Early on the morning of this October court day, Sophronia Saunders, a friend and former schoolmate of the pretty toll-taker, went over to a neighbor's to see the housewife about weaving a rag carpet, the materials for which were already cut and sewed and rolled into balls ready for the loom.

Sophronia had taken an early start, for she wished to know just how much carpet chain would be needed, so that her father could bring it from town with him when he returned.

The air was full of crisp freshness, which brought a wholesome glow to the girl's plump cheeks as she walked briskly along down the dirt lane. Fallow fields stretched out on either hand, unrolling rich, varying shades of yellow and brown, reaching away in undulating waves to where the frost-painted hills stood in brave array, like gay canvases belonging to some gorgeous theatrical scene.

Far to the southward they extended—a long, irregular chain, whose rugged heights were gradually softened and subdued by distance and the October mists until they finally seemed but jagged banks of amethystine clouds piled high against the horizon.

Presently the girl reached a small wood that lay between her and her destination, and after a moment's pause, and a glance of maidenly precaution around, she agilely climbed the rail fence that enclosed its boundary, and started in a diagonal line across the wooded space to shorten her walk.

Within the wood the pensive presence of Autumn dwelt. The low, gentle rustling of falling leaves in a plaintive murmuring, as if regretful at approaching dissolution, greeted the sensitive ear at every turn. The drowsy air seemed haunted by vague faint-spirited voices whispering tenderly of the past summer's joys, while in sharp contrast, now and men, the sound of a dropping hickory nut from high up amid the branches where some frisky squirrels were at play, broke as a discordant note into the softer leaf-music of the trees.

The ground beneath her feet was soft-carpeted with fallen leaves, drifting into rich mosaics, changing with each passing wind to new kaleidoscopic patterns of beauty and color.

At the further edge the woodland terminated abruptly in a deep ravine, which the girl must cross before her destination was reached. It was a lonely, picturesque spot, skirted by underbrush and cedar bushes, and lined with gray, lichen-clad boulders, jutting out boldly in fantastic shapes on either hand. Overarching trees and vines shut out the brighter daylight, and made a subdued twilight that kept the spot cool and shadowy even on the warmest of summer days—a hidden sylvan retreat fit for woodland nymph or dryad.

When the girl reached this ravine she skirted its edge until she should come to a place where an easier descent could be made into its shadowy depths, and had gone but a little way along its rim when, on glancing through an opening between the bushes, she caught sight of her neighbor, Steve Judson, coming up the dry, rocky bed of the stream, which in the rainy season was changed into a brawling torrent. He had neither seen her nor heard her approach, and was quite unaware that anyone was near.

Sophronia was just on the point of calling out and asking him to give her a helping hand in crossing the ravine, when something in his manner—a certain cautiousness of movement and an alertness of bearing—caught her attention and aroused her curiosity; so, keeping silent, she drew back amid the bushes and peered through a small space between the branches.

Steve clambered up the rocky defile until he reached a spot almost opposite to where Sophronia stood concealed. After a cautious glance around, he drew from under his coat an object that looked, from her point of observation, like an ordinary fruit jar.

He held the jar up in front of him a few moments, looking into it with close attention, turning it slowly around as he did so, then crossed over to the opposite side of the ravine, where, after placing his burden carefully at the foot of a cedar tree, he began to dig a hole in the ground near by.

The earth was light and yielding—the rich deposit of leaf mold of many years accumulation—and in a short time a hole was dug sufficiently deep for its purpose, the jar was placed in it and covered with dirt. Some fallen leaves and loose pebbles were next scattered over the recently disturbed spot, and finally a large, flat rock laid just above the place where the jar had been buried.

After another cautious look of inquiry about him, when Steve had arisen to his feet, he turned and went down the ravine in the direction of his house.

Sophronia, wondering vainly what it was that her neighbor had hidden so carefully, and with such an air of secrecy, waited until he had been lost to sight amid the foliage, then slowly followed the course he had taken.

Soon she reached her destination. The Judson home was but a humble one, a dilapidated log cabin perched on the top of a rocky hill that gradually descended to the ravine which its owner had but lately quitted.

An air of neglect and shiftlessness hung heavily about the spot, for Steve was a person who would willingly sit for hours on a rail fence industriously whittling and talking politics, which was a favorite theme, but when it came to the driving of a needed nail in a loose plank, or repairing a break in a fence, he seldom had the time or inclination to engage in so prosaic an occupation. Selling off the stock was preferable to mending the fence, and when a shed tumbled down the broad canopy of heaven must thenceforth of necessity be a shelter.

