Had any member of the flock at Mount Pisgah Station seen these two young people during the moment or two which followed Helen’s appearance, he would have sorrowfully but promptly dismissed from his mind any expectation of hearing the sermon which Crewne had promised to preach at Mount Pisgah that morning.  But the young preacher was of no ordinary human pattern:  with sorrow, yet determination, he bade Helen good-by, and though, as he rode away, he frequently turned his head, he never stopped his horse.

Down the road through the dense forest he went, trying, by reading his Bible as he rode, to get his mind in proper condition for a mighty effort at Mount Pisgah.  He wasn’t conscious of doing such a thing—­he could honestly lay his hand on his heart and say he hadn’t the slightest intention of doing anything of the kind, yet somehow his Bible opened at the Song of Solomon.  For a moment he read, but for a moment only; then he shut his lips tightly, and deliberately commenced reading the Book of Psalms.

He had fairly restored his mind to working shape, and was just whispering fervent thanks to the Lord, when a couple of horsemen galloped up to him.  As he turned his head to see who they might be, he observed that each of them held a pistol in a very threatening manner.  As he looked, however, the pistols dropped, and one of the riders indulged in a profane expression of disappointment.

“It’s Matalette’s clothes and horse, Jim,” he said to his companion, “but it’s the preacher’s face.

“And you have been providentially deferred from committing a great crime!” exclaimed Crewne, with a reproving look.  “Mr. Matalette took me in last night, wet, cold, and footsore; this morning I departed, refreshed, clothed and mounted.  To rob a man who is so lavish of—­”

“Beg your pardon, parson,” interrupted one of the men, “but you haven’t got the right pig by the ear.  We’re not highwaymen.  I’m the sheriff of this county, and Jim’s a constable.  And as for Matalette, he’s a counterfeiter, and we’re after him.”

Crewne dropped his bridle-rein, and his lower jaw, as he exclaimed: 

“Impossible!”

“’Tis, eh?” said the sheriff.  “Well, we’ve examined several lots of money he’s paid out lately, and there isn’t a good bill among ’em.”

Crewne mechanically put his hands in his pocket and drew forth the money Matalette had given him to buy a horse with.  The sheriff snatched it.

“That’s some of his stock?” said he, looking it rapidly over. That seems good enough.”

“What will become of his poor daughter?” ejaculated the young preacher, with a vacant look.

“What, Helen?” queried the sheriff.  “She’s the best engraver of counterfeits there is in the whole West.”

“Dreadful—­dreadful!” exclaimed the young preacher, putting his hand over his eyes.

“Fact,” replied the sheriff.  “You parsons have got a big job to do ’fore this world’s in the right shape, an’ sheriffs and constables ain’t needed.  Wish you good luck at it, though ’twill be bad for trade.  You’ll keep mum ’bout this case, of course.  We’ll catch ’em in the act finally; then there won’t be any danger about not getting a conviction, an’ our reward, that’s offered by the banks.”