Two more years, years without especial incident to the people who lived up Terrapin River, passed away. Everyone knew of John and Eva's betrothal, and as no one had any objections to offer, there came not a jar, not a harsh sound to disturb the smoothly flowing current of their affection. One evening, as Potter and John sat in the old house awaiting the return of Alf, who had gone to Sunset to make some small purchases, the young man, after many minutes of deep meditation, looked up and remarked:

"I have worked harder of late in the hope that I might make money enough to place my approaching marriage upon a sensible footing, but it seems——"

"There, my boy," Potter broke in, "there now, don't worry. Of course every man should look to the future, but not to brood in dark foreboding. We are getting along very well, and I think you may safely—there's Alf."

The old man came in bringing several bundles. "Fetchtaked fellers ober yander," said he, "put er brick under my saddle when I had my hoss hitched, an' when I got on ter come home w'y de old critter flung me in de road. Huh, when I hit de groun' I thought de whole face o' de yeth dun struck loose. Suthin' gwine obertake dem boys one deze days. Da's dun forgot erbout dem she bears dat grabbed up dem mean white chillun when da made fun o' er old servant. Suthin' gwine ter obertake 'em, I tell you. Oh, you neenter laugh, genermen, fur suthin' gwine ter slip up behin' 'em an' grab 'em, sho."

They had eaten supper, and Potter, in his favorite position, was leaning back against the wall, when a newspaper in which one of the bundles had been wrapped, attracted his attention.

"Alf, hand me that paper," said he. "I would subscribe for some paper if we lived nearer a post office. Ah! a country sheet from Kentucky. Let me see if Uncle Billie Jackson was in town yesterday, or if Aunt Nancy Phelps has the thanks of the editor for a choice lot of radishes. I see that Uncle Bob Redmond has sold a fine colt to Anthony Boyle, and here is also the startling information that Abe Stallcup has purchased the old Adams place. I suppose——" He started. The paper shook. He sprang from the chair, pressed his hands to his head, sank upon his knees, clasped his hands and exclaimed:

"Thank God! Thank God! Oh, merciful heaven, it has come at last!"

He bowed his head and wept. John and Alf stood looking on in speechless amazement.

"Thank God, it has come at last. Oh, my friends—you—you——"

"What is the matter?" John cried.

"Wait. I—I will tell you. Here," he added, "read this. Read it out for I have only seen its aim."

John took the paper and read the following:

"A number of years ago, our readers will remember, Hon. Sam Bradwell, who lived near Lexington, this State, was convicted of the murder of Colonel Joe Moore, and was sentenced to be hanged, but made his escape the night before the execution was to take place. Now comes a sequel. About two weeks ago a man named Zack Fry, supposing that he was on his death-bed, confessed that he was the murderer of Moore. But instead of dying, he soon recovered. He was then brought to trial, and, instead of attempting to make a defense, reiterated his confession. He was sentenced to be hanged, and his execution took place last Friday. The Governor has issued a proclamation declaring Bradwell innocent, and offers a reward for intelligence of his whereabouts. Bradwell was one of the most prominent men in the State. He was a bachelor and owns one of the largest and finest farms in the famous Blue Grass region. He had served three terms in the Legislature, and but for the Moore trouble would doubtless have been sent to Congress. He and Moore were not on friendly terms—in fact, they were opposed to each other in the House of Representatives, of which body Moore was also a member. Nothing has been heard of Bradwell since his escape from jail. He has no very near relatives, and his farm, we understand, is looked after by a number of his friends. There is great rejoicing, we hear, over the proof of his innocence, for he was exceedingly popular with all classes, and especially so with the more refined element. Nearly every paper throughout the country has either published or referred to the Governor's proclamation, and we sincerely trust that the wanderer may soon return home."

Potter, or Bradwell, stood complacently smiling upon John as he neared the end of the article. His excitement had passed away, leaving not the slightest trace of its sudden bursting forth. John sat in a sort of dazed silence, gazing at his friends, and Alf, whose half-open mouth bespoke a mystified state of mind, stood leaning against the wall.

