Why had he not come?  The question multiplied itself into numerous forms and hedged her in.  Was he too angry to forgive her?  Had her seeming indifference at last killed his love?  Why had he not sent her a note or a message?  He knew that she was to leave on the early train, that there would be no chance to speak with her alone in the morning.

A faint streak of misty light shone through the window.  She watched it deepen to rose.

By and by Rachel came in to make the fire.  She tiptoed to the bed and peeped through the curtains.

“You ’wake, Miss Rufe?  Dey’s been terrible goings on in town last night!  Didn’t you hear de posse goin’ by?”

“What was it?  What’s the matter?” cried Ruth, sitting up in bed.

“Dat jail-bird Wilson done shot Jedge Hollis.  ‘Mos’ ebery man in town went out to ketch him.  Dey been gone all night.”

“Sandy went with them,” thought Ruth, in sudden relief; then she thought of the judge.

“Oh, Rachel, is he dangerously hurt?  Will he die?”

“De las’ accounts was mighty bad.  Dey say de big doctors is a-comin’ up from de city to prode fer de bullet.”

“What made him shoot him?  How could he be so cruel, when the dear old judge is so good and kind to everybody?”

“Jes pore white trash, dat Wilson,” said Rachel, contemptuously, as she coaxed the kindling into a blaze.

Ruth got up and dressed.  Beneath the deep concern which she felt was the flutter of returning hope.  Sandy’s first duty was to his benefactor.  She knew how he loved the old judge and with what prompt action he would avenge his wrong.  She could trust him to follow honor every time.

“Some ob ’em ‘s comin’ back now!” cried Rachel from the window.  “I’s gwine down to de road an’ ax ’em if dey ketched him.”

“Rachel, wait!  I’m coming, too.  Give me my traveling-coat—­there on the trunk.  What can I put on my head?  My hat is in auntie’s room.”

Rachel, rummaging in the closet, brought forth an old white tam-o’-shanter.  “That will do!” cried Ruth.  “Now, don’t make any noise, but come.”

They tiptoed through the house and out into the early morning.  It was still half dark, and the big-eyed poplars watched them suspiciously as they hurried down to the road.  Every branch and twig was covered with ice, and the snow crackled under their feet.

“I ‘spec’ it’s gwine be summer-time where you gwine at, Miss Rufe,” said Rachel.

“I don’t care,” cried Ruth.  “I don’t want to be anywhere in the world except right here.”

“Dey’re comin’,” announced Rachel.  “I hear de hosses.”

Ruth leaned across the top bar of the gate, her figure enveloped in her long coat, and her white tam a bright spot in the half-light.

On came the riders, three abreast.

“Dat’s him in de middle,” whispered Rachel, excitedly; “next to de sheriff.  I’s s’prised dey didn’t swing him up—­I shorely is.  He’s hangin’ down his head lak he’s mighty ’shamed.”