"In a few years," he mused, "if I am as prosperous as I see reason to
hope, this log cabin will be replaced by a mansion as commodious as any
in Bourbon County. Flowers will bloom in my trim gardens; and my broad
fields will whiten with a wealth of grain. A home that shall be a fit
setting for the jewel of my love shall make her forget her former
luxurious life in Virginia, as well as the toils and privations of the
first days with me; and our children shall take their places with the
highest in the land."

From that October day when Abby Patterson had raised her veil in the
old church and revealed the features of the beautiful girl who had
entranced his boyish fancy at the Assembly ball four years before, a
veil seemed lifted from his own vision. Love had dawned, and in its
light life was invested with a deeper and more beautiful significance.
"What if she is a few years older than I?" he would ask himself. "Is
she not above me in everything else as well? So that, if she accepts my
love, it will be through no worthiness of mine."

CHAPTER VIII.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM

    "Like ships that sailed for sunny isles,
      But never came to shore."--_Hervey._

All through the early spring Abner toiled with the might of a hopeful
heart--love lightening every task and enduing him with the strength of
two. His farm was soon enclosed, and divided into fields and woodland
stretches by neat rail fences. Planting-time was over. The young corn
was rank and tall, and its luxuriant green foliage almost hid the brown
ridges and furrows.

One day in May Abner stood at the threshold of his unfinished cabin,
and gazed with unseeing eyes over fields and woods and growing corn.
Alas for visions of domestic joy! The day before, he had asked Abby to
be his wife. So gentle, so sad, and withal so tender, had been her
manner, that at first he had refused to accept her decision. "Believe
me, dear friend," she then said, "there is no answer possible save the
one I have given. Though I honor you above any one else I have known
during my life in Kentucky, I have no love to give you. Besides, I am
too old, too grave, too disposed to melancholy, to make you happy. You
need a younger, stronger, more joyous nature than mine. At present you
can not understand this; some day you will, and then you will see that
a far more suitable mate--a girl self-reliant, buoyant, and with a
wealth of love in her pure, warm heart--is waiting for you. Ah! you are
blind, blind, that you do not see how Happiness is holding out her hand
to you."

A dim, shadowy wonder as to whom she could mean flitted an instant
across the young man's mind; but he was too eager, too absorbed, to
entertain the thought, and renewed his pleading. Then Abby, after
looking at him a moment in wistful silence, rose from her chair, and,
standing before him, laid her hands upon his shoulders, and, looking
earnestly into his face, said: "Abner, I have no love to give you; for
long ago all the love of which my heart is capable was given to
another. He is dead now; but I am as much his as though he stood here
before me to-night. As I loved him at the first, I love him now, and
must love him to the end. For some, and I hope it will be so for you,
love reblossoms into new beauty and vigor; but not for me. My heart can
have no second springtime."

Abner Dudley was of too manly a nature to grow morbid--no
healthy-minded, strong-bodied man does that--but for a long, dark
season he went about his work with a cherished sadness in his soul. The
spring was gone from his step, the light from his eyes, and he was so
quiet, so little like his former cheery self, that Mason Rogers,
noticing his depression and attributing it to overwork, urged him to
take a "rest spaill."

"Tain't wuck whut's ailin' you, Abner," said Mrs. Rogers. "Thet nevah.
hurt nobody yit. It's stayin' so much in them damp woods. You're
gittin' peaky ez a sick kitten, an' saller ez a punkin; you'll be down
with fevers an' agers nex'. You need dosin' on boneset an'
life-evehlastin', an' I'll brew you a cupful this very night. Drink it
bilin' hot, then soak yer feet in hot watah with a lot o' mustard
pounded up in it; then go to bed an' sweat it out, an' you'll be all
right by mawnin'. Thar's nothin' lak a good sweat to drive fevers an'
agers outen the systum."

Abner thanked his kindly hostess, but could not help laughing secretly
at her diagnosis and prescription. "Truly," thought he, "it's but a
step from sentiment to bathos. 'Fevers an' agers' instead of
disappointed love! Boneset tea and a mustard foot-bath for a broken
heart! I really must pull myself together."

This perfect unconsciousness of the simple household was helpful to the
young man. Furthermore, his work necessitated his living much out of
doors, and this helped him still more; for none but those who have the
unseeing eye and the unappreciative heart for the beauty of woods and
fields, summer sunshine, glinting stream, and joyous bird notes, can
long be wholly without benefit from nature's ministry. Thus Abner had
within reach two mighty remedies for sadness--the balm of nature's
beauty, and the bracing tonic of hard work.

For some time he kept aloof from Oaklands; not only because of Abby,
but because, when in Betsy's presence, certain tones of her voice when
speaking to him, and a wistful look in her eyes, troubled him with a
vague, half-conscious sense that she, young though she was,
comprehended his trouble.

In July, Abby, taking advantage of the proffered companionship of a
family who were returning to Virginia, went for a protracted visit.
After arriving in Norfolk, she decided to make her home with a cousin
there. It was many a day before Abner Dudley saw her again.

CHAPTER IX.

THE GREAT REVIVAL

In the summer of 1801, Cane Ridge became a storm-center of the great
religious agitation which at that time was sweeping over the Western
States.

In the spring of that year, Barton Stone, leaving his Bourbon County
churches for a time, had gone to southern Kentucky to attend a meeting
conducted by McGready, McGee, and other noted revivalists, upon the
edge of a barren tract in Logan County where multitudes encamped, and
where worship was in progress in some parts of the grounds during the
entire meeting, which lasted over a week.

This southern Kentucky revival was followed by others of a like nature
throughout other portions of the State, and like a wind-driven fire
through the dried grass of a prairie was the effect of such meetings.
In the prevalence of this excitement, sectarianism, abashed, shrank
away, and the people, irrespective of creed, united in the services.

It was decided to hold a camp-meeting at Cane Ridge. The woodland slope
surrounding the meeting-house was cleared of its thick undergrowth for
a space of several hundred yards, and three-fourths of this space was
soon covered with long rows of log seats with broad aisles between the
rows. In front, a spacious platform was erected, and over all was a
roof of loose boughs supported by posts.

The meeting began Thursday night before the third Sunday in August.
Before sunrise on that Thursday, the roads were thronged with
carriages, wagons, ox-carts, horseback riders, and persons on foot, all
moving toward the woodland rendezvous. Many came from distant parts of
Kentucky; many from the neighboring States. A Revolutionary officer,
skilled in estimating large encampments, declared that the crowd
numbered between twenty-five and thirty thousand people.

Enthusiasm gathered intensity with each succeeding hour. There was no
fixed time for intermission. Each family cooked, ate, slept at any time
its members chose, and returned to the services, which began at sunrise
and continued until long after midnight. Sometimes several preachers
were each exhorting a large audience in different parts of the ground
at the same time, while singing, shouting, praying and groaning were
the constant accompaniment of the fervid, chantlike exhortations.

At night the vast encampment, illuminated by scores of bear-grease
lamps, hundreds of rush-lights, and thousands of tallow dips, presented
a spectacle of weird sublimity. In the improvised auditorium lights
suspended from overhanging boughs fell upon a concourse of earnest
worshipers whose voices, rising in the solemn melody of a hymn, mingled
with the fervid petitions of the preacher, the shouts of the newly
converted, the sobs and shrieks of the newly convicted. Pine knots set
in sockets upon the rostrum revealed in unearthly radiance the face of
some impassioned speaker, silhouetting his form with startling
distinctness against a background of forest. In the shadowy depths
beyond the rostrum could faintly be seen, by the light of smoldering
campfires, the long, ghostly line of tents and wagons, and here and
there the fitful gleam of torches, like giant fireflies in the
surrounding gloom. Enclosing all this was a black and seemingly
illimitable expanse, from which could be heard the occasional hoot of
an owl or the baying of a hound, mingled with the unceasing voice of
the trees, now rising almost to a scream, now softly sighing, now
wailing as in a dying agony.

In an environment of such great natural solemnity, and under the spell
of tense religious fervor, it was not strange that the very atmosphere
seemed surcharged with a mystical and awful force, and that many of the
campers were soon the victims of those singular "manifestations"
called, in the parlance of the times, "the falling exercise," "the
jerks," "the trance," and "the ecstasy." The various phases of this
strange disorder attacked indiscriminately the credulous and the
critical, the fervid and the frivolous, the religious and the
reprobate. A strong man, while quietly attending to the exposition of
some text; a young girl, while listening with blanching lips and
quickening pulses to the impassioned appeal of the exhorter; or a
careless onlooker, while laughing and jesting, might suddenly be
affected by this terrifying malady. Some scoffer might perhaps at one
moment be sneering or denouncing the demonstrations as demoniac, and
the next be attacked with great violence. Nor were the campers alone
affected. New arrivals, while yet upon the outskirts of the encampment,
were sometimes seized with violent and inexplicable sensations. The air
seemed charged with an irresistible electrical force.

Many farmers of the neighborhood attended the meeting, taking advantage
of the comparatively leisure season between summer harvesting and fall
wheat-sowing. Mason Rogers was among this number, his wife declaring
that "the hull thing would likely fall through ef Mason warn't thar to
holp lead the singin'. Ez fer me," she said cheerfully to her children,
"I'll stay to home most o' the time to cook things fer you-all ter eat
up thar et the camp. Some day when I kin spar' time, I'll be ovah to
heah the preachin', an' ter see whut's goin' on. You kin go, too,
Susan, ef you want to, seein' ez you air 'titled to a leetle
play-spaill arter wuckin' so spry all summah. You kin find a place to
sleep with Betsy in Gilcrest's tent, or with Molly an' Ann Trabue. I
reckon yer pap an' Henry an' Abner kin git a shakedown in some uv the
wagon-beds, or else on the groun'; 'twon't hurt 'em this dry weathah.
No, Tommy, nary step do you go; you an' Buddy's gwintah stay right
heah. Camp-meetin's hain't no place fer brats. Maybe, though, ef you're
good, I'll tek you ovah with me some day; or I'll let you go 'long with
Rache an' Tom some mawnin', when they tek the baskets uv vi'tuls fur
the folks to eat."

CHAPTER X.

AFTERNOON IN THE GROVE

One afternoon toward the close of the revival, Betsy and John Calvin
Gilcrest and Henry and Susan Rogers took their lunch-baskets to a shady
grove near the big spring, with the intention of spending the afternoon
in the woods.

"I'm completely worn out," declared Susan, throwing herself down upon a
grassy knoll and tossing her bonnet aside. "I've had enough excitement
for one while."

"And I, too," assented Betsy, as she uncovered her lunch-basket. "Every
nerve in my body is on the war-path. We'll be having the 'jerks,' if
this meeting lasts much longer."

"If you do," remarked John Calvin, as he attacked the wing of a fried
chicken, "I suppose you'll think it an 'evidence of conversion,' as old
Daddy Stratton shouted out this morning when Billy Hinkson fell to the
ground foaming at the mouth."

"'Evidence of conversion,' indeed!" rejoined Betty. "I never felt
further from it in my life. My head is like a ragbag stuffed to
overflowing with all sorts of odds and ends of doctrinal wisdom, and
when I want to get at any one sensible idea, out tumble a dozen or more
that are of no use whatever."

"My head's all confused, too," acknowledged Susan. "Yesterday Dr.
Poague preached on 'Saved by Grace,' and showed that all we have to do
is just to sit still and wait for the Lord's call. I felt real
comfortable under that discourse. But last night old Brother Steadman's
text was, 'Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling,' and he
made me dreadfully uneasy. Now, are there two plans of salvation, or
only one?"

"Why, two, of course," said John Calvin, with laughing assurance. "One
teaches that if you mean to get to heaven, you must keep your horse
everlastingly hittin' the road; the other, that the best way to get
there is just to sit still. I like the 'sittin'-still plan' best,
myself," he declared, with boyish frivolity.

"This is what puzzles me," said Betsy, ignoring her brother's
irreverent summary of the two seemingly conflicting doctrines, "grace"
and "works": "if it be true, as so many of our learned brethren teach,
that nothing good that one can do merits salvation, then it seems to me
that, in accordance with every principle of justice, nothing bad that
one can do ought to merit damnation. Therefore, why should not I do the
thing that pleaseth me best, whether it be good or bad? If I'm one of
the 'elect,' nothing will keep me out of heaven, anyway."

"If you're of the elect, Betsy, you won't ever want to be wicked,"
Henry said gravely, speaking for the first time.

"Then, I fear I'm not of the elect."

"Oh, yes, I hope you are--only you're not yet converted. When you are,
you'll see things differently." Henry was of a devout, reverent
temperament, with a vivid imagination in spite of his quiet,
self-contained manner. He had been greatly stirred by what he had seen
and heard during the last ten days.

"But, Henry," began Betsy, argumentatively, "if I'm among the chosen at
all, I'm as much chosen now as I will ever be; for I'm a sheep, not a
goat--'Once a sheep, always a sheep,' you know."

"Well, sis," teasingly interrupted John Calvin, "if you're a sheep,
you're surely one of the black ones; and it'll take a mighty heap o'
scrubbin', I tell you, to get you white."

"And you," rejoined his sister, playfully, "I fear must be a
goat--judging by the way you're always butting in, and interrupting
serious converse."

"Oh," answered John Calvin, lightly, "I ain't bad enough to be classed
with the goats, nor good enough to be a sheep, even a black one. That
other parable about the wheatfield fits my case better. I reckon I'm
just one of those useless tares."

His sister retorted: "The parable also declares that 'he who sows the
tares is the devil,' and I hardly believe you are prepared to call your
parents the devil, although they put you into the church by having you
baptized in infancy." Then, resuming her conversation with Henry, she
said, "If I am of the elect at all, Henry, I am elected already, before
conversion, am I not?"

"To be sure," Henry replied. "God chose his people before the
foundation of the world."

"Bosh!" exclaimed Susan, impatiently. "You don't know what God was
doing before the foundation of the world, and I doubt if any of those
wise brethren up at the camp do, either."

