h road which stretched itself
over a low hill about a quarter of a mile away.

Sheba laid her cheek against the wooden pillar and looked after them with
a return of the sense of loneliness she had felt before.

"He went away," she whispered, "nobody knows where--nobody knows where."

She felt Tom's hand laid on her shoulder as she said the words, and
turned her face upward with a consciousness of relief, knowing she would
not be lonely any longer.

"Have I been gone long?" he asked. "Where's Mrs. Sparkes?"

"She's in there," Sheba answered, eagerly, "and I've been talking to the
boy."

"To the boy?" he repeated. "What boy?"

"To the one we saw," she replied, holding his hand and feeling her cheeks
flush with the excitement of relating her adventure. "The nice boy. His
name is like mine--and his mother died. He said it was De Willoughby, and
it is like mine. He has gone away with his father. See them riding."

He dropped her hand and, taking a step forward, stood watching the
receding travellers. He watched them until they reached the rising
ground. The boy had fallen a few yards behind. Presently the others
passed the top of the hill, and, as they did so, he turned in his saddle
as if he had suddenly remembered something, and glanced back at the
tavern porch.

"He is looking for me," cried Sheba, and ran out into the brightness of
the setting sun, happy because he had not quite forgotten her.

He saw her, waved his hand with a careless, boyish gesture and
disappeared over the brow of the hill.

Tom sat down suddenly on the porch-step. When Sheba turned to him he was
pale and his forehead was damp with sweat. He spoke aloud, but to
himself, not to her.

"Good Lord," he said, "it's De Courcy and--and the boy. That was why I
knew his face."

* * * * *

When they went in to supper later on, there was a great deal of laughing
and talking going on down the long table. Mr. Sparkes was finishing a
story as they entered, and he was finishing it in a loud voice.

"They're pretty well known," he said; "an' the Colonel's the worst o' the
lot. The nigger told me thar'd been a reg'lar flare-up at the Springs.
Thar was a ball an' he got on a tear an' got away from 'em an' bust right
into the ballroom an' played Hail Columby. He's a pop'lar man among the
ladies, is the Colonel, but a mixtry of whiskey an' opium is apt to spile
his manners. Nigger says he's the drunkest man w