Mary remained twenty minutes longer, and when she was going out at the gate she met Doctor Harrison, who had just alighted from his buggy and was hitching his horse to a portable strap and iron weight near the fence. He doffed his straw hat and smiled from his genial, bearded, middle-aged face and twinkling blue eyes.

"So you've turned nurse, have you?" he jested. "Well, I'm glad you came, for more reasons than one."

"You think it was right, then?" she answered.

"Decidedly, Miss Mary. At such a time as this we should not listen to gossip, but simply act humanely."

"I hardly knew what to do, for some persons thought that it would look as if I—I admitted that my brothers were—"

"I know," the doctor broke in, "but, nevertheless, I'm glad you put that aside. If I were on a jury—" He hesitated, as if he realized that he was on ground forbidden by due courtesy to her feelings. "Well," he started anew, "it can't possibly do any harm, and I am sure you will feel all the better for it."

"What are the chances for his recovery?" Mary asked, with bated breath, as she met his mild gaze with her steady eyes.

He looked toward the cottage door, placed his whip in the holder on the dashboard of the buggy, and then slowly swept his eyes back to her face.

"I am sorry to say—to have to say—that he is not doing so well. He seems a little weaker. However, when he gets to Atlanta—I hope I am not betraying secrets, but I met Albert Frazier just now and he told me that you had about concluded arrangements to supply the money. He did not say that he was telling me in confidence, but he may have meant it that way. People often say things to doctors, you know, that they would not make public, and if it is a private matter—"

"It is not, Doctor. I know—at least, I think I know—where I can get the money, and I shall not care who knows that it is from me. Tell me, please, do you think it best to send Tobe to Atlanta?"

"It is the only thing to do," was the decided answer. "You see, here in this small place we haven't the facilities, the surgical skill, the equipment for such a critical operation, and the truth is we all of us here balk at it. A doctor like Elliot can afford to take the risk, you see. If he should fail, you know there would be no criticism, while if one of us here were to do so we'd be thought—well, almost criminally wrong."

Mary's face was brooded over now by a shadow. She shuddered; her eyes held a tortured look. "So you think he ought to go at once?" she said.

"The sooner the better, Miss Mary," was the prompt answer. She gave him her hand, and he wondered over the change in her mood as he lifted his hat.

"I'll let you know very soon, Doctor," were her parting words. "Please don't mention it, for the present, anyway. I think I know where I can get the money that is needed."

Mary walked on, now toward the square. Her step was slow, her eyes were on the ground.

"Oh God! how can I? And yet I must!" she groaned. "He means to make me take the money; that is plain. He understands what it would mean, and so do I; but, oh, I don't want to marry him. I'd rather die—I would, I would, I would. And yet if I died—if I died—"

She had to pass through the square to get her horse, and she dreaded the possible encounter again with Albert Frazier. She felt relieved, on entering the square, to notice that he was not in sight. The plate-glass window of the bank, with its gilt-lettered sign, caught her eye. Why not try there to borrow the money, as a last resort? Perhaps the banker would consider lending her the money on her own name. She had heard of loans being made to women who had no security. Yes, she would try. It would be a last effort, but she must make it.

Entering the little building, she went to the opening in the wire netting and asked the cashier if Mr. Lingle were in. She was answered in the affirmative and directed to a half-closed door bearing the words, "The President's Office."

She opened the door without knocking, and saw the back and shaggy head of a man of sixty, without his coat, his collar and necktie loose, his sleeves rolled up, busy writing. Hearing her, he turned, suppressed a frown of impatience, stood up and bowed. His face was round, beardless, and reddish in tint.

"Oh, Miss Mary, how are you?" he asked, awkwardly extending a fat, perspiring hand. "Want to see me, eh, personally? Well, I'm at your service, though these are busy days for us. What can I do for you?"

Her voice seemed to have deserted her. She was conscious of the fear that no words at all would come from her, and yet immediately she heard herself speaking in a calm, steady tone. She was smiling, too, as if she knew that what she was saying had a touch of absurdity in it.

