To Sally the next few days were more full of disturbing thoughts than events.

So far as Milton Derr's safety was concerned, her mind was at ease, for he had succeeded in getting away, and no one was the wiser regarding his going—no one but herself and Steve.

The horse that Milt had ridden on the night of his mysterious disappearance, and which had been turned loose by the raiders, had gone back to Mr. Peppers', and the general impression seemed to be that its rider had left that part of the country on account of the toll-gate troubles, with which his name was now being connected.

Sally had arisen even earlier than usual the morning following her night journey to the old quarry, and, as she had expected, she found Joe waiting patiently at the lot gate to be let in. This she managed to do before her mother was up; therefore, no explanations were necessary, save to explain that she had not stayed overnight with Sophronia, and had quietly let herself in by means of the back door, so as not to disturb her mother, who had gone to bed.

With each day slipping stealthily by, like the waters of a deep stream, whose surface seems almost stagnant, the time was drawing near to hand when the girl had promised to purchase her sweetheart's liberty with her own bondage.

Now that Milton Derr was spirited safely away, quite beyond the reach of the Squire's hatred and vengeance, the temptation fell heavily upon the pretty toll-taker to repudiate her part of the bargain, given under such stress of anxiety. Such a promise should not be held inviolable. The Squire had deliberately forced her into it by his threats against his nephew.

Yet the promise had been given in good earnest at the time, and accepted in good faith. The Squire had abided by his promise, she must now do likewise.

Apart from all this—independent of the right or wrong, justice or injustice of the matter, the fact was self-evident, that though the nephew might be beyond the reach of the Squire's anger, she and her mother were not.

His rage must of necessity fall on the defenseless heads of both, and the girl felt far more helpless now than before her champion had gone, for, in losing him, she had lost the only knight who might valiantly fight her battles.

Looking at her helpless condition, there seemed but one thing left her—a marriage to the Squire. What though it should be a loveless one? Such marriages took place day after day, and some of them appeared to even bear the seal of contentment, if not of happiness. Not that this could ever prove true in her case. It were a thing impossible, with the memory of one she really loved ever enshrined in her heart.

Fate, however, seemed determined to require a sacrifice of her, so why not make it and end the unequal struggle?

Milton Derr was now not only a fugitive from justice, but debarred from ever returning, by the edict of the band, which had believed itself betrayed by him. To its members he was literally dead. For his own sake, as well as for Judson's safety, he could not hope to come back. There was still less hope that she could ever go to him, with her mother also to be provided for, and so—what did it matter if she paid the debt she had incurred? There was no one to suffer but herself.

The Squire had confided to her mother the girl's promise to marry him, and Mrs. Brown was diligently spreading the news daily, despite her daughter's wishes to the contrary. Soon the announcement of the wedding was made in the town paper, to the girl's great disgust and indignation. Both the Squire and Mrs. Brown had conspired in this public notice of the approaching marriage, and the hapless girl began to feel, as they had intended, that matters had gone too far for her to rue the bargain.

Every allusion to the affair made her heartsick and miserable. Mrs. Brown, who was filled with plans regarding the event, strongly urged a church wedding in town—it would have proven a morsel of supreme delight to her, but Sally steadfastly refused to consider the matter even for a single moment. She would be married at the toll-house, and at no other place. No one should witness the marriage but her mother, not even Sophronia was to be invited.

This decision was a great grief to the mother. She had hoped and planned for far more elaborate things. In vain she reasoned and expostulated. It was all to little purpose—the girl was determined and obdurate. Arguments and entreaties were of no avail, not even inducements, for the Squire had given Mrs. Brown a sum of money quite sufficient to purchase the prospective bride a handsome wedding outfit.

Sally was also firm and immovable in her rejection of this proposed expenditure. She would not receive any wedding finery from the Squire, nor would she marry in any that his money had purchased.

"He must take me as I am, or not at all," she said.

"Sally, I don't know what to make of you!" cried her mother, in dismay. "Refusin' a bran'-new weddin' dress that's offered you."

