“She's dying, if I'm any judge,” was the answer. “She was standing at the window and heard that pistol-shot and saw Carson was hit. She fell flat on the floor. We've done everything, but she's still unconscious.” The two men went hastily into the room where Mrs. Dwight lay, and they were barely out of sight when Helen noticed some one rapidly approaching from the direction of the jail. It was Keith Gordon, and as he entered the gate he laid his hand on Linda's shoulder and said, cheerily, “Don't worry now; Pete is safe and the mob is dispersing.” “But Carson,” Major Warren asked; “was he hurt?” “We don't exactly know yet.” Keith was now at Helen's side, looking into her wide-open, anxious eyes. “He wouldn't stop a second to be examined. He was afraid something might occur to alter the temper of the mob and wasn't going to run any risks. The crowd, fortunately for Pete, was made up mostly of towns-people. One man from the mountains, a blood relative of the Johnsons, could have kindled the blaze again with a word, and Carson knew it. He was more worried about his mother than anything else. She was at the window and he saw her fall; he urged me to hurry back to tell her he was all right. I'll go in.” But he was detained by the sound of voices down the street. It was a group of half a dozen men, and in their midst was Carson Dwight, violently protesting against being supported. “I tell you I'm all right!” Helen heard him saying. “I'm not a baby, Garner; let me alone!” “But you are bleeding like a stuck pig,” Garner said. “Your handkerchief is literally soaked. And look at your shirt!” “It's only skin-deep,” Carson cried. “I was stunned for a moment when it hit me, that's all.” Helen, followed by her father and Sanders, advanced hurriedly to meet the approaching group. They gave way as she drew near, and she and Dwight faced each other. “The doctor is in the house, Carson,” she said, tenderly; “go in and let him examine your wound.” “It's only a scratch, Helen, I give you my word,” he laughed, lightly. “I never saw such a squeamish set of men in my life. Even stolid old Bill Garner has had seven duck fits at the sight of my red handkerchief. How's my mother?” Helen's eyes fell. “Your father says he is afraid it is quite serious,” she said. “The doctor is with her; she was unconscious.” They saw Carson wince; his face became suddenly rigid. He sighed. “It may not be so well after all. Pete is safe for awhile, but if she--if my mother were to--” He went no further, simply staring blankly into Helen's face. Suddenly she put her hand up to his blood-stained temple and gently drew aside the matted hair. Their eyes met and clung together.