"You've already received more than yours is worth, I'm thinking," growled the Squire. "If things turn out all right, though, and the young man is safely jailed, I shan't mind giving you the extra hundred out of my own pocket," added he, melting into good humor again, as he rode off homeward. CHAPTER VIII. Early on the morning of this October court day, Sophronia Saunders, a friend and former schoolmate of the pretty toll-taker, went over to a neighbor's to see the housewife about weaving a rag carpet, the materials for which were already cut and sewed and rolled into balls ready for the loom. Sophronia had taken an early start, for she wished to know just how much carpet chain would be needed, so that her father could bring it from town with him when he returned. The air was full of crisp freshness, which brought a wholesome glow to the girl's plump cheeks as she walked briskly along down the dirt lane. Fallow fields stretched out on either hand, unrolling rich, varying shades of yellow and brown, reaching away in undulating waves to where the frost-painted hills stood in brave array, like gay canvases belonging to some gorgeous theatrical scene. Far to the southward they extended--a long, irregular chain, whose rugged heights were gradually softened and subdued by distance and the October mists until they finally seemed but jagged banks of amethystine clouds piled high against the horizon. Presently the girl reached a small wood that lay between her and her destination, and after a moment's pause, and a glance of maidenly precaution around, she agilely climbed the rail fence that enclosed its boundary, and started in a diagonal line across the wooded space to shorten her walk. Within the wood the pensive presence of Autumn dwelt. The low, gentle rustling of falling leaves in a plaintive murmuring, as if regretful at approaching dissolution, greeted the sensitive ear at every turn. The drowsy air seemed haunted by vague faint-spirited voices whispering tenderly of the past summer's joys, while in sharp contrast, now and men, the sound of a dropping hickory nut from high up amid the branches where some frisky squirrels were at play, broke as a discordant note into the softer leaf-music of the trees. The ground beneath her feet was soft-carpeted with fallen leaves, drifting into rich mosaics, changing with each passing wind to new kaleidoscopic patterns of beauty and color. At the further edge the woodland terminated abruptly in a deep ravine, which the girl must cross before her destination was reached. It was a lonely, picturesque spot, skirted by underbrush and cedar bushes, and lined with gray, lichen-clad boulders, jutting out boldly in fantastic shapes on either hand. Overarching trees and vines shut out the brighter daylight, and made a subdued twilight that kept the spot cool and shadowy even on the warmest of summer days--a hidden sylvan retreat fit for woodland nymph or dryad.