"Besides," added the irrepressible John Calvin, "the catechism says
we're made of the dust of the earth; and before the foundation of the
world, there wasn't any dust. So, the elect must mean some other
folks--not us of this world, at all."

"Doubtless the inhabitants of Mars or Jupiter," observed Betty,
laughing in spite of herself at John's flippant remark.

"Betsy," presently said Henry very earnestly, "I've watched you and
Susan closely all during this revival, and I do believe that you both
are really under conviction. The belief in your own wickedness and in
the total depravity of the human heart is the first link in the
chain--as Brother Weaver says."

"But I do not believe in 'total depravity,'" maintained Betsy, stoutly.
"If the human race was utterly depraved to start with, how could one
keep growing worse and worse all the time?"

"Ah, Betty," said Henry, "I reasoned just as you do, once; but now I
understand these things better. Although I am of myself utterly vile
and worthless, the mercy of God has taken hold of me and clothed and
hidden me in the righteousness of his dear Son, and now I----"

"Henry," interrupted Betsy, with sudden sweetness, for the time sobered
by his earnest face and voice, "you mustn't feel hurt by anything I
have said. You know I jest over the most solemn subjects, and see the
ludicrous side of everything; but I can be impressed by real
earnestness, and I have never doubted that you are sincere in all you
say."

"Yes," said Susan, "I'd sooner doubt my own eyesight than your
sincerity, Henry. I can understand and believe in that at least; but in
other things I must be a bigger simpleton than even the 'wayfaring
man'; for the way of salvation is anything but plain, if it includes
the doctrines of our churches. I can't understand them at all."

"Understand them!" exclaimed Betsy. "Who can? Why, whenever one of our
learned ministers is on the subject of 'reprobation,' 'predestination,'
or 'effectual calling,' his reasoning is so subtle and his logic so
ingenious that it must puzzle the elect angels themselves to understand
his arguments."

"But you surely believe in the beautiful doctrine of grace?" Henry
asked earnestly. "You believe that the saints will persevere and get
home at last to glory, don't you?"

"We'll tell you more about that when we get there ourselves--if we ever
do," replied Susan.

"If the saints do persevere to glory," remarked John Calvin, "some of
'em are makin' a mighty poor start of it here below. Look at Sam
Ruddell, drunk half his time, and too lazy and mean to do any honest
work at any time; yet he claims to be one of the elect, and the church
accepts him as such."

"And, Henry," Betty pursued mischievously, "in spite of your hopeful
view about Sue and me, I, for one, am not under conviction, if every
truly convicted penitent believes himself a 'sinner above all
Galilee'--that's the orthodox phrase, isn't it? I'm not nearly so bad
as Sam Ruddell, nor as Zebuel Simmons, who beats his wife."

"Ah, but my dear little girl," said Barton Stone, who, with Dudley, had
just come up, and had laid his hand gently upon the girl's shoulder,
"you must remember that training and environment are the measure of
guilt or innocence."

"You'll think me a reckless girl, I'm afraid, Brother Stone," Betsy
answered, laughing and coloring. "I shouldn't have made that speech had
I known that you and Mr. Dudley were within hearing. But, nevertheless,
I do not believe that I am the chief of sinners; others who have had
just as good opportunities are as bad as I am, I'm sure."

"Besides, if everybody who gets up in meeting and says he's the chief
of sinners, is really so, there would be more chiefs in this
neighborhood than in all the Indian tribes taken together," put in John
Calvin, pertly, unabashed by the presence of parson and schoolmaster.

"The trouble with so many ministers," said Dudley, as Betty, Susan and
John Calvin strolled away, "is that they seem to think that furnishing
people with doctrine is equivalent to awakening them to conviction and
supplying them with faith."

"Too true," assented Stone rather sadly. "Dogma and doctrine contain
very little of the true essence of faith. But the time is coming when
people will begin to search the Scriptures for themselves; and then,
just as the walls of Jericho fell before the blasts of the trumpets, so
will the whole superstructure of human theology, whose four
corner-stones are bigotry, intolerance, superstition and speculative
doctrine, crumble into nothingness. Even now the walls are beginning to
tremble. When this human-built edifice shall have fallen, and all the
debris shall have been cleared away, then shall arise upon the one true
foundation, Jesus Christ, a glorious structure, pure, consecrated and
untrammeled, the church of the living God."

"Do you really believe," inquired Dudley, "that there will ever be a
union of all the sects of Christendom?"

"A union of sects? Never!" replied Stone, emphatically. "Such a thing
is impossible from the very nature and meaning of sect. But union, or
rather unity, of Christian people there will surely be. Our Saviour's
prayer was that all his people might be one. That petition will
certainly be answered."

"We seem very far from the realization of that prayer now," said
Dudley, thoughtfully.

"Yes!" assented Stone. "That evil spirit of intolerance, the curse of
the Corinthian church, besets the churches to-day. We must first
overcome that foe before unity is possible. But some day--and I pray
that it may be in my day," he continued with flashing eyes--"when the
storm and stress of this battle are over, there will ring out, mingling
with the shouts of victory from every rank and company of the Lord's
hosts, this one clear, dominant note, 'Unity of all of Christ's
people!'"

After a moment, he continued: "Clergy nor presbytery nor synod has the
right to stand between the people and the Bible, with authoritative
creeds and confessions of faith; for the Bible is its own interpreter;
and 'Equal rights to all, special privileges to none,' is a doctrine
that will some day be adopted in religion as well as in civil and
political matters."

"Ah, Stone," Dudley replied, "that is indeed laying the ax to the very
root of the tree of denominational intolerance. If you make public such
opinions, you will be branded as a heretic."

"I can stand that," Stone answered simply. "'Orthodoxy' and 'heresy,'"
he continued after a pause, "are in truth variable terms in religion.
The 'orthodoxy' of this generation may perhaps be considered by the
next as ignorance and superstition; and what is to-day denounced as
'heresy' in the father, may become 'orthodoxy' in the son."

Henry Rogers, who for some time had remained a deeply interested but
silent listener, sitting with his back against a tree, his hat shading
his eyes, presently asked Stone what he thought of the singular
manifestations at the camp-meeting.

"I hardly know what to reply," said Stone. "Many things connected with
this revival are mystifying to me; and, besides," he went on,
smilingly, "your question places me in an embarrassing position, as,
you know, I was largely instrumental in starting the meeting at this
place. If I say I do not believe that these manifestations are
conducive to good, you, Henry, I can see by the quickening sparkle in
your eye, will immediately impale me upon one horn of my dilemma by
asking me why, after seeing a similar excitement at the southern
Kentucky revival, I should help to start this one. And if I say I do
not believe that these manifestations are the work of God, there sits
Abner, ready to confound me with arguments, psychological,
philosophical and common-sensical. So what am I to answer?"

"But, Stone," Abner exclaimed, "you surely do not deny the work of the
Spirit in conversion, do you?"

"Certainly not," Stone replied. "The Bible plainly teaches that without
the unceasing instrumentality of the Holy Spirit there can be no real
conversion; but nowhere in the Bible can I find it taught that we
should seek in supernatural signs and special revelations, rather than
in the clear and unchangeable testimonies and promises of the gospel,
for evidence of our acceptance with God. In fact, I can find in the New
Testament no account of any miraculous manifestation being sent for the
sole purpose of converting any one, although there are instances where
a miracle did attend the conversion."

"What about Paul?"

"The voice and the great light were, I think, sent more for the purpose
of making him an apostle than for the purpose of converting him."

Abner smiled. "You certainly dispose of Paul's case in a cool, offhand
way; but how about the 'Philippian jailer'?"

"You misunderstand me," said Stone; "whether Paul and the Philippian
jailer were miraculously converted or not, I am not prepared to say. My
statement was, that when a miracle did accompany any case of
conversion, it was sent for some other purpose. Incidentally the
miracle may have converted the jailer, but I do not think it was sent
for that purpose."

"Then, in the name of reason and common sense, what do you think it was
sent for?" asked Dudley.

"To free the two apostles. Through their imprisonment the gospel was
enchained. For example, suppose some malicious boy hurls a stone to
break a neighbor's window, and, in so doing, hits some one inside the
house. He did not therefore throw the stone for the purpose of hitting
the person, did he?"

"You're a Stone too many for me," laughed Abner. "Your subtle
reasonings and hair-splitting distinctions are too much for me to
attempt to disprove, on such a broiling hot day as this."

"Brother Stone! Brother Stone!" shouted a voice from the brow of the
hill back of them. Looking up, they espied among the trees a man waving
and beckoning.

"Coming!" shouted Stone in reply. "I have an appointment at three
o'clock with some of the brethren," he explained. "It must be fully
that hour now; so I must hurry back. After all this excitement is over,
I will talk further with you, Dudley, on the subject we were
discussing. Will you return with me now?"

"No," replied Abner, throwing himself down at full length on the grass
under the big elm, and drawing his hat over his face. "I'd rather stay
here and commune with nature. I want to think over what you've been
saying--and see if I can't find arguments to confute you."

CHAPTER XI.

LIGHT DAWNS

After Stone and Henry had disappeared through the woods, Dudley did not
long ponder over the late discussion; he found in his environment too
much food for other thought. He was on the same spot where, ten months
before, he had first been alone with Abby Patterson. Yonder was the
fallen log upon which she had sat toying with a spray of goldenrod, her
white bonnet beside her, the soft wind playing with her brown hair, the
sunlight through the overhanging boughs dancing over her head and
hands, and making little patches of brightness on her lavender gown.
The pungent odor of mint was in the air now as then when she had
gathered some for her uncle's glass of toddy. The water sparkled and
danced in the sunshine, trickling down the mossy rocks into the spring,
and yonder in the cleft was the old gourd from which he had poured
water on her hands.

Somewhere in his reading he had come across the story of the man who
always "thanked God for the blessings that passed over his head." Often
in the last few weeks he had had a dim consciousness that perhaps it
was best for both that Abby had not yielded to his pleadings; but
hitherto he had thrust the thought from him, as though it were
disloyalty to Abby and to love. But though the recollection of Abby had
still a tender, half-sad sweetness, Dudley's nature was too vigorous
and buoyant long to give way to melancholy and vain regrets. As he lay
there in the forest solitude, a renewed hopefulness filled his soul,
and he felt that he, too, could thank God for the blessing that had
passed him by. He got up, intending to return to the encampment, but a
recollection of something Abby had said in their last interview, about
his being blind to the good that fate was ready to bestow upon him,
suddenly arrested him. "What could she have meant?" he wondered, as he
seated himself on a stump, pulled his hat over his eyes, and, with a
stick in his hand, idly traced lines and figures in the dust at his
feet.

A slight noise presently made him look up, and there, standing under
the big oak on the little prominence above him--just where she had
stood that October afternoon, beckoning to him and Abby--was Betsy,
again looking down upon him. She did not beckon this time; but as he
looked up she turned quickly away, though not before he had caught the
wistful, steadfast look in her eyes, and had seen the quick flush that
covered her face.

Like lightning came the thought, "Was it Betsy whom Abby meant?" and as
quickly the truth was flashed upon him with all the force of an
electric shock. In an instant, old things had passed away, and a tumult
of feeling stronger than anything he had ever known leaped into life.
It was not alone the realization of Betsy's love, coming to him in that
flash of intuition, that set his nerves tingling and made the hot blood
pulse madly through his veins; but, with a rapture that approximated
pain in its intensity, there rushed into his soul an answering love,
tender, deep and fixed.

It is supposed by many people that man's love is founded upon
uncertainty as to any answering passion in the woman's heart, and that
a true woman never gives her love unsought; but there is more proof to
warrant the contrary belief--that it is her love, unspoken, carefully
hidden from all eyes, yet revealed by the mysterious telepathy of
spiritual sympathy, that calls his love into being. A man of noble,
generous nature is often thus kindled into responsiveness, and his love
thus evoked is often the most reverent and the most lasting.

In a moment Abner had to some extent regained his self-possession,
though his pulses still beat riotously. He hastened after Betsy, who
turned as he approached, her face still flushed, her eyes glowing with
unwonted fire. She greeted him in her usual nonchalant manner, and
walked demurely beside him, swinging her bonnet carelessly.

"You seem to have forgotten, sir, that a big camp-meeting is in
progress in these woods. You reminded me of Daniel Boone or Simon
Kenton, sitting on that stump with your 'monarch-of-all-I-survey' air,
as though you were alone in the heart of some vast wilderness of which
you were the sole proprietor. What schemes were you hatching? and what
were you doing with that stick? Working out some abstruse mathematical
problem, or calculating how much money your year's crops will bring?
This is no time for such worldly thoughts, while all these hair-lifting
wonders are occurring yonder. Your leisure moments should be employed
in pious meditation, or in repenting of your sins."

Too much agitated by the revelation which had just come to him to
answer her light banter, he walked silently by her side. She, surprised
by his silence, glanced into his face. What she saw there arrested her
footsteps and brought a startled look into her eyes. For a moment they
stood still in the pathway, gazing into each other's faces--soul
revealed to soul in the look. Then her eyes fell, a trembling seized
her, and a wave of crimson swept over cheeks and brow and throat. In a
voice hoarse with feeling, he exclaimed, "Betty! Betty!" and stretched
out his arms toward her. Tremblingly she threw out her hands as though
to repel his approach; and then, turning from him, ran down the path
toward the encampment.

Abner was in no mood for the noise and excitement of the "revival"; so
he turned aside into a ravine where many of the campers' horses were
tethered. Here he encountered Henry, to whom he said abruptly, saddling
his mare as he spoke, "I'm sick of all this; I'm going for a gallop."

"It's a pity to miss to-night's service," Henry answered. "The camp
breaks up to-morrow."

"No matter," Dudley replied as he sprang into the saddle. "I'm off
now."

"Better take a snack before you go. You must be hungry," called Henry,
but Dudley, already beyond the ravine, gave no heed.

