“The reward, now, hit was fifteen hundred dollars--with what the State an' company both give, warn't it? Dan, I was mighty proud ye wouldn't have it--I wanted to give it to ye this-a-way. I don't know as I've got any rights on Euola's money. I reckon I mought ax you fer to take it to her, ef so be you could find her. My half--you kin have it, an' welcome.” Fear was in Kerry's heart. “An' what'll you be doin'?” he inquired, huskily. “Me?” asked Andy, listlessly. “Euola she's done gone plumb back on me,” he explained. “I hain't heard one word from her sence the trouble, an' I've got that far I hain't a-keerin' what becomes of me. I like you, Dan; I'd ruther you had the money--” “Oh, my Gawd! Don't, Andy,” choked the Irishman. “Let me think, man,” as the other's surprised gaze dwelt on him. Up to this time all Kerry's faculties had been engrossed in what was told him, or that which went on before his eyes. Now memory suddenly roused in him. The woman he had seen back at Asheville, the woman who called herself Mandy Greefe, but whom the police there suspected of being Andy Proudfoot's wife, whom they had twice endeavored, unsuccessfully, to follow in long, secret excursions into the mountains. What was the story? What had they said? That she was seeking Proudfoot, or was in communication with him; that was it! They had warned Kerry that the woman was mild-looking (he had seen her patient, wistful face the last thing as he left Asheville), but that she might do him a mischief if she suspected he was on the trail of her husband. “My Lord! Oh, my Lord! W'y, old man,--w'y, Andy boy!” he cried, joyously, patting the shoulder of the big man, who still knelt with the roll of money in his hands,--“Andy, she's waitin' fer you--she's true as steel! She's ready to go with you. Yes, an' Dan Kerry's the boy to git ye out o' this under the very noses o' that police an' detective gang at Asheville. 'Tis you an' me that'll go together, Andy.” Proudfoot still knelt. His nostrils flickered; his eyes glowed. “Have a care what you're a-sayin',” he began, in a low, shaking voice. “Euola! Euola! You've saw me pretty mild; but don't you be mistook by that, like that feller Dickert was mistook. Don't you lie to me an' try to fool me 'bout her. One o' them fellers I shot had me half-way to Garyville, tellin' me she was thar--sick--an' sont him fer me.” Kerry laughed aloud. “Me foolin' you!” he jeered. “'Tis a child I've been in your hands, ye black, big, still, solemn rascal! Here's money a-plenty, an' you that knows these mountains--the fur side--an' me that knows the ropes. You'll lend me a stake f'r the West. We'll go together--all four of us. Oh Lord!” and again tears were on the sanguine cheeks. The Level of Fortune BY ABBY MEGUIRE ROACH She was the ambition of the younger girls and the envy of the less fortunate. Bessie Hall had _everything_, they said.