WO weeks went by. Great changes had come over the temper of the insurgent mountain people. They had gradually come to accept the rescue of Pete Warren as a chance bit of real justice that was as admirable as it was unusual and heroic. A sufficient number of men had come forward and testified to Sam Dudlow's ante-mortem confession to exculpate Carson's client, and some who had a leaning towards Dwight's cause politically were hinting, on occasion, that surely a man who would take such a plucky stand for the rights of a humble negro would not be a mere figure-head in the legislature of the State. At all events, there was one man who ground his teeth in secret rage over the subtle turn of affairs, and that man was Wiggin. He still busied himself sowing the seditious seed of race hatred wherever he found receptive soil, but, unfortunately for his cause, in many places where unbridled fury had once ploughed the ground a sort of frost had fallen. Most men whose passions are unduly wrought undergo a certain sort of relapse, and Wiggin found many who were not so much interested in their support of him as formerly when an open and defiant enemy was to be defeated.

Wiggin was puzzled more about Jeff Braider than any one of his former supporters. Braider was too good a politician to admit that he had in any way aided Carson Dwight by a betrayal of the plot against him, for that was exactly the sort of thing Wiggin could hold out to his constituents as the act of a man disloyal to his official post, for, guilty or innocent, the prisoner should have been held, as any law-abiding citizen would admit. As to Pete's guilt Wiggin's opinion was unchanged, and he made no bones of saying so; he believed, so he declared, that Pete was Dudlow's accomplice, and the dastardly manner of his release was a shame and a disgrace to any white man's community.

As for Jeff Braider, he was in such high feather over the success of his swerving towards the right in the nick of time that he refrained from drink and wore better clothing. He liked the situation. He felt, now, that he could serve his country, his God, and himself with a clear conscience, for Carson Dwight looked like a winner and they had agreed to work together.

Helen Warren, after her impulsive leaning towards her first sweetheart that night in the garden, had permitted herself to undergo the keenest suffering which was due to her strangely unsettled mind. Was she strictly honest? she asked herself. She had openly encouraged a good man to hope that she would finally become his wife, and the letters she was receiving from him daily were of the tenderest, most appealing nature, showing that Sanders' love for her and faith in her fair dealing were too deeply grounded to be easily uprooted. Besides, as he perhaps had the right to do, the Augusta man had spoken of his hopes to his mother and sister, and those sympathetic ladies had written Helen adroit letters which all but plainly alluded to the “understanding” as being the forerunner of a most welcome family event.

Many times had the poor girl seated herself to respond to these communications, and found herself absolutely unequal to the performance in the delicate spirit that the occasion demanded. The window of her room, at which her writing-desk stood, looked out over the garden at Dwight's, and the very spot where she had left Carson that memorable night was in open view. How could she throw herself into anything, yes anything pertaining to her compact with Sanders while the ever-present thrill and ecstasy of that moment was permeating her? What had it really meant—that ecstatic yearning to kiss the lips so close to hers, the lips which had quivered in dumb adoration and despair as he strove to keep from her ken the suffering he had undergone in her service?

One day she rebelled against the painful, almost morbid, state of indecision that was on her and firmly decided that there was but one honorable course to pursue and that was in every way to be true to her tacit promise to the absent suitor, and in a spasm of resolution she was about to set herself to the correspondence just mentioned when Mam' Linda was announced. The old woman had just returned from a visit to Chattanooga to see her son and in addition to news of his well-being she had many other things to say. The letters would have to wait, Helen told herself, and her old nurse was admitted. Linda remained two hours, and Helen sat the while in a veritable dream as the old woman gave Pete's version of Carson Dwight's conduct before the mob on the lonely mountain road. And when Linda had gone, Helen turned to her desk. There lay the white sheets fluttering in the summer breeze, mutely beckoning her back to stem reality. Helen stared at them and then with a little cry of pain she lowered her head to her folded arms and wept—not for Sanders in his complacent, epistolary hopefulness, but for the one who had bravely borne more than his burden of pain, and upon whom she had resolved to put still more. Helen told herself that it would not be the first time ideal happiness had not been a factor in a sensible marriage. The time would come, in her life, as it had in the lives of so many other women, when she would look back on her present feeling for Carson, and wonder how she ever could have fancied—but, no, that would be unfair to him, to his wealth of spirituality, to his gentleness, his courage to—to Carson just as he was, to Carson who must always, always be the same, different from all living men. Yes, he was to go out of her life. Out of her life—how strange! and yet it would be so, for she would be the wife of——

She shuddered and sat staring at the floor.