buy one, but I thought I'd fust make shore that our county was on it, so I axed the peddler to p'int it out to me. Well, after some s'arch, he put his knife-blade on what he called this county, but lo an' behold! it was mighty nigh kivered with round dots about the size of fly-specks. 'What's the matter with it?' I axed 'im. 'Oh, you mean them dots,' ses he, an' he turned to a lot o' reference words in the corner of the map. 'Them,' ses he, 'them's put thar to indicate the amount o' ignorance in a locality. You 'll find 'em in all places away from the railroads; a body kin say what they please agin railroads, but they fetch schools, an' books, an' enlightenment. You've got a good many specks' ses he, kinder comfortin' like, 'but some o' these days a railroad will shoot out this away, an' them brainy men amongst you will git the chance God intends to give 'em,' Gentlemen, I didn't buy no map. I wouldn't 'a' had the thing on my wall with them specks a-starin' me in the face. It wouldn't 'a' done any good to scrape 'em off, fer the'r traces would 'a' been left. No, friends, citizens, an' well-wishers, thar ain't but one scraper that will ever rake our specks off, an' that's the cow-catcher of a steam-engyne. I say let 'er come. Some objection has been raised on the score o' killin' cattle. That reminds me of a story they tell on old Burt Preston, who has a farm on the main line beyant Darley. He was always a-gittin' his stock killed so fast, an' a-puttin' in heavy claims fer damages, until folks begun to say he made his livin' by buyin' scrub cattle an' sellin' mashed beef to the corporation. One day the road sent out a detective to watch 'im, an' he seed Burt drive a spindlin' yeerlin' out o' the thicket on the track jest in time to get it knocked off by a through freight. The detective went back an' reported, an' they waited to see what Preston ud do. By the next mail they got a claim in which Preston said the yeerlin' weighed eight hundred pound an' was a fine four-gallon milch-cow. They threatened to jail 'im, an' Preston agreed to withdraw his claim. But he got down-hearted an' traded his place fer a farm on t'other railroad, an' the last I heerd o' him he was at his old trade agin. I reckon that's about the way we 'll be damaged by gettin' our stock killed. That's all I got to say, gentlemen. Let's git this road an' scrape our fly-specks off.”

The big house shook with the applause that greeted this speech. Even the opposition seemed to be wavering. Only Bartell kept a rigid countenance. He rose and in a low voice invited his group to repair with him to one of the jury-rooms. They got up and followed him out. As he was about to close the door after them he nodded to Miller. “We 'll take a vote on it an' let you know,” he said, coldly.

“He's going to talk to them,” said Miller, aloud to Wilson. “Mr. Daniel's speech almost shook them out of their boots, and he saw he was losing ground. It looks squally.”

“You are right,” said Wilson, gloomily. “Our chances are very slim.”

Miller caught Adele's eye and went to her.

“I'm bound to say the outlook is not so favorable,” he said. “If we could have put it to a vote just after your uncle spoke we would have clinched them, but Bartell thinks his election depends on beating us today, and being the chief land-owner he has influence.”

“It will break my heart,” said the girl, tremulously. “Poor father and mother! They look as if they were on trial for their lives. Oh, I had so much hope as we drove over here this morning, but now—”

“I can' t bear to see you take it that way,” said Miller, tenderly. “I did not intend to speak to you so soon about another matter, but I can' t put it off. You have become very, very dear to me, little girl. In fact, I never dreamed there was such a thing as genuine, unselfish love till I knew you. It seems to me that you were actually created for me. I want you to be my wife. Somehow I feel that you care for me, at least a little, and I believe when you realize how much I love you, and how devoted I shall be, you will love me as I do you.”

To his surprise she averted her face and said nothing, though he remarked that she had paled a little and compressed her lips. He waited a moment, then said, anxiously:

“Haven't you something to say, Adele? Perhaps I have misread you all along and really have no right to hope. Oh, that would be hard to bear!”