In his overwrought mood hunger and slumber were equally impossible, and
the quiet of his attic room would have been as intolerable as the glare
of the torchlights and the singing, shouting, and wild ravings of the
encampment. He rode on and on through the moonlight, over hills and
fields and roads, until his mare, flecked with foam, was breathing
uneasily. Then he allowed the reins to drop loosely over her neck, and
rode slowly back until he reached his own unfinished cabin. But the air
of the unused house was oppressive, and the walls seemed to stifle him.
Freeing the mare of saddle and bridle, and turning her out to graze, he
threw himself down on the sward in front of the house. Even then he
could not sleep, but for a long time lay gazing into the clear,
star-studded sky; for the sudden broadening of the perspective of his
future kept him wide awake. He wondered at his long blindness, and with
an agony of uncertainty questioned whether Betsy's sympathetic
comprehension of his old feeling for her cousin might not now hinder
the fulfillment of his dearest hope. But at last the solemn serenity of
the summer night stilled his unquiet spirit, and he fell asleep.

When he awoke, the flaming radiance in the eastern sky indicated
another sultry day; but at this early hour there was a dewy freshness
in the air, and all nature was astir and joyous. Upon the bark of a
hickory-tree a crimson-crested woodpecker was tapping for his
breakfast; under the edge of a half-decayed stump a colony of ants had
already begun the day's labor. Lark and bee were on the wing; squirrels
ran up and down the trunk of a big elm, leaping from branch to branch,
where redbird, thrush and linnet were making the woods merry with their
morning concert.

CHAPTER XII.

COMMENT AND CRITICISM

On Friday the campers returned to their homes, and Cane Ridge
neighborhood settled down to its usual routine.

"It's high time thet fo'ks should come to ther senses," said Mrs.
Rogers, as she and her husband and young Dudley sat in the yard after
supper that evening. "I don't see how you all stood it stiddy fur two
weeks et a stretch up et the 'campment. Ev'ry time I sent the niggahs
up thah with the fresh vittuls, they'd come back with ther eyes fa'rly
bulgin' out o' ther haids, an' whut little wits they hed knocked sky
west an' crooked. They brung me sich 'counts uv the goin's-on thet at
last, thinks I, I'll go an' see fur myse'f. I knowed you an' Henry
could tek keer uv yo'se'ves; but I wuz consarned 'bout Cissy, an' felt
it high time to be lookin' artah her. I soon found her, an' when I seed
she still hed her haid on her shouldahs, I wuz easier in my mind; but
I'll nevah fergit thet fust visit. The meetin' hed been goin' on six
days, an' things hed got in a good weavin' way. Thah wuz no less than
five preachahs holdin' forth to oncet in diffrunt parts uv the grounds;
so I tells Cissy thet ez thah wuz no tellin' when I'd git thah ag'in
we'd meandeh 'roun' permiscous lak an' tek in all we could. Fust, we
went to the arboh whah thah wuz a big geth'rin'--hardly even
standin'-room in the aisles--but we manidged to squedge in on a seat
close up in front. The platform wuz crammed with preachahs, an' ole
Brothah Ranson wuz holdin' fo'th et a gran' rate. His subjec' wuz
'Fleein' frum the wrath to come,' an' he wuz pow'rful. The pictures he
drawed uv the tormints uv the lost, writhin' in the midst uv the fire
an' brimstone in the bottomless pit, wuz 'nough to set a snowbank
afire. I felt ez hot ez ef I wuz danglin' ovah thet pit myse'f; an' ef
one o' the angels hed happened to peep ovah the battermints o' heaven
et thet minit, he'd been scorched hisse'f by the billers o' flame whut
riz mountain high frum thet sea o' tormint. But somehow, the fo'ks
didn't git ez much rousement on 'em ez I'd looked fur--reckon they'd
done hed so much preachment thet they wuz kindah tuckahed out. Oh, yes,
thah wuz considahble groanin' an' wailin' an' sich like, an' a whole
passel o' sinnahs come furwa'd to be prayed fur; but I could see thet
Brothah Ranson wuz disapp'inted et the lack o' 'citement, an' thet he
wuz fixin' to mek a big jump uv some sort. Fust, he prayed a
ha'r-liftin' pertition; then, soon's thet wuz ovah, he swung hisse'f
out to the aidge o' the platfo'm, stomped his foot, waved his arms, an'
hollahed out, 'Ev'rybody whut wants to 'scape the wrath to come, an' to
meet me in heaven, clap yer hands an' shout "Glory!" altogethah.' Thet
fotched us shore 'nough."

"Yes," said Mr. Rogers, "I hearn o' thet meetin', but I wuzn't thah. I
wuz list'nin' to Brothah Rice et t'othah eend o' the camp."

"Did you shout with the rest, Mrs. Rogers?" Dudley asked.

"I should say so!" she answered. "Ev'rybody did, an' sich a hullabaloo
ez it wuz--'nough to raise the dead. I thought fur a minit thet
judgment-day hed come, an' wouldn't been s'prised to heah the toot o'
Gabr'el's horn then an' thah. No wondeh fo'ks hed jerks an' fits an'
swoondin' spaills et the camp! My ha'r wuz all creepy, thah wuz goose
flesh all ovah my arms, an' hot an' cold chills a-chasin' one 'nothah
up an' down the spines o' my back."

"How'd Cissy behave in all thet rumpus?" asked Rogers.

"I got Cissy outen thah none too soon," Mrs. Rogers acknowledged with a
wise shake of her head. "Her face wuz ashy, an' she wuz all o' a shake
an' a quake. I took her ovah to some trees whah a watah barr'l stood,
an' made her tek a good swill, an' wet her hankchief an' mop her face.
Then I walked her off to a quiet place an' says to her, 'Cissy, the
Lawd knows I want to see you become a child o' grace, but I don't
intend to hev religion jerked an' shouted an' skeered intah you.
'Tain't fittin', to my notion, to see a modest young gal a-mekin' a
show uv herse'f, an' the Lawd nevah intended it, nuthah. Ef you're
'lected to salvation--an' I believe you air, fur he's a marciful an'
gracious God, an' you're a nice, innercent, well-behaved gal--you kin
be called in a quiet way; an' when he does call, whut you got to do is
to heah an' obey. Thet's all thah is to convarsion, anyway. So I reckon
you'd bettah come 'long home with me this evenin', outen all this
fuss.' But she begged so hard to stay, an' promised so faithful not to
git wrought up ag'in, thet I let her stay."

After a short pause, Mrs. Rogers continued: "But I stick to it thet the
Lawd nevah intended his people to go stark, starin' crazy ovah
religion, no more'n ovah anything else. All them ravin's an' jerkin's
an' holy-laughin's an' holy-dancin's air onseemly in any fo'ks, sinnah
or saint. The Almighty don't want to be pestered with no sich
tekin'-on. When he calls, listen; whut he says do, you jes' git up an'
do. Thet's religion, an' nuthin' else."

"You're 'bout right, Cynthy Ann," Rogers assented, as he lay at full
length on the grass. "To my mind, the main p'int is to love God, an' do
yer duty by yer neighbor an' fambly."

"An' do it quiet, too," added his wife. "You nevah heah uv a woman
tekin' spasms an' jerks ovah lovin' her husban' or childurn, or a gal
ovah lovin' her sweetheart. Then, why must fo'ks raise sich a
cavortment 'bout lovin' God--hollahin' an' whoopin' an' sprawlin'
'roun' on the ground lak Sal Fox did thet las' time I wuz et the camp?
She'd been a-jerkin' an' a-rollin' an' a-foamin' et the mouth wussen a
mad dog, tell she wuz clean tuckahed out, an' thah she lay in the straw
'roun' the altah, her pink caliker dusty an' tore lak she'd been
a-chasin' through a briah patch, straws stickin' out all ovah her haid.
Thah stood ole Brothah Stratton prayin' ovah her, her sister Jane an'
Poll Tribble snifflin' an' snufflin' an' fannin' her, an' sayin' they
feared she'd nevah come outen her trance. Thinks I, 'I'll fotch her
out.' I walks up, an', pokin' her with my foot, I says, 'Git up, Sal!
Hain't you 'shamed yo'se'f, layin' heah with yer haid lookin' lak a
rat's nest, an' yer laigs a-showin'?' Daddy Stratton he prayed loudah,
Poll she fanned fastah, an' Jane she sniffled an' snuffled harder'n
evah, while Sal she jes' lay thah lak a dead corp. I knowed she heard
me, though, fur she kindah flickahed her eyeleds, an' then lay
stiffer'n evah. So I says, pokin' her ag'in, 'Ef I hed sich pipestems
ez them laigs o' yourn, I'd keep 'em hid--an' heah comes Jed White,
too!' With thet she sets up, smoothes down her dress, an' winds up her
ha'r, spry ez a ant; fur Jed's her beau."

"Oh, well, Sal nevah 'sperienced religion befoh," said Rogers, "so it
went hard with her, 'cause, befoh this, she's allus resisted the
Speret. But whut I can't stand is them Methodis' folks whut fall in an'
out uv religion so of'en--'speri'ncin' a change o' heart ev'ry day in
the week, an' mekin' the Lawd out a reg'lar Injin givah, bestowin'
grace at ev'ry revival, an' tekin' it away soon's meetin's ovah. While
the rousement lasts, the road to glory stretches out befoh 'em, an'
they're ready, ez the hymn says, 'to bid far'well to ev'ry fear an'
face a frownin' world.' Then by the nex' week they can't mustah up
'nough strength to hoe a row o' cawn. Oh, yes, they're mighty happy
while the meetin' lasts. They're on the way to the land o' promise,
singin' ez they journey on, ez how they'll 'b'ar the toil, endure the
pain, supported by His grace.' Soon's the revival's ovah, they're ready
fur anothah kind o' journey, an' lak ez not, they will jine in a
drinkin' spree, an' end up in a free fight an' a gen'ral fisticuff.
Now, thahs Jake Simmons, a lazy, no-'count skunk whut won't even tote
in a back log to keep his fambly frum freezin'. He's got religion ha'f
a dozen times, an' teks on a leetle crazier ev'ry time. When I seed him
a-rollin' an' stompin' an' cavortin' an' axin' the brethren to pray fer
him, thinks I, 'Whut you need, Jake, wossen the prayers uv the saints,
is a big blacksnake whip larruped ovah yer back.' The Lawd does the job
up right when he really convarts a man. It's 'onc't in grace, allus in
grace,' ez the catechism teaches."

"But," said Dudley, who until now had listened silently to this
discussion, "the Bible speaks of wanderers from the fold. No doubt Jake
is a wandering sheep."

"Maybe he is," Mrs. Rogers agreed; "but, ef so, he looks an' acts so
lak a goat thet the angel Gabr'el hisse'f don't know the diffruns."

"An' ef he is a sheep," added Mason, "he's so hidebound an' so
fleece-growed, an' hez been herdin' with the goats in the devil's
pastur' so long, thet he hain't wuth fotchin' home to the fold."

As soon as the fall wheat-sowing was finished, Abner Dudley resumed his
school, but under such changed conditions that he could not feel the
same enthusiastic interest as during the previous term. John Calvin was
now the only advanced pupil; Henry had entered Transylvania University,
and neither Betsy nor Susan were in school.

"Cissy's goin' on sixteen, an' hez eddication 'nough," said her mother.
"It don't do gals no good to be too book-l'arned--jes' meks 'em uppish
an' no-'count."

Mr. Rogers submitted to his wife's decree. "I boss the boys," he said,
"but I reckon Cynthy Ann knows whut's best fur the gals; though, ez fur
ez I'm consarned, I'd like Cissy to be ez eddicated ez any uv them
high-flyers 'roun' Lexin'ton."

Susan was ambitious and loved study, and, although she did not openly
rebel against her mother's ruling, went about her household tasks in a
dejected way which greatly tried bustling Mrs. Rogers.

"Now, Cissy," she said, coming to the girl's room one night and finding
her sobbing over disappointed hopes, "don't you s'pose yer own mammy'll
do whut's best fur her dautah? You mustn't think 'cause I'm sharp an'
stirrin' with you thet I don't love you." She seated herself on the
side of the bed and began to stroke Susan's hair. "'Tain't no use fur
you to tek on so. You must jes' trust yer mammy, an' by an' by you'll
see I'm right. I can't spar' you frum home this wintah, but you kin
study o' nights, an' Abner'll holp you with yer books. So cheer up, lak
a good gal; an' nex' time the packman comes 'long--an' I'm lookin' fer
him 'most any day--I'll buy you some ribbon fur yer hair an' a string
uv beads. Soon's we git the heft o' the fall wuck did up, you'n' me
will mek you one o' them fine quilted silk petticoats, lak Betsy's, to
w'ar under yer red calaminco dress. Thah now!"--and she kissed the
girl--"say yer prayers, an' go to sleep." Then she murmured as she left
the room, "Pore gal! 'Tis hard on her; but I jes' can't spar' her this
wintah. I know she's ez purty an' ez good a gal ez kin be found
anywhahs!"

As the weeks went by, Betsy Gilcrest did not sing over her work in her
old light-hearted way. Mrs. Gilcrest was not an observant woman; but
Aunt Dilsey, the old "black mammy," noticed the change in her idolized
young mistress. "The keer ob dis place an' all de man'gin' o' dem noisy
boys an' lazy niggahs am too much 'sponsibility fur sich young
shouldahs ez hern. Ole Dilsey does whut she kin to spar' de precious
chile frum worry an' care; but one ole niggah lak me carn't do
ebbrythin'; an' 'tain't no wondah Miss Betsy's gittin' pale an' peeky
an' low-spereted."

CHAPTER XIII.

COURT DAY

The old-time county court, held once a month, usually on Monday, was an
interesting feature of early statehood.

Judging by the crowds that always assembled at the county-seat upon
court day, one would have supposed that if legal business were the main
feature of the occasion, a surprising amount of litigation was
necessary to the well-being of the commonwealth. But legal business was
often the least important feature of these gatherings, which seemed to
combine the characteristics of picnic, county fair, muster day and old
English hustings.

