en more generous in his estimation of her character had he
been less jealous, and less angered by the disappointment of not being
her escort. People driving slow teams looked at him curiously as he
dashed past them. He had but one desire at that moment, and that was
not to face Harriet and Bates together.

The road, near the camp-ground, went through a dense wood, and was so
narrow that vehicles could not pass one another on it. In the
narrowest part of this road Westerfelt was forced to stop. A wagon
filled with women and children, and driven by old John Wambush, had
halted in front of him.

"What's the matter?" Westerfelt called out to the old man, who had got
down beside his horses and was peering at the motionless line of
vehicles ahead.

"A hack's broke down," the old fellow replied. "Nobody hurt, it seems,
but the banks on both sides is so steep that they cayn't cleer the
road. We'll have to take our time. I'd jest about as soon set heer in
my wagon as to listen to them long-winded preachers, anyway."

Westerfelt heard the beat of hoofs behind him. He was sure Bates and
Harriet were approaching, but he dared not look around. Through the
trees came the sound of singing from the camp-ground. The horse behind
got nearer and nearer, till it stopped with its nose in the back part
of Westerfelt's buggy, Westerfelt did not turn his head. He leaned
over the dash-board and impatiently called out to old Wambush:

"How long are they going to keep us?"

"Tell kingdom come ur Gabriel blows his horn," laughed the old man, and
all his family and the neighbors who were sharing the hospitality of
his wagon joined in the laugh. It was a thing the old man would have
said to anybody else and in the same tone, but it irritated Westerfelt.
The silence of the couple behind convinced him that it was Bates and
Harriet, for men in love do not talk much. Mrs. Wambush turned her
head and took off her gingham bonnet to get a good look at the man her
son had tried twice to kill. Her features were so much like Toot's
that Westerfelt, who had never seen her before, thought he had
discovered the fountain-head of the young outlaw's villany. He glanced
aside, but she continued to stare at him fixedly.

"How are you comin' on?" she asked him, slapping a little girl in a
blue homespun dress who was about to fall out of the wagon.

"Pretty well, thank you," replied Westerfelt, coldly. He had detected
a suggestion of a sneer ab