"Now, my friends," said Bradwell, "you know why Sam Potter lived in this out-of-the-way place. Let us all be perfectly easy now. Alf, sit down. You look as though you were about to be hanged. I will walk up and down the room, as it would be almost impossible for me to keep still, and will tell you the story of my trouble in Kentucky. As the newspaper article states, Moore and I were members of the Legislature. One day he introduced a bill, the passage of which I did not think would be of benefit to the State. In fact, it was full of what we called buncombe, and was, I thought, intended to play upon an unthoughtful constituency and insure the re-election of its author. I opposed the measure, and was somewhat instrumental in its defeat. This inflamed Moore's anger. He denounced me in most violent terms, and swore that he would hold me to an account which might prove painful to one of us. The Legislature adjourned the next day, and, as I did not make it my business to look for Moore, I left the capital without seeing him. He lived near Lexington, to the east; I lived west. One day, several weeks later, while riding horseback to town, I saw, sitting on a fence, a hawk that had just caught a quail. I drew my pistol and fired at the hawk, but missed it. I went on into town, and, as I was going to remain but a very short time, did not put up my horse at a livery stable, but tied him to a rack in a lot in the rear of several stores. I had transacted my business, and was going through an alley leading to the lot, when I heard the report of a pistol. I hurried onward, and, upon turning into the lot, came upon the dead body of Moore. A bullet had passed through his head. Before I had recovered from the shock of so ghastly a discovery, several men ran to the place, and it was not long until a large crowd had gathered in the lot. I did not think of my position, and surely had no idea that I should be suspected. You may therefore well imagine my surprise when the sheriff arrested me. I was searched. One chamber of my revolver was empty, and, still worse, the bullet which had passed through Moore's head, and which was extracted from a cedar post, corresponded in size with the bore of my pistol. I was taken to jail. The next day bail was refused. This was annoying, but aside from being suspected of so grave a charge, I did not regard the affair as serious. I had not counted upon the men whom I had to fight. I had not thought of Moore's enraged relatives. The trial came on. There was great excitement. I had many friends, but it seemed that they were afraid of the Moores. The jury was cowed. A verdict of guilty was brought in. A motion for a new trial was overruled. My lawyers, prominent and able men, appealed to the supreme court. The decision of the court below was sustained. The date of execution was fixed. I could not realize it. One day I saw through my grated window that men were putting up a scaffold in the jail yard. My blood ran cold. Far into the night they carried their labors. Lanterns, like the red eyes of vultures, shed a lurid—I thought bloody—light upon the scene. I heard the hammers and saws. A nail glanced under the blow of a hammer and struck my window. It fell inside the cell. The hammers and saws hushed their awful noises. 'All done, Dave?' I heard someone ask. 'Yes,' came the reply; 'everything's ready.' The workmen went away. The red eyes disappeared, and all was dark. I got down from the window and found the nail. It was a large one. The window through which I had been looking was some distance from the floor. The Sheriff's officer in the yard rarely glanced at it. I heard the 'death watch' whistling in the corridor. I climbed up to the window. The ends of the bars, where they fitted into the stones on each side of the window, were made more secure with lead that had been melted and poured about them. With the nail I soon gouged away the lead from one of the bars, but the bar could not be moved. I attempted to gouge out more lead. I dropped the nail. It fell outside. In despair I seized the bar and fell backward. It broke. A thrill shot through me. Had anyone heard me? No. The 'death watch' continued to whistle. The broken bar was a powerful lever. Another bar and another one was forced out, until not one remained. I looked out. No sounds—all darkness. I went through the window, feet foremost, and dropped to the ground. Heavens, I could not scale the outer wall! I thought of the scaffold. It was near the wall. I mounted it. A rope dangled from a beam overhead. I seized the rope, swung out, turned loose and caught the top of the wall. In a moment more I was on the ground—free. I sank upon my knees and thanked God. I was afraid to go home, so, without a cent of money, I set out on my journey. I will not speak of my privations, of the weary miles I walked—of how I worked on a new railroad, and how I managed to get a few books. But I will say this, my dear boy, your face was the first to beam upon the outcast a true and generous welcome. There, there now. I am sorry that my simple recital has moved you to tears. Alf, what are you blubbering about?"