"I've come to bore you," she said. "I need some money, not on my father's account now, Mr. Lingle, for I know about his debt to you, but for myself, this time. I have no security beyond my word and promise to pay. It is a very serious matter, Mr. Lingle. You know about Tobe Keith's condition and that he must be sent to Atlanta. No one else will pay for it, and—"

"So you are going to mix yourself up in that mess, are you?" asked Lingle, frowning till his shaggy iron-gray brows met and all but overlapped. "If you were my daughter—Oh, what's the use? I'm not your teacher, but if you were in my charge I'd make you stay out of this. I know, I reckon, what's the matter. You feel responsible because your brothers were held accountable; that's like a woman. But all that is neither here nor there. I can't let you have any money at all. I'm going to be plain. Maybe it will open your eyes a little to the facts. My dear girl, I hold a mortgage on all the crops in the ground at your place, on the very tools, cattle, hogs, and horses. Your father—I hate to say it—but your father is as helpless in business matters as a new-born baby. He belongs to the old order. He is up to his neck in debt to every friend he has. I can't let him have any more money, and I can't let you have any. I wouldn't let you have it for what you want it even if you had good collateral to pin to your note. I couldn't conscientiously do it, for it would be throwing it away. That drunken roustabout hasn't one chance in a thousand to live, anyway, and the country would be better off without his brand. As for your brothers—well, you'd better keep them in the West. Men of your father's stamp don't have quite the influence they used to have. Our courts are being criticized for their lax methods so much that our judges and juries are becoming more careful in administering justice. If Tobe Keith dies—well, your brothers had better stay away, that's all."

"So there's no use asking you to—"

"No, Miss Mary, this bank can't mix up in such matters as that. Folks from up-to-date towns are making fun of us, too. One drummer was telling it around in Atlanta the other day that any stranger could cash a check here by simply inviting us to take a drink or handing us a cheap cigar. We are making new rules and sticking to them." With that the president of the bank turned toward his desk and reached out for a sheet of paper on which he had been writing.

"I thank you, Mr. Lingle," she faltered. "I am sure that you know best."

He held his paper in his left hand while he gave her his right, and made a sort of scraping movement with his foot as he executed a bow.

As she went back into the main room she was conscious of the fear that Albert Frazier might have discovered her presence at the bank and be waiting for her outside. Why, she asked herself, was the thought actually so terrifying? He might propose that he should have her horse sent out and that he be allowed to drive her home. In that case it would all be over. She would have to give the promise he had so long sought and she had so long withheld. A thrill of relief went through her on finding that he was not in sight anywhere about the busy square. She walked rapidly now toward the livery-stable, still with the fear of pursuit on her that was like the haunting dread of a nightmare. She was soon in the saddle and galloping homeward. At the point where the village street gave into the main country road she checked her speed. What, after all, was she running from? If the thing was inevitable, what was the use in putting it off? Was not the delay injurious to the end she was seeking? Might not even another day count fatally against Tobe Keith's recovery? Yes, the answer was yes, and nothing else. If it had to be done, why wait longer? She actually tried to turn the head of her horse toward the village, but the animal had scented home and the food to be had there, and refused, allowing the taut rein to bend his neck but not to guide his limbs. She finally came to regard it as an omen to be obeyed and allowed him to gallop on toward the farm.

As she neared her home the sun's rays were dying out of the landscape and the dusk was gathering. Coming to meet her from the house she saw Charles, and she wondered what had happened, for he never left the field before sundown; moreover, it struck her that he was walking rapidly, as if to reach her before she got to the house. He could not be coming to take the saddle from her horse, for Kenneth or Martin at the stable could do that. She summoned a smile as she greeted him at the barn-yard gate and he reached up to catch the bridle-rein. To her surprise he failed to return it. She had never seen a graver expression on his face as he held up his strong arms to help her down.

"What is the matter?" she asked, now alarmed.

"Don't get frightened," he said. "After all, it may amount to nothing, but still, I had to reach you and put you on your guard. I was afraid you might call out or whistle to your brothers, and that wouldn't do. After you left, they were so quiet, and remained out of sight so persistently, that, as the time passed, I became concerned about them. Usually, you know, they steal out and go into the woods for recreation or join me at my work. To-day they did not appear, so I went to the barn about two hours ago. Fortunately I did not whistle, but went directly up to them in the loft. They explained it. It seems that Kenneth had observed a strange man moving stealthily in and out of the woods, sometimes watching me, sometimes the house, and sometimes the barn."

"Oh!" and Mary went white from head to foot. "It is one of the sheriff's men. Don't you think so?"

"I don't know. Kenneth says he got a good look at him and that he is sure he is a stranger here. To be plain, Kenneth thinks that the sheriff has sent for a detective and that the detective may suspect the thing we are trying to hide—that the boys are not in the West, but here at home."

