ARSON was slightly weakened by the loss of blood and the unusual tax on his strength, and yet, wearing a strip of sticking-plaster as the only sign of his wound, he was at the office betimes the next morning, anxious to make an early start into the arrangements for a hurried preliminary trial of his client. Garner, as, was that worthy's habit when kept up late at night, was still asleep in the den when Helen called.

Carson was at his desk, bending over a law-book, his pipe in his mouth, when, looking up, he saw her standing in the doorway and rose instantly, a flush of gratification on his face.

“I've come to see you about poor Pete,” she began, her pale face taking on color as if from the heat of his own. “I know it's early, but I couldn't wait. Mam' Linda was in my room this morning at the break of day, sitting by my bed rocking back and forth and moaning.”

“She's uneasy, of course,” Carson said. “That's only natural of a mother placed as she is.”

“Oh yes,” Helen answered, with a sigh. “She was thoroughly happy last night over his rescue, but now you see she's got something else to worry about. She now wonders if he will be allowed a fair trial.”

“The boy must have that,” Carson said, and then his face clouded over and he held himself more erect as he glanced past her out at the door. “Is Mr. Sanders—did he come with you? You see, I met him on the way to your house as I came down.”

“Yes, he's there talking over the trouble with my father,” Helen made rather awkward answer. “He came in to breakfast, but—but I wasn't at the table. I was with Mam' Linda.” And thereupon Helen blushed more deeply over the reflection that these last words might sound like intentional and even presumptuous balm to the sensitiveness of a rejected suitor.

“I was afraid he might be waiting on the outside,” Carson said, awkwardly. “I want to show hospitality to a stranger in town, you know, but somehow I can't exactly do my full duty in his case.”

“You are not expected to,” and Helen had tripped again, as her fresh color proved. “I mean, Carson—” But she could go no further.

“Well, I am unequal to it, anyway,” Carson replied, with tightening lips and a steady, honest stare. “I don't dislike him personally. I hold no actual grudge against him. From all I've heard of him he is worthy of any woman's love and deepest respect. I'm simply off the committee of entertainment during his stay.”

“I—I—didn't come down to talk about Mr. Sanders,” Helen found herself saying, as the shortest road from the trying subject. “It seems to me you ought to hate me. I have, I know, through my concern over Pete, caused you endless trouble and loss of political influence. Last night you did what no other man would or could have done. Oh, it was so brave, so noble, so glorious! I laid awake nearly all night thinking about it. Your wonderful speech rang over and over in my ears. I was too excited to cry while it was actually going on, but I shed tears of joy when I thought it all over afterwards.”

“Oh, that wasn't anything!” Dwight said, forcing a light tone, though his flush had died out. “I knew you and Linda wanted the boy saved, and it wasn't anything. I ran no risk. It was only fun—a game of football with a human pigskin snatched here and there by a frenzied mob of players. When it fell of its own accord at my feet, and I had laid hands on it, I would have put it over the line or died trying, especially when you and Sanders—who has beaten me in a grander game—stood looking on. Oh, I'm only natural! I wanted to win because—first, because it was your wish, and—because that man was there.”

Helen's glance fell to the ragged carpet which, clogged with the dried mud of a recent rain, stretched from her feet to the door. Then she looked helplessly round the room at the dusty, open bookshelves, Garner's disreputable desk strewn with pamphlets, printed forms of notes and mortgages, cigar-stubs, and old letters. Her eyes rested longer on the dingy, small-paned windows to which the cobwebs clung.

“You always bring up his name,” she said, almost resentfully. “Is it really quite fair to him?”

“No, it isn't,” he admitted, quickly. “And from this moment that sort of banter is at an end. Now, what can I do for you? You came to speak about Pete.”

She hesitated for a moment. It was almost as if, after all she had said, that if the subject was to be dropped, hers, not his, should be the final word.

“I came to tell you that Mam' Linda and I have just left the jail. She was so wrought up and weak that I made Uncle Lewis take her home in a buggy. He says she didn't close her eyes all last night and this morning refused to touch her breakfast. Then the sight of Pete in his awful condition completely unnerved her. Did you get a good look at him last night, Carson—I mean in the light?”

