was all
over--Willits would live--there would be a reconciliation--everything
would be forgiven and everything forgotten.

All these thoughts crowded close in his mind as he rushed up the stairs
two steps at a time to where his sweetheart lay moaning out her heart.
He tapped lightly and her old black mammy opened the door on a crack.

"It's Marse Harry, mistis," she called back over her shoulder--"shall I
let him come in?"

"No!--no!--I don't want to see him; I don't want to see anybody--my
heart is broken!" came the reply in half-stifled sobs.

Harry, held at bay, rested his forehead against the edge of the door so
his voice could reach her the better.

"But Willits isn't going to die, Kate dear. I have just left him; it's
only a scalp wound. Dr. Teackle says he's all right. The shock stunned
him into unconsciousness."

"Oh, I don't care what Dr. Teackle says! It's you, Harry!--You! You
never once thought of me--Oh, why did you do it?"

"I did think of you, Kate! I never thought of anything else--I am not
thinking of anything else now."

"Oh, to think you tried to murder him! You, Harry--whom I loved so!" she
sobbed.

"It was for you, Kate! You heard what he said--you saw it all. It was
for you--for nobody else--for you, my darling! Let me come in--let me
hold you close to me and tell you."

"No!--NO--NO! My heart is broken! Come to me, mammy!"

The door shut gently and left him on the outside, dazed at the outcry,
his heart throbbing with tenderness and an intense, almost ungovernable
impulse to force his way into the room, take her in his arms, and
comfort her.

The closed door brought him to his senses. To-morrow, after all, would
be better, he confessed to himself humbly. Nothing more could be done
to-night. Yes--to-morrow he would tell her all. He turned to descend the
stairs and ran almost into Alec's arms. The old man was trembling with
excitement and seemed hardly able to control himself. He had come in
search of him, and had waited patiently at Kate's door for the outcome
of the interview, every word of which he had overheard.

"Marse Talbot done sont me fer ye, Marse Harry," he said in a low voice;
"he wants ye in his li'l' room. Don't ye take no notice what de young
mistis says; she ain't griebin' fer dat man. Dat Willits blood ain't no
'count, nohow; dey's po' white trash, dey is--eve'ybody knows dat. Let
Miss Kate cry herse'f out; dat's de on'y help now. Mammy Henny'll look
arter her till