“It is not that,” she said, her breast heaving suddenly. “It is not that.”

“Not that?” he repeated, his wondering eyes fixed on hers.

Then she turned to him.

“Alan has told me of some of your talks to him about love, and—”

“Oh, he has!” Miller laughed out uneasily. “But surely you wouldn't hold anything against me that I said before I met you in Atlanta and fell heels over head in love with you. Besides, I was simply stretching my imagination to save him from making a serious mistake. But I know what it is to care for a girl now, and I have wanted to tell him so, but simply could not face him with my confession—when—when his own sister was in question.”

“I have tried to believe,” Adele hesitated, “that you had changed in your ideas of love since—since we learned to know each other, and I confess I succeeded to some extent, but there was one thing that simply sticks and refuses to be eradicated. It sticks more right now than ever. I mean this morning, since—”

“Now you do surprise me,” declared Miller. “Please explain. Don't you see I'm simply dying with impatience?”

“You pressed the point in one of those talks with brother,” said Adele, quite firmly, “that it was impossible for two people of unequal fortune to be happy together, and—”

“Now you wouldn't surely hurl that rubbish at me,” broke in Miller. “I never would have dreamed of saying such a thing if I had not thought Alan was about to butt his head against a stone wall in the hostility of Colonel Barclay. If he had been fairly well off and she had been without money I'd have said sail in and take her, but I knew what a mercenary old man Barclay is, and I thought I could save the boy from a good many heartaches.”

“That—even as you now put it—would be hard for a girl in my position to forget,” Adele told him. “For if this enterprise fails to-day, I shall—just think of it!—I shall not only be penniless, but my father will owe you a large amount of money that he never will be able to pay. Oh, I could not bear to go to you under such circumstances! I have always wanted my independence, and this grates on my very soul.”

Their eyes met in a long, steady stare. “Oh, you must—you really must not see it that way,” floundered the young man. “You will make me very miserable. I can' t live without you, Adele. Besides, I shall not lose by the loan I made to your father. The land will bring the money back sooner or later, and what will it matter? You will be my wife and your parents will be my parents. Already I love them as my own. Oh, darling, don't turn me down this way! Really I can' t help the turn matters have taken, and if you care for me you ought not to wreck our happiness for a silly whim like this.”

She sat unmoved for a moment, avoiding the fervid glow of his passion-filled eyes.

“If this thing fails I shall be very unhappy,” she finally said. “Its success would not make me rich, but it would remove a debt that has nearly killed me. I have never mentioned it, but it has been like a sword hanging over my happiness.”

“Then it shall not fail,” he told her. “It shall not fail! If those blockheads vote against it, I 'll buy the right of way, if it takes the last cent I've got.”

This forced a smile to Adele's lips. “Then we'd be as deep in the mud as we now are in the mire,” she said. Just then Pole Baker came to Miller.

“I don't want to make no break,” he said, “but I've got a idea I'd like to work on them hill-Billies in the jury-room if you hain't no objections. I hain't got time to tell you about it, but as you are a-runnin' the shebang I thought I'd ax permission.”

“Go and do what you think best, Pole,” said Miller, recklessly. “We can trust to your head, and anything is better than nothing just now. I really think it's gone by the board.”

“All right, thanky',” said Pole, as he shuffled away. He marched straight to the jury-room, and, without rapping, opened the door and went in, closing the door after him. He found the men all discussing the matter and was delighted to find that the strength of the opposition now rested chiefly in Bartell and a few men who seemed afraid to pull away from him. Pole slid up to Bartell and said, as he drew him to one side: “Say, Mr. Bartell, what on earth have you got agin Alan Bishop?”

“Why, nothin', Pole, as I know of,” said Bartell, rather sheepishly. “Nothin' as I know of.”

“Well, it looks to me like you got a mighty pore way o' showin' good-will. Why, he's the best friend you got, Mr. Bartell, an' totes more votes in his vest-pocket fer you than any man in this county.”