From an early hour upon court day, all was excitement, noise and
confusion in and around the county-seat. The discordant bleating and
lowing of sheep and cattle filled the air, and droves of swine, after
the manner of their kind, refusing to be driven quietly to the
market-place, wandered into byways, or sought refuge in stable lots and
house yards. In fence corners and under trees, along every approach to
the town, horses were hitched--many of them with heaps of provender on
the ground before them, that they might feed at any hour which suited
their appetites; and vehicles of every known pattern, from family coach
to ox-cart, thronged the highways. It was a gala time for the
slave-buyer, stock-trader, horse-jockey, and itinerant packman, as well
as for the politician and the militia men. Not only was there much
trading and political speech-making, but also horse-racing,
cock-fighting, gambling and drunkenness; for society, even in the good
old times, contained a large rioting element.

At Fayette County court, however, the chief interest was usually the
political; and the most popular rendezvous was the tree-bordered
enclosure surrounding the court-house, until the noon hour; then the
center of interest was the tavern, which, though but a two-storied log
house, having only eleven rooms to serve all purposes of dining-hall,
office, kitchen and guest chambers, was a famous resort. The sleeping
apartments were large, and each was furnished with four beds. Always as
many as two guests to a bed, and frequently as many as three, was the
economical rule of the house--an arrangement which, though possibly
inconvenient in some respects, was one likely to encourage a spirit of
democratic sociability.

Abner Dudley accepted Major Gilcrest's invitation to accompany him in
his coach to Lexington upon a certain court day which was an occasion
of unusual excitement. Tidings that the trade of the Mississippi River
was again endangered had just been received. The treaty of 1795, which
secured to Kentucky the right of navigation of the Mississippi and the
right of deposit in the New Orleans Bank, had now come to a termination
by limitation of treaty; and the Spanish Intendant of the province of
Louisiana had issued a proclamation that there should be no renewal,
although it had been plainly stipulated in the former treaty that the
privileges should be renewed. The indignation which this act of broken
faith produced in Kentucky was greatly augmented by tidings which had
just reached the State that Louisiana had been ceded by Spain to France
by the treaty made secretly in 1800, but not made public until 1802.

The failure of all former efforts to induce Kentucky to sever her
allegiance to the Union and to join her fortunes with Spain had not
destroyed the hopes of the Spaniards and of self-seeking Kentucky
agitators. Thus the revival of the old troubles over the navigation of
the Mississippi afforded an opportunity of which treacherous
conspirators were not slow to avail themselves.

During the noon repast at the tavern, Dudley and James Drane had been
neighbors at table; and when the meal was concluded, the two had linked
arms and strolled up and down the wide portico running the length of
the tavern, and serving to-day as a reception-room for the tavern and
as a political arena for groups of excited men who were hotly
denouncing Spain and all her works. Other groups near by were as
earnestly, but far less noisily, insinuating that Spain was the best
friend Kentucky could have, and that her interests lay in the direction
of an alliance with the foreign power.

Somewhat apart from the larger groups three men were talking in low
tones. Presently, at a sign which, unperceived by Dudley, passed
between his companion and one of the men, Drane, saying that he desired
to introduce Abner to three of the most agreeable and gifted men of the
age, drew him toward the trio at one end of the porch, and presented
him to General Wilkinson, Judge Sebastian and Judge Murray. Immediately
after the introduction, Drane excused himself and withdrew. Before any
conversation, save the usual exchange of introductory courtesies, had
passed between the three distinguished Kentuckians and our young
Virginian, Hiram Gilcrest came through the door opening from the hall.
Seeing Dudley in what was apparently a confidential conversation with
the three older men, Gilcrest stood a moment in the doorway, frowning
heavily; then, turning, he strode through the hall to the negro
quarters of the hotel. Here he found Uncle Zeke, his coachman, and
ordered him to prepare for a speedy return home. When he returned to
the porch, he walked up to the group of which Dudley was one, and said
to him, after a somewhat curt salutation to the other three, "I am
sorry to cut short your day's pleasure, but I find that a matter of
grave importance necessitates our leaving immediately."

On the homeward drive Gilcrest explained the reason for this hasty
retreat. "You were in the company of three of the slyest and most
dangerous intriguers of these unsettled times. They are brilliant,
daring men, and I fear many of our adventurous young men are being led
away by their specious arguments and schemes for future greatness. You
have never been in their company before to-day, have you?" with a keen
glance at his companion.

Dudley explained that he had only exchanged a few words of ordinary
civility with the three before Gilcrest had interrupted the
conversation. He did not, however, mention that Drane had brought about
the meeting, and had spoken of the men in glowing terms.

CHAPTER XIV.

BETSY SAYS "WAIT"

Rarely ever since that August afternoon when Abner and Betsy had stood
a moment in the pathway, gazing into each other's souls, and she had
hurried away from him, could he by any pretext or maneuver succeed in
being for one moment alone with her. Always when in her presence,
either as one of the quiet home circle at her father's house, or at
church, or at a neighbor's, he was conscious of a change in her manner
towards himself. Much of her old, light-hearted gayety had vanished,
and in its stead were a new quietness and reserve, without any trace of
embarrassment, it is true, but with a demure dignity which made her
seem to repel even such advances as ordinary gallantry would prompt any
young man to make to a pretty girl.

Dudley tried vainly to win her back to her former attitude of cordial
ease. Occasionally he noticed a merry chord in her voice and something
of the old, sparkling playfulness of manner; but if he sought to answer
her quips in the same vein of pleasantry, she would color warmly,
answer gravely, and then seem to shrink from him. Never could he get
her eyes to meet his. Once or twice, in some rare opportunity when he
found himself for a brief moment alone with her, he had tried with the
most delicate and insinuating skill to approach the subject of his love
for her; but at the first hint she, like a fish that sees the line
gleaming in the sunlight, would dart away to another topic, or would
find some ready excuse for leaving him. Furthermore, the very power of
his love made him likewise often constrained and ill at ease in her
presence; and as the months dragged on, it seemed to him that not only
was he making no progress toward winning her, but that he was losing
even her former frank regard. He frequently questioned the reliability
of the revelation which had come to him that afternoon at the spring;
for although it had given him unmistakable knowledge of his own
feelings, it had, he feared, erred in its interpretation of hers. Nor
was the element of jealousy wanting to complete his torment at this
period. Betsy was developing into the recognized beauty and belle of
the county, and not only did the rustic swains of the neighborhood
court her favor, but the fashionable beaux from Lexington and Frankfort
found abundant attraction at Oaklands. The one feared most by Abner was
James Anson Drane, who, besides being well-to-do and of good family,
was handsome and gallant and stood very high in Major Gilcrest's good
graces. In fact, it seemed to Dudley in his moments of deepest
despondency that Drane had everything in his favor, while he himself
had nothing to plead in his own behalf save the might of his love, and
that between two such suitors as Drane and himself no girl would
hesitate to choose the former.

Under the sway of these feelings, Abner's first instinctive dislike of
Drane, which had been lulled to sleep by the young lawyer's courteous
bearing, awoke into more than its former vigor. At times the
schoolmaster felt ready to believe anything of James Anson Drane--he
was a schemer, a traitor, and was doubtless even now plotting against
the Government. He would marry Betty, of course, and would wreck her
happiness, and bring financial ruin and political disgrace upon the
Gilcrests. Nevertheless, although Betsy's reserve, his own lack of
opportunity for wooing her, and his jealous distrust of Drane, made
Abner alternately chafe and despond, yet through all these moods there
ran the fiber of a proud, buoyant spirit which would not allow him to
give up; and hope, though for a time baffled, retreated only to advance
again with new courage.

While returning from Bourbonton one May afternoon, Abner, lured by the
beauty of the day, turned from the public road, and chose instead a
sequestered bridle-path which, with many a devious turn and twist,
wound through the forest whose giant trees, though centuries old, were
now again clothed upon with youthful freshness and beauty. Through this
green canopy of arching boughs, where sunshine and shadow intermingled,
one caught glimpses of the sky, a dome of azure velvet flecked with
fleecy white. A soft wind blew from the south, laden with the faint,
elusive fragrance of anemone and violet. From every bush and treetop
came the light-hearted carol of linnet and thrush and redbird; and in
the open spaces between the trees the sportive sunlight gleamed and
smiled so joyously that every blade of soft, green grass seemed to
quiver with gladness. The day was so golden, so filled with the tender
hope and promise of the Maytime, that Abner, yielding to its charm, for
the moment forgot his doubts and perplexities. His path led in the
direction of a shallow creek; and as he drew near the stream, he spied
upon its bank a girl who had stopped to let her horse drink. It was
Betty on old Selim. Abner gently checked his mare and sat watching her.
Her white scoop-bonnet was hanging from the pommel of the saddle, the
bridle-reins drooped carelessly upon old Selim's neck, and her hands,
encased in white linen "half hands," were crossed in her lap. She was
looking out across the country with a far-away, dreamy expression. Her
lover noticed every detail of her beauty--the regal poise of head, the
lovely outline of throat and shoulders, the rosy oval of face, the
piquant cleft of the chin, the arch curve of the upper lip, and the
ripe fullness of the lower. Presently her horse, more awake to outside
influences than was his mistress, caught the sound of a breaking twig,
and, raising his nose from the water, pricked up his ears and neighed.

"Old Selim spied me first," said Abner, riding to Betty's side.

She looked up for an instant, then her eyes fell before a scrutiny
whose blending of admiration and passionate feeling she could not fail
to understand.

"Yes," she answered lightly, laughing and striving to regain
self-possession, "Selim is glad to see you, I know; he is getting
impatient for his supper, and there's no knowing how long I might have
sat here day-dreaming, had you not appeared. Shall we ride on?"

"And is not Selim's mistress glad to see me, too?" asked Abner, as he
rode by her side.

"Oh, of course," was the reply; "but it is getting late, and we had
better hasten on."

After riding a few moments in silence, he said, laying a detaining hand
on her bridle: "Betty, why do you avoid me so persistently, and why are
you so reserved with me? Is it because, knowing that you are becoming
all the world to me, you would by avoidance and reserve spare me the
pain of refusing my love? It is now nearly ten months since I first
began to realize what you are to me, and that knowledge has become
everything."

"No! no! do not speak! Please, please do not!" she remonstrated, her
face flushing and then paling.

"Why will you not let me speak?" he continued gently.

"Oh, not--not now," she murmured stammeringly. "I--I--I could not bear
it. I can not listen--yet," she ended, her eyes filling with tears.

Her manner, though it had something of a proud reserve, was not wholly
unrelenting. In her voice there was a winning cadence which seemed to
bid him hope. He understood her at once. She did not want to silence
him entirely, but it was too soon--that was what she meant--too soon
after his feeling for her cousin. She owed it to her own womanly
dignity that his love should be put to the proof of time. She must not
be too easily won. Yes, Abner felt that he understood her. Instantly
the look of deprecating humility vanished from the young man's face,
and in its stead there flashed into his eyes an eager, courageous
light; for renewed hope was sending the warm blood leaping and dancing
through his veins; and the humble, dejected suppliant of the moment
before was transformed into the hopeful, assured lover.

For a time he said nothing, but, with his hand still upon her bridle,
they rode on silently through the twilight of the forest aisle, where
all was so still and peaceful that their fast heart-throbs seemed
almost audible. Pledges more definite and binding might afterwards be
exchanged, yet in the hearts of these two lovers this solemn temple of
nature was forever consecrated as the place of plighting.

"I will wait, Betty," he said presently; "but do not keep me too long
in suspense. Remember how long I have already waited for you. When may
I speak?"

"Oh, I--I don't know--not for a long time yet." Then, regaining her
old, saucy air, and flashing into his eyes one glance, half tender,
half defiant, she snatched her bridle-rein from his hand, and, with a
flick of the switch across her horse's neck, rode on. As she galloped
off, she looked back for an instant to say archly, "Spring is very
beautiful; but I like autumn better, and November is my favorite month,
for Thanksgiving Day comes then. No! no! do not follow me, sir," she
added saucily, as he rode quickly towards her. "Your road lies straight
on," pointing with her switch to where the roads forked. "Mine leads
down this lane to Oaklands."

"Very well," he answered with grave sweetness, "I will leave you now,
but I shall remember what you have said, and hope that my own
thanksgiving day may, in truth, come next November--though it is a
weary while to wait."

CHAPTER XV.

THE WAITING-TIME

The Cane Ridge revival of the August before had been followed by many
others of a similar nature throughout the country. Although there was
much that was fanatical and grotesque in these meetings, much good was
undoubtedly accomplished. With all the fanaticism, there was in them
the wholesome leaven of gospel truth which did much to arouse the
churches from their deathlike indifference. Better than this, the
revivals were a bond of union between the different religious sects;
for, in the prevalence of enthusiasm, even such rigid upholders of
creed as Gilcrest and Landrum felt more concern about the salvation of
their children than about the tenets of their church. In fact, from the
beginning of the awakening, Books of Discipline and Confessions of
Faith had been gathering dust, and soon would have been completely lost
to view, had not the more strenuous churchmen at last in alarm put
forth their hands to stay their tottering ark of creed, mistaking it
for the ark of God. But though for a time the orthodox element held its
peace, apparently well pleased to see members of other denominations
joining cordially in the revivals, each sect finally became fearful
lest other churches might draw away disciples from its own ranks. The
tocsin was sounded, "'To your tents, O Israel!' Our creed is in
jeopardy! There must be no more union meetings!" Thus the old
denominational war waged with renewed fierceness.

Though Barton Stone was, like John, gentle and tender, yet he was also,
like Paul, ready at need to wield the double-edged sword of logic and
truth to cut down sophistry and combat unbelief. Therefore, to those
dominated by sectarianism, as well as to the indifferent and the
scoffer, his work was unacceptable; but between the high-water mark of
orthodoxy and the low-water mark of willful unbelief, there were many
who heard him gladly.

His June appointment at Cane Ridge was an occasion never to be
forgotten by those present. Indeed, his sermon that day was well
calculated to make the more orthodox members of the congregation writhe
in their seats.

