A little before eight o'clock, while the young girl was still busied in the kitchen with the supper dishes, for on court days this meal was always a late one, Squire Bixler again passed through the New Pike gate on his way to town.

Sally's mother raised the gate for him, and curious to know the cause of his speedy return, straightway began to ply him with questions. When she came into the house after he had ridden on, the seal of secrecy being the price the Squire required of her for the information he had imparted, she heaved so deep a sigh, and looked so full of melancholy forebodings that her daughter quickly inquired the cause.

"Nothin'," answered the old woman evasively, but the tone and her actions suggested quite the contrary. Indeed, her face bore the unmistakable impression of an impending disaster. The girl's curiosity was at once aroused and piqued by her mother's bearing and words.

"But there is certainly something troubling you," insisted Sally. "You look quite put out."

"Well," admitted the other grudgingly, "perhaps I am."

"Then what's the matter?"

"I'm under solemn promise not to tell anybody, not even you, but when a person don't know what minute they're liable to lose the very shelter over their heads, it's high time for dismal looks I should say."

"Are we in any such danger?" asked the girl quickly.

"I'm not sayin' as we air or ain't," yet the speaker gave a most gloomy shake of her head along with the noncommittal answer.

"But you act like something serious was the matter."

"I can't well help showin' what's on my mind, I suppose."

"Then why on earth don't you say what's troubling you?"

"When you're told a thing, an' then told positively not to tell it, how is a person to do?" asked Mrs. Brown in dire perplexity. Her pledge to the Squire was already beginning to weigh heavily upon her.

"I don't see why you hesitate to tell me," said Sally emphatically; "I'm not a child that can't be trusted with a secret."

"I don't see the harm myself in your knowin' it," acknowledged her mother, "and that, too, when you'd be sure to find it out in a mighty little while, for as soon as the guards come, you'd know that somethin' was wrong."

"The guards?" echoed the girl. "Then it's something about the raiders?"

"I didn't say," answered her mother with exasperating evasiveness.

"But it is," cried the girl. "Surely I've quite as much right to know as you. Don't it concern me equally as much?"

"Of course, but then the Squire didn't seem to want to make you uneasy any sooner than was necessary. That's why he cautioned me about tellin' you, I suppose."

"And very thoughtful it was of him, too," declared the girl with shrewdly feigned graciousness. "So it was the squire that told you about the raiders?"

"Yes, and it goes to prove how much he really thinks of you, not to want you worried."

"That's true," the girl's manner took on a careless indifference, "He was speaking to me the other day about the raiders; what did he have to say to you?" she asked in an off-hand way that threw the mother quite off her guard for the moment.

"He was sayin' that he feared you'd be badly frightened if you knew the raiders would be here tonight."

"Tonight?" cried the girl excitedly, no longer acting a part.

"There! I've gone and let the cat out of the bag, after all!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown in sudden contrition. "You partly guessed it, though. I didn't tell you out and out." She came a little closer to Sally, while her voice dropped to a tragic whisper. "Yes, the raiders air comin' this very night."

"How does he know?"

"He didn't tell me, but he's found out somehow."

"What will become of us?" cried her hearer in genuine apprehension.

"Dear knows!" answered her mother melting into tears at the thought of the impending raid. "We'll likely have the roof burned over our very heads, and tomorrow will find ourselves without a shelter."

"Well, there, don't worry!" urged the girl, touched by her mother's evident distress of mind. "There's another shelter been offered us, if the worst comes to the worst."

"Whose?" questioned Mrs. Brown quickly, for the moment forgetful of impending danger in the thirst for further knowledge of this generous offer. "Has the Squire offered us a home?" she questioned eagerly, eyeing her daughter askant.

"Yes, he has," acknowledged the girl with a little show of hesitation; "not that I mean to accept it," she added to herself, with a pretended flare of courage that was far from real. "What does the Squire think the raiders will be apt to do?" she questioned, returning to the primary subject under discussion.

"He don't intend they shall do us any harm if he can help it. He's gone to town now to get men to come an' guard the gate, an' he hopes to ketch the last one of them lawless raiders before mornin'," declared the elder toll-taker.

"I hope not!" cried the girl impulsively as a sudden fear crossed her brain.

"You hope not?" repeated Mrs. Brown in open-eyed wonder, turning on her daughter in quick wrath. "Is Milt Derr one of them night riders that you talk like that, Sally Brown?"

"Of course not, mother, else they wouldn't be coming here," answered Sally with quick wit to repair the slip of her tongue. "I mean on account of the trouble it would bring to a lot of innocent people," she hastened to explain. "Of course these raiders have friends and kinfolks, likely some of 'em acquaintances of ours up in the hills. Besides, the raiders think they're mightily down-trodden and oppressed, for toll-rates are high, there's no denying the fact."

"Sally Brown! I'm downright ashamed of you, that I am!" cried her mother sharply. "The idea of you takin' up for them miserable law-breakers, an' them tryin' to burn the very roof over our heads, an' take the daily bread out of our mouths. You must have gone clean daft."

"I didn't say I thought they were right," persisted Sally. "I said it likely seemed so to them."

"An' you got no cause to say even that," insisted Mrs. Brown, "you, that's dependin' on a livin' by takin' of the toll. It's nothin' short of downright treason!"