day an' night, but
the same ur wuss mustn't come to Sally, kase she don't deserve
it--she's _helpless_! Oh, Lord, have mercy--have mercy--mercy--mercy!"

She rose to her feet, and without undressing threw herself on the bed.
She could hear Slogan and his wife, now barefooted, thumping about in
the next room. Far away against the mountain-side she heard a hunter
calling to his dogs and blowing a horn.

Chapter II

John Westerfelt lived on his own farm in the big two-storied frame
house which had been built by his grandfather, and which came to him at
the death of his father and mother. The place was managed for him by a
maternal uncle, whose wife and daughter kept the house in order. But
all three of them had gone away on a short visit, leaving only the old
negro woman, who was the cook and servant about the house, to attend to
his wants.

The morning following his meeting with Sally Dawson on the road near
her house, Westerfelt arose with a general feeling of dissatisfaction
with himself. He had not slept well. Several times through the night
he awoke from unpleasant dreams, in which he always saw Sally Dawson's
eyes raised to his through the darkness, and heard her spiritless voice
as she bade him good-bye, and with bowed head moved away, after
promising to return his letters the next day.

He was a handsome specimen of physical manhood. His face was dark and
of the poetic, sensitive type; his eyes were brown, his hair was almost
black, and thick, and long enough to touch his collar. His shoulders
were broad, and his limbs muscular and well shaped. He wore
tight-fitting top-boots, which he had drawn over his trousers to the
knee. His face was clean-shaven, and but for his tanned skin and
general air of the better-class planter, he might have passed for an
actor, poet, or artist. He was just the type of Southerner who, with a
little more ambition, and close application to books, might have become
a leading lawyer and risen finally to a seat in Congress. But John
Westerfelt had never been made to see the necessity of exertion on his
part. Things had come easily ever since he could remember, and his
wants were simple, and, in his own way, he enjoyed life, suffering
sharply at times, as he did this morning, over his mistakes, for at
heart he was not bad.

"Poor little girl," he said, as he went out on the front veranda to
wait for his breakfast. "It was just blind thoughtlessness. I really
neve