“Huh! You don't say!” grunted Bartell, in slow surprise. “Well, he never told me about it.”

“Beca'se you hain't announced yorese'f yet,” said Pole, with a steady eye and a set face. “Why, he said t'other day to several of us at the log-rollin'—you remember you rid by on yore bay, leadin' a milch-cow by a rope. Well, after you passed Alan Bishop said: 'Boys, thar goes the only man in this county that has convictions an' the courage to stand by 'em. They say he's goin' to run fer the legislature an' ef he does, I 'll do all I kin to elect 'im. He 'll make the best representative that we ever had. He's got brains, he has.'”

“You don't say!” Bartell's face beamed, his eye kindled and flashed.

“That's jest what!”

“I hadn't the least idea he was fer me,” said Bartell, drawing a deep breath. “In fact, I 'lowed he would be agin anybody but a town man.”

“Alan never talks much,” said Pole, in a tone of conviction; “he acts when the time comes fer it. But, la me, Mr. Bartell, this is agoin' to break him all to pieces. He's in love with old Barclay's gal, an' she is with him. Ef he puts this road through to-day he 'll git his daddy out o' debt an' Barclay will withdraw his opposition. I don't know how you feel, but I'd hate like smoke to bu'st a man all to flinders that thought as much o' me as Alan does o' you.”

“I never knowed he was fer me,” was Bartell's next tottering step in the right direction.

“Well, vote fer the right o' way, an' you kin ride to an' from Atlanta durin' session all rail. Me'n Alan will pull fer you like a yoke o' steers—me with the moonshiners, an' my mountain clan, that ain't dead yet, an' him with his gang. What you say? Put up or shet up.”

“I 'll do what I kin,” said Bartell, a new light on his face, as he turned to the others. “Gentlemen,” he began, “listen to me a minute. I see a good many of you was affected by Ab Daniel's speech an' sort o' want the road, anyway, so if—”

“I don't exactly like them specks,” broke in a fat, middle-aged man at a window. “By gum! I believe old Ab had us down about right. Ef we kin git sort o' opened up along with the rest o' creation, I say le's git in the game. Huh!”—the man finished, with a laughing shrug—“I don't like them fly-specks one bit.”

“Me nuther,” said a man beside him.

“Nur me!” came from some one else.

“Well, I'm willin' ef the rest are,” announced Bar-tell. “All in favor hold up yore hands.”

Pole Baker grinned broadly as he counted them. “All up—the last one,” he said, then he sprang for the door and stood before the expectant audience.

“Toot! toot!” he cried, imitating the whistle of a locomotive. “All aboard! The road's a settled thing. They say they don't want no specks, an' they ain't agoin' to have 'em. Hooray!”

The audience was electrified by the announcement. For an instant there was a pause of incredulous astonishment, and then the floor resounded from the clatter of feet and glad shouts filled the air.

Alan, his face ablaze with startled triumph, came towards Adele and Miller. “Pole worked the rabbit-foot on them back there,” he said. “I don't know what he did, but he did something.”

“He told me he had a card left,” laughed Miller. “I 'll bet he had it up his sleeve. There he is now. Oh, Pole, come here!”

The man thus addressed slouched down the aisle to them, his big, brown eyes flashing merrily under his heavy brows, his sun-browned face dark with the flush of triumph.

“Out with it, you rascal,” said Alan. “What did you say to them? Whatever it was it knocked their props clean from under them.”

“Ef you don't back me in it, I'm a gone dog,” said Pole to Alan. “All I want you to do is to vote for Bartell, ef you kin possibly swallow the dose.”

A light broke on the two men. “I 'll do it if you say so, Pole,” said Alan. “Not only that, but I 'll work for him if you wish it.”

Pole looked down and pulled at his heavy mustache. “Well,” he smiled, “I reckon he won't harm us any more in the legislatur' than the road 'll do us good, so you'd better support 'im. I seed the bars down a minute ago, an' I didn't have no time to consult you. I'd 'a' told a bigger lie 'an that to clinch this thing.” Abner Daniel joined them, smiling broadly, his eyes twinkling joyously.