“No.” Dwight shrugged his broad shoulders. “But he looked bad enough as it was.”

“The sight made me ill,” Helen said. “The jailer let us go into the narrow passage and we saw him through the bars of the cell. I would never have known him in the world. His clothing was all in shreds and his face and arms were gashed and tom, his feet bare and bleeding. Poor mammy simply stood peering through at him and crying, 'My boy, my baby, my baby!' Carson, I firmly believe he is innocent.”

“So do I,” Dwight made prompt answer. “That is, I am reasonably sure of it. I shall know positively when I talk to him to-day.”

“Then you will secure his liberty, won't you?” Helen asked, eagerly. “I promised mammy I'd talk to you and bring her a report of what you said.”

“I am going to do everything in my power,” Dwight said; “but I don't want to raise false hopes only to disappoint you and Linda all the more later.”

“Oh, Carson, tell me what you mean. You don't seem sure of the outcome.”

“You must try to look-at the thing bravely, Helen,” Dwight said, firmly. “There is more in it than an inexperienced girl like you could imagine. I think we can arrange for a trial to-morrow, but it seems often that it is while such trials are in progress that the people become most wrought up; and then, you know, to-day and to-night must pass, and—” He broke off, avoiding her earnest stare of inquiry.

“Go on, Carson, you can trust me, if I am only a girl.”

“To tell you the truth,” Dwight complied, “it is the next twenty-four hours that I dread most. That mob last night, it seems, was made up for the most part of men here in town, workers in the factories and iron-foundries—many of whom know me personally and have faith in my promises. If it were left with them I'd have little to fear, but it is the immediate neighbors of the dead man and woman, the members of the gang of White Caps who whipped Pete and feel themselves personally affronted by what they believe to be his crime—they are the men, Helen, from whom I fear trouble.”

Helen was pale and her hands trembled, though she strove bravely to be calm.

“You still fear that they may rise and come—and—take—him—out—of—jail? Oh!” She clasped her hands tightly and stood facing him, a look of terror growing in her beautiful eyes. “And can't something be done? Mr. Sanders spoke this morning of telegraphing the Governor to send troops to guard the jail.”

“Ah, that's it!” said Carson, grimly. “But who is to take that responsibility on himself. I can't, Helen. It might be the gravest, most horrible mistake a man ever made, one that would haunt him to his very grave. The Governor, not understanding the pulse of the people here, might take the word of some one on the spot. Garner and I know him pretty well. We've been of political service to him personally, and he would do all he could if we telegraphed him, but—we couldn't do it. By the stroke of our pen we might make orphans of the children of scores of honest white men, and widows of their wives, for the bayonets and shot of a regiment of soldiers would not deter such men from what they regard as sacred duty to their families and homes. If the Governor's troops did military duty, they would have to hew down human beings like wheat before a scythe. The very sight of their uniforms would be like a red rag to a mad bull. It would be a calamity such as has never taken place in the State. I can't have a hand in that, Helen, and not another thinking man in the South would. I love the men of the mountains too well. They are turning against me politically because we differ somewhat, but I simply can't see them shot like rabbits in a net. Pete is, after all, only one—they are many, and they are conscientiously acting according to their lights. The machinery of modern law moves too slowly for them. They have seen crime triumphant too often to trust to any verdict other than that reached from their own reasoning.”

“I see; I see!” Helen cried, her face blanched. “I don't blame you, Carson, but poor mammy; what can I say to her?”

“Do your best to pacify and encourage her,” Dwight answered, “and we'll hope for the best.”

He stood in the doorway and watched her as she walked off down the little street. “Poor, dear girl!” he mused. “I had to tell her the truth. She's too brave and strong to be treated like a child.”

He turned back to his desk and sat down. There was a deep frown on his face. “I came within an inch of losing my grip on myself,” his thoughts ran on. “Another moment and I'd have let her know how I am suffering. She must never know that—never!”