Clay's face flushed. Never before had he made a hundred dollars in a week. "I'll go at once." "To-morrow at daylight?" asked Jud, rising. Clay looked at him curiously. There was something in the tone of the man that struck him as peculiar, but Jud went on in an easy way. "You see we must have it quick. All our winter wood to run the mill is there an' we can't start into cordin' till it's surveyed an' the deed's passed. Sorry to hurry you"-- Clay promised to start at daylight and Jud left. He looked at his watch. It was late. He would like to tell Helen about it--he said aloud: "Making a hundred dollars a week. If I could only keep up that--I'd--I'd--" He blushed. And then he turned quietly and went to bed. And that was why Helen wondered the next day and the next, and all the next week why she did not see Clay, why he did not come, nor write, nor send her a message. And wondering the pang of it went into her hardening heart. CHAPTER XII IN THYSELF THERE IS WEAKNESS It was the middle of Saturday afternoon, and all the week Edward Conway had fought against the terrible thirst which was in him. Not since Monday morning had he touched whiskey at all, and now he walked the streets of the little town saying over and over to himself: "I am a Conway again." He had come to town to see Jud Carpenter about the house which had been promised him--for he could not expect to hold Millwood much longer. With his soberness some of his old dignity and manhood returned, and when Carpenter saw him, the Whipper-in knew instinctively what had happened. He watched Edward Conway closely--the clear eye, the haughty turn of his head, the quiet, commanding way of the man sober; and the Whipper-in frowned as he said to himself: "If he keeps this up I'll have it to do all over." And yet, as he looked at him, Jud Carpenter took it all in--the weakness that was still there, the terrible, restless thirst which now made him nervous, irritable, and turned his soul into a very tumult of dissatisfaction. Carpenter, even as he talked to him, could see the fight which was going on; and now and then, in spite of it and his determination, he saw that the reformed drunkard was looking wistfully toward the bar-room of Billy Buch. And so, as Jud talked to Edward Conway about the house, he led him along toward the bar-room. All the time he was complimenting him on his improved health, and telling how, with help from the mill, he would soon be on his feet again. At the bar door he halted: "Let us set down here an' res', Majah, sah, it's a good place on this little porch. Have somethin'? Billy's got a mighty fine bran' of old Tennessee whiskey in there." Jud watched him as he spoke and saw the fire of expectancy burn in his despairing eyes.