Judson was making ready to go to town when the visitor arrived. He had not missed a court day since early boyhood, and no farm work was ever sufficiently important to keep him at home on such occasion.

When the girl explained her errand, he readily agreed to deliver any message she might wish to send her father, and to see to the bringing out of the needed carpet chain, while Mrs. Judson said, persuasively:

"'Phrony, I do wish you'd stay an' show me about cuttin' out a sack pattern. I'm as lost as if I was in the Roosian sea when it comes to cuttin' out things."

"An' it won't be puttin' you to too much trouble to see about the chain?" the girl asked of the man.

"It's just as easy as rollin' off a log," answered the complaisant host, who was of a most obliging disposition, and ever ready to attend to anybody's and everybody's business save his own.

"Now, Steve Judson, don't you forgit that carpet chain!" his wife called out admonishingly, in a shrill treble, as her husband rode off. "Men air sech forgitful critters 'bout rememberin'," she added complainingly to her visitor.

It was close upon noon when Sophronia started home, and she once more shortened the distance, choosing the ravine, and the way through the woods.

"I do wonder what he was buryin' so carefully up there?" she asked herself as she stopped in the ravine and looked up its shadowy depths.

The spot at which she had seen her neighbor digging was only a short distance away; in fact, she could almost see the exact location from where she now stood. She hesitated and gazed longingly up the ravine. A daughter of Eve, the impulse of investigation was strong upon her. If she only dared to venture farther up the shaded recesses to the spot where Steve had been digging! And why should she not dare? She would be quite free from interruption, for her neighbor was safe in town by now, and this remote place was rarely frequented.

She dallied with the temptation, casting yearning glances toward the charmed locality, and finally, almost before she realized the fact, she was standing beneath the very tree at whose foot the mysterious interment had taken place but a few hours ago.

With a glance of caution about her, such as he, too, had given, she suddenly stooped down and with some little difficulty moved the large flat rock that had been placed to mark the spot. Near by she found a sharp-pointed stick, the same that he had used, and with it began to scrape away the loose earth which hid the object of her search.

It proved to be a glass fruit jar, a plain jar having a metal top screwed down on a ring of rubber, and within was a roll of something wrapped in a scrap of newspaper. What in the world could it be?

Sophronia tried the lid, but it was firmly screwed on. As she had gone this far, however, she did not mean to be thwarted at such an early stage of her investigation, so grasping the jar tightly between her knees, she made a more effective effort at loosening the lid, and soon had the top off and the contents of the jar in her lap.

She gave a low exclamation of astonishment as she unrolled to view a number of bank notes, mostly new, and of small denominations—ones, twos and fives. As Sophronia carefully fingered the bills, noting their value and the number the roll contained, her eyes opened wide with surprise at the sight of so much money.

No wonder her neighbor had exercised such caution in concealing his treasure. Here was a larger amount of money than she had ever imagined he would possess. How had he ever come into the ownership of such a sum? Could he have stolen it, and from whom?

The girl hastily counted the bills. "Goodness!" she exclaimed. It was ninety-five dollars in all—a small fortune indeed for a person in Judson's situation. How came he with such booty, for booty it must be, since he had never been known to save a dollar in his life, yet here was quite a snug little fortune that had been acquired by some unknown means.

As Sophronia puzzled over the matter, her eyes chanced to fall on the scrap of paper in which the money had been wrapped, and smoothing out the paper, she slowly read the reward offered by the President of the Turnpike Corporation, for any information that would lead to the arrest and conviction of the raiders, whose recent deeds of violence were a menace to the community.

So this, then, was a solution to the problem vexing her brain! Steve Judson must have betrayed the raiders, and this money was the larger part of the spoils he had received. He certainly could not have accumulated such an amount otherwise, for his ill-kept, sterile patch of ground scarcely yielded a poor living.

As Sophronia sat looking first at the money then at the printed reward, the fear of detection suddenly came over her. Whether it was ill-gotten gain, or not, the money certainly was not hers, and she had no right to thus unearth it from its secret hiding place. Suppose some one should discover her in the act!

Alarmed at the mere thought, she hastily wrapped the scrap of paper around the money, and dropping the roll in the jar, screwed on the lid and reburied the treasure, taking care to leave the place looking quite as she had found it. Then she hastily quitted the spot.