as trying to save her
from what he imagined must be a very embarrassing situation. "No, he
has not written me."

"Well"--the old man turned--"as fur as I'm concerned, I'm not one bit
afeerd that he'll not be able to take keer o' hisse'f, but his mammy is
pestered mighty nigh to death about 'im."

Just then Mrs. Floyd came out on the porch and threw a kiss at Harriet.
The act and its accompanying smile reminded Westerfelt of the deception
the old lady had played on Bates, and that added weight to the vague
convictions once more alive in his brain. Mrs. Floyd's smile implied a
certain confidence in his credulity and pliability that was galling to
his proud spirit.

His horse was mettlesome, and Westerfelt drove rapidly over a good road
which ran along the foot of the mountain. The day was fine, the
scenery glorious, but he was oblivious of their charm. His agony had
never been so great. He kept his eyes on his horse; his face was set,
his glance hard. Once he turned upon her, maddened by the sweet,
half-confiding ring in her voice when she asked him why he was so
quiet, but the memory of his promise never to reproach her again
stopped him. With that came a sudden reckless determination to rid
himself of the whole thing by going away, at least temporarily, and
then he remembered that he really had some business affairs to attend
to in Atlanta.

"I am going away awhile, Miss Harriet," he told her.

"You are, really?"

"Yes; I'm needed down in Atlanta for a while. I reckon I'll get back
in a few weeks."

He saw her face change, but he did not read it correctly. At that
moment he could not have persuaded himself that she cared very much one
way or the other. Surely a girl who had, scarcely six weeks before,
sobbed in old Wambush's arms about her love for his son could not feel
anything deeply pertaining to another man whom she had known such a
short time.

"Let's go back," he proposed, suddenly, and almost brutally. "I reckon
we've gone far enough. Night comes on mighty quick here in the valley."

She raised her eyes to his in a half-frightened glance, and said:

"Yes; let's go back."

He turned his horse, and for fifteen minutes they drove along in
silence. There was now absolutely no pity in his heart. The vast
black problem of his own tortured love seemed to be soaking into him
from the very air about him.

He broke the silence.

"So you refused Bates?"

She looked at him again. "How did