He chose as his text the familiar sixteenth verse of the third chapter
of John, announcing at the same time that his topics would be God's
love as manifested in the gift of his Son; the gospel, the power of God
unto salvation; faith, the first requisite, which all who willed might
have.

Stone began by portraying, forcibly and tenderly, the love of God,
emphasizing the fact that "he willed not that one of his creatures
should perish." His love included the whole world, and Christ, instead
of being surety for an elect few only, had satisfied the demands of the
Father's love by dying for all mankind. Thus "by the righteousness of
one the free gift came upon all men unto justification," and Christ, by
office, became the Saviour, not of a few only, but of all who would
accept him.

He said that the only way to reconcile the two passages of Scripture,
John 6:44 and John 12:32, was to believe that the Father recognized no
other means of drawing men to him than that of holding up his Son in
the gospel; and that, therefore, all who believed on Christ and
received the Word were elected to salvation.

Stone next pointed out what he considered to be a marked contrast
between the teachings of the Scriptures and that of the Confession of
Faith of his church upon this point. He then spoke of regeneration, or
the "new birth," and said that the declaration, "born not of
corruptible seed, but of incorruptible by the word of God," showed
clearly that the Word must first be believed in order to produce this
effect; consequently, faith preceded regeneration. Furthermore, this
faith was wrought in the heart by no outside or miraculous influence,
but was freely given to all who would believe. He explained the
passage, "Faith is the gift of God," by saying that the object of
faith, "the man, Christ Jesus," is the gift of God.

A strange sermon, indeed, to be preached at that time, to such a
people, by an ordained minister of the Presbyterian Church! As he
spoke, several of the staunch supporters of orthodoxy shook their
heads, and looked frowningly at the daring young preacher. Many
recalled an incident of his ordination in that very house three years
before. Stone, who had long entertained doubts upon the doctrines of
predestination, regeneration and effectual calling, as set forth in the
Confession of Faith of his church, had, on the day before the one set
for his ordination, called aside two of the pillars of the Transylvania
Presbytery, and with characteristic honesty had made known to them his
difficulties. After laboring in vain to remove his doubts, the two men
asked him how far he was willing to receive the Confession. "So far as
I see it to be consistent with the word of God," was the answer, which
they declared to be sufficient. No objection was raised to his answer
when given before the presbytery the next day, and, after making
satisfactory replies to all other questions propounded, he was
ordained.

When Stone had finished his discourse, he called upon Gilcrest to lead
in prayer. With an angry shake of his head, and a frown upon his stern
features, the old man declined. Old Brother Landrum was then asked to
pray. In a voice which shook with emotion, he besought pardon for the
error in the sermon just heard and enlightenment for the mind of the
preacher that he might have a better understanding of the mysteries of
the gospel. When he began further to petition that the Lord would in
his own good time and way manifest himself to the unconverted elect in
the congregation, he was interrupted by David Purviance: "Not to the
elect alone, O Lord," he prayed, "but unto all--all within these walls;
for thou, O God, art no respecter of persons, and salvation is free,
free to all who will accept!"

Notwithstanding the evident disapproval of some of his flock, Stone
continued to preach sermons of a like nature. A few who heard him were
stunned by his boldness and shocked by his ruthless defiance of the
established order of things. Others found his words forcibly
convincing. Still another class, though not exactly understanding his
reasoning, had so great love for the young preacher and so great
confidence in his ability that they were his warm advocates. Of this
blindly trustful number, none were stouter in their adherence than
Mason Rogers.

To Hiram Gilcrest these sermons seemed the undermining, blowing up and
pulverization of the whole structure of sound doctrine. One day, in the
course of a discussion with Mason Rogers, Gilcrest angrily maintained
not only that the church should take action against their minister, but
that his transgressions should be reported at the next meeting of the
synod. Rogers, of course, defended Stone. Hot words ensued on both
sides, and the friendly relations between the two old neighbors were
somewhat strained.

One afternoon Gilcrest, who was so full of the subject of the parson's
iniquities that he could think or speak of little else, encountered
Dudley, to whom in no measured terms he denounced Stone. Abner would
gladly have avoided argument with Gilcrest upon any subject, and
especially upon this, which he felt did not concern himself personally;
but Gilcrest was not to be evaded.

"You know, Major Gilcrest," said Dudley at last, "that I'm not a
church-member, and therefore it is not fitting for me to discuss the
question."

"No matter," answered Gilcrest; "you're a man and capable of reasoning,
and can surely see the fallacy of this fellow's doctrine."

"But Stone is a personal friend of mine," Abner urged.

"What of that?" asked Hiram. "It's not the man, but his doctrine, that
I abhor."

Thus driven to bay, Abner had no alternative but to reply that from
what he could learn by his own study of the Bible, Stone seemed to be
right. This was literally throwing down the gauntlet to Gilcrest, and
the discussion waxed hot and stormy.

"This is a fine way to win the daughter--to be locking horns with the
father in theological combat," Dudley soliloquized ruefully as Gilcrest
rode off; but he laughed, too, as he thought how little like one "saved
by grace" and "sanctified by the Spirit" the old man had appeared as,
with frowning brow, loud voice and vehement gesticulation, he had
stormed and raved against the offending Stone. "What a fool the old
fellow did make of himself," thought Abner; "but not a bigger one than
myself, considering all things. 'Never discuss theology with your
intended father-in-law,' is a safe maxim for lovers to follow."

Later in the summer, Abner Dudley received from his uncle, Dr. Richard
Dudley, of Williamsburg, intelligence of a surprising nature; namely,
that an uncle of Abner's mother, Andrew Hite, of Sterling County,
Virginia, had died, leaving a will by which Abner was heir to all his
worldly possessions.

Richard Dudley urged upon Abner the necessity of coming at once to
Virginia in regard to this inheritance. Accordingly, Abner, merely
telling the Rogers family that he was summoned to Virginia on important
business, set out one August afternoon. He went first to Lexington, and
from there on horseback to Limestone. His companions on this horseback
ride of sixty-five miles were Judge Benjamin Sebastian and Judge
William Murray, against whom Hiram Gilcrest had seen fit to warn him.
Nothing, however, of the negotiations and intrigues in which Sebastian
and Murray may or may not have been concerned, had at this time been
made public; and young Dudley saw no reason why the mere suspicions of
so prejudiced a man as Hiram Gilcrest should deter him from accepting
the company of two such agreeable men.

Soon after taking the boat at Limestone, Sebastian and Murray told
Abner that they intended spending the night at the island home of
Harman Blennerhassett, and urged him to do likewise. He readily
accepted; for he had heard of this secluded island paradise with its
romantic surroundings, beautiful grounds and vast library, and of the
gracious hospitality of the scholarly Irish recluse and his charming
wife. He found the home and his host and hostess all that had been
reported, and greatly enjoyed his little visit. The next day, leaving
Sebastian and Murray still guests of the Blennerhassetts, Dudley
continued his journey by boat to Pittsburg, and thence by horseback
across Virginia to Williamsburg.

CHAPTER XVI.

A SINGULAR WILL

Upon reaching Williamsburg, Abner, of course, examined the will of his
late granduncle. It was dated May 2, 1782, when Andrew Hite, being
dangerously ill, thought death imminent.

Stripped of all legal verbosities, the purport of the document was that
the testator bequeathed all of his earthly possessions, consisting of
six hundred and forty acres of land in Henderson County, Kentucky;
Crestlands, a Virginia estate of some three hundred acres, and all
slaves, cattle, horses, goods and chattels pertaining to this estate,
to his niece, Mary Belle Hollis Page, youngest child of Andrew Hite's
sister, Mary Hite Hollis--"provided," so read the will, "Mary Belle
Hollis Page, wife of Marshall Page, is still living at this date, the
second day of May in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred
and eighty-two. If, however, said Mary Belle Hollis Page, wife of
Marshall Page, is already deceased, I, Andrew Thurston Hite, of
Crestlands, Sterling County, Virginia, do give and bequeath all my
worldly possessions above mentioned to her legitimate offspring, if
any. In case my niece, Mary Belle Hollis Page, be already deceased and
has left no legitimate offspring, I give and bequeath all houses,
lands, slaves, live stock, goods and chattels of whatsoever nature of
which I die possessed to my niece, Sarah Jane Pepper, of Chestnut Hall,
Caxton County, Virginia, only child of my half-sister, Sarah Melvina
Thornton Pepper, deceased."

Dr. Richard Dudley, of Lawsonville, "husband of Frances Hollis,
deceased, sister of Mary Belle Hollis Page," was named as sole executor
of this will. A codicil dated twenty years later, June 30, 1802, the
very day of Andrew Hite's death, stated that all subsequent wills
having been rendered null and void by the death of the testator's
adopted son, Stephen Balleau Hite, were destroyed, and that the
testator, Andrew Thurston Hite, decreed that the will dated May 2,
1782, should be his last will and testament. This codicil also named
Richard Dudley, "late of Lawsonville, now of Williamsburg," as sole
executor.

Contrary to his own convictions and the dictum of his physicians,
Andrew Hite recovered from his illness in 1782, and five years later
adopted a lad, Stephen Balleau, and reared him as his son. This
Stephen, grown to manhood, but unmarried, was killed in a duel, four
months before the death of his adopted father, then an old man of
seventy-six years. After Stephen was killed, Andrew Hite seems to have
lost all interest in life, and to have neglected making any provision
as to the disposal of his property, until the very day of his death.
Then, instead of making a new will, he on his deathbed, in the presence
of his physician, his old body-servant, and a neighbor, simply added
the codicil to the will made twenty years before.

"This strange will still holds good, I presume, eccentric though it
be," Abner said to Dr. Dudley, after reading the document.

"Certainly," his uncle replied; "for your mother was undoubtedly living
at the date specified in the will."

"Yes," Abner said, "that can be established by your testimony, which is
corroborated by the inscription on her tombstone at Lawsonville and by
the record in your family Bible--both of which give the date of her
death as that of August 21, 1782, three months after the will was
written."

"And," added the doctor, "even should the will not stand, you, the only
child of your mother, are justly entitled to this bequest; for all that
Andrew Hite possessed, save that Kentucky land which he in my presence
promised your mother at his death, came through his father, your
great-grandfather, Abner Hite; and Sarah Jane Pepper is connected only
through her mother, Andrew Hite's half-sister, Sarah Thornton, who was
not a descendant of old Abner Hite. Therefore, you need have no
uneasiness on the score of either the justness or the validity of your
claim; and you should at once take steps to put you in possession of
your legacy."

"That I shall certainly do," said Abner; "and I shall do so, not as
Abner Dudley, but as Abner Dudley Logan. In fact, Uncle Richard, aside
from all question of this bequest, I had already determined to assume
my full name; for, much as I honor you who have been a second father to
me, I think it but justice to my own father's memory, now that I have
arrived at man's estate, that I should wear his name. You know I wished
to do so before I went to Kentucky; but you were so averse to the idea
that I yielded for the time, contrary to my convictions of justice to
my father's memory and against my own preference. But now I am fully
resolved to be known in future by my full name, Abner Dudley Logan."

Dr. Dudley sat silent with downcast eyes, a gloomy, perplexed look upon
his face; and his nephew went on:

"Uncle Richard, I wish you would tell me more about my father and about
my mother's early life. You have always been singularly reticent on the
subject. Why! I was a boy of eleven or twelve before I even knew that
my real name was Logan, and then I discovered it by accident; and it
was not until I read this will of Uncle Hite's that I learned that my
mother had married a second time. The time has now come, I think, when
you should tell me all that you know of my father and mother."

"Of your father," said Richard slowly, and, it seemed to Abner,
reluctantly, "I know little more than the facts already in your
possession. Briefly told, your mother's history is this: Her mother,
Mary Hite, married John Hollis, of Plainfield, New Jersey. To this
union were born eight children, of whom your Aunt Frances, my first
wife, was the eldest, and your mother, the youngest. The six children
intervening died in early childhood. Your grandfather, John Hollis,
died when your mother was two months old, and his wife survived him but
one month. Her half-sister, Sarah Thornton, who had just been married
to Jackson Pepper, of Chestnut Hall in northern Virginia--a widower
with one son--took your mother to raise as her own child. This Sarah
Thornton Pepper died ten years later. She had but one child, Sarah Jane
Pepper. Your mother, after her aunt's death, still lived at Chestnut
Hall until she was about sixteen. Then she greatly offended Jackson
Pepper by refusing to be betrothed to Fletcher Pepper, the son of
Jackson's former marriage. Her home was rendered so unpleasant by
Jackson Pepper's anger and Fletcher's persistence in his suit, that she
went to live at Crestlands with her old bachelor uncle, Andrew Hite,
until a few years later--in 1775, I think--when he went with a party of
adventurers to Kentucky. He expected to be gone a year, and, before
setting forth, he took your mother to Morristown, New Jersey, to find a
temporary home with some of her Hollis connections, two maiden ladies,
her father's cousins. When, however, Andrew Hite returned to Virginia,
he, instead of recalling his niece and settling down with her at
Crestlands, joined the Continental army. So your mother continued with
her distant relatives at Morristown until the winter of 1776-77. After
the battles at Trenton and Princeton, Washington's army, as you know,
went into winter quarters at Morristown. In this army was a young
soldier, John Logan. He and your mother met and immediately fell in
love with each other; and in March, after an acquaintance of only five
weeks, they were married. It was an ill-advised, imprudent marriage.
Mary had nothing of her own, nor had John Logan; and, besides, he must
necessarily be away from his young wife a great deal, and leave her
unprotected and illy provided for while he was encountering the dangers
and hardships of a soldier's life. Mary's relatives at Morristown were
bitterly offended because of her marriage to a man of whose antecedents
she knew nothing, and who was poor, and, still worse, a hated
Continental soldier, for they were strong Tory sympathizers. They would
have nothing whatever to do with Mary after her marriage. In the
spring, when Washington left his winter quarters, Logan, of course,
went with the army, and his wife was left alone at Morristown with a
poor old couple of whom your father had rented lodgings. After the
departure of the troops from Morristown, Logan very rarely could find
opportunity to visit his wife, nor could he make adequate provision for
her comfort. You were born there in the home of the old couple at
Morristown, February 25, 1778. There your mother continued to live
until after your father fell in the battle of Monmouth Court-house in
June, 1778. Then she made her way with you, her four-months-old babe,
back to your Aunt Frances and me. She lived with us until after the
death of your Aunt Frances in March, 1781. Then that fall, and about
five months before my marriage to Rachel Sneed, your mother was married
to Marshall Page, and both she and he died the following August."

