school. He had told them that his company had no fund for contributions such as they asked. He had not, however, turned them away entirely without hope.

“The company, of which I am President,” he had said, “is a comparatively small one. The stock is not owned by any one rich man, or by a group of rich men. It is owned by a number of men who own a little property and who hope to improve their position by wise investment. These men look to me to bring about the success they hope for. Unfortunately, at the present time we are short of coal lands. The railroad up this way has been built for several years. The coal land that lies along it has been bought up by rich companies, principally the Inland Coal and Coke Company, which is so large that it has come to be looked upon as virtually a monopoly in these parts.

“There is but one field left to us.” His eyes glanced away to the crest of Pine Mountain. “At the back of that mountain there is coal, plenty of it. Land is cheap. At present there is no railroad, but there is a persistent rumor that the M. and N. proposes to build a spur up that creek. They will build it. But when?” He had risen to pace the floor of his small office. “When? That’s the question.”

“The directors of the railroad,” he had gone on after a long pause, “are to hold a meeting next week. They may decide upon the spur at that time. If it is to be built within the next year, there is a tract of land back here that we want—want badly. It is owned by a man named Caleb Powers. The price is twenty-one thousand. Needless to say, our rich rival will want it. They may be able to secure advance information regarding the coming decision of the Directors of the M. and N. In that case we are defeated. If they do not, we have a chance. The first person to get to Caleb Powers after the spur has been decided upon, will get the land.”

Here he had paused and looked Florence squarely in the eye.

“That’s where you come in,” he had said steadily. “That is, if you wish to. I am to be away in another section of the mountains next week—can’t be here. You want money for your school?” He had stared hard at the girl.

“Y-es, we do.”

“Well then, here’s your chance. One of you go back behind Pine Mountain and there keep in close touch with Caleb Powers. The other must remain here until news of the decision regarding the proposed spur comes. I will arrange for a messenger at the rail’s end. As soon as the messenger arrives you must make all haste to reach Caleb Powers. I will give you the earnest money—five hundred dollars. If the spur is to be built and you succeed in purchasing the land, I will pay you a commission of ten percent.”

“Think of it!” Florence had exclaimed. “Twenty-one hundred dollars! All that for the school!”

Visions of a warm, cozy school room, brightened by many happy, glowing faces, passed before her mind’s eye.

“Of course we’ll try it,” she had said with quiet resolution.

“Of course,” Marion had echoed.

“And now it has come to this,” Florence said to herself as she stirred upon the rustling corn husks of her bed in the deserted cabin which formed her temporary hiding place.

Once more her mind went back to the broken sequence of events. It had been agreed that she should cross over the mountains and stay with a friend of Mrs. McAlpin who lived at the back of Pine Mountain.

“And I will keep you posted by means of the Silent Alarm!” Marion had exclaimed.

Until now the Silent Alarm had been little more than a plaything. Now it was to be of some real use. Florence’s older brother, who had been in the great war, had told her how, by the use of signal lamps, flashlights and the Continental code he and his comrades had been able to signal to one another even across a point of the enemy’s trenches. He had explained the matter to her in detail, had also taught her the code. Often at night, from some distant hillside, with a flashlight and the barrel of a dismantled shotgun, Florence had signalled to Marion at the cabin. And Marion, with some similar simple apparatus, had signalled back.

The simple-minded, superstitious mountain folks, having seen these strange stars blinking away against the mountain, had whispered weird tales of witch light and of seeing old women riding a cloud at night. All this had greatly amused the girls and they kept their secret well.

“Now,” Marion had said to Florence when she started on her mission, “when you get to your destination back there, I’ll climb this side of the mountain to the crest and we’ll get in touch with one another by signal fires. After that, when the big news comes, I’ll climb the mountain again. If it comes in the daytime I will use a heliograph; if by night, some form of tube and a flashlight.”

As you have already seen, by the aid of Marion’s beacon fire on the mountain’s crest, they had established communications. But under what unexpected conditions this was done! Florence had been the prisoner of strange men whose motives in holding her were unknown. This she had flashed back to Marion. She had added a warning not to try to come to her.

Bearing this startling news, Marion had retraced her steps to Mrs. McAlpin’s cabin.

“And here I am a fugitive,” Florence sighed as she sat up among the corn husks. “A fugitive from whom? And why? The message will come and I will not be able to deliver it. The coal tract will be lost to the Inland Coal and Coke Company and our hopes for a schoolhouse will be blighted.

“But no!” she clinched her fist. “It must not be! There is yet a way!”

The message did come, a message of great good news. It came on the wings of the wind, came to Mrs. McAlpin and Marion, late that very afternoon.

In the meantime, on the mountain-side near the cabin in which Florence was hiding, strange things were happening. Florence was wondering about the identity of the rough mountain men who had made her prisoner. Were they feudists? Or moonshiners suspecting her of being a spy? Or real spies themselves, employed by the great mining corporation to trap her? Or were they just plain robbers?

Such were the thoughts running through her mind when she caught the sound of a cheery note outside the cabin. It was the chee-chee-chee, to-wheet, to-wheet, to-wheet of a mountain wren. The song brightened her spirits and allayed her fears.

“As long as he keeps up his joyous notes I need have no fear,” she told herself. “The appearance of someone near would frighten him into silence.

“Dear little friend,” she whispered, “how wonderful you are! When human friends were here you came each year to make your nest in some niche in their cabin. Now they are gone. Who knows where? But you, faithful to their dream of happiness, return to sing your merry song among the ruins.”

Even as she whispered this, her ear caught a far different note, a dread sound—the long-drawn note of a hound.

As this grew louder and louder her heart beat rapidly with fear.

“On my trail,” she thought with dread.

As the sound began to grow fainter she felt sure that the hunters, if hunters they were, had passed on up over the main trail. Hardly had the hope been born when it was suddenly dashed aside. The solid thump-thump of footsteps sounded outside the cabin, then ended.

For a moment there was silence, such a silence as she had not experienced in all her days. Flies had ceased to buzz. The little brown wren had