ries of the prosecution were raining
direct fire on her as well as on himself.

Twice, while he had waited the summons that must call him to face his
ordeal, the attorney who was to defend him had come over into Kentucky
for conference, and it was to the professional advice of this lawyer,
almost clairvoyant in his understanding of jury-box psychology, that
Dorothy had at last yielded.

"We'll want to have you there later on," he had told the wife. "Juries
are presumed to be all logic; in fact, they are two-thirds emotion--and
if you appear for the first time in that courtroom at precisely the
right moment with your youth and wholesomeness and loyalty, your arrival
will do more for your husband than anything short of an alibi. I'll send
for you in due season--but until I do, I don't want you seen there."

So Dorothy had stayed anxiously at home.

One crisp and frosty morning she went over to Jake Crabbott's store
where she found the usual congregation of loungers, and among them was
Bas Rowlett leaning idly on the counter.

Dorothy made her few purchases and started home, but as she left the
store the man upon whom she had declared irreconcilable war strolled out
and fell into step at her side. She had not dared to rebuff him before
those witnesses who still accounted them friends, but she had no relish
for his companionship and when they had turned the bend of the road she
halted and faced the fellow with determined eyes.

About them the hills were taking on the slate grays and chocolate tones
of late autumn and the woods were almost denuded of the flaunting
gorgeousness which had so recently held carnival there, yet the sodden
drabness of winter had in nowise settled to its monotony, for through
the grays and browns ran violet and ultramarine reflexes like soft and
creeping fires that burned blue, and those few tenacious leaves that
clung valiantly to their stems were as rich of tone as the cherry-dark
hues that come out on well-coloured meerschaum.

"I didn't give ye leave ter walk along with me, Bas," announced the girl
with a spirited flash in her eyes, and her chin tilted high. "I've got a
rather es ter ther company I keeps."

The man looked at her for a hesitant interval without answering, and in
his dark face was a mingling of resentment, defiance, and that driving
desire that he thought was love.

"Don't ye dast ter trust yoreself with me, Dorothy?" he demanded with a
smile that was half pleading and