"Sorter got suthin' in dis eye jes' now, an' got suthin' in my throat, too, I b'l'ebe. Neber seed de like. Man kaint stan' erbout yere widout gittin' all used up, things flyin' roun' so."

John caught Bradwell's hand and pressed it to his breast. "My dear boy," said the giant, "your approaching marriage is now placed upon a sensible footing. You and your wife shall go with me to Kentucky. The farm is not mine, but yours and mine. The house is large, is built of stone, and in it there are many rare books. I have all the time trusted that the light of truth would fall upon that crime, and now—but we will not talk about it. John, we will go over to-morrow and tell Mrs. Forest and Eva. Alf, you shall go to Kentucky with us."

John went to bed in a whirl of happiness. He could not sleep long at a time. Joy, as well as sorrow, puts sleep to flight. Would morning never come? What can come with such slowness as a wished-for day-break? Another doze. Sunlight streamed in upon the bed.

When Bradwell had shown Mrs. Forest the newspaper article, he told his story. The ladies were much affected, and Mrs. Forest, as she wiped her eyes, said:

"Well, I called you Bradshaw, you remember. I just knew it was Brad something, for I do think that I saw you in Kentucky years ago."

Eva and John walked along the road whose edges were fringed with flowers.

"There is nothing in our way now, precious."

"No," she replied, "nothing has been in the way, nothing, dear, but your groundless concern. Our life, I know, will almost be an ideal one."

"It shall be if love and faithfulness can make it so," he replied.

They sat down on a log and talked until the horn summoned them to dinner. That afternoon, as Bradwell and John were walking toward home, the young man remarked:

"Eva has only one trouble now."

"What is that?"

"Leaving her mother."

"Is she going to leave her?"

"Of course. Are we not going to Kentucky?"

"Yes; but Mrs. Forest, or rather Mrs. Bradwell, is going with us. Oh, you young fellows don't know everything."

They shook hands and walked on in happy silence.

The day was beautiful. It was autumn, and streaks of gray could be seen in the crab-grass. Age and infirmity had given to the "chatter jack's" song a harsher sound, and the toad, avoiding the grass where the dew was chilly, stretched himself in the dusty road.

The neighbors for miles around had gathered at Mrs. Forest's house. The bashful boy in brown homespun cast a wistful eye at the dining-table, and the half-grown girl in her linsey frock longed to see the marriage ceremonies performed.

"Where is Alf?" Bradwell asked.

No one knew. Old Jeff Lucas "'lowed" that he must be prowling around looking for something to eat, and "Aunt Liz," with a violent wrinkling of her nose, declared that if he wanted anything to eat he should get it at once, for she knew he would starve to death away off there in Kentucky.

"Mandy," said Mrs. Forest, addressing a colored woman who had come to assist in waiting on the guests, "do you know where Alf is?"

"How I know whar he is?" the woman replied. "Ef he got bizness ober yere I reckon he be yere airter while."

The ceremonies were performed, and while congratulations were still being extended Alf stepped up on the gallery. "Yere," he cried, waving a piece of paper, "somebody else got tet git married yere. Come on, Mandy." He and Mandy were married. "Oh!" the old negro exclaimed, with a pretense of great surprise, "I neber did see de like o' marryin' dat's gwine on dese days. Man kaint walk roun' yere widout bumpin' ergin somebody dat's dun married."

Bradwell and Mrs. Bradwell, John and Eva, were to go to the railway station, thirty miles away, in a wagon. Alf and his wife would ride a mule. After many farewells had been exchanged, and after John had affectionately kissed his aunt, old Jeff's wife remarked:

"I jest know you air all goin' to starve ter death, but don't think I want ter keep you here, fur goodness knows I don't."

She watched the wagon until it had turned a bend in the road, and then, clasping her hands over old Jeff's shoulder, bowed her head and sobbed.

The bridal party stood on the railway platform. "Eva," said John, "are you happy?"

"Yes, my soul is filled with a quiet joy."

The train came within sight. "It is the vehicle," said John, gazing up the road, "that is to convey us to a new and happy life."

"Yes."

Bradwell lifted his hand to point out something. John seized it and pressed it to his breast.