"What of this Marshall Page, my stepfather?" asked Abner. "Where was he
from? Was he a man calculated to make my mother happy?"

"He was a brave, honest, hard-working fellow," acknowledged Richard,
"from Maryland; but he had only a limited education, and had not been
gently reared. I was not well pleased with the marriage; and had your
Aunt Frances lived, I do not think Mary would have married him. But as
I was a widower, and no blood relation to your mother, my house was
hardly any longer a suitable refuge for her and her babe. When she and
Marshall Page died the following summer, we--my second wife, Rachel,
and I--took you as our own. It was your mother's dying request that you
should, if possible, be spared all knowledge of her sad history, and be
reared as our own child."

"Nobly have you and Aunt Rachel tried to fulfill that dying request!"
said the young man in a choked voice and with tears in his eyes, as he
arose and threw his arm across his uncle's shoulder.

"And nobly have you repaid our love and care, my boy," the older man
answered huskily. "You have given us filial love and obedience, and
have never crossed our wishes in anything, except when you persisted in
going off to Kentucky, instead of staying here and becoming a lawyer.
But there! there! you were right, I dare say. You had no liking for a
legal profession, and that new country across the mountains is a better
place than this old, aristocratic State for a young, energetic fellow
who has nothing but his native ability and a good education to assist
him forward. So enough of these saddening recollections," he added in a
more cheerful tone, rising briskly and crossing the room to a table
whereon were scattered various papers. "Now for the business pertaining
to this fine fellow, Abner Dudley Logan, as he must be called in
future, I suppose, and who has just come into a rich inheritance."

"Of which inheritance," said Abner, joining his uncle at the table and
picking up one of the papers, "the most valuable part, I'm inclined to
think, will prove to be this Kentucky land. As for this Virginian
estate, I fear from what you tell me that I can realize very little
from it."

"That is true," agreed Richard. "Owing to the recklessness and
prodigality of Stephen Hite, and the neglect and mismanagement of Col.
Andrew Hite during the last ten years of his life, the estate is
well-nigh worthless. Besides being heavily mortgaged, the land is worn,
and the grand old brick mansion built over a hundred years ago by your
great-grandfather, Abner Hite, is sadly out of repair--in fact, is
almost in ruins."

"'Lord of Crestlands, an ancestral estate in the proud old dominion of
Virginia,' sounds rich and grand," laughed Abner; "but is only as
'sounding brass and tinkling cymbals,' after all, without money to lift
mortgages and to repair the breaches made by the prodigality and
carelessness of my predecessors. And, uncle, how about the negroes I am
to inherit?" taking up the copy of the will, and reading therefrom, "'I
give and bequeath all houses, lands, slaves, live stock, goods and
chattels of whatsoever nature of which I die possessed, etc.' How many
of these dusky retainers are there remaining in my ancestral halls?"

"Only three," the doctor answered, "out of the troops of slaves which
Andrew Hite owned twenty years ago. The others, I find, have been sold
from time to time, to pay the gambling debts and for the other vicious
habits of the precious Stephen, I presume. And of the three negroes
still left, two are old and decrepit, which leaves but one of
marketable value. But, Abner, my boy," jokingly added Dr. Dudley, "when
you have realized a fortune out of that Henderson County land which you
think so valuable, you can use this wealth to lift mortgages and to
rebuild this home of your forefathers; so that you will be, after all,
'lord of Crestlands,' the ancestral home of the family."

"That plan doesn't appeal to me," said the young man, stoutly. "For one
thing, I do not consider Crestlands as my ancestral estate. My
Grandmother Hite lived there only until her marriage, and neither
Hollises nor Logans had part or lot in it. No, my ancestral halls shall
be of my own rearing," he said promptly. "I intend indeed to be one day
known as 'Logan of Crestlands;' but not of that ramshackle old manor
house in southeastern Virginia, but of a new Crestlands in that
transmontine paradise, Kentucky. Crestlands!" he said musingly. "Yes, I
like the name. It has a pleasing sound, and I mean that in its
symbolical sense it shall be appropriate; for I intend that life in
this home I shall found shall be one of purity, truth, love, and high
ideals."

"And from the light in your eyes, and that hopeful, exultant smile, I
suspect," said Uncle Richard, "that you have found the fair damsel who
is to reign queen of this goodly domain, this new Crestlands. Is it not
so?"

"I see visions and dream dreams of such a consummation," acknowledged
the young man, flushing warmly; "but at present I am on probation with
this lady fair. I shall know my fate when I return in November for her
verdict. But, uncle, whatever my hopes in that direction, there's
another hope almost equally dear--that my loving foster parents should
share my prosperity. Leave this old home which must be lonely to you
and Aunt Rachel now that I am gone and your daughters both married and
gone from the home nest. You have toiled hard, and have borne the
burden and heat of the day, and now in your declining years I would
have your life all ease and sunshine. Come to me, and share my new
home. I promise you comfort, cheer and happiness. Will you not come?"

"No, my boy," answered his uncle. "'Ephraim is joined to his idols.' I
am too old to transplant to a new soil, however vigorous and genial it
may be; and your Aunt Rachel would never consent to go so far from her
daughters and their children. But some day, when that saucy, black-eyed
siren (I'm certain she is saucy and black-eyed) shall have come to
reign as mistress of your hearth and home, I'll cross the mountains,
old as I am, to spend a few months with you. But all this is far in the
future, and we have too much business still to transact before we can
hope to get you thoroughly established in your rights, to plan so far
ahead."

"As to this Kentucky land, Uncle Richard," said Abner, presently, "when
and how did Uncle Hite acquire it?"

"Back in 1775, I believe, when he went out there on that exploring
trip. Under the provisions of the 'Henderson grant' made that same
year, Andrew Hite purchased, as I see from these papers, a tract of
four hundred acres in that part of the Green River valley now known as
Henderson County. But, instead of remaining in Kentucky and settling on
his land, he returned to this State and joined the army. Now, this
'Henderson grant' was annulled in 1778 by the Virginia Assembly, but
the next year, when the war burdens were beginning to press heavily on
the country, the Assembly enacted a new land law which, besides
arranging for the sale of lands in her western territory, also offered
as military bounty tracts of these western lands to her soldiers. So,
Hite, then a colonel in the Continental army, applied for and received
from the State of Virginia this same land he had purchased under the
old Henderson grant, and sixty acres adjoining. His title, therefore,
was made doubly secure, and he seems to have been little troubled, as
so many others were, by rival claimants. He was wounded in the battle
of King's Mountain, and after his wound had healed, before rejoining
the army, he managed to make another short visit to Kentucky. Upon his
return, on his way to join Lafayette at Yorktown just before
Cornwallis' surrender, Hite stopped at Lawsonville. It was soon after
your Aunt Frances died, and when your mother was on the eve of marrying
Marshall Page. After the war, Hite went to France, where he found this
waif, Stephen Balleau, and brought him home as his adopted son, a year
or so later. That is all I know about Andrew Hite. After that flying
visit to Lawsonville I never saw him, nor heard anything more directly
of him, until I was notified last May of his death, and asked to be
present at the reading of his will.

"This paper shows me," said Abner after a pause, "that Uncle Hite
placed the management of his Kentucky affairs in the hands of an
attorney, Anson Drane. Now, I know a young lawyer of Lexington named
James Anson Drane. It must be the son of this old attorney."

"Yes," said Dr. Dudley, handing his nephew another document, "and from
this paper you will find that this son, your James Anson Drane, was
employed after the death of the father to act as Hite's factor. So your
first step, when you return, will, of course, be to communicate with
this young Drane."

CHAPTER XVII.

AT CANE RIDGE AGAIN

Abner returned to Kentucky early in October. At Pittsburg, on his
return journey, he had again fallen in with Judge Sebastian, who
intrusted him with a packet containing a sum of money, and with a
package of books, requesting him to deliver them to Judge Innes.
Arriving at Lexington, he delivered the money and books, and then went
on to Cane Ridge, reaching Mason Rogers' about nightfall.

The next morning he set out for his farm, intending, after he had
looked after affairs there, to ride on to Bourbonton to post a letter,
as it was the day on which the once-a-week mail-coach passed through
the village.

Over three months had elapsed since he had seen Betsy Gilcrest; and
although he meant to obey her hint and wait until November to renew his
suit, he felt that there was no prohibition against his seeing her.
Accordingly, he purposed to return from Bourbonton by way of Oaklands.

On the way to the farm he met James Drane. Abner had not made known to
the Rogers family the nature of the business which had called him to
Virginia, nor did he now say anything to the lawyer about consulting
him professionally; for he had resolved that Betsy should be the first
to be told of his good fortune. Drane, after congratulating Abner upon
his safe return, and expressing an intention of calling soon to learn
the particulars of the visit to Virginia, added that he must now hasten
forward, as he had business to transact at Bourbonton. Whereupon,
Abner, thinking to save himself a ride to the village, handed him the
letter to post, and then went on towards his farm.

As soon as Abner was out of sight, Drane took the letter from his
pocket. When he saw its address, Judge Benjamin Sebastian, he uttered
an ejaculation of surprise and pleasure. He rode on slowly for a time,
in deep thought, then turned and galloped rapidly towards Oaklands. In
a field adjoining the road was Hiram Gilcrest, superintending some
negroes gathering corn. Drane, riding up to the fence, hailed Gilcrest,
who advanced to meet him. Drane then took the letter from his pocket,
and, showing its address, said, "You see, Major, my suspicions
regarding your neighbor are well founded."

"Has Dudley returned?" asked Gilcrest in some surprise.

"Yes, last evening. He passed through Lexington yesterday. While there
he doubtless gathered important information from others of the band,
and this morning he asked me to post this letter, which, of course,
transmits this information to Sebastian."

After some further conversation, Drane exacted a pledge from Gilcrest
of absolute secrecy in regard to the letter, and, declining an
invitation to dine at Oaklands, rode away.

Much to Abner's chagrin, he found, on arriving at Oaklands an hour
after the interview between Drane and Gilcrest, that Betsy was on a
visit to her friend, Mary Winston, who lived near Lexington. Mrs.
Gilcrest, however, was unusually animated, and evinced great interest
in his recent journey, and questioned him about people and places,
changes and fashions in Virginia. Yet Abner could not but notice the
lack of cordiality in Major Gilcrest. Thinking this due to recollection
of the discussion just before the trip to Virginia, Abner tried to
avoid all topics even remotely approaching church matters. He described
his visit to Blennerhassett Island. Gilcrest, becoming interested,
melted perceptibly, for a time; but when the young man, in the course
of his narrative, mentioned the names of his two traveling companions
from Lexington to Blennerhassett Island, Gilcrest's manner not only
lost its lately recovered geniality, but became harder and more frigid
than ever.

After striving vainly to bring his host back to a more pleasant mood,
Abner felt that he could not, in the face of Gilcrest's increasing
sternness and coldness, prolong the visit. Although it was raining
heavily, he declined Mrs. Gilcrest's timid invitation to remain to
dinner, and left a little before noon. As he rode home through the rain
he thought over every trifling incident of his hour at Oaklands. He
recalled every topic of conversation, without finding a clue to the
enigma. "He's harking back to my old transgression in upholding Stone,"
was his conclusion. "Interest in the account of my journey did for a
time beguile him into forgetfulness of my offense, but his mind at last
reverted to it; hence his return to the Frigid Zone. It was a regular
freeze-out toward the end. If he were not Betty's father, I'd have
nothing more to do with him. But what a fool I was to discuss
theological matters with him in the first place! After all, this church
trouble is no affair of mine, and Stone did not need my advocacy; he's
quite able, single-handed, to play St. George to the dragon of
sectarianism that trails its length through this region. A pretty time
I'll have now, trying to reinstate myself in the old gentleman's good
graces! I hope to heaven something will happen to call him out of the
way the first of November; for see Betty then I will, no matter what
happens."

When James Drane, after his talk with Gilcrest, reached the main
thoroughfare, instead of choosing the turning towards Bourbonton, he
took the opposite course towards Lexington. As soon as he was in his
office, and had barred his door, he carefully cut around the seal of
Abner's letter. It contained merely a few lines stating that the money
and books had been delivered to Innes.

"The devil take it!" he ejaculated. "This shows nothing as to whether
Sebastian and Murray took advantage of their opportunity to sound the
schoolmaster; and I now very much doubt if the self-sufficient young
prig can be drawn into our schemes. However, showing the address to
Gilcrest this morning did my own personal cause a good turn. Now, how
to follow up this advantage? I wonder if I could counterfeit
Sebastian's peculiar chirography." From an inner locked drawer of his
escritoire he took a small metal box, and from a number of papers
contained therein he selected a letter which he examined closely.

"No use to try imitation, when the original document will serve my
purpose as well or better," he finally concluded. "The initials fit
perfectly; and, thanks to Sebastian's cunning and to our cipher code,
this letter is so obscurely worded that Gilcrest can gain from it no
knowledge of our plans. But I'll have to wait some time yet in order to
tell him a plausible tale. In the meanwhile, it would be well to try my
skill at counterfeiting Dudley's writing. His precise, schoolmasterly
hand would surely be easier to imitate than Sebastian's queer, crabbed
characters, and there's no telling how or when my skill may be of use
to me. But how to get more material to work upon? This short note to
Sebastian isn't enough. Couldn't I get Dudley to copy some law papers
for me?" He rose and paced the floor in deep thought. Finally he
succeeded in elaborating a plan which would suit his purpose.

