"It’s a pity Tom Fannin sp’ilt his fortune a-takin’ that money; he’s a-doin’ so mighty well now." Bet looked reproachfully at him. "How do you know he took it, pa?" "How do we know he didn’t, Bet? Honey, don’t be a-deceivin’ yerself. I’m mighty proud you have dropped his comp’ny." "I hain’t dropped it, pa. We er jest a-waitin’." He sighed. "You air pow’fully sot in yer ways, Bet, fer er young creetur." "Pa, I mought as well give up livin’ as ter give up Tom. You know how ’tis," her eyes traveling to the round, placid face of her mother sitting out in the entry, knitting. Her father’s face softened. "Well, well, honey, don’t do nothin’ you’ll be sorry fer, that’s all I ax. Waitin’ is sometimes a mighty tryin’ thing." "But it mus’ be better’n not havin’ anything ter wait fer," she said, solemnly. But as time passed monotonously, without bringing any vindication of her lover’s name, and hope died slowly and painfully, she learned the bitterness of waiting. It was "fodder-pullin’" time, and the farmers were out from dawn until evening stripping the yellowing blades from the stalk, tying it, and stacking it in the wide hot fields. The new railroad skirted the western bounds of Mr. Jesse Crow’s farm, and through the almost breathless stillness could be heard the ring of hammer and steel from the bridge building over Cool Spring Creek. Some of the strange workmen had a reputation for lawlessness quite shocking to the simple, peaceable country people. It was about the middle of the afternoon, and Bet Crow was spinning listlessly, while her mother carded the rolls for her. They were not dreaming of any danger, when a man, coatless, hatless, covered with dust, and panting heavily, leaped the fence and ran across the yard. It was Bill Sanders. "Mis’ Crow, for the love of God let me hide in here!" he gasped hoarsely, stumbling over the doorstep, and then staggering into the room. "Bill Sanders! what on the face o’ the yeth!" cried the frightened woman, her fresh-colored face growing pale. "They air arter me! they mean to kill me!" he panted, crouching under the loom, quivering with exhaustion, wild-eyed with fear. "Bet, Bet! what does it mean?" exclaimed her mother appealingly. Bet ran to the door, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked out. Four or five men were running along the road toward the house, searching and cursing fiercely. She had no idea what had happened, but she knew they were workmen from the bridge, and a desperate-looking gang they were to her frightened eyes. For a moment her heart quailed. They might murder her and her mother, as well as Bill Sanders. He was incapable of offering any defense just then, and pity filled her heart. Her eyes flashed; her lips were set in a determined line. They should not get him if she could help it.