Beside him sat Meredith Thornton, white lipped and wide-eyed, and her aristocratic bags rattled around in the space behind. The smile with which Meredith had faced her past three years lingered still on the set mouth--the smile was for Jed. "There seem to be more downs than ups on this road," the girl said, in order to cover a groan. "It will be awful after dark." "Dark or light, ma'am," Jed returned, "it's all the same to me, ma'am. I know dese little ole humps like I know my fingers and toes, ma'am." "Do--do you always hit the same humps?" Jed was hitting one now, squarely. "Mostly, ma'am; but I'm studyin' to get there before dark, ma'am. If Washington now, ma'am"--Jed indicated the sleeker of the two horses--"had the ginger, so to speak, ma'am, as Lincoln has got--why, ma'am, the River Road would be flyin' out behind, ma'am, like it war a tail of a kite." Meredith managed to give a weak laugh and, as the wagon hit another hump, she edged toward Jed. After a few moments he felt her head against his shoulder--from suffering and exhaustion she fell into a brief and troubled sleep. Like one carved from rock, Jed held his position while a reverent expression grew upon his face. The glow showed yellow through the western sky, The Gap was growing purplish and dim, and just then, across a foot bridge over the river, a hurrying, bent form appeared. It swayed perilously--Jed heard a muttered curse. "Gawd A'mighty," he breathed, "it's ole Aunt Becky come back to add to trubble after us-all hopin' she was daid--or something." Becky was coming toward the road, bending over the bundle she bore; she paused, looked down, and then darted ahead right in the path of the horses. They reared and something snapped. Meredith awoke and sat up with a cry. "What is the matter?" she asked. "An accident?" "'Tain't nothin' so bad as an accident, ma'am," Jed reassured her, "but I don't take no chances with Lincoln's hind hoofs, ma'am, an' somethin' done cracked in dat quarter." The pause gave Aunt Becky time to reach Ridge House and play her part in the scheme of things. Panting and well nigh exhausted, the old woman staggered on and was thankful to see at her journey's end that but one light shone in the quiet house. The light was in the living room where Angela sat alone waiting for Meredith Thornton. She had quite forgotten, in her growingly anxious hours, all about poor Becky and her sorrows. So now, when the long window, opening on the west porch, swayed inward, she started up with outstretched arms--and confronted Becky. "I've brung hit!" Becky staggered to a chair, uninvited, and sat down with her burden, wrapped in a dirty, old quilt, upon her knees.