CHAPTER XVIII.

DRANE PRACTICES PENMANSHIP

One morning in October, Drane, who at this time seemed to have business
demanding his frequent presence at Cane Ridge, passed by the Rogers'
homestead just as Abner was coming from the house. The two conversed
for a time at the stile, then Drane, as he was preparing to ride on,
asked, "Any commissions I can execute for you in town, Dudley?"

"No," Abner replied, "I believe not; I was in Lexington myself
Thursday. But stay," he added, "you may post a letter, if you will be
so kind. Wait a minute," and he ran to the house and soon returned with
a letter which he handed Drane.

This missive, which the lawyer opened as soon as he was in the privacy
of his room, was addressed to Chas. M. Brady, Williamsburg, Virginia,
and read as follows:

  CANE RIDGE, Oct. the 5, 1802.

       Honored Sir;--I was in Lexington again on Thursday; saw Morrison,
  and del'v'd y'r enclosure containing recommendations, etc. But just now,
     owing to the absence of two of the trustees, John Meeks and Israel
  Power, I can accomplish nothing. Judge Barr favors y'r appointment,
      but he is so handicapped that he can do very little. I learn from
        a trustworthy informant that Ezra Spaiter, of Milledgeville, is
      also an applicant for this professorship. Therefore, it would not
     be advisable to open negotiations with Ingraham, for I know that
      he is strongly in favor of Spaiter. Nor do I think it would be
    well to make application through Brown, who, I learn, contemplates
    withdrawing altogether from the University. Consequently, I advise
    that you make no further move in this matter until you are apprised
    of Power's return. I will see him and Tarr as soon as possible;
  and you may rest assured that I will do all I can for you.

      Y'r ob't, humble serv't to command,

                  Abner Dudley Logan.           To Charles M. Brady,
                                                  Williamsburg, Va.

"Now, what does this mean?" Drane thought as he saw the full signature,
Abner Dudley Logan. "Has the fellow been adopting an alias? I must
investigate this matter. But meanwhile I've another task before me,"
and he spread the letter before him on the table, drew forth writing
materials, and set to work. The next evening and the next found him
similarly engaged, until by dint of repeated effort and close
observation, aided by natural aptitude for such work, he produced a
fair counterfeit of Abner's writing. While thus engaged, another scheme
presented itself to his fertile brain. To carry out this scheme, he
first made a copy of the letter to Brady. The wording was the same as
that of the original, and the penmanship so good an imitation that only
a suspicious and close observer could detect the difference.

"As this Brady is far away, and probably not so well acquainted with
the schoolmaster's fist as Gilcrest is, it will be safer to send my
copy to him," Drane decided, "and manipulate the original for the
Major's benefit. If this, in conjunction with that other document I
shall show at the same time, doesn't put an end to that upstart's
chances with Gilcrest's daughter, I'm much out of my reckoning. Ah,
Betty! bewitching, tormenting Betty! I'll have you yet in spite of your
stand-off airs and half-veiled scorn of James Anson Drane."

The next afternoon found this unscrupulous plotter closeted with Major
Gilcrest in the pleasant library at Oaklands.

First pledging Gilcrest to absolute secrecy, Drane submitted a letter
beginning with the address, "Dear A. D.," and signed with the initials
"B. S." Much of the letter was couched in language so obscure as to
bear no precise meaning without a verbal interpretation which, the
letter stated, would be given by the bearer, S. Swartwourt, to whom "A.
D." was referred. The letter alluded to the confidence the writer had
hitherto placed in "A. D.," and to the former correspondence between
them. It also mentioned an enclosure from "Gen. W.," written in cipher,
to which cipher "B. S." stated "A. D." had a key. "B. S." ended his
letter with the request that the enclosure from "W." be shown to
Messrs. "M." and "A.," and then promptly forwarded to "T. P."

Before showing this communication from "B. S." Drane had torn off that
part which bore the date, "May 2, 1802," and at the bottom of the page
had added in a fair likeness of the handwriting of "B. S.," the date,
"Oct. 12, 1802."

It will be remembered that at this period there was a renewal of the
old rumors in regard to Spanish intrigues, and that Gilcrest on April
court day had seen Abner in what had appeared to be a confidential
conversation with Wilkinson, Sebastian and Murray; and also that Abner,
when calling at Oaklands after his return from Virginia, had mentioned
traveling in the company of Sebastian and Murray and stopping with them
at Blennerhassett Island. Moreover, early in the year, Gilcrest,
through his friend, Dr. Bullock, of Louisville, had been apprised of a
conspiracy in which Thomas Power, a Spanish emissary, and the three
prominent Kentuckians, Wilkinson, Sebastian and Murray, were suspected
of being involved. So great was Gilcrest's infatuation for Drane, he
had violated his promise made to Bullock, and had hinted of these
intrigues to Drane, who thus had much material to work upon in his
attempt to prejudice Gilcrest against Betsy's lover.

"How in the world did this paper fall into your hands?" was Gilcrest's
first query, after examining the communication of "B. S."

"Wait," Drane answered, "until you have seen this," placing before the
old gentleman the following torn and crumpled fragment:

  CAN

        Honored Sir:--I was in Lexington again
  and del'v'd y'r enclosure containing reco
    owing to the absence of two of the
  Power, I can accomplish nothing. Jud
      but he is so handicapped that he ca
        a trustworthy informant that Ez
       also an applicant for this pro
      be advisable to open negotiation
       he is strongly in favor of Spai
    well to make application through B
    withdrawing altogether from the Uni
    that you make no further move in th
    ed of Power's return. I will see him
  and you may rest assured that I will

        Y'r ob't, humble serv't to

                     Abner Dudley

After this, too, had been examined, Drane explained. A short while
before, he said, he was returning from a ride to Frankfort, and as he
was on the road just by the woodland pasture belonging to Mason Rogers,
had dismounted to dislodge a stone from his horse's foot. As he was
preparing to remount, he spied a folded paper peeping out from some
underbrush on the roadside. He had examined it. It was this enigmatical
letter from "B. S." to "A. D." "I had my strong suspicions," Drane
continued, "as to the identity of both writer and recipient; but, of
course, not being sure that the document belonged to Abner Dudley, I
did not think it wise to give it to him. Furthermore, it seemed that in
view of what you had revealed to me in regard to certain malignant
conspiracies with the Spanish Government, it behooved me to be
cautious. It was too late in the day to see you; so I returned home,
resolving that at the first opportunity I'd advise with you. The very
day after finding that letter, last Thursday afternoon, Dudley rushed
into my office and asked for writing materials. I furnished what he
required, and he sat at my desk to write. He made several attempts and
ruined several sheets of paper, which he tore up and tossed into the
fire--all save this scrap," indicating the fragment shown above, "which
lay on the floor under the desk and escaped his notice. He finally
wrote a letter to suit him. This he sealed and directed, and then,
saying a messenger was waiting, he thanked me hurriedly and rushed out.
I have little doubt that this messenger was the 'S. Swartwourt'
mentioned in 'B. S.'s' letter; for Swartwourt was in town that
Thursday. I had seen him at noon at the tavern in close converse with
William Murray, Isaac Adamson (in all likelihood, the Messrs. 'M.' and
'A.' of 'B. S.'s' letter), and Abner Dudley, who is as certainly 'A.
D.' as 'B. S.' is Benjamin Sebastian; and that torn fragment before you
is that shameless young hypocrite's answer to Sebastian's letter of
October 12."

"You are undoubtedly correct in your surmises," said Gilcrest when
Drane had finished. "The 'Power' referred to in this torn piece, and
the 'T. P.' referred to in the letter signed 'B. S.,' both mean that
vile and most dangerous diplomat, Thomas Power; and, see, Dudley
mentions 'the enclosure,' too, which he had probably shown to Murray
and Adamson, and then forwarded to Thomas Power. Notice, too, the
expression in Dudley's letter, 'he is strongly in favor of
Spai'--meaning, of course, Spain; and also this line, 'withdrawing
altogether from the Uni', which last word, with its missing letters
supplied, would be Union. Why, man, this is a most dangerous conspiracy
against the Federal Government! We must be very wary indeed, if we
would succeed in bringing the whole matter to light. But how careless
of Dudley," he continued after a moment, "to lose that letter by the
roadside! It is unlike his usual caution, and certainly not in keeping
with the diabolical cunning and consummate skill with which the movers
in this plot appear to be working. However, as the enclosure was
already forwarded, and as the letter itself without the verbal
interpretation is so obscure as to have no real meaning for one not in
the scheme, I presume Dudley was not as cautious as he would have been
had he dreamed that any one in this neighborhood had an inkling of
these nefarious plots they are concocting."

After some further consultation and further pledges between Drane and
Gilcrest as to caution and silence, the former prepared to leave.

"No, James," said Gilcrest, when the lawyer reached out to get the two
documents, "you are impetuous and rather thoughtless; and besides, you
are frequently away from home; so I had better take these papers into
my charge for safe-keeping. You'll be showing them to some one, or,
rather, somebody may get at them while you are out of town, and----"

"But, Major Gilcrest," remonstrated Drane, secretly much frightened at
this unexpected move on the part of his confidant, "I--I found them,
and they belong to me. I assure you they will be perfectly secure with
me, and--and--I----"

"But they'll be safer with me," persisted Gilcrest.

James argued and remonstrated as much as he dared without endangering
by overeagerness his own nefarious little plot; but he could not shake
the old gentleman's purpose, and at last he had to depart, thoroughly
discomfited. Much enraged he was, too, as he rode homeward, and fully
determined, as he said, "to regain possession of those two documents,
in spite of that blamed, stubborn old blockhead, Hiram Gilcrest."

CHAPTER XIX.

THE BETROTHAL

    "For I'll believe I have his heart,
    As much as he has mine."

Betsy came home the last week in October. Even her mother, the least
observant of women, noticed her daughter's unusual silence and
restlessness for the first few days after her return, and, attributing
it to loneliness, wished Betty had brought Mary Winston home with her
for a visit.

"Rantin' 'roun' 'mong fine folks doan seem to 'gree wid you, honey,"
old Aunt Dilsey said one morning when she found Betsy in the parlor,
her hands folded listlessly on the unheeded sewing in her lap, as she
gazed dreamily before her. "You'se all onsettled sence you'se come
home. Things would go tah rack an' ruin heah, wid yo' ma allus ailin',
an' you so no-'count, ef 'twan't fur ole Dilsey tah keep dese lazy
niggahs frum gwinetah sleep en thah tracks. I usetah think you'd be a
he'p an' a comfo't to yo' old brack mammy, an' turn out ez fine a
man'ger an' housekeepah ez Miss Abby; but you hain't been yo'se'f sence
thet camp-meetin'. I 'lowed et fust 'twuz too much 'ligion wuckin' in
you, an' thought it would bring you all right to go to Miss Mary
Winston's fine place; but you'se come back wussen evah. You hain't
gwinetah be sick, is you, chile? One minit you looks lak thah warn't a
drap o' blood in yo' body, then suddent lak, you flash up an' look so
narvous an' so excited thet I fears you'se tekin' the fevahs."

"No, mammy, I'm not the least sick. Nothing ails me, except that I feel
the change a little from the gay times I've been having at Maybrook.
I'll be all right presently."

Soon after dinner upon the first day of November, Betsy, evading Aunt
Dilsey's watchful eyes, called Jock, the old house-dog who was dozing
in the south porch, and set off for a ramble. The balmy air and the
brisk walk refreshed her, and by the time she reached the bars
separating the upper from the lower woods, she felt lighter hearted
than she had for a long time. Her eyes glowed with exercise, a bright
tinge showed in her cheeks, and her red cloak and brown quilted bonnet
lined with crimson made a warm bit of color in the landscape, and
blended harmoniously with the rich shades of the trees. Nature was
steeped in that tender, dreamy haze peculiar to Indian Summer, and the
air held a pleasing odor like that of burning leaves. The songbirds had
gone away to winter homes in the South, and the stillness of the forest
was broken only by the dropping of nuts from the hickory-trees.

"The first day of November!" she thought, as she stood leaning on the
bars, with old Jock lying at her feet. "I wonder how soon he will
come," and she smiled tenderly. "Not to-day or to-morrow, I know; for
he has gone to Lexington again, so Susan said, and will not be back
until the last of the week. It has been four months since I saw him.
Perhaps I should not have kept him so long in suspense, but a girl
should not be too easily won, and he must never know how nearly I came
to complete surrender when he rode by my side that May day. How hard it
was to resist the pleading tenderness of his eyes! Oh, Abner, Abner!
how I love you!" she murmured, leaning her head upon the bars.

Approaching footsteps made no noise on the carpeting of leaves and moss
in the pathway over which she had come; and Betty, absorbed in her love
and yearning, did not look up, even when Jock gave a joyous bark of
welcome to the young man standing behind her.

[Illustration: "_I have come for my answer, Betty._"]

"I have come for my answer, Betty," he said, laying his hand over hers
clasped on the topmost bar.

Her eyes lit up with gladness as she raised her face, suffused with
crimson, toward him; but she uttered no word of welcome.

"You surely expected me," he said; "you did not think I'd wait one hour
beyond the time, did you? Ah, sweetheart, did you but know what a
torment of suspense and longing these last six months have been,
you'd---- But now it's November, your favorite month, you said, because
Thanksgiving comes in it. So now, my darling, say the word that alone
can give me a thankful heart. You'll listen to me now, won't you,
dear?" he asked of her as she still stood in trembling silence.

"I suppose I must, sir," she said, dimpling and blushing, with a saucy
toss of her head. "I can't very well stop my ears, seeing that you have
imprisoned both hands. Oh, don't! don't! I haven't pledged myself yet,"
she stammered, as he, raising her hands, drew them around his neck,
folded her in his arms, and kissed her brow. Then, still holding her
closely in one arm, with the other he turned her face to meet his,
murmuring, "Not just your forehead, sweetness--O sweetheart! darling!
wife!" as his lips closed over hers in a clinging kiss. "It is thus I
take my pledge. You are mine, mine, you bewildering, tormenting Betty."

