AS Paul walked homeward a wave of transcendental ecstasy fairly lifted him from the ground. The stars and all space seemed his. He laughed; he sang; he whistled; a prayer of mystic delight rippled from his lips.

He was drawing near the gate to Hoag's grounds when he noticed a man on a mule in the middle of the road. The rider's short legs swung back and forth from the plodding animal's flanks like pendulums, but his face was toward the village and Paul did not recognize him. Presently, however, when the gate was reached the rider was heard to cry “Whoa!” and Paul knew the voice. It was that of Tye, the shoemaker.

“How are you, Uncle Si?” Paul quickened his step and approached just as the old man was about to dismount.

“Oh!”—the cobbler settled back in his saddle—“I'm glad to see you. I've been over the mountain deliverin' a big raft o' work. I shod a whole family—two grown-ups an' ten children. I want to see you, an' I was goin' to hitch an' go to the house.”

“I see, I see,” Paul smiled easily. “Like all the rest, you want to warn me to look out for Jeff Warren.”

“Not a bit of it—you are away off!” Tye stroked his short beard with the fingers which held his riding-switch and grinned confidently. “That will take care of itself. I don't have to be told what a feller with your light will do. I'll bet a dollar to a ginger-cake that you've been to see 'em already, an' you didn't act the fool, neither.”

With a laugh Paul admitted it. “I had a narrow escape,” he added. “Jeff wanted to brain me on the spot with an ax.”

“But you bet he didn't,” Silas chuckled, “an' I'll lay he's lookin' at things in a brighter light than ever fell across his path before. But I've come to see you about business—strict earthly business, an' it's your business, not mine. Paul, you've heard of Theodore Doran an' the big cotton-factory he's just built at Chester?”

“Oh, yes,” Paul returned. “Some of my men have gone over there to work.”

“Well, what do you think? Doran is stoppin' at Kerr's Hotel, buyin' up cotton to run on next fall, an' this mornin' he come in my shop an' took a seat. You see, I used to know him an' his folks powerful well. He was in a Sunday-school class of mine, along with three other lads, away back in the seventies, when he was a tow-headed scrub of a boy that nobody ever thought would get rich, an' so I reckon he's purty free with me in confidential matters. Well, he set in to chattin' in a roundabout way, an' it wasn't long before I took notice that the talk always somehow got back to you an' your expert management of Hoag's affairs. Whar I fust began to smell a rat was when he said he'd been to every plant an' farm of Hoag's an' taken a look at 'em. Then what do you reckon he said? He said he had looked high an' low for a man to help 'im run the big factory, but hadn't found the right chap. Then he went on to say that from all he had seed an' heard you was the one he was lookin' for. He knowed me an' you was close friends, an' so he bantered me to find out if I thought you'd consider a change. I told 'im I didn't know; but, la me! if I didn't grease the wheels o' your cart no man in Georgia could. I said a lot, but he had heard more than I could tell 'im in a month o' Sundays. He said what he wanted was a feller who he knowed was honest to the core, an' he was sure he could sleep sound with a man at the helm that had come back here, like you did, as a bare matter of principle.”

“I am afraid you both are thinking entirely too well of me,” Paul faltered, “but I am glad you wanted to help me along.”

“Well,” Tye continued, “the upshot of the talk was that Doran didn't want no mix-up with Jim Hoag over tryin' to hire a man o' his, an' he asked me, as your friend, to sort o' sound you. He says he's willin' to pay a big price for your services, an' he thinks you will take an interest in the work. It is to be a model mill. They have built comfortable cottages for the workers, with a nice garden tacked onto each one, an' they don't intend to employ little children. Paul, it is a fine job—there is no better anywhar. I told 'im I didn't think you was bound to any written contract to Hoag, an' Doran said he was sure you wasn't, because Hoag wouldn't obligate hisse'f to nobody—even a good man.”

“No, I am not bound to him,” Paul said, “and I am just a little bit afraid he will not approve of something I am going to do. I have decided to help Jeff Warren and my mother.”

“I see.” Tye thrust his stubby fingers through the bristling mane of his mule, and bent down reflectively, “No, that will make 'im as mad as a wet hen. He hates Jeff with all the puny soul that's in him. Paul, take my advice. Doran will be at the hotel to-morrow an' wants to see you. Go have a talk with him.”

“It is plainly my duty,” Paul answered, with conviction. “There are certain expenses I have to meet, and I must sell my services for all they are worth.”

“Well, that's what I wanted to see you about.” Tye thrust his heels into the mule's flanks, shook the reins, clucked through his gashed teeth, and started homeward. “Good night; you know I wish you well.”

Paul entered the gate and started up the walk toward the house. As he drew near the steps he saw a shadowy form emerge from the darkened doorway, move across the veranda, softly descend to the ground, and noiselessly glide toward him. It was Ethel. Her head was enveloped in a light lace shawl held close at her chin, and her sweet face showed pale and rigid through the opening.

“Oh, Paul—” she began, but her timid voice trailed away into silence, and she stood staring at him, a fathomless anxiety in her eyes.

“Why, I thought you were in bed long ago,” he said, in surprise. “Has anything happened—gone wrong?”

“No, no,” she ejaculated; “but you—you, Paul—”

Again her power of utterance forsook her, and she stood before him with downcast eyes. The hand holding the shawl was quivering visibly; there was a flare of burning suspense beneath her eyelids.

“I see,” he said, regretfully. “Your grief has got the upper hand again. You can't fully master it yet. It may be that way for some time, but you must keep trying to view it right, for it is right, Ethel. I am more positive of it to-night than ever before.”

“It is not that—oh, it isn't that!” Ethel cried. “It is you, Paul—you and—”

“I really don't understand,” he said, bewildered. “You say that I—”

She released her hold on the shawl and laid her hand on his arm. “I must own the truth,” she began, tremulously, her voice steadying bravely as she hurried on. “I listened to what you and my uncle said when you got home to-night. You were beneath my window and I could not resist it.”

“Oh, I see!” A light broke on him. “And you thought—”

“You went to your room and then hurried away—you went straight toward Jeff Warren's cabin, and—”

“And you counted on hearing gunshots,” he laughed, reassuringly. “Well, there were none. I owed him an apology and I made it. We are friends now, and I have my mother back.”

“Oh, Paul, was that all?” He could almost see her face glow in the darkness. “I was afraid—oh, I was afraid that all your troubles were going to begin over again!”

She was silent after that. His gentle words of reassurance seemed to fall on closed ears. She stood staring up at the window of her room for several minutes, and then she said, in a tone that was quite incomprehensible to him: “You think I am silly—I know you do, but worrying over Jennie's death has—has really unstrung me. I am not myself. I don't know what I am doing or saying. I give myself up to terrible fancies. Good night, Paul.”

He remained on the lawn after she had disappeared. He heard her slow step on the stair. His ecstatic spirit-dream was over. He sank on a rustic seat and bowed his head to his open hands. She was so dear to him and yet so absolutely unattainable!