necessity of caution, not for himself, but for Nella-Rose. He could not
go, unaided, to search for her. Evidently there had been wild doings
after he left; no one but White and Nella-Rose knew of his actual
existence--he must utilize White in assisting him, but above all he must
expect that Nella-Rose would make her whereabouts known. Never for a
moment did he doubt her or put any credence in the conclusions White had
drawn. How little Jim really knew! By to-morrow word would come from
Nella-Rose; somehow she would manage, once she was safe from being
followed, to get to the station and telegraph. But there could be no
leaving the girl in the hills after this; he must, as soon as he located
her, bring her away; bring her into his life--to his home and hers!

A cold sweat broke out on Truedale's body as he lashed himself
unmercifully in the still room where his two friends, one believing him
asleep, waited for his awakening.

Well, he was awake at last, thank God! The only difference between him
and a creature such as good men and women abhor was that he meant to
retrieve, as far as in him lay, the past error and injustice. All his
future life should prove his purpose. And then, like a sweet fragrance
or a spirit touch, his love pleaded for him. He had been weak, but not
vicious. The unfettered life had clouded his reason, and his senses had
played him false, but love was untarnished--and it _was_ love. That girl
of the hills was the same now as she had always been. She would accept
him and his people and he would make her life such that, once the
homesickness for the hills was past, she would have no regrets.

Then another phase held Truedale's thought. In that day when Nella-Rose
accepted, in the fullest sense, his people and his people's code--how
would he stand in her eyes? A groan escaped him, then another, and he
started nervously.

"Con, what is it--a bad dream?" Lynda touched his arm to arouse him.

"Yes--a mighty bad one!"

"Tell it to me. Tell it while it is fresh in your mind. They say once
you have put a dream in words, its effect is killed forever."

Truedale turned dark, sorrowful eyes upon Lynda.

"I--I wish I could tell it," he said with a seriousness that made her
laugh, "but it was the kind that eludes--words. The creeping, eating
impression--sort of nightmare. Good Lord! how nerves play the deuce with
you."

Brace Kendall did not speak. From his place he had been watching
Truedale, for the