"No! no!" she protested stammeringly, as she struggled to free herself.
"Oh, you're too--too--you hold me so close! You lose count of time and
season, sir," she added presently with an attempt at playfulness, and
trying to assume an ease and nonchalance she was far from feeling.
"This is November, remember--solemn, quiet Thanksgiving time. The
summer of fulfillment hasn't come yet."

"Yes, it has," boldly asserted her lover. "Winter is past, and summer
is here--glorious, satisfying harvest time--and--and--it is thus I
garner in my wealth," he murmured with tender rapture, gathering her
still closer, and kissing the sweet eyes and throat and mouth. "No more
half-way measures between us now! No more tormenting reserve! You trust
me, sweetheart? You give yourself to me, do you not?"

"I don't seem to have much liberty of choice," she replied with a
resumption of her old sauciness, as she again freed herself from his
embrace. "As you have already stolen my heart, I may as well trust you
with the rest--and I do, I do," she added solemnly. "My welfare, my
happiness, my life itself, I commit to your keeping," placing both
hands in his. "I give all unreservedly. You are worthy the trust."

"No," she said presently, in answer to the inevitable question as to
when she had first begun to love him; "I shan't tell you that. You're
too conceited and masterful as it is."

"But you have promised to tell me everything," he said teasingly.

"No, some things are better left unsaid, and if I were to tell you
that, I'd never be able to get the upper hand with you again."

"But you know you always did obey me," he answered, smiling
reminiscently, "though it was often with a sweet rebellious look in
your eyes; and besides, a wife is bound to obey her husband."

"I don't know about that, sir. If that is the rule, I mean to be the
exception that proves it; for I fully intend that you shall be the
submissive one in our future relationship."

"In that case, fair lady mine, the sooner you marry me, the better; for
even with so competent a ruler as yourself, it will take long and close
application on my part to learn the role of submissive husband. You
see, my position of schoolmaster has weakened my natural talent for
meekness and submission, so that at present these qualities are far
from being in perfect condition."

"You needn't tell me that," rejoined Betsy, with a demure smile and
nodding her head sagely. "Cupid hasn't so blindfolded me but that I can
still see a wee bit out of the corner of my eye--well enough, at least,
to perceive that my lover has several imperfections in addition to a
lack of meekness."

"That, my dear, isn't the fault of Cupid's bandages, but it is due to
your always having held me at a distance," he answered placidly,
drawing her nearer to him. "Seen at close range, these little
peculiarities of mine, which you have labeled defects, will turn out to
be budding virtues of the finest quality."

"Ah, then, most perfect and approved good master, you must give me back
my pledge. I could stand a few faults and minor vices in my future
lord; but such an array of excellencies appals me. I wed you not, Sir
Paragon," she said, looking him full in the face and then dropping him
a mocking little courtesy.

"'By my troth and holidame,' I could have better spared a better
Betty!" Abner exclaimed with mock fervor. "No, no, sweet mistress mine,
rather than resign this dimpled hand of thine, I'll begin at once to
uproot all my promising little sprouts of virtue, and plant in their
stead an assortment of fine, robust misdemeanors, for which, in truth,
the soil is well adapted."

"Very well, then," she said with an air of resignation, "I foresee that
I shall have to grow a few additional faults myself, to compete with
you."

"And I don't think, my dearest, that you'll have much difficulty in
doing so," was his audacious rejoinder, as he pinched her cheek.
"Natural aptitude counts for a great deal, you know."

"Methinks, my lord, too much happiness hath weakened thy brain; what
nonsense thou dost chatter," and she laughed with joyous abandon.

"Oh, anybody can talk sense, but it takes a heap o' sense to talk
nonsense sensibly," he said suavely, with a fine air of
self-complacency. "Until to-day I did not know I had it in me to be so
brilliant a conversationalist. Happiness is bringing out all my latent
abilities. Ah, Betty, sweetest, dearest, most bewitching of girls," he
added, fervently, "how happy you have made me!"

They were now seated on a fallen tree, he indulging in a blissful sense
of happiness realized, she sitting quiet and somewhat pensive.
Presently he asked: "Of what are you thinking? Your brown eyes are
filled with something that is almost sadness. Have you any regrets, any
unfilled wish? I haven't--except that November might have come sooner."

"Yes, I have a regret," said Betty, laying her hand upon his shoulder
and looking wistfully at him. "I give you everything--my present, my
future, and my past; but you--I know you love me now, but I am not the
one you loved first. That is what makes me sad. I want your past as
well as your present and future. Perhaps you think I didn't see. You
supposed, when you were so miserable after Abby went away, that I
didn't understand! Many and many a night have I lain awake, sorrowing
over your sorrow and my inability to help you."

"Listen to me, Betty dear. My feeling for your cousin, though pure and
tender, was as nothing compared to what I have for you. Even when I was
most under the spell of her beauty and sweetness, I thought of you as
one who might well stir the pulse and thrill the heart of any man not
made armor-proof by love for another."

"But you did love Cousin Abby?" she questioned with another wistful,
half-timid look.

"Yes, I did, in a dreamy, poetical way. Or, rather, I was in love with
love and romance, and all that, and she seemed the embodiment of beauty
and poetry. But I never touched even the outer edges of her
susceptibilities, and it was this complete unresponsiveness that healed
my wound, even before I was aware. A man, warm-blooded, ardent, as I
am, must have an answering love to keep his own alive. There was
nothing in that first romantic feeling that need give you a pang of
regret. It was a mere boyish fancy; this, dear, is the love of my
manhood. And in fact, my darling, I don't believe there is so much as a
kiss to choose between your love for me and mine for you. If there is,"
he added humorously, "this will restore the balance," and he kissed her
fondly. "And now, my dear girl," he went on, speaking soberly, but with
a glad light in his eyes, "I have great news for you; but first, let me
ask, by what name do you propose to be known when we are married?"

"Well," exclaimed the girl in some bewilderment, "I said awhile ago
that happiness had addled your brains; but I really did not suspect the
trouble to be so serious as this. By what name, pray, should I be known
but that of Mistress Betsy Dudley--ugly though it be? Oh, I see!" she
cried, thinking she understood his meaning. "You don't like the name
Betsy. Neither do I. It's perfectly horrid; and it is my standing
grievance against my parents that they saddled upon their innocent babe
so uncouth a prenomen. If father did wish to honor his mother by
endowing his first-born with the name, why could he not have softened
it into Betty, or Bettina, or Bessie, or, better still, have christened
me Elizabeth, instead of insisting, as he always does, that I shall be
called Betsy? I'll tell you what," she added archly, "when I'm married,
I shall insist that everybody shall address me as Elizabeth. Isn't that
more to your taste, my lord?"

"Elizabeth what?" he persisted.

"Upon my word, I begin to think you really are daft! Why, Elizabeth
Dudley, of course," she said, flushing and looking shy and embarrassed;
"that is, unless you mean for me to wed some saner man than this Abner
Dudley, Esquire," she added saucily.

"Would not the name Elizabeth or Betty or Betsy Logan suit you better?"
asked her lover, who then proceeded to tell her all.

She was greatly astonished, and rejoiced to learn of his brightened
worldly prospects; but when he told her his full name, her countenance
changed.

He was too absorbed to note this, and went on: "The question now is, my
dearest, how soon will you marry me? I need you now. Every day, every
hour, I long for you, my pet. So I shall speak to your father at once.
For some time he has been rather cool with me--ever since last summer,
when I argued with him about Barton Stone's views. But he's too just
and reasonable to refuse me your hand, upon no other objection than
that I did not side with him in a church quarrel. I will see him
to-morrow, and----"

"No, no!" Betsy interrupted, "do not speak with him yet; and please do
not let him know that your name is Logan. Let me tell him that, and
also about your new inheritance."

"But, my dear girl, why should not I tell him?"

"I can't make it plain to you, I'm afraid," answered Betty; "but I have
an instinctive feeling that things will not run at all smoothly--just
at first, you know--when he learns your news."

"All the more reason, then," Abner said, "for my telling him at once,
and thus get over this rough part as soon as possible."

"No, please let me speak to father first," urged Betsy.

"I fail to see why you should wish to do so," Abner said; "and it
certainly is my duty to speak to your father myself. Nor would it be
manly in me to shirk this duty off upon you."

"As I said," Betsy persisted, "I can't make my meaning clear to you. In
truth, I can't understand myself why I wish this; but of one thing I am
quite sure, both my father and mother, for some unknown cause, are
greatly prejudiced against the name 'Logan.' Mother, in particular,
abhors it. At some period of her life, she must have had some terrible
knowledge of some one of the name--you know there are many Logans in
this State and in Virginia--but whatever the reason for her extreme
aversion to the name, that aversion certainly exists. Therefore, it
behooves us to be very tactful in telling father and mother that you
are a Logan. Just now I feel sure it would be unwise to tell them; for
mother is unusually weak and nervous this fall, and father is so
harassed over this church trouble that he is irritable and
unreasonable, even with mother and me. We can't very well be married
before spring, anyway; and long before then father'll be as cordial as
ever with you; and he and mother will be fully reconciled to your new
name, too. I'm your promised wife, and--and--I love you with all my
heart. Isn't that happiness enough for you for awhile?"

"But, dearest, I think your parents should be told at once that you are
my betrothed wife. I don't like any appearance of secrecy. I'm too
proud of my love for that."

"No," Betsy still urged, "I know father better than you do. Please be
guided by me in this, and say nothing to him for awhile."

"But I can not delay much longer to make public that my name is Logan,
and about my newly acquired property. There's business to be transacted
in regard to this Henderson County land; and your father must
inevitably soon hear of my name, from some one; and it would be better
from me than from an outsider."

However, Abner finally yielded to Betsy's pleadings, and agreed that
they should take no one into their confidence at present in regard to
their engagement; and that he should tell the Rogerses and James Drane
about his real name, and of the inheritance left him by the will of the
late Colonel Hite.

"And you mustn't even come to see me," said Betty. "In father's present
mood it would only irritate him to have you come. Besides, if you did
come, they'd be sure to find us out; for we couldn't act toward each
other just in the old, quiet, friendly way--at least, I couldn't
and--and--oh, I know it will be hard, this restraint, this secrecy; not
to see you, and not to let every one know that we are pledged to each
other. But for my sake, and because it is for the best, you will be
patient, won't you?"

"I will try; but Heaven send your father a speedy change of heart
toward your poor lover!" Abner fervently exclaimed as he kissed Betty
good-by.

CHAPTER XX.

THE LONE GRAVE IN THE MOUNTAINS

That same evening, Abner took Mr. and Mrs. Rogers into his confidence
concerning his name, and the business which had called him to Virginia.
The good couple were greatly excited, and they could not have been more
delighted had the inheritance fallen to one of their own children.

A few days later, Abner went to see James Drane.

"So old Colonel Hite is dead, and you are his heir," was Drane's
astonished exclamation when his client had explained his business, and
had shown a copy of the will. "I congratulate you most heartily upon
your good fortune. Of course, I know all about this Henderson County
tract; for my father was employed to survey it, and to record the
claim, and afterwards to transact all business pertaining to it, until
his death, five years ago; then I was employed as agent. I have here in
my escritoire all papers relative to the business, and copies of all
correspondence which passed between father and Colonel Hite. Colonel
Hite visited Kentucky in '80 or '81, when I was a small boy; but I
remember the circumstance. From what I can recall of him as he appeared
then, and from what I gather from his correspondence since, I judge him
to have been a very eccentric man. For several years after the tract
came into Hite's possession, my father had considerable difficulty with
rival claimants--squatters, you know, who claimed it by right of first
settlement; but all such difficulties were adjusted long before the
agency fell into my hands, and now I can foresee no trouble, nor any
very great delay, in establishing you in your rights--to this part of
your inheritance, at least. As to the Virginian estate, of course, you
have already placed your interests in the hands of some competent
attorney in that State, and have complied with all the necessary legal
formalities. Now, in regard to this land of which I have been acting as
factor," Drane continued, examining some papers which he had taken out
of his desk. "Samuel Whitaker, whose claim adjoins the southeastern
boundary of the Hite section, pays a yearly rental of forty-six dollars
for 258 acres of the Hite land; and Daniel Pratt, who owns the
homestead adjoining the southwestern boundary, holds a ten years' lease
(three of which are unexpired) to 285 more acres. The remainder of the
section--ninety-seven acres--lying on Buffalo Creek, is low and swampy,
and has never been reclaimed."

A few more business details were explained, and then Abner told the
lawyer, as he had already told the Rogerses, that for the
present--until all business relative to the winding up of the Hite
estate was completed--he preferred to be known only as Abner Dudley. He
then took his departure, leaving with Drane a copy of the will.

When his client had gone, the lawyer barred his door, and then
carefully examined the will. Although he had had the art to hide his
feelings during the interview just closed, he was more astonished and
puzzled than he had ever been before. Several months before this, in
looking through some documents pertaining to the Gilcrest property, he
had made two startling discoveries: First, that Mrs. Gilcrest's maiden
name was Sarah Jane Pepper, instead of Jane Temple, as even her own
children supposed it to be. Second, that she was a widow when Hiram
Gilcrest married her, and that her first husband had been a John Logan
who was killed in the battle of Monmouth Court-house. At the time when
Drane had made these discoveries, Gilcrest had explained that Mrs.
Gilcrest's first husband had been a worthless, bad fellow, and that for
that reason her desire was that her children should be kept in
ignorance of her ever having made this first marriage. On this account,
and for another reason which Gilcrest did not confide to Drane, she had
led her children to believe that her maiden name was Jane Temple, her
maternal grandmother's maiden name.

Abner had stated that his father was John Logan, a soldier in the
Continental army, who was killed in the battle of Monmouth Court-house.
"It may be a mere coincidence," thought Drane, "that two men named John
Logan were killed in that battle; but, then, why should this fellow
have, until now, worn the name of Dudley? Then, there's the unusual