Mary said nothing. The deepening pallor of her face rendered it grim and firm, but it was none the less beautiful in its unwonted lines. He took off the saddle, opened the gate, and turned the horse into the lot.

"When the boys hear the horse in the stall," he said, "they will know you are back. Will it be necessary for you to go in to them? I mean—you see, if the fellow is still watching; in that case he might draw deductions from your being there. While if you go on to the house now—"

"I understand, and you are right," Mary said, with tight lips. "No, I'll go to the house. It is awful—awful—awful!"

He closed the gate and walked by her side till they reached the path leading down to the field. Here he turned to leave her.

"Where are you going?" The tone and words carried an almost desperate appeal to him not to leave her. In her wonderful eyes something seemed to burn not unlike the celestial resignation of the ancient saints before approaching torture. But, withal, she seemed to want to lean on him for moral or physical support.

"I think I'll go back to work," he answered. "It is still not quite time for supper. Besides, from the field I can keep a better watch on the woods while I appear to see nothing."

"Well, well, you are right," she said, sighing, "but please don't be late, and tell me if you see anything."

As she was nearing the house she saw her father returning home by a small private road which led to some of the farms north of his property.

"Where have you been?" she asked, as he joined her at the front gate, gallantly opened it, and stood aside for her to enter before him.

"I went over to see Tankersley," was his answer. "I heard he had some money he might lend, and—well, I thought maybe I'd get it and send it to Tobe Keith. But as soon as the old miser heard what I wanted it for he laughed and sneered in my face. He was very impudent. His standard is money, and nothing higher. Of course, I couldn't afford to get angry with a man so low bred, and I came away."

"I didn't know you had thought of raising money for Tobe," Mary said, wistfully. "In fact, I thought you would oppose my trying to get it."

"I admit I did think we ought not to go that far at first," Rowland said, as they reached the steps of the veranda, "but after you left this morning I was talking to Mr. Brown. He is a most remarkable man in many ways. He is quite a philosopher and has a wonderful vocabulary when he gets to talking. He swept everything away except the fact of Tobe's life being at stake, and the terrible consequences his death would have on the—the future state of mind and ultimate character of the boys. I confess he set me thinking. He had the courage to scold me pretty sharply, too, about—well, about my inactivity just at this time. He said I ought to lay everything aside and think more of you and my sons. He is right. I don't know who he is or what sort of ancestors he had, but he is a man of moral convictions, and I respect him. He is a gentleman at bottom. He has met reverses and taken up this mode of life through necessity. I told him I would try to get the money from old Tankersley, and he seemed glad when I went away for that purpose."

They were on the veranda now. Mary could think only of the strange man who had been seen about the premises, and she was trying to make up her mind as to whether it would be expedient to mention it to her father when she saw him looking down the road toward the village.

"That is Albert's horse," he said. "Yes, he is headed this way. That means that he will stay all night again. I think I could get that money from him, but I don't want to ask for more right now. He has done as much as I could expect already. No, I'll not ask him for it. Besides, of all the discourtesy known, to borrow money from a guest seems to me to be the worst. He seems worried over what you intend to do in his case," and Rowland was smiling pointedly. "He says you won't say one thing or another positively. He seemed to be hinting the other day that he'd like for me to take a hand in it, but I'll never do that. You must be your own judge. He is away beneath you in the matter of birth, but—"

"Father," Mary suddenly broke in, "you have not let him know that the boys are in the barn, have you?"

"No, I never let on about that," Rowland said, wearily, his eyes on the approaching horse and buggy. "I promised you I wouldn't, and, while I saw no reason—"

"He mustn't know; he mustn't know!" Mary broke in again. "I can't tell you now why, but he mustn't know that. He must not put up his horse, either, unless the boys are warned. It is getting dark and they may not see him coming. But keep him here, chat with him, and I'll slip to the barn by the back way and warn the boys."

"Well, I'll do that," Rowland promised, "but hurry on back. I can't entertain him. He comes to see you, not me. He is daft about you—actually crazy. He'd give his right arm to have you agree to—"

But Mary had vanished into the hall and with lowered head was scudding through the shrubbery to the barn. The buggy was stopping at the gate, and Rowland went down the walk with a stately step to meet the incongruous suitor for the hand of his daughter.