“But I do not love you, Mr. Davis.”

“Let me try to make you love me,” he pleaded.  “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?”

“Yes.  If there were no other reason, I love a young soldier who is fighting in the Seminole War in Florida under Colonel Taylor.”

“Well, at least, you can let me take the place of your father and shield you from trouble when I can.”

“You are a most generous and kindly man!” Bim exclaimed with tears in her eyes.

So he seemed to be, but he was one of those men who weave a spell like that of an able actor.  He excited temporary convictions that began to change as soon as the curtain fell.  He was in fact a performer.  That little midnight scene at the City Hotel had sounded the keynote of his character.  He was no reckless villain of romance.  If he instigated the robbery of the south-bound mail wagon, of which the writer of this little history has no shadow of doubt, he was so careful about it that no evidence which would satisfy a jury has been discovered to this day.

On account of the continued illness of her mother Bim was unable to resume her work in the academy.  She took what sewing she could do at home and earned enough to solve the problems of each day.  But the payment coming due on the house in December loomed ahead of them.  It was natural, in the circumstances, that Mrs. Kelso should like Mr. Davis and favor his aims.  Now and then he came and sat with her of an evening while Bim went out to the shops—­an act of accommodation which various neighbor women were ever ready to perform.

Mrs. Kelso’s health had improved slowly so that she was able then to spend most of each day in her chair.

One evening when Davis sat alone with her, she told him the story of Bim and Harry Needles—­a bit of knowledge he was glad to have.  Their talk was interrupted by the return of Bim.  She was in a cheerful mood.  When Mr. Davis had gone she said to her mother: 

“I think our luck has turned.  Here’s a letter from John T. Stuart.  The divorce has been granted.”

“Thank the Lord,” Mrs. Kelso exclaimed.  “Long ago I knew bad luck was coming; since the day your father carried an axe through the house.”

“Pshaw!  I don’t believe in that kind of nonsense.”

“My father would sooner break his leg than carry an edged tool through the house,” Mrs. Kelso affirmed.  “Three times I have known it to bring sickness.  I hope a change has come.”

“No.  Bad luck comes when you carry all your money through the house and spend it for land.  I am going to write to Harry and tell him to hurry home and marry me if he wants to.  Don’t say a word about the divorce to our friend Davis.  I want to make him keep his distance.  It is hard enough now.”

Before she went to bed that night she wrote a long letter to Harry and one to Abe Lincoln thanking him for his part in the matter and telling him of her father’s death, of the payment coming due and of the hard times they were suffering.  Two weeks passed and brought no answer from Mr. Lincoln.