“We've won, Uncle Ab,” exclaimed Alan; “what do you think of that?”

The old jester stroked his face and swung his long body back and forth in the wind of his content. “I've always argued,” said he, “that what is to be will be, an' it will be a sight sooner 'n most of us count on, ef we 'll jest keep our sperits up.”

The others moved on, leaving Adele and Miller together.

“Oh, just look at mamma and papa,” she said, in the round, full voice indicative of deep emotion. “They are so glad they are about to cry.”

“What a dear, dear girl you are,” said Miller, softly. “There is nothing to separate us now, is there?”

For a moment they met in a full look into each other's eyes. Adele's voice shook when she replied: “I believe I'm the happiest, proudest girl in all the world.”

“Then you love me?”

“I believe I've loved you from the very minute I met you in Atlanta last summer.”

Alan saw Dolly looking at him and waving her handkerchief, her face warm and flushed. He was tempted to go to her, but she still sat by her father and mother, and that fact checked him. Mrs. Barclay caught his eye, and, rising suddenly, came through the crowd to him. She extended her gloved hand.

“You and Dolly must stop your foolishness,” she said. “I've been thinking of a plan to help you two out. If I were you I wouldn't say a word to her now, but next Sunday night come and take her to church just like you used to. I 'll attend to Colonel Barclay. He is just tickled to death over this thing and he won't make any fuss. He is as stubborn as a mule, though, and when he has to give in, it's better not to let him think you are gloating over him. He won't bother you any more; I 'll see to that.”

Alan thanked her. He was so full of happiness that he was afraid to trust his voice to utterance. As Mrs. Barclay was going back to her husband and daughter, Pole Baker passed. Alan grasped him by the hand.

“Say, Pole,” he said, his voice full and quavering, “I want to tell you that I think more of you than I do of any man alive.”

“Well, Alan,” said Pole, awkwardly, yet with an eye that did not waver, “I kin shore return the compliment. Ef it hadn't been fer you an' yore advice I'd 'a' been in hell long ago, an' as it is, I feel more like livin' a straight, honest life than I ever did. You never axed me but one thing that I didn't grant, an' that was to give up whiskey. I don't know whether I ever will be able to do it or not, but, by the great God above, I'm agoin' to keep on tryin', fer I know you want it jest fer my good. I don't want a dram to-day, fer a wonder, an' maybe in time I 'll git over my thirst.”

As Alan was about to get into his buggy with his uncle, the Colonel and his wife and daughter passed. With a sheepish look on his face the old man bowed to the two men, but Dolly stopped before Alan and held out her hand.

“You were going away without even speaking to me,” she said, a catch in her voice. “Think of it—to-day of all days to be treated like that!”

“But your mother told me—”

“Didn't I tell you she couldn't be relied on?” broke in Dolly, with a smile. “I have more influence with papa than she has. I know what she told you. I made her confess it just now. Are you going to town to-day?”

“Yes,” he informed her; “we shall complete the arrangements there.”

“Then come right down to see me as soon as you possibly can,” Dolly said. “I'm dying to see you—to talk with you. Oh, Alan, I'm so—so happy!”

“So am I,” he told her, as he pressed her hand tenderly. “Then I shall see you again to-day.”

“Yes, to-day, sure,” she said, and she moved on.

“She's all right,” said Abner Daniel, as Alan climbed in the buggy beside him. “She's all wool an' a yard wide.”

“I reckon you are satisfied with the way it come out, Uncle Ab,” said his nephew, flushing over the compliment to Dolly.

“Jest want one thing more,” said the old man, “an' I can't make out whether it's a sin or not. I want to face Perkins an' Abe Tompkins. I'd give my right arm to meet 'em an' watch the'r faces when they heer about the railroad, an' the price yore pa's land fetched.”

THE END