hope for you. So I will tell you she is safe, unharmed,
unhurt."

"I felt it," said Conway, quietly, "for I knew it, Richard Travis, as
soon as I saw your face. But tell me all."

"There is little to tell. I had made up my mind to run off with her,
marry her, perhaps, since she had neither home nor a father, and was
a beautiful young thing which any man might be proud of. But things
have come up--no, not come up, fallen, fallen and crushed. It has
been a crisis all around--so I sent for Clay--a fine young fellow and
he loves her--I had him meet me here and--well, he has taken her to
Westmoreland to-night. You know she is safe there. She will come to
you to-morrow as pure as she left, though God knows you do not
deserve it."

Something sprang into Edward Conway's throat--something kin to a
joyous shout. He could not speak. He could only look at the strange,
calm, sad man before him in a gratitude that uplifted him. He stared
with eyes that were blinded with tears.

"Dick--Dick," he said, "we have been estranged, since the war. I
misjudged you. I see I never knew you. I came to kill, but here--" He
thrust the grip of his pistol toward Travis--"here, Dick, kill
me--shoot me--I am not fit to live--but, O God, how clearly I see
now; and, Dick--Dick--you shall see--the world shall see that from
now on, with God's help, as Lily makes me say--Dick, I'll be a Conway
again."

The other man pressed his hand: "Ned, I believe it--I believe it. Go
back to your little home to-night. Your daughter is safe. To-morrow
you may begin all over again. To-morrow--"

"And you, Dick--I have heard--I can guess, but why may not you,
to-morrow--"

"There will be no to-morrow for me," he said sadly. "Things stop
suddenly before me to-night as before an abyss--"

He turned quickly and looked toward the low lying range of mountains.
A great red flush as of a rising sun glowed even beyond the rim of
them, and then out of it shot tinges of flame.

Conway saw it at the same instant:

"It's the mill--the mill's afire," he said.

CHAPTER XXII

A CONWAY AGAIN

It was a great fire the mill made, lighting the valley for miles. All
Cottontown was there to see it burn, hushed, with set faces, some of
anger, some of fear--but all in stricken numbness, knowing that their
living was gone.

It was not long before Jud Carpenter was among them, stirring them
with the story of how the old negro woman had burned it--for he knew
it was she