Sanders laughed. “Well, I suppose I am simply jealous--jealous not alone for myself, but for Augusta. Why, you can't imagine how you are missed. A party of the old crowd went around to your aunt's as usual the Wednesday following your departure, but we were so blue we could hardly talk to one another. Helen, the spirit of our old gatherings was gone. Your aunt actually cried, and your uncle really drank too much brandy and soda.” “Well, you mustn't think I don't miss them all,” Helen said, deeply touched. “I think of them every day. It was only that I had been away so long that it was glorious to get back home--to my real home again. I love it down there; it is beautiful; you were all so lovely to me, but this here is different.” “That's what I felt in reading your letters,” Sanders said. “A tone of restful content and happiness was in every line you wrote. Somehow, I wanted you, in my selfish heart, to be homesick for us so that you would”--the visitor drew a deep breath--“be all the more likely to--to consent to live there, you know, _some day_, permanently.” Helen made no reply, and Sanders, flushing deeply, wisely turned the subject, as he rose and went to a window and drew the curtain aside. “Do you see those horses?” he asked, with a smile. “I brought them thinking I might prevail on you to take a drive with me this morning. I have set my heart on seeing some of the country around the town, and I want to do it with you. I hope you can go.” “Oh, not to-day! I couldn't think of it to-day!” Helen cried, impulsively. “Not to-day?” he said, crestfallen. “No. Haven't you heard about Mam' Linda's awful trouble?” “Oh, that is _her_ son!” Sanders said. “I heard something of it at the hotel. I see. She really must be troubled.” “It is a wonder it hasn't killed her,” Helen answered. “I have never seen a human being under such frightful torture.” “And can nothing be done?” Sanders asked. “I'd really like to be of use--to help, you know, in _some_ way.” “There is nothing to be done--nothing that _can_ be done,” Helen said. “She knows that, and is simply waiting for the end.” “It's too bad,” Sanders remarked, awkwardly. “Might I go to see her?” “I think you'd better not,” said the girl. “I don't believe she would care to see any but very old friends. I used to think I could comfort her, but even I fail now. She is insensible to anything but that one haunting horror. She has tried a dozen times to go over to the mountains, but my father and Uncle Lewis have prevented it. That mob, angry as they are, might really kill her, for she would fight for her young like a tigress, and people wrought up like those are mad enough to do anything.” “And some people think the negro may not really be guilty, do they not?” Sanders asked. “I am sure he is not,” Helen sighed. “I feel it; I know it.” There was the sound of a closing gate, and Helen looked out. “It is my father,” she said. “Perhaps he has heard something.”