must, the very soul of Rose Mary panted for the comfort of some of the lines of the Sweet Singer, Aunt Viney held her strictly to the words of her favorite thunderer, Jeremiah, and little Aunt Amandy bunched up under the cover across the bed fairly shook with terror as she buried her head in her pillow to keep out the rolling words of invective that began with an awful “Harken” and ended with “Woe is me now, for my soul is wearied!”

“Now,” concluded Miss Lavinia, “you can put out the light.  Rose Mary, and if me and Amandy was to open our eyes on the other side of the river it would be but a good thing for us.  Lay the Bible in that newspaper on top of that pile of Christian Advocates, with a string to tie ’em all up after morning lesson, to be carried away.  The Lord bless and keep you, child, and don’t forget to latch the front door on us all for the last time!”

Softly Rose Mary drew the door partly closed and left them in the quiet of the fast-deepening purple dusk.  She peeped into Uncle Tucker’s room and assured herself by his sonorous breathing that rest at last was comforting him, and for a moment in her own room she bent over the little cot where the General and his two spotted servitors lay curled up in a tangle and fast in the depths of sleep.  Then she opened wide the old hall door that had for more than a century swung over the sill marked off by the length of the intrepid English foremother who had tramped the wilderness trail to possess what she, herself, was giving up.

And as she stood desperate, at bay, with her nest storm tossed and threatened, suddenly the impossibility of it all came down upon her, and stern with a very rigidity of resolve she went into the house, lighted a candle by the old desk in the hall, and wrote swiftly a few words of desperate summons to the Senator.  She knew that Friday night always found him over the fields at Boliver, and she told him briefly the situation and asked him to come over in the early morning to the rescue—­and sacrifice.

When she had first come out on the porch she had seen young Bob ride up to the store on one of his colts, and she ran fleetly down to the front gate and called to him.  He consented instantly to ride over and deliver the note for her, but he shot an uneasy glance at her from beneath his wide hat as he put the letter in his pocket.

“Is anything wrong, Miss Rose Mary?” he asked anxiously but respectfully.

“No, Bob, dear, nothing that—­that I can’t make—­right,” she answered in a soft, tearless voice, and as he got on his horse and rode away she came slowly up the long front walk that was moonflecked from the leaves of the tall trees.  Then once more she stood on the old door sill—­at bay.

And as she looked at the old Ridge across the sweet, blooming clover-fields, with the darkened house behind her, again the waters of despair rose breast-high and heart-high, beat against her aching throat and were just about to dash over her head as she stretched out one arm to the hills and with a broken cry bent her white forehead in the curve of the other, but suddenly bent head, tear-blinded eyes, quivering breast and supplicating arms were folded tight in a strong embrace and warm, thirsty lips pressed against the tears on her cheeks as Everett’s voice with a choke and a gulp made its way into her consciousness.