"He can buy me dresses after he's bought me," answered Sally, bitterly. "I won't accept them now."

The moments sped like birds of evil passage. Nearer and nearer drew the hour of sacrifice. Each day that might have been so full of joy, under other circumstances, was one of prolonged unhappiness, and she scarcely knew whether to rejoice or grieve when it was ended, for the morrow would be but a repetition of the day that had passed, and one day nearer the goal of her misery.

The Squire would have proven a most ardent suitor had Sally consented, but she would have none of it. He hovered about the toll house, with the persistency of a youthful swain, fired by his first grand passion; but the bride elect very promptly sent him about his business, whenever he came spooning around, and curtly announced that she was busy getting ready to marry him, and, therefore, had no time for sentimental dallying.

If, notwithstanding these repeated rebuffs, he chose to linger, it fell to Mrs. Brown to entertain him, which she generally did by finding excuses for Sally's brusque manners and strange words. "Skittish colts make the tamest ones in harness," said she.

"When they're properly broke," thought the Squire, with a quiet chuckle of satisfaction.

On the evening before the wedding the prospective groom presented himself at the New Pike Gate. His efforts at rejuvenation, in dress and manner, would have struck Sally as comically grotesque but for the part she was to play in the tragic comedy.

"I thought I'd drop in to see if there's anything you wished done before to-morrow," said he, in a half apologetic way, as he readily interpreted the look on Sally's face to mean disapproval of his presence.

The girl's heart gave a sudden leap of terror. To-morrow! Was it possible that her marriage was this near? She had tried to put away the thought of it, day by day, as if this could lengthen time, or stay the unhappy event, and now the hour was almost at hand. She might no longer forget, or put the fact aside. The shadow of its actual presence overshadowed her and chilled her very heart.

A wild impulse flooded her brain, like a tidal wave from the sea of her despair. She would appeal to the Squire for a release from her promise—humbly petition his better self to spare her the misery of a marriage, loveless at least on her part. It could only bring sorrow to her, and doubtless unhappiness to him; since he could not wish to wed a wife, who brought him no love, and only deep aversion.

Yes, she would appeal to him—it was the one final hope left her. He must not, could not refuse to release her after such a confession. When at last he started to go, the girl quickly caught up her hat, and said, "I will ride with you along the road a little way."

"And after to-morrow, it will be all the way in life together, eh?" asked the old man jocosely, chucking her under the chin with one of his clumsy fingers. She instinctively shrank from his touch, but followed him into the night.

Without, the elements seemed as foreboding as the girl's own unhappy thoughts. An ominous sky brooded in gloom. In the north a huge pile of clouds, sullen and heavy, lay banked high above the horizon, threatening hills of blackness that seemed to hem in her little world of woe. Gusts of wind from time to time came sweeping by, boisterous heralds, precursors of threatening storm.

As the girl and the old man stood on the platform, after the door was shut behind them, he was the first to speak, as she unconsciously drew a little nearer to his side before a passing gust.

"I must have a kiss, my dear—one little kiss, on this, our marriage eve."

Her first impulse was to push him rudely from her, to deny him flatly such a request, though surely a lover's prerogative on the eve of marriage. Then, remembering the purpose for which she had followed him into the night, and the appeal she was about to make, she quickly realized that she must touch his compassion, not arouse his prejudice, if she would hope to win. Perhaps a submissive acquiescence on her part at this important moment might help to gain her cause.

She paused a brief moment, nerving herself for the trying ordeal, then resolutely putting aside her aversion, holding in check all mutinous thoughts, she hastily put up her lips and lightly touched his red, coarse cheek.

As she did so, a sudden flash from the muttering sky, like a reproof from heaven itself, for the act, made day of the night for one brief instant, and the clearly defined scene was enveloped in darkness again.

The Squire's back was partly turned toward the road, but Sally, looking out full upon it, saw in that brief flash of vivid light, clearly defined against the white background of the pike, Milton Derr standing in the road not ten paces away.