As the empty stage reached the edge of the town on its homeward trip, it slowed up and stopped in front of Major Dudley’s house. Dooley, the young fellow who now had the proud distinction of driving Red Valley’s only means of rolling transportation, climbed down from his high perch. To the casual observer he would have appeared to be examining one of the wheels. As a matter of fact, his sharp eyes were carefully scrutinizing the surrounding territory. After a little, he began to whistle. Almost immediately, the door of the house opened, and Jeanne Dudley hurried out. He whispered earnestly in her ear. “That’s fine, Jimmie,” she answered, elated. “But we haven’t a minute to waste! I’ll have to be a bit careful with this shoulder, but I think we can manage it. Let’s get to work!” “He shore paid—for—what he done to you. Miss Jeanne,” Jimmie panted, struggling with a heavy box in the interior of the coach. “Rand didn’t waste no time in givin’ him what he desarved!” Together they began to lower the box to the road. They had nearly succeeded when the young fellow caught his foot on something inside. His momentary loss of balance tilted the box, jamming the girl’s left shoulder between it and the side of the coach. With a sharp gasp of pain, she started back, losing her hold. She tried to recover it again, but failed. The box fell to the ground with a heavy thud and split wide open. Bolts of black cloth, and several large pieces of red, were revealed. For a moment they stood eying the catastrophe in silent consternation, the girl biting her lips to keep back sobs of pain, and the driver flushing in mortification. Then she sprang again to the broken container. “Quick, Jimmie! If we get it into the yard and under the bushes, there is no harm done. Hurry! Some one may be coming.” With considerable difficulty they managed at last to get the wrecked packing case and its contents into the yard. They concealed it as well as they could under a big laurel. Breathing heavily, she sat down upon it. She leaned back with closed eyes, and fought to keep down the tears which insisted on welling out between the long, dark lashes. The boy eyed her miserably. “Gawd, Miss Jeanne,” he burst out, “I’m hell-fired sorry! I wouldn’t ’a’ hurt that shoulder o’ yores for all the dust in Ramapo! Damn Simpson!” “Steady, Jimmie, steady,” she said, trying to smile. “My shoulder will be all right in a minute or two. Don’t worry about it—it was just an accident, anyway. And you’ve done wonderfully, Jimmie, wonderfully! Now hurry along or some one will be passing and wondering what the coach is doing there!” Somewhat relieved, but bitterly cursing his clumsiness, the young fellow trudged reluctantly away. A minute later, as the lumbering old vehicle gathered headway, he turned around on the box and lifted his broad-brimmed hat in a gallant, if somewhat awkward, salute. He saw a white handkerchief flutter in answer. Vastly heartened, he lashed the horses into a gallop.