amid whose rugged rocks and green shrubbery much of his time will be spent. He turns and looks toward the mountain; there he sees another cabin, or small house. It is the home of a tobacco planter, who has one son and an only daughter.

Nora Judson has many times looked longingly down the dusty road toward the cabin of the newcomer and wondered what he was like. Her scheming brain found a way by which she could tell.

Twilight's shadows are drawing the day to a close. Down the cow-trodden road can be seen an old brindle cow, coming leisurely, switching her tail from one side to the other, nibbling the sweet tufts of grass along the side of the trail. On she comes, until she passes the watcher and goes out into the woodland just beyond.

Wade watched the cow until she was out of sight, then he sighed.

"It's going to be a fearful job," he said mentally, "but the thing shall be done. Not one of them shall be left if God spares me long enough to take them away."

As the last words left his mind he glanced heavenward, as if to implore the Almighty to aid him in a work which he honestly thought was for the good of humanity at large and for God Himself. He was honestly convinced that he was on an errand of great mercy, and the world would be made better and humanity live more peaceably among themselves, and more godly by the fulfillment of his plans.

"Not one," he repeated, "not one shall be left to molest the peace of the innocent ones in this great valley,"—he swept his hand about him tragically,—"in this wonderful valley."

He sighed again. The gloom of a departing day was gathering about him. The lonesomeness of a twilight in the valley was making a deep impression upon his young life and he was beginning to long for companionship.

The monotony of the hour was broken by the faint sound of a female voice coming from toward the mountain, calling, "Soo-cow, soo-cow, sook-sook!" The call came vibrating down through the valley to his listening ears. Jack Wade's heart gave one joyful bound because a human being, and that a girl, was near. Nearer and nearer came the call, until through the gathering darkness could be seen the form of a valley maid. Soon she hove into full view just up the road. On she came, calling the cow, until she stood directly opposite Wade.

Apparently she had not before noticed him standing beside the fence.

"Good-evening," said Wade pleasantly. A lovely flush covered her dark face.

"Howdy?" she replied. Then falteringly, "Seen anything of a old brindle cow down this away?"

"Yes," said Wade. "She's just yonder in the woodland grazing leisurely. I'll go fetch her for you."

"Ye needn't be so kind," said the girl. "I kin git her myself. Much obleeged."

She started on, unmindful of his grateful glance, after the cow.

"I'll go with you, if you don't mind," he said, "and show you where to find her."

She didn't mind, so Wade bolted, in athletic style, over the fence and joined her.

Old Peter Judson's daughter was a very beautiful girl. Jack looked into her face,—he had nothing else to do just now,—and wondered how it was possible that she could be so pretty. Though born and reared in the valley, and having known nothing of the outside world, she was fearless in speech and manner. Her form was indeed very fine for one who had not the opportunities to gather grace, her voice was musically soft and sweet, her face was delicately fair. She looked up into Wade's eyes with an expression of earnestness that was almost an appeal.

"Ye are the newcomer, ain't ye?" she asked, unabashed.

"I've not been here a great many days," he replied thoughtfully.

"Have ye come to stay?" she asked.

The question was very direct, but Wade felt no uneasiness in replying truthfully. He had come to stay so long as everything was pleasant for him, otherwise he might pull up "stakes" and leave when he thought the time was ripe.

Her next question was even more direct. She stood for one moment, surveying Wade casually.

"Have ye come to raise terbacker?" she asked.

"No," he replied, "I shall raise tobacco but in small quantities, merely as a pastime. I am here especially on account of my health."

She surveyed him again, her large dark eyes going over him from head to feet.

"Ye don't look unhealthy."

She was quite right. He did not look unhealthy. His large athletic frame was not physically disabled.

"No?" he questioned. "Well, I'm not quite dead."

He laughed and so did she laugh, her silvery voice ringing out through the fast gathering darkness.

"There is your brindle cow," he said, pointing to the creature which stood with neck bent, looking back at the two approaching figures.

"Thank ye for bein' so kind," she said, looking up at him with a grateful expression upon her countenance. Picking up a short piece of broken tree limb she went round the cow, crying "Hooey-hooey!" and striking her about the flanks. The cow, fully understanding what was wanted of her, started back up the road toward home, while the girl appeared to pay no further heed to Wade's presence, feeling that he had done his full duty in locating the cow. However, the latter followed her out of the woods, both of them trailing along slowly and silently behind the cow.

"I'm going to help you to get the runaway home," said Wade, smiling.

"Ye needn't," she exclaimed; "I know the road all right," a little sarcastically.

"But I also want to learn it," he replied, not in the least rebuffed.

"Ye might be losin' time for me, an' I don't want ye to do that," tenderly.

"I'd rather lose time assisting you than do anything else at this moment."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "ef ye want to learn the road, come on."

Her face flushed. She felt it, but Wade could not penetrate the twilight sufficiently to discern the crimson coloring.

"I do want to," he said, "and I wish I had such a companion to show me the way over the mountain and through the entire country."

Unheeding this remark, she said, "Hit's a little lonely, livin' alone, hain't it?"

"It is while I am not very well acquainted with my neighbors, but I shall become better acquainted soon. One cannot expect to be greatly elated at once, or happy altogether, until he knows his neighbors well."

"Nice folks 'round here," she replied. "Once you git to know them you are sure to like them."

There came a moment of silence.

"Do you live in the house toward the mountain?" asked Wade.

"That's Dad's house. I live there—have lived there for many years."

"You are very fond of the hills and ravines, I presume?"

"An' the brooks. They are the only companions I have ever known, except my brother, an' he's been in the saddle ever since I was old enough to have companions, or remember anything. They are my friends,—the cow and the dog, the chickens an' the geese, the ducks an' the turkeys, an' even the grunting pigs, are the only friends I have ever known."

"What a terribly lonesome life that seems to have been."

"Not to me; it has been a happy one."

"Pardon me, I should not have spoken that way."

"Hit don't make any difference how you speak," she said independently. "We are used to everything here."

"Who lives yonder to the south of us?" asked Wade, pointing in the direction indicated.

"Jim Thompson. He's a terbacker raiser, too."

"And who to the west yonder?"

"Oh, that's the place where old John Redmond lived. It's not used now."

There was a tinge of sorrow in the girl's voice as she spoke.

"What became of old John Redmond?" asked Wade, his own voice quivering.

"Don't ye know, hain't ye heerd?"

"Haven't heard anything yet; haven't been here long enough to learn much."

This untruth brought a flush over Jack Wade's face, but it was not seen by the girl, the darkness being too deep.

"He was killed by the Nightriders," she said, choking; "shot to death