No wonder when the old preacher mounted his horse to go back to his
little cabin, all of his thoughts were of Captain Tom. No wonder
Uncle Bisco, who had raised him, went to bed and dreamed of Captain
Tom--dreamed and saw again the bloody Franklin fight.

CHAPTER IX

A MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING

In the library, Travis and Mrs. Westmore sat for some time in
silence. Travis, as usual, smoked, in his thoughtful way watching the
firelight which flickered now and then, half lighting up the room. It
was plain that both were thinking of a subject that neither wished to
be the first to bring up.

"I have been wanting all day to ask you about the mortgage," she said
to him, finally.

"Oh," said Travis, indifferently enough--"that's all right. I
arranged it at the bank to-day."

"I am so much obliged to you; it has been so on my mind," said his
companion. "We women are such poor financiers, I wonder how you men
ever have patience to bother with us. Did you get Mr. Shipton to
carry it at the bank for another year?"

"Why--I--you see, Cousin Alethea--Shipton's a close dog--and the most
unaccommodating fellow that ever lived when it comes to money. And
so--er--well--the truth is--is--I had to act quickly and for what I
thought was your interest."

Mrs. Westmore looked up quickly, and Travis saw the pained look in
her face. "So I bought it in myself," he went on, carelessly flecking
his cigar ashes into the fire. "I just had the judgment and sale
transferred to me--to accommodate you--Cousin Alethea--you
understand that--entirely for you. I hate to see you bothered this
way--I'll carry it as long as you wish."

She thanked him again, more with her eyes than her voice. Then there
crept over her face that look of trouble and sorrow, unlike any
Travis had ever seen there. Once seen on any human face it is always
remembered, for it is the same, the world over, upon its millions and
millions--that deadened look of trouble which carries with it the
knowledge that the spot called home is lost forever.

There are many shifting photographs from the camera called sorrow,
pictured on the delicate plate of the human soul or focused in the
face. There is the crushed look when Death takes the loved one, the
hardened look when an ideal is shattered, the look of dismay from
wrecked hopes and the cynical look from wrecked happiness--but none
of these is the numbed and dumb look of despair which confronts
humanity when the home is g