|NE beautiful morning near the first of June, as Carson was strolling on the upper veranda at home, waiting for the breakfast-bell, Keith Gordon came by on his horse on his way to town. “Heard the news?” he called out, as he reined in at the gate and leaned on the neck of his mount. “No; what's up?” Carson asked, and as he spoke he saw Helen Warren emerge from the front door of her father's house and step down among the dew-wet rose-bushes that bordered the brick walk. “Horrible enough in all reason,” Keith replied. “There's been a cold-blooded murder over near your farm. Abe Johnson, who led that mob, you know, and his wife were killed by some negro with an axe. The whole country is up in arms and crazy with excitement.” “Wait, I'll come right down,” Carson said, and he disappeared into the house. And when he came out a moment later he found Helen on the sidewalk talking to Keith, and from her grave face he knew she had overheard what had been said. “Isn't it awful?” she said to Carson, as he came out at the gate. “Of course, it is the continuation of the trouble here in town.” “How do they know a negro did it?” Carson asked, obeying the natural tendency of a lawyer to get at the facts. “It seems,” answered Gordon, “that Mrs. Johnson lived barely long enough after the neighbors got there to say that it was done by a mulatto, as well as she could see in the darkness. In their fury, the people are roughly handling every yellow negro in the neighborhood. They say the darkies are all hiding out in the woods and mountains.” Then the conversation paused, for old Uncle Lewis, who was at work with a pair of garden-sheafs behind some rose-bushes close by, uttered a groan and, wide-eyed and startled, came towards them. “It's awful, awful, awful!” they heard him say. “Oh, my Gawd, have mercy!” “Why, Uncle Lewis, what's the matter?” Helen asked, in sudden concern and wonder over his manner and tone. “Oh, missy, missy!” he groaned, as he shook his head despondently. “My boy over dar 'mongst 'em right now. Oh, my Lawd! I know what dem white folks gwine ter say fust thing, kase Pete didn't had no mo' sense 'an ter--” “Stop, Lewis!” Carson said, sharply. “Don't be the first to implicate your own son in a matter as serious as this is.” “I ain't, marster!” the old man groaned, “but I know dem white folks done it 'fo' dis.” “I'm afraid you are right, Lewis,” Keith said, sympathetically. “He may be absolutely innocent, but, since his trouble with that mob, Pete has really talked too much. Well, I must be going.” As Keith was riding away, old Lewis, muttering softly to himself and groaning, turned towards the house. “Where are you going?” Helen called out, as she still lingered beside Carson. “I'm gwine try to keep Linda fum hearin' it right now,” he said. “Ef Pete git in it, missy, it gwine ter kill yo' old mammy.”