"Your mother--you,--perhaps, had not thought of that--your mother needs the rest and the care we could give her. Our lives are not always our own," he went on gravely--"oftentimes it belongs partly to others--for their happiness." He felt that he was striking a winning chord. "You can love me if you would say so," he said, bending low over her. This time, when his hand fell on hers, she did not move. Surprised, he looked into her eyes. There were tears there. Travis knew when he had gone far enough. Reverently he kissed her hand as he said: "Never mind--in your own time, Alice. I can wait--I have waited long. Twenty years," he added, patiently, even sweetly, "and if need be, I'll wait twenty more." "I'll go now," he said, after a moment. She looked at him gratefully, and arose. "One moment, Richard," she said--"but you were speaking of mother, and knowing your zeal for her I was afraid you might--might--the mortgage has been troubling her." "Oh, no--no"--he broke in quickly--"I did nothing--absolutely nothing--though I wanted to for your sake." "I'm so glad," she said--"we will manage somehow. I am so sensitive about such things." "I'll come to-morrow afternoon and bring your mare." She smiled, surprised. "Yes, your mare--I happened on her quite unexpectedly in Tennessee. I have bought her for you--she is elegant, and I wish you to ride her often. I have given Jim orders that no one but you shall ride her. If it is a pretty day to-morrow I shall be around in the afternoon, and we will ride down to the bluffs five miles away to see the sunset." The trotters were at the door. He took her hand as he said good-bye, and held it while he added: "Maybe you'd better forget all I said to-night--be patient with me--remember how long I have waited." He was off and sprang into the buggy, elated. Never before had she let him hold her hand even for a moment. He felt, he knew, that he would win her. He turned the horses and drove off. From Westmoreland Travis drove straight toward the town. The trotters, keen and full of play, flew along, tossing their queenly heads in the very exuberance of life. At The Gaffs, he drew rein: "Now, Jim, I'll be back at midnight. You sleep light until I come in, and have their bedding dry and blankets ready." He tossed the boy a dollar as he drove off. Up the road toward the town he drove, finally slackening his trotters' speed as he came into the more thickly settled part of the outskirts. Sand Mountain loomed high in the faint moonlight, and at its base, in the outposts of the town, arose the smoke-stack of the cotton mills. Around it lay Cottontown. Slowly he brought the nettled trotters down to a walk. Quietly he turned them into a shaded lane, overhung with forest trees, near which a cottage, one of the many belonging to the mill, stood in the shadow of the forest. Stopping his horses in the shadow, he drew out his watch and pressed the stem. It struck eleven.